Thieves – Page 9 – Pickpocket Bob Arno

Perps’ anti-arrest tactic

Press the play button:
https://bobarno.com/thiefhunters/audio/paris-police-station-audio

Awful sound, isn’t it? Sorry to subject you (if it autoplayed in your browser), but I’m making a point.

This racket was blasting when Bob and I visited the Gare de Lyon police station in Paris. It was created by two young women, one in a cell, the other handcuffed to a wooden bench, where she posed in every ridiculous posture she could contort herself into (not sure why). They both bellowed and sang at the top of their lungs as long as we were there—perhaps half an hour—possibly much longer.

It’s their habit. They make themselves severely unwanted guests, so the police think twice about hauling them in again and again. We never found out what they were arrested for, but their tactic was arresting.

The yelling and wailing in jail is one of the cat-and-mouse games the criminals learn to play to get an advantage, even a momentary tiny one, over the system. You know some of their other strategies: they employ children too young to arrest; they carry an infant, because the mother of an infant won’t be jailed; they cut themselves, because a bleeding arrestee must be taken to the hospital, which takes much paperwork that a tired cop may prefer to avoid, especially one near the end of his shift.

A pickpocket in Lima told us, “If the police catch you, you cut yourself and they release you. They don’t want you if you’re cut and bleeding.”

Postcard from Naples

A postcard from Naples! I recognized the image of the thirteenth century Castel Nuovo right away. It was an old postcard, but lots of things in Naples are old. I turned it over and looked at the signatures. Luciano! One of the pickpockets in our National Geographic documentary! I read the handwriting.

“Dear Bob, Grazie mille for you to come to Napoli. We have very great dinner insieme.”

Great dinner together. It sure was! I was smiling already.

“We all hope you come next year aigain and we have dinner. Molto bene tempe.”

And at the top: “Very great film, Bob”

Wow, the thieves are happy with the film! They’re inviting us back. I was bursting with happiness, and eager to show Bob. This postcard will make his day. His week, even.

I scrutinized the five signatures. Luciano was clear and obvious. Giuseppe, though, who’s that? I don’t remember a Giuseppe. Mario—we know two pickpockets named Mario in Naples, but neither was in our film. Andrea? and what’s that other scribble?

Franco, our favorite thief, had recently emailed us and mentioned that some of his crew had been arrested and thrown in jail. “We both know why,” he’d hinted. Did he mean because they’d made the film? Because they’d flaunted omertà and revealed too much? Bob and I felt guilty. Our intention was not to have the thieves arrested or to otherwise change the course of their lives. Besides, in Naples, everyone knows who the pickpockets are—it’s no secret. They’ve all been arrested numerous times.

Luciano must have been one of those arrested, I surmised. He’s in jail with a bunch of other pickpockets we don’t know by name, but they all saw our film and liked it, and wanted to let us know through Luciano, whom we’ve known since 1998.

They liked it! They’re not mad at us. They don’t feel exploited. They don’t blame us for jail time. They’re inviting us to another festive dinner in a den of thieves!

And they actually went out and found a postcard, dug up our address, bought a stamp, and mailed us a postcard! Bob and I were deeply touched.

[Let me pause here to reiterate what a conflict it is to “like” these criminals. We’re well-aware that their daily business wreaks havoc on their victims. Some victims are scarred for life. They suffer financial loss, sometimes great financial loss, as well as inconvenience. They may lose nonrefundable flights they miss because their passports have to be replaced, they may lose work because they have to extend their stay, they may have to arrange for child care at home, etc. Their vacations are ruined. They depart despising the destination they came to experience. I know. But as we research the methods and motivations of these thieves, we come to know some of them. And some, I have to say, have likable qualities. Their work is despicable, but they themselves often seem to have some redeeming attributes. While we find ourselves “liking” some of these characters, we feel queasy about it on examination. We realize how it comes off, too. We struggle with the contradiction.]

We called Kun, the film’s director, on skype and held up the postcard, front and back. “Wow,” Kun said, “that’s so great. Will you send me a scan?” Kun seemed to feel the postcard was better than film industry praise.

We were telling the world. Anyone who’d followed the adventures of our filmmaking heard about our postcard from the pickpockets. A week after receiving it, we gloated to Bob’s brother in Stockholm.

“Was it signed by Luciano and Giuseppe?” he asked. I saw Bob’s face fall. The self-proclaimed country bumpkin, the infamous practical joker, had gotten us. Bob cracked up. Brother-in-law had snuck off to Italy without telling us, scouted the antique shops of Rome for a Naples postcard, and scribbled the pidgin text. He couldn’t remember all the names of the thieves we’ve spoken of, but one was enough for credibility. We’d eaten it up.

Watch out, brother-in-law. It’s our turn now…

brother-in-law claes documentary Thieves

A lowlife, drug-addled pickpocket

Thieves find us. “Police, police! She took my wallet!” That’s Bob screaming at ear-splitting volume. Not his usual reaction to pickpocketing! Usually, he turns and simply asks for the wallet back. Or if he has the time, he’ll steal something else from the thief—his phone or sunglasses—and then propose a trade.

We’d noticed this thief, a lowlife drug-addled woman, at a bus stop, as she and her boyfriend lit cigarette butts plucked from the ground. The bus stop was thick with thieves, all more interesting than this desperado; Bob was hoping his wallet would attract one of the others. But the woman wormed her way through the boarding throng, cutting between Bob and me. I had the perfect view of her sloppy steal. So did our film crew.

We’re at the bus stop for “pickup shots” after the rush and excitement of the past few days. We’d found the pickpocket trio Frank, Marc, and Ed so quickly, and things progressed in such a rush, our film director realized that we needed some establishing shots and close-ups on the bus to set the scene for viewers of the documentary.

Director Kun Chang asks Bob to board the next bus, then hop off before it leaves. That’s when the junkie grabs his wallet. Bob makes a scene and the boyfriend shoves the wallet back in. Cute. Usually they just drop it on the ground. Bob gets off the bus and together, we marvel at the number of “suspects” around us. We don’t recognize any individuals from prior visits, but they all fit the pattern.

Today, though, we’re not thiefhunting, tempting as it is. We need those pickup shots, so we let the bus go without us, onboard thieves free to do their thing unwatched. Bob and I are to board the next red bus, because that’s the kind we rode two days ago with Frank, Marc, and Ed.

Here comes one. We board, along with our film crew. It’s empty—I mean, no pickpockets, no suspects. Bob and I stand where we were when Frank & Co. found us, and the cameras get their shots. Until…
The bus stops and doors open and I glance out the window to see faces I recognize. It’s Marc, the younger of the pickpockets we’d met two days ago, and with him Andy, Marc’s uncle-by-marriage and a thief Bob and I have known for years.

We don’t expect them to board. We think they’ll see us and turn away. But no. Along with a third man we don’t recognize, they climb the stairs to work the bus.

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 13 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

Right. There’s no part 12. The original Part 12 is here.
—Originally posted 9/25/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

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Getting used to cameras on me all day

On making a documentary. As I said, you’d think a documentary is just a camera following the action—but the action must be lit and wired for sound. And the cameras have to catch it from all the right angles.

It takes a long time to set up each scene, even if we’re just talking to the camera in our hotel room. Our team is shooting on a Red, the ultimate digital cinematography camera, the most expensive, the hardest to use. It records raw data without compression and therefore requires enormous hard drives. The Red is top on the list of our investor/distributor’s camera requirements; and our investor/distributor is a name in documentary films known and respected by all (even you). Their requirements are stringent.

Our days are long, starting very early and ending past midnight. But whatever time we get up, director of photography Van Royko has been up hours earlier, preparing the Red One. Director Kun Chang stays up hours later, transferring the day’s data. We’re all working non-stop, even on our scheduled day off. The payoff will be a phenomenal documentary film.

I quickly get used to the sound man tucking the tiny microphone between my breasts, running wires around my body, and cramming the battery-pack transmitter and excess cable down my pants. Repeating simple actions becomes routine: “can you get back in the car and get out again?” I learn to ignore the giant lens two inches from my face while I brush my teeth or change earrings. These small acts, while unimportant, will eventually help tie together the big events in our story. In the end, only a few seconds will be used—just a flash, a tiny fraction of the footage the filmmakers shoot.

At the beginning of the shoot, I’m determined to be conscious of my posture and to remember to smile. That works for about half a day. When you’re eating and packing and arguing in front of the cameras, you give up vanity and just be who you are. In fact, I’m later surprised to discover that I loathe the prospect of projecting myself unrealistically, which results in a scene in which I remove my shirt on camera because that is what I would have done had the camera not been there.

On the other hand, I want to be somewhat careful of what I say. Sound bites can be taken out of context. I can’t unsay something. So maybe I’m not totally myself after all.

I don’t keep track of what I’ve worn. Often, it’s ugly, neutral “thiefhunting” clothes, chosen to be forgotten, unnoticed by those we follow. Events happen fast and unpredictably, moving from location to location. Sometimes the filmmakers need “pickup shots:” closeups or establishing shots that help explain to the viewers where we are or how we got there. “Can you put on the clothes you wore three days ago?” Hmmm, what was that?

I guess I can divide the shooting into three categories.

Interviews. Bob and me, separately or together, looking into the camera and talking.
Bob and my thiefhunting activities. That would include hidden camera rigging, searching for thieves, and interacting with them.
Fly-on-the-wall. Bob and me going about our business with cameras watching. At breakfast, in restaurants, in our hotel room, and in the city.

The second two categories are easy and standard for documentaries. The first is extremely difficult, since we don’t know what we will do, what we will find, or what might happen. Yet, the crew must follow us, must remain invisible, and must be ready to turn on a dime. They must compromise sound and image quality in order to use equipment that keeps them maneuverable.

Rosie ferries Bob through streets one dares not walk alone.

We have a “fixer” whom I’ll call Rosie. A native of this city, she is a well-connected miracle-worker. She zips around town on her motorcycle in the aggressive local driving style, and claims the iPad changed her life. From it, she can do anything, anywhere.

Some days into the shoot, Bob surprises everyone by getting a haircut. The producer notices instantly and her head falls into her hands. Bad boy, Bob. Director Kun Chang explains that the haircut screws with his timeline, making it impossible to intercut scenes, especially interviews and those pickup shots. By sheer coincidence, sound recordist Michele also gets a haircut on the same evening off. This shouldn’t matter for a sound man, but Michele is an integral part of the film as on-camera translator, so it matters a lot.

There’s much more exciting stuff to tell about our interactions with thieves, but I’m having trouble keeping up with daily posts. The story continues!

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 11 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

—Originally posted 9/22/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves Italy Naples National Geographic pickpocket Pickpocket King Thieves

Just listening flatters the thieves

View from a low hotel window: our hotel on left, mountain road, and the city.

Thiefhunting, Day One, still more. This is an old-fashioned town, lightly touched by the 21st century. Vendors ply the streets like the horse-and-buggy days my parents describe, only these peddlers drive rickety rusty trucks piled with everything from fruit to diapers to toys, and bark through muffled microphones: “come one, come all, I’ve got everything for you—cheap!” Several trucks may be wending their ways on the steep roads below our hotel, and they politely alternate their announcements.

It’s a noisy town, too. Church bells ring insistently all morning, to shake the lazy from their beds. The nightly neighborhood fireworks I’ve already mentioned (I’m watching a spectacular show just this moment from the terrace bar). Cars and motorcycles whiz by on the narrow mountain road, spewing fumes, deafening. There’s a lot of horn-honking, and frequent musical police sirens. The words “charming” and “quaint” only apply to certain aspects of the city: dining, for sure; the people, architecture, ancient culture and traditions.

The fact that the city is somewhat of an anachronism is important to this story. It explains a little bit of the pickpockets’ fascination with us, and their reaction to us. Theirs is a simple, predictable existence. Not simple as in easy; their chosen career has plenty of difficulties and complications. But simple as in routine, repetitive, and limited. There’s work, there’s family life, there’s celebration and I’m sure there’s joy and pride.

Slyly lifting a wallet from the pocket of an obvious tourist on a bus is one of the daily routines. Speaking with the victim—briefly—happens now and then. Coffee with the victim? Never. Hours of conversation? Unheard of. An outsider actually asking questions, listening, interested, non-judgmental? A total shock. And not unpleasant! Or…reason for suspicion. Is it a sting of some sort? A trap? “The system?”

The men start out fake-friendly. Then they are confused. They become curious and cagey, cautious and protective. But Bob and I are believable because we’re honest. We admit outright that we’re making a documentary. We say we’re looking for the top talent in the profession. We explain that we want to feature this job, and we need the best representatives to do it. Yes, the film will be international, and that means it will be shown here, too.

We’re listening, and the thieves are flattered. We do not fit the routine. We are a curiosity, and a surprisingly welcome intellectual stimulation. We trigger new thoughts, inspire them to say things they’ve never before put into words. We become their future dinner topic, a big thing in their day, maybe in their year. Possibly more.

We’re making a film, we tell the thieves. A film. A movie… This is a concept so remote to the people of this neighborhood, the people who live this simple-but complicated existence, they know it is impossible that the making of a film would touch them—yet it has.

Just the thought brightens their day. And they’re intrigued. Why not? Everyone in this town knows what they do. It’s no secret, they’ve been doing it their entire adult lives and even before. What’s to lose?

Bob and I prepare for the meeting in the park. Will the pickpocket gang show up? Will they really sign the required releases and demonstrate for our cameras? Fervent hope and suspense make it impossible to sleep.

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 9 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

—Originally posted 9/19/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno film filming thieves Italy Naples National Geographic pickpocket Thieves

Pickpockets, meet the film crew

Thiefhunting, Day One, more. We’ve been standing in the tiny coffee bar more than an hour, speaking loudly. Eventually, the owner throws us out. No bad feelings, Michele translates—we’ve just been there long enough. Frank and Marc need to get back to work, anyway. They promise to meet us in the park tomorrow. They agree to demonstrate a few of their favorite techniques. They agree we can film them. And most important, they agree to sign releases, allowing us to show them in our film.

Warm goodbyes, and we all split. They go one way, Bob and I another, Michele-the-translator another.

Bob and I are ecstatic beyond words. On our first bus ride, we snagged a new pair of thieves and connected well with them. We’re surprised—and we’re not. After all, that’s why we chose this city for our documentary. It has the greatest concentration of pickpockets, who work the hardest, and are—we believe—the best at it.

Leaving the coffee bar, Bob and I walk blindly around a few corners. We’re all wound up and high-strung. We just want to get away, cool down, get our heads together, decompress. We want to find Michele and ask him a million questions, since he couldn’t possibly have translated everything the thieves said in the bar. And we want his impressions of the men.

A few streets away, we pause. Bob turns off his eye-glass-camera, his button-camera, and his book camera. He lifts the back of my shirt and turns off my button-cam. Our film director Kun Chang finds us, and we talk excitedly about what just happened—our meeting in the coffee bar—and tomorrow’s plans to meet in a park.

And at that exact moment, Frank and Marc approach us from across a wide street. There’s a third man with them—Ed—who was their partner on the bus with us. We stand there in the middle of a busy sidewalk and the coffee shop conversation continues, now with Ed, who turns out to be the brother of Frank. Ed is another good-looking man. At 51, he’s got a little silver in his hair, and a little bald spot. He has a distinguished look. Put a suit on him and he could con a banker out of a million bucks. But the banker might just give him the million bucks because he’s so benign, even affectionate.

I suddenly remember that all Bob’s cameras are now off and so is my button-cam. What about my purse-cam, did we ever turn it off? I can’t remember. I aim it, just in case. Another man strolls up: Clay, a colleague and team member. More of our production crew arrive, too, so we introduce the thieves to the filmmakers. Michele is translating three conversations at once, overwhelmed by the bizarreness of happy-chat with thieves, but utterly capable of interpreting the rapid-fire chatter coming at him from every direction. Hands are flying. It’s another long talk about not much, but it cements our relationship. Trust is building.

We are all to meet the next day at a time and place of their choosing. The pickpockets are to demonstrate their specialties for our documentary. They’re going to show us exactly how they steal.

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 8 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

—Originally posted 9/18/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film filming thieves National Geographic pickpocket Pickpocket King Thieves

The human side of cold, heartless criminals

Thiefhunting, Day One, continued. Bob and I were on a high, having found a talented pickpocket team on the first bus ride of our first day of thiefhunting—in front of our film crew. Okay—in reality, the pickpockets found us. But let us credit ourselves as talented pickpocket magnets. And let it also be noted that we do not make it easy for the thieves. There’s no wallet peeking out of Bob’s pocket. His shirt covers the pocket, too.

The five of us—two pickpockets, our sound man-cum-translator Michele, Bob, and I—order coffee in a tiny bar. The thieves pay for it immediately. They’re smiling, laughing, and so are we. Michele translates with a huge grin, first nervously, then almost joyously, as he recognizes the human side of cold, heartless criminals. It’s a revelation to him, as it once was for us.

Gentlemen thieves

In these moments of close contact, of talk without judgment, of sharing insider talk with outsiders, we are like any strangers conversing. But no—we are more. We are intimates, because we speak of the unspeakable. We are confidantes, understanding what most do not.

As we enter the coffee bar, the gentlemen thieves step aside to let me, the only woman, enter. I’m terrified, hyper-aware of my hidden rigging: coils of wire, two boxes of electronics at my waist. These are just the sort of gallant gents who might place a hand softly on the small of my back. A move that would turn our encounter upside down. I rush past the men and their roving hands. Hands that are comfortable in other men’s pockets, in women’s purses, on the small of my back. I feel rude in the face of their chivalry.

Introductions over coffee—so civilized. Sorry, but I must now bastardize, anglicize, and fictionalize their names. For now. Frank is the clean-cut man who stole Bob’s wallet. He’s fiftyish, nicely dressed, good-looking. He’s muscular, confident, oozing testosterone; default emotion: jovial. As I said before, we’d not have suspected him for an instant were it not for his behavior on the bus.

His partner is Marc, thirtyish, short hair, light beard as dictated by fashion, big bright eyes. Marc is a bit cagey. Cautious and observant, his eyes dart around, land for an instant, keep moving. He can pick up some of our English. He can speak a little, too. But he’s nervous and confused in this unheard-of situation.

Bob is excited and wants to cement his new relationships. He tosses me his book-cam, which I now balance on my purse-cam, carefully holding the two at slightly different angles in hope of capturing the scene. And remembering not to block my button-cam with either.

Pickpocket friends

Bob pulls out his iPod Touch, on which he’s loaded a gallery of thieves: pictures of pickpockets we’ve met in this city over the years. There are twenty or so faces. Bob lets the thief take the iPod in his hand. I watch, pretty certain he doesn’t intend to dart out with it. Frank slides the photos around, showing Marc, enlarging them as he pleases. He’s dumbfounded to see all his pals on Bob’s iPod. He points, laughs, doubles over, and names each one. Then he looks up at Bob, smile gone. “Which model is this?” He raises the iPod. Old model, Bob admits. “Okay, okay. I have the new one,” Frank says, and lights up again.

As Frank flips through the photos, he comes to one of Lou, another pickpocket we know in this neighborhood whom we first met in 1998. We learn that Marc is married to Lou’s daughter. They flip to a photo of Lou’s brother, Andy—Marc’s uncle. It’s a thriving family business.

Frank chuckles: “We thought we were hunting you, but you were hunting us!”

“Twenty years ago we made a good living without the tourist,” Frank tells us. “Now because of the economy, we depend on them. For that, we are sorry.” He tells us they now use a new technique, only developed about 20 years ago, because the police complained about the thefts. “We now can steal only the money from the wallet, without taking the wallet. And we don’t take all the money—we try to leave a little.”

For the most part, they don’t use stolen credit cards, either. That would raise the crime to another level. When they do steal a wallet, they bundle credit cards, ID, even photos, and drop them into a mailbox. Lou told us the same thing in 1998. Now, the police here corroborated it.

Our film crew had gathered outside the bar and are trying to get footage however they can. Marc becomes suspicious. He calls Bob on his sunglass-cam. Bob fesses up. The mood doesn’t change in the least.

Bob explains our film project to Frank and Marc. He invites them to participate, saying they’ll be shown on big screens around the world. They’ll have to sign releases. We make an appointment: tomorrow in a park.

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 7 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

Originally posted 9/17/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno film filming thieves Italy Naples National Geographic pickpocket Thieves

Bob Arno “Pickpocket King” National Geographic documentary-Part 3

“They’ve bugged our room,” I postulated to Bob in the taxi from the airport. “I bet they hid video cameras inside.” That aspect of shooting a documentary hadn’t occurred to me.

Our hotel is a former monastery carved into a hillside. With an outrageous view, it overlooks the entire city we’ve come to infiltrate. It’s a pleasing dichotomy: after years of sweaty skulking lowdown among the gritty streets, we now look down on the calm innocence of colorful rooftops which belie the commotion of the city and its criminal activities.

We opened the door of our room to find its lovely decor largely hidden behind draped cloths, booms, electrical cords, and extra light fixtures. The room’s chandelier was wrapped in pink gel (colored cellophane used to alter theatrical lighting) and cloaked in black fabric studded with clothespins. The bedside sconces were half-covered with foil. The ambiance of the room was pretty much destroyed.

The crew followed us in for a few arrival shots and immediately dismantled much of the equipment before leaving us in privacy. As soon as the door closed and we were alone, I got up to sweep the place for hidden cameras. Is that one in the middle of the gilt scrollwork of the sconce in the dressing area? What about the handles of the closet door? Behind the translucent panel covering the electrical fuses?

Entering the bathroom I stopped dead in my tracks. The ceiling lights were gelled. In the bathroom! What shots do they need in the bathroom? Nobody’s talking. At this point, we still don’t know.

Part one of this story. — Next installment.

This is Part 3 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.

—Originally posted 9/11/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.

Bambi Vincent Bob Arno documentary film Italy Naples National Geographic pickpocket Pickpocket King Thieves

Barcelona Street Scams

“I, too, was a victim of Barcelona street scams…” said more than a hundred people. And they described their own thieves, con artists, fake beggars, purse snatchers, scammers, fraudsters, pickpockets, and thugs. The page, Barcelona Scams, is riveting reading!

My great friend Terry Jones has just packed up his Barcelona life after 15 years of loving life in that great city. While he’s moved on to exciting challenges—he’s starting up FluidInfo—everything he’s acquired in Barcelona had to go. Along with about 3,000 books, he parted with his collection of Barcelona street scams. He gave them to me.

We met though thiefhunting about ten years ago. Terry describes the odd convergence of our ancestral histories here. While Bob and I go looking for thieves, Terry doesn’t make any special effort as a thiefhunter. He’s simply observant. He sees scams and cons all around him (and you).

Barcelona Street Scams

Have you been to Barcelona? Were you pickpocketed or hustled out of money? Tricked, conned, or scammed? If so, did you report it to the police? (I’m asking for survey purposes.) Take a look at Barcelona Street Scams. Add your own Barcelona street scams to this page. Just scroll down to the comment section below. And please do mention whether or not you bothered with a police report. And if so, how you were treated by the police.

Thank you for sharing your Barcelona street scams!

Barcelona con scam spain Thieves

Bait and switch

Your greed + a deal too good to pass up = bait and switch:

Buy-a-Brick

“Pssssst. Come ’ere. A brand new video camera with flip-out screen. In the box. $250. Here, have a look, try it out. Look, here’s the box, and all the accessories. Battery, a/c adapter, microphone. Only $225? Mama mia! Okay, it’s yours! Here, we’ll put it in the box for you, see? And a bag so you can carry it easily. Okay, thank you very much. Here’s your bag.”

You saw him put the camera in the box. You saw him put the box in the bag. So how did you end up with a sack of salt?

A better question: What were you doing trying to buy a thousand-dollar video camera on a street corner? What were you thinking?

Yes, the seller looked like a decent man, he seemed okay. But that wasn’t his son with him, it was his partner; and their performance together is as precise as a tango. Not only that, there are four or five teams per corner in the hottest areas, competing with such subtlety you’d never suspect they’re running a scam. After all, if they let on, you’re not likely to buy from any of them.

Bait and switch

As usual, observation tells the story. The swindler approaches you with the camera and, once you take it in your hands, he summons his partner, who brings a plastic shopping bag through which you can see a box. The box is opened for you and you see that it contains the promised accessories.

How can you go wrong? You’ll take it! You place the camera in the box yourself, tuck in the flap. You dig for your cash, which you cleverly placed in a pouch beneath your shirt, or in a money belt, or in your sock. You offer the money and take the bag. You even shake hands. What a deal. What a steal!

What you never noticed was the critical switch. You were intentionally distracted for an eyeblink, while the “son” passed by with an identical box in an identical bag. The bags were swapped. It’s the classic bait and switch.

You might think it difficult to fall for a scam like this one, but it happens many times a day on a certain corner in Naples. Ship officers and crewmen are primary targets because the con men know their ships depart shortly after the purchase and it’s unlikely they’ll return. Ordinary tourists are also easily tempted.

Bob and I first observed this trick in 1994, and have watched it develop over the years to include cellphones. In the beginning we were afraid to film it. From pickpocketing and bag-snatching-by-motor scooter to extortion and murder, all crime in Naples is said to be mob-related. The Camorra, Naples’ mafia, is made up of some 80 clans and thousands of members who operate in the city. Not that Bob and I knew that when we began our audacious stake-out of these grandfatherly crooks. But the vague knowledge we had was intimidating enough for a couple of lightweights. If you want to infiltrate the bad guys, you better know what you’re doing.

Eventually we began to film from across the street, and then to acquire bits and pieces up close with an exposed camera held casually. After all, tourists carry cameras and shoot the sights, so ours wouldn’t be incongruous. The following year we were more brazen, and carried a small digital video camera hidden in a shopping bag with a hole cut for its lens. This worked fairly well, though we were nervous as a thief in the act. It was this setup that got us our first clear footage of what we’d seen with our eyes so many times: the switch.

The move is simplicity itself; its timing perfection. The salesman tries to back up to a corner of a building, usually a magazine kiosk or a phone booth, anything to shield the substitution. That allows him to lower his hand and the bag while his unseen partner does the swap.

Our first clear capture of the actual swap occurred on a sidewalk.

[Continues in next post.]

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Eight: Con Artists and Their Games of No Chance

bait-and-switch Italy Naples scam Thieves