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Pigeon Poop Pickpocket in Marbella, Spain

Pickpocket in Barcelona, Spain. The pigeon poop pickpocket ploy. — The pigeon poop pickpocket, 1998.

The famous pigeon poop pickpocket of Barcelona has been spotted in Marbella, Spain. Is he enjoying a working vacation in the southern coastal resort town? Is he now living there in order to enjoy the richer pickings of Brits with second homes instead of low-budget holiday-makers? More than one pickpocket has complained to us that Barcelona’s tourists don’t yield the wished-for wealth, though they make up for their cash-poor wallets in sheer number.

So the pigeon poop perp first spotted by us in Barcelona in 1998, then again in 2008, has not retired and is not currently languishing in jail. Where is he now?

“Well, I can report he’s still at large some 8 yrs after this blog thread started,” reports Pete, of Bedford, UK. “I got ‘done’ this morning, 22nd July 2017 in Marbella, Spain. And there’s little doubt from your photos it was the very same guy.”

Pigeon poop pickpocket ploy — The pigeon poop perpetrator, 2008.

Site of the pigeon poop pickpocket ploy with victim Pete. Avenida Mercado, Marbella, Spain.

Pete, Marbella victim of the famous pigeon poop pickpocket of Barcelona. [Photo courtesy of Pete.]

Many pickpockets bravely practice the face-to-face pigeon poop ploy. Our man isn’t the only one—but he’s famous because Bob Arno and I documented his M.O. long ago in our book. Also because he’s had a long and prominent career employing this devious method. And he’s famous for his duplicitous smile. His M.O. is tried and true, explained in the posts linked above. Here, faithfully according to script, is how it happened to Pete yesterday in Marbella:

“I’d been walking and was sitting on a wall separating two pavements in a quiet part of town (Avenida Mercado). I saw a little guy with a several day growth, big glasses, baseball hat, and the same features as in the photos, plus a few years, shuffling along on the lower pavement behind me, as if he was lost. He must have been sizing me up.

“Next thing, I felt some sort of liquid stuff hit my head and shoulders, put my hand round and back it came with bits of a sort of brown porridge on it. Initial reaction was to look up to see if someone had chucked something out of a window. But no open windows above. So then I thought bird shit? But was a bit confused when I sniffed the stuff and it smelt of cocoa drink.”

The pigeon poop perp learned long ago that the yuck factor trumps logic. Any old goop will serve, as long as it’s disgusting and the victim wants it off.

“Just then, the little guy suddenly appeared coming back behind me, and called out ‘Bird? Bird’ to me, as if to say he knew it was a bird that got me. I shrugged, still in disgust at the thought, when he motioned me to come across to see him. I hesitated. He insisted, waving a bottle of water and a packet of tissues. So I approached him. He commiserated.”

The pigeon poop pickpocket has his psychology down. He knows how to behave in order to gain his victims’ confidence. (Hence the word con artist.)

“He started brushing me down, then circled around me and said “You’ve got some on your back, take of your rucksack, go on, take it off”. At this stage I was kind of overwhelmed at his concern to help me. He even got me to circle around whilst cleaning me down, which meant of course that my rucksack was behind me and out of my sight for 20 secs or so. Then, he got me to take off my shirt, indicating it was fouled.”

In his Academy-Award-winning role as good samaritan, the pigeon poop pickpocket performs with aplomb. So convincing is his good-guy cameo, his discombobulated victims trust him like obedient children. Just get the yucky stuff off me, please!

“Looking back, my collaboration with this suggestion was pure idiocy because there I was standing with no shirt on when he suddenly took his leave of me, gesturing to keep the water and tissues he’d given me. Even then, I had no idea of the advantage he’d taken of me. After shaking down my shirt, I put it back on and slowly walked on, partly in disgust at, as I imagined, having had a bird score a direct hit on me, and partly full of admiration for this altruistic citizen.”

…And the Oscar goes to…

“Half an hour later I walked into a small store to buy a cheap tee-shirt to replace the fouled one. I took out my wallet from the small pocket on the outside of my rucksack where I normally keep it, to pay. I opened it and to my horror it was completely empty of cash, whereas only an hour ago it most certainly contained two €50 notes and one £50 note. The penny dropped. This ‘kind citizen’ thief had had the damned cheek to remove, open, drain and replace my wallet whilst he was ostensibly brushing down my back. All in 20 seconds, no problem to a skilled operator.

“My first reaction was to go and hunt him down, as he was most likely ‘working’ Marbella old town that day. My second, that a confrontation, in which I might well have grabbed his bag, could have been turned against me as an attempted robbery on him. So, still in a bit of shock, I decided this was just a painful lesson in life that had cost me €150. Then I thought… next time I’m in Marbella, I will hunt him down, track him from a distance, and get some telephoto shots of him working his con trick on some other poor soul, before shouting a warning to the victim. But then I started my Google search for ‘bird dropping con man’ and up came this blog. All I can say is that this smooth operator needs his picture up in every tourist area of Spain. Thanks for your interest on this site!”

Like 70-80% of pickpocket victims, Pete did not file a police report. I don’t blame him at all—there are many reasons not to. He did complete my survey though, which is extremely helpful in enabling me tally incidences and frequency of reporting. [Thank you so much Pete!]

As I said in my second story of the pigeon poop pickpocket (this is my third):

This is a perfect con. (Con comes from confidence, right?) He plays the good Samaritan. He gains your confidence. He creates a strategy to touch your body wherever he wants to, wherever the disgusting mess supposedly is. A pickpocket can’t steal without touching, right? Why wait for an opportunity? That’s for amateurs. Create one! I call these thieves strategists and they are devious. Look, he makes you grateful to him. He desensitizes you to his touch. And he employs the yuck factor, taking advantage of the truth that bird shit directly triggers the ick region of the brain, a highly effective distraction.

He’s still out there, I’m sure. And he’ll find unsuspecting victims every day. All we can do is spread the word.

The Pigeon Poop Pickpocket Ploy

The Pigeon Poop Pickpocket Ploy as perpetrated in Barcelona is devious. We discover the original Pigeon Poop Perp, who pretends to offer goodness. In response, naturally, his victims trust.

The leisurely ploy is perpetrated by the “clean-you-off-clean-you-out” good samaritan impostor. Bob and I met many of his victims before we finally found him—or rather, he found us.

We’d been staking out a suspicious trio at Temple de la Sagrada Familia, Antoni Gaudi’s spectacular cathedral and Barcelona’s number one tourist attraction. It was a long amble back to La Rambla. We zigzagged south and west block by block, with no particular pattern. It was a pleasant route we invented, strolling past fabulous architecture, under lush green trees, while a cool wind blew and pigeons cooed.

At the corner of Consell de Cent and Girona we saw a beautifully ornate pastry shop facade which reminded us of one in Palma de Mallorca. We decided we’d peek in, see if they served coffee. We were still debating and postulating about the pickpocket team at La Sagrada Familia as we crossed the street in front of the pasticeria.

How the pigeon poop pickpocket ploy works

As I stepped up onto the curb I felt a slight wetness on the back of my knee below the hem of my skirt, as if I had splashed in a puddle. Not impossible, since it had rained recently. The rain had actually been the day before, but I just sort of knew it had rained, in the back of my mind, without really thinking about it.

Reflex made me glance into the street for the source puddle but in that same instant I knew there was no puddle. I asked Bob to look at my back but I knew what it was. I was horrified and exalted simultaneously. We were about to meet a charlatan, a gentleman thief with a fiction, an ersatz Samaritan and the most elusive of pickpockets.

Bob confirmed my disgusted suspicion: I had thick blobs of brown yuck on the back of my clothes, and so did Bob.

In that instant of offended confusion, while we admired each other’s backsides and laughed and grimaced, before we could organize our thoughts in that tenth of a minute, a man in shorts swept up to us, map in hand, sunglassed and baseball capped.

“Iy, look,” he pointed out. We swung around. “Bird, bird.”

Where did he come from? Out of the blue, it seemed. Still, we knew who he was. We knew what he was.

“Come, I help,” he offered with compassion and authority, ushering us into the pastry shop we’d been headed for. He already had a neat pack of Kleenex tissues in one hand, a small bottle of Evian in the other. He was more prepared than we had expected. Bob put his video in record.

Employees didn’t seem surprised in the pastry shop. They observed our intrusion with the vague interest of ranch hands regarding mating dogs. The man-in-shorts pressed a tissue into Bob’s hand and turned me around by the arm.

“You clean,” he said to Bob politely but insistently, indicating my back. He didn’t want to appear unseemly. You clean her and I’ll clean you—out. That was the idea. We’d heard the story many times from victims. While the husband cleans the wife, the man-in-shorts cleans the husband. Rather, he pretends to clean the husband. What he cleans is the pockets. And disappears before you know it.

Neither of us were good researchers this time: I didn’t cooperate fully, out of repulsion. And Bob was too busy filming to do his part. He was supposed to clean me off. But every time the impostor coached Bob in his role, Bob just said okay, fussed with his new camera, and failed to come to the aid of his wife. How could he videotape the scam if he were a participant? But how could the game continue without all the players?

Our man-in-shorts got frustrated and tried to slip away. We managed to waylay him though, outside the shop. We tried to get him to talk to us, to show us his squirt contraption, to tell us where he’s from. He was insistent about no video, no camera, but he didn’t rush off too obviously. He backed away slowly, trying not to look suspicious. Finally, he broke into a little trot and dashed into the handy metro stairway. Was its proximity coincidental? We think not.

Questions about the pigeon poop pickpocket ploy and M.O.

Barcelona police, it turned out, had been looking for the man-in-shorts for years. They knew his M.O., his territory, and that he was Peruvian. And they knew he always wore shorts. That was it. They now had his scam and his face on video.

We walked back toward La Rambla looking over our shoulders, hyper-observant. Bob and I disagree on the participation of the pastry shop people. I say they were in on it. I say the man-in-shorts buys his bread there and always leaves a hefty tip. I say they were awfully quick to bring out a roll of paper towels and laundry detergent when the man-in-shorts left. I say everyone’s a suspect. Bob says it’s impossible, they couldn’t be in on it. It just happened to be the corner where opportunity struck for the man-in-shorts. He couldn’t do his thing on only one corner in all the city.

J. S. Brody, an advertising executive in New York City, was a victim of the man-in-shorts. He remembers being astonished at the amount of bird droppings on his backside and his mother’s. “What do you have here, eagles?” he’d asked. The pigeon poop pickpocket ploy had taken place several blocks away from the pasticeria. For the clean-up operation, the pigeon-poop practitioner had drawn them into the lobby of an apartment house. So much for my theory on location.

Exactly ten years later—to the week!—Bob and I were strolling in the same neighborhood when we were squirted once again. We were astonished to see recognize the very same pigeon poop pickpocket. Read about our reunion with the pigeon poop pickpocket.

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

Barcelona pigeon poop scam spain strategist theft

Street crime in Buenos Aires

When my friend, Stephen Kane, described what he witnessed on a recent afternoon in Buenos Aires, I begged him to write it down for me. Following is his account.

Bad action in Buenos Aires

Prior to my first visit to Buenos Aires I was warned about the mustard/ketchup gag. As you’re walking, carrying a shoulder bag, someone sneaks behind you and squirts mustard or ketchup on your back. The accomplice later offers to help you clean it off. You remove the bag from your shoulder to do that and then it disappears along with the thief. So I felt particularly foolish when it almost immediately happened to me. I noticed I had been squirted but just kept holding my bag tightly and walking until I was safely out of the area. I have been back to Argentina many times and, thankfully, have never been threatened with robbery again.

So I suppose I was due for one particularly eventful day. I wasn’t the victim but the witness of two different scenes.

I was having Saturday lunch in a cafe on the corner of Corrientes and Florida. I was sitting at the window and had a very clear view of the crowd of people and traffic at the intersection. If I hadn’t been looking in the right direction I’d have never seen it happen. It was much too fast; so fast that nobody nearby realized it had happened until it was over. A tall, beautifully dressed girl was standing with her boyfriend waiting for the light to change so they could cross the street. Mixed into the traffic speeding down Corrientes was a large motorcycle carrying two men. The cycle suddenly stopped right in front of her and the man on back jumped off. He grabbed the girl from behind, putting one of his hands over her mouth to keep her from screaming. With the other hand he grabbed her necklaces and purse. By the time she was able to even make a sound and alert her boyfriend the thief was back on the cycle with his accomplice and speeding away in escape. But the event wasn’t finished. Someone standing nearby actually did see the robbery and managed to capture a picture of the thieves on a cellphone camera. I watched as they all summoned a policeman and showed him the photo of the cyclists. Of course, during the discussion that followed, the victims were much more animated than the policeman. After pleading with him for several minutes they eventually gave up and went on their way. So did the crowd. So did the policeman.

Petter, a thief in Lima, told us that one member of his team always carries a knife.

After lunch I walked a few blocks down Florida and turned into a small, uncrowded side street. I noticed a commotion in Continue reading

Argentina Buenos Aires mug pigeon poop street crime theft travel

Pigeon poop pickpocket

Barcelona, Spain—The Pigeon Poop Pickpocket got me with a double-blob on my back. I felt it ever-so-lightly and knew instantly we’d been accosted by that infamous and elusive thief. A second later, the thief overtook us, smiled, pointed to my back, and said “bird, bird.”

The Pigeon Poop Pickpocket

What luck! Bob and I were ecstatic to see that we recognized the creep. We had met the pigeon poop pickpocket exactly ten years ago, when he squirted my back with fake pigeon poop about ten blocks from this location. His technique was identical, he looked the same and dressed the same, in shorts, with a cap, backpack, and big glasses.

Our excitement impaired our judgment. We should have let the game play out. After all, we were ready for him, with a prop wallet in Bob’s pocket, three hidden video cameras, and two still cameras. Our cash and credit cards were safely stowed in pouches under our clothing. But we remembered how slippery this guy was in June of 1998, that we couldn’t induce him into conversation, that he smiled politely and slowly backed up until he could escape from us.

This time, Bob kept a hand on him in a friendly sort of way and insisted that he talk to us. He didn’t seem to remember us at all. Bob suggested coffee and the thief agreed, leading us to a café a block away. Bob stayed in his face and I had him trapped from behind as we fast-walked and fast-talked. Would he bolt at the intersection? We both noticed that he emptied his goop as we walked. It flew out in big globs as he slyly ditched the evidence. Until he dumped his little squirt-bag, he gestured like a magician: theatrically, as if we wouldn’t notice his tightly clenched fist.

Moments later we were sitting around a little aluminum table outside a restaurant. We ordered cafe solo, he ordered a “bitter.” The waiter gave him a sideways glance. Was he recognized? The waiter said no, when we returned later to ask. The thief told us his name was Manel, but he was in a hurry, he had to go pick up his children. I respected his desire to be on time for his kids, but Bob wanted to talk now. I’m such a sucker. I believed this known criminal, this con artist with the duplicitous smile. Eventually we agreed to meet in our hotel lobby in an hour and a half. “2:30,” he stressed, “not 3:00.” I’m such a sucker. With his big smile, he backed away until he could lope out of site, pointing to his watch and the general direction of our hotel. Just like ten years ago.

We rushed back to the hotel. If nothing else, we needed to put away our tapes for safekeeping. And I needed to change out of my shitty clothes. He won’t show up, Bob said. But we called our trusty translator Terry, our dear friend Terry, who dropped everything to fly all the way across town on his bike. This is a big deal. Terry’s starting up FluidInfo, the tech company of tomorrow according to the elite circle who understand what he’s doing and fund him. He doesn’t really have time to fool with thieves. But he made time, just in case. He won’t show up, Terry said.

Of course the perp didn’t show up.

Ten years earlier… The pigeon poop pickpocket in 1998. He just happened to have a packet of tissues handy; just happened to have a bottle of water.

With Terry, we went to the police station to show his photo, again. We did it years ago and he’s still at large, but we wanted to hear what the cops said. Ten years ago the police showed us the three hundred faces in their database, all men who practice la mancha, the stain, or what we call the pigeon poop pickpocket’s ploy. Our man’s mug was not on file then. This visit was unproductive, even a comedy of errors. Predictable, I thought.

The next day we found Kharem approaching marks on La Rambla, and we showed him photos of Manel. No, Kharem said, his name is Miemou. He owns a bar. Bar owners can steal with impunity, Kharem told us, because no one will accuse them. Miemou has a brother also named Kharem, who picks pockets in the Metro. That was Kharem’s story, anyway, which I take with a grain of salt. (I’m not always a sucker.)

The pigeon poop pickpocket’s ploy is this: The perp sneakily throws or squirts something onto your back. Then he politely points out the mess and offers to help you clean it off—while he cleans you out. This is a perfect con. (Con comes from confidence, right?) He plays the good Samaritan. He gains your confidence. He creates a strategy to touch your body wherever he wants to, wherever the disgusting mess supposedly is. A pickpocket can’t steal without touching, right? Why wait for an opportunity? That’s for amateurs. Create one! I call these thieves strategists and they are devious. Look, he makes you grateful to him. He desensitizes you to his touch. And he employs the yuck factor, taking advantage of the truth that bird shit directly triggers the ick region of the brain, a highly effective distraction.

FAQ:

How is the goop applied to the mark?
I begged the pickpocket to show us his tool, both this time and ten years ago. No luck. It seems to be a small plastic bag. I watched his hand like a hawk and never caught a glimpse of the thing. Neither did I find it when I returned to the scene later and searched the pavement. Other practitioners surely have their own inventions. In Las Vegas, we saw a team use the same technique, but one of their members spit into the victim’s hair. And here’s a photo of a victim who was doused with brown goo. Must have used a water pistol.

What is the stuff made of?
I felt that our perp’s formula has changed from ten years ago. Then, it was more a striated mix of blackish and white stuff. This time, it was pure beige. It dried to a soft, waxy cake with a texture similar to cheap chocolate, or white chocolate. I was not a dedicated enough researcher to finger the stuff, smell it, or taste it. It definitely stimulated the ick region of my brain.

Does it wash out?
Mine did. Another perp’s formula might not.

Is this strategy unique to Barcelona?
Not at all. In fact, most of the 300 perpetrators the police had on file were South Americans. The spitters in Las Vegas mentioned above were from South America, too. In New York, the method is identical but the perps squirt ketchup or mustard on the mark near a street-food vendor; hence, the “condiment caper.”

Any other clever twists on the theme?
Some perps dirty their male marks’ jacket. The clean-up process involves removing the jacket, the better to clean it, which gives free and easy access to all pockets, including the difficult-to-reach inside breast pocket.

This is a follow-up to my recent overview Barcelona Street Crime Today.

Barcelona Bob Arno M.O. pigeon poop spain steal street crime technique theft thieves tourist victim

PICKPOCKETS, CON ARTISTS, GANGSTERS, THIEVES, AND TRAVEL