Vitaly Petrovich Shashlov, one of 4 million homeless people in Russia, is a vendor of street paper Put Domoi in St. Petersburg. He is 67 years old and has been selling the magazine for 12 years.
To know what a day in the life of a street paper vendor is all about, I am spending the day with Vitaly in St. Petersburg. We meet at the Put Domoi distribution center, where Vitaly arrives with his iron cart and a rucksack. He looks at me suspiciously and is thinking for a long time before answering each question. He says he wants to make sure he says the right things. When I ask whether I can take pictures of him, he appears somewhat shy at first.
Homelessness in Russia In Russia, a homeless person is not simply someone without a home. Access to virtually all state-funded social and medical services in Russia is dependent on a person’s having a “propiska” — that is, registration at their place of residence. If, for whatever reason (family circumstances, a fraudulent property deal, inability to replace lost documents, etc.), a person cannot show that they have this registration, they are effectively excluded from society: They will not be able to obtain a legitimate job, access free healthcare, take recourse in law, have their marriage registered, or obtain education for their children, among other things.
Of the four million people living in Russia without registration, many of these people have nowhere to stay, face hunger, cold, poverty and loneliness. They are treated with suspicion by those around them. In most cases, they receive no help solving their problems or surviving the dangers of life on the streets. St. Petersburg-based street paper Put Domoi is one of the few organizations in Russia that provides a financial lifeline directly to those who need it most.
Thankfully, I manage to break the ice a few minutes later. Vitaly picks up several heavy packs of newspapers and realizes that he can’t manage to put them all in his cart and rucksack. I offer to help, which he seems to appreciate. On our way to a tramway stop, he brightens up but still does not want to speak much about himself. After a while, he opens up and tells me about his previous job as a street cleaner. He says he was proud of that job because he could do it regardless his age. I see him off to go selling and we agree to meet later at the tube station. While saying goodbye he looks at me for a while and offers me a handshake.
I search the area around the station but I can’t find Vitaly. When I call him to find out where he is, he sounds a bit irritated and says he is in the station hall, but that he has no time, before hanging up the phone. I take the stairs to the station hall when he rings me again and tells me to go to the Vasileostrovskaya station instead to meet him.
As I arrive, I see Vitaly standing in the hall talking to a young person who buys a copy of Put Domoi from him. I decide to stay out of his sight and not to distract him. It soon gets busy and another young man smiles at Vitaly and buys the paper. I watch for a while as more people approach Vitaly, talk to him for some time and buy a paper. Once there is a break in the stream of customers, I walked up to him and ask if my shooting pictures could interfere with his work. He grins at me and tells me his trade secret: “The more people there are around me, the higher the probability that other people come.”
And indeed, people kept coming and going and buying his newspapers as I took pictures and chatted to him. Business is good, but Vitaly explains that it is not possible to stay at one station for a long time, because police officers are watching and often ask him to leave. He explains that was the reason why he had to leave the previous station after just 20 minutes.
Then, something wonderful happens. A younger woman with grocery bags approaches Vitaly, pulls him aside by his sleeve and tells him something confidentially. Vitaly listens to her, looking like a father figure, nodding his head sympathetically. To a spectator the two of them, Vitaly with his wild beard and the petite woman, look like an Orthodox priest and a parishioner.
In the flow of people, Vitaliy stands out, despite his short posture. Unlike other newspaper sellers, he does not shout out to advertise his product. Instead, he stands quietly, pressing the pack of papers against his chest, moving his head over his shoulder to make eye contact with a new stream of customers coming off a train or escalator.
There is something about him that makes you look twice. He mirrors wisdom and life experience.
He tells me we are boarding the next train and go to another station. Once we are on the coach, he complains that he is not allowed to distribute the papers in a train.
At Primorskaya station I do not take any pictures. I stand and watch. He manages to sell almost all of his papers. He explains how difficult it is to predict how much stock to buy, as you never know how many papers you could sell.
A lot of young people approach Vitaly. When I notice that not many younger ladies seem to buy the paper from him, he smiles as if he wants to say: ‘Just you watch’. Within minutes after my comment the women start to approach us.
Vitaly explains that his readers are all very different.
“I cannot describe one particular kind of buyer, it is all sorts of people,” he says. His comment is illustrated by the many people who approach him at the station: students, older women and young working professionals.
At the end of a long sales day, Vitaly seems satisfied with the turnover. I thank him and buy one of his last copies before we say goodbye.