Trolling for Pickpockets

Trolling for Pickpockets ... Trolling for Pickpockets Post game relaxation. Photo by Garrett Culhane TURN THE TABLES Saigon has always been a lady, and ...
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Post game relaxation. Photo by Garrett Culhane

TURN THE TABLES

Saigon has always been a lady, and a beautiful one, but a lady with a touch of sin. There is a game you can play here, when you are tired of more mundane pastimes and hanker after a contest of wits and nerve. It is not inherently dangerous, but neither is it a game for the faint of heart. Much is at stake. For in this game the hunted becomes the hunter, and the predator turns prey. I should say that there is currently an Englishwoman residing at the 333 Hotel with her left leg in a cast for a torn ligament. But hers is the only injury I have ever heard of. And she played at three o'clock in the morning after an evening of drinking. And she played rough. Many beginners do. I did.

So you must not play this game when you have been drinking, or ill, or in a bad mood. Your senses and your reflexes, and your powers of observation and decision must be in top form, because you, the visitor, the amateur, will be going up against the pros. But you can win at this game. If you follow my advice and learn from me you can win almost every time. In fact, I haven't lost yet. Although in fairness I'd have to say that the outcome of my most recent encounter was very dodgy and too close for comfort. And I had put too much at stake. But I won. The game is called Trolling for Pickpockets.

Trolling for pickpockets, as a Saigonese contact sport, was invented during the Tet New Year celebrations of 1992 by Bruce and Paul Harmon and myself. We were wandering the Ben Thanh market on Le Thanh Ton boulevard one fine morning. The holiday crowd was dense and there was much rubbing of shoulders. Two unsavory looking guys walking side by side approached me head on. I knew I was their mark. Their appearance alone tipped me off. The best players look like the woodwork. Just before contact they parted like waters and went to both sides of me, bracketing me hard. I felt hands as they slid by.

I am very aware of hands in this country. In Vietnam it is impolite and unseemly to touch strangers. Most people don't even observe the western custom shaking hands. Children will sometimes touch you as you walk by, out of childish curiosity at some one who looks nothing like them or theirs. Or they will run up from behind, touch you and flee. But they're just playing a game of "counting coup." They know it's naughty, but the fascination of foreigners overcomes their good manners. Or they might be pickpockets in training. But certainly an adult who touches you on the street is at least being disrespectful, and could be trying to get your goods.

So that morning in the market when I felt hands, my own right hand went instinctively to the small bag I carry on my hip, slung to my belt like a holster. My hand brushed a strange hand that instantly snapped away. At the same time my left hand, almost of its own accord, shot through an undulating press of bodies and grabbed a fistful of shirt front. The guy on my right melted into the crowd. But on my left I gave a tug and jerked the wearer of the shirt to front and center. I relieved him of my sunglasses. Maintaining my grip on his shirt I told him in no uncertain looks and tone that I would eat him without salt if he should make me his mark again.

At this point Bruce and Paul, having seen what happened in the brief encounter, came rushing to my aid, ready to help me pound the culprit into the dirt like a railroad spike. But I let the lad go, sent him back to school to study his lessons a little harder. After all, he had nothing of mine. And I had one of his shirt buttons. To my amazement I wasn't even angry with him. I felt no sense of outrage at the attempt on my person and property. I had no desire to haul the bad guy off the pokey and demand justice. I didn't thirst for his blood. Rather, I was jazzed. Yessss! I was pumped. I was mighty. I had won.

"Richard," Paul said. "That was beautiful. You caught that guy like a fly ball!"

And Bruce said, "Damn it! I want to catch one too!"

And so the sport of trolling for pickpockets came into being. We immediately set our hooks with bait: sunglasses, bank notes, pens, etc. hanging provocatively from our pockets. And then we went watchfully on patrol. Bruce was the first to bag one. He was a solo operator who foolishly went for Bruce's front pocket, the most easily defensible. Obviously a rank beginner, and Bruce should take no undue pride in hooking him. (You hear me, Bruce?) Bruce's response to the guy? No shirt grabbing or nasty looks of intimidation. Just an openhanded straight right to the chest. Doesn't sound like much, but Bruce is a powerful man. It sent the cutpurse 3 or 4 steps back and almost onto his ass. A troupe of cyclo (SEEK-low, a Vietnamese pedicab) drivers lounging nearby saw the encounter and nearly rolled on the ground laughing. Cyclo drivers are poor, and nightclub entertainments are beyond their means. But Bruce had amused them mightily. So much so that they wanted more. Knowing who some of the local pickpockets were, they encouraged them to try their wiles on us. We all bagged our limit, and by mid afternoon the Ben Than market was cleansed of pickpockets, and the people were secure.

Paul had the most dramatic capture. As we were new to the game we didn't know that skillful players can get through even the strongest lines of defense in the forms of buttons, zippers, locks, etc. Only the most alert vigilance is proof against a good player. The brotherhood of cutpurses and pickpockets even has a saying on the subject: "You can't steal a man's goods when he's thinking about them."

Paul carries his expensive camera in a holster with velcro, buttons and a zipper to secure it. Seems safe. But a senior member of the opposing team actually got through the defenses, grabbed the camera and was on the lam by the time Paul realized what was up. He gave chase with a hue and cry. Bruce and I followed about 20 paces behind. We ran passed the cyclo drivers, who cheered us on. We ran passed the fabric merchants who cursed us for the disruption. Rounding a corner into the food stalls Paul was closing in when the thief lost his breath, or heart for the chase, or just slipped on a banana peel. He went crashing into a stall selling deep fried spring rolls. His impact knocked over a huge wok full of bubbling hot oil, which spilled down his back, across his ass and down his thighs. In an instant he was airborne. Almost before his feet touched the ground he was gone in a flash, leaving behind Paul's camera, the echoes of his screams, and a curious odor reminiscent of deep fried pork skins.

Crowned with many victories we repaired to our digs at the Prince hotel, at that time a favorite of backpackers and other budget travelers such as we were on that occasion. We told everyone then gathered in the bar of our exploits. But they were not amused or impressed. A pious Swede even scolded us. "You shouldn't do that," he complained. "These people are poor!"

"And they're gonna stay that way if they try to make a living out of our pockets," Bruce said.

"But they're socialists!" the Swede cried.

"Huh? What? Socialist thieves?" Paul wondered aloud.

"Socialists! the man reiterated, trying to get it through to us why it was a bad thing to toy with commie crooks.

"Hey," I asked him, "with that kind of individual initiative and free enterprise spirit, wouldn't that make them capitalists?"

The Swede shook his head in despair. The backpackers shifted uncomfortably in their printed T-shirts and Indian made cotton pajama style trousers. They tugged at their blond dreadlocks and stared into their watery budget beer and thin herbal teas.

Note to players: Don't share this game with backpackers or Swedes. They have no fire in the belly. Australians make good players. Any nation that has an annual dwarf-tossing contest will make good players. Texans and Yorkshiremen are good for trolling. As are Nepalis, especially if they have a bit of Ghurka background. I spent a pleasant afternoon last week with a guy from Ghana. He told me that he plays the game at home! (I guess it's like the wheel: been invented many times.) I suppose it's not so much where people come from that counts the most. It's that gleam in their eye that tells you who will make a player.

Now I don't want you to get the idea that Saigon is a dangerous place. In fact it's one of the safest cities you can visit. Far safer than SF, LA or NY. It is almost devoid of violent crime. I can nearly guarantee that you won't get shot in Saigon (unless it's by the authorities); that you will not get raped (unless you pay some one to do it); that you will not be hit on the head and your poke pinched, you won't be kidnapped, murdered, stabbed, gassed, poisoned or fed bad food. This is generally a non-violent society. The criminal urge is expressed in the con, the counterfeit, the card sharp, the stock swindle, the pickpocket and the cutpurse.

Now there are exceptions to every rule, and one of them hangs out near my hotel. I've recognized him as a player and a mean sort, too. We've never spoken but we have exchanged some hostile glances as I've passed by his station. We know each other, and we both know we know. A few days ago he made an attempt on me as I made my way home.

I was hot and tired and in no mood to play. For the first time in all my encounters I got angry. As soon as I felt him make his move I wheeled around and threw up my fists in a proper boxing stance and challenged him to "try it again if you dare, you SOB!" At the same instant he assumed a Kung Fu type pose, curled up with one foot off the ground, ready to release a kick. We had a stand off for about two or three seconds, and we had begun to draw attention when I decided that he had just rendered a good performance. Most pickpockets would have slunk away at the prospect of a punch in the nose. I laughed and offered him my hand, and we shook. Then I turned to go and the creep tried me again! I swung around to backhand him, but by then he was gone. Fast man. Dangerous player. But I still won.

In playing the game the ideal conclusion to any encounter is so subtle that only you and your fish know that it happened. You troll through a market or fair or promenade where you know that they school. Your baited hook is out, not to obviously but temptingly. (And of course you're not carrying anything you can't afford to lose.) Your senses are heightened. You see, hear, and even smell with intense acuity. You are very much alive to all around you. You watch for any unusual or sudden movement, especially at the periphery of your vision. You listen for sounds of breathing and the rustle of clothing or bags, or the soft footfalls that tell you it's about to happen. But most of all your sense of touch is so acute that you can feel odors afloat on the air. You're aware of the slightest change in temperature. You know the texture, weight and fit of your clothing. For it's your tactile faculties that will most likely tell you that the hand is at your pocket and you've just hooked your fish.

You now have one, maybe two seconds at most, to win the game. That's not much time, but it's you that have the advantage of surprise. Your quarry doesn't know that you've been lying in wait for him. He thinks you're easy pickings. So now! Wheel around! Make your move small and without show, but make it sudden and swift, for the fright it will give him. Grab for the wrist whose hand has your bait and hold firmly because he may try to bolt. The trick is not to wrestle with him, but to make eye contact as soon as possible. Nine times out of ten it will make him freeze. He knows the jig is up, might even realize he's been had. And being the non-violent, non-confrontational sort that he is, he submits. You hold him for a second or two, just for emphasis. And just to appreciate his racing pulse. Then you quietly let him go. Just catch and release. He'll scurry off to hide somewhere, or perhaps to be cuffed and scolded by his master who watching from a fair vantage point. Score one for the visitors. Yesss!

There is one class of pickpocket that bears warning of. He is the same type that provided the English woman in the 333 hotel with her leg cast. He is known as a "Cowboy." He rides a motorbike with an accomplice passenger behind known as "the snatch." They ride up alongside you, usually from behind, and grab whatever protrudes, then they're off across town. Because of their speed, power and clever tactics they are the worst you'll ever go up against. The trick with them is simply to step aside as they pass and let the snatch grab nothing but air.

But when a cowboy and his snatch made their move upon the English woman she was feeling cocky, and thought she could drop the snatch to the ground by hanging on tight to her boodle. But at 3:00 AM and full of drink she was in no shape for combat. They dragged her for a few yards until she let go and slammed into a tree. She cursed them loudly, and if their feelings were hurt thereby it would be a good thing. Now she plots a better game, while the cowboy and his snatch live well.

In all my years in Southeast Asia I never once personally encountered a cowboy. Until last week. I was in a cyclo driven by a guy I hire often. He's a good guy with a sense of humor and we get along well. I can't pronounce his name, nor he mine, so I call him Joe. He calls me Kieu. I don't know if my spelling is correct, and he can't tell me because he's illiterate, but I'm sure it's close enough.

We had stopped at an intersection for a traffic light. The light was just about to turn green, and I could feel Joe taking a strain on the pedals of his cyclo, preparing for the mad free-for-all that Saigon traffic is. Cars, motorbikes and cyclos lined up behind us were doing the same.

I am blessed with good vision. It's 20/10, which means that I can see twice as far as most people. I'm also just an observant sort of guy. Most writers are. I saw to my right on the cross street, and heading into the intersection, a red and white motorbike driven by a T shirt clad man, and another riding pillion. The one on the rear was looking straight at me and hollering something to the driver. No alarms tripped until I saw him suddenly bank left and accelerate into the turn. The computer in my head that does idle geometry and lead computations as I observe moving objects ran a quick calculation on the bike's curve. It wasn't heading for the middle of the opposite lane. It was heading for a close encounter with moi. A cowboy and his snatch, at last! My time, rate and distance computer was now running millisecond updates. I had three seconds till impact.

One Mississippi...

The snatch's eyes are locked on me, watching intently for dangers and opportunities. I know if I make any move of preparation or defense he will abort his run. I keep my face forward, watching from behind dark lenses. Joe's cyclo lurches into movement. I have to know what the snatch is going to go for. I have to know ahead of time in order to make my move quickly enough.

Two Mississippi...

I've got a shopping bag at my feet, some miscellaneous stuff hanging out of my shirt pocket, a leather folder on my lap. Wearing no jewelry. So he's got three options. But I can't tell where his focus is. Damn! This is going to be close. Look to his grab hand. It's open and ready, waist level and rising. So it won't be the shopping bag. I'm holding stone still. He's closing fast and on schedule. There! I can see his eyes. I can see the whites of them.

Three...

He seems to be looking me in the eyes. Is he going for my shades? They'll steal anything, if only just for practice. I can hear the cowboy's engine; he's still winding up, accelerating. They'll make the grab and be gone in a heartbeat.

Miss...

There! I see it: the vector of the snatch's hand and eye. He's going for my hat! The bastard! My $80 hand woven in Ecuador genuine Panama hat! That changes the whole game. It's one thing to nick a man's brief case, but his hat is just too damned personal. He who steals my purse steals trash; but who messes with my hat gets punished.

issi...

So now I want to hurt him. But how? I could stiff-arm the driver and spill them both onto the pavement. But they're coming too fast, I could dislocate my shoulder. His hand is up for the grab and I've got to decide. I could spit in his eye. But I might miss. Never been a good spitter. I could have tossed the shopping bag at their heads, but there's no time now. Head butt them? Scratch at their eyes? Call 'em names?

POW!

I high fived the snatch as hard as I could. I know it was solid because it stung my own hand like frenzy. The force and surprise rotated the snatch's body counter clockwise around the axis of his spine more than 90 degrees. The motion translated the speeding vehicle's forward momentum into one wild and crazy ride. The driver almost lost it to the right, overcompensated to the left and straight into oncoming traffic. He slalomed back and forth across both lanes for 100 yards, the snatch screaming and cursing like a jilted Latina all the way.

Both Joe and I laughed our heads off. "How do you like that, you SOBs?" I hollered after them, waving my hat. "I win, you bastards! I win!"

"You win, Kieu! You win!" Joe shouted and laughed.

Joe didn't know precisely what game I had been playing, but it was abundantly clear to him that I had won. Hands down.