Profile of a Mantero
The son of a welder, one of 12 brothers and sisters, Modou started his working life in a Dakar kiosk selling sandwiches and drinks. But, as the son chosen to support the rest of the family, he was desperate to work in Europe. So, when an acquaintance said he could arrange his journey, he jumped on board. It cost €3,000 to get the necessary paperwork—a fake 30-day work permit as a sailor—and €600 for his flight to Barcelona.
“Back in 2004, there were very few African immigrants here. Almost all of them had good studies, many had been to university. But without papers they could not get jobs. So they either worked as laborers for long hours and little pay, or they worked as manteros.”
It certainly wasn’t the kind of job Modou had imagined when he was back in Dakar. But, after a convoluted job search that had taken him to La Coruña and Tenerife, among other places, he was fast running out of money. “Most people I spoke to tried to put me off the idea of becoming a mantero, probably because they didn’t want new rivals coming in to share the trade.”
“Back in those days, we used to go to a café next to FNAC in Plaça de Catalunya at midday. We would have a tea and hide our wares under the tables. Then we would go and sell in the square from midday to 13:30, when the 007 (the Guàrdia Urbana‘s street agents) would make their circuit down from Passeig de Gràcia. We were well organized, we never stayed longer than was necessary. And selling on the street was not a crime back then. The police could confiscate your goods and give you a fine. But they could not arrest you. I sold CDs and DVDS at first. Later on, sporting goods. On a good day we could earn up to €400.”
However, the situation changed in 2005, with a new immigration law introduced by José Luis Zapatero’s government. It decreed that all immigrants who had spent more than six months in the country, were in possession of a one-year work contract and had no criminal record, must have their papers regularized. Those who failed to meet these conditions would be arrested and deported, as part of a crack-down on illegal immigration and the submerged economy.
With this new law, Modou’s need for a work contract reached a new level of desperation. Many of his friends were arrested and either deported, or prosecuted. Some ended up in jail, where they remain today. Encouraged by a friend, he approached a shady businessman known as El Español, who was offering to regularize immigrants’ papers by giving them working contracts under the guise of a sham business. Modou paid €1,500 to El Español and was told he would receive his permit within a week. His permit, like those of approximately 300 other immigrants, never materialized.
To make things worse, thanks to the new law and a more hostile approach from the Guàrdia Urbana, selling on the streets was becoming more difficult. “The Guàrdia Urbana now came after you, once they knew the law was on their side. They knew how much money some of us were making. They followed and intercepted us on our way home. ‘Give us your money,’ they would say, ‘and you can go.’ I always said, ‘No, take me to the station.’ Then they had to do it by the book and report the money they took from us.”
“They also wanted to find out who was making the big money; who the big boss was, ” Modou continued. “For a while they thought it was me. ‘Konate’ they called me. It was the false name on my documents. They followed me for a long time. Everywhere I went, they were waiting for me. They would detain us and question us, threatening us, calling us bad names.” Modou pointed to stitches on his forehead received during one of these interviews. So who were the real bosses? He laughed and shook his head. “Clever people. The ones who know how to do business. But it is not a mafia like you hear in the media. Everyone helps each other out.”
In all, Modou worked on the streets from 2004 until 2007. During his time as a mantero he received dozens of fines. In the end it was the fines that landed him two spells in prison. The first term was in 2007 and lasted only 15 days, thanks to an unpaid fine of €2,900. The second time, a year later, he was sentenced to 18 months in jail. “I had already paid the fine, but there was no arguing. I was sent to the Modelo (the now-defunct prison in Eixample) among serious offenders—drug-dealers, violent people. My only crime was trying to work. My wife had come over from Senegal and our daughter had just been born. After six months in the Modelo, my lawyer got my sentence changed, because my daughter had been born in Spain. I was transferred to Brians (a penitentiary near Martorell) and was allowed to visit my family on weekends.”
During his prison sentence, Modou was finally registered on Spain’s social security system for the first time. The reason? “The prison warden told me to sign up to one of their programs, so I joined the library and worked in the prison workshop, where we made plastic pieces for a factory. We worked for four hours a day and earned €10. As I was officially earning money, I was taxed. That,” said Modou, unable to hide the resentment behind a forced grin, “is how I got onto the social security system.”
After leaving prison, Modou found his feet and left the mantero trade behind. He trained as a chef, found work, and now has his papers in order. But his experiences still haunt and embitter him. He believes that being a non-EU immigrant means “you are denied both the means to work and the rights of a normal citizen”. This is at the heart of why so many immigrants from countries such as Senegal, Sierra Leone and Mali end up selling falsified goods on Barcelona’s streets. After 13 years in Barcelona, Modou has become integrated, largely thanks to his own efforts.