What will happen to "fundraiser" Hippety-Hop?

Fundraisers (why say beggars? Same thing.) around Riga's Central Station are nothing new. You get to know them by sight after a while. There is the cat and dog colony kept by one or more bums at the entrance to what I call the “Stockmann tunnel” (which leads from the Central Station square to the Stockmann department store and the Forum Cinemas multiplex). Also on the steps are an old woman sitting impassively and another woman who suffers from some neuromuscular disorder. Standing by Riga's and some say, northern Europe's busiest pedestrian crossing are a number of amputees, one with a crutch, the others double amputees in wheelchairs. There have been a number of “bum fights” between the man with the crutch and at least one of the guys in a wheelchair. Apparently there are territorial issues. The shouting during the fights is in Russian.

One of the most intriguing characters is a relatively young man (20s) on crutches with a a below-the-knee amputation, who I will call Hippety-Hop, because, until recently, he was a very forward and aggressive fundraiser, actually going out in traffic and hopping up to stopped cars to solicit alms. He also spends hours standing at one or the other of his favored positions (one is at the steps leading down to the Stockmann tunnel). Hippety-Hop can be there for hours, standing. Street-level fundraising is a full time job for him, as it is for many of the others. But given Hippety-Hop's stamina and vigor (until recently), one wonders what exactly happened to the man and why he is doing what he does – hopping around and plaintively fund-raising in Russian (or so I suppose). I saw him last summer when he was almost exclusively working the traffic lights and stopped cars.

Losing part of a leg is a major trauma, but it cannot compare to the disfigurement and degradation of the double amputees or the alcohol-ravaged bums. Why was Hippety-Hop, whatever his level of education, not offered some kind of rehabilitation and work? If the dude can stand for hours or hop around on his crutches, why not do factory work, if not in Latvia, then Ireland or the UK? Most European countries have programs to put the lightly (and in some cases, even the most severely physically handicapped) to work. In a call center, no one knows how many legs you have.

I don't think Hippety Hop has the language skills for this kind of work. Lately, it seems, he is on the downslope. His face shows signs of what I suspect is drug abuse. My guess is heroin, I have seen him in what seems to be a “nod”, eyes closed, impassive, face looking more ravaged than ever before. Last summer, when fundraising among the cars waiting for then lights to change there was even a vigor to his hop-step and an earnest look on his face as he almost demanded something from the drivers. Now it looks like the dude is down and out.

It looks like there may never have been a chance for Hippety-Hop to get back into a normal life after losing part of his leg, neither through the efforts of Latvia's rock-bottom impoverished social welfare system, nor through assistance from charities or non-governmental organizations. Of course, I don't know the full story, or, for that matter, any story about Hippety-Hop. For all I know, his injury may have been the result of recklessness, part of a stupid, risk-taking lifestyle.

Certainly heroin is not a good choice. Latvia doesn't, as far as I know, have open, non-judgmental needle exchange or methadone programs (I don't know because I don't hang around with any junkies). So every time Hippety-Hop snorts or shoots up, he risks overdosing, or, if using the needle , HIV or hepatitis.

Will Hippety-Hop last out the summer? Who knows? Ironically, he may go down before his fellow fundraisers, the bums wallowing in the dog and cat colony, the old lady, the woman with the neuromuscular thing, even the double amputees and bumfighters. I know almost nothing about social work, but at least some months ago, it may possibly have pulled Hippety-Hop off the street and out of this particular form of fundraising.

The “nicotine drill”, urban cattle update and a whiff of heroin

I go to work past some kind of vocational high school in Riga, and almost every morning, I see something that reminds me of my high school days in the US-- almost everyone has left the building and is standing around in small to medium-sized groups. Back at Newton North High, this kind of a scene meant there was a fire drill, and this occurred a couple of times during any semester. At the Latvian school, the teenagers are out, standing in clumps, every weekday. And 99% of them are smoking. It is, in other words, a daily “nicotine drill”.

Don't get me wrong. Smoking is an individual choice. I have smoked for periods in my life, but never to the point of addiction (“needing” a cigarette at all costs, feeling “withdrawal” symptoms). If someone wants to smoke, let them do it (with respect for others and non-smokers, a commodity in short supply in Latvia). But the shocking number of smoking teenagers every morning indicates a number of things badly wrong. First, apparently these kids are either not educated about smoking, or whatever they are told falls on deaf ears. Compare this to the relatively low teen smoking rates in Sweden and other European countries. The other thing is that these smokers are the public health problems of the future in a country were there is practically no public health – by the time they are 20 years older, there may well be no tax-funded health care in Latvia (or many of them may be net consumers of health service in countries they have emigrated to).

In other words, the “nicotine drill” is yet another “street level” observation of the failure of societal mechanisms in Latvia and the continued degeneration of everyday life. I can only note that the proportion of the strange, addled and desperate-looking on the streets continues to increase. It is, perhaps, distorted by the fact that I work near the Riga central train station, and train stations are magnets for social outcasts.

Just a few examples – the pathetic, stereotype-boosting hustle by Roma/Gypsies by the train station, involving a few women peddling some kind of cosmetics, supervised by a number of men. It happens every day, with little apparent success by the “salesladies”. Where the goods come from can also be open to question. Certainly, one of the marketing mistakes by this team of street peddlers is that most Latvians automatically think – “Roma=stolen goods”. This may or may not be true. Perhaps they are peddling counterfeit goods. In any case, this activity, day-to-day, propagates the image of Roma as folks who engage in what can charitably be called cheap-ass, sleazy commerce.

A few meters away (one standing with a crutch, one sitting in his wheelchair) are two disabled beggars, who routinely engage in verbal and, sometimes, physical bum fights. The stand right by the pedestrian cross toward the train station (also the Origo shopping center) said to be the busiest in northern Europe. Here we see the phenomenon I have called urban cattle in full flower. Urban cattle are people who simply wander about mindlessly, ignorant of distinctions between sidewalks and road traffic, as well as anyone else engaged in locomotion (on foot, by motor vehicle or bike) around then. Urban cattle operate alone or in small herds. These herds, as a rule, fan out when one approaches and tries to overtake and pass them while walking somewhere in a purposeful manner (the cattle saunter and pause, doing “stop and stares” at nothing in particular).

It has now become routine at the Origo crossing, where pedestrian lights are indicated by digital times, for the urban cattle to jump the gun in considerable numbers at around 10 seconds before the lights actually change. I see this every time I cross there. First the urban cattle, some as early as minus 15, without even breaking stride from whatever hallucinatory or somnambulant hike they are one, then the rest of us

This seems especially dangerous, as the cattle end up in the path of drivers racing past the crossing on yellow. So far, I have not seen anyone hit, which seems almost miraculous. Then one day I noticed a few heavy-eyed cattle walking in a noddy-plodding manner not typical of alcohol drunks, who usually stagger and sometimes are self-aware (with the exception of the glassy-eyed robodrunks marching in their own oblivion).

Which brings us to the next observation. Mr H is definitely here in Riga. Harry the Horse is riding high. People are fucked up on heroin in Riga, not in great numbers, but increasingly noticeable. I have worked or lived in places with junkies on the streets before (New York, Frankfurt) and the eyes half-shrouded by lids, knees bending slowly, then popping back out of the nod thing is pretty obvious. Maybe other recreational chemicals do the same. I don't remember seeing folks on quaaludes back in the day, but those made people who took them into giggly-gumbies (like the stop-motion clay creature Gumby of 1950s and 1960s TV), or so it is said.

Anyway, I run across a few obvious junkies on the street every week, and this should have alerted the media that something is going on. But the Latvian media do not have the time or resources to deal with this issue, or maybe I don't read the right papers. However, it is become clear that heroin use among the underclass (and not only) is an emerging problem in this country.

My solution – decriminalize heroin, set up needle exchanges, clean shooting galleries and offer detox programs (unrealistic in Latvia except with charitable financing) to those who need it. This would reduce the danger of overdoses, get the heroin trade out of the hands of criminals (shifting it to pharmacies for registered addicts), prevent the spread of AIDS and hepatitis, as well as drastically reduce crime related to drug addiction (theft and robberies) as well as emptying the prisons of those “guilty” of victimless crime. 

On driving in Latvia, present and recent past

I have started driving more again as summer arrives and I go back and forth to the family summer place in Carnikava for various reasons. I get the feeling that recent habits, which seem to have faded(slightly but noticeably) in the last few years, are re-emerging. Another striking fact is that at  almost every red light in central Riga, you can see around  three to five SUVs (sports utility vehicles, Latvians tend to call them jeeps) among the 10 to 15 cars that usually line up at an intersection. This seems like a high proportion, especially since I was at a gathering recently where a Swedish businessman said that his Latvian partner had driven around 1000 kilometers in Sweden and was surprised to have seen only a handful of Porsche Cayennes. Still another person who runs an auto parts and repair business said that one should look at the tires of the Latvian SUVs. Many still have winter tires because they cannot afford new summer tires at 200 LVL per tire. 

I think the high proportion of SUVs is a sign that the middle classes (who own "ordinary" cars) are driving substantially less than before. For those driving the "jeeps" it may also be a last gasp and a badge of economic success that will not be given up until the bank comes for it. Latvia already is said to be a buyer's market for late model, high-end repossessed vehicle.

I also found the draft of an article that was published in Tallinn' s (now defunct?)  City Paper  four years ago. There have been some changes for the better since, but a lot is still true.

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Building a new road for the insane

by Juris Kaza

 

            If it were only the statistics that counted, I would say Latvia has a come a bit of a way from 1991, when more than 900 people were killed on the roads, with far fewer cars than are registered currently. Today, with luck, the annual contribution of Latvia’s highways and byways to cemetery tenancy will be considerably less. However, for the visitor to Latvia, it is what one sees in day-to-day behavior and not abstract figures that count.

            If you have to drive in this country, then you will be among the most savage, barbarian drivers in Europe. Boorish, too – and this, as one would say of perverted computer software, is a feature and not a bug.

             I kid you not. Do not drive into Latvia with a loaded automatic weapon or even a baseball bat on the “death seat” next to the driver. You will not only be tempted, but also probably morally justified to use one, either or both on many of your fellow drivers.

            There is no typical Latvian driver –rather a varied menagerie of the reckless, loutish, egotistical and thoughtless. You can watch them zooming, whizzing, passing in three different directions – to the right, to the left and some improvised direction in between (this can, perhaps, be done on a S-curve where you start the overtake on one side and finish on the other). 

            Inevitably the moment comes when some huge Scania or Volvo truck appears looming in the rearview mirror. You may notice an imitation license plate in the cab window with a name like “TARMO” embellishing it. As the juggernaut grows still larger in the mirror – tailgating is also a Baltic truckers’ hobby – you face the imposing menace of the Estonian monster truck. These things simply go. It is you and other drivers with an exaggerated attachment to life and limb who move. Tarmo, for all we know, is an inflatable propped on the seat of a machine driven by satellite guidance.

            However, once you subtract the trucks from the wheeled zoo on Latvia’s roads, you are sort of left with the world as it was when the dinosaurs were on the decline. All that other traffic, swirling and parting as Tyrannosaurus Estonicus lumbers along at a relatively lethargic 100+ kph is the furry mammals that supposedly scampered at the feet of the great lizards. But that comparison breaks down – the smaller vehicles and their drivers are nothing like the predecessors of the many warm and cuddly species we enjoy in the contemporary animal kingdom. Drivers in Latvia are the creatures from the Gremlins movies of the 1980s, the screeching rat-bat mutants who took a satanic delight in malicious mischief.

            Alas, even that comparison breaks down, because the average Latvian driver (male) is almost as expressionless –either stone-faced or shitfaced (your guess is as good as mine)—as our pal Inflatable Tarmo. The women – often sleek trophy wives piloting combat-vehicle-sized SUVs with horsepower four times the woman’s kilogram weight – have a bit more written on their visages, along the lines of “I’m dumb, blonde and shouldn’t be driving a left-foot roller skate”.

            Since I spend my summers in Carnikava just north of Riga,  I experience most of the antics of Latvia’s highway Huns (speaking of whom, we’ll get to the Germans later) on the stretch of one of Latvia’s laboratories of the “let’s dig something up every summer” school of experimental highway building, the so-called Via Baltica. Mostly it is the segment between Adazi and the posh, by Latvian standards, suburb of Baltezers.

            Here on any day, you can see all the vices of the Latvian road – reckless passing, high speeds, sudden, startling unsignalled lane shifts and the favorite sport of tailgating. Apparently such things as the physics of stopping a vehicle aren’t taught in the driving school classrooms, or if taught, simply dismissed and forgotten. The reassuring thing about Latvian tailgaters is that they probably won’t hit and run should something happen, they’ll hit and sit (next to you, the driver in the front car) after flying in though your rear window.

            I want to interject here that I, who learned to drive in the reputedly bad-road manners Boston (USA) area, sincerely believe that I drive as one of the few who are sane. I do sometimes express my opinions of the other drivers until my wife says that I shouldn’t say “monkey brained moron” and the like when our nine-year-old is in the car.  I actually think, but do not articulate, far worse things: Yo, motherfucker, your Lexus SUV is very fast and yes, only your funeral will be bigger than your fucking car.

            The strange thing is that the often brand new and extravagant vehicles drag racing down the Adazi-Baltezers stretch are probably not, for the most part, purchased by the quick and shady big money that rolled through Latvia in the early 1990s  like a tsunami from the burst bellyful of ownerless post-Soviet assets. A lot of them are bought on the installment plan, leased and otherwise financed from some kind of regular employment or steady business and an above-average income.

            So what we have here are middle and upper income folks Mr. Hyde-ing it as soon as they put the key in the ignition of that BMW. Sudden, apparent prosperity, a caricatured Soviet presumption of how “capitalists” should consume, and the lingering, paranoid inferiority complex of the post-Soviet personality all, perhaps, come into play. It is not possible for all of us to simply drive to work, trusting and respecting other drivers. It is so much easier to hit the gas pedal, come what may and pretend that the entire commute, from home driveway to dumping the monster SUV in a handicapped space to buy cigarettes to the final parking spot by the office is one big thrill-ride.

            When I lived in Germany in the late 1970s, I observed something similar. On the Autobahn, there was always someone flashing super-nova bright high-beams and tailgating at 180 kph until you moved over and let the Teutonic schaefer-hellhound whiz by. Then I thought that Fritz (as Latvians sometimes call Germans) was getting a little Macht Frei (very loosely translated as “making/taking liberties) after three decades of post-war Arbeit (labor). It was also a time when more and more Germans could afford big, fast cars, and the no-speed limit Autobahn was a place to act out being a berserker in contrast to the Ordnung of the workplace and everyday life. Somehow, too, the traces of the totalitarian experience (especially since they largely brought it on themselves, voting for Adolf in ’33) were then still part of the German mentality. Things have probably improved – though I haven’t driven the Autobahn recently– but it took decades.

            For drivers in Latvia, I wonder if some kind of victimhood in reverse is behind this behavior. It is self-assertion on methedrine from a bad and dirty drugs lab. I also suspect it spills over into other aspects of life – the ugly, raving, sometimes Bible thumping mob that wanted to assault Latvia’s first gay and lesbian pride march. They literally wanted to beat and tear these people apart for Christ (who, when I last looked, was called the Lamb, not the Wolverine of God). Put these people in fast cars, and they’ll attempt a few killings for their own personal wolverine, which takes over their brain as soon as the tires start turning.

            This is the really scary aspect. Though I’m no sociopsychiatrist, mob-shrink or whatever they call those who diagnose diseases of the spirit affecting large parts of a society, I see links between the behavior on the roads and the dark undercurrents of homophobia, racism, xenophobia and what is wonderfully described in Latvian as karojoša tumsonība – crusading ignorance (though tumsonība has a pernicous twist, it ain’t just being dumb…)

 

   In late summer, they closed down and detoured the mad raceway segment of the Via Baltic that runs past Adazi north of Riga. When, eventually, a sign is put up explaining to what purpose (but not why), yet again, this segment of Latvian highway is being torn up and rebuilt, I would vote for having the text say, “Building a new road for the insane.”