Behind the Blanket
Every year, hundreds of undocumented African immigrants come to Spain with hopes of a better life. Many cross the open sea in precarious crafts, aiming for the Spanish mainland or the Canary Islands—this August alone, over 1,000 people were rescued from vessels off the coast of Andalusia. Hundreds of others perish on the way. Another route, less dangerous but often as difficult, is to fly to a European airport on a temporary student or working visa, purchased at great expense from local mafia. It’s a modern-day odyssey that takes them far away from dependent families—children and wives, as well as mothers and fathers.
The physical border is rarely the final obstacle. Another (invisible) border can marginalize immigrants for years to come in their new home: a combined administrative, judicial and legal no man’s land with an unofficial motto of contener y rechazar (contain and reject) that can absorb any efforts made to integrate. After successfully completing the costly and dangerous journey from their home countries, they arrive in cities such as Barcelona and find that, in stark contrast to EU citizens, they have no voice, no rights and few prospects for work or advancement. Without any alternative, many resort to working illegally as a mantero—a blanketman," or unlicensed street trader—selling anything from fake Adidas trainers to Ray-Ban sunglasses or Gucci handbags on a blanket unfurled in the street.
In Europe, itinerant commerce is viewed as a criminal activity, as is the falsification of commercial goods. This situation has led to fear and anger in an immigrant community with a precarious economic and legal foothold in the city. At street level, it has led to open conflict between manteros, who view itinerant trade as their only lifeline, and the Guàrdia Urbana, instructed by the city council to remove them from the streets. For many years, the Ajuntament has been embarrassed by the presence of manteros on Barcelona's most iconic walkways. Shop-owners and big-name brands are also, for obvious reasons, less than enamored of the top manta trade, and have been increasing pressure on the council to do something about it.
In the summer of 2015, this led to Mayor Ada Colau adopting critical measures; a combined operation by the Mossos d'Esquadra, Guàrdia Urbana and Policia Portuaria to saturate Port Vell and other zones with agents, as well as the initiation of a media campaign to discourage consumers from buying black market goods. The Ajuntament’s official objective is "delocalization" of trade. This summer also saw the introduction of gestores de la calle’(street managers) whose role is to dissipate potential conflicts.
Ensamblaje, meaning assemblage, is the term used by Inspector Carlos Manchón, the Policía Nacional’s chief of technological crime, to describe the process of manufacturing and falsifying the black market goods sold on Barcelona’s streets. Unpatented replicas of brand products, known as white copies, are manufactured abroad and transported to Spain without their brand logos. According to Manchón, many of these unpatented goods end up in large industrial units in Badalona. The police can do nothing at this point, as without the logos, the goods do not infringe any copyright laws. Manteros then buy the logos separately and attach them themselves, immediately becoming susceptible to the law.
A reform of the Penal Code in 2015 means that any person selling falsified products can now be punished with between six months and two years in prison. Together with the updated Ley de Extranjería (which states that anyone condemned to a one-year prison sentence can have their residency revoked and face deportation), and the deployment of an increasingly heavy-handed Guàrdia Urbana, this has created what Alba Cuevas, the director of the equal rights group SOS Racisme, called “a highly dangerous cocktail for human rights.”
In 2015, this "dangerous cocktail" led to a watershed moment; the death of a 50-year-old Senegalese mantero called Mor Sylla, who had lived in Spain for 15 years and worked as a builder before the economic crisis. On August 11th, 2015, the Mossos d’Esquadra paid him a surprise visit at his home in Salou. They were investigating a falsification racket. Although it had not been proven that Sylla was a member of any organized group, under the new legislation he could be arrested, imprisoned and deported. In the ensuing confusion, a panicked Sylla fell to his death from the balcony.
This tragedy, together with a number of public confrontations between beleaguered merchants and the police, including a rock-throwing incident in Plaça de Catalunya the same year, brought about an organized response from Barcelona’s mantero community. Sick of being criminalized by the authorities, and misunderstood by the media and general public, it was time for the manteros to find their voice and act.
The Sindicato Popular de Vendedores Ambulantes was formed last year. This union of street-sellers aims to fight "against racism and institutional violence," and promote immigrants’ rights. As well as providing a voice for the mantero community, the syndicate has launched an audacious venture that might alleviate its problems in the future: the creation of its own fashion label.
"Top manta offers an alternative, socially-conscious narrative, with 'Survival is Not a Crime' as its slogan."
Unveiled at Fundació Antoni Tàpies in July this year, the "Top Manta" label takes the mantero’s ordeal and repackages it as a brand. The idea is to replace the big-name brands with the Top Manta logo on the same white copies. Eventually, the hope is to sell these products at authorized market stalls. There might even be a Top Manta store, if the syndicate can find the right backing.
Whereas the swooshes and stripes of Nike and Adidas sports goods are marketed as the apex of aspirational individualism, Top Manta’s logo is crude but hauntingly significant—a cross between a kayak and a blanket. It offers an alternative, socially-conscious narrative, with "Survival is Not a Crime" as its slogan. It’s a demand for dignity and sympathy, both a recognition of the harsh reality facing undocumented immigrants and a message of hope.
"What was, for a long time, an act of discrimination—when they called us "top manta"—isn’t anymore,” explained spokesman Aziz Fayé. “Now we have taken the concept and dignified the phrase. For us, it’s a term of solidarity, struggle and vindication.”
And Top Manta is not the only ambitious mantero enterprise in the pipeline. In March 2017, the Ajuntament backed the launch of an initiative by the members of an association of Senegalese ex-manteros called Diomcoop. The project offers a platform for members to sell African arts and crafts, jewellery, recycled goods, outlet fashion and gastronomical goods at markets around the city. Ababacar Thiakh (one of the 15 founding members) explained that the objective of the initiative is to “change the way society views us and show that behind the blanket there are values and dignity.” However, it also requires “a change in our own perceptions and those of other manteros…to believe that there are real opportunities out there for us.” Thiakh called this process “emerging from invisibility.” Thus the significance of the name Diomcoop. Diom is a Wolof word meaning "courage" or "inner strength."
Not all manteros, however, will want to join initiatives like Diomcoop or Top Manta. Despite the tougher laws and risks involved, the appeal of the black market trade is glaring; it’s extremely lucrative. Many of the manteros who work each day in the Port Vell area have little interest in selling Top Manta products. Ahmed, a 30 year old from Dakar, who has spent six years in Barcelona without being granted residency, shook his head and said, “It is for the television, for the newspapers. But it does not change anything.” He pointed at the Nike trainers spread out on the blankets. “This is what people want.”
Mantero trade is still going strong, much to the disapproval of business owners. La Plataforma de Afectados por el Top Manta is an organization representing some 500 businesses claiming to be punished by illicit trade. Its president, Fermí Villar claimed that the mantero trade is growing out of control. Andema, the Spanish Association for Brand Protection, backs up these claims with statistics, claiming that Spanish industry loses over seven million euros each year as a direct consequence of illicit trade, in turn resulting in a loss of 67,000 jobs.
The search has only just begun for viable solutions to what SOS Racisme’s Alba Cuevas called “a structural reality faced by our cities." But Ababacar Thiakh of Diomcoop, for one, is optimistic. “Our community has much to offer. It is a question of unlocking potential and changing attitudes. Then we can flourish here.”
Read more: Profile of a mantero—the story of Modou, a Senegalese chef who arrived in Barcelona in 2004, and worked as a street vendor from 2004 until 2007.