Who's digging through your rubbish?

Have you ever wondered what their story is?

A child’s laugh echoes throughout the neighbourhood, a dog’s bark resounds, and feet pound on the warming tar as people take to their early morning fitness routines. A mangy dog gnaws at litter strewn across Templeton Drive in Somerset Heights, and the rusty off-white Toyota I am driving doesn’t quite fit into the scene. Piles of bulging black rubbish bags line the sides of the road, and continue to grow as gardeners and residents take to their working days.

I idle along, my skin taking in the morning sun, and in the shadows of the trees I see him. Hunched shoulders; a dark brown coat - Blending in to the shadows, it’s hard to tell if its cotton is brown or if nature has simply taken its toll. As I get closer the figure clutches a black plastic bag in one hand, he walks on with a lop-sided stride and a make-shift walking stick in the other hand. The car rev’s a little as I approach him and stop behind him; he does not flinch or look over his shoulder.

I watch for a bit.

His wrinkled hands untie bag after bag and he delves into the squalor, his paws no longer visible, his face immersed into the darkness of the plastic. He finds a milk carton, shakes its remains, pops the lid off, and tips his head back to quench his thirst. He flings the carton onto the road and continues his walk. As he walks along, I follow at a distance. At every stop, he puts something else into his bag.

Plastic cups.
Bread crusts.
A yogurt tub.
An old piece of cloth.

These wanderers who insist on helping themselves to what other’s deem as rubbish are nothing new to the neighborhoods of Grahamstown. They often cause irritation, disturbance and mess. “Nobody wants to do this to survive. I see them eating old food out of pure desperation,” says Mr. Webb from Oatlands North. Mr. Webb also expressed that although these “rubbish collectors” may not be criminals looking to steal goods, they may pass on valuable information to friends they talk to about the houses, the state of security and the people who live in these homes. “We only put our rubbish out after 11:30am when most of these wanderers have already gone past,” says Mr. Webb. Mr. Weaving, a Somerset Heights resident, said that his family experienced this problem for about a year before approaching the Makana Municipality. “We now wait for the rubbish truck and have organized for them to hoot and then we take our rubbish up; it normally works,” adds Mr. Weaving.

I step out into the warmth that summer brings and walk up to this rubbish collector. As I approach a cold feeling washes over me. A stranger and outsider to this area, but somewhere within me I still feel safe.

It doesn’t take me long and I am in full conversation with this old man. Rugged, dirty and carrying a heavy smell, Nkosi, 68, tells me about his life. Moving to Grahamstown with his mom at 19, Nkosi worked as a gardener. His mom got violently ill and he stopped work to look after her. She soon died and Nkosi felt lost. “I have no money, I have no food. This is my only means of survival,” he tells me in broken English. Nkosi explains that people often shout at him for digging in the rubbish and he can understand their fears. “I know I look like I am up to trouble, is it a crime to dig through rubbish?” Nkosi struggles to understand resident’s frustration and stresses he has no job, he has no family and this is all he knows.

Nkosi asks me if I would buy him a loaf of bread. I take him to Pick ‘n Pay, buy him milk and a loaf of bread and ask him if I could drop him at home. As I sit in the car, his reddened eyes gleaming back at me as he rips the loaf up and stuffs pieces into his mouth, I realize what I have just asked. “Madam, you can drop me anywhere – the streets of Grahamstown are my home.”