Each evening, as dusk begins to fall, something peculiar transpires on the streets of Buenos Aires. By this time, shops are closing up, people are returning home from work and many are comfortably sipping their coffee while watching the evening news. Yet, as one fragment of Argentine society unwinds, another emerges.
Just after 6 p.m., “los cartoneros” appear.
Literally translated as “the cardboard people,” the “cartoneros” enter the city from the poor neighborhoods and shantytowns of Buenos Aires and Gran Buenos Aires. They can be found rummaging through the heaps of black plastic trash bags and garbage containers that line the city streets in the evenings.
However, the cartoneros are not homeless—they aren’t fettering for food or clothes. Nor are they unemployed. In fact, a cartonero’s occupation is simply that—being a cartonero. The cartoneros are one of the most visible, lingering consequences of Argentina’s devastating economic crisis of 2001. They are a tragic reminder of the joblessness and poverty that, at one point, left entire communities helpless. As suggested by their name, the cartoneros sift through others’ garbage in search of recyclable materials, primarily paper and plastic, which they package and sell to recycling businesses. These companies convert the materials into raw goods, which are then shipped to factories within Argentina and abroad.
Cartenero families (as the business is often a family affair) work long and exhausting hours, leaving home as early as 4 p.m. and returning as late as 2 a.m. Parents and their children, as young as 6 years old, spend their nights rifling through trash, only to spend the following mornings organizing and packaging the recovered materials.
Although the phenomenon of collecting and selling recyclables from trash existed long before 2001, its popularity skyrocketed following the onset of the crisis. Between 2001 and 2002, the number of people digging through garbage in Buenos Aires alone was estimated to be as high as 40,000. Why such a drastic increase?
The first and most obvious reason for this upswing was that large segments of the population were unable to find employment elsewhere. However, the second and lesser-known explanation has to do with the devaluation of the peso in 2002, which made the importation of paper and plastic extremely expensive.
As a result, Argentinean corporations did two things: they began to produce these materials internally, and they sought to increase recycling. It is the second of these actions that enabled the growth of the cartoneros as it created a new labor niche, offering thousands of jobless Argentines a source (however modest) of income.
Although the number of cartoneros working in the city has since decreased to about 6,000, 30 percent of Argentina’s population is still beneath the poverty line. Even 10 years later, cartoneros are still—undeniably—present.
Walking the streets of Recoleta, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Buenos Aires, it is impossible to go more than a block without seeing someone digging through the trash. I cross the street and there is a middle-aged man carrying a cart full of salvaged recyclables. I walk past the corner church, and there are two young boys, presumably brothers, tearing up boxes of cardboard. I reach my block, and there is an old woman in front of my apartment. She works there almost every night, sorting the garbage of the wealthy. The sight of poverty is inescapable. It is poverty personified, materialized and made visible to all.
Although most experts consider Argentina one of the most developed countries of Latin America, the presence of the cartoneros reiterates the fact that it is still very much developing. Like many other developing countries, Argentina is now facing the consequences of rapid urbanization. As it struggles to sustain a growing population, poverty can no longer be restricted to the periphery. Every day, the middle and upper classes are forced to recognize people and images that those classes in the United States do not often see.
Sure, there are complaints about the cartoneros, but most only concern their carts getting in the way of street traffic. Surprisingly, most citizens across the socioeconomic spectrum have few issues with them. Perhaps, it is because the boundaries between the rich and poor and the spaces they occupy aren’t as rigid as they are in fully developed countries like the United States. Maybe it’s because, at the moment, only 10 percent of the city’s waste is recycled, most of which is gathered by the cartoneros themselves. Or maybe it’s because the rich don’t really have to pay attention; after all, the cartoneros only work at night. Or, as my host mother says, it is a job and means for them to provide for their families—an act which deserves respect.
Whatever the justification, I can’t help but wonder: what if something like this happened in the United States? I am fairly confident that if cartoneros suddenly emerged on the streets of America’s big cities, the country would soon be mired in chaos and protest.
And that, I think, is something worth considering.
Sonia Havele is a Trinity junior and is currently studying abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Her column runs every other Friday.
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