You see them every day – wandering the streets, asking for money or freezing as they try to keep warm in the winter months. But rarely do you imagine exactly what the homeless go through. The Star sent out five reporters undercover to spend time on the streets as beggars – asking for money, visiting public spaces and speaking to other beggars.
While this was in no way a full investigation that could perfectly portray the struggles of those stricken by poverty, The Star has been given a glimpse into what these men, women and children go through as they try to survive.
Whether it’s ignoring those who ask for help, the sexual objectification of the homeless or even violent opposition by other beggars, The Star wants to know how Joburg treats its beggars.
* All money earned by The Star will be donated to MES, an NGO that provides meals and education programmes to the homeless.
The bottom of the begging bowl
by Shain Germaner
Begging is a constant attack on your sense of identity and self-worth.
You speak, and eyes avert, or a grimace begins forming.
Eventually you realise you’re a nuisance, a leech.
I wandered the streets for two days wearing – in an unplanned coincidence – the colours of the old SA flag, covered in dirt, asking passing drivers for money and drawing judgmental gazes.
At the intersection of Allum Road and Broadway Extension in Bruma, carrying little more than a cardboard sign, I took what I thought would be my spot in the freezing hours of early Monday morning traffic. I set out to test the generosity of Joburgers.
I had hardly started when a woman in a thick brown coat and tattered beanie approached me.
“This is my corner, what are you doing here?”
I told her I was begging.
“There are plenty of cars for all of us. You go on that side,” she ordered, pointing towards the road where cars rushed off the highway. I obeyed.
It took me about 15 minutes to make my first R2. Sunglasses were the norm in the early-morning glare: the perfect tool to ignore the unwashed waving their signs.
“No JOB. No HOME. Will work for food or money. PLEASE OPEN YOUR HEART. GOD BLESS,” my cardboard screamed, but to no avail.
The first woman who waved me towards her car was about 30. A pretty brunette in a Corsa.
“Thank you ma’am, thank you ma’am,” I mumbled as she dumped a load of brass into my fingerless gloves. A smile formed – her altruism verified – and she sped off.
My beanie-clad friend waved from her side of the road. At first I thought I’d done something to annoy her, but she smiled as she approached.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
Yes, I responded.
“You can’t just stand there smiling. Don’t be shy. You have to go to each window. Talk to people. They must know you’re homeless,” she said.
She identified herself as Edna, and had been on that same street corner for the past four years. She joked about not knowing how many children she had before saying she had three. She lives at a homeless shelter in Malvern, and raises money for her family every day in Bruma.
The advice from a seasoned beggar made me much more effective at my new job.
I approached a family in a 4x4 and was given R20, which I was told to use to buy food.
The money flowed in at a steady pace, as long as I made the effort to make eye contact and look upset, hungry or pathetic.
Families and couples seemed more likely to hand over their spare change, all colours and creeds willing to give if I caught them in the right mood. All but taxi drivers, one of whom told me to “F*** off, mlungu.”
Most drivers ignored me.
A red-faced man in a blue bakkie gave me a peanut-butter sandwich and asked me where I was from.
I told him I stayed in the area, but the limited time at the traffic light cut our conversation short.
I shared my hard-won sandwich with Edna, who told me that she could make up to R500 a day.
“But one month I didn’t make anything for a week. It’s not easy,” she said.
With about R100 jingling in my pocket, my cardboard under my arm and a filthy, hole-ridden towel wrapped around my waist, I had not much trouble getting into Eastgate to buy lunch.
No one blocked me as I walked into a lingerie shop. A security guard followed me all the way into the bathrooms on the ground floor, but left me alone after I bought a meal at the food court.
Shopkeepers and other shoppers generally ignored me. I had become the Invisible Man.
At Bruma, window washers had taken over the intersection. I asked one where Edna had gone and he said police had asked her to move.
He warned me that I might get into trouble with the police if I stayed, as there was an arrangement with local beggars that the washers got priority at that street corner in the afternoons.
Empire Road the following day brought tough competition from pamphlet pushers.
But at the emptier street corners, like on Empire and Owl, I earned the majority of my money.
I made about R300 in two days.
In those two days, at no point was I asked how I’d ended up in such a terrible situation. I wasn’t offered work, nor did anyone try to make a human connection.
Maybe there are too many beggars on our streets. Maybe crime has rendered Joburgers paranoid, or maybe it’s just too depressing to think about.
But to those who gave me money, and positively acknowledged my existence, thank you. Your money will go to a worthy cause and your kindness will be remembered. - [email protected]
I know how cold charity can be
by Faheem Khota
They say never judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes. I spent a day – not quite walking a mile, but taking on a beggar’s persona.
After a colleague had helped smear paint across my old jeans, I grabbed a blanket, and by 7.30am on a weekday morning was in Mint Road, Fordsburg.
There I approached a pedestrian smoking in the distance, having figured it wouldn’t be too difficult to satisfy my nicotine craving courtesy of the man.
I saw him watching me too, waiting for me to make my move as though I was the predator and he the prey. I crossed the road and stumbled over the threads of my tattered jeans and he chuckles.
I lifted myself off the ground and gave my best smile as I asked him for a smoke. “Neh, I don’t have,” he shot back. I was incredulous as I could see the packet of Stuyvesant in his pocket.
I then tried begging at car windows, my ego a bit bruised. My first car was a white Ford Focus ST. With my heart thumping in my ears, I saw the man look up at me. “Sorry, baas, I’m asking for some loose change for breakfast, please.”
The car’s occupant smiled, nodded, lowered the radio’s volume and handed me a R5 coin. My heart melted. And, my hope for humanity restored, I approached my next car, but the window closed on me. Next vehicle, and I was ignored.
Freezing in my tatty rags with only a blanket round my shoulders, I moved to a sunny patch. I tried my hand at begging at car windows again, and moved to one of the busiest roads in Fordsburg, where a girl no older than 18, begging at the robot, began walking in my direction. As she got to me, I realised she was not friendly at all, but I smiled at her anyway.
“This is my f***ing robot. Me and my boyfriend will kill you if you come here,” she said, lifting her top slightly to show a long knife underneath as she gestured at a man sitting on the corner.
I walked away without a word. I ended up at the Oriental Plaza, where I scanned the warning signs: “No Pets, No Hawking.” So I felt safe to walk right in.
The first shop I came across was Abrahms Stores. I was greeted with a smile. A woman behind the counter named Farzana handed me a R10 note before I said a word. I asked her why and she said they keep money aside every day for people in need. I saw two security guards staring at me, so I moved away to avoid them. I stopped at shops where the owners looked sympathetic, and again I attracted stares.
A while later, the two guards returned. I made about R50 before one approached me and asked what I was doing. I explained I needed money for food. She took my arm and marched me to the control room. There I was introduced to a woman who seemed sympathetic, but suddenly a large man appeared. He asked what I was doing.
I stuttered: “I’m from The Star and trying to raise money for charity.”
He bellowed that if I don’t have papers to prove it, he would not believe it. I was promptly escorted out of the Plaza.
As I walked up Main Road, I encountered four beggars sharing the leftovers of a chips and polony pack. One called out to me: “Hey mf’wethu (brother)! Come join us for some food.” I ate three delicious chips and moved on.
It was almost 4pm when I got to my final robot, working my way from car to car. I realised that this is a job.
And, to the man driving the R1 million BMW who could only afford 30c, shame on you. - [email protected]
Raising cash for a hen night was easy
by Theresa Taylor
The window washer crinkled his young face and pointed his sponge towards me. “When are you going to leave?” he asked. The corner of South and Rivonia roads in Sandton was his territory.
I smiled the bright, fluffy pink crown smile I’d been wearing since I arrived and pointed to my sign – “Bridesmaid in jail, need money for bail” – which was scribbled on a piece of brown cardboard. “I’m getting married and raising money for my hen night,” I giggled. The window washer didn’t smile.
On this Friday afternoon, the passing cars were more sympathetic to my need for drinking money than his attempt to make a living.
In about 20 minutes, I and my posse of “bridesmaids” (two job shadows who had been at the newspaper for the week) raised R182.
The window washer’s frown and aggressive stance was one of the few negative reactions I received in my mini experience of begging in Sandton. Instead of trying to sell cellphone chargers or holding up a sign that read “No money, no job”, I was upfront about being out for a bit of fun, and, in general, people laughed with me.
Those who gave appeared to be working people, driving their silver and bronze BMWs or rowdy 4x4s.
Many were still in their black work suits, on their way home from the office, tired from a long week and looking forward to their first beer in the pub or in front of the TV.
They weren’t all the same ages and the givers weren’t just men, tempted by the sight of black fishnets in the open air, but many were women who had probably been on or accompanied a friend on a hen night.
A twenty-something guy in his hatchback smiled, but held his hands in the “I got nothing” pose when I approached his car.
A woman in her fifties dropped a folded R50 into my can. “Good luck to you,” she laughed. Another man in his forties did the same. “So your bridesmaid’s in jail, eh?” he asked with a sceptical look on his face. “Yes!” I cried. “Help us get her out.” He laughed and handed over the cash.
Some people got out money before we had even reached their window, and even those who didn’t give anything generally smiled back and laughed at the sign. They gave me the thumbs-up as I walked past, bubbling with my own nervous energy.
But the biggest victory of my afternoon were the taxi drivers who gave R2 coins. They were reluctant, but with a big smile and some nonstop chatter, they were convinced.
“Please, my bridesmaid is stuck in jail, we need to bust her out. Please, anything. Even a small coin. Thank you, Sir! (giggles) Have a great afternoon.” - [email protected]
I’ve got a job for you – but it’s a job called sex
by Kutlwano Olifant
Twenty-one offers of sex and R13 in four hours of begging at a Joburg intersection.
This was my experience on the streets of Joburg.
I began my begging just after 7.30am on a cold winter’s morning outside Southgate Mall, on the corner of Columbine and Rifle Range roads.
“No food, No Job! Halp me pleez” my placard read.
As I stood next to the traffic lights on the pavement facing the oncoming traffic, two women from a promotional company gave me the opportunity to join them at the same traffic lights.
“Shem! Hello, are you new here?” asked one of them.
I shyly nodded my head as I slowly sat on the pavement.
“Don’t go take that man’s spot that side,” said the woman, pointing at a homeless man directly opposite me.
“He is a well-known hobo,” said the other woman.
Twenty minutes later, a taxi pulled up next to me.
The driver opened his window, gave me a filthy look and said: “no work, no job! Sell your body!
“Ngiyabuya (I’m coming back)!” he shouted
I felt disrespected.
As the minutes and hours passed, I felt unnoticed as dozens of cars, buses, trucks and pedestrians flashed past.
“Don’t give up. You (are) new here.
“Maybe tomorrow something better might come your way,” said the promotions woman.
Motorists either stopped at the red traffic lights, and pulled out their smart phones, closed their windows or turned away.
Men stopped next to me and gave me suggestive sexual looks or proposed their love for me.
Just after 9am, three men in blue overalls pulled up next to me in a delivery truck.
They looked at me and we chatted quickly.
They saw me walking away miserably from a blue Toyota Tazz standing in front of them.
A woman with three children inside the tazz ignored my plea. Instead, she turned to the children, said something before they all laughed at what appeared to have been a joke about me.
One of the men inside the truck began searching his pockets while the other guy rummaged around the dashboard looking for coins.
The driver opened his window and gave me R6.10.
“Ngiyabonga, baba,” I said.
There was hope at last!
As the traffic lights turned red, I approached a black Nissan Livina.
The elderly woman rolled down her window and greeted me nicely.
“Are you seriously looking for a job?,” she asked.
“Yes, I am, mama,” I replied.
As she drove away, she kept on looking back.
As she turned into the filling station, I tried to follow her, but as I made my way there, she pulled away.
I felt stupid and bitter.
I went back to my spot.
Meanwhile, a newspaper vendor had noticed me.
As I sat on the cold pavement, he approached me and offered me a job.
“I’ll talk to my boss,” I said.
“You can’t be on streets in this cold,” he said.
And, while little money trickled in, offers of sex abounded – from young and old men alike. Some of them wore wedding rings.
“Come, let’s go to my place. I’ll give you a job,” said another taxi driver.
I began to panic as more and more men wanted sex, so I left the intersection.
Hungry and desperate for the loo, I made my way to a takeaway restaurant.
I was walking with one of the women and she offered me a pie to share with her.
I wanted to see how I would be treated at the fast-food outlet.
As I walked in the parking area, a beggar said to me: “Don’t come here to irritate me, girl.”
I felt a bit shaken, but I walked into the eatery.
It was empty at the tills.
So I went to purchase my food.
As I was counting my coins to get myself a “decent meal”, four employees stood there and gave me weird looks.
Without any response to my greetings, I then placed an order.
While waiting, I decided to run to the rest room.
People stared as I walked passed them.
Once inside the bathroom, I was able to communicate with my colleagues, friends and family and tell them I was safe.
I collected my lunch afterwards and returned to “my intersection” to eat.
A butcher having his lunch joined me there.
After eating, he began talking to me…
My offers for sex increased to 21.
I stood up and slowly walked away... - [email protected]
Sandton cash collecting a cold case
by Omphitletse Mooki
“Life is unfair! A beautiful lady like you?” a Zulu-speaking man exclaims and shakes his head as he walks past a rough and ragged young woman asking for money and food at the intersection of Katherine Street and Rivonia Road in Sandton – the playground of the rich.
It is a bone-chilling 2ºC and with a doek fastened just above my eyes, an old winter coat bought from a street container in downtown Joburg and a colleague’s old sneakers,
I begin my Monday just before 7am, navy blue socks I’m using as gloves gripping tightly to a cardboard sign.
“NO MONY NO JOB, Child on the way, Plese Help, God bles.”
A taxi full of curious passengers screeches to a halt at a red robot and curious stares are directed at me.
The first man to spot me wipes the condensation off a backseat window with his jersey then elbows the passenger next to him to take a look.
By the time the robot turns green, all the windows on the left side of the taxi have clear circles on them.
I feel like an animal in the zoo.
More cars stop and drive off. Others stop as far as 10m from the robot.
Then a conscience-stricken woman waves me over to her car, rolls down her window and hands me R10.
“Thanks so much,” I say as I pocket the note.
It has taken me less than 30 minutes to make my first R10, and nothing is going to spoil my day.
But then a white, red and gold car stops next to me and out comes a security guard.
“It is not my laws… but you have to move,” says the man, who gives his name as Dingaan.
Due to smash-and-grabs, the Sandton Central Management has devised a plan to secure the area around Sandton City, with patrol cars driving around to ensure no hawkers, street beggars and loiterers are near.
“You can stand anywhere you want, but (just not) around the precinct of Sandton City,” the man says before offering to ask around for people needing the services of a domestic worker.
I move to Rivonia Road and Empire Place only to attract more stares.
“What are you doing here? I don’t want anyone here. Go find your own spot elsewhere,” a man who later gives his name as Mthembeni Mchunu tells me.
He does not shout, but remains polite as he tries to hold on to his “spot”.
It is here that the 25-year-old “sells” Homeless Talk – a newspaper aimed at improving the lives of unemployed or homeless people.
I walk across the street to stay clear of Mchunu’s way.
Then a Putco bus full of passengers stops and out comes a young woman headed to a technology company across the street.
“I don’t have much,” she says as she drops a few coins into my hands and walks away.
It is 8.30am and it will take another four hours before Lady Luck strikes again.
SUVs, sports cars, Porsches and Range Rovers… all manner of luxury cars stop and go.
People glance my way, some avoid eye contact then fix their weaves, touch up their make-up, fiddle with their phones or just stiffen their necks.
I take a break when the traffic quietens down and get up again to capitalise on the lunch-hour traffic.
A middle-aged woman hoots to grab my attention.
She hands me a R10 note and drives off.
A man hands me a fresh loaf of brown bread.
Other motorists search around their cars and find they have no coins.
With a grin, they gesture to indicate they have nothing.
My heart sinks when another man calls me over flashing a gap-toothed smile.
A little boy seated next to him hands him a pear to give to me. I thank them and walk back to my spot.
At the end of the day, I take home a pear, a R10 note and a handful of R2 coins.
I give the bread to the hawker I bought a packet of popcorn from at lunch and the pear to a man begging near my home.
Tuesday starts with a biting chill. It takes a lot, but I return to Rivonia and Empire Place.
Mchunu comes later and tells me he has his “mlungus” (white people) who regularly give him money without taking the magazine.
While I took home only R30 the previous day, he had made more than R300 and not a single newspaper had been taken.
I realise that perhaps Sandton people do not carry cash.
Mchunu is making money because he is not begging, but “selling” a newspaper to people who do not need it.
The click of a locking car rouses me from my thoughts.
A brother with a BEE look has just pulled over in a white Hummer. He locks his doors, looks the other way and chews his nails.
Annoyed at this, I decide to take the long walk to Katherine Street and Pretoria Avenue.
“Go to the other side, sisi, you can see there’s no one there,” yells a woman on crutches on the other side of the road. Only one spot of the intersection is unoccupied – I claim it as mine.
Then another woman who later gives her name as Patricia Ragwale walks over to introduce herself.
“Don’t worry. They (motorists) will get used to you. Keep coming and they will give you money,” she says.
It is 1pm and I have only R5 in my pocket. Then another motorist opens his window, drops a few coins in my hand and gives me a business card.
“Call me, I’ll get you a job,” he says before driving off.
Most motorists are attracted to 43-year-old Ragwale (she collects rubbish from their cars), the disabled Sifiso Sibanda or the pregnant Edna Nyemba and her toddler.
“Umuhle kangaka sisi (When you are such a beauty)?” exclaims another man as I walk back to Empire Place to wait for a colleague to pick me up.
The Star