We'd been told of its vastness, the stench, the poverty surrounding.
Wed been warned about how they keep photographers and journalists out. The government trying to maintain some integrity.
We heard the facts, we acknowledged the warning. These might as well could've fallen on deaf ears, for no words could have prepared us for the sight awaiting us.
Shielded behind the privacy of tinted windows, I along with the other overseas volunteers were allowed through the gates of Chennai's dumping grounds. The smell had already reached our AC vents a few miles before, once inside it was almost smothering at first. The scenery soon distracting our noses, the eyes struggling to process the image before us.
One hundred acres is the area that has been devoted to piling the waste created by 33 million people. Mountains, valleys, and rivers of waste create this ever changing landscape. Growing faster that mountains on tectonic boundaries, each day truck load after truck load com in reshaping the mounds. Followed behind them, the roves of rag pickers. Spanning all age groups, these people come in daily to pick through the rubbish, trying to scavenge every piece of metal, plastic, or any salvageable material that they can then sell.
Many of our boys used to do this for a living alongside the rest of their family, only making Rs. 300 a day ($6) out in the sweltering heat. One of them joined us on this trip. Once outside of the MCCSS vehicle, he ran straight up on top of one of the mounds. The rest of us stepping ever so carefully, cautious of the undistinguishable rubbish beneath us.
Yet it was hard to look at in disgust when knowing that this was once our boy's home, and still home to many others. Isabel told us that many of the boys still possessed a love-hate relationship with the dumpyard. The dumpyard gave them a freedom that civilized world can not. You could see this freedom in the boy as he darted from our vehicle. He had family there, friends; some of which we ran into during our short visit. All of them looking no older than 13.
Eventually the guards found us and our cameras, forcing us back in the car with enough time to speed away. These are the few photos I managed to get:
Wed been warned about how they keep photographers and journalists out. The government trying to maintain some integrity.
We heard the facts, we acknowledged the warning. These might as well could've fallen on deaf ears, for no words could have prepared us for the sight awaiting us.
Shielded behind the privacy of tinted windows, I along with the other overseas volunteers were allowed through the gates of Chennai's dumping grounds. The smell had already reached our AC vents a few miles before, once inside it was almost smothering at first. The scenery soon distracting our noses, the eyes struggling to process the image before us.
One hundred acres is the area that has been devoted to piling the waste created by 33 million people. Mountains, valleys, and rivers of waste create this ever changing landscape. Growing faster that mountains on tectonic boundaries, each day truck load after truck load com in reshaping the mounds. Followed behind them, the roves of rag pickers. Spanning all age groups, these people come in daily to pick through the rubbish, trying to scavenge every piece of metal, plastic, or any salvageable material that they can then sell.
Many of our boys used to do this for a living alongside the rest of their family, only making Rs. 300 a day ($6) out in the sweltering heat. One of them joined us on this trip. Once outside of the MCCSS vehicle, he ran straight up on top of one of the mounds. The rest of us stepping ever so carefully, cautious of the undistinguishable rubbish beneath us.
Yet it was hard to look at in disgust when knowing that this was once our boy's home, and still home to many others. Isabel told us that many of the boys still possessed a love-hate relationship with the dumpyard. The dumpyard gave them a freedom that civilized world can not. You could see this freedom in the boy as he darted from our vehicle. He had family there, friends; some of which we ran into during our short visit. All of them looking no older than 13.
Eventually the guards found us and our cameras, forcing us back in the car with enough time to speed away. These are the few photos I managed to get:
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