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Here she is ladies
and gentlemen - Rome's richest woman...
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.
Beggars, Buskers,
Hookers & Street Traders
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 at which 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 these politically murderous holes 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 are mostly jolly decent chaps.
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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 this 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 millennium, 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 they keep a
low profile so as not to look too well off. Much as they'd love
to build Manhattan-style skyscrapers, they know that would take
the 'cuteness' out of Rome, so they desist from being too flash
with the cash.
However, 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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