Pickpockets in Mumbai

Two Mumbai pickpockets handcuffed together and roped to a cop.

Two Mumbai pickpockets handcuffed together and roped to a cop.

All these Mumbai stories of trains, crowds, swamis, the slum called Dharavi, and promises of more stories… What you’re really wondering is: did the Thiefhunters find any pickpockets in Mumbai?

The Thiefhunters did, and lets not even count the two boys found handcuffed together at Kurla train station, roped to an undercover policeman. We rode the train with them where they had to sit on the floor, like dogs on a leash.

Bob and I spent days on trains so crowded we couldn’t move, and joined pushing-shoving boarding mobs that were a pickpocket heaven. With opportunities like those, we thought we’d find plenty of thieves.

The pickpocket shows his method, which is classic: he uses one hand to raise the wallet from outside the pocket.

The pickpocket shows his method, which is classic: he uses one hand to raise the wallet from outside the pocket.

We road buses all over the city, which turned out to be a fascinating way to see Mumbai off the tourist track. At stops along the way, we hopped off and onto buses that barely paused for passengers. Where large groups waited to board, the rush was sudden and desperate—perfect for pickpockets. They should be able to do their work without boarding at all, putting instant miles between themselves and their victims. At a bus stop on the edge of a large slum, we spotted a pair that did board. The ticket-taker noticed them too, and pushed them off at the next stop.

Interestingly, every bus we rode carried a human ticket man who checked and sold tickets. Whereas on trains, we saw no controls whatsoever.

At end-of-the-line bus stations, huge orderly crowds lined up in a metal cattle mill for each route. Buses came at short intervals, again barely stopping. Passengers surged on while a uniformed people-manager tried to keep order. These men too watched for pickpockets, and told us that most thieves stalked bus passengers on the two monthly paydays. Those are only the pickpockets who get caught, I say.

He's got the wallet. Look at those thumbnails—polished by the inside of many pockets?

He's got the wallet. Look at those thumbnails—polished by the inside of many pockets?

From the excellent, new, non-fiction book I just read, Behind the Beautiful Forevers, I gather that beating is a common enterprise in Mumbai. Among the book’s stressed-out, almost-zero-income community members, everyone partakes: parents beat children, brothers beat sisters, and kids beat each other up regularly. In the book, police are notoriously brutal. When we interviewed Mumbai pickpocket Rahul some years ago, he’d been beaten to a pulp by train passengers who’d caught him in the act. This, we are told over and over, is the way it works in Mumbai. A deterrent, possibly.

And when our friend Paul McFarland was mugged for his wallet, the wallet, his ID, and credit cards were all returned some 15 minutes later, with only the cash missing. Why? Karma.

The pickpocket we spoke with this visit was from Andhra Pradesh, an Indian state southeast of Maharashtra (where Mumbai is). He specializes in highway robberies, getting a driver to pull over whereupon he steals their stuff. But the smooth pickpocket moves he showed us betrayed his real job skills.

We promised not to photograph his face, but I will say this: although he was of average height, weight, and appearance, he was the type who would stand out in a crowd as suspicious. Perhaps it was his demeanor.

The pickpocket raises his leg and presses his knee into his victim's leg.

The pickpocket raises his leg and presses his knee into his victim's leg.

Our translator spoke English and Marathi. Our barefoot pickpocket spoke something else, so our conversation was rough. The routine problem and frustration with impromptu interviews with thieves—not everyone is willing to get involved with criminals.

The thief described himself as a married Muslim with a wife and five children living in the next-door state. In the time-honored tradition, he learned pickpocketing from his father. When he demonstrated his technique, he couldn’t help using a specific move with his leg, in which he raised it to press his knee into the back of his victim’s leg. One indicator common to career pickpockets that we notice over and over is that their particular style is engrained and they can’t change it, even for a demonstration. His fluid motions and the confidence with which he showed them telegraphed that he was very practiced. We couldn’t figure out whether he currently practices both pickpocketing and highway robbery, or if he’d shifted from one to the other.

Bob and I have spent a lot of time thiefhunting in Mumbai, and our conclusion remains: although pickpocketing is not unheard of, a visitor is not very likely to be a victim. That doesn’t mean one shouldn’t practice safe-stowing and down-dressing—but I assume that readers of this blog already know that.

Also read: Street Crime in Mumbai
Knock-out Gas on Overnight Trains
Technicolor Mumbai

© Copyright 2008-2012 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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The Swami of Mumbai

The swami on the train.

The swami on the train.

The train to the slum wasn’t crowded, due to the hour and our direction of travel. Although there were plenty of seats, the swami made a beeline for us and planted himself next to Bob so that we sat three-in-a-row.

Our first impressions: he’s smiley, charming, has near-perfect English and a headband. Why were we the subject of his intense curiosity? He started asking questions, and when we asked him questions, his answers were very long. He’s a conman, we thought. Let’s see what his game is.

Our second impressions: He’s wearing at least five shirts and a heavy jacket (it’s 90°). His headband is actually hospital gauze and it’s stained yellow in back. He’s carrying belongings in a Kellogg’s cereal box. Is he a madman or a nutcase? Delusional, or suffering a concussion? Has he just had an accident or an operation? I can see a bit of shaved head above the gauze.

“I can guess your age plus minus one year,” he announced. Aha—he’s a circus performer! Or is this just one of the functions swamis perform? He was a little short on Bob’s age, but Bob said he’d have been right if it weren’t for the haircolor. I can’t guess the swami’s age at all.

As more and more men gathered around our conversation, I tried to catch an eye; none gave me a smile or an ironic grin.

As more and more men gathered around our conversation, I tried to catch an eye; none gave me a smile or an ironic grin.

Observing this eccentric conversation, a solemn audience formed around us. What do the ordinary Indians recognize that we do not? Is he a well-known character? Infamous? Is he sending out some cultural signals we’re just not getting? No one smiled. No one winked.

“Where do you alight?” Mahim Junction, we said. He is traveling to the end of the line. We have four or five more stops together.

Confident and commanding with a sweetness about him; we are confounded as to his motives.

Confident and commanding with a sweetness about him; we are confounded as to his motives.

He leaned in to us though he was already thigh-to-thigh, with endless important things to tell us. Most urgent was that he is our host in India, and next time we visit we need only phone his mobile on arrival and we will be his guests. He’s the founder and CEO of a huge, multinational entertainment company, makes documentary films, he said, and owns seven bungalows in Goa. We have to visit him in Goa. We have to stay with him there.

“How often are you in Goa?” Bob asked.
“Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Mondays I am back in Mumbai.”

I raised my camera with a questioning face.

“Wait, wait, wait, your light is not sufficient!” the swami scolded. Maybe he is a filmmaker.

He insisted on giving us his contact information and demanded paper from Bob. Bob unfolded a page from his pocket and began to tear off a corner.

The swami writes out his contact information, covering both sides of the sheet of paper in small cursive.

The swami writes out his contact information, covering both sides of the sheet of paper in small cursive.

“No! Don’t tear it. Give it to me!” The swami grabbed it, smoothed it onto his Kellogg’s box, and began writing in cursive with his own pencil. He was quiet and concentrated for long stretches. Each time he raised his head to speak, Bob reached for the paper, presuming he was finished writing. Bob’s paper had important notes for the day on it.

“I’m not finished!” the swami whined, and bent over the paper each time. He’d already completely filled the front and back, his handwriting becoming smaller and filling corners.

Dharavi slum, as seen from a speeding train.

Dharavi slum, as seen from a speeding train.

The train approached Mahim Junction along the perimeter of the slum Dharavi, our destination. I filmed the edge of the slum from the speeding train window: slow-moving people and colorful, skewed huts among a of confetti of beaten trash. Bob reached for his notepaper once more.

“I’m not finished. Do you want incomplete things or full things? Don’t worry, I am getting down with you at Mahim Station. I am busy, but I have ample time for a visitor. I want you to be comfortable in India!” He finished with a beatific smile.

The swami writes.

The swami writes.

The swami followed us off the train, clearly intending to stick with us (or manipulate us somehow?). Suddenly, he was leading us. Attempting a graceful separation and needing that piece of paper, we trailed him to a bench on the platform where he sat down. He began reading aloud every word he’d written on the paper, front and back. A new audience encircled us, men who were not ashamed to show their interest, leaning in and cocking their heads to read the notes. The swami read on, unaffected. He read his name, his long important titles, his Mumbai address and phone numbers, his Goa home address, his office address, his mobile phone, and several email addresses. His Facebook address, and a description of his Facebook profile picture (a white lion). And still he was not ready to let us go.

Bob took the paper and thanked the swami, who rose from the bench as we backed away. Politely but forcefully, we extricated ourselves. We meant to phone some of the numbers the following day but we didn’t. We’re not sure, but we’re pegging him a harmless nutcase. And if not the CEO of a multinational entertainment company, at least an entertainment himself.

UPDATE 5/7/12: The swami does have a facebook page with the white lion profile pic he wrote of. All that’s on it though is a photo of him with a woman and two young boys. I could easily jump to the conclusion that they are his family. “About” himself, he says “I AM A HUMAN BEAGIN & SPEAK LANGAUGE OPF HUMANITY.” He’s in an “open relationship” and “interested in men and women,” but I can imagine him interpreting these labels in the broadest, loosest terms. But who am I to say? Probably, he’s the CEO of a multinational entertainment company.—B

© Copyright 2008-2012 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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Riding Mumbai trains—amazing

Mumbai train platform

Boarding a train in Mumbai

We bought second-class train tickets (for our thiefhunting) and rode the most crowded trains ever. No—you can’t imagine how crowded. Speeding into the stations, people jump off before the trains even slow down. But more amazingly, they leap on, right through the mobs waiting at the doors, before the trains stop.

I panicked the first time I experienced this, standing among the masses at the open door ready to get off. Like salmon swimming upstream, men lept on—like iron filings attracted to a magnet, against gravity. And once the train stopped, it was too late. Everyone else had hopped off and I was buffeted and spun in the doorway by men desperate to board. Only uncharacteristic aggression got me off before the train pulled out again.

The behavior of Mumbai’s commuters is a consequence of the efficient trains which stop very briefly at the stations; huge, huge mobs pack the platforms, and the men hope to get a seat for their long commute. The benches in second class hold three men each, but four squeeze onto each. They alternate leaning back. Two more commuters stand between facing benches among the many knees. Everyone seems to permit and accept the squeezing. There is no “personal space.”

I’ve spoken only of men because most women and children ride in the ladies’ cars. In fact, I didn’t see a single other woman in the many second-class cars I rode all week. I was told though that the women are also aggressive about boarding during peak commute times. They can’t match the men, I’m sure.

Dadar Station is one of Mumbai’s busiest, but as it’s totally off the tourist track, you will likely never experience the huge madhouse that it is. Crossing over the rickety pedestrian “flyway” over the tracks and platform, we happened to see the awful scrum of getting-on-versus-getting-off from directly above. We were awestruck, and stayed to film the next train. Have a look:

We meandered through the enormous flower market in the streets and underpasses around Dadar Station. (I’ll write about the flower market shortly.) It was evening commute time when we were ready to go back to our hotel in Colaba. Bob and I stood on the platform in the middle of the pushing-fighting-desperate-madness. Bob filmed the scene while being knocked around like a punching bag. In the relative calm between two trains a man next to us found the shoes he’d been pushed out of. “I can’t do this,” I said as we let a couple more trains come and go. Bob said “come on,” and grabbed my hand. Then we were in the middle, trying to board through a flood of debarking passengers, then pushed from behind with nowhere to go in front and the train about to move whether people were on, half on, hanging on, or whatever.

Obviously, we made it.

More on Mumbai: The best beggar family. The flowerhead market. The pickpocket. The swami. The slum visit. The rooftop chairs.

© Copyright 2008-2012 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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Knock-out gas on overnight trains

train wheel 3

Atul and Smriti Shah experienced it first-hand. “It happened during the night,” they concluded. “The entire compartment was sprayed with some sort of gas that knocked us out. Then our suitcase was slowly extracted from under our seat, the lock twisted loose and, with all the time in the world, the suitcase was looted.”

Atul and Smriti live with their small daughters in Mumbai, India, where railway is the customary way to crisscross the country. For the occasion of a relative’s marriage, the family traveled to the town of Kanpur, in Uttar Pradesh. As tradition dictates, they brought along their finest clothes and jewelry to wear to the many matrimonial celebrations and ceremonies. As a high-caste woman from a wealthy family, now married to a successful businessman, Smriti carried an enviable display of gold and diamonds.

“She had diamonds on her fingers and in her nose and ears,” Atul explained with pride, “and gold bangles and necklaces. Also, she wore the good-luck vermilion mark on her forehead that Indians always wear when traveling away from home.”

After the wedding and family visits, the Shahs boarded the train for the twenty-hour journey home. They had one suitcase, but it was a large one: fifty kilos, Atul estimated. It contained all the family’s finery, including Smriti’s jewelry, and had a small padlock on the zipper tabs. Atul forced the suitcase under Smriti’s seat in the train compartment, where it was tightly lodged. They did not open the suitcase for the duration of the journey.

The Shahs boarded in the evening, had a meal packed by Smriti’s mother, and settled down for the night.

“The strange thing is that none of us woke up during the night,” Smriti told me. “Even the children slept the night through, and they never do.”

She remembers a vague sensation of bitterness in her mouth during the night, then the desire for water. But she remembers too the lethargy she felt, the heaviness of her limbs.

Food- and drink-drugging has long been a problem on trains, but could knockout gas really be in a thief’s arsenal? In my early research, doctors had doubted the likelihood of a thief acquiring the right gas and the victims not waking from the smell. I went back to the doctors and this time they all agreed it could happen. Chloroform is often used in primitive surgical conditions and has no smell at all, some said. An anesthesiologist mentioned Halothane, which would be readily available from any surgical facility or veterinarian. Halothane has a slight odor but not enough to wake an already-sleeping person.

“Within twenty or thirty minutes,” Dr. Jared Kniffen told me, “someone could be in a deep enough sleep so that you could enter the room without his awareness. The danger of this is you could kill someone if too much were used. There’s a second possibility—a gas called Cevoflurane. It’s odorless, but much more difficult to obtain.”

But wouldn’t the robber himself be knocked out? I asked.

“There are ways to avoid that,” Dr. Kniffen said. “A certain travel supply house sells a smoke hood that gives twenty minutes of oxygen.” It’s meant for use in escaping from a burning building, but a clever thief might employ one for another use.

It sounds too sophisticated to me, too troublesome and risky. But if the reward were a treasure chest like Smriti Shah’s, it must be worth one thousand times the risk of simply snagging a laptop from a business traveler.

Despite the Shahs’ conviction, gassing on an overnight train is only a remote risk; my paranoid apprehension on our journey to Prague was out of proportion. Breaking into and stealing from compartments is a real risk though, and so is food- and drink-drugging. Nembitol, scopolamine, and benzodiazepine are the drugs most commonly slipped into food or drink, but only after the thief builds trust and confidence with the mark.

This is Part 3 of 3.   — Part 1. —  Part 2

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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Theft on overnight trains

train wheel 2

Overnight train travel requires watchfulness. Stations can be seedy. They’re open and available to anyone, with or without tickets. They attract a varied population of travelers and non-travelers alike. Vigilance is vital.

Stations with the biggest theft problems are those that are connected to, or nearby, bus or subway stations, which are often hangouts for gangs, drug dealers, and other undesirables. Thieves are able to loiter unchallenged within the stations, without attracting attention. Then they can take advantage of congestion for cover and easy escape.

Train stations and daytime journeys are covered in Chapter Six [of my book, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams]. Here, I’ll discuss overnight trips. Certainly not all overnight trains carry such risks as the following, which are surely worst cases. They’re a popular and logical mode of travel, not to be dismissed. If you plan well, you make the most of your vacation days, see a bit of countryside, meet some other interesting travelers, and save the expense of a hotel night.

My Swedish friends called me “exotic” because I had never been on an overnight train. It’s easy to find a European who has never been on an airplane, they told me, but everyone’s been on an overnight train. So when Bob and I found ourselves in Venice, Italy, ready to visit Prague in the Czech Republic, we decided to go by rail, overnight.

We boarded in late evening, and it seemed we would encounter our first train scam immediately. A large, slobbish, dreary man blocked the aisle and demanded our tickets.

“Tickets!”

He wore baggy black pants and a soggy white shirt. Nothing official, no monogram, badge, cap, embroidery, name tag, nothing to identify him. Yet, as his bulk impeded our path, we had no choice but to give him our tickets. He pointed to our reserved compartment. Thankfully, he didn’t demand money. But he didn’t return our tickets, either.

We could have been assigned to an Italian-owned wagon, or an Austrian one, possibly even a Swiss one. But we got a wagon owned and maintained by the Czech Railroad. We entered our dismal compartment and tallied up the security risks.

First though, what happened to our tickets? Bob went to find the big sour slob who had confiscated them. I could just imagine the moment a uniformed conductor would come to punch our tickets.

“But… but… we’ve already given them to the conductor!” we’d say.

“What conductor?”

“The man in black pants!”

“No tickets, no travel! Get off the train!”

Bob and the Czech ticket-taker argued in mutually exclusive languages. Bob returned without the tickets. We had nothing, not even a receipt. My turn. I tried another way. I found a Czech lady who explained: the man is our “attendant.” He keeps the tickets to show officials at border crossings. He’ll wake us in the morning, and will return the tickets then.

Okay.

Back in our dusty quarters we assessed the realistic hazards and dismissed the rest. We would not, for example, worry about knock-out gas being snuck under our door as a precursor to robbery. Bob said we wouldn’t worry about it. I merely insisted we keep the window open. Where, then, shall we put our luggage? Under the window is the obvious place, but not if we leave it open. The only other possibility would block the door.

Block the door.

We had not brought anything suitable to secure the door, but its flimsy chain would be enough. Bob said so.

I couldn’t sleep.

The gentle rocking I had imagined would seduce me to slumber was instead a rude awakening. It was jerky and ruthless, like being aroused by an earthquake. If I slept, I could be rolled like a drunk and never parse the violence of the assault from the brutality of the jolting train.

The noise from the open window was deafening. The rhythmic, metallic percussion of the tracks combined with a menagerie of whistles, screeches, and shrieks when we stopped at stations and borders. It was torment, but I wouldn’t shut the window.

Just a few days before, we had interviewed a railway police officer in Milan whose detail was theft. He claimed that most, if not all, the “gassing” tales are made up by victims too embarrassed to admit that they had slept through their own robberies. I had read an interview of a young Czech train thief who described exactly how he enters a compartment, watches his sleeping victim, slices open the victim’s pocket, and lets the wallet drop into his hand. Without gas or drugs. That sounded unbelievable to me; impossible. Surely the victim would awaken? But having experienced the dreadful noise and ceaseless motion of an unair-conditioned overnight train, I realize how horribly possible it is.

This is Part 2 of 3.   —  Part 1.   —  Part 3

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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Central and East European Train Crime

train wheel 1

Railway mafia groups fight over territory along the thousands of kilometers of track across Central & Eastern Europe. The most lucrative connections are those between major cities which are most frequented by foreign tourists who are filthy rich, naive, gullible, and can afford to shed some of their wealth, in the eyes of the criminals who specialize in robbing sleeping victims.

…˜The mafia groups fight amongst themselves for territory and they use sleeping gas to subdue their victims,’ said the sheriff of a Polish railway station on the Polish-Czech border with over 30 years experience in his job who requested that his name be withheld. …˜They are very skilled and use the ventilation system to gas their victims or quietly inject the fast-acting gas into their cabins through a slightly opened door.’

Foreign tourists are followed and carefully watched. There is no easier place to rob them than in a train which they essentially control on some tracks way out in nowhere. They attack you when you are asleep, that’s their style and that’s their specialty.

—Central & East European CrimiScope
www.ceeds.com/cee-crimiscope [defunct]

THAT READ, we traveled exceptionally lightly for our week-long research trip to Prague. One change of clothes, computers and camera equipment, money, passports, and plastic watches each.

We boarded the Venice-to-Prague overnight train at 8 p.m. on a Saturday. After being forced to surrender our tickets to an unidentified man (who we eventually learned was our “attendant”), we were shown to a gritty compartment. Dust clumps the size of rats swirled around the floor. Sad brown floral curtains of a coarse material hung above mismatched cushions and general grime. The bunks had been opened and made up for sleeping, with bed linen that seemed fresh and clean enough. But it was stifling hot in the un-air-conditioned train, and the stale air was of suffocating stillness.

There was no choice in the sweat-smelly and sweltering compartment but to leave the window open for air, despite the deafening, rackety-clackety clamor which made sleep all but impossible. In the dark hubbub, aromas told a tactless tale. The smell of sweet wood smoke rushed in, then fresh-cut hay, and later cow manure. At every stop the train’s brakes sliced the rhythmic clatter with ear-piercing shrieks. I clamped my palms to my overly-sensitive ears in agony.

Then, stationary in a depot or switching yard, sometimes for half an hour or more, I worried about that open window. Could someone reach in and grab a bag? Voices shouted, neighboring trains clanged and clattered: but even in the relative quiet, I was afraid to drop off to sleep. And without the circulation of air, our somber cell quickly grew hot and sour-smelling.

We had read so much about East European train robbers I was, frankly, petrified.

  • Bolt your door from the inside, I read.
  • One common, square-hole key opens all compartment doors, I read somewhere else.
  • Bring wire with which to secure your door, and tie down your belongings.
  • Sleep on top of your bags.
  • Don’t sleep!

What scared me most were the tales of the gassers, who knock you out in the dead of night by fumigating your compartment from under the door. Then they break in and help themselves to your belongings. My doctor friend Ann had said there was no gas she knew of that wouldn’t wake you up with its smell, or make you gag or throw up, or kill you. Was that supposed to be comforting?

I was primed for panic when aroused from a light and fitful nap by the quiet rattling of our door. I heard a key jiggle in the lock and the bolt was thrown. The door was yanked open an inch and stopped by the safety chain, which held. A flashlight shined at me through the crack and several male voices mumbled quietly.

Not very sneaky, I thought. But maybe they have knives! They couldn’t have expected as light a sleeper as I. Or—I sniffed the air—maybe they’ve gassed us, not expecting an open window to dilute the chemical.

“Passports,” Bob murmured from the bunk below me—not the night-train-novice I was. We were at the Austrian border.

Thus experienced, I was prepared for the repeat performance several hours later at the Czech border. We were not well-rested when we arrived at Prague at 9:00 in the morning.

But arrive we did, with bags and tickets intact.

This is Part 1 of 3. Part 2

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

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