Beggars, Buskers, Hookers & Street Traders


Here she is ladies and gentlemen!
Rome's richest woman.


Begging woman ©Lake Photography 1998


BEGGARS

BUSKERS

HOOKERS

TRADERS

OPPORTUNISTS

POLITICS

SUBWAY

SUPERSTITION

CHURCH

CORRUPTION


Well, she's probably got a lot more ready dosh than I have. It's hard to resist her isn't it? She was invisible until she suddenly struck like a snake, lurching towards us from the shadows at the side of the street. Her face is completely hidden under her hood, and she walks uncertainly so she could be blind. She has a walking stick and limps, so she could be lame. She's dressed in black rags, so she could be a poor widow. Her voice is an almost inaudible hiss, so she's probably terribly ill. Her hands are wrinkled and she walks with a stoop, so she must be incredibly old. She hobbles straight up to you and shoves the begging-bowl right in your face! And I would like to believe her - But it's difficult, for unfortunately, she is just one of hundreds of such characters who buzz like flies round Rome's tourist-congested city-centre.

Being fortunate enough to be born in England, it’s hard for us to know how to react to such widescale scenes of begging and poverty as there are in Rome. It’s not in our cold self-righteous Protestant culture to easily find a place for beggars in our heart. It’s difficult to know what to do. Sometimes it is morally heart-rending to see these people, yet statistically, while many are genuine cases of poverty-stricken cripples and aged unemployables without pensions, many of them are merely rogues and opportunist ne’er-do-wells who prefer begging and stealing to working.
There is a terrific range of style and technique amongst beggars, ranging from the comic to the tragic. The woman pictured above is a hard-working beggar, a real pro, keeping on the move all day, conscientiously working the streets in and around Piazza Navona. Though her clothes are old and simple, they are not bad quality and appear quite clean. She does not smell. She is conscious of her image as the classic Mediteranean beggar with almost Biblical overtones and presents herself with just as much style as a street performer; She is really a bit of an actress and it has to be admitted that she contributes greatly to the local colour. She’s good value.
There are other beggars who simply lie across the pavement, haggard and filthy, looking at death’s door. These are the most upsetting - Are they really dying?
Others take up regular stations around the city; On my way to work every morning I pass a middle-aged gentleman who stands in the doorway of a church passively holding his begging-bowl under the noses of priests and early-morning mass communicants. He is quite well dressed, looks clean and cultured with well-groomed hair and has the manner of a librarian or civil-servant to him. Remove his begging bowl and you would never suspect that this is how he makes his living. Yet he stands quietly staring down at his feet with an expression of utter self-hatred. Surely this presentable and intelligent looking man can find something less demeaning and soul-damaging to do with his life?
If I approach my place of work from the other side of the block I pass an equally well-dressed middle-aged woman in a smart summer dress every morning, who sits on a low wall, wailing loudly and weeping real tears holding both arms outstretched with her bowl to passers by. How can she find strength to go through this strenuous theatrical routine every day?

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The most annoying beggars are on the subway. There seem to be no public transport bye-laws prohibiting begging and busking on the trains as there are on London Underground, and if there are, then like every other law in Italy short of the prohibition of murder, they are not enforced. Beggars and buskers work the subway trains, getting on at stops, working their way through each carriage before alighting to catch another train. One woman in particular claims to be a Bosnian refugee (she displays her passport in her begging bowl). She gets on the train with one or two small children, flings herself to her knees, and with her face drawn and lined in bottomless grief, bewails her hunger and misfortune. The children pass through the carriage collecting coins in a McDonalds paper cup, or slouch on the floor picking their noses. What kind of childhood is this? They’re obviously not in school.
As this tragic woman gets off the train and onto the platform, the granite mask of grief suddenly leaves her face as she notices a couple of guys who appear (by their uniforms) to be railway employees . She goes up to them and they all have a good laugh together. She’s probably throwing it to them behind the ticket office in return for a blind eye turned to her begging exploits. But who knows? - I thought only high-class hookers made the time to share a joke with their johns. From my own sheltered corner of the world I'm either naively wrong or else this woman is a real pro.
Feel sorry for her if you like. Or praise her for her diligent resourcefulness in providing a crust of bread for her kids. And be happy for her that she was able to escape from the horrors of war-torn former Yugoslavia. Me? I just get angry at the uncaring hypocrisy of a system of civic government which allows, constrains and even encourages people to live this way within its 'hallowed' walls: One might expect such savage negligence of government in cities of more eastern longitudes and southern latitudes, but it rather appears that Rome, while lauding itself as the geographical and spiritual centre of Christianity, is more truthfully to be found at the demographic and geographical extremities of that faith's European dominion, where grace, truth, charity, human dignity and liberty of conscience lie in as ever sparser deposits as water lies at the geographical extremites of a monsoon belt.
Rome makes plenty of room for beggars but affords them no dignity, lasting assistance or anything resembling 'a leg up'. Rome and the Church of Rome make themselves look good and feel better about themselves by opening their arms and welcoming helpless dependent refugees, migrant workers and beggars into the community; But by providing no real assistance and taking no responsibility for such, it can make this grand gesture of refuge and asylum on the cheap.
As all Machiavellians have discovered, a little philanthropy yields the greater monopoly.

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Their are numerous buskers who also board the trains - accordion players, guitarists or Peruvian nose-flautists doing their Paul Simon world-music bit. There’s even an Asian gentleman who does conjuring tricks (with English commentary) He’s so bad, he’s a scream!
Concerned to reach an ever wider audience, most busking musicians now carry electric amplifiers cunningly built into rucksacks to give true concert-hall sound to their performances. It’s a thoroughly aggravating din. They play a couple of numbers before passing through the commuters with the mandatory McDonalds cup. No matter what the act of the day is, everyone always puts something in the cup.
I am astounded at the lack of public resistance to these tiresome opportunists. An occasional busker can be a charming embellishment to the hustle and bustle of city life, an oasis of art in a concrete jungle, yet it must be acknowledged that the busker is operating outside of the system. Much of the enjoyment of art and music lies in its being a passive experience for the imbiber; From the rich spectrum of art and music, we can choose what we wish to view or listen to. If I am to pay to listen to music, I will buy a CD, and it’s okay on the radio ‘cos you can turn it off.
But the fact that the source of music heard in the street or on the train is a live performance by the musician himself makes it no more meritorious than if it were coming from a ghetto-blaster at inappropriately high volume in a public place; it is a nuisance to either you, me or a fourth party, and as such, unless I am enjoying it, I am not morally obliged to subsidise its continuance.

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Prostitution is also rife, and not restricted to one particular area or even the hours of darkness; There are roads on the outskirts of Rome where girls will stand in broad daylight plying their trade. To be fair to Italian women though, most street-girls are immigrants.

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Next on the list are the unlicensed street-traders, usually Africans or Asian and far-eastern-looking types who carry little portable stalls in a sack or a large folding wooden tray. The Africans usually sell the big stuff like African wood carvings or hats and handbags. The Asian and eastern guys prefer to deal in trinkets, watches and jewellery.
They all pitch out on the sidewalk wherever they can until someone spots a policeman and they all run off with their wares. I can’t see how they can make a living off this, but I suppose it’s better than risking their lives everyday living in some of the politically murderous holes in they’ve come from (Ruanda, Somalia, etc) so I’m happy for them that they’ve at least escaped that. Some of them sell quite nice stuff as well and most of them are usually jolly decent chaps.

Ancient rose-seller outside the Pantheon. In England we've not seen this kind of thing since the middle-ages. In Italy it's been going on like this since the middle-ages. Where's her pension? Where's her sheltered housing?


But some street-traders seem upsettingly unimaginative and unproductive - There are guys who go around all day with nothing to sell but a tiny bag of garlic heads which they wave in your face, or a handful of plastic cigarette lighters, or folding umbrellas if it’s raining. Okay, so they don’t have overheads - They live in large squats or sub-letted apartments, ten families in one room, taking it in turns to go out on the street with the merchandise each day while someone else stays home to mind the children.
But what a waste of energy! How many heads of garlic is he gonna sell each day? Ten maximum? (I never see him sell any) For what? 50 cents each? Five dollars a day? Three quid? Twenty quid a week? What’s the point? What a waste of manpower! Don’t they get depressed, frustrated by such a way of life? Surely there’s a higher paying job than that somewhere in Rome? How can someone just piss their life away walking around with a bag of five garlic-heads all day every day! It would hurt my very soul.
I know that I’m privileged, and that but for the grace of God, I would be in their shoes (and probably will be one day), but from where I’m standing now I can’t comprehend the mindset of these people.

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There are other more industrious street people. For instance, most petrol (gas) stations are closed by seven or eight in the evening, leaving open only self-service pumps which accept five or ten thousand lire banknotes. Gas-station owners will allow one of these immigrant street-people to stay at the pumps all night to change customer’s money (if he has the correct change) for the machines or pump the gas for them. He is not paid for this, but makes a few dollars a night in tips.

Migrant worker sleeps it off in the shadow of Caesar's statue


On the Isola Tiberina (the island in the middle of the river in Rome) is a little old man who is the self-appointed parking attendant on Sundays. He has one of those iron riot-barriers that cities line up along pavements to hold back crowds whenever The Queen or Bruce Willis is in town. His is painted red, and he will fence off a vacant parking space with his little barrier and open it up for you in exchange for a couple of thousand lire (about 50p). For a couple of thousand more he will ‘keep an eye’ on your car. Or not, if you decide not to pay the extra two thousand.
At supermarkets there are also people who will ‘keep an eye’ on your car for you, for a small fee while you shop. Or they will stand at the supermarket exit and offer to push your trolley to your car for another small donation. I mean, do I look that stupid? Do I look like I have no arms to push it myself?

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These are just some of many extraordinary ways in which Italy’s people are co-erced into helping make some provision for the poor in their midst, without the State having to lift a finger. And the State doesn’t, for it is happy to let the well-meaning civilians of this superstitiously religious culture continue in their primitive methods of barter and charity or else believe themselves to be damned.
For instance, everyone is quietly afraid of gypsies, for they are believed to possess black-magic powers, and will curse you with ‘the evil eye’ if you do not give them a handout. Thanks in great part to such ancient superstition and fervent fatalistic religiosity, beggars and buskers can make a decent (if degrading) living in Rome at the expense of gullible citizens and visitors hoping to avoid supernatural retribution or to lessen their time spent in purgatory.

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If the authorities outlawed and properly policed beggars, then they would be obliged to provide employment or financial aid and housing for them. So it is cheaper to let them remain on the streets, trusting to the superstitious generosity of a tax-paying public which for centuries has been emotionally blackmailed by the Mother Church of Rome into never sending a beggar away empty handed, while the church itself receives tax immunity from the State. It’s a cosy relationship.

A lot of vagrant street-life is caused by political problems: When I first visited Rome in 1980, the streets were also full of beggars then, as well as much rubbish and scruffy buildings. When I returned in 1987 the beggars had all but disappeared and the city looked cleaner and smarter. However, ten years later in 1998 the beggars are back, more numerous than ever, although Rome is currently swathed in scaffolding and intense road-works and renovation as the city pours in billions of lire to its massive smartening-up program in time for the big millennium bash in 2000, when millions of people from around the world will descend on the Vatican to celebrate two thousand years of organised Christian religion. This fluctuation in numbers of beggars is clearly indicative of successive changes in local government administration.


Sleeping rough in the porch of the Pantheon

The problem lies with the City of Rome itself: The beggars well know that Rome is a magnet for devout Roman Catholics wishing to visit the Vatican and all its associated historical sites of interest. They know that a good Catholic tourist is a soft touch for charity. The civic authorities of Rome also know this. Therefore, rather than set up an effective system of social-security benefits and cheap lodging and help for down and outs and other unfortunates, it turns a blind eye to the homeless and disadvantaged on its streets, relying instead on you and I, the tourists to subsidise it’s underprivileged citizens.
If tourists in their millions suddenly stopped coming to Rome, most of the beggars (that tourism supports) would either leave Rome or get jobs. If they remained in Rome but continued to beg, the City authorities would then have to do something to support them out of it’s own coffers. But of course, this is unlikely to ever happen.

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The Church itself (ie, the Vatican) enjoys a most profitable relationship with the city authorities. For as far back as anyone can remember, Rome and the Vatican are one and the same and indistinguishable in terms of who is really running Rome.


The Priestie Boys. As it has done for a thousand years, Rome continues to draw countless thousands of seminarists, nuns and pilgrims of all types through its hallowed streets each year - a soft touch for beggars and souvenir sellers.


Though the church no longer exercises the power it had a few hundred years ago to extract vast amounts of money from every individual in the western world, (on pain of excommunication or death), today it still wields the power to attract a no lesser amount of revenue from tourism to Rome together with rents and leases on some of the most fabulous residential and commercial real-estate on earth.
Yet the church wears a weary face. It claims to have no money. ‘How can we have money, when we are just a church, sustained only from charitable donations from good Christian souls?’ it will surely cry when pressed on the subject.
Thus, such institutions that the Vatican puts it’s name behind and calls charitable missionary endeavours, such as The Hospital of the Infant Jesus, (Rome’s equivalent of London’s Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children) are shabby, clamorous, understaffed affairs, where children’s parents are instructed to stay overnight with their children because of a lack of nursing staff, and must provide their own knife and fork from home, because the hospital is too underfunded to purchase any cutlery! Crap!

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The City and the Vatican combined make Rome the richest city on earth. But corruption in high places has milked public funds dry, and as has always been the case, the City lets the Vatican play front-man as the bleeding heart mother church who can offer nothing certain in this life to tourist, beggar or pilgrim but a benediction from The Man himself, a cup of cold water from the marble fountains and a little ‘indulgence’ courtesy of the whores on the Lungotevere San Paulo.
Meanwhile the begging, the sleeping rough, the busking, the pick-pocketing, the prostitution, the obstructive and impotent bureaucracy, the half-hearted policing and the lousy public services continue.
And the fat cats running the City of Rome quietly pocket the cash which should be earmarked for public services and welfare, turn their backs on the situation, and instead run a guilt trip on hard-working citizens of Rome and you the tourist to dig into your pockets to solve the city’s unemployed and homeless problem.

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