Street Vendors in Santo Domingo Find Creative Sales Strategies to Survive

SANTO DOMINGO, Dominican Republic -- On the streets of Santo Domingo, poverty is glaringly on display. Beggars and peddlers, from the age of four to the age of 70, approach car windows at stoplights, holding out their hands or offering peanut brittle for sale. Two young boys bicker over five pesos, approaching the car of a family to ask for more money. The father, who's driving, asks them what the problem is.

"You see," says one boy, "someone gave us five pesos to share. But we're two people, so someone is going to have less. He"—he points to the other boy—"says he should get the leftover peso. I say we should each get two pesos, and throw the other one out so it's even."

Everything and anything is sold on the streets: sunglasses, candy, puppets, kites, cell phone cards and covers. Some peddlers carry dozens of window wipers, while beggars put their various maladies on display: one man, pushed in a wheelchair, has a bag protruding from his stomach; another has no fingers, and holds a styrofoam cup to collect change in between his torso and his arm. Fruteros sell whole or sliced fruit in tricycle-carts, while others mix shaved ice and sugary liquids to make yunyuns. Skim Ice, a Dominican company that sells frozen fruit-flavoured snacks, employs dozens of people throughout the city to traverse traffic and sell Skim Ice at 10 pesos a pop through quick window exchanges.

Orlando Zapata is just another of the many vendors who sells coconut candies on the corner of Lincoln Avenue and Gustavo Mejia Ricart, but he has made a name for himself with a little entrepreneurial savvy. He has had a poster made with a picture of himself with his goods, and underneath it, it reads "Orlando: Coconut Sticks," along with his full name and cellular phone number. He also wears a vest with the same message imprinted on it; he approaches cars with a smile and a stack of candies in plastic containers,
tidily wrapped with red ribbons.

While street vending may seem a lively - even cosy - situation, the street vendors don't have it easy. A shy shoe vendor admits that he travels to the border of Haiti every week or two to stock up on cheap shoes that he sells out of a motorcycle fashioned into a cart. With his unprotected wares openly on display, one might think theft would be a problem, but the vendor shakes his head and smiles. "They know not to mess with my things; I'm always around." He has also teamed up with a fruit seller, and they work together to maximize profits.

Ambioles, a local peanut seller, is forced to sell flowers as well, only to take home 200 or 300 pesos a week - less than US$10. He has been selling goods for over five years now, and travels the half-hour metro ride from Villa Mella to Arroyo Hondo, Mondays through Fridays, to work from 11 a.m. to 6 or 7 p.m. "I've always worked here," he says of his street corner, and then weaves through the traffic to attend to a customer. "I buy my peanuts at the market," he explains, and then offers some up at a reduced price.

"Personally, I like vendors on the street," says Renee Meyrink, 69, who has lived in the Dominican Republic, Canada, and the Netherlands. "Sometimes they're a bit pushy, but I think they usually work in good humour. They are not mean, they laugh a lot, and I like buying from them."

In 2006, the World Bank conducted a study on poverty in the Dominican Republic and found that nearly one-third of the population from age 15-24 was unemployed. But many of these get by by working the streets: some are hired without a contract, to be maids or guards; some wash cars; many help their family by taking advantage of traffic to sell their goods.

For the most part, Dominicans are content with the situation -  however, it's the youngest of the workers and beggars that worry them. When seeing four- to ten-year-olds begging for change or offering to wash windows, many Dominicans don't know the best route to take. While it's obvious that their families need all the help they can get, not everyone wants to support families who are raising illiterate or uneducated children by keeping them out of schools and on the streets.

"If anything, I think it's better to give them food, or clothes," says André Morales, 18, a student at the Community for Learning, an elementary and high school. "Sometimes I give them money, but what's the point? Someone else always takes it away from them anyway."

"Kids is another case," says Meyrink. "That I do not like. When you look in the kids' eyes, you see desperation, not humour. No child should have to work like that. If they need to work, it should be in the home, or around the home, where their parents can watch them, feed them. When my father was little, there was child labour in Holland. He went to work in a factory, where they built planes, at the age of eleven."

And is it worth it for the families in the long run? Paloma Ortiz, 18 and about to graduate, thinks it would be more beneficial to families to leave their children in school: "In the future, with an education, they could better help their families economically."

Moisés Bello, who attended school most of his life in the Dominican Republic but moved last year to Panama City, says the situation is pretty much the same in both countries. "There seem to be less vendors, but there's more children. And they tend to be rude, demanding you buy their goods."

Not all vendors recruit the assistance of their kids, however: Carlos Gonzalez, 32, works to keep his children off the streets. "I have three stepchildren and two children of my own," he says. "I started my fruit stand three years and some months ago. As you can see, it's somewhat established, somewhat developed."

He's painted the wall behind a makeshift counter to say "Fresh Fruits: Jehova Jireh." Like Ambioles, he stocks up on mangoes, avocados, papayas, bananas and pineapples at the market. Also a good salesman, Gonzalez welcomes the interview and then prods a few of his camera-shy vendor friends to participate. "Come on!" he prods: "It's good publicity!"