Professional beggars who understand the power of eye contact.
I’m a sucker for adorable beggar children on the streets of Mumbai. It’s impossible to look away, not reach for a coin. Now that I understand that so many poor farmers from faraway villages flock to the big city in desperation after their crops fail, that they can’t find work, have families to feed and debts to pay, my heart breaks for adult beggars, too.
But begging is also an industry; one that can sometimes net a better living than many honest jobs—hard labor earning barely enough money for food. A Mumbai local explained that these professional beggars know exactly where to hang out for the biggest return. While the locals may offer a rupee, tourists will easily hand over a 100 rupee note. Though only worth about two U.S. dollars, it’s a windfall to the panhandler. This sort of begging is so lucrative, my friend told me, that it for some it is a career. He described seeing beggars don shabby costumes, muss their hair, and dirty their faces before going to work.
And there are begging scams, too, like the mothers-with-babies (rented) who beg for milk powder, lead you to a nearby shop where you buy milk at an inflated price, and when you leave she returns the milk to the shop and splits the money with the shopkeeper.
Makes a person skeptical, even suspicious. And confused, because Mumbai has severe poverty, destitution, despair, and wretchedness. Heartstrings tugged, or legs pulled?
Beggars can be compelling. I fell for this family, a mother and her three boys, at Mumbai’s Dadar train station, in a chaotic crossroads like a Third World Times Square, an area far from any tourist zone.
The woman made a continuous loud honking noise by rubbing a stick on one side of a drum she carried hanging from her neck, and beating it on the other side. Meanwhile, her gorgeous painted boys turned their enormous eyes up to me. The boys had rope whips slung on their shoulders, wore bright skirts and anklets of bells. I was transfixed; couldn’t be bothered with a camera—I fumbled for coins. Bob, as always, had a video running.
Why the whips? Why the awful racket scraped on the drum? What’s on the woman’s head?
The heavy load on her head causes perfect posture and slow, elegant movements.
These are the Potraj people, seldom seen nowadays and said to be fast-vanishing. They are nomads who represent the goddess Kadak Lakshmi, or Mariai. When the Potraj are heard in the neighborhood, superstitious and religious women, of which there are many, run out and give alms. What is frightening about the ritual performed by the Potraj is the fierce self-flagellation practiced during trance-like dances to the “music” produced by the woman with the drum. A wonderful description of a child petrified by the mysterious Potraj is told by that child grown up. He called his nemesis the “boogoo-boogoo man,” and although he had nightmares about the Potraj as if he were a bogeyman, he refers to the sound of the scraping of the drum: boogoo-boogoo-boogoo-boogoo.
Watch the video if you dare. The sound may haunt you.
The male beats himself—hard—while his wife or mother stands by like a one-man-band and takes offerings. She balances a heavy wooden altar on her head, in which sits a statue of her goddess. Children begin as trainees at a painfully young age, and have their own little whips.
Disappearing into the crowd, the woman takes one last look at us.
I saw one of these Potraj in Chennai a few months ago. He was on a tea break. I didn’t notice if a woman was with him. I had no idea what he did, either. His colorful costume was arresting, and the long yellow rope whip slung over his shoulder fascinated me.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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 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
You saw Slumdog Millionaire, right? It was filmed in Dharavi, one of the world’s largest, densest slums. Bob and I spent half a day in this Mumbai slum, walking around with a couple of residents, Tauseef and Shanu, who showed off selected areas of the slum with a certain pride.
Anyone who’s visited Mumbai has driven past the slums. Awestruck and saddened by the unspeakable destitution, the flimsiness of building materials used, the population density, the proximity to lavish wealth, the naked children running in traffic, the sheer vastness, the visitor stares, horrified. Now that Mumbai’s airport has successfully banished them, the beggars come into view later; they are where the tourists go. Beautiful, tiny women with delicate features, red bindi, and elegant saris, they carry their infants and ask for money for milk powder. Or they are small, adorable children, half naked. Or maimed men. Strong impressions, for sure.
Dharavi—the biggest Mumbai slum
These images of the Mumbai slum are so renowned, and so off-putting to some, that many people say flatly “That’s one place I don’t want to visit. I don’t want to see the poverty.” Those ostriches will miss extraordinary and unforgettable scenes of lives lived in the open, from the gut-wrenching to the joyous, the heart-rending to the beautiful, the stereotypical to the eye-opening.
Dharavi from Mahim Junction overpass
In Dharavi, one million people live in about a square mile. Bob and I were accompanied by two college student residents who were born and raised there. They led us through narrow, muddy alleys humming with activity, where we had to watch our footing, dodge men, women, and children with gigantic loads on their heads, avoid refrigerator-sized sacks of stuff lined against walls, mud puddles, and barely-covered holes in the ground.
The biggest business in Dharavi is trash recycling, exactly as in the book I’m reading, Behind the Beautiful Forevers. The trash that is sorted is not what we Westerners know as recyclables; value is found in the smallest, most insignificant things, which are heaped into piles in small, dark, brick rooms and in sacks and stacks in the alleyways. I saw four men sitting in the dirt untangling a nest of wires, the copper and aluminum from which would be stripped out. Oil drums were being scraped clean, their painted linings burned out. Cardboard was cut into new boxes; plastic cleaned, ground, melted, extruded into spaghetti and chopped into pellets; electronics taken apart; toys reconstructed; and bottles, bottles, bottles…
We visited a bakery, where a hundred infant-sized lumps of yellow dough were lined up to rise on the floor. A boy cradled them against his stomach one by one, carrying them to a shelf where men rolled them into thin sheets, folded, rerolled, and folded; then they were sliced, baked into crispness, and packaged. I ate one there, to the delight of the workers: a “puff,” they call it, a delicious flaky pastry. Yes, there were flies everywhere. Yes, men walked across the floor the dough rose upon. Yes, the boy’s undershirt was sweaty. No, I did not get sick.
A one-room batik factory was most fascinating. Fabric was laid on mounds of perfectly-smooth packed sand where men stood like machines, dipping a wooden block in hot wax then stamping it precisely in position to make a continuous pattern, swiveling, dipping, stamping. The fabric is dyed three times for ultimate brilliance.
A Dharavi laundryworks?
We entered unlit workshops (sweatshops?) where men and women barely looked up from their jobs except to return our greetings: a black-soap mill; a pottery shop; a wood-carvery; a room with long rows of computerized embroidery machines. We climbed a rickety ladder to see silk chiffon stretched on giant wooden frames being hand embroidered with sequins. Up another crude ladder and we were on the roof: dusty, gray corrugated metal as far as the eye could see. We saw leather tanneries and proudly-displayed belts, wallets, and purses, all plastic-wrapped for export. Who knew such incredible industry occurred inside a Mumbai slum? Dharavi is an economic hub with a billion-dollar annual production.
From a Dharavi rooftop
The wide, litter-strewn main street was itself a thriving market lined with vegetable, spice, and legume sellers, cooked food stalls, barbers, delivery trucks and carts, motorcycles, and people on cellphones. We peeked into a cinema—men allowed only—with no chairs, where tickets cost 20 rupees, forty US cents.
Our sense was of continuous productivity, ingenuity, and ability to squeeze a tiny profit out of almost nothing. The mood was somber. We didn’t get the spontaneous greetings we received everywhere outside of the slum. Rarely did someone in Dharavi volunteer a hello or even a smile, but they never hesitated to return ours. We did not sense hostility, and certainly not danger. We noticed a few children working, but most were supposed to be in school, of which Dharavi has many. We heard very little music, but saw a few TVs on, and there were many satellites on the roofs. We were told that as well as TVs, some residents even have washing machines.
The Mahim Junction train station, with Dharavi behind
Though that was hard to believe, based on the residential area we walked through. Between buildings were mazes of narrow tunnels—not more than shoulder-width—with low ceilings, dangling wires, and wet ground made of rows of cement manhole covers. The tunnels were pitch dark and seemed to go in every direction. We got glimpses into tiny rooms which spilled a little light into the tunnels, smelled cooking here and there, heard children playing and wailing, adults talking, and the occasional TV. There were steep ladders leading to upper levels. It was otherworldly.
We came out of the dark and into a litter-filled schoolyard, where small kids played on the edge of the Mithi river, basically a cement-lined sluggish stream of sewage. Bob stood over some kids playing with a marble or something—they didn’t even look up at him. The men’s and women’s public toilets were there. Free for residents, who are expected to keep them spotless.
Bob and I had other obligations in Mumbai and had to leave Dharavi before we’d seen enough. I’m sure that in such a huge community there are celebrations, musical gatherings, sports competitions, and scenes of simple happiness. Although we didn’t get to see these, I have no doubt that they exist, despite the hard work and poor conditions that are so obvious.
Tauseef and Shanu
Except for our rooftop vantage point, we were discouraged from taking photos “to protect the residents.” Imagine the images I could have posted! Instead, I can only encourage you to visit Dharavi yourselves. Tauseef is co-owner of another Mumbai slum industry: Be The Local Tours & Travel. Owned and run by college students, the company’s mission statement is “With the help of students of Dharavi Be The Local is trying to dispel the negative image of Dharavi. By participating in the tour with Be The Local, you are helping the students of Dharavi.”
I’ve written here about the Mumbai slum called Dharavi, where the city’s poorest live. Many residents are migrants from India’s rural villages, seeking employment. This is by no means a story of Mumbai; just a subset of it, albeit a large one. More on Mumbai to come.
We bought second-class train tickets (for our thiefhunting) and rode the most crowded Mumbai 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.
Mumbai trains are mind-blowing
The behavior of Mumbai train 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 commutes. 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. 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 Mumbai 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.
An archeologist acquaintance just told me an outrageous story about corruption in Egypt. I had asked him what part of the world excites him—professionally—most. His answer was Israel, but he immediately launched into the difficulties of working in Egypt.
He had been scheduled to meet a fellow scientist in Alexandria. The scientist phoned him and not to come because he was very ill. He’d seen a doctor who had insisted he get to the hospital right away.
“No,” said the scientist, “I’ll go back to Britain.”
“You don’t understand,” the doctor said. “You have a burst [or bursting?] appendix. You need a hospital now!”
The scientist went to the hospital, where he was told there was a long waiting list. Looking around, he saw no one in the waiting room, yet he was made to wait. When this situation did not cause him to instantly and eagerly cough up an appropriate bribe, he was presented with a printed list which helpfully itemized “surgeon, doctor, nurse, operating room,” etc. with suggested [required?] prices.
The payoffs were hefty but the scientist paid them all and had his surgery. The operation was badly done—sponges were left inside him—his life’s savings were wiped out, and insurance refused to cover the baksheesh.
Can this really be true? I don’t know, but it’s a good enough story that I had to retell it here. I have no reason to doubt the archeologist, and it happened to his friend.
And I can relate, in a small way. I remember how, long ago, when visiting Jordan for the first time, Bob and I were held up entering the country due to vague “technicalities” and “delays.” We never got it—that we were supposed to offer a small bribe. Hours later, exasperated, immigration officials finally waved us on and out of their hair.
Don’t Lose Your Wallet – A Conversation With Street Crime Expert Bob Arno ChoosyNomad.com
Questions by David Matesanz
Bob Arno
You originally began your career as a comedian. How did this progress into becoming one of the most well regarded experts in pickpocketing and street scams?
Traveling the globe with my comedy pickpocket show gives me the rare opportunity to be everywhere. Sync that luck with my lifelong fascination with thieves and con artists, my interest in filmmaking, and my six-foot-five lamppost build, and you’ve got a globetrotting crime-sleuth who doesn’t look like a cop and has better video equipment. My wife/partner and I put ourselves near the thieves and, when they steal our (empty) wallet, we don’t get mad—we start asking questions. And because I do legally what they do as criminals, I can talk the talk and share techniques.
What sort of research have you done into pickpockets and the habits of street criminals?
From the thieves themselves we learn their methods and motivations. We film them without their knowledge, then we interview them and hear their braggadocio and their sob stories. We talk to tourist police and fraud cops to learn why it’s so hard to make a dent in this crime, and victims to learn the many variations on the methods. By far our most important research is done on the streets in crowded tourist destinations.
Besides the obvious crowded tourist areas, what are some of the overlooked spots where travelers are at risk of being stolen from?
Cafés and restaurants, where bags are apt to be stolen; hotel lobbies, where you have a false sense of security; public transportation; special events, like concerts and big sports games; and anyplace where there’s a lot of drinking.
What are some of the sneakiest pickpocket moves that you have seen?
The sneakiest play on our innate tendencies to trust and be nice. We trust the guy who kindly points out pigeon poop on our back and offers to clean it off (while he cleans us out). We’re nice to the woman who asks for help with directions, unaware that she’s opening our fanny-pack under her map.
Do pickpocketing techniques vary by region? Are there techniques you are more likely to see when traveling to particular area?
Absolutely. There’s a fake soccer move that’s common in Barcelona, and purse-slicing in St. Petersburg, Russia. Necklace-snatching is common all over South America. iPhone grabbing is big on trains, just before the doors close. Naples, Italy, is famous for its scooter-riding bandits, who snag purses on the move. And there’s lots more…
You are very good at describing clever pickpocketing techniques. What is the single best thing a traveler can to do avoid being robbed?
Stow her stuff safely before going out. I want to list a few more things, but you said “single.” Let me just clarify safe-stowing to primarily mean the use of some type of under-clothes pouch.
Istanbul pickpocket goes for a vulnerable purse.
You say that 90% of street thefts are of women. What can women in particular do to avoid being stolen from?
I doubt if I said 90%. Sounds like a misquote. But women are more often victims, simply because they carry purses, and purses don’t have nerve-endings. Women need to guard their handbags. Keep them closed, and in front of their bodies, not hanging behind. Don’t hang them on the back of a café chair, leave them on the floor or in a shopping cart, or on a bench in a shoe shop.
Do you have some tips for blending in and avoiding sticking out as a walking target?
You can’t help looking like a tourist, but dress down. You hear it over and over, but no one explains why. If you’re wearing a Rolex or diamond earrings—even if they’re fakes—you look rich. You look like you have a purse or wallet worth stealing. You’re worth following, and you’re eventually going to present an opportunity, or the thief will create an opportunity by manipulating you. Don’t send signals to the thieves who may be lurking that you’re worth their effort.
A pickpocket in Lisbon dips into a back pocket.
You advise against money clips. Should men carry wallets when traveling?
For men venturing into unfamiliar territory, it’s better to carry the big bucks and credit cards in a pouch that hangs from your belt inside your trousers. Keep small money in a pocket for coffee, taxi, souvenirs. Carry minimal cash and rely on credit cards whenever possible.
What other steps, before going out, can travelers take to minimize their risk ?
Read my book, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams. One tip from the book: photocopy the front and back of your credit cards, and leave the copy in the hotel along with another credit card, so if you are pickpocketed, you have an easy source of funds and the phone numbers on the backs of the cards so you can cancel the accounts. Better yet, scan those credit cards and the first page of your passport, and email it to yourself so you can access the copies from any internet point.
If you’ve just realized that your wallet has been stolen, what should you do?
Shout out. If the thief is still close, he or she may drop it on the ground. There may also be an undercover cop nearby. Or a fast-acting bystander.
In the event that you’re directly confronted by a criminal who might be carrying a weapon, do you have any advice on avoiding injury and minimizing your loses?
You don’t know if he’s high on drugs, desperate, or if he has pals around the corner. Give up your property. Appease the mugger so he’ll go away.
Bob Arno is both a comedy stage pickpocket and a criminologist who specializes in street crime against travelers. His presentations combine the tragedy and comedy of pickpocketing. His blog, Thiefhunters in Paradise, is about street thievery around the world. His website is www.bobarno.com
The San Francesco al Monte hotel in Naples, Italy, a former monastery originally carved into the mountain in the 16th century, is a warren of rock tunnels and hidden staircases. The clean, newly plastered surfaces are a stark contrast against the ancient rough stone parts of the property. Nooks and crannies and almost-hidden accessways beg for exploration with a flashlight.
Our room—even our bathroom—had incredible views of the city, the bay, and Mount Vesuvius, from multiple windows. It also came with beautifully packaged amenities, including a large jar of fragrant bath salt. All the room lacked was a bathtub.
I have to laugh at the great sense of humor shown by the creators of Stashitware, men’s and women’s pickpocket-proof underwear. Start with the name: where do you stash your shit? The product better be good, because the name begs to be shortened to Shitware if not.
But it IS good. It’s great. The men’s and women’s models have huge, deep pockets, into which endless items can be stuffed. Which brings me to its hilarious demo video. Never has stowing valuables been so entertaining.
http://youtu.be/WxNs3WGbNNw
Some of the items shoved into the man’s crotch — cigarettes, prescription meds, condoms, jewelry wadded up in tissue — suggest motives other than thwarting thieves. Stashitware’s made for stashing and it does a stellar job of it. What and why you want to stash is your business. The man pats and squeezes his privates to demonstrate that the hidden items can’t be seen or felt—to a point. “You could fit a gun in this pocket!” a subtitle states. Not sure how comfortable that would be.
The undies look good. They’re comfortable, even loaded. Wearing a medium boxer brief Bob packed in his passport, credit cards, a camera battery, and cash. There was room for more, but he wouldn’t want to bulk up with more than that down his pants.
The small men’s boxer brief was too tight for my skinny husband, but great for me! So I had four pairs to test: the comfy men’s, and three designs made for women: a boybrief, bikini brief, and thong, which all held progressively less as they got skimpier. I comfortably carried a camera battery, cash, two credit cards, a passport, and an iPhone in the men’s small shorts and the women’s boybriefs. The bikini and thong, with their low cuts, naturally hold less.
Pickpocket-proof underwear
These good-looking skivvies are pickpocket-proof underwear. With their easy-access pockets, they’re also pretty convenient, though in some situations a little privacy might be in order before deep digging.
Stashitware pocket pants should be in vending machines in the lobbies of hotels in cities with a pickpocket reputation. In airport arrival halls, too. They would put pickpockets out of business—and this blog, too.
“If these were in stores,” Bob Arno said, “pickpockets would become shoplifters to get them off the shelves.”
UPDATE May 2, 2012: I wore Stashitware on the world’s most crowded trains, trains so crowded you have to see them to believe it, and I have to say: I loved Stashitware! I never worried about my cash, credit cards, and ID. It was perfectly comfortable to carry it all in Stashitware. None of the many kinds of pickpockets would be able to get it. And my stuff was quick and simple to get out and put back. Excellent pickpocket-proof underwear. And no—I have no connections with the company.
