So, how safe is Ripperland?
Many people, usually those who have little experience of the area, will tell you that it is littered with hazards, from drug-dealing gangstas, predatory prostitutes and homeless mental patients. After 26 years of roaming the area both night and day, I can honestly say that all these hazards are indeed present - but more often than not, you wouldn't notice (at least I don't and even when I do, it doesn't bother me).
Some say the riskiest area is the Flower and Dean Estate which sits between Commercial Street and Brick Lane. Ripper tours tend to get a ribbing from the local youths around here and indeed one guide was beaten up a few years ago. More about the Flower and Dean Estate can be found on the original Ripperland blog http://ripper-land.blogspot.com/.
But is it as bad as they say? Personally, I don't think so. I have walked through it numerous times and was even reckless enough to do so with a camcorder only last week. Because of the change in the population around here in the last 10 years or so, the ever-
present threat of being roughed up or harrassed has diminished. White middle-class media trendies and earnest proffessionals who live in restored Georgian houses do not tend to roam the streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields brandishing bottles of Meths and dribbling over your shoulder in the hope that such endearing behaviour will encourage you to give them a cigarette. In fact, the homeless (and it is still a place of congregation for them) are altogether politer and certainly less threatening than their predecessors. This guy let me take a picture of him after I gave him a pound.
However, the following account happened to me and a friend after a pub crawl in Whitechapel Road in 1989:
Many people, usually those who have little experience of the area, will tell you that it is littered with hazards, from drug-dealing gangstas, predatory prostitutes and homeless mental patients. After 26 years of roaming the area both night and day, I can honestly say that all these hazards are indeed present - but more often than not, you wouldn't notice (at least I don't and even when I do, it doesn't bother me).
Some say the riskiest area is the Flower and Dean Estate which sits between Commercial Street and Brick Lane. Ripper tours tend to get a ribbing from the local youths around here and indeed one guide was beaten up a few years ago. More about the Flower and Dean Estate can be found on the original Ripperland blog http://ripper-land.blogspot.com/.
But is it as bad as they say? Personally, I don't think so. I have walked through it numerous times and was even reckless enough to do so with a camcorder only last week. Because of the change in the population around here in the last 10 years or so, the ever-
present threat of being roughed up or harrassed has diminished. White middle-class media trendies and earnest proffessionals who live in restored Georgian houses do not tend to roam the streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields brandishing bottles of Meths and dribbling over your shoulder in the hope that such endearing behaviour will encourage you to give them a cigarette. In fact, the homeless (and it is still a place of congregation for them) are altogether politer and certainly less threatening than their predecessors. This guy let me take a picture of him after I gave him a pound.However, the following account happened to me and a friend after a pub crawl in Whitechapel Road in 1989:
The pubs are shut and we have a Kentucky Fried Chicken bargain box each. It has been a long evening and we are looking for somewhere secluded to tuck into our grub. Court Street (off the Whitechapel Road) seems suitably quiet and there are some market barrows to sit on. It is now midnight.
We sit chatting and eating, though it is becoming obvious that this tiny thoroughfare is maybe too secluded and that brings with it a creeping sense of unease. That feeling of apprehension is soon borne out when we are suddenly aware of movement from beneath on of the barrows parked in a yard nearby. Two figures uncoil themselves like HR GIger’s Alien, stand and walk unsteadily toward us. It is a man and a woman and in the dim light of the street lamps we can see their haggard, line-etched faces. Their physical condition makes it hard to tell how old they are, but they are incredibly drunk and look to all intents and purposes like chronic alcoholics.They see we are eating and ask us if they can have a bit of food. They are smiling, not aggressive in any way, but I am slowly becoming convinced that they are on drugs, big drugs, as well as being completely and utterly smashed. Before either of us can answer, I have unwittingly lost a piece of chicken which the woman is now slavering over. My friend voluntarily offers the man a piece of his, just to make sure there is no trouble. All the time they are talking to us, but we cannot really understand what they are saying, what with the booze, drugs and mouthfuls of food. We stick it out for as long as is bearable, which in fact is no time at all and after giving them what is left of our boxes of food, slowly walk off. They seem to be thanking us, beckoning us back, but we’re having none of it. Once back on the main road we head west and keep going until we get to the Strand.
Prostitutes can still sometimes be seen plying their trade along Commercial Street at night, sometimes around the entrance to Lolesworth Close (once Flower & Dean Street), doing pretty much as their predecessors did during that autumn of terror in 1888, only with less horrific outcomes. Many of the pubs have lost their 'locals only' appeal and are much more inviting - there was a time when I felt that many places were no go, as if the piano would stop playing when I walked in, or that I would be approached by some bloke who enquired menacingly "you're not from 'rand 'ere are ya, boy?" Much of that has changed now that the East End is becoming more cosmopolitan.
It is said that looking confident when walking about is the trick; if you look like a confused tourist you are going to be vulnerable - if you stroll about like you own the place (or at least as though you know where you are going) you are going to display less of the demeanour which invites undesirable attention. But this could be said for many places.
For all its up-and-comingness and muticulturalism, the East End still has pockets of dyed-in-the-wool roughness which refuse to be swamped by change. Cannon Street Road has a particularly grim block of flats on it where gangs regularly hang around the unsecured entrances as if guarding their patch.
We sit chatting and eating, though it is becoming obvious that this tiny thoroughfare is maybe too secluded and that brings with it a creeping sense of unease. That feeling of apprehension is soon borne out when we are suddenly aware of movement from beneath on of the barrows parked in a yard nearby. Two figures uncoil themselves like HR GIger’s Alien, stand and walk unsteadily toward us. It is a man and a woman and in the dim light of the street lamps we can see their haggard, line-etched faces. Their physical condition makes it hard to tell how old they are, but they are incredibly drunk and look to all intents and purposes like chronic alcoholics.They see we are eating and ask us if they can have a bit of food. They are smiling, not aggressive in any way, but I am slowly becoming convinced that they are on drugs, big drugs, as well as being completely and utterly smashed. Before either of us can answer, I have unwittingly lost a piece of chicken which the woman is now slavering over. My friend voluntarily offers the man a piece of his, just to make sure there is no trouble. All the time they are talking to us, but we cannot really understand what they are saying, what with the booze, drugs and mouthfuls of food. We stick it out for as long as is bearable, which in fact is no time at all and after giving them what is left of our boxes of food, slowly walk off. They seem to be thanking us, beckoning us back, but we’re having none of it. Once back on the main road we head west and keep going until we get to the Strand.
Prostitutes can still sometimes be seen plying their trade along Commercial Street at night, sometimes around the entrance to Lolesworth Close (once Flower & Dean Street), doing pretty much as their predecessors did during that autumn of terror in 1888, only with less horrific outcomes. Many of the pubs have lost their 'locals only' appeal and are much more inviting - there was a time when I felt that many places were no go, as if the piano would stop playing when I walked in, or that I would be approached by some bloke who enquired menacingly "you're not from 'rand 'ere are ya, boy?" Much of that has changed now that the East End is becoming more cosmopolitan.
It is said that looking confident when walking about is the trick; if you look like a confused tourist you are going to be vulnerable - if you stroll about like you own the place (or at least as though you know where you are going) you are going to display less of the demeanour which invites undesirable attention. But this could be said for many places.
For all its up-and-comingness and muticulturalism, the East End still has pockets of dyed-in-the-wool roughness which refuse to be swamped by change. Cannon Street Road has a particularly grim block of flats on it where gangs regularly hang around the unsecured entrances as if guarding their patch.
I might be numbed to the potential dangers of the (East) London environment, but personally, I wouldn't like to have to pass through them on my way home every night.
