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Bruce Lee, The King Of Sewers.
I n a sewer under Bucharest’s biggest train station a man covered with iron chains and tattoos sits on a matrimonial bed watching an action movie on a flat screen. Around him, the sewer is packed with men, women and children injecting themselves and sniffing glue. Their feet are drenched in the muddy hot water that floods the whole tunnel, with floating syringes and condoms.
T he man with the iron chains gets out of his bed, squeezes through a hole in the concrete wall and sits behind a table where the people come to refill with their drug of choice one by one. He points at a tattoo on his leg that looks like Zorro drawn by a child, with a scribbled message above:
I’ve been living in the sewers since I was a child. I am the terminator. I am the only one who succeeded in achieving something for the homeless. I turned darkness into light.
Under my rule, everyone has their own money, they have what to eat. They have all they need – after a fashion. Light, heating, understanding and parental advice.
People outside are aloof. It’s more difficult to understand what we do here. But if each of them tells you their life story, how they spent these last years with me, you won’t believe it. ”
He is one of the children abandoned during Romania’s communist anti-abortion policy. After the 1989 revolution, they ran away from the orphanages and built an underground empire with its own laws and hierarchies.
I spent two months in the underground to get to know Bruce Lee, the enlightened despot in the Bucharest sewers who built the main hub for the homeless in Romania, and to understand how his creation works .
I n a little town from Moldavia, a dwarfish lad pisses on a railway line. He gets a dirty bag out of his thick leather jacket, along with a tube of glue used to repair slippers. He pours half of the yellowish – gummy substance into the bag and sniffs until his eyes snigger. He got old, small, circular scars where the veins are visible.
This makes you feel just like drinking a pint, only that it gives you a nicer vision and pleasure than the alcohol. The Aurolac is better than this glue. You hallucinate differently. It doesn’t make you as dizzy; you’re calmer and you speak sweetly and softly.
Gabi left his parents in Focsani in order to avoid prison. He was given conditional bail and he ended up in a fight a few months after the trial. He punched a few people who then went to the police, and so Gabi ran to Bucharest. If he had stayed he would have gone to jail. He preferred to become homeless.
In the capital he ended up broken by love. He lived in block entrances until he met Mariana, a prostitute hooked on heroin. He used drugs daily for eight years. I had no veins left on me. I started shooting into the pubis and the main arteries. I almost lapsed into gangrene. Man, it made me steal! I would catch people on the street and rob them… I’d steal their money at cash points, I’d throw dust into their eyes and I’d take their money.
The police had enough of him. Every time they caught him they stripped and beat him with slim fibre glass sticks. I would piss myself every time they hit me.
He hit the bottom and went to live in the sewers underneath Gara de Nord. He went through a lot on the streets, but when he first entered the sewer he was terrified. I was worried that I’d get carried away by some bad hallucination and lose it. Think about it. To enter a hole with two to three thousand drug addicts who prick each other with syringes, and to inject from the start. It’s terribly tragic.
Bruce Lee saw that he was helpless and he took him in. We were little children hovering around him. He bought us food and treatments. Everything we needed. If he saw us barefoot, honest to god he’d buy us shoes. He would intervene if the police or some hoodlum picked on us. He would chase all the faggots that were coming to take the smaller kids away. We all called him father.
Gabi had everything he needed there – food, money, drugs and protection. He befriended the father that introduced him to the business. He made money selling drugs and with scrap metal dealings. For instance if you go to the sewer he sells a sachet of white powder for 1 million, when he didn’t pay more than four hundred thousand for it. Well, he has his men who work for him. They bring copper, metal, items, trinkets, telephones, laptops…. No one makes the kind of money he makes.
Many of his friends died because of drug use. They couldn’t eat anymore. It takes everything away from you. You lose weight, and after a while, your body refuses anything. You’re half dead. You dry up like a corpse. Father would carry them out of the sewer, lift them in his arms and take them to the ambulance.
Gabi lives with his aunts in Buhusi, but he’d like to return to the sewer if he could. He’s banned from entering Bucharest because of an older robbery offence. He misses Bruce Lee and life in the capital. We had electricity in the sewer from a bus ticket office. We had plasma TVs, stereos, disco lights above, it was very beautiful.
A chubby intellectual is waiting beside a manhole in front of the Gara de Nord. He’s sweating, his pupils are dilated and he’s rubbing his hands like a schoolboy in front of the class. He pulls out two million lei and hands it to a scrawny tramp crawling out of the sewer. In exchange he’s given two white sachets with PURE written on them in a rabid red. He retreats to a small park and opens the sachets. He’s speechless: they are filled with sugar.
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