Thieves – Page 10 – Pickpocket Bob Arno

The Heart of a Thief

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

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

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

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

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

Heart of a Thief

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you spent in jail?”

“Many times.”

“But how much time altogether?”

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

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

“Do you think the police recognize your face?”

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

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

“White collar crime?”

“Yes, and that he never hurts people.”

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

“How are you treated in jail?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you save any money?”

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

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

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

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

“It means ‘good.’”

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

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

“Did you go to school?”

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

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

“I write poetry.”

“What about?”

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

“Will you recite one for us?”

“They are in Arabic. I cannot.”

“Do you have family here in Barcelona?”

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

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

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

At a thief’s home

The shouting at dinner surprised me. It was like the stereotypical Italian dinner: loud and full of gesturing, standing up and leaning forward, voices rising over other voices and at the same time everyone is putting more food on each others’ plates.

But we were talking about the steal business—about pickpocketing—and the window was wide open. All the neighbors could certainly hear us discussing the thievery profession. Anyone within a block could hear.

Yet, the thief’s ten-year-old twins were farmed out for the evening to shield them from talk of daddy’s job. How could they not know if all the neighbors and passers-by hear about it?

Okay, so you now know we were in Italy. Well, it’s a big country. I’m giving you this much.

It was a nice apartment, neat and spotless. Two computers, huge flat-screen TV, dishwasher, even a Vitamix-type appliance for the serious cook. A dust-free collection of miniature silver clocks was displayed on dark wood shelves below the good china—for more important guests, I presume.

Our host maneuvered gamely at the kitchen counter, clearly not used to practicing the culinary arts. He sliced a fresh peach into a pitcher of white wine while explaining that the business was much easier ten years ago. Things are changing in this town. Younger plainclothes cops have joined the force; they’re more aggressive and harder to spot.

Mrs. Pickpocket had prepared a feast for us. Mozzarella balls, prosciutto on melon, hunks of provolone, olives, gorgeous crusty bread, marinated anchovies, octopus salad, cold eggplant… and that was just the antipasti. She had opened her polished wood table to seat all nine of us.

The home was ordinary—only noteworthy for its means of support. For twenty years, the family breadwinner has financed it all out of other people’s wallets.

Except when he’s in prison, of course. Then it all falls to his wife, who’ll get a job—or a couple of jobs—cooking, cleaning, whatever she has to do. Not easy in a town with perennial sky-high unemployment.

The thief used his skillful hands to grate the parmesan while his handsome wife brought out the pasta. Very al dente paccheri with a delicate sauce I think she called King Ferdinand. She learned to make it when she worked as a cook.

Another pickpocket was at the table with us—best friend and partner of our host. He’d brought his glamorous blond wife, who busied herself clearing plates and serving as if the kitchen were her own. As a couple, the two looked like any professionals you’d see at the bank on lunch hour. In fact, they’d had a life on the law’s side. A 30-year legit career had morphed into outright thievery. “I’ll explain how that happened next time we meet,” he told us.

The men kept hopping up to wash and reuse all the dishes and silverware between courses. Everyone except Bob and I and our translator smoked continuously. Thick slices of cold roast beef and chilled carrot puree came out long after Bob and I were fully satisfied.

“Sometimes police see us at work and look the other way,” our criminal friend explained. His handsome face looks almost angelic from some angles. Then I see something hard around his archer-bow mouth. Just nerves? Tension? “The police know there are no jobs here and that we have families to feed.”

Interesting! I had always assumed that cops looking the other way meant payoffs and corruption. The humanitarian possibilities hadn’t occurred to me.

A giant cream-topped baba cake was sliced for dessert, and tiny glasses of limoncello, a lemon liqueur, were poured. It was after midnight by the time we were drinking espresso and told not to worry, we’d sleep just fine.

I won’t bore you, readers, with technical talk of the pilfering profession. The evening was long and jovial, loud and serious, sad and enlightening. As I said in To Like a Pickpocket, we are conflicted in our relationship with this thief. One can’t suppress affection if that feeling exists.

This man comes from a world so different from ours. It’s not just his profession that is the inverse of ours; his country, his temperament, his education are all antithetical. Yet, on a baser level, a human level, we want the same things, feel the same emotions, have the same needs. If you pay attention, you see through a fake smile. And you recognize a real hug.

Food Italy pickpocket Thieves

The pickpocket’s invitation

The pickpocket must remain unidentified for now. Last year, he let Bob go for a spin on his bike.

With nervousness and excitement, we are preparing to visit the home of one of those controversial figures: the thief you hate to love. Bob and I have completely fallen for his warmth and charm. True, he did steal Bob’s wallet about a year ago; we can’t deny his filthy profession. We’d certainly find it harder to like the man had the wallet been full of cash and credit cards. As it happened, the thief stole our prop wallet which was stuffed with cut paper.

We had observed him as he and his crew boarded the bus we were already riding. We looked away as the threesome crowded around us. We understood that they were unnecessarily close—the bus was not full.

Even with his focus solely on sensing the suspects and hypertuned to his butt pocket, Bob did not feel the steal. They were that good.

We suspected from their behavior that they got it. Bob slid his hand across his empty pocket and said to me “Yep.” I knew what he meant. We followed the trio off the bus at the next stop.

That’s when we met. It was last September, during the filming of our upcoming documentary, in that foreign city I’m asked to leave unidentified for now. (Expected broadcast: October 2011.) Something clicked right away between Bob and the pickpocket. They’ve been corresponding by email ever since.

Why have they bonded? Bob Arno is a straight-laced American Swede reluctant to jaywalk, an introvert who maintains his gray matter and circulatory system at a low temperature. The pickpocket is a charismatic scoundrel and a gregarious, hot-blooded free spirit. Both men are calculating manipulators in their different ways. The introvert’s shell is cracked by the beguiling rogue. The crook swoons at the attention of someone from the other side. It’s symbiotic, but I’m not sure how.

Google Translate is a godsend but the human translations we get are amazing. People who read for us wipe away a tear, hug their own goosefleshed arms, and exclaim about the man’s writing. He has a special way of expressing himself, they say; he turns a beautiful phrase; he is poetic.

We’ve set the pickpocket the task of writing his life story, bit by bit. He’s off to a promising start. We hope to help him publish an autobiography. Neither we nor he know where this might lead.

His grammar is far from perfect. He doesn’t use any capital letters or the return key for new paragraphs. He didn’t spend many years in school and has never before tried to express himself in writing. Not only is he good so far, but he’s loving it. He feels a hidden talent has been unlocked. For that, no matter what comes of it, he thanks Bob.

We are preparing to travel far to meet him in a few days. We have engaged an expensive translator—someone we know, and know is good. Someone who is on our side, and will not color the conversation.

A dinner is planned. It will be in the home of the pickpocket. His wife is a good cook, we’re told. It will be a party. Other thieves will attend, some of whom we already know. Who else will be there?

We’ll arrive at the thieves’ den with generous hostess gifts. Also with video and audio recording equipment, and probably a laptop. Much can go wrong.

As always, one of us is a little nervous and insists on precautions. The other is confident, relaxed, eager. I’ll report back shortly…

Italy pickpocket Thieves

Thievery in motion

Two pickpockets look back at their angry intended victim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

czech pickpocket prague sandwich thieves Thieves

How to spot a thief in a crowd

How to spot a thief: Anyone stand out like a sore thumb? How to spot a pickpocket — Anyone stand out like a sore thumb?

About how to spot a thief or a pickpocket, I said in my last post that “Bob and I locked onto them the moment they appeared in front of us.” Why? How did we know? What got our attention?

To everyone else in the vicinity, and there were thousands over the course of an hour, the two men appeared perfectly innocuous. Better said, they caused no one to look at them twice. So why did we?

How to spot a thief

First let’s look at why no one else heard alarm bells. By design, the two blended neatly into the ever-changing crowd. They wore clean, bland, ordinary clothes. They both carried bags with the straps worn diagonally across their chests, as do many people, including their victim, and Bob, and I. They both carried jackets, as did many people, as did I. One of the men carried a tourist map—as did many people. They were clean-shaven with neat haircuts.

For all intents and purposes, they were germs hidden in full view: an invisible virus in an international organism; undetectable agents of loss.

To Bob and me, the duo stuck out like a sore thumb at first glance. In two seconds, we had each processed the following: they both wore those messenger bags—crosswise. They both carried jackets. One held a map. They walked as if they didn’t know each other. Their eyes scanned the scene around them. Their expressions revealed tension.

How to spot a thief: Pickpocket with his map-prop. How to spot a pickpocket. — Pickpocket with his map-prop.

Right. That’s not much to go on. Pretty much what anyone who bothered to look would notice.

Our second stage of observation took in behavior during half a minute or so. They faked tourist gestures, including pointing into the distance and holding open their map without really looking at it. They conducted an unnatural pattern of movement; for example, reversing to walk in the direction they’d just come from, and crossing and recrossing the same street. They loitered with uncertainty and fidgetiness (I know—that’s hard to define or criticize.)

As the minutes ticked by, the pair showed further suspicious behavior. They were looping—that is, returning to a location from a different angle. They left the area on a bus, but returned on foot. They tailed a target mark, then gave up. They were persistent, trudging up and down the same block, clearly looking for something.

How to spot a thief: When the mark stops and turns so do his pursuers. Hot to spot a pickpocket. — When the mark stops and turns so do his pursuers.

Finally, they spotted an easy target. The mark was the epitome of a victim. Elderly, alone, physically weak, discombobu-lated, and distracted. His trouser pockets were loose and gaping. His shoulder bag hung on a long strap behind his back.

The old man was immobile gazing at a shop window when they found him. Certainly the easiest game around. The pickpockets stared at him openly for several minutes. When the geezer finally moved, they closed in on him from both sides.

How to spot a thief: Vulnerable victim sandwiched by pickpocket bookends. How to spot a pickpocket. — Vulnerable victim sandwiched by pickpocket bookends.

Over and over, the crowd foiled their attempts. The thieves stuck to him, though sometimes they walked past him only to stop and look back at him.

During all this, Bob was fairly stationary. He had a good angle and a long lens. I followed the action, the caboose of the parade. Sometimes when the thieves stopped I stood on the opposite side of a billboard where I could only watch their shadows or their shoes. I watched their reflections in the windows all the way across the street, or in the windows of passing cars and buses. I looked at my watch repeatedly, as if I were waiting for someone (as falsely as they held out their map). I strenuously exercised my peripheral vision muscles. When I tracked the team down past the outdoor art market, I watched them from between the paintings on display.

They became cagey. Eventually, they felt our eyes. They stared me down a few times. One covered his face as he crossed in front of Bob and his camera. But they weren’t sure about us and continued their efforts in plain sight.

How to spot a thief: The victim, the two pickpockets, and Bambi close behind. How to spot a pickpocket. — The victim, the two pickpockets, and Bambi close behind.

Bob and I define “pickpockets” as non-violent. “Muggers” use violence, or the threat of violence. But how do we know who we’re dealing with? We’ve been threatened by thugs in St. Petersburg before. We know that thieves in Russia often carry razor blades. Who are we to predict the level of violence these stalkers are capable of?

There’s also the drug connection. Many pickpockets are slaves to habits. What state are they in when we find them? Are they high and full of confidence? Are they coming down and desperate? Do they have creditors breathing down their necks? Have they failed so many times they’re ready to snap? Has a judge warned them that if they show their faces in his courtroom again he’ll throw the book at them?

How many are there? A “lone wolf,” a pair, a gang? Is there a controller lurking unseen on the perimeter? A spotter? A colleague with a knife who’ll step in at a whistle?

What about police protection? I mean, might the thieves have police protection? Is that what happened to us in Russia a few years ago, when we thought we were about to be robbed by pseudo cops or by real, corrupt cops? Maybe the police were just protecting the pickpockets who pay them off.

Tracking criminals is risky business. Bob and I have to weigh the various factors, sometimes in an eyeblink, and decide on our strategy. How blatant can we be? Should we continue to follow or approach the thief or gang? What have we got on us, equipment-wise? Better we slink away in the crowd? Or talk to the victim and let the thieves go?

How to spot a thief in a crowd? We don’t always make the right decision. Maybe best is when Bob and I split up. He makes contact while I blend into the crowd and keep on filming. Then his cover is blown, but not mine.

pickpocket St. Petersburg thiefhunting Thieves victims

Street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia

Prowling and preying with impunity, the pickpocket pair cared little about hiding their business. Yet none of the mighty swirling masses intent on going this way or that, paid them the least attention. Such is the state of street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia.

The thieves appeared aimless at first: bouncing around the intersection, crossing and recrossing the street, pausing to look into a window, only to turn and go back the way they’d just come. To anyone glancing at them, they blended into the crowd without suspicion.

Bob and I locked onto them the moment they appeared in front of us. (I’ll tell you why in the next post.) To watch the team’s activity for more than a minute is to understand their motive.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. Bob Arno on the Canal Griboyedova bridge in front of the Metro station. In the background is the spectacular Church on the Spilled Blood. — Bob Arno on the Canal Griboyedova bridge in front of the Metro station. In the background is the spectacular Church on the Spilled Blood.

We happened to be in St. Petersburg, Russia, but it could have been anywhere. The location was perfect, and well-known to us from past thiefhunting exploits: on Nevsky Prospekt, the main drag, outside the area’s only Metro station. A very busy corner, human traffic ebbs and flows to the beat of the traffic lights and the comings and goings of underground trains.

A variety of police seem to patrol the area sporadically, strolling along in pairs, stopping briefly outside the Metro station doors. They have no apparent effect on the thieves we happened to be observing.

In years past, we’ve seen certain pickpockets operating day after day, month after month. Locals and expats come to recognize them, as of course the police do.

Street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia

Now locals tell us they see and hear of fewer thieves on the streets. Rather, the pickpockets prefer to work inside the Metro. Tour guides told us the thieves are more prevalent now inside the museums, in the Hermitage, and on the Navy ship Aurora; in other words, where the crowds are, where the tourists are.

Our observant friend who works at the art market on Nevsky Prospekt says the thieves stay on the move, never pausing. Indeed, that’s what we observed as we followed this brazen pair.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. Always in motion, the pickpocket pair hops a bus only to get off at the next stop and walk back. — Always in motion, the pickpocket pair hops a bus only to get off at the next stop and walk back.

After they’d zigzagged around the area for about twenty minutes, halfheartedly hunting, I followed them down the street where they hopped onto a rather empty bus. If stealing aboard were their intent, they’d have waited for a crowded bus. In this case, they got on the bus simply to be transported away.

When they’d gone, I went back to my post outside the Canal Griboyedova Metro station. Sure enough, after ten minutes or so, the pair came sauntering back to the corner. This time they locked onto a mark, a stooped geezer whose shoulder bag dangled behind him.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. The map-wielding pickpocket is behind the mark. The other thief is on the old man's left. (You can see his striped sleeve.) — The map-wielding pickpocket is behind the mark. The other thief is on the old man's left. (You can see his striped sleeve.)

The two trailed the old man as he meandered, staying behind him, one to the left, one to the right. The mark moved erratically and paused often: to look in a window, to cross the street, to gaze along the canal toward the magnificent Church on the Spilled Blood. Each time the thieves got close behind him, they’d get into theft position: one of them would unfold a map and use it to shield the view.

The problem was, they were a team of only two. They lacked the vital third member, the blocker. A blocker would have stopped short in front of the mark, forcing him to stand still for a moment—just long enough for the pickpocket to do his thing. A proper pickpocket crew of at least three individuals choreographs its moves like a Russian ballet.

Without a blocker, the pair couldn’t control their mark. They had to rely on natural reasons for him to pause. Alternatively, they could try to work in motion, which is much more difficult.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. Oblivious victim (yellow) and the pickpocket pair (red), with map-prop open, ready to make their hit. — Oblivious victim (yellow) and the pickpocket pair (red), with map-prop open, ready to make their hit.

Finally, that’s exactly what they did. I was behind the thieves when they went for the pocket—not the hanging bag. Bob was some 20 yards in front of the threesome, but got a good shot with his new Sony NEX-VG10 video camera, thanks to its powerful long lens and stabilization.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. All three are in motion among a crowd. The extraction took only a second. — All three are in motion among a crowd. The extraction took only a second.

In Bob’s footage, we see everything. The thieves’ great concentration, a hand in the pocket, the partner’s readiness. Then the extraction, the unfurling of the stolen handkerchief, the smooth passing of it to the partner. And through it all, the unsuspecting victim shuffles on.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. Something heavy, perhaps a wallet, can still be seen in the victim's trouser pocket. — Something heavy, perhaps a wallet, can still be seen in the victim's trouser pocket.

The thieves weren’t fazed by their lousy haul. They stayed right on their prey, attempting another hit on the same pocket. They must have seen or felt the weight of something hefty inside (by “fanning“), and it was clear that their victim was oblivious to them. So was all of mankind, as far as they were concerned. They operated as if invisible to the world.

Or as if they’d paid for the privilege of haunting this stretch of Nevsky Prospekt for this time period. We’d been told more than once over the past 13 years that pickpockets pay police for permission to work at a specific time and place. We have not confirmed that this system is still in effect but… old ways change slowly, if you know what I mean.

street crime in St. Petersburg, Russia. Cagey thief not fond of being photographed hides his face then peeks: "still watching me?" — Cagey thief not fond of being photographed hides his face then peeks: "still watching me?"

On previous thiefhunting expeditions in Russia, we’ve used hidden cameras, or at least unnoticeable ones. This time, Bob’s bulky Sony, held up to his eye and aimed directly at our quarry, made his interest obvious. One of the pair noticed and, when he crossed in front of Bob, hid his face with his jacket. Then he peeked: still filming?

The victim eventually wandered off and stood on the canal bridge until the pickpockets gave up on him. Still unaware of his followers, he trudged back down the block to the bus stop and sat on the bench. Perhaps he was aware of something amiss, because he began an inventory of his belongings, starting with his wallet, taken from the same pocket the handkerchief had been stolen from. Did he notice the handkerchief was gone? Was there something else stolen that we didn’t catch?

More on pickpockets in Russia:
Russian Rip-off: pickpockets and thugs

Bolshoi Bandits: more pickpockets in Russia

How pickpockets use razor blades

pickpocket Russia St. Petersburg street crime Thieves

A pickpocket cab scam

Traveler Tim Hopkins reports on an “ingenious cab scam theft.”

Lessons learned, disaster averted
I recently purchased two copies of your book, one for me, and one for my father. We had planned a trip to Africa, and after reading the book, I wanted to be ready! I had purchased a PacSafe Wallet Safe, with a zippered opening, and a pretty strong chain. While in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, we were victims of a cab-theft scam that was ingenious! The hotel had arranged a cab for us, and when he dropped us off at the restaurant, we exchanged cell numbers, and tested them. He said to call for our ride home, and left.

The cab scam

After dinner, we called him, and he said he’s be there in 5 minutes. Exactly five minutes later, another similar cab (they are all very dilapidated and patched-up) shows up, and flags us to come get in. Dad asked the driver if he had been sent for us, and of course he said, “yes, yes, come on!”, so we got in. As he started to roll away, he asked us where we wanted to go. I realized he wasn’t our guy, and told him to pull over and let us out. He said, “no problem”, and pulled over. Small problem, though—he had removed the inside door handles! I tried to get the door open, as did Dad from the back seat—and the guy starts to reach across my lap (I am in the front seat), pulling on some wires he had rigged in the door, yelling “push, push!,” and causing quite a fuss. He “couldn’t get it open,” and had me sit more forward, hollering and fussing, and pushing, and slid down behind me to work the door. “Push, push!” “I am pushing!,” jostle, fuss, fuss, yell—quite a scene in that little cab! Finally the door pops open, and I pop out. Dad didn’t wait for his turn, and came over the front seat and out. The guy shut the door, and took off. I reach behind me, and no wallet! Just a dangling chain, broken or cut about halfway down!

Fortunately, I had followed your advice, and this was a ‘disposable’ travel wallet, with around $100.00 worth of local money, two of my four cards, and a license; mostly very replaceable stuff. Essentially it was his to steal, and he got it! The beauty of it was that for a hundred bucks and three phone calls, I got a combat lesson in what “the fuss” feels like. We were both astounded at how we had prepared, yet were still unable to recognize the escalation of the situation. This has let to our adopting some new policies!

I also bought a Pacsafe DuffelSafe and Pacsafe backpack, which are both slash-resistant, and lockable (also with a cable for securing to an object). These were both great for the hotel and when leaving bags in the car for things like shopping or our safari.

Thanks again—you have a fascinating job.
Happy travels!
Tim and Don Hopkins

pickpocket taxi Thieves

Death of a Rolex theft victim

We received another long email last Friday from a thief we know in Naples, Italy. Between his flowery prose on the trials and tribulation of the pickpocket profession, and his disclosures of the career aspirations of his young adult children, he informed us of the news that is now everywhere:

Some days ago two thugs tried to snatch the gold Rolex of an American tourist who was off a cruise ship. He died this morning at the hospital. I’m so sorry about this thing.

I’m not sure if our pickpocket friend ever has or would steal a Rolex. As far as we know, he specializes in wallets taken from pockets. Clearly, he does not see himself as a “thug;” no—they are a completely different category of thief.

The American cruise ship passenger died on May 27, never having recovered from injuries sustained when the two hoodlums tried to steal his Rolex on May 18. He’d been strolling with his wife, not far from his ship, and not long on the ground.

The thugs were scippatori, the scooter-riding bandits I’ve written much about. In fact, it was our long-ago surprise encounter with these goon-thieves that began our thiefhunting career.

How to steal a Rolex — A Rolex thief in Naples demonstrated how he jumps off his Vespa scooter and twists off the watch.

Sad but inevitable, considering the frequency of these crimes. I’m sad not only for the 66-year-old victim, Oscar Antonio Mendoza, 66, of Puerto Rico, and his family, but also sad for Naples. The city has so much to offer visitors, not least the warmth and liveliness of its populace. Its reputation as crime-infested already has the tourism industry recommending nearby towns instead of Naples.

Unlike Barcelona, where a huge crime wave largely targeting tourists is perpetrated almost exclusively by foreigners from a few specific regions, in Naples, the perpetrators are local mobsters. They are destroying their own city. (One could say that Barcelona also is destroying itself by allowing foreign robbers free reign.)

Our Napolitano pickpocket friend considers his style of robbery above the brute-force-thuggery that eventually killed the American tourist. While holding himself to certain standards, he simultaneously laments his line of work; an odd mixture of pride and shame. He is a religious man. His youngest son, he just told us, “aspires to be a priest—even a pope! It always amazes me that if he attains this vocation, can you imagine? Dad doing the borseggiatore and his son is an angel” Borseggiatore— that’s pickpocket. The irony doesn’t escape our poetic pickpocket friend.

Naples Rolex Thieves

Theft in Lisbon

Starbucks has a bad rap when it comes to theft. Customers focus on their drinks, their conversations, their open computers, and thieves know it. A busy coffee shop is a mess of people coming and going, pushing between crowded tables, standing waiting, looking for seats, looking for friends, looking for loose objects…

Bob and I were in Lisbon’s bustling Starbucks, waiting for its broken internet to come back on (it never did). One lucky customer had found a nice corner with a power outlet and had dragged a chair over. He was opening his laptop when… his phone disappeared.

His reaction caught our attention, but we were dismayed that the perp hadn’t. We consider it our business to spot thieves before they strike. This time, we failed. We never saw him.

The victim said he’d set his phone down only a minute ago. Sitting beside the milk and sugar station, he hadn’t worried about the constant human traffic.

Bob looked up and saw a surveillance camera. “Get them to show you the video,” he urged the victim. But Starbucks’ manager refused to access the video unless the victim filed a police report. The victim threw up his hands in frustration. He didn’t want to spend his short time in Lisbon dealing with police and looking at surveillance tapes. He walked out.

“It’s only getting worse,” a security guard told us. He was positioned just outside the old elevator tower. “We see them every day;” he was referring to the city’s pickpockets. They don’t necessarily ride the elevator. It’s just a short walk up the hill to the lift’s viewpoint, and that’s where they wait for their prey.

That was corroborated by the security guard who keeps watch on the elevator tower. She seemed fascinated by their chosen profession, picking up on many details that others in the security business miss. All she can do when she sees pickpockets though, she said, is warn the visitors and shoo the thieves away.

It’s been two years since our last visit to Lisbon. Tram lines 15 and 28 are as crowded and infested as they were then. More buildings are boarded up and the city looks worse than ever.

Lisbon looks terribly dilapidated, its glory days over, deteriorating as we watch. Its structures are still grand, but they’re dressed like homeless derelicts, with the same empty-eyed glower, all dignity and self-respect burned off by neglect.

To quote myself.

On the other hand, the sidewalks are still spectacular.

Lisbon Thieves

Pattaya’s sex tourism

Pattaya, Thailand’s got to be the seediest, one-track party-town in the world. It doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Huge signs advertising the Fcuk Inn Bar and Kiss Food and Drink make the theme obvious. Couples like this one are ubiquitous.

Hot, sweaty days are for advertising the possibilities of hot, sweaty nights. Bored “massage” girls pose on plastic chairs in front of their shops, long bare legs ending in spike-heeled evening shoes dangling in the trash-filled gutters.

Just across the narrow lanes, clusters of old, fat, ugly, white men slouch and slump over beers, gathering confidence from one another. They all look the same. They all wear floppy shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Some wear socks with their sandals. These are the tunnel-vision men those pretty Thai girls are dreaming of.

The local specialty, called ladyboys, also ogle these men. Look at the 23-year-old ladyboy pictured at left, who just had her bag snatched while riding on the back of her Italian boyfriend’s motorcycle. (A reversal of the classic Italian scippatori theft, in which the thief—not the victim—is the backseat rider.) The Italian “boyfriend” may or may not have known what was under the coy ladyboy’s skirt.

After dark the lanes explode with open-air billiards bars, tiny beer bars, bars named for your country, pole-dancing bars, and enormous “pussy bars” offering “pussy menus” and buckets of ping pong balls. Establishments large and small feature alluring girls.

The city’s other passion is food. I love the street food culture in Pattaya. Entire restaurants zip through the streets on the backs of tricycles and on motorcycle sidecars, their sauce buckets sloshing and condiments precarious. In grubby plastic baskets they carry the myriad fresh and fermented ingredients that their specialties comprise. Seductive food is cooked to order on smoky charcoal grills or stirred over car-battery-operated stoves.

Hot, ready-to-eat curries are peddled from wooden trays on the backs of bikes, single servings tied up in clear plastic baggies. Mysterious delicacies are baked in bamboo canes—the ultimate environmentally-friendly fast-food container. Longons, lychees, mangosteens, jackfruit, dragonfruit, durian—the tropical fruit displays are mouthwatering.

Whatever your pleasure, Pattaya is to drool for. Western men tend to visit for three week stays. Many or most have met their exotic girls online and come specifically to see them. They pay the girls about US$100 a night to stay with them in their hotels. They might visit their girls two or three times a year. Sometimes the couples marry and the men take the girls away to live in their Western countries.

For a beach resort town, Pattaya’s remarkably unattractive. Where trees should be, tangled electrical wires form a shadeless canopy over streets, the thick cords nearly obscuring the mosaic of signs for Cialis, Viagra, pharmacy, clinic, laundry, and rooms-for-rent. There’s nothing for the eye here—just hard-driven business: that is, the business of the sexual drive. It’s a lewd town, but an honest one, advertising what it’s about in every way it can.

bag snatch prostitution sex industry street food Thailand Thieves