Seeing that it has become an unfortunate phenomenon in the area, the Record decided to send big mouth me, Mr I-will-do-it-for-ye-Journalistic-gods, into the field to try and get a glimpse of a day in the life of a beggar.
Arriving at home, fear and regret set in as soon as I had my tipple of choice.
First the preparations. In order to make the experience as authentic as possible it was decided that I would not sleep the night prior to the experiment, drink a fair amount of white spirits (this was the easy part), forfeit all meals on the day prior and give up my beloved daily shower for almost two days.
I also refrained from shaving for a week, which disturbingly made “the role fit me like a glove” according to one colleague. Damn my impulsive nature.
Then the costume. A pair of torn old jeans. Tattered old skateboard shoes. A beanie and jersey that has seen better days. All of this, including my hands and face, were soiled with a few pieces of braai charcoal.
I was allowed a backpack and cellphone but had no cash on me except for the generous donation of a whopping R7 from my Editor, Tihan van der Walt.
As fate would have it, it was one of the colder days of the winter season and dark rain clouds were looming ominously. A bigger worry for this brave (dumb) journalist, however was being recognised.
Oh the horror. Not 20 minutes into the experiment my first colleague drove past in puzzlement (during the course of the morning this would be followed by two more colleagues, my pastor and a friend who owns the pub I frequent).
Is this what happens when you do not make your deadlines? Bum Karma for all those times I did not tip the car guard?
Armed with a placard with the usual “No job, 5-year-old son blah, blah, blah …” and a photo of my son, the money started “rolling in” immediately.
Almost all of it from the white female between 20 and 30 demographic. 60 per cent of my collections came from this group.
This second most generous contributions came from members of the Indian community who were also the donors of a pack of potato chips.
Males in general were irritated and dismissive; one telling me that he once set up a beggar with a house and other earthly goods only to be robbed blind and that he would never again give a cent.
Thanks Mother Theresa. The only person in a really expensive vehicle (an R700 000 car) gave an earth shattering R3.
There were also the strange blood sport of vehicles deliberately trying to run me over.
One lady wanted to enquire about the boy in the photograph’s age and when I changed to a placard (complete with spelling mistakes) reading “This country has turned its back on me” motorists became abusive and I did not receive a cent. (Did I miss something that Saint Zuma did?)
All of this was finished with a beggar’s banquet consisting of a R12 bunny chow eaten on the pavement.
The Record team and I did the maths. Two hours work equalling R98. Pretending to work a six hour day this adds up to R294 and in a 30 day month; R8 820. Not bad when most normal jobs average at R6 000. (Please keep in mind our calculations were based on a generalisation and my humiliation, loss of self-respect, the onslaught of the elements and other perils of this way of earning money nullify the monetary reward.)
All and all, don’t quit your job and as the old saying goes: there by the grace of God I go.
All the proceeds on the day were redistributed among the beggars on Roodepoort’s streets.
Interested in giving Riaan van Zyl a challenge? Contact him on 078 383 3068.
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