Tony laughs nervously on the tram when asked to return Bob’s stolen wallet.
Coffee with Thieves
An August Sunday in Naples. Holiday time for all of Europe and most shops were shut. We bought bus tickets at a kiosk with our last coins, dodged the wild traffic, and crossed to the narrow center strip to wait for a crowded bus. I carried a small video camera in my hands and wore a fanny pack containing my other camera. Bob had a hidden camera, its guts stowed in a shoulder-bag he wore across his chest.
A number one bus arrived, jammed. I didn’t think we’d be able to get on. The doors jerked open and a few passengers tumbled out like crickets escaping from a child’s jar. Bob and I shuffled forward with the mob as the people onboard compacted like empties. We would never voluntarily join such a scene were it not for the call of research. This was highly unpleasant; beyond funny.
“No way. Let’s wait for another,” I said to Bob.
Tony the pickpocket would rather stay on the bus than go for coffee with his victim.
Two clean-cut middle-aged men who’d gotten off the bus were now behind us, corralling the doubtful like sheepdogs. Somehow, with their encouragement, we all got on, filling spaces we hadn’t known existed. The good samaritans kept us from bursting off the bus in the pressure while one yelled “chiude a porta, chiude a porta,” close the door!
My chest was pressed against a vertical pole. A wiry man in front of me had his back to the same pole. Glancing down, I saw his hand behind his back, blindly trying to make sense of the zipper tabs on my fanny pack, which I’d paperclipped together. I watched, half amused, half outraged at his audaciousness.
Pickpockets in Naples, Italy
We’d already made half a dozen or so tram trips that morning and had been pickpocketed on most of them. We hadn’t yet seen the same thieves twice. By now it seemed a certainty: riding a crowded bus or tram in Naples meant intimacy with a thief. Well, let me qualify that to specify buses and trams on lines that tourists might travel; specifically those stopping at the ship and ferry terminal, the archeological museum, and the train stations. Looking at the protective behavior of local passengers, bus-bandits seemed to be an accepted fact of life, as if there’s one in every crowd.
The disembodied hand couldn’t solve the puzzle in its fingertips. It dropped, or crawled away of its own accord. No success, no accusation.
Bob suddenly reached for my camera and held it high above the compressed mob, pointing down.
Pickpocket Mario, Tony’s partner, convinces Tony to go with us for coffee.
“Give back the wallet,” he said quietly. “There’s no money in it.”
“Okay, okay,” said one of the good samaritans. He handed it back with a sheepish grin below ultra-cool wraparound reflective sunglasses. In the video, you can see him lower the wallet to his thigh and check its contents.
“Come talk to us,” Bob said in French as the doors popped open. “Just talk—and coffee.”
“Café? Café?” He raised an invisible little cup to his lips, pinkie outstretched. “Okay.” But when the doors opened there was a cat-and-mouse game as we all four hopped off and on the bus with opposing motives. They were trying to ditch us. Finally Bob and I were on the ground with one of the pair while the other hung in the doorway of the bus, reluctant. “C’mon,” we all yelled to the last guy, and he finally joined us.
The men led us into a bar across the street and as we entered, I realized we had no money with us. Horrified, I pulled the last note from my pocket, not even enough for an inexpensive Italian espresso.
“No problem, you are my guests,” said the Italian who spoke French, with the hospitality of a Neapolitan. He ushered us in with the same warmth and efficiency he’d used to herd us onto the bus. He ordered three coffees, four glasses of water, and one almond milk.
“Bambi and Bob,” we introduced ourselves.
Mario, a high-end pickpocket who steals credit cards on trains to Florence, Paris, Monte Carlo.
“Mario,” said the one who spoke French. He studied us quizzically, as if he’d never been invited for coffee by a man whose wallet he’d just swiped.
“Tony,” said the reluctant other, and we all shook hands.
Mario was trim, 50ish, with smooth skin, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a receding hairline. He wore a crisp white t-shirt tucked into blue shorts secured with a leather belt. With a watch, gold ring, cellphone, and snazzy shades, this was no lowlife, drugged-up desperado. Mario looked respectable, like anybody’s brother.
Tony was a little rounder, and clearly the junior partner. He squinted under a blue baseball cap, and—did you ever want to know where a pickpocket keeps his wallet?—in the pocket of his blue button-down shirt. It was Tony who’d first tried to take Bob’s wallet on the bus, but Mario who succeeded and slipped it to Tony.
Unlike most of the other cities we’ve visited, pickpockets in Naples are homegrown. They’re not immigrants, handy to take the rap, or despised illegals doing what they can for their very survival. These are Neapolitans practicing an age-old profession without, as far as we can tell, a shred of shame.
I want to thank you for your information. Before I went to Naples I searched for info on street crime and pickpockets there and also saw your info and video.
As preparation I only had some cash on me in my front pocket and knew the tactics.
Naples pickpocket Angelo
Riding on the notorious R2 bus for a visit to Pompeii I recognised one guy (I think it was Angelo) [from Pickpocket King] and certainly knew that he had bad intentions even when he entered the bus in the front about eight meters from me.
He went out and in with some guys, looked me straight in my eyes and then went for my pockets. As I knew what his goal was I could move away from him while still noticing that they were checking my pockets.
The older Italians complemented me for my reaction and asked if I was robbed. I was not.
However, it was agressive that he went for me even though he must have known that I knew that he was up to this.
I have only experienced this agressive pickpocket behaviour in Naples and not in Rome, Barcelona, Madrid, Athens etc.
One thing that I don’t understand is that these guys can continue their pickpocket work. A ten year ban on public transport would do the job maybe? But I think there must be a bribe.
But most of all I would like to thank you for the information that made me enjoy my trip. I will not go back to Naples and prefer the other cities.
This young pickpocket has just returned Bob’s wallet and is now nervous and uncomfortable, trapped on a moving train with her victim.
Hunting Pickpockets on Rome Metro
As we rode the steep escalator to the depths of Rome’s Termini Station we marveled at the swirling, pushing, roiling crowd of passengers. Before we reached the bottom, we could see several uniformed officers on the platform. Bob groaned.
“Bad luck for us. There won’t be any pickpockets with the police around.”
It was nearly noon. We thought we’d have a quick look anyway, then surface for a lunch of Roman-fried artichokes and zucchini flowers. But as we were funneled off the escalator, we immediately recognized the abused-looking face of a pregnant pickpocket we’d filmed years earlier. Again, she was big with child. The woman, perhaps 20 years old now, swayed on her feet and smiled as she kidded with the police officers.
What was going on?
Had it not been for that familiar face, we wouldn’t have looked twice at a trendy teenager nearby. The girl wore cute, tight pants rolled up at the cuffs, a clingy, low-cut top, and the latest in designer eyeglasses. She wore a gaudy choker and makeup, her lips darkly outlined with pencil.
Two female pickpockets in Rome’s subway. The one wearing a cap later stole Bob’s wallet.
In no way did she fit our previous pickpocket profile. Her dark hair was short and straight, neatly cut at shoulder length, sticking out beneath a black baseball cap. Slung across her chest, she carried the latest style shoulder-bag, the body-hugging, wide-strapped leather pouch with extra cellphone/glasscase/coin compartments attached to the broad strap. Smart and sassy, she resembled not-at-all her dowdy, pregnant friend. The girl was suspect by association.
The two girls conversed together, and with the uniformed officers as well.
At first we assumed the girls had been arrested and were awaiting police escort to the station. How silly of us. After five or six minutes of chat, the girls and officers wandered from the bottom of the escalator to the train platform, which was momentarily quiet. Their joking and laughing continued, and there was even a little friendly physical contact initiated by one officer.
A new crowd soon built up on the platform, and our attention turned to a perfect suspect, a pudgy male. We watched his eyes, and the way they locked onto another passenger. He moved to his chosen one and stood close.
The train swooshed in and stopped abruptly. Its doors slid open and clotted streams of human beings gushed forth, flowing, somehow, into the mass of bodies waiting on the platform, coalescing into a solid, writhing, determined organism. The new being contracted, then broke into bits, dispersing like grains from a punctured sack of rice.
The pudgy male followed his mark onto the train, shuffling in tiny steps so close, so close. He wouldn’t allow anyone to separate them. Bob and I followed, intending to film him, but we were roughly shunted to the right by a last-second surge of passengers as the train doors tried to shut. There was no way we could filter our narrow bodies through the dense pack to get closer to Pudgy.
Three of the many pickpockets surrounding us on the subway train in Rome.
Pickpockets everywhere
Before we had time for disappointment, Bob turned to me.
“All around us,” he said under his breath.
Yes, four young men, on three sides of Bob and one behind me. They were eyeing each other. The tallest, in front of Bob, already had Bob’s wallet.
“Give it back.” Bob said, firmly but quietly. “Give me the wallet.”
No response. Four pairs of wild eyes now flicked everywhere but at each other, everywhere but at their victim.
“Give me the wallet.” Bob hardened his voice and stared at the tall one.
Plunk. The wallet hit the floor and the men stepped aside.
I picked it up as the train reached a station. Bob was still glaring at the four. He intended to follow them onto the platform.
The foursome got off and we were right behind them. But there, on the platform, was the pudgy male we’d followed earlier. We dropped the four and snuck up on Pudgy, who was now behind a crowd waiting to board while a stream of others disembarked.
Bob’s camera was still rolling.
“Pudgy” prepares to lean toward his victim, whose wallet he steals. (I know, bad quality photo. It’s a frame-grab from video in a dark area.)
Behind the waiting passengers, Pudgy did a slow lunge, reaching his hands as far forward as possible. Bob leaned dangerously against the train, straining to see, angling his camera. Pudgy stretched toward a man who shuffled slowly toward the train door. With both hands, he opened the Velcro flap, then put one hand right into the cargo pocket low on the man’s thigh, and came out with a wallet. He turned and rushed away down the platform, suddenly followed by a cluster of children—like the Pied Piper. We followed him to an escalator where a security guard, watching our pursuit, shouted “Kick him! Kick him!” over and over. Obviously, Pudgy was well-known in the area, and frustrated guards have little authority over crimes they do not witness.
Where were we? I gave Bob the recovered wallet and he replaced it in his fanny pack. We turned to look for a station name and there, standing in a just-arrived train, was the trendy teenager in the black cap.
We dashed on before the doors slammed shut. The train lurched and gathered speed. Squashed against the door, we scrutinized the passengers. Now I noticed that the teen girl wore the small crude tattoos often associated with criminal tribes: two on her upper arm and at least one more on her hand.
“Give me back the wallet,” Bob said quietly. I didn’t even know she’d taken it. She tossed her hair and looked away, inching closer to the door.
“Give it back.” Bob pointed his sunglass case (containing a hidden camera) directly at her. He’d already filmed her hand in his fanny pack. Now he focused on her face.
She licked her made-up lips and blinked nervously, trapped beside her victim. Finally, she unzipped her shoulder-bag and removed Bob’s wallet. She handed it to him meekly.
The train came to a stop and the stealthy opportunist made a quick escape. Bob and I returned to Termini, ready for lunch. We’d only been three stations away.
Back at Termini, as we shuffled along with the mob toward the escalator, we saw the uniformed officers again, and with them, the pregnant pickpocket, the trendy teenager, and at least a dozen others.
Pickpockets and police: friends? or what…
Instead of surfacing for lunch, we lingered on the platform, watching the interaction. The area had cleared of passengers. Six or eight police officers sauntered around among the 15 or so in the pickpocket gang. There were women with babies on their chests, women without babies, and many children. All of them, pickpockets and police, loitered comfortably together in a loose and shifting association. Passengers began to arrive again, but the platform was still pretty empty. A clutch of women formed a huddle nearby, bending inwards. Soon they straightened, a knot opening like the petals of a daisy, or a fist opening to reveal a treasure. As the women moved away, each counted a wad of bills and stuffed them into a pocket or backpack. They made no effort to hide their swag.
“Pudgy” the pickpocket on the Rome Metro train
Later, analyzing the footage of our subway exploits, we were astonished to see the trendy teenager lift another wallet before she took ours. Her victim was a woman who clutched her handbag to her chest. Beneath it she wore a fanny pack. Bob’s camera, held low as we entered the train, recorded what our eyes had missed: the trendy teenager’s tattooed hand unzipping the fanny pack, removing a wallet, and rezipping the bag. Then she brought the stolen goods up to her own bag, and out of the camera’s range. Two wallets in two minutes! That could add up to serious money, depending on how many palms had to be greased.
Unfamiliar fingers fiddled with the flap of my bag.
I let them. My American Express card was in the purse, along with a small camera and other things I’d hate to lose. Still, out of the corner of my eye, I watched without interfering.
I was wedged like a flimsy pamphlet between big brass bookends, and about as immobile, too. We had just boarded the metro train at Omonia Station in downtown Athens. The train was packed with it’s usual proportion of locals, tourists, and pickpockets. It was hot, airless, and odoriferous to distraction.
Bob and I had been separated by a force from behind as we boarded the car in a crush of bodies. The power behind the force stood between us: two large men in their thirties. I had one hand on a ceiling strap, the other protectively clutching a cheap-looking canvas bag on my shoulder, which perfectly disguised my laptop. My purse hung low and appeared vulnerable.
The fingers tugged gently, but I knew it was futile. I had tied a small knot in the leather cord of the drawstring bag. I allowed the man to try solely to confirm to myself that he was what we suspected him to be.
Pickpockets on trains
Bob and I had watched these two on the platform. They were neatly dressed, clean-cut, and spoke Russian. They stood apart from one another as if they weren’t together. Their behavior on the platform made them suspects. When an uncrowded train came and they didn’t get on it, they were as good as guilty in our minds. Then again… we didn’t board that train either.
A train in Athens
We squeezed onto the next sardine can and Boris and Igor (as I’ll call them) pressed themselves in behind us, then between us. Igor bumped hard against me, spinning me against my will as he orbited around me. Just a little self-serving do-si-do accompanied by a fleeting expression of apology as he positioned himself to his secret advantage. Physical contact was unavoidable in the over-crowded car. Against my forearm, I could feel Igor’s wrist twitching as his fingers played with my bag.
The two men looked everywhere but at me. As our favorite New York cop taught us, watch their eyes. They seemed to be making unnecessary head movements, looking here and there as if they had no idea what was happening down below and were not responsible in the least for any mischief their hands might do.
Igor didn’t mess around long. At the next station, he slapped his forehead in a pantomime of stupid me, I forgot!, and slipped off the train. Boris followed. Bob and I did not.
Then they surprised us: they reboarded the other end of the same car, enabling us to observe them. Although the Russian-speaking pair towered over the short Greeks and most of the tourists, our line of sight wasn’t perfect across the mass of passengers.
Igor looked at Boris and Boris looked away. They had sandwiched a woman tourist and separated her from her husband, just as they had done with us. This was their method of stabilizing the victim, of impeding her movement. The couple took it in stride though, and braced themselves with both hands against the jerking and jostling of the train as it sped to the next station. They were understandably oblivious to the intentions of their neighbors. But they were unacceptably oblivious of their belongings, their situation, and their vulnerability. We were dying to shout out, to yell pickpocket! It is our deepest urge and instinct to warn others of the danger we’re so aware of. However… however…
We didn’t. For the reasons we have and will further explain, we let the situation take its course. We reminded ourselves: we are researchers in the field, observing and documenting a specific behavior, and we use the knowledge we gain to educate many. Once again and with twinges of guilt, we refrained from interfering.
Athens contrast
Athens’ green line is notorious for pickpockets. This convenient route is heavily used by tourists from Piraeus at the southern end, where ferries and cruise ships dock, to Thiseio for the Acropolis, Monastiraki for the Plaka shopping district, and Omonia Square, the city center. When these trains are crowded, and they frequently are, they’re pickpocket paradise. Thieves thrive on the forced physical contact, distraction of discomfort, and bodies hiding their dirty work.
Boris and Igor were swiveling their heads with exaggerated nonchalance. The train lurched into darkness for about three seconds. When it emerged, Igor lowered his sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes. A got-it signal, we reflected later.
Still pretending not to know each other, they shoved impolitely through the standing crowd to position themselves against the doors. They were first to exit the train as the doors slid open, and they separated immediately, walking in opposite directions on the platform. The tourist couple was almost last to get off the train, so we jumped off also and caught up with them. We could see right away that the woman’s bag had been slit with a razor.
Why hadn’t those thug-like thieves sliced my bag? I knew they wanted it. Perhaps they thought the leather too thick, or they weren’t happy with their access or angle. Possibly the knot in my drawstring signaled my awareness of potential danger. Maybe they thought someone could see them, or their getaway would be hindered.
How to avoid pickpockets
Boris and Igor left me for someone else. It’s proof of the tremendous coordination of innumerable aspects required from the perpetrator’s perspective. So many factors must be in alignment before a thief will take a chance; so many conditions must be just right. With such a delicate balance necessary, it is not difficult to throw a monkey wrench into the thief’s equilibrium. Eliminate one or more of the elements he requires, and he’d just as soon move on to an easier target with a higher likelihood of success.
Two pickpockets look back at their angry intended victim.
When in Prague, Czech your Wallet
We hit the cobblestones as soon as we had dropped our bags and admired our room in King George’s House hotel, an atmospheric 14th century building in Prague’s Staré Mesto district. The late-summer crowd of budget tourists absorbed us into their mass migration. We surrendered to their pace, joining pudgy, reddened, middle-aged German men in sleeveless t-shirts and Birkenstocks with socks, tattooed skinheads wearing studded collars, and dizzy-eyed long-hairs whose sole employment seemed to be wrapping strands of hair in multi-colored thread.
Since pickpockets operate where tourists congregate, we allowed the happily drifting crowd to sweep us along the narrow lanes. It wasn’t easy to peel our eyes away from the intriguing marionette shops, enticing beer joints, and the renaissance-costumed concert touts. But our mission meant scrutinizing people, not souvenirs and architecture. We disciplined ourselves to study the throng and began to get used to the faces, rhythm, and tempo around us.
When we emerged into a sunny clearing, we found ourselves at the foot of Charles Bridge, a magnet for tourists. The many graceful arches of this medieval bridge step across the broad Vltava River to the Mala Strana area. Mala Strana is a popular pub and restaurant district, and a little further up the hill is Prague Castle. So Charles Bridge is heavy with pedestrian traffic all day and late into the night. Nestled among its 18th century statues, artists and craftsmen ply their wares and musicians play everything from classical to klezmer. The bridge is a destination itself.
Thiefhunting
The two women at left are pickpockets. The two boys at right are their stalls. The woman at center was the intended victim.
We realized at once that the square at the foot of Charles Bridge offered a unique opportunity for pickpockets. A street of wild traffic and speeding trams separates old town from Charles Bridge. Everyone wishing to get from one place to the other must cross the street here at a stoplight. Crowds of a hundred or more people, mostly tourists, quickly accumulate on both sides of the street. Pickpockets have ample time to locate a mark, get in position, and work them while they cross.
Pickpockets in Prague
An affectionate couple on the street corner caught our attention in a big way. When the light changed and the traffic paused, they crossed the busy street among a mob of gawking tourists. But three quarters of the way across the street they abruptly turned and crossed back to where they had begun.
In the “matador” position, the pickpocket (left) slings a coat on her shoulder when she’s ready to work. The coat blocks others from seeing her handiwork.
There they stood, again waiting to cross with the next gathering crowd. The man’s hand casually rested on the woman’s right shoulder. The woman had a blue blazer hanging from her left shoulder. They were better dressed than any of the summer tourists, but somehow didn’t quite look like local business people, either.
The woman sidled up to a man waiting to cross. The light changed. The pedestrians stepped off the curb and surged around the nose of a tram, which had come to a stop in the crossers’ territory.
The man shifted his hand to the woman’s left shoulder, where he anchored her blazer. The woman used her left hand to extend the blazer, completely shielding her work. As we all reached the opposite curb, I fought through the crowd and tried to speak with the elderly gentleman who was the woman’s target.
In Prague at the Charles Bridge crossing, pickpockets block their marks as they cross the street to slow them down.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
“Greece,” his wife said. The man was old and hard of hearing.
“Does he have his wallet?” I asked.
The wife didn’t understand.
“Portofoli?” I asked, pointing to the old man’s pocket and hoping I remembered the correct Greek word for wallet.
The wife felt her husband’s pocket and looked up at me in alarm. I looked wildly around for the affectionate couple but they were gone. Thinking frantically for the Greek word for pickpocket, I tried Spanish and Italian. Finally, klepsimo. The woman understood, but why not—the wallet was gone. She hurried away from me before I could say anything else, as if I were the thief.
Bob Arno, a security consultant [as well as a comedy stage pickpocket], is the world’s most prominent pickpocket. Speaking to 02B, Arno lifts the lid on the Barcelona street crime scene. According to him, out of a thousand cruise-goers disembarking in Barcelona on any given day, five will be stripped of their belongings.
By Ignasi Jorro in Barcelona, 23/02/2014
Not many former pickpockets pride themselves on having been featured on the frontpage of Time. Bob Arno is one of them. He is often described as “the world’s most famous pickpocket” and praise pours in for his “unrivalled skills”. Bob Arno has snatched his way into the Wall Street Journal, CNN, and New York Times. National Geographic handpicked him for the acclaimed documentary Pickpocket King.
Now a security consultant, Bob Arno has a conference-packed agenda, giving 25 lectures a year on average. The pickpocket-turned-pundit works closely with tourist firms and runs a successful blog on worldwide crime.
02B- When was the last time you visited Barcelona?
Bob Arno- We visit Barcelona every summer, sometimes for a week or so, or several times for a day or two between May and November. The reason for our frequent trips is that we work with various travel companies, like the cruise industry, which brings us to Barcelona.
Bob Arno on Barcelona street crime statistics
02B- How would you describe the “pickpocket scene” (if it can be called so) in that city?
BA- Extremely high, compared with per capita statistics of other tourist cities like Rome, Paris, Copenhagen, and Prague. These other cities also have high pickpocketing rates, but not as varied and blatant as in Barcelona
In my own surveys, I have found that of 1,000 tourists visiting from a cruise ship (for five to eight hours), three to five persons will experience a theft or an attempted theft. Numbers are much lower for the same 1,000 cruise passengers visiting Nice or Athens.
The good news is that lately numbers have come down as to cruise passengers—day visitors who do not stay over night. But young hotel guests, 18-30 years of age, often do not bother to report the theft of a wallet or mobile phone, skewing the numbers.
Bottom line: I would say that the average number of thefts (real losses versus failed attempts) have decreased from over 100 per day, to 50-100 per day.
02B- But, who robs in Barcelona?
BA- Categorizing pickpockets in Barcelona is a complex endeavor. Here is an incomplete list the many players:
• Local gypsy families, who might have arrived many years ago from Kosovo or other war-torn regions, either first or second generation. A decade ago these perpetrators were a serious nuisance in Barcelona and probably constituted over fifty percent of the action. It is far less today.
• North African pickpockets who reside in France (especially in Paris) and make brief trips to Barcelona to practice their trade
• South American pickpockets who reside legally or illegally in Barcelona who specialize in advanced pickpocketing techniques like “la mancha,” the pigeon-poop ploy
• Itinerant pickpockets from Romania. Men and women, often very skillful in their art. Within this group are the pickpockets who specialize in “Apple-picking,” or iPhone-grabbing.
• Occasional well-organized troupes from Poland, skillful and very experienced. They’re a small percentage of the pickpocketing population in Barcelona
You will notice that we have not yet listed any local residents. It appears that over ninety percent of pickpockets in Barcelona are from other parts of Europe (or the world).
02B- How would you describe the response by authorities, including police forces, etc?
BA- I have always wondered why tourism organizations and politicians never combined forces and tackled the crime reputation that Barcelona gradually gained. The city has a very poor reputation that lingers to this day.
02B- In that case, what would you advise them to do to tackle the issue?
BA- I believe with absolute confidence that the police divisions working the Barcelona street crime detail know exactly who the culprits are, and they could quite easily apprehend the majority, and either expel or lock them up.
But it’s not that easy. It’s the judicial system we’re talking about and the expense of sentences. For a start, I would have a long session with the police chiefs and their superiors about morale and attitude toward tourists reporting crime. I’d like to see more compassion from the officers, more detail-oriented report forms, more translators, and a system that measures behavior of police officers who come in contact with tourists. Also needed: an independent commission that looks at all facets of Barcelona street crime, and which then reports back to the political powers.
For example, a pickpocket (in Paris) who has one arrest record, can be apprehended and prosecuted if they behave as if they are going to to steal from a victim.
Lovely La Rambla, Barcelona
02B- Which would be the main techniques?
BA- Depending on the nationality of the perpetrator, the techniques vary.
• First and foremost, opportunity theft when a victim does not protect his belongings. For example, she places her handbag on the floor in a restaurant without realizing that the entire bag can be pulled away from below.
• Pickpockets sandwiching victims at door entrances in the metro during rush hours.
• Thieves working clubs and restaurants who especially target the elderly (who are gullible or less mobile), and also the youth (in their late teen years or early twenties) who are still trusting, not yet cynical, and easy to distract. These thieves also work at big club events and concerts.
• The classic “pigeon poop” smear. A gooey mess is applied onto the innocent victim and then, a minute later, the pickpocket approaches the victim and volunteers to help clean it off. In the process, the pickpocket can invade pockets while distracting with cleaning the spot. It is more prevalent in Barcelona than elsewhere.
• Luggage thieves. Tourists arrive at a hotel and unload their bags from a car, leaving a small backpack or laptop case unguarded. While the bags are unattended, thieves speed by on a scooter, snag the laptop case, and speed off.
• Shoulder-surfing, in which the thief watches the cash machine-user from a distance to learn his PIN. The target is then followed until the thief gets (or creates) an opportunity to steal the bank card.
02B- What differences, if any, has the pickpocket community in Barcelona with similar major capitals around the globe?
BA- Most of Barcelona’s pickpockets are opportunists; fewer are very skillful ones. It’s a volume operation at the lower end, because Barcelona is so packed with visitors seven months of the year.
02B- How has the recession affected the pickpocket scene?
BA- Not much. They may have to steal an extra wallet or two to get the money they need.
Pickpocketing is inherent of large crowds, and so is on the type of tourists who visit Barcelona -some gullible, some young. Since Barcelona is such a desirable destination, many visitors are new to travel and naive.
02B- What are your future projects as an expert in this field?
BA- Since my National Geographic film, Pickpocket King, was released two years ago, I am less effective infiltrating or establishing rapport with thieves. But I am able to work closely with many law enforcement agencies across Europe, training and discussing policies. It is my strong belief that the best way to reduce diversion theft is to educate the public and make them aware of the basic techniques of thievery. With a few basic precautionary rules we can reduce this Barcelona street crime by more than half.
The pickpocket in Guatemala City who stole our wallet for good.
Almost gone for good, finally. Our lucky wallet, our favorite thief-bait, would have been stolen in Guatemala City by a stone-faced woman backed by two accomplices, had we not, at the last minute, swapped it for a “regular” prop wallet.
Our lucky red leather prop wallet has been stolen more than a hundred times—close to 150 times—and we’ve always gotten it back. Usually we confront the thief and he/she hands it over or drops it on the ground. Sometimes Bob Arno steals it back. The thief who emptied Bob’s pocket in Guatemala City held her ground. We didn’t get the wallet back.
Then again, it wasn’t our lucky wallet. Perhaps if she’d stolen that one, she would have given it back. We’ll never know.
A huge audience surrounding street performers fills the street and creates a bottleneck. Pedestrians must squeeze slowly behind the crowd against the wall.
As we were heading out on a thiefhunting expedition in new territory, we did a little research. Yikes! Guatemala City is dangerous! Crime rates are astronomical (99.5 murders per week! 143,000 cell phones stolen (with force) in 2012!). The Westin Camino Real Hotel staff told us that more than ten of their guests are mugged every month. Presumably, other hotels have similar rates.
So it was with extra caution and trepidation that we ventured out. And we left our lucky wallet in the hotel.
Guatemala City pickpockets
After meandering around Guatemala City’s photogenic Sunday market in Parque Central, we strayed a bit and found ourselves on Calle Real, a busy pedestrian shopping street. Several street performers had gathered huge crowds which filled the street, like the one pictured above. To pass, we had to slither slowly along the green fence, pushing against the spectators.
This boy is an accomplice to our pickpocket. Remember his plaid shirt so you can spot him in other pictures.
That’s a long bottleneck—a choke point—in other words, pickpocket paradise. Why? Your progress is slow, giving the pickpockets all the time they need to get into position, find your valuables, and extract them. You’re experiencing physical contact with strangers on all sides, so you don’t suspect the pickpocket’s touch. The crowd is so tight that no one can witness the thief’s dirty work. And when the steal is complete, the perps can meld invisibly into the crowd.
Bob and I dove into the bottleneck. We let the crowd move us along, bump us left and right, feel us up. Negotiating the long passageway was like burrowing through a two-way tunnel of human bumper-cars. We emerged intact.
As we reached the next block, we saw a similar crowd. It, too, filled the street right up to the buildings. As we approached, this boy (at right) in plaid came around from behind us.
Plaid Boy and his partner, the woman with the black sweater “toreador-style.”
The boy glanced at us, then at his partner, a woman who could be his mother, who came around from the other side of us. The two joined up as they continued slowly along the street.
The pickpocket’s two accomplices get into position.
They were suspects immediately. The boy wore a messenger bag—typical of many pickpockets, but of course not exclusive to them. The woman’s sweater was draped “toreador-style” over one shoulder, also a common pickpocket M.O. The woman also carried a large purse which gaped open in the back. Then there were their frequent furtive glances at us. We were sure they were part of a pickpocket team, but we didn’t know their roles. Either one could have been (and perhaps sometimes is) the “dip.”
The pickpocket’s two accomplices wait for us.
The woman and boy arranged themselves in front of us as we neared the bottleneck. We paused to see what they’d do. They paused. Uh huh. They hung back against the wall, both taking quick glances to see if we were on our way—if their prey was on track.
The woman constantly fiddled with her eyeglass case. A nervous habit? Or a signal?
Bob went forward and the two suspects placed themselves directly in front of him. They were performing as blockers. They would delay their mark—their target—slowing down our progress, allowing the pickpocket time to find and extract our wallet.
Pickpocket positions
Preparing for action, Ms. Accomplice removed her black sweater. I fell into place behind Bob, allowing a little distance between us. If there were a pickpocket in the vicinity, and we felt certain there was, Bob’s pocket would have to be accessible—not protected by me.
These two women are also pickpockets. Here they check the pocket of our plaid boy, not realizing that he’s part of another pickpocket team.
Bob paused in the middle of the narrow passage, forcing the accomplices also to stop and wait innocently. The boy pretended to watch the street performer. The woman fiddled with her glass case.
Two women squeezed past from the opposite direction. Surprise, they were also pickpockets! They didn’t recognize our team as thieves. You can see the first woman brush the hip pocket of our boy. The second woman bent her head low to look at his pocket as she passed.
The short female pickpocket gets in position behind Bob. The accomplice is ahead of them, her gapey purse ready for a deposit.
Now our pickpocket took up her position behind Bob. I got behind her with my video camera running. She’s very short—her face not much higher than Bob’s waist. In the photo below, notice the parade of actors in this perfect choreography: the victim (Bob) is sandwiched between the pickpocket and accomplices, one of whom can “hold” (the stolen goods) and one or both can “block” (impede the victim’s progress, slow him down). Classic!
In front of the pickpocket, who clutches a striped shirt to cover her moves, you can see Bob’s white shirt, the plaid boy accomplice’s shirt, and the woman accomplice’s big white satchel.
The pickpocket unfurled a wadded shirt she carried, which we consider a tool. The purpose of the shirt (striped) was to hide what her hands were doing. She worked very slowly on Bob’s wallet. While Bob walked and filmed, he concentrated his attention on the sensitive skin over his right gluteus maximus. The pickpocket gently rocked the wallet, zigzagging it up and out of Bob’s pocket.
Bob feels for his missing wallet while holding his camera high and aimed at the perp. You can see Bambi following behind, also filming.
As soon as she got the wallet, she scooted away from the scene of the crime and hurried to catch up with the female accomplice. Bob had to feel his pocket to be sure the wallet was really gone.
With the wadded shirt as a shield, the pickpocket drops the plunder into the waiting bag of her accomplice.
The pickpocket darted straight to her partner, again using the striped shirt as a cover to conceal Bob’s red wallet. She slipped the wallet into her partner’s shoulder bag, which gaped open, ready to accept the loot.
The pickpocket and her accomplice revamp after a successful steal.
Wallet stolen and stowed, the two women rearranged their props. The pickpocket folded her spare shirt and wrapped it around the strap of her shoulder bag. The shoulder bag was replaced and adjusted. The accomplice re-covered her satchel with her big black sweater.
Pickpocket plays dumb: “Who me? What did I do?”
Bob stepped in with his usual courtesy, asking madame if he could please have his wallet back. The thief gave him a dumb stare. He tried a mixture of languages to no avail. He invoked “policia,” hoping that the accomplice would drop the wallet onto the ground. Nope.
Indignant pickpocket: “Unhand me, sir!” The accomplice madly flips her glass case, which contains some sort of papers.
Bob grabbed the pickpocket as she turned to go. Strangely, the accomplice, who stayed close, opened her big purse as if to produce the wallet, but didn’t remove anything. She did this over and over, sometimes alternating with glass case fiddling. Again: nerves, or signals? The boy accomplice disappeared. Perhaps to get assistance? We don’t think the female accomplice passed the wallet to the boy, but it’s remotely possible.
Bob blatantly films the pickpocket encounter.
Bob and I continued to film openly as our confrontation escalated. Bob’s tiny camera, the fabulous GoPro Hero3+ Black Edition, doesn’t really look like a camera. Its wide angle lens is fantastic up close, though of course there’s a bit of distortion. But even frame grabs are sharp—sharper than those from my Sony RX100. All these images are frame grabs from our videos.
The stonefaced pickpocket is adamant. Her accomplice seems to be a nervous wreck, opening and closing her bag, then her glass case.
We stood on the edge of the street entertainers’ crowd on the opposite side of the street, where there was another bottleneck passageway between audience and buildings. Quickly, a crowd gathered around our encounter. Our show was better than the street dancers’.
Done with us, the pickpocket pushes her way through the crows.
The crowd found something amusing. Was it that we made an issue of an everyday occurrence? Was it the futility of accusing the thief? Something someone said in Spanish? Or simply Bob’s height? Bob’s height was amusing—he was a giant in a land of short people.
The fed-up pickpocket whacks Bambi’s camera.
The pickpocket finally had enough of our accusations and stormed off through the crowd. We followed her through the bottleneck and out the other side. Bob continued to demand his wallet back, trying to provoke a response. When she turned down a side street, Bob lingered a moment with a couple of police officers. I followed along beside the escaping thief, my camera still running. I’d been filming the entire time—which was actually only a few minutes.
Suddenly, the woman whacked my camera! It flew out of my hand but luckily, I had it on a tight strap around my wrist so it swung wildly but didn’t fall. I abandoned the chase to look at my camera. It was dead. Dark screen. I’d never stopped recording, so the footage was never saved to the chip. I turned it off, then on, and lo! It gave me an option to recover unsaved video! Yes!
It recovered about the first two-thirds of the shoot. Nothing after I turned the corner. Not the potentially great shot of the pickpocket attacking my camera and ending the scene with a dramatic blackout. But I got enough. Great camera, this Sony RX100.
Two armed police officers take up the chase.
Meanwhile, Bob had snagged two armed police officers who seemed excited to take up the chase. Together, we ran down the street. But the pickpocket had disappeared. She could have ducked into any of the little bars or bodegas lining the street. Chuckling silently about the thieves’ disappointment when they found our wallet totally empty, we gave up. We needed to return to the scene to shoot a little more video. We had only another half hour of daylight, and this was one city we knew not to linger in after dark.
An American soldier assigned to protect the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City told us just how rough the city is. He said that no new embassy personnel are allowed to go out at all until they have been briefed. They’re told how to behave, how to dress, what not to carry: wear no jewelry, no branded hats or clothing, dress down. Flashing an iPhone or iPad definitely invites mugging. Some zones of the city can only be visited in groups of two or more persons. Other zones are not to be visited at all. Curfew is midnight.
Guatemala City is a place where security must be taken seriously. Be certain your hotel is reputable. (We believe our friend was drugged at his hotel, and his room ransacked while he slept. Story coming soon.) Use taxis from your hotel, and arrange for the drivers to wait or return for you. Do not flag down a taxi in the street. If you go exploring, use all Thiefhunters’ advice in Pocketology 101 and Purseology 101.
The moments you’re boarding public transportation are your riskiest in the world of pickpocketry. A pickpocket in Athens shows us just how slick, and how fast, he can get your wallet.
Victim accuses pickpocket on train in Athens.
Here’s a pickpocket technique we saw but didn’t see. We were riding the green line in sweltering Athens. A woman in a yellow shirt and her male pal were already on the train when Bob and I boarded. They moved aside, making it easier for us to get on, then sandwiched Bob, separating me away. The male wore a t-shirt which proclaimed “generation (picture of a dog) free.” He pressed a flaccid shoulder-bag against Bob’s pants pocket while his partner tried to get Bob’s prop wallet.
“That was good,” Bob said to me in Swedish, our code-speak, because we assume few people understand it. “She tried but didn’t get it.” Probably because Bob’s pocket was pretty deep. We don’t want to make it too easy for them.
A pickpocket in Athens
Giving up, Dog Free hung his bag on his shoulder and inched away innocently, riding in sweaty silence. As the train approached Omonia station, he readied himself for another attempt.
A Greek gentleman boarded. Yellow and Dog Free, still on the train, blocked his way.
Pickpocket’s accomplice.
“Excuse me,” the Greek man said. “Let me get by.”
Yellow and Dog Free slid around behind him. Yellow flashed a flat parcel down low. Amid the confusion, I saw a hand briefly grip a pocket. In the swirl of people, I couldn’t identify whose hand it was, or even whose pocket. I was holding a camera low, blindly aiming at the known thief’s hands. Bob held his camera near the ceiling, pointing down.
The train hadn’t left yet. Dog Free pushed himself through the crowd with Yellow close behind. He stepped off the train, but the Greek was quick. He grabbed Dog Free’s wrist, pulling him back onto the train. Yellow walked.
“Come here!” the victim said in Greek.
“What do you want, mister?”
“You took my wallet!”
“What did I take?” Dog Free said. “You’re out of your mind. Search me! Look, look!”
The victim groped desperately in his empty pocket and released Dog Free. The thief left, the doors slammed shut, and the train departed.
Victim accuses pickpocket, while accomplice (in yellow) slips away—probably with the victim’s wallet.
“Did he get your wallet?” we asked. “Portofoli?”
“Yes, he got it. I wasn’t sure if it was him or not, not a hundred percent.”
We asked the victim if he’d like us to go to the police with him, that we thought we might have the steal on film, and we certainly had the faces of the thieves. But no, he didn’t want to.
“He didn’t get a lot of money. I had only 20 euros.” (About $27.)
“What did he say?”
“He said he didn’t do it.” The Greek threw up his hands.
Sweaty and spent, we retreated to a shady streetside café in the Plaka to have a light lunch and review our footage. Over tzadziki and flat bread and cold fried eggplant, we unwound, cooled off, and rewound our cameras. Hunched over our tiny screens, we scrutinized the video.
Everything was there: Yellow, and Dog Free, the Greek victim boarding. You can’t take for granted that it will be, when shooting from the hip. And we make plenty of camera mistakes in moments of high tension or excitement. We pressed play on the other camera. Sipping retsina, we held our breath through shaky minutes of feet, unidentifiable body parts, then noisy confusion.
From video shot in low light, fast motion, shot from the hip. But we got the pickpocket’s hand in the victim’s pocket.
Pickpocket in Athens “kicks the poke”
And there it was, clear and close up. It took exactly a second and a half. Yellow positioned a flat parcel as a shield while Dog Free used both hands on the right front pants pocket of the Greek. His right hand pushed the wallet up from the outside of the fabric while his left reached only an inch into the pocket.
This is a technique dips call “kick the poke.” They raise it from the depths, or turn it into a better position for lifting. Dog Free neatly clipped the raised wallet between two fingers and let the Greek simply walk away from it. It happened so fast we didn’t see it—but our camera did.
What we can’t see, but most certainly happened, is Dog Free’s pass to Yellow. Dog Free pulled up his shirt and invited a search because he was clean: he’d given the wallet to Yellow, who escaped.
We call Dog Free’s special technique finesse. Thieves who use it have an edge, but they can be bested. They’re still opportunists. And we don’t have to give them the opportunity. We just need to be aware that they have tricks and techniques most of us wouldn’t dream of.
Almost all of the opportunist pickpocket’s dirty work is preventable. I agree, it’s not practical to live in preparation for the worst at any moment. Bob and I say, practice safety as a habit. Stash your valuables wisely, and try not to send signals that you’re worth a thief’s effort. Other, easier targets will always be there to tempt the opportunist. Don’t make him even glance at you. We say, forget the flashy jewelry when you’re out and about.
Fake jewelry doesn’t thwart pickpockets
“But this is a fake Rolex,” some say smugly. “I paid $20 for it in Miami.” No comment on the purchase of counterfeit goods, but do you really want to be mugged for a fake Rolex? Do you believe a criminal can tell the difference? Not even in Naples, where Rolex-robbing is as common as running red lights, can a thief tell before he’s got it.
“These are CZs,” women tell me, tugging on glittery boulders in their earlobes. “It won’t break me if I lose them.” Listen: losing the earrings is not the point. You’re sending a signal to anyone who cares to pay attention: “Look at me! Notice my wealth!” The one who tunes in may or may not want those CZs; he may decide to linger and observe and find your Achilles’ heel, the chink in your armor. It’s not coincidence when a bag is snatched in the one moment you look away. You’ve been stalked. Why? You are attractive. You are wealth.
Yes, you’ll look like a tourist
If you are a tourist, chances are you look like one. That’s not a put-down. We can’t possibly look like a local wherever we are [despite all the “experts” exhorting us to]. We don’t dress, act, or sound like the natives, even within regions of the United States. I’ll never forget the time Bob and I came back to the States after six months in Sweden.
MY take on a “dippie.” Nothing like the Orwigsburg version.
We flew straight to Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania, to do a private show. I had never felt like such an alien as I did in that town; and that thought had solidified long before a roadside breakfast at the “Family 3C’s” diner, where the perky little waitress asked “Where are you guys from?” with the unsaid ending: “space?” Was it because I asked for the definition of a “dippie,” a menu item with no description?
The big boss of our Orwigsburg client had described his employees, his “boys,” as backward and painfully shy. He said we’d think they seemed dumb, ignorant, but that they’re highly skilled at their individual jobs, good workers, loyal. At the party, Bob and I looked at all these beefy boys with their hefty wives, trying to figure out their lives and values. They didn’t look dumb; they looked innocent and close to the earth and less worldly than anyone we’d encountered in many years. Perhaps since we met the Masaai….
The event was held in a dismal lounge at a Quality Hotel. The pitiful effort at decorating (helium balloons rubbing against the low ceiling) matched the pathetic catering (macaroni salad, bbq chicken). This was the big party of their year! To be fair, I must add that the boss’s warmth and generosity toward them (and us) was impressive.
Culturally speaking, this was as fascinating an experience as any other exotic destination we’d visited. And on the positive side, we spoke the language. Somewhat, anyway. As always, I tried to pick up a little, so I can now order a “dippie” and expect an egg. But what would the Orwigsburgers think about being considered exotic, a fascinating study? I suspect we and the natives examined each other with the same dubious skepticism and sideways looks, like two isolated cats meeting for the first time.
Anyway, there we were in our own America and no doubt stuck out like two city-slickers in a dairy barn, similar to the time I showed up in Boyd, Texas for a show wearing New York black instead of dirty denim. Who knew? We didn’t mean to stand out—we just did.
The point is, most travelers can be seen as travelers, and a traveler is at a disadvantage. When we travel, we’re the foreigners. We’re outsiders, even if we don’t realize it. We don’t have street smarts, even if we do at home.
Dress down
Bob and I say, prepare yourself in advance. Travel light in order to travel confidently. Leave your shiny sparklers at home. On the road, lock up what you love. On your body, tuck them in. The idea is to enjoy your journey without worry.
Mumbai, India: Chowpatty Beach, along which runs Marine Drive.A mumbai pickpocket at work and arrested.
Our law enforcement friends in Mumbai do some creative police work. Methods that would never be tolerated in the U.S.
Okay, so they knew that a gang of pickpockets was targeting people on Marine Drive, the famous beach road. At 3 a.m. a week ago Thursday, a uniformed cop stood watching with a birds-eye view from a pedestrian overpass. Constable Bhaidas Chavana, the police officer, had his eye on a 16-year-old boy sitting beside a sleeping man.
Up on the overpass, Constable Chavan stopped a passerby who happened to be a photographer on a night assignment. Then he stopped a juvenile, also walking along. He enlisted the two civilians to run down to the beach road and nab the criminal! He ordered them to do it! One of them a child, the other presumably carrying expensive photography equipment! Can you imagine?
This must not be odd in Mumbai because the two citizens obeyed, trotting down to the beach as they were directed to, and grabbing the pickpocket. In the commotion, the victim woke up and confirmed that 500 rupees were gone. The pickpocket was searched—by the enlisted civilians—but they found no cash on him.
The Mumbai pickpocket
By then the constable arrived and his expertise proved itself. He turned up the thief’s shirt collar, felt for an opened seam, and from it withdrew the victim’s 500 rupees. Then he found a razor blade hidden in a slit seam of the pickpocket’s shirt cuff.
The pickpocket admitted that he’d dipped into the pockets of 16 other people in the area that night. Where then, was the rest of his loot? He also admitted to being a drug user. Perhaps he purchased drugs with the cash he stole earlier—weed was found in his pants pocket. Or he may have paid off a boss or a debt, or simply stashed his loot for safekeeping.
