The People: The Recyclers

Drum roll....And now the long-anticipated part two (part one) of the occasional series of "The People" entries...

There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of them in Phnom Penh alone. They come in all shapes and sizes. They range in age from two or three to sixty. Their clothes are ragged, but their call is confident. They operate at all times of day, from early in the morning until late in the evening. They are the recyclers.

They are not, however, recyclers in the traditional sense. They do not work for the government. They do not wear a uniform. They do not care if your recyclables are sorted between paper and plastic or what number, if any, appears on the bottom of your discarded items. So what are they?

I suppose you could describe them as independent entrepreneurs, though their activities are far from lucrative. Their mission? To collect anything left as trash on sidewalks and street corners that they or someone else might find remotely useful. Their primary concern is the collection of cardboard and bottles and cans, plastic, glass, tin and aluminum. But they will take anything discarded that can be recycled for parts or repaired for use. Broken electronics are particularly sought after.

Their day starts as early as the sun allows. Wearing worn flip flops and tattered clothes, they take to the streets armed with either a synthetic sack, the former home of twenty kilos of cement or rice, or a rickety, two-wheeled, wooden pushcart. As they saunter along, they issue a nasal utterance, “Eah Jaht…Eah Jaht…Eah Jaht,” a phrase which comes from the Vietnamese for garbage. Often the utterance is accompanied by the ring of a bell or the squeak a horn, not unlike the sound you would expect to hear from a clown’s nose or a dog’s toy, as they pass.

They are often small and shoeless boys, between six and ten years old, with dark skin, tussled hair, faded and torn shorts and t-shirt, and a long face. If you smile at them, however, their eyes will light up and a beautiful smile will emerge from a formerly somber visage. They tend to work the dirtiest, but also the most lucrative areas; those around the markets. They fill their cement sacks with bottles, cans, and cardboard and trudge to an extremely informal recycling center – there seems to be one on every other street or so – exchanging their wares for a dollar or two. It is to them that I offer a few bananas or my own neglected leftovers when I have the chance.

Just as often as they are young boys, they are fairly young mothers, perhaps in their mid-twenties. Their children may or may not have fathers, but they inevitably accompany their mothers on the daily route. They sit or stand in the rickety wooden carts, holding on to the side, their large and innocent eyes taking in the full extent of their surroundings. Throughout the day, soda bottles, empty but sticky cans of sweetened condensed milk, and cardboard boxes are piled high next to them. Their mothers tend to work the more suburban areas, canvassing various areas of the city and, once their carts are filled or the day is near its end, they deposit their findings at one of the aforementioned recycling centers.

Though they are very poor, they are indeed a staple of Phnom Penh. It is hard to imagine Phnom Penh without them, to wake up one morning and have their nasal cry or their comical squeak absent from the city streets.