What’s more charming than a leisurely break at an outdoor café? Coffee, a beer, a glass of wine, maybe lunch… You chat with friends and watch the people-parade, safe within the lush green walls separating you from the commotion and concerns of traffic and humanity. A cool oasis with a feeling of privacy and exclusivity—at least to some level.
This is where a great number of bag thefts occur, thanks to that false sense of security one naturally gets from the perimeter of potted plants. Thieves may use a special tool or a mangled wire hanger to snag a purse or backpack from between the planters. The use of a tool allows them to pierce your private sphere without setting off your personal alarm system. The most popular sites for this M.O. are right beside a subway entrance or other easy getaway—a gateway to disappear with the swag.
Thankfully, restaurants are beginning to counteract with simple preventative measures. This summer I’ve noticed many café perimeters reinforced with wooden lathing, chicken wire, or bigger planters close together.
The pigeon poop perp squirts fake bird droppings on his mark, then points it out and offers to clean it off—while he cleans the victim out.
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.
The pigeon poop perpetrator.
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.
What’s in his right 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.
This guy got it good.
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.
Barcelona, Spain—We found Kharem again on La Rambla. He passed us head-on, with a huge smile. He didn’t notice us, but I recognized him. We swiveled on our heels and followed.
He skipped along the outdoor restaurants, waving to an individual in almost every group, as if he knew them. He walked fast but paused frequently to touch someone, say a word, greet a stranger like a friend. He kept moving. Walked almost to the bottom of Ramblas, where he stopped for a full minute to chat with a driver at the wheel of a delivery truck. Then he continued in the same style back up La Rambla.
At one point I asked a woman he had spoken to, what did he say? Oh, just something about a restaurant, she said. She wasn’t sure what it was about. Then Kharem made a right, into the side street where we’ve had coffee with him many times. Bob wanted to go say hello. I wanted to lie low and continue filming him. Bob moved toward Kharem and I followed. The thief lit up and gave us hugs. (mi amigos!), touching his chest, grinning.
Kharem pauses to smile at diners on La Rambla. A big grin implies he’s “okay!”
But Kharem is in a bad mood because the day before yesterday, he was out—not stealing!—when the police stopped him. They said they wanted to take him to the police station, but instead, they drove him up to Montjuïc. There on the mountain, they beat him up. He points out the scabs around his mouth. They took over €500 from him. Then they left him on the mountain. It took him three hours to walk down. He’s angry.
Pickpocket technique
Kharem wants to talk in relative privacy, so he leads us through a labyrinth of narrow alleys to a bar he knows, where we won’t pay tourist prices. I was nervous when he led us through similar iffy streets in 2001, when we first met him. Less worried in the following years. Now, after meeting Kharem two or three times almost every summer, I feel comfortable enough to follow him. As he feels comfortable enough to talk to us, and to allow us to film him.
He leads us into a tiny bar and we order two beers. The woman bartender gives us three and we feel stuck with three. We don’t want to make a scene. After fighting Kharem for the right to pay, we fork over €9 for them—$15—which feels a bit touristic to me.
Kharem wants to be noticed.
Kharem immediately gets into an Arabic shouting match with another patron, then simultaneously a loud Spanish argument with the bartender. Bob and I are in the literal middle.
Kharem even touches a woman on the street. Would a thief act like this? Joking and touching a stranger on the street?
The Arab starts to leave and Kharem offers him our extra beer, but he rejects it. Then we get kicked out and are not allowed to even take the beers.
In the bar, Kharem takes a sip between angry shouts. Video taping from below.
We walk to Plaça de George Orwell, and Kharem seems pleased to remind us that we took a photo here long ago. We catch up on the year’s news as best we can. Kharem’s English is better than our Spanish, but we do best in French. Still, we’re missing too much. We phone Terry, who drops everything and zips over on his bike.
Meanwhile, Kharem and Bob demonstrate wallet steals on each other. First Bob takes Kharem’s wallet. Then Kharem shows his style, which is the same one he demonstrated in 2001, pulling on the bottom of the pant leg. Kharem shows us his wallet. “American,” he says. Meaning: he got it from an American.
Kharem points to a couple sitting at a table in the square. “See her camera?” he asks. “I’ll go steal it. You can film me.”
Bob and Kharem demonstrate their techniques. “But what you do on stage is very different,” Kharem tells Bob.
“No, Kharem, you know we can’t do that.” I remember he had told us years ago I want to be in your movies.
Now that Terry has arrived, we can ask pointed questions, like, why all the happy greetings on Las Ramblas? What were you doing?
“I make them feel comfortable around me, I make them relax,” Kharem says. He takes out a handful of restaurant brochures from his back pocket and explains that he distributes them, and walks away. Then he comes back to collect them. “I’m like a vacuum cleaner,” he grins.
Kharem demonstrates his postcard technique. “Pretend the wallet is on a cafe table…”
Ah, I realize that Kharem has fine-tuned his old technique, the “postcard steal” that he demonstrated back in 2002. In it, he fans out some postcards and pretends to offer them to people at tables who have a valuable item sitting on the table. He holds the postcards close over the item, and when he walks away, the item goes with him under the postcards.
In his 2002 demo, we were in an alley without a table, so we had to pretend. You get the idea, though.
As if offering them for sale, Kharem fans out his postcards over the wallet…
This happy, in-your-face style Kharem has developed busts yet another myth of pickpocketdom. That a pickpocket wants as little face-time as possible. If Bob and I hadn’t already known and recognized this thief, we would never have tagged onto him. Sure, we’d catch his behavior in step two of his modus operandi; but we wouldn’t suspect him as he walked about greeting people. It’s brilliant.
Kharem’s new M.O. raises him from a simple thief to a con man. He now preps his marks with a premeditated encounter designed to establish acceptance of his presence.
“If you’re like a vacuum cleaner, how come you have no money?” Bob asks.
“I told you, the police took €500 and something from me day before yesterday, that I was going to use to pay the rent, but now—”
Under the cover of the postcards, Kharem snags the wallet.
Terry says it’s possible that the police, knowing that these guys have to pay rent at the end of the month, pick them up late in the month. There are people who prey on cleaning women who don’t have papers, and they rob them at the end of the month, when it’s likely they’ll be carrying cash. He knows a woman it happened to.
“The police are caca, caca, caca” Kharem says, his finger in front of my lens again. “If I had a gun I would shoot them. When I have extra money, I give it to people who don’t have money, people who are hungry. But now I’m looking for a gun to kill the police.”
“You don’t have the heart,” I say.
“No, I don’t have the heart. But I want to.”
Kharem is angry about being mistreated by the police. He gets a kick out of putting his finger in front of my lens, over and over.
“Tell me about the man in the video,” Bob says. Earlier, he had shown Kharem a video of the “pigeon poop perp,” and Kharem had a lot to say—more than we could understand without Terry’s translation. Now he explained again. He knows the man, claims his name is Miemou, that he owns a bar and is also a pickpocket. This sounds unlikely to me, but Kharem explains his theory of corruption.
Bambi talks to Kharem and Terry Jones.
“Now I’m going to do you a favor. Watch me,” Kharem says. “I’m going to go among the tables in the plaza, among the people dining there. But for you, I will not steal anything. Watch.”
Kharem goes from table to table distributing the brochures he’s been carrying and returns to us. Empty handed. “I need to go back to work. I have no money and I have to pay the rent today.”
Bob and I must not be working hard enough. We’re just not getting the message out. We had a very good dinner at the intimate, chef-owned EVOO, in Boston, where we found this woman, happily oblivious to her open invitation. See her red-lined purse gaping open, behind her back? We brushed against it in the tight squeeze getting to our table, but she didn’t notice. We, or anyone, could easily have plucked out her wallet or cell phone. When Bob spoke to her, she admitted that she (or was it her female companion?) had already been a victim of theft from a purse hung on the back of a chair.
Men: hanging a jacket on the back of a chair is just as risky if you’ve got goodies in your pockets.
ROME POLICE OFFICER CELINI remembered us from previous visits and greeted us warmly. Without asking, he assembled an incident report with carbon paper, in triplicate. I filled out most of the report for Sugohara, and he wrote in his name and address. He had only lost about $100 worth of cash and two credit cards.
We offered to show our video of the crime. Celini first fetched Police Chief Giuseppe D’Emilio. Bob positioned the four-inch monitor of our digital camera and pressed play. The two policemen and Mr. Sugohara put their heads together and peered at the screen as the girl-thieves splashed their faces in the fountain.
“Si,” Chief D’Emilio said tiredly. “We know them. They’re sisters. Maritza and Ravenna.” He and Celini straightened up and turned away from the video. Sugohara still watched with intense interest.
“They have both participated in pickpocketing since before they were born. Their pregnant mother worked the buses. Then, as infants, they were carried in a sling by their mother as she worked these same streets. And when their mother wasn’t using them, one of their aunts would.”
Using children?
Sugohara’s face was close to the screen. He watched intently as the sisters caught up with him so purposefully, arranging their sheet of newspaper and positioning themselves on either side of him. He watched himself leap and skitter backwards.
“The big one, Maritza, she has her own child now,” the police chief continued. “She usually carries her baby all day. A relative must be using the child today.”
Using the child?
Sugohara turned to us, his brow knitted. “Play again,” he demanded.
Bob rewound and Sugohara leaned in. The source of his frustration became apparent. The video showed the moment of contact, but from a distance. Still, that must have been when the wallet was stolen. Then the film showed Sugohara bolting backwards and the girls hurrying away ahead of him and turning the corner. After that, the next full minute was a swinging sidewalk and Bob’s right shoe. Sugohara had hoped to see what the sisters had done with his wallet. But as they hastened along Via Alessandrina, as Bob rushed to catch up with them, as they stowed or stashed or emptied and threw the wallet, the camera filmed only a sea-sickening flow of auto-focused sidewalk. Whatever the girls had done with the wallet was done off the record.
Sugohara watched the useless picture, depressed.
Chief D’Emilio went on. “The only time these kids aren’t stealing is between the ages of seven and eleven, when their parents sometimes let them go to school. Just enough school to learn to read and write, and that’s all.
“I’ve seen them work as young as two years old,” the chief said with eternal amazement. “The father carries the child and gets into a crowd. He leans close to a man. The baby is trained to steal from a man’s inside jacket pocket!” He threw up his hands and exhaled with exasperation. “No wonder we can’t fight this. We have an average of 50 pickpocket reports filed every summer day at this station alone!”
[Note: These photos are not from the book. Neither are they of Maritza and Ravenna. Notice that the girl carries a baby in a sling, as well as a newspaper, which she holds over the pocket or purse she is trying to steal from. Begging is just an excuse to approach marks.]
If Bob’s and my first priority is putting pickpockets and con artists out of business, our second is to encourage international travel. Nothing would disappoint us more than to learn that we discouraged a potential traveler’s journey. Travel opens the mind and broadens the perspective. It’s the ultimate supplement to education. Plus, it’s fun.
This book is the culmination of ten years of intensive research in the streets of the world. Our hunt has taken us through more than 80 countries on six continents, to countless islands, and through the grit and glamour of cities from Cairo to Copenhagen, from Mombasa to Mumbai. In the places people love to visit most, distract theft, con games, credit card scams, and identity theft are rampant.
Bob and I are stalking a moving target. We haunt the public frontiers where tourist and street thief collide ever so lightly, ever so frequently. We don’t go off searching among the dim, deserted corners of a city; we merely join in the tourist parade, visit the guidebook highlights, and lurk where the crowds are. There, hovering near the tourist buck, waiting for or making opportunity, can be found the thieves, swindlers, and con artists. And, very close, anonymous as sightseers in a tour group, we stand, cameras aimed.
After we observe a thief in action, we usually try to interview him (or her, of course). Because Bob speaks many languages, because he has “grift sense,” that undefinable faculty for the con, and because he can absolutely prove himself to be a colleague, the thieves talk. Some remain reticent, but most seem to enjoy our chats. Some refuse to speak on camera, others don’t mind at all. Kharem, a thief we found at work several times over the course of a year, is one who spoke openly with us, demonstrated his techniques on video, and arrived promptly for a meeting scheduled a week in advance. When we finished our third interview with him, Kharem had a surprise suggestion for us.
“Now I will steal and you can film me. I want to be the star of your movie,” he offered.
“That’s impossible, Kharem. We work on stage, not on the street. We cannot be part of real stealing. We cannot be with you knowing that you’ll steal.”
“I think he smells a big payment,” our interpreter, Ana, said in English to us.
“We can split three ways,” Kharem said, dispelling that theory.
“It would be great footage…” Bob mused. “But we can’t. No way.”
I agreed.
“What if he gives it back?” Ana tried.
“I don’t think he’d understand that concept.”
“He’s going to steal anyway,” Ana said. “If not now, later. Whether you’re watching or not.” She was well aware of the crime statistics in her city.
“No. We’d be accessories. We’re treading morally murky water as it is. We have to draw a line and this is definitely it.”
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Preface (part-a): High and Dry on the Streets of Elsewhere
This is where a great number of bag thefts occur, thanks to that false sense of security one naturally gets from the perimeter of potted plants. Thieves may use a special tool or a mangled wire hanger to snag a purse or backpack from between the planters. The use of a tool allows them to pierce your private sphere without setting off your personal alarm system. The most popular sites for this M.O. are right beside a subway entrance or other easy getaway—a gateway to disappear with the swag.
Thankfully, restaurants are beginning to counteract with simple preventative measures. This summer I’ve noticed many café perimeters reinforced with wooden lathing, chicken wire, or bigger planters close together.
