Advertisement
Published: February 26th 2008
Edit Blog Post
the raid
from Clarin Last December, a stretch of about 15 or 20 yards of street in Belgrano (the upscale neighborhood I'm writing from now) was occupied by about 70 of Buenos Aires' cartoneros. Cartoneros are box people, who make their living by collecting corrugated material and other recyclables or reusables from the garbage every night and selling them to plants. The majority started in order to fight homelessness after 2000, and most still live on the streets today. The profession is far from glamorous, and comes off to me as some kindof loose caste mentality meeting rigid principles of autogestion and self-management. It's above all a family business. Families work together- that is, boys of 9 or 10 go out with their fathers and uncles pushing carts and lifting wood all night; and 6 or 7 year old girls sell candy or juggle for monedas in front of bars at 3 or 4 in the morning. Professionally, though, these units of families live and work with and among one another, in what I've learned in the past couple weeks is a very well-organized system. It used to be that the government provided transport for the recycled material that they sell in the form of
a train car, which was taken out of service last year, inciting this migration.
I can remember first getting here, still all tingly over the idea that i'm now living in this gorgeous neighborhood for still less than it cost me to live in Jamaica, Queens last January. And then straying off my block for the first time I ran into a sister civilazation- this one leaning against a fence. Next to the railroad tracks, the cartoneros had converted their materials into a housing complex, literally of cardboard and plastic. And it was an empire onto itself. Half naked kids ran around playing while their mothers peeked out from behind the blanket doors of each living unit. And men and their men sorted through the mass piled adjacent to the railroad's crossing. On top of that heap, fashioned from a piece of cardboard, was the white-painted symbol of a locomotive engine car. Written on it, "El Tren Dignificado." Of course I was immediately compelled to walk in the street- i can't remember if out of total fear or of deference to what was clearly an occupied, if not owned, territory. But when the father of a family of four (sitting outside their tent sharing a sandwich) looked at me and winked, the complete absence of shame from his face (which was probably painted all over mine), let me know that our space was shared.
The second time I walked past the railroad tracks, two men, three arms between the both of them, were hoisting a banner at the corner of the block. I had to backpeddle into the street to read "Vinimos a vivir en Belgrano por nuestra propia voluntad- Si vecino, ayudanos." The one-armed man had some trouble, and seeing this as my perfect first opportunity, I grabbed the pole that held it while he tied it down. he shook my hand, kissed my cheek, and said 'suerte.' i wished him the same, and have since been living alongside this community with no negative taint in my view toward them. it occured to me later that their wish- 'if you consider us neighbors, help us'- was for nothing other than their neighbors' ambivalence. your anonymity and unexceptionality in the daily scheme of things is part and parcel to living in a metropolis, and i've learned that most of the time in life, being accepted really just means being ignored. these people's greatest hope was that their garbage heap not be looked at with more curiosity than a designer poodle dressed (seriously) in a poodle skirt, designed for the dog itself (exists). Maybe i'm cheating because i'm new here and the cartoneros might well have been living there forever- or maybe it's because I don't have anything invested in my property value here, or maybe it's because i'm working on being ignored, too. but i give their petition out wherever i can, and give them all the ambivalence they want.
Yesterday, I passed their block on the way to the gym just like usual. till an hour and a half later, when i found on my walk back that everyone and everything that was on their block was gone. the streets were wet, as if just powerwashed, and 14 policemen stood, relatively idly, around the block- smoking, eating, talking on cellphones, as if nothing had happened and nobody had ever been there. the "white train" sign was all that remained. a man in no shirt, ripped cutoffs, and a Boca Juniors hat, a cartonero, walked a few paces behind me with his cameon, or push-cart. i stopped along side him as he rested it down. i saw his chest bellowing sporadically while he hiccupped and started tearing, and wished i could set right what neither of us could help. i nudged his shoulder to indicate that some of the cops were stopping their cellphone calls and walking toward him. he picked up his cart, turned back and walked back in the direction he had come from. nobody followed him.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.133s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 5; qc: 44; dbt: 0.108s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
Bill
non-member comment
wow
Wow. Good stuff. Is there more?