Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

SocietyJanuary 18, 2024

Why do rich people shoplift?

Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

Shoplifting is common, and rarely motivated by affordability. A forensic psychologist takes us through the common factors which motivate some shoplifters. 

Pearls were clutched and eyes were rolled when Golriz Ghahraman’s shoplifting allegations surfaced last week. As an MP, Ghahraman earned close to $200,000 a year, making her alleged crimes – stealing designer items worth $15,000 – hard to fathom. She may have walked out without stopping at the till, but the eventual price she paid – a fall from grace and a resignation – was very, very high.

Shoplifting is one of the most common crimes in the world. In New Zealand 92% of retailers know they experience retail crime, mostly shoplifting, and lose over $1 billion a year to it. In the US, one in 11 people admit to having claimed a five-finger discount at least once. In the UK, shoplifting is hitting record highs, particularly among the middle class. It’s a rise that tracks with the cost of living crisis, but many aren’t stealing essentials, they’re choosing luxury items. Not being able to afford stuff doesn’t seem to be a major driving factor for most shoplifters. One study showed only 7% of shoplifters were motivated by economic disadvantage – they planned and didn’t regret their thefts. Rich people have been reported to steal toothpaste, gold-plated hairdryers, designer clothes and corned beef. 

Retail theft by the wealthy is a growing phenomenon that has been dubbed “nonsensical shoplifting”. But just because it’s happening more and has a catchy name doesn’t mean it makes sense. If people with money don’t need to steal, and risk so much with every theft, why do they do it?

Dr Hedwig Eisenbarth, an expert in forensic psychology at Te Herenga Waka Victoria University of Wellngton, says there are many  reasons why people  shoplift – and a lot of them aren’t about money. While it’s impossible to understand an offender’s reasoning from the outside, or even sometimes from the inside, Eisenbarth says there are some factors which tend to be common with theft by the wealthy. Below is a non-exhaustive list.

They can’t resist

Shoplifting can be an impulsive behaviour, an unplanned reaction which the person has a reduced ability to control, Eisenbarth says. In an extreme form, this can be kleptomania – a disorder characterised by irresistible urges to steal things that people don’t need and are usually of little value. We might think of stealing as an addiction, similar to alcoholism or problem gambling.

So do shoplifters actually want to steal? “Wanting is a difficult term,” says Eisenbarth. “It sounds like this is something that someone does deliberately and intentionally, and that is different [to] someone who has acted impulsively [and] has not planned it.” Impulsive behaviours, she says, have short term drivers, which override longer-term effects. Which leads us to our next point…

To fill the void

Apparently, shoplifting can be a fun activity that gives a thrill, or a sense of accomplishment or control, kind of like figuring out a puzzle or doing your favourite hobby. When humans do something and it makes us feel good, we tend to do it again, says Eisenbarth. Fun activities also reduce negative feelings – like those, for example, arising from the stress of receiving death threats

In a study of shoplifters in the US, almost a third had pasts characterised by loss and trauma. They were also atypical offenders, in that apart from their shoplifting they were law-abiding and tended to have traditional values. The researchers didn’t want to make claims about subconscious motives, but the prevalence of past loss is notable. Another 18% of participants experienced acute depression, and researchers thought they may have shoplifted to feel something other than, well, depressed.

Winona Ryder was sentenced to three years probation, 480 hours of community service and a hefty fine for shoplifting in 2001.

Wanting to be cool

This is more relevant with young people testing boundaries and feeling social pressures acutely. Sometimes shoplifting can be part of a developmental phase, says Eisenbarth.

It’s normal to them

Not all rich people were always rich. They could have grown up in an environment where shoplifting was a survival mechanism, and therefore normalised, and then continued that pattern of behaviour, says Eisenbarth.

Entitlement

Some research into the effects of wealth, power and privilege have found that the rich tend to steal more than the poor. In one study people were given a jar filled with lollies and told they could have some now, before the jar was given to children. Rich people took more candy for themselves. The researchers hypothesised that, simply put, it could demonstrate that having more resources and freedom leads to a tendency towards selfishness. 

“Some people might think that some rules just don’t apply to them,” says Eisenbarth. It’s a way of moving through the world that leads rich people to commit white collar crimes like fraud, but also applies to shoplifting. There’s some truth to it, money can act like a shield against consequences.

As much as we want to understand shoplifters with neat little headings, Eisenbarth warns against it. We should resist drawing conclusions and making assumptions too quickly, she says. People are complicated and so is psychology – “that’s the beauty of it.”

Keep going!
Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

SocietyJanuary 18, 2024

Is living on a boat the answer to all of life’s problems?

Image: Archi Banal
Image: Archi Banal

Buying and doing up an old yacht sounds like a perfect way to escape the rat race. But what’s it really like?

It could be a symptom of the housing crisis, or a crisis of the human spirit. For whatever reason, everyone I know is dreaming about quirky living situations. Theres the tiny house (crocheted blankets, silverbeet patch), the camper van (basil plant on the dashboard), the eco-commune (now financially viable thanks to Kiwibanks co-ownership scheme), the converted barn (owl-less) and the digital nomad (tap tap tap from your bunk bed in Bali). 

In 2021, lying not in a bunk but on the floor of our lounge deep in West Auckland suburbia, I contemplated my situation. Would my future be spent untangling socks from the lawn mower? Did living in the suburbs meant adventure was over for good?

I consulted my couch-slumped company. Did he share my worry? Haddon confessed he was concerned his career would devour his able-bodied years, spitting him out 65 and disillusioned. As a child he had imagined a life shared with the ocean, drawing felt-tip scows, ketches and frigates. Later he toyed with the idea of living on a boat. 

Living on a boat! Having once spent three days vomiting inside a navy frigate myself, I became fixated with the idea. Boat life would be the antidote to my suburban doldrums, I was sure of it. We found a shabby yacht and a few months later we moved aboard.

For the following year Bayswater Marina was our home. We decided to take things slowly — see if we could withstand being cooped up inside a space smaller than some people’s bathrooms and whether we liked dashing up the pier to use the marina toilets in a downpour.

Winter was a slog, but in summer I felt like the luckiest mermaid alive, watching sunsets from the cockpit while the terns and shags gulped wriggling fish. Wed take the boat out in the weekends, following the old-fashioned highway of the sea to places you couldnt otherwise go.

Doing up an old yacht is a romanticised task mainly comprising back-breaking and dangerous manual labour. Boats are poky. Undertaking a repair means contorting your bruised body into a tiny angular space, only to drop your screwdriver into an unreachable crevice. Boats are also moist — and moisture begets rot and rust. Remove one decayed bulkhead and you’re likely to uncover something even worse behind. And if you were cautious with the original purchase price of your boat, a greater sum will drain from your bank account as you attempt to make your bargain seaworthy.

Wanting to bring our craft up to a standard for making long coastal passages, we hired a surveyor and applied ourselves to their long list of suggested improvements. New lockers were required in the cockpit to increase buoyancy should a large wave swamp the rear. The bilge pumps (liquid vacuum cleaners that are used when you’re sinking) needed upgrading. The mainsheet track had to be rebuilt and the navigation lamps rewired. To replace the rigging, the mast had to first be removed using a crane located halfway up the Weiti River.

Being amateur boat-fixers, every task involved countless Google searches, trips to Burnsco, dinners of over-salted bakery sandwiches and long nights working by torchlight. I became adept with tools I never knew existed, learnt to laminate wood, repair fibreglass (its like papier-mâché) and say things like 3/8 inch imperial hex bolt in 316 stainless please”.

In autumn I got a new job in Te Whanganui-a-Tara and with little time to deliberate, decided to sail down. Haddons dad Ken, himself a homespun boatbuilder, agreed to accompany us on the voyage. The forecast showed a six-day weather window after which less favourable conditions would set in. We stuffed the lockers with curries and crackers and threw off the mooring lines. 

Whether you take the East Coast route or head north around Cape Reinga and down the west coast, the distance between Tāmaki Makaurau and Te Whanganui-a-Tara is roughly the same – just over 600 nautical miles. Thats about six dayssailing, non-stop, in fair winds.

Good sailing conditions (Photo: Supplied)

For the first night and day conditions were perfect. We sped up the coast, out of Tīkapa Moana and past Kawau. It’s fair to say I was a little nervous – there are countless things that can go wrong in a boat, far from land, at night. No one goes to sea without tales of shipwrecks shelved like a little library in the corner of their mind. 

With three aboard we kept an informal roster of watches. Ken would take the helm from dinnertime until midnight, then Haddon would take over, prodding me out of my sleeping bag before dawn. Aside from the odd tweak of the sails and glance at the chart, watches were mostly spent gazing at the horizon. One morning while rounding North Cape I spotted a humpback whale breaching, and over the other shoulder, an albatross gliding impossibly low over its own reflection. They were postcard scenes, but with the chance of making eye contact. 

While we swept along, Id indulge thoughts about how our boat’s black belly, fin keel and pair of splayed white sails made us part whale, part bird. Such vanity wont keep a boat afloat, but the competency and grace of animals at sea is reassuring and seems to offer a lesson: there is no need to be spooked by the depth of the water or distance from land. Simple adjustments to one’s wings or fins or sails are all that is needed to handle whatever weather may arrive. 

By the fourth day, the change in swell direction produced a yaw that made it impossible to sleep. On the fifth, with Taranaki lying low beyond the eastern horizon, the wind strengthened, sweeping the sea into mounds that approached side-on. Sometimes a wave would slosh into the cockpit or crack against the side of the hull. Sliding back and forth across the bunk, nauseous and a bit spooked, my mind conjured giant waves and sinking ships, benthic horrors of billowing hair and bubbles. 

Not-so-good sailing conditions (Photo: Supplied)

On that worst night we all stayed up, taking turns to clamber out to scan the horizon. Oil rigs crowned with flame appeared and vanished over the port bow. By mid-morning Id been awake for 29 hours and was dehydrated from seasickness. The wind said my name and I saw a person who wasnt there. I was as much disappointed by the banality of those fits of mind as I was startled to experience them. And it may have been born of sleeplessness, or renewed sensitivity to the scent of land after days at sea, but the whole morning the air into which we pointed smelled inexplicably of the vanilla-scented flowers of Heliotropium arborescens.

Finally, at dusk the following day, we reached Te Tauihu-o-te-Waka, dropping anchor in a deep, narrow cove, tying bow to tree. We slept as deeply as the emerald water around us and awoke to forested banks reproduced meticulously on the surface: an undersea forest. The final leg, crossing from Te Wai Pounamu to the lung-shaped harbour of Pari-ā-rua, was windless, the sea slack and glassy. Seals lolled on the surface, fins aloft as if awaiting high-fives. 

Now weve settled into life in a new marina. Theres an enormous granddaddy whai (stingray) that glides under the hulls. Tiny fish dart through your reflection when you peer over the edge of the pier. Im looking forward to raising the sails and visiting the sounds this summer. 

For anyone harbouring the dream of a boat, I would offer the following advice. Your asset will not appreciate. Your feet will have little room to wriggle in a bed the shape of a slice of pizza. Your skin will freckle in the sun. Youll learn to tolerate powdered milk in your coffee because your solar fridge is too tiny for the real thing. And youll have a peculiar chapter in your life during which — without really noticing — youll grow very fond of the sea.