We watched them work in groups of two and three—slinking around the railroad platform like feral cats in search of prey. Their movements were well-rehearsed. Occasionally, they swapped shirts or changed clothes to alter their appearance.
“They’re a pickpocket gang,” my youngest son told me as he scrolled through his phone. “Probably from Nigeria; I looked it up on the internet.”
“That’s awesome,” I said sarcastically.
We were stranded in Bari, which is a port city in Southern Italy that is situated along the Adriatic coast. My wife and I were travelling to Rome with our three kids and somehow missed the train. Tensions were high and our moods were dark because the next one wasn’t scheduled to arrive for six hours.
The late summer heat was unbearable, so we lounged on a bench near the railroad platform in the shade of a large stone pine. We entertained ourselves by watching the hoodlums go about the dirty business of trying to separate tourists from their hard-earned possessions. It was like watching a well-choreographed dance.
We noticed that they had several modes of operation: One method was to find an unsuspecting tourist and then create a distraction. While they were distracted, one of the gangsters would swoop in and try to swipe their luggage. Another method was to bump into someone while quickly and delicately lifting the wallet from their pocket.
When we figured out what they were doing, we began to warn the other tourists. This went on for more than an hour until they noticed that we were watching them.
At the station
“I see you,” said my oldest son, as one of the hoodlums walked by. He scowled at us and whispered something to his friend.
“Knock it off, Noah, we don’t need any trouble,” I warned him.
“Alright, I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”
As Noah walked towards the restroom, one of the gang members passed by and bumped into him. Instead of avoiding the collision, Noah leaned into it like a defensive back and sent him stumbling backward. The hoodlum immediately sprung back as if he was ready to fight. He was seething and his fists were clenched in anger. Before we knew it, our family was surrounded by a dozen pissed-off gangsters.
“What’s your problem?” The thug shouted in a thick accent. He was livid and spit sprayed from his mouth.
“What’s your problem?” The thug shouted in a thick accent. He was livid and spit sprayed from his mouth. He pushed his chest out and flexed his muscles as if he were ready to pounce. Sweat rings surrounded the neck and armpits of his light blue T-shirt.
I stood up and motioned for my boys to do the same, in case things got ugly. The last thing that I wanted was for us to be attacked while sitting down.
Just then, another man knelt beside my wife. He looked like he was the leader of the gang. “Do you need a taxi?” He asked.
“What the hell would I need a taxi for?” Lisa asked as she fiddled with the money belt that was hidden beneath her shirt. “I’m waiting for a train!”
“They’re trying to get us to leave the station,” I responded. “Then they can jump us when the police aren’t around.”
As Lisa continued to verbally spar with the leader, I became distracted by his appearance. At first glance, he seemed normal. But then, upon further inspection, I noticed that his skin was covered with bumps and boils. They glistened in the sun as perspiration streamed down his face. He did not look healthy.
“He looks sick, Dad,” my son Tye whispered. “We don’t want to mess with these guys. They might be contagious.”
Our conversation was becoming more animated with each passing moment. While this was taking place, we didn’t notice that a woman had sat next to Lisa and was slowly scooting closer to her. “Get away from me!” she shouted and slid in the opposite direction.
In one motion, the female gang member pivoted her body in a clockwise direction until she came to a kneeling position in front of Lisa. She was hovering above the purse that was sitting on the ground beside Lisa. She peered into the bag and examined its contents. Before the woman could make a move, Lisa snatched her purse from the ground and pulled it to her chest like a blanket.
“Do you need a taxi?” The woman asked ominously.
Just then I noticed an Italian police officer walking along the railroad platform. Without hesitation, I grabbed Lisa’s hand and shouted to the kids. “Let’s go.” We pushed our way through the crowd and fled towards the station.
The gangs
The interior of the station was quite small, with white tile covering the floor. It was a square box with doors opening out on three sides and a bank of ticket windows lining the fourth. There was no official waiting area, so we plopped ourselves down on the floor and created our own.
The cold tile gave us some relief from the scorching heat outside. The most important thing was that we were safe. There was a police officer standing by the door and another one inside.
“I was looking on the internet, and it said that the gangs around here are involved in human trafficking,” my son Tye said out loud to no one in particular. “They work with the Mafia, and they mostly target teenage girls.”
“Hannah, get between us,” I said to my 13-year-old daughter. We made space for her to sit in the corner and circled around her for protection.
“You guys are so embarrassing!” she said as she rolled her eyes.
As we waited for our train to arrive, I noticed a well-dressed man looking at us through the open doorway. He was tall and thin and wore an English flat cap. In spite of the heat, he wore a tweed blazer that was slightly too small for him. His boney wrists poked out of his sleeves like hot dogs that were too long for the bun. He was talking to one of the gangsters and motioned in our direction. It looked like he was the boss.
We watched the gang come and go for the next few hours. They would stop and get directions from the well-dressed man and then scurry away to carry out their dastardly plans. Several times, they walked through the inside of the train station and smiled as they walked by—just to remind us that they were patiently waiting outside. It appeared that we were locked in a waiting game.
“Can you help us?” Lisa asked as she pulled herself to her feet. She explained to one of the police officers what had happened to us. She told him that the gang was waiting outside and that we were afraid to leave.
The officer asked for our passports and recorded their contents in a small book that he kept on the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, he went outside and had a conversation with the well-dressed man. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they spoke for several minutes. When they were done, the boss frowned at us and walked away.
Leaving Bari
As the time passed and the day grew long, sightings of the gang became less frequent. Only occasionally did we see them walk by or look in our direction. At 4 p.m., we decided to make a run for it. Our train was scheduled to arrive at 4:05 and we didn’t want to miss it again. My wife and I both grabbed our daughter by her hands and made our way out the door as our oldest son led and the younger one followed.
We were shocked that there was no one waiting outside for us. “Maybe we won the game?” I thought. Just in case we were wrong, we quickened our pace. We rushed down the stairs and through the tunnel that led to the platform on the other side of the tracks. Our luggage bumped up and down and side to side like bumper cars at a county fair.
The other tourists looked at us like we were lunatics. We expected to get jumped at any moment, so we kept our heads on a swivel as we climbed the stairs on the other side. We reached the platform just as the train arrived. The doors opened and we bolted inside and collapsed into our seats.
When the doors closed and the train began to move, I spotted one of the hoodlums on the other side of the tracks. It was the same guy that Noah had bumped in to earlier in the day. He saw me looking at him and our eyes locked. He raised his arm and made a fist. Then he stuck out his middle finger. I returned the gesture and watched him fade into the distance as our train headed north.
We have never returned to Bari.
«RELATED READ» TOUGH BUT REWARDING: Drawing parallels between meditation and a journey through Africa»
image 1 Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash 2 Image from Pxfuel 3 Other images courtesy of author
