A Down And Out Tale - Maybe

Yap, yap, yap. Yap, yap, yap.  "What the hell is that dog on about," I thought as we walked along the Boulevard de Poisonnere on a cool Paris Sunday morning.  The yapping continued. Then, outside of a corner café the mutt came into view.  It was small, about the size of a wharf rat.  It looked like one too, but perhaps with taller legs.  It was on all fours with its tail curled up over its back and was standing next to a disheveled middle aged woman seated on a dirty blanket spread on the footpath.  She was begging.  The woman was trying to quiet the little bugger, but he was not giving in.  He kept on yapping and as we reached them, out of the corner of his eye we made eye contact.  There was no doubt he was on a mission.

The attempt to quiet with words had not work.  So, the woman finally capitulated and from under her bag very reluctantly pulled out some food.  It wasn't just food scraps either, it was packaged dog food - gold plastic base with a silver foil top.  At least, I assumed it was dog food, I guess it could easily have been French pate given the packaging.  Let's just say it didn't look like the cheapest brand of pet food.  Anyway, as soon as Yappy saw that he was getting his way, he shut up and stared, waiting for her to open his breakfast.

We carried on walking and soon came across a man with another little mutt.  They were begging too.  They both looked down on their luck.  This little mutt was lying down with head on legs stretched out in front of her, sad eyes looking up.  There were three bowls.  One for money, one with water and one empty, presumably the food bowl.

A pattern was developing.  We arrived at L'Opera and as we crossed Boulevard de Capucines, there was yet another man with a little dog.  This little nipper was camel coloured and was eating a meal of bread and water - I kid you not.

Clearly these little guys were part of the Paris beggar's bag of tricks.  They were being used to garner sympathy from the passing public who might not donate to a human, but would gladly donate for a dog's breakfast.  So, that little guy who was yapping away, was quite the smart little thing.  He knew he was the star and was taking his payment up front, even if a few passersby were going to see that gold plated dog food which might damage business for a short time.

Our walk that last morning of our weekend away showed that unlike in London, begging was a well organised business in Paris.  I wouldn't be surprised to learn that all three of the beggars we ran into on that stretch of boulevard were working together.  And, judging from the gold plated dog food, business was going pretty well.

The dog thing was clearly one angle.  Another we noticed were the women in head scarves in the Metro stations.  They would sit on the steps with their eyes looking at the ground.  They didn't speak, but the message was clear.  They all pretty much looked the same and were strategically placed.  So, there was clearly some organisation to the business.  The beggars actually on the trains resulted in a really uncomfortable feeling even when you could tell the boy sliding along on his backside pushing the beggar's bowl along the floor with his 'deformed' feet wrapped in black rubber was acting.

In London, begging is just not that highly organised, at least most of it isn't.  There is The Big Issue magazine that is sold on the streets by homeless people.  That is highly organised, but it is not really begging since the people involved are basically small businesspeople.  They buy the magazine from the trust and then sell it on for a £1.25 profit per copy.  Of course, sometimes if you say you don't want a magazine they ask for a pound instead, which is begging, but at least they're trying.

Most begging in London takes place outside of supermarkets, at tourist hotspots and outside train and Tube stations.  In Paris, the seemingly unorganised beggars seemed to operate next to ATM machines, which I have to say was a bit scary.  They were often big guys with a strong smell of alcohol, but any threat was only implied or may well have been imagined.

I don't want to sound uncaring.  We don't complain about paying taxes that are used for social programmes and we don't pander to the propaganda about that small minority of people who rip the system off.  And, I reckon that voluntary donations are better made through organisations.  For example, the restaurant chain, Pret A Manger's Pret Foundation Trust which collects money for the homeless at their registers.  When you give to a trust like that, your money is more likely to go to the truly needy rather than the guy with the best con.

That said, I am a bit of a sucker when it comes to begging, at least according to Rob and some of my friends.  I don't give to beggar businesses and I avoid giving to those who smell like they are going to drink it or to those who regularly accost you when you go into the supermarket and then again when you come out.  But, I have been know to hand over a couple of pounds here or there if the need seems possibly real.

Don't get me wrong.  I don't fall for the stories from women who have a sanitary napkin stuck to their leg and who start limping only after they see you bought the story that they need money to get to the hospital to tend the 'wound' under the makeshift bandage.  A friend of ours gave up £10 to that con, only to see the same woman using the same technique at the same spot on a guy a couple of days later.

No, generally, I can spot a con.  Although, I'm not always giving for what I think I'm giving.  I'm reminded often of the time soon after our arrival in London where I had been left outside of a supermarket holding the shopping bags while Rob went in for that last item he couldn't find at the other store.

A young Irishman came up to me.  He was a bit unwashed and very polite.  There was no doubt that he was going to ask for money, but he started out by introducing himself, asking my name and shaking hands.  Then he progressed the conversation by asking where I came from, having picked up on the accent.  This led to the inevitable explanation of how someone who comes from New Zealand but has an American accent ends up in London.  And, on the conversation went.  He'd heard about the earthquake in Christchurch and thought it a terrible business.  Then he moved on to his plight - came from Dublin and was finding it hard to find work in London.

Eventually, he got down to business and asked for financial assistance.  The story was good.  So, I put my hand in my pocket, but only then did I remember I'd just given Rob all my coins so he could use them up - I hate change.  The smallest note I had was a Fiver, which I handed over.

The boy was in shock.  He thanked me saying it would normally take him a couple of hours to raise that much.  And, then added that my generosity had made his day and he was off to the pub to celebrate with a pint.