A Banquet For Phnom Penh's Rubbish Dump Residents

Travel Story by David Calleja

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

“SOM CHO BEIE JOUR!”

My message is attempting to tell everybody to please make two lines. The limits of my Khmer are obvious to everybody in earshot, but even in a time of crisis, I am still able to obtain laughter from those who seek another type of medicine.

This is Stueng Meanchey, Phnom Penh’s Waste Dump. I am one of four frontline feeders, handing out packages of baguettes, mandarins and bananas to the outstretched hands, hats and cupped t-shirts of boys and girls, men and women.  There are three other men helping me, each trying to keep their lines in order as I am. My journey for the day has taken me through an open market in Phnom Penh to shop for bread and fruit, taking a hands-on role of preparing a care package on the truck (the second row feeders) to hand to anyone strong enough to hand out food at the coalface (front row feeders.)  I found out about this experience by seeing a laminated flyer behind some deodorant at a small grocery store in Phnom Penh, unsure what to expect for my fifteen dollars, apart from a warning of ‘seeing some distressing scenery’.

Prior to setting off for the day a man gives me a photo display of what I may be confronted with. He explains how one little boy aged 4 years old endured a broken leg during childbirth when doctors pulled too hard during childbirth. The bone snapped in several places, leaving him unable to walk and he now wears a metal brace where delicate surgery is underway to provide him with a fully functional leg, enabling him to take his first steps in 2009 at the age of 5. There are plenty of shots of children living on mounds of rubbish with their families as well as individual photos that have been donated over the years.  Another experience told of a 20 year old single mother of two children diagnosed with malaria soon after giving birth. She suffered the indignity of being beaten up by her partner who also lived on the dump grounds.  There is no protection for the vulnerable here.

For an everyday run, about 300 meal kits are provided, with the cost between $USD100-120 per visit, made up entirely of volunteer donations. The message is slowly but surely reaching out and some NGOs are even working together to assist in the project. Aside from getting serious people who are genuinely concerned about taking part in a worthwhile project, he brings along a foreigner with knowledge of basic first aid to tend to cuts and wounds that residents pick up in the process of digging through rubbish.

I asked him how it is possible for an experienced man to come close to tears upon every visit.

“Sometimes I wonder how long I can keep doing this. But if I crack up emotionally, then I will just mope around and declare everything a lost cause. What would be done then?”

Trekking through the aisles and back roads of the open market, Dave led the pack just like an army squadron leader. This was no more evident than during his negotiations with a stall owner who tried to offload boxes of lychees littered with ants. “There is no way I am taking this.” His cavalier approach towards buying goods demonstrated how direct he was in marching in to the rubbish dump to get the job done personally. This is the stuff of the British bulldog, the fearless fighting spirit of Winston Churchill’s men in uniform.  It is hard to think that less than a kilometre down the road, a Western Union and some international schools are within reach as well.

Once the truck stopped to enter Steung Meanchey, a yellow and black boom gate opened and then slowly closed shut. A horde of flies then stormed the open truck at the same a putrid scent wafted in. Construction workers with their mouths and heads wrapped in traditional kramas watched as we slowly passed by and then waved and cheered in irony or anticipation. Within a minute, men, women, boys and girls had started to run up the road, following our convoy of food. This is going to take one Herculean effort to get through without being personally affected. When the call came out for 3 strong lads, naturally I considered myself a contender. But hang on, I thought to myself, what strength is required here? Physical or emotional capabilities? I jumped out of the truck and volunteered with another Englishman and American, faced immediately with a group of 50 people who were partially excited, possibly anxious but understandably hungry and lining up in front of us, clamouring to get to the best positions to be served.

Surrounding me is the opening hatch of a rented tray truck and I am being handed down fruit and bread which I give to whomever is in front of me. There is no ticketing system, just an implied agreement that everybody will behave as orderly as can be expected to receive some nourishment, and for the large part, everything seems to run smoothly. I have to watch out for young children being sent by their parents to get more food out of fear they get lost amidst a sea of legs. Males shove girls out of the way to get that extra bit of food, and age and status does not make a difference. Everybody is desperate because in their mind, they are unsure when the next food delivery will come. Until then, the only food that can be obtained is by digging through the rubbish, even if it means eating excrement.

Then it was a maze of hands, hats and cupped t-shirts along with cries of “Me! Me! Me!” Children referred to me as teacher, and I panicked. How do I address the elderly? In the 30 minutes that was spent receiving and handing out food, everybody is important, but you can only focus on one face and pair of hands at a time and block out the numerous hands frantically waving around while maintaining an eagle’s eye and quick hands. I had memorised some basic Khmer to stop proceedings in case somebody dropped an item of food and a scramble ensued. The sun was baking hot and apart from a rundown shack occupied by one family, nowhere else offering respite from the sun. Kids poked at the body hair on my arms and tugged at my shirt. The elderly stood back more passively, and mothers balancing children on their backs or hips simply held out their hats or kramas with a spare hand, indicating their time had come to be delivered with food.

The inevitable moment when all food supplies were close to running out approached. A shake of the basket revealed 10 bananas and 10 apples left. At that precise moment, 60 pairs of hands or improvised carrying devices waved in the air. Impending disaster and alarm bells were triggered, for about 60 people surged forward in trying to get some fruit. Adults and boys started pushing women and children, determined to reach the best position.  One little girl with scars on her legs and face dropped an apple that I was handing to her along with the rest of her food, leading to a tug-of-war match between her and another boy I had given food to already.  My mistake was judging that he was being greedy and that he should hand the fruit back, which he eventually did. What I did not know, that only came to my mind later, is that he had been robbed of his parcel of food which I had personally handed to him when leaving the line. His hand motions of patting his stomach, followed by him picking up a piece of plastic from the ground and pretending to choke himself, is a picture that will stick in my mind. Amidst the backdrop of piles of rubbish strewn beyond the naked eye, children and adults found a space to sit down and eat. Some children with serious skin conditions were fortunate enough to be treated with anti-biotics.

For the remaining minutes of my experience in Stueng Meanchey, the piles of rubbish paled into insignificance and I viewed a sea of smiles. As the truck pulled away, eventually leaving behind the nauseating fumes and a smouldering scene of burning garbage surrounded by residents, I promise never to describe my next meal as rubbish out of respect for the heroic residents who call this place home.

The author wishes to advise that Stung Meanchey Municipal Waste Dump closed in June 2009. It has since been learned that new facilities, surrounded by a concrete wall, have been built on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. No individuals are permitted to reside in the premises.

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
David Calleja

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