It’s late in the evening, it’s almost 9 o’clock. There’s the usual noise around the Station Square — the voices of vendors and buyers mingle, and is accompanied with the sound of car horns; on the opposite side, a man is dragging a loaded cart and shouting at passersby to let him pass. The garbage cans are overflowing, and a pink plastic bag is floating along the visible dust in the air. Everyone is hurrying somewhere and asks about the price of products almost without slowing down. Near the sidewalk, you might step on a strawberry or plum that has fallen from the counter.

Some of the street vendors have already packed up their products, while others are just clearing them from their counters and serving the last customers of the day. A short, bent, completely gray-haired women, has a bag of plums left in a transparent bag on her counter. We asked for an interview, but she refused to record the video or audio, saying she would talk to us normally. She said she is 72 years old, a refugee, and has been working at the bazaar since the 1990s.

She leaves the house at 6:00 in the morning, goes to the Dezerter Bazaar, buys wholesale fruits and vegetables, and arranges them at her counter in front of the Tergi shopping center. Many customers stop by during the day, but she says that she has faithful buyers, because she doesn’t lie about weight. While talking to us, she answers questions from the people passing by, or weighs the plums. She asks us not to secretly film her, to which we tell her once again that we don’t intend to and that her wish is most important. Before leaving, she throws handfuls of plums into a black bag, asking us to take them. We refuse, she hesitates, but she forcibly hands it to us, and clarifies once again whether we have filmed her. We confirm once again that we have not, we reassure her and add that we would not have done this without the plums either. She smiles warmly at us, as if she trusts us, but we can feel that she is afraid.

“You can’t use an umbrella, it’s windy. My arm is still burning from sitting in the sun. It rained last night and we got really wet. I was soaking.”

We move to the Children’s World area. There are only three women left at the counter. All three refuse to let us film them, although one agrees to record only the sound. She is 65 years old and sells fruits and vegetables with her son.

“When I leave the house at five in the morning, I go down, buy all the wholesale products I need, call my helper, he comes, I load everything, and come out here. Then I will tidy up the counter, sit down, and wait for the customer. I will start cleaning up at 9 in the evening — we will pack what is left in these boxes, bring it in, and hand it over to security. You have to come early in the morning to take them out before the stores open,” is how she describes her daily work.

Next to the 65-year-old woman her daughter is sitting: “This is my daughter, they studied in the city, they got married here later, and we’ve been here for 15-17 years, but not all the time — I sometimes go to my village, I’m from Chkhorotsku. I have 3 children and 6 grandchildren.”

We ask what conditions they have to work under during the day, what they eat, and if they have somewhere to take shelter during bad weather. The daughter joins in the conversation and tells us that, among other things, they have to fight against rain, wind, sun, and noise during the day. The mother continues:

“Here I eat cheese, bread, tomatoes, cucumbers. The toilet that was here burned down, and now I go to the one at the gold exchang center. It costs money, who would let you set foot in it for free? The conditions here are very bad, you can’t open an umbrella, it’s windy. Even now, my arm is burning from sitting in the sun. It rained last night and we got really wet, I was soaking.”

I wouldn’t have stayed until now, but until the shops close, I can’t go to leave my goods there. Where should we go, when you cannot leave the goods? Even if my blood pressure is 200 tomorrow morning, I still have to get up and go to get these products out of the store. We put it in a package, in front of the shops, and the person working there will not wait for you. They want you to remove it. It’s a very difficult life. This [Borjomi] bazaar was the only one that was working well and it burned down. How did it burn down? If ask me, the question is, did it burn down itself or was it set on fire? People are waiting for it to be restored, but who will restore it? Doesn’t it show on my face, how I am doing?

There are no buyers, there are very few. They think it’s too expensive. Everything is expensive. If you bring goods that are worth 1,000 or 2,000 GEL, it is nothing, it will not be enough. We don’t have that much money, some people sell it to us “on credit”, some give us time, some bring things from their villages and so on. Fruits and vegetables spoil quickly and then we sell them for less than their original price. When there is a new harvest, we may have 100 GEL left per day, but we are mother and daughter and we will divide it in half. We make do with 50 GEL each, what can we do. At least we bring food home from here.”

She tells us that sometimes they get home so late that if the food isn’t ready, they don’t have the energy to cook or wait, and they go straight to sleep.

“What am I, a 65-year-old woman, doing here? Shouldn’t I be in my village?! I should be in my room, with my husband.”

Before moving to Tbilisi to work, she was engaged in agriculture in the Chkhorotsku district. Now she lives in Tbilisi with her daughter and manages to visit the village once or twice a month. Her husband, who has leukemia, is waiting there. She says she is working to pay for medicine. The pension is not enough, and the children also have their own families to support.

 

“Why did I come here? Because everything was destroyed, there is nothing left, not even a factory, nothing is working. What are we doing here? If there was some work there… What do our people want elsewhere, what am I, a 65-year-old woman, doing here? Shouldn’t I be in my village?! I should be in my room, with my husband. Now is the time when he needs care, when we were young, he worked separately, I worked separately and we didn’t have any problems. That’s right, there is nothing in the village. There was hazelnut and that was destroyed too. It spoiled. There were three factories in the Chkhorotsku district, in our village. 3 factories, 3 secondary schools, now there are no children in one of them, and there is not even a single factory-factory. I used to bring all the fruit I had there, pears, apples, persimmons, grapes, now there is nothing anywhere. They don’t take it and it doen’t sprout. The climate is not the same either.”

While we are talking, the woman working next to the mother and daughter starts packing the products, loading the heavy boxes onto the cart. Some of them don’t fit, she takes them down and distributes them. When we finish packing here, then we help each other pack the products in front of the stores and then we go home, she says. She is now 72 years old, and has been working since she was young, so now she cannot rest. She says it breaks her heart that she often goes home at a time when her grandchildren are already asleep and sometimes she doesn’t see them for weeks. She has one child in emigration and she also helps the family.

We meet 65-year-old Manana Mikautadze in the area near the Akhmeteli metro station. She tells us that she has been here since 7 AM. Her mother is from Tianeti, her father is from Lagodekhi, and everything she sells is from the village.

“I come once a week and bring the goods. Today they brought me cheese from Tianeti, natural. The cucumbers and tomatoes are from Gardabani and the cheese is from Tianeti, natural. I sell a lot on loan, I have acquaintances. If I sell village cheese at an expensive price, they won’t buy it if they don’t know you. See, I have a loan notebook and I have 20 clients, what should I do?

I work until 8-9 at night. I am a woman who had a stroke, a mother of 5 children. At the end of the day, I take home whatever is left. I have one son and 4 daughters, I am 65 years old and have been trading like this for 20 years. Before that, I was at home, a housewife, I had 5 children to raise… Then, when life became difficult, I came here and have been here for 20 years.”

“Yesterday it was cold at night, I was wearing tights, but I caught a cold and bought medicine, I paid 6 GEL. They told me to take one three times a day. I have a cough and they gave me some pills. I took them and it helped me a little.”

She tells us that sometimes state representatives come and ask vendors to pack up their products.

“Who are we harming here?! It’s in the area surrounding the market and that’s why we are here. We clean, tidy up, I don’t think we’re doing anything wrong, it’s better than stealing and cheating, to work honestly and work hard. Am I not right? Being a street vendor is hard, we’re standing in the sun. The wind broke my umbrella, we’re struggling and we’re here. First we were down there, then they took us up here, then I got sick, had a stroke and lost that place. Now they’re telling us to go up and sell there, but it’s so expensive… How can I pay 300 a month, otherwise I’d rather be in the shade too. I don’t pay here. No one has come for a long time recently.”

While talking, she talks to the buyers: “Cucumbers are 2 GEL, tomatoes are 4. It’s fresh, sir, everything is fresh.”

Nearby, near the pharmacy, dressed in black, sits 75-year-old Malvina Bakhtadze, shielding herself from the sun with a black umbrella. She has a cotton pad over one eye with a medical plaster. In front of her is a box filled with cigarettes in unfamiliar packaging. Before we can start talking, a middle-aged man stops and buys a cigarette, then another female street vendor comes up and says: “Malvina, I sold two pairs of socks for you.”

Malvina tells me that she has been a street vendor for several years, selling cigarettes and socks. She says that she earns 50 Tetri from each pack of cigarettes.

“My friend brings me food here. She’s struggling as much as I am. She helps me. I have good friends, they even bring me cold water.”

“I’m here at half past six in the morning and I work until 9. Then the bazaar closes, I take these to the bazaar and store them. I can’t do it after that anyway. I’ve had 9 surgeries, I can’t even see in one eye […] All cigarettes are three GEL and I sell them for three and a half. It’s still something, right? You know, the bosses sometimes come here [she means the the city hall] and I’m afraid of them. I have a sweater here and sometimes I just cover myself with it. I’m being cunning. Poverty makes me work.”

She tells us that her son and grandson, as well as her husband, are deceased. I have one son and grandchildren left in the family, she says. The son was sick, he is relatively better now, but he still cannot work.

“What can I do, I can’t oblige the child, he can’t. […] One of my grandsons is in Germany with his wife and children, what can I ask him for, he cannot even help his mother. Now that my husband died, he sent me 500 euros, but he couldn’t come himself. My pension is 460 GEL, but I have taken it out in advance and now I get 280 [GEL]. My child needed it, I took out 2,000 GEL and it’s still not paid for, otherwise why would I need it for myself, I don’t want to dress or cover myself. Now I need ten GEL, then I’ll run out of money. Yesterday it was cold at night, I was wearing tights, but I caught a cold and bought medicine, I paid 6 GEL. They told me to take one three times a day. I have a cough and they gave me some pills. I took them and it helped me a little.”

“I’ll be 80 in a few years, tell me, what am I doing on the street? What should I do? I get up at five, get dressed, and by half past six I’m already at the bus stop.”

She tells us that she used to have a place in the market where she sold socks and underwear, and her husband sold clothes. Even now, she brings these socks from wholesale stores and then sells them, making a little profit. She lives near the metro, so she walks to the station every day.

“I live in a refugee building, I pay 200 GEL in rent, I come and go by foot. Sometimes it’s hot here, I fall asleep, and then they wake me up. When it rains, I go to the other window, or cover myself with this [points to an umbrella]. My hands were frozen in the winter. My friend brings me food here. She’s struggling as much as I am. She helps me. I have good friends, they even bring me cold water,” Malvina tells us, showing us food in a half-liter jar.

We say goodbye and head towards the metro. We ask the woman standing at the newspaper counter for an interview, but she refuses to record video or audio. They pay a percentage of the newspapers sold, but people don’t want them, they say it’s too expensive, she says.

“Here, Asaval-Dasavali costs 3.90, Palitra was 2 GEL and became 3. This newspaper was 1.5 and now it is 3. People are struggling. It is better to buy bread than to pay 3.90 for this newspaper. Thank God, I can bring bread home. I went and bought 2 kilos of potatoes,” she says, continuing that she has taken an 8-year pension in advance because her grandson got sick and needed money. I already had 200 GEL left to pay, I didn’t have a coat for the winter, and I asked the girls at the bank if I could take it: “Yes, ma’am, we can give you 260 GEL. But they didn’t tell me that this 260 GEL will last for another 4 years and the interest remains the same on this 260 GEL as on 2,000 GEL. Now I should have it all paid in July.”

She will turn 78 in the fall. She says she has been selling newspapers for 23 years, having previously worked in government agencies and in a store.

“I also sold cigarettes in singles, took them as a loan and gave them money in the evening. Now I have no customers. A pack of Parliament in the store costs 10 GEL, and the market is full of Abkhazian and Russian cigarettes for 3 GEL, go and buy them.”

I’ll be 80 in a few years, what do I want on the street, tell me. What should I do? I get up at five, get dressed, and by half past six I’m already at the bus stop. [In the rain and wind] we put up cellophanes. When Narmania was mayor, they said there would be booths, Narmania left and nothing. We’re living in an abandoned country. We exist, we don’t live.”

At the end of the conversation, she asks us once again not to write her name and surname, then she tells us about her 2-year-old grandson, shares stories from kindergarten. They live separately and she misses them very much: “My life, I miss him so much now.”

Outdoor Trade in Georgia

Street vendoring is an informal occupation, in which the majority of those involved are usually women. A street vendor can be a person who sells a certain product and does not have a permanent or secure location for doing so. People involved in this type of work may move from one place to another or sell the product at a counter.

In Georgia, street trading is prohibited by law. Under different governments, there have been many cases when street vendors were forced to leave the area, and there have also been examples of their belongings being taken away. As a rule, in such cases, state representatives cite several reasons for restricting street trading: the law, disruption of the movement of local residents or visitors, unsanitary conditions and low security, distortion of the city’s appearance, etc. There have been cases when street vendors have been offered places at shopping facilities, although, usually, only a small number agree to this. The reasons they mostly cite are the cost of space in the markets, as well as the location of the counter, for example, how close it is to the entrance, where a larger flow of buyers moves, etc.

There are only a few studies on street vendors in Georgia that can be found in public sources. One of them is Natia Karchiladze’s 2018 document “Gender Aspects of the Informal Economy: The Case of Women Street Vendors Living in Tbilisi,” which states that the majority of street vendors are people on the verge of poverty, have no capital or additional income, and are therefore completely dependent on street vendors.

“We don’t have the right to get sick and die, otherwise our families will be left completely without food,” says one of the survey respondents.

The study is based on the experiences of 16 female street vendors and says that some of the respondents, who have higher education, worked in the formal sector before engaging in street trading, but due to social conditions, environmental conditions, and economic transition, they had to go outside and trade. The other part notes that due to social hardship and hardship, they were unable to obtain appropriate skills and education, and therefore were doomed to informal, low-income, and unskilled jobs.

“People don’t like us, one woman told me that a visitor of the city sees places polluted and disfigured by street vendors and they should be evicted. They should liberate the city and let it rest,” — Valia, 75 years old, a survey respondent.

The document devotes a chapter to the respondents’ passions and important moments in life. According to the study, for street vendors, there is virtually no personal happiness and their life is a constant survival process where they do not remember themselves.

“Accordingly, all important moments for them are related to the happiness of their loved ones, to providing for them. Children and grandchildren are especially important, whose well-being is their main driving force.”