Tourism Turning Children into Beggars

So often when tourists come to developing countries, they want to help. They come to volunteer or donate or whatnot with good wishes. Yet , more often, these good intentions turn bad. For example, when people start giving money and presents to children. When this starts, it created a dependency. Children learn by behavior. They learn that if they look sad and poor, white people will give them money. They start begging. They don’t want to work if they can get their money from tourists. A good beggar can make more in a day then many people can make in a week. The circle begins. More beggars pop up because the kid tells his friends. Now there is a whole population of children that have dropped out of school, and won’t work because they are begging. Giving them money will not help them, this is the worse thing you can do.



The other day I went to a volcano that is flooded with tourists. When you get off the bus a swarm of at least 20 children gather around you to try to sell you a walking stick. Some sell you a stick for 1 Q some for 5Q or 10 Q if they can get it out of you. At any rate, these sticks aren’t going home with you anyway, so at the end of the day the kid gets his stick back. This is begging. These kids should be in school, not trying to sell sticks. If you buy their sticks you are reaffirming their reliance on tourism. You are not helping them to gain career skills or get educated. If everyone stopped buying sticks because they feel sorry for the poor kids they could go back to school or go back to their families.

I saw one white girl giving all of the kids money. They weren’t even asking for it. She was going up behind them, tapping them on the shoulder and giving them money. Now these children have learned white faces give money. I know the girl was just trying to be nice, but it turns the children into beggars. This is a sad fate. There are other ways to help; donate to schools, play soccer with a group of kids, read the kids a book, visit someone’s home. Don’t give “gifts” that will only hurt a child’s future.

Most people just give beggars money because they look scary and they want them to leave them alone, or stop following them. In India you have to pay to be in silence and alone. The beggars follow you, poking you, wretchedly crooning baksheesh, baksheesh, baksheesh. It is a lot easier to just give them a handful of change then to be confronted with poverty. Poverty is hard to look at, and giving money seems like instant relief. People think, “Oh, I did a good thing. God bless me.” People really need to look deeper into the ramifications of their actions. Tourists make children into beggars, not poverty.

Gypsies in Portugal

I have a thing for gypsies. I studied gypsy mythology and witchcraft a little as a teenager which started my lust for these wandering peoples. I had a brief robbery experience with a gypsy woman on a bus in Italy, danced with gypsies across sand dunes in India; and sat with gypsies selling their wares in Portugal. These people intrigue me.

(A Gypsy mans playing an accordian in the streets of Portugal)

The tourist filled streets of Lisbon are lined with gypsies, sparing change, playing accordians; selling knick-knacks, and doing circus tricks. Anything to make a buck.

(Wade carrying his gypsy pack on his back)

The gypsies stand out with their long skinny fqces with dark, handsome features, old time head scarfs, full colorful skirts, gypsy jigs, up-beat music, and minstrel tricks. These nomadic artisans have somehow kept their culture alive through the ages, as if their decorated caravans are time machines swimming through centuries untouched.

No worries, and everyday is a new day, starting and ending without a cent, but the whole world is open to roaming. I am intrigued by their philosophy and their ability to move so freely.

The Hobo and The Swiss Army Fairy

The Swiss Army Knife is an extremely useful, compact tool. To show this Wade and I have created a video in rebuttal to UberTramp's post on how stupid the Swiss Army Knife is.

The Home Bum's Saga

September 28, 2007

I have realized a common trend in my life, bums, or the homeless, the disheveled, whatever you would like to call them, are attracted to me. If a lunatic is walking down the street, he may not notice anyone else, but to me, there is always a something. Sometimes when I spot one I think,” Oh, no, he’s headed my way, RUN!” I can get away easily if it is just a nod, but usually it is something more, a story, a proposition for change, and even sometimes an invitation for a date. This occurrence transcends all race and religion and creed, transpiring in all countries of the world. I am a weirdo magnet.

This morning while waiting for the Chinatown bus, one of these such occurrences took place. I was sitting on a newspaper, bag on my lap, minding my own business. Out of the corner of my eye I spot one fishtailing towards me. I pull out my book and begin staring at it blankly, attempting a decoy. Maybe if I look distracted I will be left alone.

He is a scruffy gray bearded man in a dirty red turtleneck and jeans. He squats down next to me. I think he is missing teeth, and his stale breath radiates from this ghastly hole. He begins his story, “Excuse me, miss, Do you have any change to spare? I am trying to get home to New York on the bus, but I don’t have my credit cards and I’m out of money. Anything will do.” I’ve heard this a million times. I appreciate the silliness of it all, knowing that he’s not going anywhere, and that I would do the same thing given the chance. Free money, who wants to work anyway? Knowing I have a few cents in my pocket I reach in and spill it across the pavement. I mumble, “I know it’s meager, but I ain’t got too much of it either.” He scoops up the measly coins, but is still squatting uncomfortably close. He continues, “Miss, if I am allowed to say, you are mighty beautiful, a very pretty lady. I like your shirt.”

“Thanks. This is the Hindu god Krishna.”

“Wow! You are something. Say, are you around this area often, because I sure do think you’re beautiful and on better days, when I trim my beard and am more clean cut I’m a quite handsome guy.”

I rejoice in my saving grace and raise the ring on my finger. “Sorry man, I’m already taken.”

“Well he is a very lucky man! You sure are something, so beautiful. That’s really too bad.”

He then proceeds to lean in as if trying to give me some sort of hug, and before I know it he kisses my cheek. I shudder as he walks away.

This “something” scenario seems to be a common phrase amongst the creatures who decide to engage me. They all think I have “something” unique, or glowing, or whatnot. What this “something” is I’m not so sure. Maybe I really do have a bum magnet.

However horrible this may seem, it is not always a curse. A week prior, I was returning from a job up around Buffalo on the greyhound. My bus got in a few hours late in the middle of the night. As I waited the hour it took my brother to pick me up, I sat on the corner of 11^th st and Filbert. I had quite a load, as I was once planning to move to this region of the U.S., and had previously stockpiled my gear at Wade’s house. This included a huge army surplus down sleeping bag, a super-man duffel bag, my army satchel, my cooler/lunchbox, and a shopping bag of food. These possessions were spread out along the sidewalk, converting my freakishly enormous sleeping bag into a chair. Since I had been doing archaeology my camo thermal shirt, blues jeans, and big work boots were still covered in dirt, grime, and body odor. I knew I looked a mess.

While I waited I estimate every bum and/or drug dealer within a 5 block radius approached me in some fashion or form. One tried to sell me a rack of obviously stolen CDs, one asked directions to a k-mart, a few just cat-called, and many others asked me if I was ok, or if I was so to speak, “on the street.”

Out of all the people who walked by this young girl (me), perched on a pile of possessions in the middle of a weeknight, it was only these people that asked if I needed help. Most of the “straight” people just walked by, trying not to stare, and turning the other cheek. For these people I was just another one of “them.”

All in all, I thank each and every one of those people who did come up and ask me if I needed help. Although these are the ones in our society who are shunned and shooed and hidden away, they also seem like ones who have there eyes open. They have a community, and a netting, a comraderie, giving aid to others in their situation, however meager it sometimes may be, even if it is only the comfort of moral support. There is a commonality that binds certain groups of people, and I think this is what is missing from a majority of our “modern” society. Reach out! And thanks again.