Heartless cow that I am

Once again, I find myself having a litany to share with you, my unsuspecting readers. And yes, once again it involves the Mother City’s dearly beloved provider of public transport upon rails. No, I don’t need to mention a name, do I? 

Since the scourge of onboard preaching appears to have been checked (for now) after a few complaints made to people who do care (but touch wood, with my luck the proselytiser will most likely bedevil me with his presence tomorrow), there is still now the remaining bugbear that that has now made its less than savoury presence known. 

I call him Mr “Can-you-spare-a-20c-please”. He is old. He brings with him a strong smell of stale urine. He fumbles onto the train near the end of our journey, usually from Mowbray onwards and stumbles from carriage to carriage with his plaintive wailing for just a little bit of small change, please. The carriages are quite full by this stage, so it’s difficult for the poor sods standing to avoid touching this decrepit little man and making close personal acquaintance with his unique aroma. 

Now, I wouldn’t be so bothered by this if our friend only plied his trade once or twice a week. But, he is trying his luck more often and, as right as clockwork, appears on almost every single train out to Town from Fish Hoek that I board. I almost always smell him before I make auditory contact with his pleas. He always wears the same navy blue suit and I think it’s time someone suggested to him that he’d do his own PR a hell of a good turn if he washed a little more often.

Logic dictates that if you appear in public smelling of stale urine, begging for money, you’ve got problems, seri-uhss problems, even by South African standards.  

I am the heartless bitch who, when Mr “20c please” leans over me, giving me prime enjoyment of his particular body odour, will say: “Oi, dude, get lost, you stink.” My gods. You should hear the reaction to this in the train (apart from the indrawn gasps of shock from fellow passengers). The guy was in my personal space, reaching over to receive cash from some damnfool bleeding heart next to me. What was I supposed to do? I find his presence offensive. I’m not going to sit by while someone takes liberties with my well-defined sense of my body’s “comfort” zones. 

Someone muttered nearby: “Oh, you’re friendly.” 

You know what? I don’t give a toss whether Joe Public thinks I’m friendly or not. I pay for my train ticket and I pay for a so-called “plus” service with soft fuzzy seats because I don’t want to deal with people like Mr “20c please”.

By being a bleeding heart and giving Mr “20c please” R2 you’re only keeping him begging. And, if my suspicions are correct, if you make Mr “20c please” feel that he can make a good living begging off you on the train, you’re helping him keep up his alcohol habit instead of forcing him to look for help.  That’s the other myth, that these people don’t have any other options.

There are options. There are NGOs, churches and charity organisations that do care but as long as you’re opening your wallet, you’re giving hopeless folks a reason to carry on being a public nuisance. They know they can make an easier living making you sorry for being previously privileged in the Not so New South Africa.

If you want to assuage your Great White Guilt, rather give your money to those charity organisations that are making a difference with the people who want to be helped.  If you really want to climb out of the hole that you’re in, there are ways and means. Just rather please don’t approach me if you’ve peed your pants in the past 48 hours.