Early one very warm July morning I had the train carriage to myself. July is the preferred holiday month in Sweden, when the country is abandoned by the natives and handed over to the tourists. I was on my way to work, a report to be delivered on the sadistic deadline of August 1st.
My office was in the concrete jungle that is downtown Stockholm. Already by eight o’clock in the morning the air was wobbling like warm jelly as I approached the grey 1970’s office block where I was to spend the day. I let myself in and climbed the steps to the first floor. The only window in my cubicle office faced onto a brutal brown nine-storey hotel building. It was just six metres away, between us the pedestrian way which plays a central role in my working day.
I switched on the computer and went to fetch some coffee. The long ghostly corridors were empty. Was I all alone in the building? Then I noticed the early queue of patients outside the cut-price Polish dental clinic which shared our building. Somehow that felt reassuring.
As the morning progressed, things hotted up: the computer started complaining and slowed down, I took off a layer of clothing and the ventilation system finally groaned to a halt. I opened the window, which proved to be mere symbolic: the air stood still. Outside I could hear the noise of hundreds of sandal-clad feet shuffling along the pedestrian way, their occupants in outsize shorts and loud shirts already tiring. They were “doing Stockholm”, on their way from the shopping emporiums to the Royal Castle, and picturesque Old Town. The stream of tourists moved like a flow of steaming lava, negotiating the souvenir shops and cheap eateries which barred their way like an obstacle course.
I tried working with the window open. After half a page I noticed that my typing had assumed a rhythm of its own, reflected in the red lines which had appeared on the screen. Unconsciously my brain had picked up a foreign rhythm. Leaning out of window I found the source, a tall young gentleman with Dreadlocks hammering rhythmically on a bongo drum. In the distance I could also hear an accordion/trumpet set playing the same Rumanian camp-fire folk song over and over. One block further south somebody with an amplified electric guitar was imitating blues riffs.
The choice was either to live with it, or close the window and die from heatstroke. Faced with this choice I considered relocating to the quieter side of the building, but my computer was bolted to the desk to put off potential burglars. On my way to get some more coffee, I had an idea. I would pay the bongo drummer to move away, out of hearing. Brilliant, I thought! In the coffee room I met a couple of colleagues and pitched the idea at them, an experiment. Like most ideas that come from someone else, they didn’t like it. The usual objections were raised: “Why should we solve your problem?” “How much would it cost?” “Who pays?” meaning not us! “What happens if the drummer takes the money and stays put?” “Why not call the law?”
I never did try paying somebody to desist from anti-social behaviour. Instead, with the help of music of my own choosing, I battled on and finished my report in time. Then I changed jobs and forgot all about it. That is, until recently when I read a newspaper article* about a place where my idea is being tested in real life.
The place is Macao, a former Portuguese colony, now a special administrative region within the People’s Republic of China, across the bay from Hong Kong, which has a similar semi-independent status.
Macao, with 650 000 inhabitants, is noted for one thing – gambling. The casinos attract over 400 000 visitors each year, most from mainland China and generate most of the income of the local state administration.
A problem facing the authorities in Macao is the prevalence of drug addicts which disturbs the tourists and gamblers and could lead to a downturn in the number of visitors and thus the revenues of Macao.
For the past three years the solution tested is completely in line with my idea. The local welfare authority pays drug addicts to stop stealing from tourists and sleeping rough, to study, to return used needles and to stop sharing needles. Clean packs of needles are provided free of charge. Every day the authority does a clean-up of used needles from known haunts of the addicts.
There are standard rewards. First needle returned gives a cup of coffee, second needle a bowl of noodle soup, third needle dinner. A monthly payment of 500 dollars is given to all addicts if they desist from stealing, more if they decide to study. Like all citizens of Macao, the addicts also receive an annual check for 1000 dollars from the gambling profits.
The results are impressive. Drug addicts no longer share needles and there have been no new HIV-cases in the past three years. And the gambling industry in Macao generates enough revenue to care for all drug addicts, while protecting the industry’s own interests.
One issue not mentioned in the article is how addicts who do not deliver are dealt with? Are the incentives an offer they cannot refuse? The gambling industry of course is noted for packing some muscle.
Interest in the idea of replacing sanctions with incentives is growing. Listening to Swedish radio recently I heard a politician who suggested the government buy weapons from gun-runners in the Balkan region to stem the flow of guns to criminal gangs in Sweden. Interesting thought, but a mite desperate and a wholly unrealistic solution to the growing problem of gang shootings.
Sometimes I regret that I did not pursue my experiment that one hot July in Stockholm. For a reasonable fee I could have offered the buskers an incentive to move a block or two. The bongo-drummer, who was just outside my window, would no doubt have demanded a higher rate to move away. Of course, this was an offer they could refuse!
* Henrik Brandão Jönsson wrote about the situation in Macao for Dagens Nyheter, Stockholm, on January 1st 2018.