Yeah, we know already, like “leave a message after the beep.” But this is odd… “A towel on the rack means ‘I’ll use it again.'” What rack? In this Hilton Hotel bathroom, there wasn’t a rack, a hook, or even a peg for a towel.
Look at the photo. You can see the entire bathroom. No place for towels.
About how to spot a thief or a pickpocket, I said in my last post that “Bob and I locked onto them the moment they appeared in front of us.” Why? How did we know? What got our attention?
To everyone else in the vicinity, and there were thousands over the course of an hour, the two men appeared perfectly innocuous. Better said, they caused no one to look at them twice. So why did we?
First let’s look at why no one else heard alarm bells. By design, the two blended neatly into the ever-changing crowd. They wore clean, bland, ordinary clothes. They both carried bags with the straps worn diagonally across their chests, as do many people, including their victim, and Bob, and I. They both carried jackets, as did many people, as did I. One of the men carried a tourist map—as did many people. They were clean-shaven with neat haircuts.
For all intents and purposes, they were germs hidden in full view: an invisible virus in an international organism; undetectable agents of loss.
To Bob and me, the duo stuck out like a sore thumb at first glance. In two seconds, we had each processed the following: they both wore those messenger bags—crosswise. They both carried jackets. One held a map. They walked as if they didn’t know each other. Their eyes scanned the scene around them. Their expressions revealed tension.
Right. That’s not much to go on. Pretty much what anyone who bothered to look would notice.
Our second stage of observation took in behavior during half a minute or so. They faked tourist gestures, including pointing into the distance and holding open their map without really looking at it. They conducted an unnatural pattern of movement; for example, reversing to walk in the direction they’d just come from, and crossing and recrossing the same street. They loitered with uncertainty and fidgetiness (I know—that’s hard to define or criticize.)
As the minutes ticked by, the pair showed further suspicious behavior. They were looping—that is, returning to a location from a different angle. They left the area on a bus, but returned on foot. They tailed a target mark, then gave up. They were persistent, trudging up and down the same block, clearly looking for something.
Finally, they spotted an easy target. The mark was the epitome of a victim. Elderly, alone, physically weak, discombobu-lated, and distracted. His trouser pockets were loose and gaping. His shoulder bag hung on a long strap behind his back.
The old man was immobile gazing at a shop window when they found him. Certainly the easiest game around. The pickpockets stared at him openly for several minutes. When the geezer finally moved, they closed in on him from both sides.
Over and over, the crowd foiled their attempts. The thieves stuck to him, though sometimes they walked past him only to stop and look back at him.
During all this, Bob was fairly stationary. He had a good angle and a long lens. I followed the action, the caboose of the parade. Sometimes when the thieves stopped I stood on the opposite side of a billboard where I could only watch their shadows or their shoes. I watched their reflections in the windows all the way across the street, or in the windows of passing cars and buses. I looked at my watch repeatedly, as if I were waiting for someone (as falsely as they held out their map). I strenuously exercised my peripheral vision muscles. When I tracked the team down past the outdoor art market, I watched them from between the paintings on display.
They became cagey. Eventually, they felt our eyes. They stared me down a few times. One covered his face as he crossed in front of Bob and his camera. But they weren’t sure about us and continued their efforts in plain sight.
Bob and I define “pickpockets” as non-violent. “Muggers” use violence, or the threat of violence. But how do we know who we’re dealing with? We’ve been threatened by thugs in St. Petersburg before. We know that thieves in Russia often carry razor blades. Who are we to predict the level of violence these stalkers are capable of?
There’s also the drug connection. Many pickpockets are slaves to habits. What state are they in when we find them? Are they high and full of confidence? Are they coming down and desperate? Do they have creditors breathing down their necks? Have they failed so many times they’re ready to snap? Has a judge warned them that if they show their faces in his courtroom again he’ll throw the book at them?
How many are there? A “lone wolf,” a pair, a gang? Is there a controller lurking unseen on the perimeter? A spotter? A colleague with a knife who’ll step in at a whistle?
What about police protection? I mean, might the thieves have police protection? Is that what happened to us in Russia a few years ago, when we thought we were about to be robbed by pseudo cops or by real, corrupt cops? Maybe the police were just protecting the pickpockets who pay them off.
Tracking criminals is risky business. Bob and I have to weigh the various factors, sometimes in an eyeblink, and decide on our strategy. How blatant can we be? Should we continue to follow or approach the thief or gang? What have we got on us, equipment-wise? Better we slink away in the crowd? Or talk to the victim and let the thieves go?
How to spot a thief in a crowd? We don’t always make the right decision. Maybe best is when Bob and I split up. He makes contact while I blend into the crowd and keep on filming. Then his cover is blown, but not mine.
Prowling and preying with impunity, the pickpocket pair cared little about hiding their business. Yet none of the mighty swirling masses intent on going this way or that, paid them the least attention. Such is the state of street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia.
The thieves appeared aimless at first: bouncing around the intersection, crossing and recrossing the street, pausing to look into a window, only to turn and go back the way they’d just come. To anyone glancing at them, they blended into the crowd without suspicion.
Bob and I locked onto them the moment they appeared in front of us. (I’ll tell you why in the next post.) To watch the team’s activity for more than a minute is to understand their motive.
We happened to be in St. Petersburg, Russia, but it could have been anywhere. The location was perfect, and well-known to us from past thiefhunting exploits: on Nevsky Prospekt, the main drag, outside the area’s only Metro station. A very busy corner, human traffic ebbs and flows to the beat of the traffic lights and the comings and goings of underground trains.
A variety of police seem to patrol the area sporadically, strolling along in pairs, stopping briefly outside the Metro station doors. They have no apparent effect on the thieves we happened to be observing.
In years past, we’ve seen certain pickpockets operating day after day, month after month. Locals and expats come to recognize them, as of course the police do.
Now locals tell us they see and hear of fewer thieves on the streets. Rather, the pickpockets prefer to work inside the Metro. Tour guides told us the thieves are more prevalent now inside the museums, in the Hermitage, and on the Navy ship Aurora; in other words, where the crowds are, where the tourists are.
Our observant friend who works at the art market on Nevsky Prospekt says the thieves stay on the move, never pausing. Indeed, that’s what we observed as we followed this brazen pair.
After they’d zigzagged around the area for about twenty minutes, halfheartedly hunting, I followed them down the street where they hopped onto a rather empty bus. If stealing aboard were their intent, they’d have waited for a crowded bus. In this case, they got on the bus simply to be transported away.
When they’d gone, I went back to my post outside the Canal Griboyedova Metro station. Sure enough, after ten minutes or so, the pair came sauntering back to the corner. This time they locked onto a mark, a stooped geezer whose shoulder bag dangled behind him.
The two trailed the old man as he meandered, staying behind him, one to the left, one to the right. The mark moved erratically and paused often: to look in a window, to cross the street, to gaze along the canal toward the magnificent Church on the Spilled Blood. Each time the thieves got close behind him, they’d get into theft position: one of them would unfold a map and use it to shield the view.
The problem was, they were a team of only two. They lacked the vital third member, the blocker. A blocker would have stopped short in front of the mark, forcing him to stand still for a moment—just long enough for the pickpocket to do his thing. A proper pickpocket crew of at least three individuals choreographs its moves like a Russian ballet.
Without a blocker, the pair couldn’t control their mark. They had to rely on natural reasons for him to pause. Alternatively, they could try to work in motion, which is much more difficult.
Finally, that’s exactly what they did. I was behind the thieves when they went for the pocket—not the hanging bag. Bob was some 20 yards in front of the threesome, but got a good shot with his new Sony NEX-VG10 video camera, thanks to its powerful long lens and stabilization.
In Bob’s footage, we see everything. The thieves’ great concentration, a hand in the pocket, the partner’s readiness. Then the extraction, the unfurling of the stolen handkerchief, the smooth passing of it to the partner. And through it all, the unsuspecting victim shuffles on.
The thieves weren’t fazed by their lousy haul. They stayed right on their prey, attempting another hit on the same pocket. They must have seen or felt the weight of something hefty inside (by “fanning“), and it was clear that their victim was oblivious to them. So was all of mankind, as far as they were concerned. They operated as if invisible to the world.
Or as if they’d paid for the privilege of haunting this stretch of Nevsky Prospekt for this time period. We’d been told more than once over the past 13 years that pickpockets pay police for permission to work at a specific time and place. We have not confirmed that this system is still in effect but… old ways change slowly, if you know what I mean.
On previous thiefhunting expeditions in Russia, we’ve used hidden cameras, or at least unnoticeable ones. This time, Bob’s bulky Sony, held up to his eye and aimed directly at our quarry, made his interest obvious. One of the pair noticed and, when he crossed in front of Bob, hid his face with his jacket. Then he peeked: still filming?
The victim eventually wandered off and stood on the canal bridge until the pickpockets gave up on him. Still unaware of his followers, he trudged back down the block to the bus stop and sat on the bench. Perhaps he was aware of something amiss, because he began an inventory of his belongings, starting with his wallet, taken from the same pocket the handkerchief had been stolen from. Did he notice the handkerchief was gone? Was there something else stolen that we didn’t catch?
More on pickpockets in Russia:
Russian Rip-off: pickpockets and thugs
La Rambla, Barcelona—On observing the behavior of someone like Plaid, we label him a suspect. We follow and film, yet we can’t be certain he’s a thief.
“He could be a pervert,” police have told us. “Watch his eyes.” Plaid’s eyes said wallet. His furtive fingers opening buttons said pickpocket. We stayed glued to his back until he gave up.
“Let’s go talk to him.” Bob was already trotting toward him. I had to run to catch up.
“Scuza,” Bob called, “por favor…” He was mixing up his languages in the excitement.
Plaid stopped and bestowed an empty grin on us.
“Do you speak English?”
“No, no English. I speak French. And I speak Algerian.” Plaid held up his hands as if he were off the hook and turned to continue on his way.
“En francaise, c’est bien,” Bob said, dredging up his French. “We want to talk to you.” He tossed the video camera to me.
“Okay, nice to meet you.” Plaid offered his hand. Bob shook it without hesitation, neatly stealing Plaid’s watch at the same time. I was still fumbling with the camera so half the watch steal was filmed upside down.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.” Bob dangled the watch in front of Plaid, who glanced at his naked wrist then back to Bob. He broke into a bewildered smile.
“That’s superb. Please…”
Bob will often steal something from a thief then return it for a reaction. His unique talent instantly establishes rapport with an outlaw and, more often then not, they’ll talk to us.
Plaid, an opportunist pickpocket whose method is stealth, is a lone wolf. He works solo, without a partner. His neat clothes and haircut, decent shoes, and polite manner are calculated to blend into a crowd. He’s a chameleon. We call him a gentleman thief, a type almost impossible to detect.
“I want you to explain for me—”
“Why me?”
“Because we have watched you work.” Bob tried to explain that he is an “artiste,” a stage performer, but Plaid couldn’t grasp the concept of stealing as entertainment.
“Please, don’t tell anyone what I do. I know this is bad work. You know, this is Spain, and there is no job for me. I have no papers… that’s why I’m doing this. Because I have a child to feed. See, I have reasons to steal, because I need to feed my baby.”
He tried to give Bob a little advice, one pickpocket pal to another. “Use your brain, be smart. You don’t need violence. Use your mind.”
The pickpocket took a few steps backwards, itchy to make his escape. “You need patience to do this. Now I must go. Let me say good-bye.”
And the gentleman thief was gone, an invisible germ in an oblivious crowd.
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Five: Rip-Offs: Introducing… the Opportunist
La Rambla, Barcelona—On one crowded summer Sunday, Bob and I patrolled the perimeters of the street performers’ audiences. Of all the thieves and con men we watched that day, and there were many, “Plaid Shirt” was the slickest. I locked onto him because of his smile.
A Spanish folksinger had attracted an audience of hundreds. Backpackers were camped long-term on the ground, and people stood four and five deep behind them in a giant circle, enjoying the free concert.
Plaid Shirt was neatly dressed and I almost eliminated him on the basis of the thick wallet in his back pocket. His gray plaid shirt tucked into dark blue jeans did not grab my attention. The windbreaker he carried over his arm was a tip-off, but not a dead giveaway. I had considered a sweater myself that morning, and wished for one in the evening.
What raised my antennas was his behavior. Plaid Shirt sidled up close into the back of the attentive audience. After a minute, a man beside him turned and glared at him. My suspect smiled in response and took half a step back. But that smile! It was the paradigm of shit-eating grin.
Plaid Shirt, the opportunist pickpocket, slowly and calmly relocated, pressing himself into another section of the crowd. He did this repeatedly, never staying more than two minutes in one spot. I tagged onto him, stepping right in behind or beside him. Whenever he turned to leave, I swiveled away or moved in the opposite direction.
Later Bob joined me with his camera. Plaid continued his pattern of getting close, then backing off. When he was glared at, he proffered his cat-ate-canary grin; but more often he was not noticed at all.
Round and round the periphery we went. After Bob got some footage of Plaid, I moved even closer and learned his secret specialty. With absolute stealth and fingers like feathers, Plaid lifted the flaps on men’s cargo pockets—those low-down side pants pockets—and unbuttoned them. Despite his use of a jacket for cover, I saw him unbutton three cargo pockets and one hip pocket, on four men. He probably opened many others I couldn’t see.
I did not, however, see him steal any wallets.
Why did he leave each mark after only opening the button? Did he sense the men had felt him? Was he just setting up for a later approach? Most of his targets seemed not to have sensed anything amiss.
Amazed that he hadn’t wisened to me, I began to think of Plaid as a hapless fool. We’d circled and circled the audience together, moving in, pausing, moving on. For forty-five minutes I followed the pickpocket’s balding head while he failed to notice me. With my bright white dress and big curly hair, it’s not as if I were totally inconspicuous. If he’d gotten anything, he would have left, at least long enough to dump the leather.
Meanwhile, Bob dared not get close, although he may as well have. Plaid was concentrating so intently he wouldn’t even have noticed a six-foot-five videographer hovering over him. But Bob hung back while Plaid and I traced a flower-petal design around the hand-clapping fans, curving in and out at irregular intervals.
Plaid moved in behind a man with a child balanced on his shoulders. The man swayed gently with the music and the child tapped her thigh. Plaid lowered his jacket and positioned his body, attempting to block sight lines. I snuck in closer, in time to watch Plaid lift the flap of the father’s cargo pocket, and slowly open the button. I motioned for Bob to come near. This was a good opportunity with enough of a view.
Plaid worked meticulously. Stealth was his main operative, with nerve and patience tied for second and a goofy smile his ace in the hole. He kept his face forward and head straight; only his eyes flicked down now and then. Father and child were oblivious. The music swelled.
Plaid took a half step away. No reaction from the mark. He moved back in and lowered his jacket again. Bob slipped up behind me and I edged away, letting him have the sightline. In the background now, I went crazy not knowing. Was Plaid extracting the wallet? Was Bob getting it on camera? What would we do afterward: alert the father or try to talk to Plaid? I crept up, trying to see.
Interruption!—
Have I described La Rambla’s comical chair patrolman? He controls the rows of chairs on the upper end of the boulevard, collecting a few coins for the privilege of resting tired feet in prime people-watching seats. With his many-pocketed vest, visor cap, and change-purse at his waist, he looks like a circus clown’s imitation of a policeman. For years we’ve seen him waddling around his territory, a stern eye on his lucrative concession, quasi-defender of all he surveys.
—A shrill whistle blew, not far from our ears.
The superintendent of chairs marched toward us, pointing.
“Pick-pock-et!” he said, the whistle dropping from his mouth to his chest. “Attencione!”
The concert continued. The father and child still swayed to the music. Only three people reacted to the pretender-officer’s accusation, and we three rearranged ourselves into an eccentric perimeter parade.
Plaid beat it around the circle and we followed. He still didn’t seem to be aware of us, the witless dolt. Like Plaid, I dodged cars in the street where the crowd stretched to the curb, but Bob was slower with a heavy camera-bag on his shoulder. I waited for him, keeping an eye on Plaid who had abandoned the game and now stood at a closed lotto booth.
What was he doing there? He was facing an inward corner, a niche in the wall of the kiosk, very close, but looking away, toward me. He was doing something with his hands. I stared at him, not worried now about being noticed. As before, Plaid looked innocently away from his busy hands.
Bob reached me. “Where is he?”
“One o’clock. At the kiosk. I bet he’s dumping a wallet!”
Plaid finished and strode away. I ran to the kiosk and, raising my sunglasses, peered closely into the dark shadow of the niche.
Foul fumes hit me in the face.
“He was peeing! Disgusting!”
More on Plaid in the next post.
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Five: Rip-Offs: Introducing… the Opportunist
China World Hotel, Beijing— Very nice room. In an effort to think of every detail, there’s a little glass shelf installed on the bathroom wall, toiletside. Lest you load it up with toiletries, which might seem the obvious thing, it’s etched with the image of a mobile phone. And for those over-actively vibrating phones, there’s a tiny guardrail. Cute!
My old friend Avis perused my blog just before her recent trip to Spain. Then she wrote me, doubly concerned. She and her 25ish son were heading to Madrid, Barcelona, Seville, and day trips from those places. She was mostly worried for Zac, who didn’t take the threat seriously. She planned to use a small backpack for herself.
Immediately, I replied:
Briefly, I don’t recommend a backpack unless you plan to carry it on your chest. It’s totally out of your control back there. Try to find a bag with a short strap that fits close to your armpit. More later…
The next day, when I had more time, I provided more thorough advice to my friend:
Great trip you’ve got planned but, yeah, you have to be careful. Zac should not carry a wallet in his back pocket. Tell him that the easiest victims are the ones who say “it won’t happen to me.”
Strip your wallets of anything not necessary. It’s best to carry your passport (when you must carry it) and big cash in a pouch under your clothes. It can be one that hangs around your neck under your shirt, or our favorite, one that hangs inside your pants and has a loop that your belt goes through. These come in several sizes and different materials. Pickpocket proof!
Use a credit card for most purchases so you don’t need to carry a lot of euros. Make photocopies of both sides of all the cards in your wallet, and your passport first page, and keep the copies in your largest luggage. If you can, email the copies to yourself. That way you can get them from any computer any time.
Watch your bags at all times. In the airport, getting out of the taxi in front of your hotel, checking into the hotel, renting a car, etc. Don’t put your bag on the floor or back of your chair in a cafe. If your (or Zac’s) jacket is hanging on the back of a chair in a restaurant, make sure the pockets are empty. Don’t let yourself get distracted by someone asking an innocent question. I know I’m making it sound scary but really, if you pay attention, nothing will happen. If you look away, something might disappear.
Be especially careful on public transportation, getting on and off buses and trains, and going down the metro stairs. If your stuff is in front of you or tucked under your arm, you’ll be okay.
Search barcelona on my blog and read those stories for examples of the creative ruses that trick people into losing their stuff. The pigeon poop ploy, the swipe off tables, fake football, pseudo-cops, and endless good samaritan tricks. Sorry, but it’s true.
A new website just started called RobbedInBarcelona On twitter they’re @RiBCN, and they have a fb page “I know someone who got robbed in Barcelona.” They’re trying to shame the city into doing something. Just read the quotes they translated.
Still, bcn is one of my favorite cities in the world. The food, the mood, the architecture, the galleries…
Pretty good advice, I thought. But not good enough. Avis reported back after her trip:
There’s no other way to say this or to soften the blow, my shame… I had my wallet with my 2 credit cards and debit card and drivers license and 150 in Euros and ?? US money stolen on the metro after landing at the Madrid airport on my first day! The rest of the trip was great. Honestly I can’t figure out how or when the theft occurred, those guys are good, and yes I had a terrific traveling money thing to stick in my pants, but I was going to do it all when I got to the hotel, I did remain vigilant and yet I was got. Zac sez I manifested it and maybe I did.
Sounds like the boy’s gloating. Schadenfreude, anyone? Impressed with the slickness of her thieves, Avis related just how diligent she’d been:
I was careful to bury my wallet in the bottom of my zipped bag. On top of it was a book, glass case, papers and my passport, which was in the “travel wallet” on the very bottom. The bag was my everyday purse: a woman’s purse-type backpack that I could wear with the straps on my back (in other words nice fabric and small; not a school or travelers’ backpack). It has zippers and a pocket in the front which were untouched. I did not have it on my back EVER, rather on one shoulder so that I could hold it with one arm, or in front of my body. My best guess is that the theft occurred on the escalator when it must have swung behind me and when I obviously couldn’t see behind me and movement was occurring. The zipper was only open about 5 inches (amazing!)
I told Avis that pickpockets do try to close the zippers they’ve opened, if they have time. Gives them a few more seconds to get away if the victim should happen to glance at her bag. I’m sorry that I didn’t warn my friend to prepare herself immediately, even before stepping off her plane. After a long overnight flight, groggy, distracted, burdened with luggage, navigating an unfamiliar Metro system and trying to find a hotel you’ve never seen, you’re at your most vulnerable. Pickpockets know this. As proof, Avis added:
The receptionist at our hotel in Madrid said 3 other guests (currently staying in the same hotel) were robbed at the airport. 3!!!!
The lesson I learned from Avis’s experience is this: at the risk of sounding like an alarmist, stress early preparedness. Stress that bags don’t have nerve-endings, and therefore need to be in line-of-sight. Emphasize that while we are busy with travel concerns, thieves are focused on finding the chink in our armor. A moment of distraction is the gift of an opportunity to a pickpocket.
Read: Purseology 101 and Pocketology 101
Traveler Tim Hopkins reports on an “ingenious cab scam theft.”
Lessons learned, disaster averted
I recently purchased two copies of your book, one for me, and one for my father. We had planned a trip to Africa, and after reading the book, I wanted to be ready! I had purchased a PacSafe Wallet Safe, with a zippered opening, and a pretty strong chain. While in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, we were victims of a cab-theft scam that was ingenious! The hotel had arranged a cab for us, and when he dropped us off at the restaurant, we exchanged cell numbers, and tested them. He said to call for our ride home, and left.
After dinner, we called him, and he said he’s be there in 5 minutes. Exactly five minutes later, another similar cab (they are all very dilapidated and patched-up) shows up, and flags us to come get in. Dad asked the driver if he had been sent for us, and of course he said, “yes, yes, come on!”, so we got in. As he started to roll away, he asked us where we wanted to go. I realized he wasn’t our guy, and told him to pull over and let us out. He said, “no problem”, and pulled over. Small problem, though—he had removed the inside door handles! I tried to get the door open, as did Dad from the back seat—and the guy starts to reach across my lap (I am in the front seat), pulling on some wires he had rigged in the door, yelling “push, push!,” and causing quite a fuss. He “couldn’t get it open,” and had me sit more forward, hollering and fussing, and pushing, and slid down behind me to work the door. “Push, push!” “I am pushing!,” jostle, fuss, fuss, yell—quite a scene in that little cab! Finally the door pops open, and I pop out. Dad didn’t wait for his turn, and came over the front seat and out. The guy shut the door, and took off. I reach behind me, and no wallet! Just a dangling chain, broken or cut about halfway down!
Fortunately, I had followed your advice, and this was a ‘disposable’ travel wallet, with around $100.00 worth of local money, two of my four cards, and a license; mostly very replaceable stuff. Essentially it was his to steal, and he got it! The beauty of it was that for a hundred bucks and three phone calls, I got a combat lesson in what “the fuss” feels like. We were both astounded at how we had prepared, yet were still unable to recognize the escalation of the situation. This has let to our adopting some new policies!
I also bought a Pacsafe DuffelSafe and Pacsafe backpack, which are both slash-resistant, and lockable (also with a cable for securing to an object). These were both great for the hotel and when leaving bags in the car for things like shopping or our safari.
Thanks again—you have a fascinating job.
Happy travels!
Tim and Don Hopkins
We received another long email last Friday from a thief we know in Naples, Italy. Between his flowery prose on the trials and tribulation of the pickpocket profession, and his disclosures of the career aspirations of his young adult children, he informed us of the news that is now everywhere:
Some days ago two thugs tried to snatch the gold Rolex of an American tourist who was off a cruise ship. He died this morning at the hospital. I’m so sorry about this thing.
I’m not sure if our pickpocket friend ever has or would steal a Rolex. As far as we know, he specializes in wallets taken from pockets. Clearly, he does not see himself as a “thug;” no—they are a completely different category of thief.
The American cruise ship passenger died on May 27, never having recovered from injuries sustained when the two hoodlums tried to steal his Rolex on May 18. He’d been strolling with his wife, not far from his ship, and not long on the ground.
The thugs were scippatori, the scooter-riding bandits I’ve written much about. In fact, it was our long-ago surprise encounter with these goon-thieves that began our thiefhunting career.
Sad but inevitable, considering the frequency of these crimes. I’m sad not only for the 66-year-old victim, Oscar Antonio Mendoza, 66, of Puerto Rico, and his family, but also sad for Naples. The city has so much to offer visitors, not least the warmth and liveliness of its populace. Its reputation as crime-infested already has the tourism industry recommending nearby towns instead of Naples.
Unlike Barcelona, where a huge crime wave largely targeting tourists is perpetrated almost exclusively by foreigners from a few specific regions, in Naples, the perpetrators are local mobsters. They are destroying their own city. (One could say that Barcelona also is destroying itself by allowing foreign robbers free reign.)
Our Napolitano pickpocket friend considers his style of robbery above the brute-force-thuggery that eventually killed the American tourist. While holding himself to certain standards, he simultaneously laments his line of work; an odd mixture of pride and shame. He is a religious man. His youngest son, he just told us, “aspires to be a priest—even a pope! It always amazes me that if he attains this vocation, can you imagine? Dad doing the borseggiatore and his son is an angel” Borseggiatore— that’s pickpocket. The irony doesn’t escape our poetic pickpocket friend.
> Even more! See edit at the bottom.
10,000 shipping containers are lost at sea each year! From my naive perspective, I’m shocked by this number. Twice, I’ve sent an entire household from one continent to another by sea. To think of my container just…tumbling into the sea in a storm! Or worse, ordered jettisoned by the captain to ensure the safety of the ship.
Five to six million shipping containers are being transported at any given moment, and it’s estimated that one is lost about every hour. A goner. True, the percentage is low; but the number is high. Ten thousand containers and their cargo, every year, sunk to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Or presumably, the rough gray sea.
Containers dropped from cargo ships are never recovered and rarely reported. There are no legal repercussions for the losses; no accountability.
There are other repercussions though. Hazardous materials are leached into the ocean. Artificial habitats are created for aquatic life, strung like stepping stones along shipping routes, possibly giving species an unnatural ability to migrate across oceans.
And these cargo containers may float for days or weeks before they sink to the ocean floor. Huge farting boxes the size of houses, invisible just below the surface of the sea, they create a deadly hazard for other ships and yachts. “Very, very dangerous,” a ship’s officer told me. “At night you cannot see them at all.”
While this subject matter doesn’t quite fit my usual categories of Travel or Theft, it interests me mainly in terms of loss and responsibility (and also freak accidents). And there seems to be a huge potential for fraud.
Apparently, expediency in loading cargo ships doesn’t allow for stacking containers logically. Therefore, heavy containers may very well ride on the top layer. On the other hand. I read somewhere that top layer positions go for cheap—or was that a joke?
In a global industry represented by straight-laced and corrupt nations and every banana republic in between, I’m not surprised that:
They overload container vessels on purpose, raising the center of gravity of the ship. If there is smooth sailing, you make millions extra a year. If you hit rough seas, you cut loose your entire top layer of containers, lower your COG, and still come out ahead in the grand scheme of it all.
So, if a ship lists or rolls a container or two could go flying. Connecting pins might break or shear off, as they are designed to do at a list of a certain number of degrees. And if a ship is in danger its captain may choose to sacrifice a number of containers in the hope of saving the ship and its remaining cargo.
…essentially the shipping company is not liable for the ‘disposed [of]’ containers, either. If the shipping company has enough losses on a vessel to declare a “General Average,” then the compensation for the losses (including vessel damage, if any) are assessed against the other *customers* with cargo on that vessel.
Basically, the vessel is carrying the cargo as a courtesy; any risk of loss belongs to the owners of the cargo(s) collectively, NOT to the carrier.
So as a forwarding agent, not only do you get the pleasure of telling someone that their container of goods has been lost, you get to tell them that…¨a) they still have to pay freight shipping costs, AND…¨b) they’re going to be legally liable for their ‘share’ of whatever the general average costs work out to be
Other than keeping his average rate of loss low, there doesn’t seem to be much to motivate a captain to deliver his full complement of containers. Would it be an exaggeration to suggest that the odd seaman or two might be induced to “lose” a container now and then?
The potential for foul play intrigues me. I hear the whisper of a thumb gently rubbing two fingertips… The master of a ship turns his head away at the screech of metal scraping metal followed by a mighty splash. What might be in that locked steel box? Incriminating evidence? Treasure, bundled with a GPS transmitter, for later retrieval? Hazardous waste too costly to dispose of properly? A secret marine biology laboratory in which creepy experiments will be activated by contact with water, to be carried out in the cold, dark, compressed environment of the sea floor? Bodies?
> Edited 2/22/14 to add link to interesting article about a cargo ship that lost more than 500 containers in heavy seas.
> Edited 1/29/22 to add link to interesting article about a container collapse in which 60 were said to go overboard.
> Edited 6/2/22: In November of 2020, a ship called the one Apus, on its way from China to Long Beach, got caught in a storm in the Pacific and lost more than eighteen hundred containers overboard—more in one incident than the W.S.C.’s estimated average for a year. The same month, another ship headed to Long Beach from China lost a hundred containers in bad weather, while yet another ship capsized in port in East Java with a hundred and thirty-seven containers on board. Two months later, a fourth ship, also on its way from China to California, lost seven hundred and fifty containers in the North Pacific. When Shipping Containers Sink in the Drink