The streets stank of cigarette butts, desperation and urine where the beggars lurked and slept. As the morning sun beat down on the asphalt and bricks, it woke them in their bedding of newspapers and old, worn blankets, their thin cardboard mattresses. Some were fortunate enough to possess buckets of clean water in which to wash themselves, but most of them smelled of old sweat, unwashed hair and dirty clothes. They shuffled along to stand at traffic lights and intersections, holding out to the passing cars plastic cups and messages scrawled on cardboard. Some would even smile and wave, dance a little.

Most of the drivers ignored them, as if they weren't even there. Some would shake their heads as if to say, "No, I can't help you". A few drivers would hand over a few bucks or some food, maybe something to drink. Even fewer of them would even strike up conversation as if to old friends.

I observed all this one day when I stopped to watch people. What's more, one week I'd been kicked out of my place of residence and had nowhere to go, ended up sleeping in my car for almost a week, so I joined the beggars. They were friendlier and more welcoming than I expected. They told me their stories of how they ended up on the streets and I told them mine. There's a saying that if you want to understand people, you have to walk a mile in their shoes. I tried to do that, tried to help them out of their situation, but I didn't have the money and resources, nor contacts willing to help. I tried to help them, but I couldn't if they weren't prepared to help themselves, looked to me for a handout or two. I was in no position to give them what they needed or wanted. They didn't have the drive or commitment to form a work crew picking up rubbish, put aside a portion of all they made for printed signs and T-shirts; begging was easier for them than taking the steps to find gainful employment. Hell, it was easier for me too (and I made more on a good day than I did working some past jobs).

Post Photo by Timur Weber on Pexels