Confronting muggers in Panama

Muggers in Colon, Panama: A dangerous street in Colon.

Muggers in Colon, Panama: A dangerous street in Colon.

[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?

Muggers in Colon, Panama: When we find these gangsters, they appear to be defending their turf.
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
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.

Muggers in Colon, Panama: Seeking a little privacy, we move the two gangsters and our translator to a nearby alley, but others follow, curious.
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.

Muggers in Colon, Panama: People watch us from balconies all around us. Some dance. Quite a few men hold babies.
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
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.

Children surround Bob and the men on the trunk of the car.

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.
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.
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.

Muggers in Colon, Panama: It's disconcerting to be completely encircled by curious onlookers in a neighborhood like this one.
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.

The kids loved watching themselves on video when we turned the screen toward them.

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.

Colon kids cool off in a pool on a street corner.

Bob has more to say about muggers, Panama, and our experience there. Stay tuned.

© Copyright 2008-2010 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

“How I mug,” as told by two muggers in Panama

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Colon, Panama’s second largest city.

“The mere mention of Colon sends shivers down the spines of travelers and Panamanians…”

Lonely Planet on Colon, Panama

After the brutal armed robbery of 18 tourists in Nassau three weeks ago, and our naive trek through the world’s most dangerous city, Port Moresby, Bob and I have had muggers on our minds. For years, we’ve studied non-violent pickpockets and con artists, and advised travelers how to avoid becoming their victims.

Muggers, though, are a different breed, defined—by us—as those who use violence or the threat of violence in the course of robbery. Often drug-addicted and desperate, their behavior is unpredictable and not easily avoidable.

Ask your hotel staff and local hosts where it’s safe to walk, we say. Carry “give-up” money. Be compliant, give them your stuff. It’s impossible to know what these desperadoes are capable of. Beyond that, we didn’t have much to say about muggers.

That changed a few days ago, when Bob created an opportunity. We were visiting Panama’s second largest city, feared by the capital’s police as well as savvy expats.

Having heard how dangerous Colon is, I left my camera in the hotel and walked the streets with empty pockets. Bob brought a video camera and a collapsing monopod. Immediately, we were approached by many aggressive men who wanted to show us the sites. We waved them away until we met Gustavo and Carlos, gentle, low-key men. Both scramble for whatever odd jobs they can find: construction, painting, roof repair, escorting visitors to the Gatun Locks.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Gustavo

Gustavo, 38, spoke decent English and was more than pleased to fulfill Bob’s challenge: take us to the most dangerous streets, and introduce us to some banditos. “Nobody wants to see my city,” Gustavo sighed later. Everybody just wants to go to the locks, or to the mall to buy t-shirts.”

I admit to starting this adventure a little uneasily. We don’t speak Spanish, for one thing. And I remembered the scary vulnerability we experienced when two knife-wielding thieves in Peru took us in a taxi to a “quiet place” of their choosing. And the way we were followed and scrutinized in Valparaiso, Chile, when we were pretty sure we saw the flash of a blade. And the gangsters we met in Panama City. Not to mention the emotional aftermath of Nassau’s 18 armed robbery victims.

Had I read what one Colon tourism site had to say, I probably wouldn’t have gone at all:

“Though exaggerated, Colon’s reputation throughout the rest of the country for violent crime is not undeserved, and if you come here you should exercise extreme caution—mugging, even on the main streets in broad daylight, is common. Don’t carry anything you can’t afford to lose, try and stay in sight of the police on the main streets, and consider renting a taxi to take you around, both as a guide and for protection.”

Coloncity.com

That from a site promoting the city!

We trusted Gustavo instantly, although the city looked, uh, “dicey,” to say the least. He led and Carlos guarded from behind, both pushing bicycles. “Robbers will not be difficult to find,” Gustavo admitted, “They are everywhere. They live on my street.”

Colon’s gorgeous colonial architecture glowed under a hot sun, its faded Caribbean colors covered with graffiti. The place is crumbling. Potholed streets run with overflowing sewer water and heaps of trash. Cracked pavements and treacherous gutters vie for attention, with two-by-fours stretched across particularly rough stretches—inner-city balance beams.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Bambi Vincent on the street in Colon, Panama

“Hold this,” Bob said, passing me his monopod while he shot a little video. Not “Honey, you better stay home,” as many a husband might say. I gripped the photographic tool like a weapon, and later realized that it must have looked like one. Not a very nice visitor who tours a city wielding a police baton. Better leave her alone!

Gustavo pointed out the sights as we walked; sort of a walking tour of gangland central. Here’s a building used in a James Bond film shot last year. The men over there, they’re too dangerous. That street is very bad; we won’t walk there. This street is the home of three pandillas [gangs]. Colon has at least 50.

I looked at the blood newly splattered on my pants and shivered. Right… the butcher chopping chicken in the crowded market we passed through.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Colon kids

“Stay close,” Gustavo said. “No one will bother you when you’re with me. I know everyone.” Indeed, men, women, and children greeted him at every step, but he politely deflected them and focused on us.

“That guy’s a robber,” Gustavo pointed, and called him over. Explaining our mission, he spoke with such authority the thief had no choice but to comply. Bob tossed the camera to me as we stepped into a filthy alley. It reeked of pee. Above, a man watched us from a balcony. Water gushed from another balcony, higher up.

How I mug

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Dajanel and Bob Arno

It’s hard to believe that Dajanel [Die-a-NEL) is a mugger. His sweet face, slight build, and compliant behavior belied his vocation. He robs with a gun. He doesn’t fire the gun, he told us—small comfort to his victims. Or huge comfort to his victims, I guess.

Dajanel likes to work as part of a structured threesome. One man grabs and holds the victim, one watches for police, one lifts the wallet. He scopes his marks as they come out of hotels, or as they buy drugs or girls. He looks for thick wallets.

Before a theft, Dajanel fortifies his nerves with drugs. We couldn’t ferret out his drug of choice but, whatever it is, it grows his strength and power. When he seizes a wallet, he goes straight for the cash and dumps the rest. ASAP. He doesn’t use credit cards, doesn’t sell them on. Holding them is evidence against him, and commands a higher sentence if he’s convicted of a crime.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Curiosity in Colon, Panama.

Dajanel’s only 26, but he’s already spent three years in jail. As proof of his toughness, he pulled down the neck of his t-shirt to show off a thick scar on his shoulder—a deep knife wound that took three years to heal. He reminded me of Petter in Lima, who showed off his many scars, and Angel, in Panama City, whose little bullet wound was a badge of honor. Dajanel raised his knee to display the entry point of a police bullet, and another in his foot.

Gustavo translated like a pro throughout the interview, while Carlos watched my back, his bike arranged like a police barrier at the alley entrance. I was hyper-aware of the million-dollar camera in my flimsy fingers—it might as well have been worth that much. A steady stream of passers-by stopped to watch—to see what was in it for them? Carlos moved them on.

We walked on 6th Street after we let Dajanel go, where Gustavo lives. He brought us into his tiny, dark apartment, to meet his wife and four small girls. He has three older children elsewhere, he told us, though he’s only 38. Music was blasting in his apartment, as if he were force-feeding rhythm to his kids. Bob delighted them with a few magic tricks.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Three of Gustavo’s children watch their older sister help Bob with a magic trick.

Exiting the long, dark hall to Gustavo’s interior home, we met Jaer, a 34-year-old robber.

Unlike Dajanel, Jaer prefers to work alone. That way, he doesn’t have to share money or worry about a partner who, if caught, might squeal. Unlike Dajanel he doesn’t use a gun; he steals anywhere, at any hour, but prefers early morning, because there are fewer cops around. He does not profile his marks. His weapon is speed, as in quickness, and brute force, as in a chokehold from behind. He oozes confidence and control. He doesn’t use drugs.

“Show me,” Bob said, no caution left to throw to the wind. “But not here. In private.” Yeah, where no one will see the mugger with his two rubes. Bob followed him down an alley only four feet wide to an interior courtyard the size of a tollbooth. “Now, show me,” he said.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Jaer demonstrates how he steals using Bob Arno as a mock victim.

Jaer backed up to the extent he could. So did I, attempting to get the whole scene on video, but even wide angle wasn’t wide enough in this close space. Jaer lent Bob his wallet, and stepped back over puddles of mud and water for a two-step running start.

Pow! The wallet was gone, and Jaer’d have been a block away had there been any place to run. He smiled with pride as a miniature gang of children passed through the shady space.

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Even Bob Arno was surprised at Jaer’s sudden chokehold.

“Wow,” Bob said, “that’s the fastest steal I’ve ever seen! Again.” This time, Jaer surprised Bob with a chokehold, lifting the wallet in a one-handed plunge. The demo proved him experienced and capable.

“Now you,” Jaer requested, replacing his wallet in his pocket. After a suitable pause, Bob stealthily swiped it.

“I didn’t feel it,” Jaer said. “I’m impressed. Your way is much better. But speed is vital. I don’t think you could run away fast enough.”

He left Bob with a final word: “I’ll be talking about you tonight…”

* * *

What the U.S. State Department says about Colon:

“The entire city of Colon is a high crime area; travelers should use extreme caution when in Colon.”

Panama Country Specific Information, 8/22/14, U.S. State Department

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

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good, part 6 of 6

Part of the police contingent present at Bob's lectures.
Part of the police contingent present at Bob's lectures.

Panama City, Panama—Bob asked one of our Panama police escorts what serious crimes against tourists had occurred recently. The officer stunned us with a horrific story of some visitors who had rented a car and driven to a lodge in a rainforest. They were ambushed somewhere out in the countryside and robbed of everything.

One of Bob Arno's lectures in Panama: 100 of Panama's top security and tourism professionals attended, including majors and chiefs of the national police and the
 
With disgust all over his face, the officer went on: the perpetrators, it was later discovered, were police officers. They had been tipped off by someone at the airport or car rental agency.

Two days later, we saw an English-language Panama paper:

Tourism Cops Busted For Torture

…members of the Tourism Police who arrested three men who are suspected of being part of a gang that robs tourists allegedly smashed the suspects’ fingers with a hammer, beat them with golf clubs and forced their heads into bags full of pepper gas in an attempt to make them reveal what happened to the proceeds of a string of robberies. According to a report, the crime was allegedly aggravated by the cops’ motive to make the suspects reveal where the money was so that they could take it for themselves. —The Panama News

It was pitch dark in Casco Antigua. It's amazing what a good digital camera can do.
It was pitch dark in Casco Antigua. It's amazing what a good digital camera can do.

We returned to Panama half a year later and, though it was already 9 p.m., made straight for the old, dilapidated, historic section of Panama City. We walked the dark and dangerous streets with our cameras dangling and very soon approached a few people loitering on a corner to ask for Angel or Jaime, the former thieves.

The loiterers whistled over an English-speaker: amazingly, it was Angel’s mother. She and one of the men, a private security guard, walked us to a gangster hangout, and there we spoke with about a dozen young thugs, Angel’s mother translating.

Again, this was a dark night. Taken with a flash and lightened in Photoshop.
Again, this was a dark night. Taken with a flash and lightened in Photoshop.

The boys sized us up quickly and automatically, and we did the same. I looked at their smooth skin, fake-tough faces, and posturing, and couldn’t prevent wistful thoughts of their youth and potential, or lack of potential. Bob did some goofy steals on the guys. One of them brandished a cellphone and fancy money-clip full of cash, claiming he’d just lifted them. Despite all their braggadocio, the gangsters clearly wanted a little old-fashioned fun. Like the thieves we speak to the world over, they blossom when spoken to with simple respect.

Eventually, a stoned-looking Angel arrived, with bloodshot eyes, no job, no vocation, and apparently still one of the gang. We wouldn’t be surprised if he was back to thieving. Jaime, on the other hand, was working with the Department of Tourism, we were told.

The gangsters got a kick out of Bob's attention. They probably behaved themselves because of Angel's mother's deference to us.
The gangsters got a kick out of Bob's attention. They probably behaved themselves because of Angel's mother's deference to us.

A pair of cops arrived on the scene and chastised us for clowning around with these criminals. We were not allowed to be in this area at this hour. There had been a murder right here five days ago. The cops pointed us out of the neighborhood and gave us a virtual kick in the butt along with the virtual spanking. Before we left the district, Angel’s mother brought us into her friend’s house. Angel followed and asked us for a gift of cash, which we gave him.

As far as gangsters go, these don't look too threatening. But what do all their hand gestures mean?
As far as gangsters go, these don't look too threatening. But what do all their hand gestures mean?

This is part 6 of 6. —— Part 1.

See our pickpocket summary page.

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good, part 5 of 6

Angel's mother talks to Bob while Angel and Jaime play. Notice Jaime's prop.
Angel’s mother talks to Bob while Angel and Jaime play. Notice Jaime’s prop.

Panama City, Panama—Angel lives in the school building with his mother and assorted siblings. Aha! So that’s who’d done all the neat laundry hanging inside the school gate. Bob asked Angel to fetch his mother who, to our surprise, was not only willing to speak with a camera in her face, but did so in English. She used to work in a casino, which is how she learned English.

Angel was always different from his brothers, his mother explained. Eventually he stopped going to school, stayed out late, and didn’t listen to his mother. He’s changed a lot since he’s been in this program, she said. Now he’s good, he’s home every night, goes to bed early, and gets up early.

With reluctance, Angel's mother allowed me into her home. A television blared among the mattresses in the empty bedroom.
With reluctance, Angel’s mother allowed me into her home. A television blared among the mattresses in the empty bedroom.

The audacious Bob Arno asked to see where she lives and where Angel sleeps. There’s no end to Bob’s impudence. He has no humility.

What thoughts of hope played in Angel’s mother’s mind as she led us to her “apartment?” Who are these impertinent snoops, she must have wondered, poking around here two days in a row, sometimes escorted by police chiefs, bodyguards, and interpreters? Foreign dignitaries? Potential benefactors? Deus ex machinas?

She shuffled to a wooden door and ordered Angel to get rid of the dogs yapping in front of a knee-high board. “I’m sorry. Be careful,” she said, pointing to the scrappy barrier.

I don't know who felt worse about this intrusion, Angel's mother, or I.
I don’t know who felt worse about this intrusion, Angel’s mother, or I.

“My wife will film it,” Bob said, manipulating me forward. I was mortified, ashamed by my violation of the poor woman’s privacy. But like the woman, I wasn’t given a choice, and it would have been more embarrassing to refuse. I couldn’t think how to stop on a dime after I’d been pushed down a slippery slope. I shouldered the offensive video camera and, with one eye on the viewfinder and the other watching my feet, stepped over the dogs at the door and the scrap of wood meant to keep them out of the room.

There was also a chest of drawers in the room, with all its drawers open and spilling clothes.
There was also a chest of drawers in the room, with all its drawers open and spilling clothes.

Angel’s mom showed me around, pointing out her possessions. She kept a running dialog, but I heard none of it, due to a blaring television, yapping dogs, and my extreme discomfort with this assignment.

Handicapped, double-jointed, or injured? ? A dog in Casco Antigua.
Handicapped, double-jointed, or injured? A dog in Casco Antigua.

This is part 5 of 6. —— Next. —— Part 1.

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good, part 4 of 6

Properties in San Filipe, a World Heritage Site, are being purchased and restored by foreigners.
Properties in San Filipe, a World Heritage Site, are being purchased and restored by foreigners.

Panama City, Panama—Bob and I had come to Panama as guests of the national and local police departments and the Panama National Hotel Association. The Central American country aspires to a boom in tourism and recognizes the need to curb street crime in its cities, tourist areas, and especially San Filipe, aka Casco Antigua, Panama City’s old town and a World Heritage Site.

Panama Policia Nacional
Panama Policia Nacional

Bringing in Bob Arno as a consultant to the tourism industry and trainer for police departments and security divisions was a major organizational feat involving numerous government agencies.

Panama Policia Nacional
Panama Policia Nacional

(The coup is entirely credited to the gentle, eloquent, and now retired Carlos Sanad of the Office of the Attorney General in Panama.) Bob and I were treated like dignitaries during our stay in Panama, hosted at the country’s newest, grandest resorts, provided with several translators, and always shadowed by bodyguards. We were transported in police vans but, in order to conduct our simultaneous research, often felt the necessity of ditching the navy-suited men talking into their wrists.

Guests of the government require ever-present bodyguards.
Guests of the government require ever-present bodyguards.

When we interviewed Angel and his pal Jaime, we left all badge-bearers outside. What would the gangsters tell us with police present? Perhaps that is why they felt free to demonstrate their pickpocketing techniques and speak of their criminal exploits. That, and Bob’s easy, simpatico demeanor. They showed their choreography with pride.

Jaime shows Bob how he extracts a wallet.
Jaime shows Bob how he extracts a wallet.

Bob was unimpressed with the boys’ talent. I was a bit more forgiving: presumably, they were rusty, being officially out of the business. Not to mention under great pressure with an audience of two foreign “filmmakers,” and cameras rolling.

Angel and Jaime claimed they didn’t exploit the credit cards they got in wallets, though they occasionally sold them to a fence. They received so little money for credit cards that they usually just threw them away. They wanted cash; the wallets they took usually contained $40-100, sometimes as much as $200. (Panama uses U.S. currency.)

Jaime listened intently and answered intelligently.
Jaime listened intently and answered intelligently.

Now that they’re out of the business, the boys miss the healthy takings they used to enjoy. They find it difficult to live on their legitimate incomes of two to three dollars a day, which they get from the government.

This is part 4 of 6. —— Next.  ——  Part 1

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good, part 3 of 6

Jaime, left, is bright and engaging, with the magnetic personality and intense eyes that Angel lacks.
Bob interviews Angel amid the ruins of an unused schoolyard.
Bob interviews Angel amid the ruins of an unused schoolyard.

Panama City, Panama—As Bob and Angel spoke, a tall, handsome boy appeared dribbling a basketball. Soon he was part of our interview. His name was Jaime. He and Angel grew up together, were gangsters and pickpockets together, and were now together in the rehabilitation program.

As pickpockets, Angel and Jaime worked on buses as people got on and off them, at sports events, and at rock concerts.

Jaime, left, is bright and engaging, with the magnetic personality and intense eyes that Angel lacks.
Jaime, left, is bright and engaging, with the magnetic personality and intense eyes that Angel lacks.

Jaime took a crisp, clean Manila folder from under his arm, which he had brought along specifically to demonstrate how he used it—or something—to shield his handiwork. I was impressed that he had thought to bring a prop. Bob now addressed his questions to Jaime, whose alert demeanor was a welcome improvement over Angel’s empty, shifty eyes. Jaime was engaging, eager to answer, intelligent.

Jaime and Angel demonstrate their classic drop-stall-bump-steal method.
Jaime and Angel demonstrate their classic drop-stall-bump-steal method.

Their best method was the classic “sandwich,” in which one of them would drop keys or coins in front of a mark while the other nabbed his wallet from behind. They demonstrated using Bob as the victim. Then Jaime showed a close-up of his extraction technique. He gripped just a corner of the wallet and sort of zigzagged it up and out of the pocket. He smiled brightly, and I thought he’d make an excellent tour guide some day. Angel, if he’s lucky, might be suitable as a fry cook, or maybe a bell boy.

Buses in Panama are privately owned and serious works of art.
Buses in Panama are privately owned and serious works of art.

This is part 3 of 6. ——    Next. ——  Part 1

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good, part 2 of 6

Ripe mangos inside the dilapidated schoolyard.
Ripe mangos inside the dilapidated schoolyard.

Panama City, Panama—Too much laundry was hung too neatly on a wire line stretched across the broken schoolyard. This boy can’t be that industrious, I thought. There was cooked rice in a dog food bowl under a mango tree, and I heard a tv. Several tattooed toughs gave us a sideways glance. Were they former gangsters, too, or… gangsters? With a pole and bent hanger, they were trying to snag a mango from the tree in the center of the schoolyard.

Angel observes nervously as Bob readies his cameras.
Angel observes nervously as Bob readies his cameras.

  
Angel kicked dust while Bob and I set up equipment among the ruins of the school. Countless skinny, mangy dogs wandered past. Angel had agreed to be interviewed on camera, but we were concerned that he’d have second thoughts. We tried to set up quickly. To use as a sofa, Bob dragged over the wooden frame of something long disintegrated. I sat down in the dusty earth and balanced a video camera on my knee.

Angel’s account of the pickpocket business was not too different from others of his plebeian level around the world. Basically, he practiced subsistence stealing, but his gang involvement added a vicious element. All Panamanian gang members carry guns, purportedly to protect themselves, despite the fact that if they get caught carrying a gun, they automatically get several years in prison. Regardless, they carry 9mm guns.

Eventually, Angel loosened up.
Eventually, Angel loosened up.

Angel lit a cigarette and showed us a recent bullet wound on his hand. He was shot by a rival gangster who didn’t know or believe that Angel had given up gang membership. He said it’s dangerous to live in this gangland without belonging, but admitted that it was equally dangerous to belong. He was covered with gang tats.


  

This is part 2 of 6. —— Next.  ——  Part 1

Panama Cannons: gangsters gone good

Angel was a gangster and pickpocket in Panama City who now claims to be former on both counts.
Angel was a gangster and pickpocket in Panama City who now claims to be former on both counts.

Panama City, Panama—Angel Sanchez is trying to stay clean. Neither crack nor speed produces the high he craves. At 23, Angel is trying to give up pickpocketing. A drug high is nothing, he says, compared to the rush of walking away with someone else’s money.

Angel’s pickpocketing is not the biggest concern of the Panama police, yet they invented a scheme to put him out of business. The program that attempts to rehabilitate local gang members provides vocational training as tour leaders. Gangsters are not invited into the program. They must seek it out and apply for admission. Gang leaders trained to be tour leaders!

Get rid of the gangsters and you get rid of crime.

San Filipe is a World Heritage Site. It's worse than run down, but restoration has begun.
San Filipe is a World Heritage Site. It's worse than run down, but restoration has begun.

Angel’s neighborhood, San Filipe, is gangland central. Residents loiter in drugged-out stupors, eyeing the few tourists that are starting to trickle in. The district is marketed as Casco Antigua, Panama City’s old town. Imagine trailing after a tour leader who holds aloft a 9mm gun instead of a yellow umbrella. (“…and on this corner, my three amigos killed a rival…”) That could be San Filipe in a year or so. Just be sure to follow the raised arm with the right tattoos.

Angel in front of the school with Bob and our interpreter.
Angel in front of the school with Bob and our interpreter.

Angel didn’t speak as he led us to the unused, dilapidated school he lived in as caretaker. Pulling out his important key ring, he unlocked the tall iron gate. His face was tight and he looked at the ground. Bob and I had a significant haul of still and video cameras with us. Hefting our bags, we slipped into the thieves’ den and let the iron gate slam shut, locking us in.

This is part 1 of 6. —— Next.