Bait and switch—part 3

The switch: crude carving made to roughly resemble the original offering.

Souvenir Sucker

Our friend Russell, a magician, works a considerable amount of time each year in Asia. A streetwise New Yorker, he knows pretty much all the tricks played from the East Coast to the Far East.

Russell was in Bali recently, between jobs. He was on a bus crowded with tourists when traffic ground to a halt. The morning was sweltering. Windows were open. Occasional clouds of dust wafted in, more welcome than rain, which would force the closing of windows and bring the interior humidity to Beverly Hills spa levels.

As traffic slowed, then stopped, a raging hoard of pleading faces surrounded the bus. Vendors reached up to the open windows offering their wares. Wood carvings, silver jewelry, and stamped batik sarongs danced in the windows like props in a puppet show. Vendors had only desperate moments to tempt these tourists before they and their dollars vanished down the road.

Always a sucker for souvenirs, Russell scrutinized the merchants, looking for something new. He was not disappointed. He noticed an intricately carved something glowing in the sunlight as its hawker flourished it. The expert salesman caught Russell’s interest and pushed his way near. He proffered his wares for inspection. It was a hollow piece of bone—cow or sheep, Russell guessed—carved with delicate figures in classic Indonesian poses. So thin, it was, the light shone through the bone in warm amber tones.

“Twenty dollar,” the vendor said, scratching a long dark scar on his neck.

“I’ll give you five,” said Russell.

“Ten.”

“Okay, ten.” Russell reached for his wallet and took out an American ten while the vendor wrapped the bone and passed it through the window.

The bus began to move and the vendors scattered reluctantly, some trotting alongside the bus for another hopeful moment. Soon the bus picked up speed and the locals were left in the dust.

Pleased with his find, Russell unrolled his carving from its plastic bag. He stared at it.

It had looked so much finer a moment ago. Now, the blocky figures hacked into the bone felt sharp against his fingers. The delicate details were gone. He held it up to the light. No glow.

The bait: beautiful, intricately carved bone offered for sale in Bali.

Cheated!, Russell thought. They got me, a world-wise New Yorker. He rewrapped his booby prize and looked out at the passing lime-green terraced rice fields, the tall spirit houses, and offerings to the gods placed in the roadside gutters with care.

We ran into Russell in Bali as someone else might bump into a coworker at the grocery store. Together, we strolled along the waterfront of Cape Sari and through an open-air market. Fat pigs and goats lay suckling their broods beside stacks of bamboo furniture, while chickens stood waiting for sale, one to a bell-shaped woven basket. Souvenir t-shirts hung limply above varnished seashells and carved Buddha heads. Postcards outnumbered food items. Just a few years before, we remembered, only eggs and cloth were sold here. As we browsed and wandered, Russell told us about his morning rip-off and, laughing, promised to show us his white elephant.

“Shit! There’s the guy!” Russell pointed and, there, unbelievably, was the man with the scar on his neck, offering the same beautiful piece of carved bone. The three of us watched with fascination as the man made a sale, as he pulled a plastic bag out of his cloth satchel and adroitly swapped artifacts.

It was the classic bait-and-switch, expertly performed. Russell grinned, not at all displeased at having been duped this way.

“He’s a magician!” he said. “Did you see how he used misdirection? Fucking great!”

For a highly skilled young street performer, Russell has been known to toss ten bucks into a hat, and that’s all he’d paid this con man earlier. But he wasn’t quite satisfied.

He strode up to the shyster who, of course, didn’t recognize him at all.

“How much?” Russell asked, and the two repeated their earlier negotiations. Bob and I watched from a distance.

“You don’t have to wrap it,” Russell said, when they’d agreed on a price.

The vendor’s face fell. “Yes, must wrap!”

“No. Besides, I want this one.” Russell held onto the fine sample.

Detail of the offered carving, and the corresponding area on the crude replacement.

“And the guy started to panic,” Russell told us later, with absolute glee. “And behind me, another vendor, a woman, began to laugh and point at us. You could tell she was happy to see this guy getting caught.” Russell was laughing so hard he could hardly talk. Now he flourished the fine bone carving as the vendor had, triumphant. The sun was low and glowed through the delicate design of the salesman’s floor sample.

“I’m gonna put them side by side on a shelf,” he told us, “one beautiful, one crude, and a story to go with them.”

[This Bait-and-Switch series started here. More in the next post.]

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams

Chapter Eight: Con Artists and Their Games of No Chance

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Bait and switch—part 2

Bags switched behind the buyer's back
Bags switched behind the buyer's back

Buy-a-Brick (continued from Part 1)

Our first clear capture of the actual swap occurred on a sidewalk. The partners were running after their customer, afraid they’d lost the sale. They did the switch behind him, right out in the open. It’s beautiful in slow motion, like world-class magic. You see the “magician’s assistant” hand over one sack, turn, and tuck an identical one under his jacket.

When the sale had been concluded, Bob told the victim he’d just been swindled. The man didn’t think twice. He turned and bolted down the street, caught the con men, and got his money back, no questions asked.

In later visits to Naples, as our equipment improved, we used tiny hidden cameras with remote controls. This allowed us to get the ultimate exposés, including the scenes we helped capture for ABC 20/20.

Eventually, we were introduced to a trio of swap-thieves. I was waiting on a corner with Luciano-the-tram-thief while Bob fetched a translator. He was gone forever, it seemed. Meanwhile, it was my job to entertain Luciano and keep him from disappearing, from going back to work. We tried talking, but both of us were frustrated.

“Pacco,” Luciano said, pointing toward Bait-and-Switch-Central where a few men offered video cameras and cellphones to innocent but greedy foreigners. He waved them over. I tensed, wondering if they’d recognize me, worried about what Luciano was telling them about us. These were mobsters, intimidating men impervious to laws. “Pacco,” Luciano said again, indicating the three men who each had an electronic item in his hand, and I understood that pacco, Italian for package, was the slang term for their swindle. Also, that they all spoke rudimentary English.

“I am Davide,” one of the pacchi said, “and my friend is Guiddo and he is Giandamo.” I was obliged to shake their hands.

“Amigos, four years,” I told them, patting Luciano’s arm. Luciano said something in Napolitano and they all nodded. The pacchi told me that they “change” packages. I said I know, they sell water, or salt. They laughed. I was dizzy with conflicting emotions: high on being “inside” this fraternity of impermeable criminals, and full of fear and revulsion at the same time. With a jovial facade, I took a camera bag from one of them and made a show of tugging a zipper on it, as if it couldn’t be opened. They laughed again, knowing I was referring to the trick of gluing or melting zippers to delay the discovery of the scam.

We struggled with conversation until a few tourists wandered over and the pacchi pounced, pitching their wares. I got instant sweat in my armpits and a heartbeat in my throat. They caught my eye and I gave a barely perceptible nod. Inside, I was petrified. They carried on, eyes flicking back to see that I wouldn’t interfere with their scam. I couldn’t believe they let me stay in the vicinity. One piercing look and I would have fled.

Their quarry eventually decided against the purchase and walked away. The pacchi waited an instant, then ran after the mark making the switch without cover, in front of my watching eyes, and calling behind the mark: “Papa, papa,” hoping now to make the sale at any ridiculous price.

Bob returned just then with an aura of urgency that dominated my attention; the pacchi scene faded out like a movie transition. Officially introduced now, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to film the Naples switcheroo again.

What astounds us most about Naples’ bait-and-switch game is not the fact that it occurs right out in the open in full view of surrounding residents and businesses. Nor is it the perpetuation, the reliability of finding these guys on the same corner, year after year. Nor is it the fact that they haven’t been bashed up by a returning pack of angry victims.

No, it’s that the crime is committed smack under the noses of Naples’ law enforcement agencies. It is, apparently, tolerated, at the least.

The primary location of bait-and-switch activity is directly across the street from the city’s maritime terminal. Visiting cruise ship passengers congregate in the area, and must traverse the corner to walk anywhere. They usually pause there, either gathering the nerve to cross the wild traffic, or recovering from just having done so. Other people are in the area to catch ferries to Capri, Sorrento, or Ischia. There on Via Cristoforo Colombo, tourists and, presumably others, are scrutinized by Marine Police sentries. Naples’ City Police patrol by car and, in packs of five, on foot. There is also the Falchi Squad, the civilian-dressed motorcycle cops who look for “micro-crime.” All these, and the republic’s military force, are usually present on this intersection.

Yet, with all but a nod and a wink, the fearless mobsters carry on.

[Continues in the next post.]

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams

Chapter Eight: Con Artists and Their Games of No Chance

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Bait and switch

Your greed + a deal too good to pass up = bait and switch:

Bait and switch: One package contains the real item; the other is "rocks-in-a-box"
One package contains the real item; the other is "rocks-in-a-box"

Buy-a-Brick

“Pssssst. Come ’ere. A brand new video camera with flip-out screen. In the box. $250. Here, have a look, try it out. Look, here’s the box, and all the accessories. Battery, a/c adapter, microphone. Only $225? Mama mia! Okay, it’s yours! Here, we’ll put it in the box for you, see? And a bag so you can carry it easily. Okay, thank you very much. Here’s your bag.”

You saw him put the camera in the box. You saw him put the box in the bag. So how did you end up with a sack of salt?

A better question: What were you doing trying to buy a thousand-dollar video camera on a street corner? What were you thinking?

Yes, the seller looked like a decent man, he seemed okay. But that wasn’t his son with him, it was his partner; and their performance together is as precise as a tango. Not only that, there are four or five teams per corner in the hottest areas, competing with such subtlety you’d never suspect they’re running a scam. After all, if they let on, you’re not likely to buy from any of them.

Bait and switch

As usual, observation tells the story. The swindler approaches you with the camera and, once you take it in your hands, he summons his partner, who brings a plastic shopping bag through which you can see a box. The box is opened for you and you see that it contains the promised accessories.

How can you go wrong? You’ll take it! You place the camera in the box yourself, tuck in the flap. You dig for your cash, which you cleverly placed in a pouch beneath your shirt, or in a money belt, or in your sock. You offer the money and take the bag. You even shake hands. What a deal. What a steal!

What you never noticed was the critical switch. You were intentionally distracted for an eyeblink, while the “son” passed by with an identical box in an identical bag. The bags were swapped. It’s the classic bait and switch.

You might think it difficult to fall for a scam like this one, but it happens many times a day on a certain corner in Naples. Ship officers and crewmen are primary targets because the con men know their ships depart shortly after the purchase and it’s unlikely they’ll return. Ordinary tourists are also easily tempted.

Bob and I first observed this trick in 1994, and have watched it develop over the years to include cellphones. In the beginning we were afraid to film it. From pickpocketing and bag-snatching-by-motor scooter to extortion and murder, all crime in Naples is said to be mob-related. The Camorra, Naples’ mafia, is made up of some 80 clans and thousands of members who operate in the city. Not that Bob and I knew that when we began our audacious stake-out of these grandfatherly crooks. But the vague knowledge we had was intimidating enough for a couple of lightweights. If you want to infiltrate the bad guys, you better know what you’re doing.

Eventually we began to film from across the street, and then to acquire bits and pieces up close with an exposed camera held casually. After all, tourists carry cameras and shoot the sights, so ours wouldn’t be incongruous. The following year we were more brazen, and carried a small digital video camera hidden in a shopping bag with a hole cut for its lens. This worked fairly well, though we were nervous as a thief in the act. It was this setup that got us our first clear footage of what we’d seen with our eyes so many times: the switch.

The move is simplicity itself; its timing perfection. The salesman tries to back up to a corner of a building, usually a magazine kiosk or a phone booth, anything to shield the substitution. That allows him to lower his hand and the bag while his unseen partner does the swap.

Our first clear capture of the actual swap occurred on a sidewalk.

[Continues in next post.]

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Eight: Con Artists and Their Games of No Chance

© Copyright 2008-2013 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

My book of thieves now available for Kindle!

Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams ebook

I’m thrilled to announce the availability of my book, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams on Amazon for the Kindle. Only $9.99!
On iTunes.
And of course, the hardcover edition is still available.

Book blurbs:

Unsuspecting travelers face an obstacle course of pickpockets, scams, cons, and rip-offs. In the places people love to visit most, the authors find, follow, film, and interview the thieves who target travelers. Why do the criminals spill their guts? What do they say? And how can we avoid their trickery? Based on ten years of trekking through paradise with hidden cameras, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams explores the risks, exposes the methods and motivations of the perpetrators, and teaches travelers how to avoid becoming a victim. With 60 color photos.

A few reviews from Amazon.com

By George H. Sutherland—(Paradise Valley, AZ USA) – See all my reviews

This book is simply amazing in providing what many books on the subject do not and cannot, because most writers do not have the depth and breadth of personal knowledge required. Bambi Vincent & Bob Arno have done an extraordinary amount of research, covering many countries over many years. The wealth of details gives the reader what are possibly the best weapons against the many cons covered in this extensive advisory – education and awareness. … [It’s long.]

By Randy Given—(Manchester, CT USA) – See all my reviews

After reading some brief articles online, I was wondering how a whole book could be made out of the subject without getting really dry. This book managed that. Lots of ideas (to watch out for!) and very interesting reading. I’ll definitely be more prepared and already used some ideas on my recent four trips.

By Allan M. Gathercoal “fdoamerica”—(Norcross, GA) – See all my reviews

Most of the time, especially when traveling, paranoia is good!
I have traveled extensively internationally for the last 15 years and consider myself travel savvy. Recently, in Peru, I have been robbed of my passport, camera, credit card and ultimately, my peace of mind. This robbery happened in broad daylight, 100 yards from a policeman (in Peru the police are known for their collaboration with criminals and their corruption). If I would have read “Travel Advisory” before this trip, I am sure I would have been more vigilant, yes, more paranoid. Thus, I would have correctly thought, in a paranoid way: I am “fresh meat” among unseen predators.

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

Speeder fakes carjacking

Highway

“John Smith” was driving 180 kph when he realized he’d just blasted through a speed trap outside of Johannesburg, South Africa.

“Knowing the police would come after me, I sped up. When I got around a bend I pulled over, jumped out of the car, and locked myself in the trunk. When the cops pulled up behind me I started banging on the trunk lid, as if I’d been locked in by carjackers.”

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

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

The Heart of a Thief

Kharem and Bambi
heart of a thief: Kharem and Bambi
Kharem and Bambi

Does a pickpocket keep his appointments? Bob and I loitered on a corner with our interpreter. We were a unanimously doubtful trio already considering alternative plans for the day.

We’d found Kharem a week ago, almost a year after we first met him.

“Kharem!” I’d said, and his jaw dropped.

“Nice lady. You remember my name. I am honored.” He swept his thumbtip against his forehead, fingers fisted, in a quick, subtle gesture.

Heart of a Thief

Absolutely punctual, Kharem approached now with a smile and the thumbthing, that curious salute of his. He was immaculately dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt, white pants, suede loafers, and the inevitable tool over his arm: the jacket. We introduced him to our friend Ana, our interpreter for the day, and teased him about his punctuality.

“I wasn’t working today; I came straight from home. That’s why.”

We settled around the same table we used the week before and reminded ourselves and Ana to keep our voices down.

“What happens when you’re caught, Kharem?”

“When I’m caught, the police usually beat me up and take my money. It’s not bad because I won’t have to go to jail. Jail is like death. One hour of being there and I feel dead.” He signaled for a waiter.

“How long have you spent in jail?”

“Many times.”

“But how much time altogether?”

Kharem smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. He raised both index fingers and gestured as if conducting an orchestra.

“He won’t say,” said Ana. “I think he means let’s move on to something else.”

“Do you think the police recognize your face?”

“Yes, they do. But they know I never hurt any one. My crime is small. I’m not getting millions of euros. I’m not rich. I don’t have a drug habit to support…” He went on in Arabic-tinged Spanish.

“He seems to feel almost justified in what he’s doing,” Ana said, amazed. “He’s talking about the police who take his money, the politicians who get away with so much and never go to jail. And other financial… what do you call it?”

“White collar crime?”

“Yes, and that he never hurts people.”

Our drinks arrived: espresso for Bob and me, a beer for Kharem, a soda for Ana. Kharem passed the sugar and distributed napkins to each of us from an overpacked dispenser.

“How are you treated in jail?”

“It’s not pleasant. Look at my finger.” Kharem showed the mangled third finger of his right hand. “A guard did this to me. He handed me some papers and when I reached for them, he slammed shut the cell door. It was clearly intentional.”

He brightened. “Last Sunday, after we parted, I got a wallet with 1,000 euros. I used the postcards to do it.”

“Ah, no wonder you’re not working today. You took the whole week off!” I joked.

“No, I used that money to pay some fines. When I’ve paid them all, my record will be clear.”

“Do you save any money?”

“No. When I get enough, I pay my fines.”

“How will you ever get ahead?” Bob asked. “What about your future? What will you do when you’re old?”

“Who knows about the future. No one knows what will be tomorrow, anything could happen.” He reached to move a strand of windblown hair from my face, a gesture I found overly familiar, almost forward. “I live only for today. I live like a bird.” Thumb salute. “I am free.”

“What is this thing you do with your thumb?” I asked, copying the move.

“It means ‘good.’”

“I’ve never seen it before. Is it Algerian? Or Lebanese?”

“Combination,” he said dismissively, so I gave up.

“Did you go to school?”

“I can read and I can write. What more do I need of education?”

“What do you do when you’re not working,” I asked. “Do you have a passion for something?”

“I write poetry.”

“What about?”

“Freedom. Love. Family. Living like a bird.”

“Will you recite one for us?”

“They are in Arabic. I cannot.”

“Do you have family here in Barcelona?”

“No, I have no one. I have no friends. I am not allowed in France, where my daughter is. I haven’t seen my mother and father in 17 years and my brothers are dead. These are the people I love. If I cannot see my family, why should I see anyone? They are my friends. They are the ones I love.”

He did the thumbthing and smiled with his mouth but not his eyes.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Seven: Scams—By the Devious Strategist

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

Thievery in motion

Two pickpockets look back at their angry intended victim.
Two pickpockets look back at their angry intended victim.

The foot of Charles Bridge, in Prague, is alive with movement. People come and go, lounging and looking, snapping pictures, sipping sodas, eager not to miss a thing on their own personal agendas. Souvenir kiosks attract tight knots of tourists who admire glass animals, wooden puppets, and mad-hatter hats. The corner concert hall, advertising afternoon Mozart recitals, employs a pair of mimes to pass out pamphlets and harass the public.

Bob and I were staking out a pair of well-dressed women with two teenage boys. One of the women carried a blazer slung over one shoulder. As we surreptitiously observed the foursome, we pantomimed the restless and fidgety movements of people waiting for tardy friends, impatiently glancing at our watches and scanning the streets. Simultaneously, we strained to see over and around the milling mob.

The team showed us thievery in motion. As pedestrians waited to cross, the young boys, the stalls, positioned themselves in front of the target victim chosen by the women. The light changed, the crowd surged, and—

Two tousle-headed whitefaces were thrust under our noses. Painted lips grinned over ruffled collars. The pesky mimes had snuck up on us and began to make a scene, flitting around us like butterflies. They mimicked our waiting charade, tapping their toes and drumming their fingers on air. Unaware that theirs was a copy of a copy, the duo performed their inauthentic imitation with self-satisfaction. The pickpocket team crossed the street while the mimes were in our faces, blocking our view and making a nuisance of themselves.

We needn’t have worried about missing the demonstration; we were treated to numerous repetitions of the same choreography. A new crowd of pedestrians gathered and the team members took up their places. With the boys positioned in front of their chosen, the women closed in behind the mark. When the light changed, the boys stepped off the curb, then hesitated—stalled—causing the mark to bump into them. The women naturally crashed into the mark and, in the moment of physical contact, dipped into the victim’s pocket.

Over half an hour, as they repeated their scripted moves, the two women occasionally lifted their heads to scan the crowd but, for the most part, they laughed, chatted, and gently scolded the boys as they worked. They appeared as natural and at ease as every other individual on the square, and possessed the intersection as confidently as did the mimes. Nothing would give them away to the casual observer, unless one noticed that they never left the intersection. What tourist, or local for that matter, crosses and recrosses the same street, again and again?

I used the words choreography and scripted moves, which usually do not apply to opportunists. While this outfit utilized a minor strategy, I wouldn’t call them strategists. They went for the easy marks, made many efforts, and had a high rate of failure. They didn’t invest much in each set-up and were rarely noticed by a newly replenished crowd.

The two women at left are pickpockets. The two boys at right are their stalls. The woman at center was the intended victim.
The two women at left are pickpockets. The two boys at right are their stalls. The woman at center was the intended victim.

Often, the team targeted women with large handbags. Under the cover of the jacket-tool, they delicately dipped and groped for treasure. We saw them get nabbed twice in that half hour. Once, when they crossed late, the foursome got stuck on the narrow median strip with their victim. Trapped together, the victim and her husband accused the women in German. Cars, trucks, and trams careened wildly around them. Appearing frustrated, the victim repeatedly opened the flap of her own bag, demonstrating what she knew the two women had done. The thieves pretended ignorance and refused to respond.

When the light finally changed and the opponents were freed from their traffic island prison, they stormed off in opposite directions. Bob and I caught up with the victim and learned that nothing had been stolen. But she had felt a hand in her purse. She was alert, she was quick, and she was furious.

So many gangs like these prey on visitors to Prague that, combined with well-known taxi scams and restaurant overcharges, the city’s reputation for tourism has been seriously damaged.

Group tour leader Graham Bell, of London, traveled to Prague with a group of 21. Of those, nine were pickpocketed. Nine who left themselves open to opportunists—a totally unnecessary state. Bob and I would encourage any of our readers to visit Prague for it’s stunning beauty—you will go prepared.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Five: Rip-Offs: Introducing… the Opportunist

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

An opportunist pickpocket—part 2

Pickpocket Plaid
Plaid-the-pickpocket
“Plaid,” the pickpocket

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?”

Plaid goes for a backpack

“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…”

Plaid in the ready-position

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.

Bob Arno steals the pickpocket's watch

“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

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Opportunist pickpocket – part 1

Opportunist pickpocket Plaid

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.

An opportunist pickpocket

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.

Opportunist pickpocket Plaid in a crowd
Can you identify the pickpocket in the crowd?

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.

Opportunist pickpocket Plaid gets a long, hard look

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.

Opportunist pickpocket Plaid gets another glare.

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!”

Oportunist pickpocket Plaid's disarming smile

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

© Copyright 2008-2013 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Pickpocket at large in a zoo

Nutria-orange beaver rat
Source: Wikipedia.org, by Peleg

The Nocturnal Sting and the Bite
Skansen, Stockholm’s outdoor museum, suffered a nasty spate of pickpocketing incidents one midsummer. Up to eight known incidents a day occurred within the dark confines of the nocturnal animal exhibit, a part of Skansen’s aquarium.

Jonas Wahlström, owner of the Månskenshallen (Moonshine Hall), had an idea. He placed a particularly irritable five-pound Australian beaver rat into the shoulder-bag of an aquarium employee, and had her mingle with visitors at the exhibit.

An earthy smell permeated the cave-like area, and the only light came from the dimly-lit habitats. Visitors tended to murmur softly, as if they might otherwise disturb the animals. Therefore, it was shocking to everyone when a deathly human scream erupted and a heavy animal shot up toward the low ceiling before thudding to the ground.

There was havoc, of course. Visitors screamed and clumped together as far as possible from the hubbub, too curious to flee. When the poor animal fell, the aquarium employee who had been wearing it dropped to the floor and trapped it with her shoulder-bag before it could cause further harm to anyone else or itself. No one saw the man who screamed.

The badly bitten pickpocket left a trail of blood on his way out, and it is a testament to Swedish mentality that he escaped so easily. The trap was laid, the bait was fresh, the exits unguarded.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams

Chapter Five: Rip-Offs: Introducing… The Opportunist

© Copyright 2008-2011 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.