John Moffat
The Age (Australia)
John Moffat tries to stay ahead of the begging pack in Cambodia.
It begins as soon as I cross the Thai border. They're coming in waves, pecking at me from all directions like Hitchcock's birds. I'm caught off balance. In Thailand, apart from the occasional leper, beggars are not nearly as common as they once were. But I'm shedding Thai baht like a snake shedding its skin, only much faster.
Grimy, snotty-nosed and bedraggled, they're as relentless as little machines. Are they in fact tiny cyborgs, wound up and unleashed on unsuspecting tourists? This is my first taste of Cambodian urchin power.
There are older beggars - landmine victims and amputees from any number of Cambodia's agonised writhings, also difficult to ignore - but they are usually independent operators. In contrast, the urchins hunt in packs and, as with any pack animal, there seems to be an almost telepathic co-ordination of their efforts to bring down their prey.
They are well-disciplined and ruthless. For instance, when I find myself being run to ground in Phnom Penh, I try, in rising desperation, to divert my tormentors onto the trail of another, much more affluent-looking, prospect: "What's wrong with him? He must have lots of money."
It doesn't work. Only one member of the pack breaks away to harry the new target, but quickly loses interest and returns to resume his part in my gradual but certain grinding down. They know, probably instinctively, not to dissipate their force but to maintain a laser-like focus - on me.
The undisputed ringleader is a tough little nut of about eight. Her hair is matted, she wears a tattered dress and has a mucousy infant perched on her hip. The child, probably a borrowed prop, stares at me like an adder. Nice touch. Does aggressive urchin training begin in the delivery room?
The girl switches him from hip to hip with the adroitness of a mother as I affect changes of pace and side-steps to try to get around her. Her monotonously repeated entreaty is like a hypnotic mantra - "One dollar all round," she says, a circular motion of her little hand stirring the air above her. This is made to sound extremely reasonable; it's not as though I'm being asked to part with a dollar per head - an American dollar, I might add. "One dollar all round. We leave you alone." Aha! The naked truth, straight from her mouth: this is little more than protection money.
But I already knew that, and I'll be damned if I'm going to pay.
However, there is no sign of any let-up. We've travelled at least 300 metres in a tight, Keystone Cop-like little group. I've crossed the road to try to shake them. The traffic scares me but has little effect on them. I have a surreal vision of them packed into the seats beside me on the flight back to Australia. "One dollar all around. OK? You pay?"
Denial begins to evaporate. They've got me. I know it; they know it. I'm a trapped rat. But I'm not going down without a fight. I can play hard ball, too.
Anything can be haggled over here, including the price of protection. I reckon I can get away from them for half a dollar, but to go below a dollar means leaving the de facto currency and dealing in the official currency - not nearly as prized but it will do at a pinch. This is no problem for them; they can do instant currency conversions - dollar, riel, baht, whatever.
"Will you leave me alone for 2000 riel?" This is the moment of truth. The bull faces the sword; the matador faces the horns. Our little group has stopped dead. All eyes are on the leader. She thinks. Her dark little eyes are well into the thousand-yard stare.
"Yes," she finally says. The wave of relief that washes over me makes me feel utterly ridiculous. I hand her the notes. "Thank you very much," she says, as sweetly as a southern belle. So sweetly, in fact, that I hand her the other half-dollar.
She smiles, and it is the smile of the conqueror.
It begins as soon as I cross the Thai border. They're coming in waves, pecking at me from all directions like Hitchcock's birds. I'm caught off balance. In Thailand, apart from the occasional leper, beggars are not nearly as common as they once were. But I'm shedding Thai baht like a snake shedding its skin, only much faster.
Grimy, snotty-nosed and bedraggled, they're as relentless as little machines. Are they in fact tiny cyborgs, wound up and unleashed on unsuspecting tourists? This is my first taste of Cambodian urchin power.
There are older beggars - landmine victims and amputees from any number of Cambodia's agonised writhings, also difficult to ignore - but they are usually independent operators. In contrast, the urchins hunt in packs and, as with any pack animal, there seems to be an almost telepathic co-ordination of their efforts to bring down their prey.
They are well-disciplined and ruthless. For instance, when I find myself being run to ground in Phnom Penh, I try, in rising desperation, to divert my tormentors onto the trail of another, much more affluent-looking, prospect: "What's wrong with him? He must have lots of money."
It doesn't work. Only one member of the pack breaks away to harry the new target, but quickly loses interest and returns to resume his part in my gradual but certain grinding down. They know, probably instinctively, not to dissipate their force but to maintain a laser-like focus - on me.
The undisputed ringleader is a tough little nut of about eight. Her hair is matted, she wears a tattered dress and has a mucousy infant perched on her hip. The child, probably a borrowed prop, stares at me like an adder. Nice touch. Does aggressive urchin training begin in the delivery room?
The girl switches him from hip to hip with the adroitness of a mother as I affect changes of pace and side-steps to try to get around her. Her monotonously repeated entreaty is like a hypnotic mantra - "One dollar all round," she says, a circular motion of her little hand stirring the air above her. This is made to sound extremely reasonable; it's not as though I'm being asked to part with a dollar per head - an American dollar, I might add. "One dollar all round. We leave you alone." Aha! The naked truth, straight from her mouth: this is little more than protection money.
But I already knew that, and I'll be damned if I'm going to pay.
However, there is no sign of any let-up. We've travelled at least 300 metres in a tight, Keystone Cop-like little group. I've crossed the road to try to shake them. The traffic scares me but has little effect on them. I have a surreal vision of them packed into the seats beside me on the flight back to Australia. "One dollar all around. OK? You pay?"
Denial begins to evaporate. They've got me. I know it; they know it. I'm a trapped rat. But I'm not going down without a fight. I can play hard ball, too.
Anything can be haggled over here, including the price of protection. I reckon I can get away from them for half a dollar, but to go below a dollar means leaving the de facto currency and dealing in the official currency - not nearly as prized but it will do at a pinch. This is no problem for them; they can do instant currency conversions - dollar, riel, baht, whatever.
"Will you leave me alone for 2000 riel?" This is the moment of truth. The bull faces the sword; the matador faces the horns. Our little group has stopped dead. All eyes are on the leader. She thinks. Her dark little eyes are well into the thousand-yard stare.
"Yes," she finally says. The wave of relief that washes over me makes me feel utterly ridiculous. I hand her the notes. "Thank you very much," she says, as sweetly as a southern belle. So sweetly, in fact, that I hand her the other half-dollar.
She smiles, and it is the smile of the conqueror.
3 comments:
What can I say about this topic? It is a pity indeed. May be our current great leader (so he claimed) can introduce some sort of welfare system to reduce this poverty in many people's lives.
Just to let all of u know that there are lots of organizations out there(NGO) that provide food and shelters for these beggers. They also offer training schools and even provide them jobs after they've completed their trainings. But like many of the homeless in the West, these people wld rather stay on the streets to beg for money. They love the freedom and the fact that they can make a lot of money from begging. I've met and spoken to many people who work at the hotels and they've told me how they came to be there. They've even showed me the training schools that were provided by the NGO's. And there are restaruants out there that only take staffs from these training schools. Also there are massage parlors that only hire blind or crippled people...called "Seeing Hands Massage."
The guy above me got it. Even the homeless kids that have been brought into shelter and provided food and study program don't want it. They would be in the center for like a week then off they go again in the street. No one can help you if you don't want to be helped.
To the first poster, don't blame the government for everything. Every country has beggars even the US of A. You wait until you have been fooled by some of those innocent looking beggars and you'll never say things you said again. I'm not saying all of them are bad but there are so bad ones. For instance, my uncle was eating at a cafe in Phnom Penh. A kid came to beg for money. He didn't give at first but after the kid told him he hasn't eaten in days, he gave in and gave the kid the only dollar he has left in his pocket. Then, after the kid got the dollar and walked to his buddies around the corner and said "See, man? All it takes is a little facial acting"
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