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

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

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

Lonely Planet on Colon, Panama

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

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

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

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

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

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Gustavo

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

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

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

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

Coloncity.com

That from a site promoting the city!

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I mug. Colon, Panama.
Colon kids

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

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

How I mug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Street crime in Stockholm

purse theft in stockholm
Graffiti in Stockholm: Lucky Thief proved to be an artist collective.
Graffiti in Stockholm: Lucky Thief proved to be an artist collective.

Beware, pickpockets are working here. That’s the first thing an international visitor sees when entering Sweden at Stockholm Arlanda Airport. Face level signs are pasted on the glass doors you pass through at immigration. Show me your passport. Welcome! Oh, and watch out for pickpockets—you’re in Stockholm!

Street crime in Stockholm

For a big city, Stockholm has very little street crime. For a city with so little street crime, there sure are a lot of warnings about it. Maybe that’s why there’s so little street crime in Stockholm!

Stealing in Stockholm
Stealing in Stockholm

Digital platform signs in the city’s super-efficient subway system run frequent text warnings, in Swedish and English: watch your personal belongings, pickpockets are around.

Restaurants post reminders about watching your bags. I heard bus drivers on routes to Djurgården, where amusement parks are located, warn about pickpockets.

The Stockholm police have volunteers hand out little warning cards in the streets, and they thought it important enough to gather for a Bob Arno lecture last summer.

Is it a case of hysterics?

Street crime in Stockholm: Graph from www.bra.se
Graph from www.bra.se

Let’s not compare Stockholm with other cities. Let’s compare it with itself over time. According to the Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention, crime in general peeked in 1990, stayed rather constant for 16 years, and is now on a new rise. Specifically, bicycle theft is down and fraud is up. No surprise there. Burglary is holding steady, while assault is on the rise.

Reported robberies have remained fairly steady at about 9,000 incidents per year for the past ten. The Council includes shop and bank robberies in the figure, but says about 86% of the figure is robbery from the person. Remember, these are reported incidents. My research with Bob indicates that, as people lately tend to work hard and play hard, they also don’t sweat the small stuff. Who has time to file a police report?

Street crime in Stockholm: Police handouts, multilingual.
Police handouts, multilingual.

I’ve already written about ATM crime, skimmers, and pseudo-cops in Sweden. The latest concern is criminal gang activity. Neighborhoods “have been hit by a wave of violent thefts recently.” Children 14-17 are conducting violent robberies in what seem to be initiation rites as they join the Black Scorpions. The Black Scorpions are starter gangsters who’ll graduate to become Black Cobras. Like Cub Scouts become Boy Scouts. The gang crept in from Copenhagen, and seems to be immigration-related.

Street crime in Stockholm: Immigrants to Sweden, 1975-2008
Immigrants to Sweden, 1975-2008

The twin upward slopes of crime and immigration might lead one to believe that foreigners are perping on the Swedes. Ah, a politically sensitive theory. I can’t touch it.

Bottom line is that, for a capital city, Stockholm has very little street crime. The Swedes are rather trusting and naive and therefore make excellent victims, especially when they travel to places with significant street crime.

But speaking of Swedish victims of foreigners, here’s a vaguely related, rather humorous report. A woman in Thailand recently conned five Swedish men into sending her money “for a plane ticket to Sweden.” The five met at the airport arrivals hall when they found themselves alone together still waiting for the woman, who never showed up.

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

Barcelona pickpocket statistics: 6,000 thefts per day on visitors

pickpocket statistics; barcelona pickpocket statistics

Barcelona pickpocket statistics

Lovely La Rambla; Barcelona pickpocket statistics
Lovely La Rambla, Barcelona

Barcelona visitors experienced 6,000 thefts per day during 2009’s tourist season.

115,055 pickpocketings and bag snatches in Barcelona were reported in the 12 months ending August 2009, police said. Newspapers did the math and trumpeted “315 thefts every day!” But take away the off-season, when thefts are way down, and add in unreported thefts to get the real number “per day.” More like a million in a year.

Barcelona authorities have finally, officially, admitted that the level of theft in the city is “extremely high.” This came only days after Barcelona made headlines around the world as “worst city for pickpockets,” thanks to TripAdvisor’s proclamation. It’s long been an open secret that otherwise lovable “bcn” has rampant thievery, but potential visitors and, more importantly, the conference business, have begun to wonder if there aren’t safer destinations. Hotels, tired of wiping the tears of robbed guests, must have been screaming for relief.

Police estimate there are 200-250 full-time thieves at large. That makes me laugh. The police, at one time, showed me their profiles of more than 300 pigeon poop pickpockets alone! “La Mancha,” the stain, is what they call them, because they dirty their victims. In my 15-year history of observing thieves in my favorite city, I find that the pigeon poop perps are but a small subsection of the thief pool. If there are 300+ pigeon poop pickpocket specialists, how many other bag snatchers and pickpockets lurk about?

Barcelona pickpocket statistics
Spot the thief. Answer: he’s holding the bag

Although I think 250-300 is a low estimate, it’s still a huge number of criminals who each make any number of efforts throughout the day to gather other people’s valuables. For each thief, there might be 10, 20, or 30 attempts to steal, each day. With each attempt, lots can go wrong to blow it. The victim may suspect something, and turn. He may move, though he suspected nothing. The thief may think someone is watching. Someone may be watching and shout out. The pocket or purse might be difficult to get into. the getaway may become blocked, a cop might be spotted… It’s a delicate balance; attempted thefts are derailed far more often than they’re completed. You may never have had your wallet stolen, but you may have been a target. Does that make you part of Barcelona pickpocket statistics?

And after the thief’s success? Even then, the deal’s not done. The victim may whirl around and accuse the pickpocket, who’ll then drop the goodies on the ground and pretend he had nothing to do with them. That’s a theft—but not counted in Barcelona pickpocket statistics.

The police finger North Africans and Romanians. I’ll agree that these groups are prominent among the perps, along with certain South Americans, other East Europeans, and an unmentionable group. Not that it matters to the victim. Not that visitors would know the difference.

Let’s not forget the transient thieves, either. For the past month Bob has been communicating with a pickpocket in Paris who enjoys lucrative field trips where the moolah is mucho and the heat’s not so hot. At this very moment, he’s shopping for wallets in Brussels. Next stop, BCN. “Barcelona police are easy, but there’s not much money there,” he explained. Yet, he’s making the trip. And he’s not alone.

The police claim that pickpockets try to steal less than €400 per person, because the perps know that stealing less than that will land them a fine if caught, rather than jail time. Uh-uh. No. Pickpockets steal wallets. Bagsnatchers steal purses. They don’t stop to ask how much cash the vic has. They don’t stop to look. And if they get a windfall, they don’t cry about it. “Son-of-a-bitch good,” is the feeling pickpocket Kharem described when he nabbed a briefcase filled with thousands of dollars. People who spend their days stealing expect to get caught and pay the consequences. They know it will happen. It’s part of their own pickpocket statistics. For them, the reward is worth the risk. If they get a lot of money in one hit, they can stay home and thereby cut their risk for a day or two.

A pickpocket's fines; Barcelona pickpocket statistics
A pickpocket’s fines

And they need all that cash to pay their fines. For each theft of under €400 for which he’s arrested, the thief “pays a fine of €200 and then returns to the street,” said an official of the City police who asked for anonymity. “But they work so much that it’s worthwhile to them to keep doing it and pay the occasional €200 fine.” Some of these thieves have hundreds of arrests in their records and are released over and over again; presumably to collect cash to pay their fines. Looking at the fistful of fines Kharem showed us, this is a pretty lucrative system for the city. A stupid-tourist tax perhaps, or a licensing fee for thieves.

“315 thefts each day,” another headline reads. In August 2009, the year-to-date total was 115,055 reported thefts. But why average them over a full year? Most of the tourist activity is from May to November. Pickpocketing is easier when people are in summer clothes rather than bundled up with coats that cover pockets. I’d say most of the 115,055 reported thefts occurred in the six good-weather months. That means about 600 each day that you’re likely to be there, sharply dropping off as the weather cools and the tourists dry up.

But that’s reported thefts. In Barcelona, I’d multiply the reported thefts by a factor of 10 to get actual thefts. That brings the number up to 6,000 each day of the tourist season.

Why by a factor of 10? Lots of cruise ship passengers get a single day in BCN. I’ve personally interviewed at least 1,500 of them. When they’re robbed, they don’t have time to file a report because they have to be on their ship. They tend to be of a certain type, too: mouth-breathing obliviates with protruding wallets and gaping purses who advertise their naiveté with every particle of their beings.

And lots of carefree youth visit; when they’re robbed, and their loss is small, they just chalk it up to their carelessness and don’t bother filing. Lots of drinking in the bars and pubs, where victims just assume they lost their wallet, phone, or camera.

And lastly, for those who do attempt to file a police report, the process can be long and arduous. Bob and I have assisted or accompanied many victims through the ordeal. It can take hours. It can be daunting: waiting for one of the few police officers who can take a report in English or French or whatever, going from one police station to another. It can suck up half a day or more. It’s very tempting to give up when the police tell you to come back in two hours to complete the process. Or even at the start when the lineup to file reports is out the door. And if a tourist has lost his passport, getting a new one is the priority. He may not file a police report at all. After canceling credit cards and figuring out how to get some quick cash, the victim is exhausted.

I know something about the rate of reporting losses from speaking to thousands of travelers over the years (around the world). I’ve conducted an informal survey on how often police reports are filed. Of the hundreds of victims who tell us their sad stories each year, a minute fraction say they bothered to file a police report. They don’t want to ruin even more of their trip. They, like the police, throw up their hands and blow air.

Did you filed a police report, if you were robbed while traveling?

This new, official recognition of the problem is laudable. Now it will be interesting to watch the coming season, hear the numbers, and do the math. Will Barcelona pickpocket statistics continue to rise?

Yes, I’m postulating that only about 10% of personal thefts in Barcelona get reported to the police. But the days are long in BCN, so that’s only, say 300 an hour. In the high season.

If you read this far, you should probably also read Pickpockets, Con Artists, Scammers, and Travel.
© Copyright Bambi Vincent 2007-present. All rights reserved.

Why thieves prefer black bags when stealing luggage at airports

Why thieves prefer black bags.

Why Thieves Prefer Black Bags

Yeah, this story’s everywhere, about the Phoenix couple who made a living stealing luggage off the airport carousel. Police found almost a thousand suitcases in their house.

Why thieves prefer black bags.
Almost 1,000 bags found at home of thieves. Almost all black.
Why thieves prefer black bags.
Luggage stolen from Phoenix airport. Almost all black.
Why thieves prefer black bags.
Stolen luggage is gathered and moved from home of thieves. Almost all black.

Not a single report has pointed out that the stolen luggage is almost all black. I described this strategy in a post more than a year ago, and in my book way before that. This is an M.O. This is something to notice and learn from.

Thieves prefer to steal black luggage because so much of it looks alike. If the thief is caught red-handed by the bag’s owner, he only has to say sorry, it looks just like mine. And he’s out of there. Scot-free.

Look at the photos on the right. This is just a fraction of the bag booty as it was gathered on the thieves’ property. The bags we see are almost all black.

The bag-boosters are not rocket surgeons. Not a lot of brain power goes into concocting a brilliant strategy. These two, Keith and Stacy King, traipsed into the baggage area straight from the parking lot. They might not have been caught had they walked up a level, then come down the escalators as if from the gates.

They’re not the first to steal baggage off the conveyor belts. Earlier this year, a man was arrested at Dallas Fort Worth airport. He admitted taking over 400 bags, and police linked him to at least 600. He also “worked” at airports in Houston and Tulsa, allegedly stealing a number of suitcases every day. And long before that, a Las Vegas man regularly supplied a second-hand clothing store with the stuff from bags stolen off McCarran’s baggage belt. [Linked to above.]

Why thieves prefer black bags.
Which is yours?

After 9/11, airports moved security staff from arrivals to departures. With no bag tag checkers, anyone can saunter out with anything. We passengers have minimal control. We can get to the carousel promptly, but what happens when bags get lost or delayed, or the bags make it but we are late? You’ve seen the jumbles of suitcases massed outside baggage service offices in arrivals halls. Do they look protected? At the most, they’re penned in by a crowd-control ribbon. No one will take responsibility. Not the airlines. Not the airports. Not TSA. Not police.

So here’s the obvious lesson. Buy pink luggage. Or green, or silver. If you have black, decorate it.
© Copyright 2008-2013 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Knock-out gas on overnight trains

train wheel 3

Atul and Smriti Shah experienced it first-hand. “It happened during the night,” they concluded. “The entire compartment was sprayed with some sort of gas that knocked us out. Then our suitcase was slowly extracted from under our seat, the lock twisted loose and, with all the time in the world, the suitcase was looted.”

Atul and Smriti live with their small daughters in Mumbai, India, where railway is the customary way to crisscross the country. For the occasion of a relative’s marriage, the family traveled to the town of Kanpur, in Uttar Pradesh. As tradition dictates, they brought along their finest clothes and jewelry to wear to the many matrimonial celebrations and ceremonies. As a high-caste woman from a wealthy family, now married to a successful businessman, Smriti carried an enviable display of gold and diamonds.

“She had diamonds on her fingers and in her nose and ears,” Atul explained with pride, “and gold bangles and necklaces. Also, she wore the good-luck vermilion mark on her forehead that Indians always wear when traveling away from home.”

After the wedding and family visits, the Shahs boarded the train for the twenty-hour journey home. They had one suitcase, but it was a large one: fifty kilos, Atul estimated. It contained all the family’s finery, including Smriti’s jewelry, and had a small padlock on the zipper tabs. Atul forced the suitcase under Smriti’s seat in the train compartment, where it was tightly lodged. They did not open the suitcase for the duration of the journey.

The Shahs boarded in the evening, had a meal packed by Smriti’s mother, and settled down for the night.

“The strange thing is that none of us woke up during the night,” Smriti told me. “Even the children slept the night through, and they never do.”

She remembers a vague sensation of bitterness in her mouth during the night, then the desire for water. But she remembers too the lethargy she felt, the heaviness of her limbs.

Food- and drink-drugging has long been a problem on trains, but could knockout gas really be in a thief’s arsenal? In my early research, doctors had doubted the likelihood of a thief acquiring the right gas and the victims not waking from the smell. I went back to the doctors and this time they all agreed it could happen. Chloroform is often used in primitive surgical conditions and has no smell at all, some said. An anesthesiologist mentioned Halothane, which would be readily available from any surgical facility or veterinarian. Halothane has a slight odor but not enough to wake an already-sleeping person.

“Within twenty or thirty minutes,” Dr. Jared Kniffen told me, “someone could be in a deep enough sleep so that you could enter the room without his awareness. The danger of this is you could kill someone if too much were used. There’s a second possibility—a gas called Cevoflurane. It’s odorless, but much more difficult to obtain.”

But wouldn’t the robber himself be knocked out? I asked.

“There are ways to avoid that,” Dr. Kniffen said. “A certain travel supply house sells a smoke hood that gives twenty minutes of oxygen.” It’s meant for use in escaping from a burning building, but a clever thief might employ one for another use.

It sounds too sophisticated to me, too troublesome and risky. But if the reward were a treasure chest like Smriti Shah’s, it must be worth one thousand times the risk of simply snagging a laptop from a business traveler.

Despite the Shahs’ conviction, gassing on an overnight train is only a remote risk; my paranoid apprehension on our journey to Prague was out of proportion. Breaking into and stealing from compartments is a real risk though, and so is food- and drink-drugging. Nembitol, scopolamine, and benzodiazepine are the drugs most commonly slipped into food or drink, but only after the thief builds trust and confidence with the mark.

This is Part 3 of 3.   — Part 1. —  Part 2

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Theft on overnight trains

train wheel 2

Overnight train travel requires watchfulness. Stations can be seedy. They’re open and available to anyone, with or without tickets. They attract a varied population of travelers and non-travelers alike. Vigilance is vital.

Stations with the biggest theft problems are those that are connected to, or nearby, bus or subway stations, which are often hangouts for gangs, drug dealers, and other undesirables. Thieves are able to loiter unchallenged within the stations, without attracting attention. Then they can take advantage of congestion for cover and easy escape.

Train stations and daytime journeys are covered in Chapter Six [of my book, Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams]. Here, I’ll discuss overnight trips. Certainly not all overnight trains carry such risks as the following, which are surely worst cases. They’re a popular and logical mode of travel, not to be dismissed. If you plan well, you make the most of your vacation days, see a bit of countryside, meet some other interesting travelers, and save the expense of a hotel night.

My Swedish friends called me “exotic” because I had never been on an overnight train. It’s easy to find a European who has never been on an airplane, they told me, but everyone’s been on an overnight train. So when Bob and I found ourselves in Venice, Italy, ready to visit Prague in the Czech Republic, we decided to go by rail, overnight.

We boarded in late evening, and it seemed we would encounter our first train scam immediately. A large, slobbish, dreary man blocked the aisle and demanded our tickets.

“Tickets!”

He wore baggy black pants and a soggy white shirt. Nothing official, no monogram, badge, cap, embroidery, name tag, nothing to identify him. Yet, as his bulk impeded our path, we had no choice but to give him our tickets. He pointed to our reserved compartment. Thankfully, he didn’t demand money. But he didn’t return our tickets, either.

We could have been assigned to an Italian-owned wagon, or an Austrian one, possibly even a Swiss one. But we got a wagon owned and maintained by the Czech Railroad. We entered our dismal compartment and tallied up the security risks.

First though, what happened to our tickets? Bob went to find the big sour slob who had confiscated them. I could just imagine the moment a uniformed conductor would come to punch our tickets.

“But… but… we’ve already given them to the conductor!” we’d say.

“What conductor?”

“The man in black pants!”

“No tickets, no travel! Get off the train!”

Bob and the Czech ticket-taker argued in mutually exclusive languages. Bob returned without the tickets. We had nothing, not even a receipt. My turn. I tried another way. I found a Czech lady who explained: the man is our “attendant.” He keeps the tickets to show officials at border crossings. He’ll wake us in the morning, and will return the tickets then.

Okay.

Back in our dusty quarters we assessed the realistic hazards and dismissed the rest. We would not, for example, worry about knock-out gas being snuck under our door as a precursor to robbery. Bob said we wouldn’t worry about it. I merely insisted we keep the window open. Where, then, shall we put our luggage? Under the window is the obvious place, but not if we leave it open. The only other possibility would block the door.

Block the door.

We had not brought anything suitable to secure the door, but its flimsy chain would be enough. Bob said so.

I couldn’t sleep.

The gentle rocking I had imagined would seduce me to slumber was instead a rude awakening. It was jerky and ruthless, like being aroused by an earthquake. If I slept, I could be rolled like a drunk and never parse the violence of the assault from the brutality of the jolting train.

The noise from the open window was deafening. The rhythmic, metallic percussion of the tracks combined with a menagerie of whistles, screeches, and shrieks when we stopped at stations and borders. It was torment, but I wouldn’t shut the window.

Just a few days before, we had interviewed a railway police officer in Milan whose detail was theft. He claimed that most, if not all, the “gassing” tales are made up by victims too embarrassed to admit that they had slept through their own robberies. I had read an interview of a young Czech train thief who described exactly how he enters a compartment, watches his sleeping victim, slices open the victim’s pocket, and lets the wallet drop into his hand. Without gas or drugs. That sounded unbelievable to me; impossible. Surely the victim would awaken? But having experienced the dreadful noise and ceaseless motion of an unair-conditioned overnight train, I realize how horribly possible it is.

This is Part 2 of 3.   —  Part 1.   —  Part 3

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

Central and East European Train Crime

train wheel 1

Railway mafia groups fight over territory along the thousands of kilometers of track across Central & Eastern Europe. The most lucrative connections are those between major cities which are most frequented by foreign tourists who are filthy rich, naive, gullible, and can afford to shed some of their wealth, in the eyes of the criminals who specialize in robbing sleeping victims.

…˜The mafia groups fight amongst themselves for territory and they use sleeping gas to subdue their victims,’ said the sheriff of a Polish railway station on the Polish-Czech border with over 30 years experience in his job who requested that his name be withheld. …˜They are very skilled and use the ventilation system to gas their victims or quietly inject the fast-acting gas into their cabins through a slightly opened door.’

Foreign tourists are followed and carefully watched. There is no easier place to rob them than in a train which they essentially control on some tracks way out in nowhere. They attack you when you are asleep, that’s their style and that’s their specialty.

—Central & East European CrimiScope
www.ceeds.com/cee-crimiscope [defunct]

THAT READ, we traveled exceptionally lightly for our week-long research trip to Prague. One change of clothes, computers and camera equipment, money, passports, and plastic watches each.

We boarded the Venice-to-Prague overnight train at 8 p.m. on a Saturday. After being forced to surrender our tickets to an unidentified man (who we eventually learned was our “attendant”), we were shown to a gritty compartment. Dust clumps the size of rats swirled around the floor. Sad brown floral curtains of a coarse material hung above mismatched cushions and general grime. The bunks had been opened and made up for sleeping, with bed linen that seemed fresh and clean enough. But it was stifling hot in the un-air-conditioned train, and the stale air was of suffocating stillness.

There was no choice in the sweat-smelly and sweltering compartment but to leave the window open for air, despite the deafening, rackety-clackety clamor which made sleep all but impossible. In the dark hubbub, aromas told a tactless tale. The smell of sweet wood smoke rushed in, then fresh-cut hay, and later cow manure. At every stop the train’s brakes sliced the rhythmic clatter with ear-piercing shrieks. I clamped my palms to my overly-sensitive ears in agony.

Then, stationary in a depot or switching yard, sometimes for half an hour or more, I worried about that open window. Could someone reach in and grab a bag? Voices shouted, neighboring trains clanged and clattered: but even in the relative quiet, I was afraid to drop off to sleep. And without the circulation of air, our somber cell quickly grew hot and sour-smelling.

We had read so much about East European train robbers I was, frankly, petrified.

  • Bolt your door from the inside, I read.
  • One common, square-hole key opens all compartment doors, I read somewhere else.
  • Bring wire with which to secure your door, and tie down your belongings.
  • Sleep on top of your bags.
  • Don’t sleep!

What scared me most were the tales of the gassers, who knock you out in the dead of night by fumigating your compartment from under the door. Then they break in and help themselves to your belongings. My doctor friend Ann had said there was no gas she knew of that wouldn’t wake you up with its smell, or make you gag or throw up, or kill you. Was that supposed to be comforting?

I was primed for panic when aroused from a light and fitful nap by the quiet rattling of our door. I heard a key jiggle in the lock and the bolt was thrown. The door was yanked open an inch and stopped by the safety chain, which held. A flashlight shined at me through the crack and several male voices mumbled quietly.

Not very sneaky, I thought. But maybe they have knives! They couldn’t have expected as light a sleeper as I. Or—I sniffed the air—maybe they’ve gassed us, not expecting an open window to dilute the chemical.

“Passports,” Bob murmured from the bunk below me—not the night-train-novice I was. We were at the Austrian border.

Thus experienced, I was prepared for the repeat performance several hours later at the Czech border. We were not well-rested when we arrived at Prague at 9:00 in the morning.

But arrive we did, with bags and tickets intact.

This is Part 1 of 3. Part 2

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

How Bernanke’s ID thieves did it

Shonya Michelle Young (Credit: U.S. Marshal Service)
Shonya Michelle Young (Credit: U.S. Marshal Service)

Anna Bernanke hung her purse on the back of a chair at Starbucks. It was stolen and, soon after, she and Ben became victims of identity theft.

It’s extremely simple to steal a purse that isn’t attached to a person. It could be on the back of a chair, on an empty chair, or on the floor. Bob’s done it many times for television news shows. Yep, even in busy coffee shops and mall food courts, where you’d think a few people would notice. It has to do with how you drape a coat over the purse.

In her handbag, Anna carried what thieves call a spread: credit card, identification, checks, and her Social Security card (shame on her!). This is the jackpot for a pickpocket and identity theft ring.

Not all pickpockets know how to exploit checks and credit cards. But by now they know at least to sell them. In the old days, some thieves would actually bother to drop them in a mailbox.

Some pickpockets have their own ID theft specialists on staff or on call. When they snag a bag containing a spread, they want to cash a hefty check or two, and they want a fat cash advance on the credit card. They could just buy murch—stuff at a store—but then they’d get just a fraction of its value from a fence. A cash advance is the best, especially in cities with casinos. The thieves can request several advances simultaneously, at different casinos. Each will be approved because none has actually been granted yet. A thief can easily make about $60,000 in an hour with just one credit card.

I wrote of this in a forum a few years ago, and someone asked:

How can they get a cash advance without showing an ID matching their face to the name on the card? Whenever I’m in Vegas I get asked for ID when using credit cards even for a 5.00 purchase.

That’s where the pickpocket’s staff comes in. These thieves have a covey of accomplices on standby. “A blonde, a brunette, an Asian, an older woman with gray hair, and a heavy-set,” a practitioner of this business told me. They call them look-alikes. When the pickpocket gets a check or credit card with ID, he phones the accomplice who looks most like the victim (and that doesn’t have to be much!). The accomplice practices the victim’s signature a time or two, then goes to collect the cash advance (which the thief applied for at a machine.) At this point, the accomplice is referred to as a writer. She writes the check or signs for the cash advance. The harried teller or cashier takes a quick glance, sees a vague resemblance (maybe thinks: oh, honey, you’re having a bad day), and doles out the cash under pressure to serve the next person in line.

The suddenly-infamous George Lee Reid was [allegedly] the identity theft ring’s writer of one of Bernanke’s checks, at a bank in Maryland. The ring’s main writer, Shonya Michelle Young (pictured above), has just been captured. In her possession, she had fake ID, credit cards in the name of others, and “wigs worn while cashing fraudulent checks.”

More on look-alikes later.

Reminder to women: don’t hang your purse on the back of your chair. Don’t put it on the floor unless you put your foot through the strap. Reminder to men: valuables in your coat pockets are vulnerable if you hang the coat on the back of a chair.
© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

The flower gift lift—Part 3 of 3

All these photos are framegrabs from video; not very high-resolution. Here the victim watches as the thief, in front of him (in a gray-striped shirt) puts her hand in his pocket. In the background, another Clavelera (in gray sweater) conducts another theft.
All these photos are framegrabs from video; not very high-resolution. Here the victim watches as the thief, in front of him (in a gray-striped shirt) puts her hand in his pocket. In the background, another Clavelera (in gray sweater) conducts another theft.

The Offer of a Flower is a Foil for Filching

Palma de Mallorca, Spain— Bob and I trailed a trio of young women through Palma’s shopping district. Working separately but near each other, they halfheartedly approached a seemingly random selection of meandering tourists. Most ignored the women’s overtures, but one amiable couple paused with interest.

Bob filmed the scene and I alternated between watching the scam and watching Bob’s back. He was balancing a huge camera on his shoulder and I carried the ponderous tripod and brick-like battery. Neither of us could hear the exchange, if there was one, but the con artist must have made her desires clear. The male tourist had his wallet out, then replaced it in his front shorts pocket. Bob and I could see the pocket from where we stood, behind him. As we watched (and filmed), the con woman reached across the man and put her hand into his pocket! She made no particular effort to disguise her move, and the man reacted not at all. How brazen she was, and how trusting was he. How well she read him.

Bad photo, but I like the action.
Bad photo, but I like the action.
Remember this face.
Remember this face.

Suddenly, I was roughly pushed. I had failed to notice that one of the thief’s partners had observed our camera focused on her teammate. She raised her hand to push away the camera and I blocked her with my arm. Her fist crashed down on my wrist, breaking my stainless-steel watchband.

“No photo!” she shouted.

Now Bob swung around and looked at the woman through his lens.

“No photo!” she yelled again, and ineffectively waved a tissue at the camera. Then she swiveled, bent, and rose in one fluid motion, and hefted a massive rock. In a classic pitcher’s posture—or was she about to throw like a girl?—she aimed for the camera lens. A frame captured from the video makes a lovely portrait of her, rock poised in one hand, dainty bouquet of carnations in the other.

Wound up and ready to smash our camera, she bared her teeth and raised one foot.

“Hey-hey-hey!” commanded a male voice behind us, or something to that effect in the woman’s language. A cloud of dust rose and the earth shook as her boulder plunked to the ground.

With a sneer, the would-be destroyer turned and rejoined her companions, who had just finished their scam. Bob and I caught up with the victims.

“First they pretended to give us the flower,” the woman said cheerily, “but then they asked for one peseta.” She and her husband were both smiling, amused by the bold stunt and pleased to be interviewed.

“When I gave her some money, she gave it back,” the husband cut in. “She said no-no-no. And she put her hand in my pocket and the hand came out. I only lost 400 pesetas.”

That explained their jovial mood.

The Massies, British tourists, happily fall for the scam.
The Massies, British tourists, happily fall for the scam.

Palma de Mallorca has long been a favorite holiday destination for Germans and Swedes, and for Europeans in general. Many British retire to Mallorca, or have second homes there. Ferries bring daytrippers from mainland Spain, and cruise ships regularly dump sightseers by the thousands to bask in this balmy Spanish paradise. Its beaches and nightclubs are a perennial draw, and have been long before the spotlight hit Ibiza. Low-lying criminals, too, are attracted to Palma’s easy-going lifestyle and laid-back law enforcement.

“Claveleras, that’s all we do!” one of Palma’s police officers told us in exasperation. Clavel means carnation; claveleras are the thieves who use them. The police officer had stopped us from filming an incident at the claveleras’ request.

Bob's filming brazenly, from over his head. The thieves jump at the camera, then threaten me. The Massies look on, baffled and unaware that the women are thieves.
Bob's filming brazenly, from over his head. The thieves jump at the camera, then threaten me. The Massies look on, baffled and unaware that the women are thieves.

“Why do you protect them?” I asked the cop. “They’ve been here for years!”

“It’s not possible to arrest them,” the officer said. “They only took 200 euros. It’s not enough. They must take 300.”

“But they’ve been doing this for years! It’s ruining Palma’s reputation.”

“Yes. I know all of them. Their names, their addresses.”

“Then why don’t you let a tourist,” Bob said, “like me, put 400 euros in his pocket, let them take it, and then you can arrest them.”

The conversation circled unsatisfactorily, revealing firewalls between politicians, law enforcement, journalists, tourist bureau, and the unfortunate tourists. We, like the police, threw up our hands.

After all the commotion we cause, the women snatch the carnation away from the Massies.
After all the commotion we cause, the women snatch the carnation away from the Massies.

We met Douglas and Evelyn Massie outside the fortress, yet another pair of British victims. Their nemesis was a young woman, perhaps in her 30s, who wore track pants and a jacket—an updated wardrobe.

“Would you like to go to the police station?” we asked them. “You won’t get your money back, but a police report might help you with a claim to your insurance company and we’ll translate for you.”

Another clavelera thief who doesn't like her picture taken.
Another clavelera thief who doesn't like her picture taken.

At the police station we were perfunctorily handed a poorly-photocopied theft report form in English. Heading the list of common M.O.s was “woman with carnation.” The Massies duly Xed the box while Bob and I marveled at a system that could officially acknowledge and simultaneously condone such activities. After all, we’d observed this swindle for ten years: same women, same technique, same locations.

A tattered photo album was put before the Massies without comment. Page after page of female mug shots stared up from under plastic. There was the grandmother gang, and there a pair of tall sisters we’d watched. There was the Massies’ snaggle-toothed tormentor and there, grinning wryly, was our infamous rock thrower.

Our rock-thrower's mugshot is at the upper right.
Our rock-thrower's mugshot is at the upper right.

The Massies huddled judiciously over their theft report and laboriously printed out in block letters a story that would likely never be read.

But their tale will be told—by the Massies and by thousands of people who have had the good fortune to visit Palma. The story begins: There was an old woman, who gave me a flower…

This is Part 3 of The Flower Gift Lift. Read Part 1   —    Part 2

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

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.

The flower gift lift—Part 2 of 3

The claveleras use whatever aggression is required to give their flower gifts.
There's a victim for every thief. Two claveleras have their backs to the camera.
There\’s a victim for every thief. Two claveleras have their backs to the camera.

Palma de Mallorca, Spain— Thirty to forty women practice this form of filching every day in Palma. They linger where the tourists are: around Palacio Almudiana in particular, and in the small cobblestone streets around Plaza Mayor. The women perform one-on-one, but they work in groups. We see them walk “to work” in gangs of six or seven, gossiping merrily along the way. As they approach their territory, they don their “uniforms,” tying dark aprons around their waists, scarves on their heads. Many are younger women, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. The youngest eschew the scarves and, instead of aprons, tie jackets around their waists, keeping the pockets available.

At Palacio Almudiana, we planted ourselves at the end of an elevated walkway to the Moorish fortress. We had a JVC professional video camera on a tripod that day—a huge, heavy thing—and with its long fine lens we could film close-ups unnoticed at a distance.

From around a corner at the far end of the stone walkway appeared a group of six men—German tourists, we later learned. Happily oblivious, they had just toured the fortress. As they turned into the otherwise empty walkway, five women from the morning babushka brigade rushed after them, literally running, with heavy, effortful steps. The eldest woman found a victim first, grabbing the arm of one of the men and roughly poking a flower into his shirt. As she began her swindle, her colleagues, all four of them, attached themselves to four others of the men. In a jolly, holiday mood, the men allowed the women’s aggressive physical appeal without suspicion.

Examining their wallets, the men tote up the damage.
Examining their wallets, the men tote up the damage.

It only took about two minutes. One by one the men broke free, some wearing red carnations, some not. As they sauntered towards us on the walkway, folding and replacing their wallets, the five women regrouped behind them and disappeared around the far corner. Bob stopped three of the Germans.

“Did you lose any money?” he asked, without explaining what we’d just witnessed.

“And why would we?” one of the men challenged.

“I saw you with some thieves,” Bob said. “Count your money.”

All three brought forth their wallets and checked their contents.

“Fifteen thousand pesetas—gone!” one of them shouted. That was about U.S. $85 at the time.

“They got twenty-five thousand from me,” said another, “and now I realize how. She said she wanted a peseta and I tried to give it to her. But she returned it and now my money is gone.”

“I was pinching the wallet like so,” the third man explained smugly. “She wanted to get into the wallet, but I didn’t let go. I have all my money.”

The claveleras use whatever aggression is required to give their flower gifts.
The claveleras use whatever aggression is required to give their flower gifts.

We filmed numerous encounters by this gang and by others, in this location and around the town, on this day and over the course of ten years. Without speaking to each victim, it’s impossible to state the percentage of these thieves’ success. Even the victims aren’t always certain whether or not a few bills have been taken, or how much money they started with. Only the thieves know for sure. Clearly, it’s a worthwhile game for them.

In one brilliant piece of footage, several women can be seen earnestly engaged in their one-on-one scams. We pan from one encounter to another, close up. One of the women is seen “closing her deal,” pushing her left fistful of flowers against her opponent’s wallet. As she steps back, apparently satisfied, she loses her grip and money flutters to the ground.

The victim and thief both notice, one puzzled, the other disgusted.

In another scene, an Asian visitor smiles delightedly when a bright red carnation is tucked into his shirt pocket. The old woman, dressed in black from head to toe, raises one finger. One peseta, she requests. The tourist withdraws his wallet and offers a bill, still smiling. Taking the money, the woman raises her finger again, then returns the bill. As the Asian tourist replaces his money, the thief moves in on his wallet and a subtle battle ensues. The man’s expression begins to shift from pleasure to perplexity, then consternation. The woman, defeated, snatches back the flower and moves on.

This is Part 2 of The Flower Gift Lift. Read Part 1 — Read Part 3

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

© Copyright 2008-2009 Bambi Vincent. All rights reserved.