[dropcap letter=”N”]o thanks, I’ll carry that bag myself,” Marianne Crossley said to the porter as she stepped out of the London black cab, “it’s too valuable.” She handed a fistful of pound sterling to the driver, hefted her designer tote, and followed the porter into the cool marble lobby of the Langham Hilton Hotel.
Elegance embraced her. Marianne straightened her posture. The Langham was exclusive. She was privileged. She imagined herself belonging to the “UC,” as she thought of it, English Upper Class. Her entire European vacation would be the height of luxury; the black cab and Langham lobby were just the beginning.
Marianne chatted brightly with the reception staff as she checked in, a fresh veneer of energy covering the exhaustion and jetlag of her journey. Emotionally, she had already slipped into something comfortable, something contrived, perhaps a bit pretentious. Cloistered within the confines of the lobby, she felt protected, shielded from the rudenesses of the real world.
You know what’s coming. Marianne took her room key in one hand and reached for her tote with the other. It was gone.
The Langham’s two lobby cameras caught the crook, but the video was not monitored by security officers and was only viewed after the fact. When the larceny was discovered and the tapes reviewed, an interloper could be seen in Marianne’s proximity; but the front desk blocked the camera’s view of the tote. Neither the hotel, nor the police, recognized the suspect as a known thief.
Hotel lobbies are common sites of bag theft. To the guest they offer a false sense of security, with doormen in their guard-like uniforms, desk clerks facing outward, and bellmen looking after luggage. In reality, most anyone can enter a lobby, and who’s to say whether or not they have legitimate business in the hotel? At peak hours, reception staff are harried and the lobby swirls with the incoming, the outgoing, guests of guests, and lookyloos.
Some small hotels keep their entrances locked and visitors must be buzzed in, but many of these have no security staff or video surveillance. Large hotels, with shops and restaurants open to the public, may have guards and cameras but are as exclusive as a post office: anyone can come and go without suspicion. Which are safer?
There is no answer to that question. The responsibility for personal belongings is the traveler’s—period. We may give our luggage to bellmen and that is fine; but if we don’t, or if we have a carry-on, a roll-aboard, a purse, or anything we prefer to handle ourselves, its safekeeping is our responsibility. Hotel staff don’t know whose is whose or who belongs to whom. Perhaps a Langham employee saw a man take Marianne’s bag. Perhaps he assumed the man was Marianne’s husband.
The Langham is not particularly prone to lobby lifts, and neither did it suffer a rash of them. Perhaps an opportunist overheard Marianne’s general announcement in the portico that her bag was “too valuable” to entrust to a hotel employee. Perhaps not.
Marianne was luckier than most victims. Her bag was found intact by a London businessman who went to the trouble of phoning her home in America. Relatives there told him where she was staying and he personally delivered the bag to her, refusing a reward or reimbursement for the international phone call. Only cash had been taken from Marianne’s bag. Yet, in the interim days, she’d had to replace her passport and airline tickets, cancel her credit cards, arrange to get cash, and file a police report.
If the Langham were on busy Oxford Street, this lobby lift would make more sense. But it’s not; the Langham is on a relatively quiet street several blocks off Oxford. Hotels smack on a main tourist drag have many more lobby thefts; those on La Rambla, in Barcelona, come first to my mind. But if it can happen at the Langham, it can happen anywhere.
And if it can happen in seemingly-safe Scandinavia, it can happen anywhere. Certain frequent visitors during Stockholm’s summer season have been dubbed “breakfast thieves.” They don’t steal breakfast; they lurk on the fringes of sumptuous buffets at upscale hotels, waiting for a moment of inattention.
“They lie in wait for a businessman to fetch a second glass of orange juice,” said Anders Fogelberg, head of the Stockholm police department’s tiny pickpocket detail, “and in that instant of opportunity, they and the businessman’s laptop, briefcase, or mini-computer skip out the door.”
With a firm grip on the patient’s big toe, the hospital orderly entered the police inspector’s office. He carried the full weight of the patient’s plastered leg, which extended from the wheelchair without any other support. As he was pushed from behind and pulled by the toe, the patient hunched awkwardly in the rusty iron wheelchair. A male nurse had the ancient chair tipped precariously back, which thrust the broken leg to a painful height.
As he was wheeled in, the patient gripped the armrest of the chair with one hand and clutched his broken ribs with the other. A procession of plainclothes police and hospital staff followed. The patient was a pickpocket, brutally beaten by his most recent victim.
Mumbai Police Inspector Ashok Desai had not required much prodding to produce a pickpocket. He sat behind the desk in his lilac-colored office at Victoria Terminus and chatted amiably with us, shoes and socks off, cap off, smooth bald head reflecting the slow revolutions of a ceiling fan. Curiously eager to cooperate, he buzzed his peon and ordered him in Hindi when we asked to interview a thief. Shortly thereafter, his office doors were thrown open and the broken criminal wheeled in.
“Now let me explain something,” Bob said, leaning forward. “If he lies to me, I will know. I want only the truth.”
Without waiting for translation, the pickpocket replied in Hindi. “I speak only the truth to you,” he said, Inspector Desai translating. “I swear to you.” He raised his open right hand and placed it stiffly against his nose and forehead, thumbtip to nosetip, like a vertical salute.
Bob Arno shows pickpocket video to VT Police
Before the battered thief was brought in, the Inspector wanted to be certain that he wouldn’t be glorified in the press, nor made fun of by us. The man had received the beating he deserved, Desai said. His huge curled mustache held the shadow of a smile. While we waited, he dictated a memo to an assistant and sent another running for masala chai, spiced milky tea. Pigeon feathers swirled on the floor in a mini whirlwind.
Rahul was wheeled in and parked beside Bob. A posse of police and medical staff stood behind his rusty throne like male ladies-in-waiting. After promising truth, Rahul looked back and forth between Bob and the Inspector with alert eyes, and answered without hesitation.
He steals only on trains at the passengers’ moments of boarding or alighting, he explained. Never on buses. His only victims are wealthy businessmen, easily identifiable by the size of their bellies and grooming of their mustaches. He tapped his own thin mustache and sunken belly, indicating the local signifiers of affluence. All the police recognize Rahul and his gang. Therefore, they usually commit their thefts a station or two away from Central Station. He was caught this time because he’d been drinking a little and his reflexes were slow. He was sloppy. It was a bad mistake. He pressed his broken ribs and grimaced.
Rahul works with a sliver of razor blade, which he hides in his mouth between cheek and lower gum. Using a broken match stick, he demonstrated how quickly he can manipulate the blade. With it, he slices open the satchels of affluent businessmen on trains while a partner holds a newspaper or canvas bag at the chest or neck of the victim, preventing his seeing.
“Show me,” Bob said, coming around Rahul and squatting beside him. Rahul was handed a newspaper and then demonstrated how quickly he could open a bag beneath the shield of the paper.
This is done while boarding or exiting trains so crowded that people can barely turn their heads, Rahul and the Inspector explained.
“Do you ever cut pockets with the blade?” Bob asked.
“No, only bags. But I know others who cut pockets. Two brothers, they always work together.”
“I want to talk to them. Where can I find them?” Desai asked.
“I don’t know,” Rahul said. He seemed afraid for a moment.
“Last question,” Bob said. “What will you do when you’re fifty?”
A Mumbai taxi
“I have a taxi medallion and badge. If I get the chance, I would like to ply the taxi on the road.” He paused. “But I do not think I will get the chance.”
It’s possible that Rahul works under an Indian mafia. Neither he nor the inspector suggested this, but other Indians who analyzed portions of this interview on video thought it was likely.
“Where there is big money there is mafia,” an Indian working in the security business told me. “Your pickpocket, he was afraid to talk about other thieves he knows. He didn’t want to tell the police inspector. And as to driving a taxi, probably the mafia will never let him quit the steal business. Your pickpocket will continue his work on the trains, I believe.”
In 2001, we spoke to this pickpocket in Mumbai, who'd been beaten by his victim.
While pickpocketing and bag snatching are said to be fairly common in Mumbai, Bob and I feel a visitor is less likely to become a victim there than in certain European cities.
Unless, that is, the visitor uses public transportation, where thieves practice all the common strategies plus a few creative twists of their own.
And unless the visitor happens to be robbed by snatch-and-grabbers on scooters, a nasty crime on the increase.
And unless the visitor experiences the human-leg-clamp robbery as experienced by our friend Paul McFarland just one year ago.
Otherwise, most victims of diversion theft are local commuters.
Mumbai police watch Bob Arno's video of pickpockets around the world.
Street crime in Mumbai
When we asked about pickpockets, a few Mumbai police officers tried the “good PR” approach. “We don’t have much pickpocketing,” they told us. “Mumbai is very safe. You can walk anywhere day or night. Married women wear mangalsutras, necklaces of pure gold. They are not afraid to wear them anywhere,” the cops said. Yet, the next day’s newspaper reported “man caught and beaten by witnesses after snatching a woman’s mangalsutra.” If witnesses are taking care of thieves on the spot, perhaps the police aren’t aware of the crimes?
We’d interviewed a pickpocket in Mumbai PD custody back in 2001. [Story coming soon.] He was trundled to us slumped in a wheelchair with a broken leg and broken ribs. Caught by his victim on a train, he’d been beaten to a pulp. That’s the way it’s done here, we’d been told.
Now Assistant Police Inspector Subhash Borate suggested that many Mumbai thieves suffer from drug addictions. He described a few local M.O.s:
A small part of the gorgeous Victoria Terminus train station in Mumbai, now called the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus.
A long hook is fashioned from a steel bar. Thieves stand with it on the platform at the train station. As the train pulls out, the thief snags a bag or purse held by someone standing in the doorway of the crowded train. (This sounds strange to me, as if it might cause people to fall off the moving train.)
Beggar children clamp onto the legs and back of a victim so he can’t walk, while one rummages pockets. (Similar to the human-leg-clamp robbery mentioned above.)
Subhash also mentioned drink-drugging on trains and the trust-building of a person pretending a desire to practice his English with a foreign visitor.
When Bob suggested that poverty might be a motive for theft, the police officers countered that nobody needs to be unemployed in Mumbai. There’s work enough for anyone who wants it. We saw hiring signs in restaurant windows.
At Bob Arno's seminar at the Azad Maiden Police Station, video was projected onto a sheet taped to the wall.
Bob was to lecture about 70 Mumbai police officers on methods, motivation, and pre-incident body language. The day before the seminar, we were introduced to a 40-ish man in police custody. He’d previously served time for five assaults, a murder, and numerous robberies, and had been picked up again that morning. The barefoot prisoner was dragged in handcuffed to an officer. Bob questioned him through a Hindi translator, but the man was guarded and said little of substance.
Bob Arno questions a thief in custody.
Meanwhile, two television news crews materialized, and convinced Bob to steal in the streets for their cameras. Bob stole numerous items from the pockets and purses of people on the sidewalk. After each steal, four big television cameras converged on the victims and huge crowds grew—bigger than anyplace else. The victims had no idea their items had been taken, and their reactions were just what news correspondents live for.
Senior Police Inspector Bhawale presents Bob Arno and Bambi with a thank-you bouquet.
Bob’s conclusion was that, compared to the people of other countries, the Indians he stole from were more trusting. They did not react to Bob’s hands in their personal zone, and he was able to steal the belongings of many people very easily. Perhaps that’s because Mumbaikers are used to crowded situations. In some countries, Germany and Hong Kong, for example, the citizens are hardened and cynical. Perhaps too, that is why the locals continue to be the prime targets of thieves.
Huge crowds grew as Bob Arno stole from passers-by in Mumbai.
Bhel puri just might be my favorite Indian food. A snack commonly prepared and served on the street, you can find it in restaurants, too. It’s hard but not impossible to find it in the U.S., where Indian restaurant almost always means a predictable menu of Northern Indian dishes, often dismal and boring.
The dish is a perfect mix of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy, plus soft and crisp. It always includes sev—delicate crispy yellow noodles—and puffed rice. There’s usually chopped potatoes and onions, and sometimes tomatoes. It’s all tossed with a spicy sweet-hot sauce and topped with green coriander leaves. It must be eaten as soon as the ingredients are combined.
Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989.
I discovered bhel puri in 1989, my first trip to Bombay. I was intrigued by the long line of people buying from this humble bhel puri walla. Using only his hand, he mixed fistfuls of the ingredients in a bowl, then transferred the concoction to another bowl for the customer to eat from, right there. Yep, I got in line. Nope, I didn’t get sick.
Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989.Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989
Once I recognized the ingredients, I began to see dramatic displays like these all over the city, each more artistic and appetizing than the next. I ate at many of them.
Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach
In March of 2010, I saw very few street food vendors, no bhel puri wallas. Perhaps I just didn’t walk in the right streets, though I criss-crossed the city and spent much time in Colaba, as I did in 1989. The food stalls on Chowpatty Beach, long famous for bhel puri, have been swept into a permanent organization of stainless steel stands, similar to Singapore’s street food culture.
Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach.
I had excellent bhel puri (and many other dishes) at the vegetarian Kailash Parbat on Colaba Causeway. Across from the restaurant, they run a sort of glorified street food stand, at which one can order all the standard snacks and sweets. I had incredible panipuri there, one after another until I had to hold up my hand and reject the last of the six that come in an order, handed over one by one. Panipuri are crisp hollow spheres, punctured and filled with spicy potatoes or chickpeas, then topped off with spicy, cumin-flavored water. The entire fragile globe must be placed in the mouth, sometimes a tricky maneuver for a small mouth. The payoff is a satisfying burst, a crackling, a flood of liquid, an explosion of flavor and texture like no other.
Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai. Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness.
The vegetarian restaurant Soam is a few block’s walk from the north end of Chowpatty Beach, and definitely worth the trip. The small, trendy place serves upscale versions of street food and Gujarati home cooking. Bob and I loved it.
Jackfruit for sale in 1989 Bombay. I didn’t see any this time, though it was the same month.
Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008.
I drank fresh coconut every day from this vendor around the corner from our hotel.
Reviewing my 1989 photos, I found the same heap of coconuts in front of the same temple on Colaba Causeway.
Bob Arno here, on our recent visit to Iran. The country has been in the news lately regarding the arrests of 30 persons accused of a U.S.-backed cyber war. We passed through last week, while also visiting Oman, Kuwait, Bahrain, and India. This is not an in-depth analysis about the stability of the present government in Iran or what lies in the future regarding its precarious relationship with Europe, Israel, and the U.S.; simply some observations from a short visit. [Way below!]
I first visited Iran in the mid-sixties as a young entertainer, performing in a shabby nightclub in Tehran. The booking was for two months and quite typical of the kind of engagements I was getting all over the middle East in those years, in Beirut, Cairo, Dar Es Salaam, and Teheran. These clubs were basically a front to sell alcohol and what were then called “consummation girls.” Even today, Lebanon advertises for girls to work as dancers and consummation hostesses in clubs across Lebanon.
The nightclub shows were simply an excuse for the management to have a license and to be allowed to stay open in a Shari’ah society. These were tough audiences, not especially interested in a young Swedish comedy performer, but the novelty of pickpocketing was intriguing and different from the usual fare of belly dancers, jugglers, dance teams, and singers. My show at the time was rough around the corners and I hadn’t yet acquired the confidence or slickness which later became my trademark and is essential to being a good pickpocket. With a few simple pickpocketing stunts I was able to bamboozle this nearly-ninety-percent male crowd and hold their attention.
Halfway through my booking, the club management informed me that I had been invited to the palace to do a private show for the Shah. No, there was not going to be any extra fee; this was an invitation to entertain the royalty (as if I were a court jester), and I should consider myself honored that his highness the Reza Shah had requested my services.
My manager at the time was a British show-business entrepreneur—Lord Anthony Moynihan. Moynihan was married to his second wife (he would eventually be married five times), a Pakistani belly dancer called Princess Amina. A diva of considerable proportion and a nightclub attraction with great popularity throughout the Middle East, she always guaranteed large audiences. Lord Moynihan was in Teheran, together with Princess Amina, who was performing in the same venue as myself. There have been many colorful stories written about Princess Amina. The most accurate one was written in 2002 in The Daily Times (of Pakistan) by Kaleem Omar.
Lord Moynihan was instrumental in structuring my career and coordinating my early bookings from the mid- to late sixties, culminating in several gigs at the London Playboy Club run by the infamous Victor Lownes. We parted ways in early 1970, when the Lord became one of the most wanted men in the UK for financial fraud. I, too, had long suspected Moynihan of “unusual” business practices, but I was never able to nail him with evidence, despite our close association. I finally got hip to his shenanigans when Victor Lownes told me that Moynihan could no longer enter the club premises, because he had been caught operating a cheating syndicate, pushing roulette chips over the table lines, with sophisticated diversion techniques involving beautiful girls leaning and shading the line of sight of the dealers. I don’t know who learned most from whom during our eight-year relationship. But that’s another story. And another post.
The Lord, Princess Amina, and I were brought to the Palace in downtown Teheran and invited to dinner. No, not with the Shah and Farah Diba, but at a separate table in a different room. Most memorable were the table settings, the porcelain, and the gold utensils. For a young impressionable Swede this was certainly a first.
A security adviser soon told me to enter the sitting room and do my show. Gathered on a large sofa were the Shah, Princess Farah Diba, King Hussein of Jordan, and his young wife, Queen Noor. But there were parameters. I was firmly instructed not to touch the Shah during my performance. How does one do pickpocketing if he’s not allowed to touch his subjects? Further on, the Shah wore a gold Rolex Presidential watch—at the time one of the most expensive watches in the world, and certainly not something that I would experiment with. The only thieves who are able to lift Rolexes are in Naples, Italy (then and now), and their technique is most certainly not appropriate for light dinner entertainment in a royal setting. I had to resign myself to some other table magic routines, which were my usual fallback material when all else failed. My evening with the royal rulers in the Middle East was not a success to boast about. I never ripped off the Shah of Persia. Well, not the official way.
And now we go forward, to the present day. I haven’t been back to Iran since the sixties. Today, hopefully, I am more astute at reading security trends and the political winds. I especially wanted to talk to ordinary young people about their feelings on Iran now and how they see their future in relation to Europe and the rest of the world. I expected to see parallels with Turkey, where the dialog about joining the European Union is intense, if not conclusive. Our first destination was Bandar Abbas, a city of around 370,000.
Driving through the center of the town I noticed an abundance of graffiti, or recently overpainted graffiti. I was curious about whether the slogans or messages were political, and for or against the government. I got the most amazing replies to my questions—mostly outrageous explanations, with no grounding in reality. For example: people are allowed to advertise for a month on the walls and then the municipalities paint over the walls to allow for new messages.
Or, an even better explanation: young people are encouraged to express themselves artistically on the walls, and then they are repainted for new creative expressions. I could not find a single person who would insinuate or say that these were angry statements from the opposition which had been removed or painted over by the authorities. End of that story.Â
But I did find several people in their mid- or late twenties who proclaimed that most of the young people hated the present regime, that they were robbed of their election, and that nobody cares or pays any attention to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. True, these were people who spoke English and had a good education. Had I been out in the countryside and had a similar conversation with farmers, I might have gotten an entirely different story.
The most significant reflection I can pass along is how friendly everyone was, regardless of where we walked. We were obviously a novelty to the people, but there was absolutely no anti-American mood expressed or observed anywhere. People were genuinely friendly and open, and wanted to communicate and interact. There are many countries around the world where we Americans are sneered at, or receive a cold reception; Iran, at present is not one of them. That is not to say that the regime is not presently jockeying and manipulating world opinion. They are facing an embargo or trade sanctions in the UN, and perceptions of European visitors, tourists, or business travelers can shape the dialog.
We did notice civilian dressed security personnel following us from time to time, when we traveled and stayed with a group of other Americans, but mostly we were on our own and without escort, supervision, or secret surveillance. We spotted a few young clumsy pickpockets on the perimeter of a large crowd that had gathered around a troupe of shady “three card monte” men, operating just like they do in the rest of the world—spotters, shills, and a main operator. And, as usual, they scattered when a motorcycle with two cops approached.
In the souks we saw many social subgroups in their traditional garb. One should certainly not point a camera at these conservative women without permission. Some gave us the okay; others declined. Yet others struck unbidden poses and begged to be in our photos.
Iran is clearly at a turning point this year. It will be interesting to see the developments the next six months. Because I recently wrote about the Mahmoud Al Mabhouh killing in Dubai, I will conclude this post with an observation about Dubai, and its latest chess move: barring entry to any person with an Israeli passport. There has been a lot of speculation about whether this presumed Israeli operation was sloppy, arrogant, or ill-informed of the quality of the surveillance equipment. Senior analysts in the intelligence communities have expressed conclusions that they must have underestimated the advanced surveillance technology in Dubai. Security guru Bruce Schneier opened his recent Crypto-Gram newsletter with an interesting summarization.
I recently spoke with Samuel Lewis, former Ambassador to Israel for eight years during the Carter and Reagan years (and later director of the State Department’s Policy Planning Staff during the Clinton years). Ambassador Lewis has a deep understanding of the Iran-Israel conflict: he too thinks that the Israeli Mossad had underestimated the Dubai technology advances. That is, if the Mossad are the people behind the assassination. My own theory on this is that the Israelis wanted to send a clear message both to Dubai and its banking system, and to HAMAS. The software and the technology going into the camera surveillance systems must surely be well-known to the Israeli intelligence community. In weeks to come, we’ll hear more interesting revelations about the Dubai affair.
7:00 a.m. in the Colaba Market area, where life is lived outdoors as much as in. Residents were just beginning their day. Someone was asleep on a handcart under a cloth. Others slept on the ground, on palanquins, on steps. A man stood in the road brushing his teeth vigorously with his finger. A boy sat among his goats, which nuzzled and cuddled him. Men and women arranged technicolor produce in baskets, for sale. Handcarts rushed by in every direction.
A chicken truck squeezed through the narrow lane, carrying seven stories of live caged birds. The driver hung a scale from the back of the truck and extracted a fistful of chickens—that is, a fistful of their legs. They hung upside down like a giant flapping pompom as the murgh-walla tied the bundle of legs and hooked the now calm birds on his scale. A customer, or perhaps he was a delivery-man, threw three large bundles over his shoulder against his filthy shirt.
Around the corner, a banana truck unloaded huge stalks of green bananas onto the shoulders of runners. An old, frail man came back again and again, each time carrying three massive stalks stacked on his left shoulder, while a larger, younger man carried two stalks.
Cats, dogs, goats and babies played in the dust and litter. Bob and I were ignored, or greeted with smiles and waves. Several Colaba Market residents directed us to some nearby point to see the sea. We wandered off in that direction, leaving the wide street of multi-story buildings. We wound through labyrinthine alleys of rickety dwellings and make-shift shelters of scraps and tarps. Customers were already seated in an open-air barber shop, a tailor measured and cut cloth, and a man pressed trousers with an antique iron full of glowing coals.
As we approached the sea, the dusty ground became black muck. A gang of small boys ran around us with squirt guns. “Water shower!” one shouted, as he fired a stream into the air. Old wooden boats lined the route to the bay, tilting in the mud, weeds growing through their broken bottoms. Black crows perched on their structures, surveying the garbage strewn about. The stench was overpowering. It became clear to me that we had entered a dump. A few lone men and boys passed us, walking through the putrid sludge toward the water. I hurried forward, eager to get past the fetter—until I caught sight of the view.
A hundred small boats lay bobbing on the still water of the bay, colorless and silvery against the white morning light. Across the bay, an easy walk away, the red dome and new tower of the Taj Mahal Hotel rose in stark contrast to trash-strewn beach at my feet. I was transfixed by the disparity, and began taking pictures. Crows cawed and little waves splashed against the rocky shore.
Suddenly I noticed the few men here and there on the beach and at the water’s edge. I was staring at their toilet. Appalled and mortified, I hurried away. Bob followed. We cut through a low part of the slum instead of retracing our path. It was neat and organized, with muddy but clean paths. The friendly smiles of women and children just starting their day helped me recover from my shameful, insensitive behavior. A tiny girl ran behind me calling “auntie! auntie!” When I turned, the child game me a huge grin. “Happy Holi,” she said, giving us a useful phrase that made everyone smile.
Holi is India’s spring festival of colors, a day on which people get wild and crazy and throw colors in the form of powdered dye.
Another day, after a fabulous meal at Soam, we walked the few blocks to the north end of Chowpatty Beach and began to walk south around the huge crescent of sand packed with people. A tiny naked boy ran up to us, hand out. He was filthy and gorgeous, and trotted along side us with bouncy little steps. He couldn’t have been more than five years old.
We tried to ignore him, afraid he’d get lost following us so far. I wondered if he had a mother, and how such a young child could be allowed to run loose and barefoot through dangerous traffic. Did he have anyone to care for him? I wondered what he’d do if I scooped him up, washed him, and fed him. Would he eventually feel a need to go back “home”? Did he have a home? Would he know how to find it? Or would he be content to stay with strangers who took good care of him? Then I wondered how the Indian government would react if I said I wanted to take him home and provide for him.
I was sad when the little boy finally left us. I worried about him finding his way back. But maybe “back” was just a point—the spot where he found us, with no other significance. Maybe he has no place at all; he sleeps where he is when he gets tired. I saw quite a few children asleep in strange places. One boy of three or four was sprawled across the middle of a busy sidewalk. That he hadn’t been trampled seemed a miracle.
Later, a former police officer from Mumbai told me that the boy definitely had someone watching him, and that he’d been sent to beg. At least his perfect little body hadn’t been maimed for “professional” advantage.
A huddle of people sat on the sidewalk at the edge of the beach. A woman was tattooing the arm of her customer. A boy held together a stack of D cell batteries from which a pair of wires connected to the buzzing tattoo gun.
Bob and I saw less misery in the streets of Mumbai compared to previous visits. We saw fewer people sleeping in the open, and far fewer beggars. On arrival at Mumbai airport, visitors used to be circled by aggressive beggars the moment they stepped outside. That situation no longer exists. Police told us the city is able to feed many street children, but that it’s an enormous financial drain.
This visit, I saw very little street food outside of officially regulated restaurants. Bhel puri, the famous Chowpatty Beach snack, used to be made à la minute at carts on every corner. Trucks and taxis do much less horn-honking now. Restaurants are smoke-free.
Our cool and quiet hotel was right off the hectic Colaba Causeway. A table in the lobby held two thermos pitchers, one of sweet chai, one of arabic coffee. Between them was a small water-filled bowl in which four tiny glasses were submerged. As the day went by, the water got cloudy and murky. The water (and glasses?) were occasionally freshened.
Imagine the post office delivering your mail to a big open heap, mixed with the envelopes and boxes of 300 strangers. The honor-based system would have you pawing through the pile and taking just what’s yours. No one would guard the items; no one would check who took what.
Why not? The airlines do it. Nowadays, we even pay for that flawed, partial delivery system.
Airport luggage theft
Theft of luggage from airport baggage carousels is too easy. Yet another bag thief has been arrested for stealing luggage out of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. Excuse me—”suspected” bag thief. Phoenix Police say she’s been under surveillance since last September. I’m sure Zotter’s not the only baggage thief operating. Neither is Phoenix the only airport we need to worry about, though it may be particularly easy for thieves.
I wrote about luggage theft at Las Vegas McCarran Airport here, and about European and African airport thieves here.
Thief “JD” only pretends to steal luggage at baggage carousels. That’s his way of distracting tired travelers in order to get their wallets. “Right now, I can go to McCarran airport and go to baggage claim and beat some stings,” he says. “Because security is, evidently, lax, and the people are rushing to get their bags, and the bags are coming off the trolley. And when he’s stooping down to get his luggage— …˜Oh, is that mine, sir?’ Shake him up. …˜Oh, is this mine? It looks like mine.’ If you’re moving, and I got someone with me, and you’re in the airport, I’m going to play you. If I feel like I can work you I’m going to play you.”
I fly into Phoenix frequently, and into Las Vegas several times a month. Since bag tag checkers were removed ages ago, I’ve never seen any security at either airport.
Airlines are blamed for a tremendous amount of lost luggage. How often are they, too, the victims of these baggage thieves? It would be in their interest to band together and pay for a little security at the baggage carousels.
[dropcap letter=”Y”]ou look like a million dallahs,” the mugger leers at Bob Arno, his gold teeth glinting in the Panamanian sun. The dozen or so men who’d gathered around us nod and elbow one another.
Bob wears a polyester t-shirt over nylon shorts; acceptable on the tennis court, but otherwise, pretty shabby attire. He wears no jewelry, but his Cole Haan sneakers are pretty snappy. Is that it? The shoes? Or is it the pricey equipment he carries—a sleek video recorder and separate audio recorder?
When we find these gangsters, they appear to be defending their turf.
The mugger wears a spotless white t-shirt over a white wife-beater. Fancy, gold-accented sunglasses perch in his short hair. On his wrist, a circa 60s gold watch worth about a thou, give or take. A gangster with a flare for making just the right statement.
Our translator, Gustavo, chuckles nervously, though he’d assured us we were safe with him. As a former gangster himself, he knows, presumably, where his alliances lie. Which is not everywhere, as he was reluctant to walk with us down a street he deemed too dangerous, though it looked much like this street.
Colon gang leader Enrique
Muggers in Colon, Panama
Enrique, the mugger Bob and I are chatting up, is said to be the baddest of the bad guys. He also seems to be the smartest—and a take-charge kind of man. We started out talking to his fellow gangster Gilberto, but Enrique quickly took over, eagerly answering our questions. As if he really wants us to know what life is like for him and his neighbors.
No one in the neighborhood works, because there isn’t any work. Occasionally, a few of the men will get jobs on construction sites. Even Enrique. But the money from those jobs only lasts so long, and the men need money for their families. So they rob. They steal. They mug.
It’s simply the way of life in this part of Colon. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide from the children. In fact, we’re surrounded by children of every age as we question Enrique and Gilberto. Dozens of children.
Seeking a little privacy, we move the two gangsters and our translator to a nearby alley, but others follow, curious.
We’d started the interview by moving into a wide alley for privacy, where laundry flutters over a junked car. One by one and two by two, a crowd gathers. Mostly other adult men and small children, while women hang over balconies and push aside curtains at windows on the alley.
We’re in the heart of gangland. Brave and maybe stupid, we’re out of our water. At a shrill whistle, I break into a cold sweat. Fifty rival gangs patrol Colon; violence could erupt at any moment. Three a week are killed, we’re told, in gang fights. Three a week—wow.
I’m smiling till my cheeks hurt and my lips crack. Bob and I do a lot of smiling, mostly with the intent of disarming the thugs. We’re full of false confidence, hoping they can’t smell our fear. A defenseless city couple holding tasty electronic goodies like fish out of water. Like lost wildebeest surrounded by lions hiding in the grass.
People watch us from balconies all around us. Some dance. Quite a few men hold babies.
Like the rest of us, Enrique heads to the bank when he needs cash. But that’s where our methods differ. He lingers outside and waits for a flush customer to come out. He uses a gun when he needs to. The problem with robbing bank customers is the police, who tend to watch out for men like Enrique. So his second choice is robbing drug dealers, an activity fraught with deadlier dangers: the drug dealers carry guns. Oh, and there’s the odd tourist who wanders through town.
Enrique is clean-cut and thoughtful-looking, with a nice face. You can barely see the gangster tats peeking out of his t-shirt. He doesn’t look like a mugger, whatever a mugger is supposed to look like. He doesn’t look like the heartless, dangerous man he really is. Neither does Gilberto, a younger man with sad, wistful, distant eyes.
Bob Arno and Gilberto
Maybe this is unique to the Panamanian underworld. Angel, the pickpocket from Panama City, looks sweet but clueless. His pal Jaime has intelligent eyes in a handsome face. Both Dajanel and Jael, violent muggers in Colon, have faces you could put on a Disney badge. Even our translator Gustavo, granted, a former gangster, is positively radiant. My impression of Panamanian thieves does not include greed as an attribute. Nor do those I’ve met seem to be drug users or dealers. They just want enough to survive.
As Bob fires questions at Enrique and Gilberto, I marvel at the liveliness of the neighborhood. Music blasts from several sources. Girls on the street and on balconies dance to different beats. Six small children are now perched on the trunk of the parked car, beside and between Bob, Gilberto, and another man. They tap their fingers and toes to music as they listen to their fathers and uncles describe how they pull guns on people to get money.
Everybody\’s got a handgun in his pocket.
A handgun is suddenly pulled from a pocket and it startles me. The children who’d climbed up on the car are four to eight years old, but the gun is obviously nothing new to them. The point is, everybody’s got a gun in his pocket, even though it means five years in prison if they’re caught with one.
I ask Enrique if he mugs women. He hesitates, then looks embarrassed when he says yes. If her purse looks heavy, if she looks like she’s got money, he’ll mug a woman. There’s no respect. It’s all about the money.
Across the street from our interview, another decaying building alive with people.
Gustavo finally alludes to his criminal past and prison term. No surprise. He belongs to the government-sponsored company of former gangsters turned tourist guides. His work, when he gets it, usually consists of taking tourists out to the Gatun Locks in the Canal, or to the mall, or to beaches. He’s paid $23 for each day he works, usually two days a week.
Gustavo is decidedly beefier than his gangster pals, and I guess it has to do with his steady income, meager though it is. Later, Gustavo introduced us to yet another former gangster, now a respected office worker for the department of immigration. He has both an email address and a fat belly—signs of success. We also meet a few people wearing braces on their teeth. How can they afford it?, I ask Gustavo. They don’t need braces, he scoffs. It’s just a fashion.
It’s disconcerting to be completely encircled by curious onlookers in a neighborhood like this one.
By the time we finish our interviews, some 40 people have gathered round us. The adults stand quietly, politely, crowding in close. The children play, observe us, and mug for our cameras. No one scolds the little ones when they climb some rusty scaffold or run into the street. Tangles of razor wire dangle ominously, and sewers loom without grates. These are wimpy dangers in this neighborhood. Rival gangsters might come around the corner at any moment. The slightest infractions justify killing: You looked at my girlfriend. I want those shoes.
We hear a siren, but it’s probably the nearby fire station. The police only show up after gunfights, they tell us. They only come to pick up the bodies.
Bob has more to say about muggers, Panama, and our experience there. Stay tuned.
All this hearsay, lately, about pickpockets and theft on planes. Even a celebrity-son helped himself to sleeping passengers’ valuables.
Pickpockets are everywhere, and that includes airports, airplanes, and especially luggage carousels. Only you are responsible for the security of your stuff. Here’s what a thief told me, in pickpocket-lingo:
The Stick, the Shade, and the Wire
“JD” an American whiz player, travels to all the top sporting events in the United States. His favorite tool is a garment bag which he calls his shade, a prop to hide his theft of a sting, or a wallet. Dressed in a suit from the wardrobe he’s proud of, he flies to his destination penniless. He described his recent trip to Las Vegas.
“I made $900 coming out of the airport. When the plane lands, I start work. I got to get my money to get out of McCarran airport. Play strictly on skill, that’s how I play—on the plane. Yeah, plane lands, people have their arms up getting their bags. See my man, get up on him, pow, I spank him, off the front leg.
“It was a pappy—a man—right? He got a sting—a wallet—in the front slide, but he also got cash. I played this for his credit card. I got a guy with me we call a writer. He writes the work, writes the spreads. He’s a stick—what you call a stall, what we call a stickman writer. He’s stick and shade. I do the wire. The wire is the one who takes. We split up when we get on the plane, he gets in the back and I get in the front.
“Right now, I can go to McCarran airport and go to baggage claim and beat some stings. Because security is, evidently, lax, and the people are rushing to get their bags, and the bags are coming off the trolley, and I got my garment bag ….
“And when he’s stooping down to get his luggage— …˜Oh, is that mine, sir?’ Shake him up. …˜Oh, is this mine? It looks like mine.’ If you’re moving, and I got someone with me, and you’re in the airport, I’m going to play you. If I feel like I can work you I’m going to play you.
Airborne Victim
“Kayla,” a 15-year-old girl, told me how her wallet was stolen on a cross-country flight. Her mother and sister supported Kayla’s story. The thief was a 35ish woman sitting next to her. In the middle of the flight, the woman bent down and pretended to be digging in her purse. But Kayla felt something and looked, and could see that the woman was digging in her (Kayla’s) purse.
Kayla said she was too scared to say anything. The woman got up and went to the bathroom. Kayla checked her purse and found that her wallet was gone. She told her mother. Then she and her mother told a flight attendant. The flight attendant found the wallet in the bathroom, missing only Kayla’s cash. Kayla was still too afraid to say anything to the thief. When the plane landed, the woman just left.
Take Precautions
Is theft on planes a risk worth worrying about? I don’t think so. Then again, if you’re the unlucky victim of a flying filcher, you’ll be plenty pissed. If you sleep, that tiny possibility is there. Even if you don’t sleep, do you know what’s being rummaged above your head? On some planes, a thief could reach behind his feet to access the bag under his seat.
What to do? Just make it more difficult for the casual thief. Bury your valuables within your bags. Use little locks on your carry-ons. Put your bags in the bin zipper down, or with the opening to the back of the bin. (Yeah, I know, wheels in first, they say.) Use the bin across from you, so you have a chance of looking if someone opens it.
Do I do all those things? Can you completely prevent theft on planes? Nope. But you can make your stuff much more difficult to access than the next person’s.
If you’re a heavy sleeper, or like to close your eyes and disappear under earphones, as I do, there’s not much you can do short of sitting on your stuff. Still, I’d be more concerned at a sporting event or concert, than aboard an airplane. JD makes a great living stealing wallets from people in crowds. And he’s still out there.
Mdubuzi, a pickpocket in Durban, South Africa, stole a wallet from a woman watching a car race. Bob stole it from Mdubuzi and returned it to the victim.
“We do what you do,” Bob told the poker-faced pickpocket. “Same job.”
Looking at his blank expression, it wasn’t clear that he understood. Perhaps he didn’t speak English. If he did understand, his mind must have been racing. What could be worse for a pickpocket than being confronted by a stranger? Even one who claims to be a colleague.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Bob put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, dipped into the man’s pants pocket, and extracted a woman’s wallet—the same one we’d just watched—and filmed—the pickpocket snag from someone’s handbag.
Bob opened the wallet. There was no money in it. The pickpocket watched in stunned silence as Bob turned away with it.
“Excuse me, madam. Is this yours?” Bob offered the empty wallet to the victim who still stood just a few yards away, engaged in the spectacle she’d come to witness. The woman accepted the wallet gratefully, but puzzled. She hadn’t realized it was missing.
“You see?” Bob asked, returning to the pickpocket. “Same job. You understand?”
“I understand.” the young man said. Clearly, he didn’t know what was coming. Best to say little, he seemed to think. Speak only when questioned.
It was our first visit to Durban in many years. The climate had changed drastically since the abolishment of apartheid and the switch in governments. Violent crime in South Africa was frighteningly high now, to the extent that the U.S. State Department, as well as Britain’s and Australia’s governments, recommended that business travelers to the country employ armed bodyguards.
Visitors were warned to stay in their hotels after dark and use extreme caution at all times.
Mdubuzi uses stealth to steal from women’s purses, his forte.
It was a warm spring Sunday when Bob and I landed in Durban’s city center. We had intended to wander through the outdoor market when our attention was drawn to a huge crowd on the edge of Central Park. Though we couldn’t see beyond the spectators, roaring engines soon informed us that they were watching car races. We hung back a bit and studied the rapt audience.
“Watch those three,” Bob said, and I followed his eyes. “Watch their body language.”
Within two minutes of our arrival, our eyes were fixed on a trio of suspicious characters. These three did not strain to look over or between the heads of the crowd. They seemed to be as interested in car races as Bob and I were. Instead, they looked at the backs of the spectators. They lingered and loitered a few minutes, then moved on and looked for new opportunities among new backsides.
Engines roared and tires squealed. Loudspeakers blared some exciting results. One of the young men had a plastic shopping bag in his hand; as in fact, many people did. But his bag was folded flat in half twice, which gave it a bit of firmness. It could have contained a greeting card, or a small pad of paper. On closer inspection, I noticed the red advertising copy printed on the bag was worn off to the point of illegibility. The folded bag must have been held in a sweaty grip for hours.
Three pickpockets surround a woman spectator at a car race.
The three men positioned themselves around a woman whose purse stuck out behind her. One man moved in on each side of the woman, blocking her purse from the views of anyone to her sides. The third man slowly crowded into the woman from behind, stretching his neck as if trying to watch the race. Slowly, slowly, his left hand raised the flattened bag to the purse, where his right hand crept up to meet it. Then, with the plastic bag as a shield and his right hand poised above the purse, he gave the woman a little jostle. A gentle, natural jostle, appropriate for a tightly crowded audience engrossed in vicarious thrills. His skinny elbow raised and lowered then, and Bob and I caught a quick glimpse of brown leather before it was folded into the flattened bag and plunged into the thief’s deep pants pocket.
