IN SAIGON recently, I was reminded of the irritations of beggary. It is advisable not to pronounce that in pretentious imitation of an upper class English accent or it could come out as something quite different. I saw no evidence of that in Saigon.
A little girl hove alongside me in the street. I have a rather W.C. Fields attitude to children at the best of times. The child carried a basket of coconuts, the type shaved down to a whitewashed version of an African village hut where you were supposed to drink the milk out of the roof with a straw. I suppose the story might have been different if I actually liked the product but I do not so I strode on.
She maintained a remorseless parallel to me, occasionally tugging at my trousers. To some this would be a heart smelter. For me there is no faster way of turning my organ to flint. Give in to one and they will be over you like a rash. This child had to be dealt with.
After a block and a half we came to a busy road. I made as if to cross, got half way, did a rapid about turn and raced back to the pavement leaving this horror version of Little Red Riding Hood stranded. Humanitarians should not wince. Desperate situations call for extreme remedies. Proud of my ploy, I strode away.
She was with me again within seconds. The only thing to do was run for it and, short of sprinting, I made it to the safety of my hotel lobby. An hour later, I came out to see her welded to a tourist couple sitting by the fountain. As a companion said, 'the child is a monster'. Most beggars, at least the mobile ones, are.
The problem with poverty is that it can cauterise embarrassment. For those on the receiving end, it causes embarrassment which can turn to rage and, in turn, can spoil your day.