they were from, what had brought them together, and how they had come to end up there. In any case, it was wise of them to have chosen a relatively safe place for their shacks, just a shout away from the armed guards on the other side of the wall.
Among the scattered huts, the smallest of them stood out. The materials from which it was built were not different, but it had been carefully designed. The scrap-metal walls had been painted with a bright sunset, and the roofing felt had been folded into a castle-like turret. There were three small windows made from red, yellow and blue plastic bags, and a door made of coloured cardboard woven with strips of plastic sheeting, which would have no difficulty keeping out the wind and rain. I was moved by the care and attention to detail that had obviously gone into building this flimsy hut, and found the wind chimes made of broken glass tinkling gently over the door especially poignant.
The owner of this scrap castle was a thin, frail woman of over fifty. It was not only her shack that was unique; she too was set apart from the other scavenger women by her appearance. Most of the women had dishevelled hair and dirty faces, and were dreadfully ragged, but this woman kept herself neat, and her worn clothes were scrupulously clean and well mended. But for the bag she carried to collect rubbish, you would never imagine she was a scavenger. She seemed to keep to herself.
When I told my colleagues what I had observed of the scavenger woman, they piped up one after the other that they too had noticed her, not wanting me to feel that I was in any way unique. One of them even told me that the scavenger women were keen listeners to my programme. I could not tell if they were mocking me.
From the sidelines, Big Li, who reported on social issues, rapped his desk with a pen, a sign that he was about to give his younger colleagues a lecture.
‘You shouldn’t pity the scavengers. They are not poor at all. Their spirits transcend the mundane world in a way that ordinary people can’t imagine. There is no room in their lives for material possessions, so their material desires are easily satisfied. And if you take money as a standard by which to judge people, you will find that some of those women are no worse off than people in other jobs.’ He told us that he had seen a scavenger woman in an expensive nightclub, covered in jewels and drinking French brandy at a hundred yuan a glass.
‘What nonsense!’ retorted Mengxing, who worked on the music programme. To her, the difference in their ages alone meant that she never believed anything Big Li said.
Normally the most cautious of men, Big Li unexpectedly got the bit between his teeth and offered to make a bet with Mengxing. Journalists love stirring things up, so everyone else enthusiastically started pitching in with suggestions about what the stake should be. They decided on a bicycle.
To carry out the bet, Big Li lied to his wife saying that he would be doing some evening reports, and Mengxing told her boyfriend that she had to go out and research contemporary music. Every night, for several days in succession, the two of them went to the nightclub Big Li claimed was frequented by the scavenger.
Mengxing lost. Sipping whisky, the scavenger had told Mengxing that her income from selling rubbish was 900 yuan a month. Big Li said that Mengxing had been in shock for hours. Mengxing earned about 400 yuan per month, and she was considered one of the favoured employees of her grade. From then on, Mengxing was no longer particular about the artistic value of a job; as long as she could earn money, she would take on absolutely anything. Everyone in the office said that the loss of her bicycle had brought on this new pragmatism.
Despite having noticed the tidy woman who lived in the scrap castle, I had not paid much more attention to the manner in which the scavengers passed their days. Frankly, part of me shied away from them. However, after
Among the scattered huts, the smallest of them stood out. The materials from which it was built were not different, but it had been carefully designed. The scrap-metal walls had been painted with a bright sunset, and the roofing felt had been folded into a castle-like turret. There were three small windows made from red, yellow and blue plastic bags, and a door made of coloured cardboard woven with strips of plastic sheeting, which would have no difficulty keeping out the wind and rain. I was moved by the care and attention to detail that had obviously gone into building this flimsy hut, and found the wind chimes made of broken glass tinkling gently over the door especially poignant.
The owner of this scrap castle was a thin, frail woman of over fifty. It was not only her shack that was unique; she too was set apart from the other scavenger women by her appearance. Most of the women had dishevelled hair and dirty faces, and were dreadfully ragged, but this woman kept herself neat, and her worn clothes were scrupulously clean and well mended. But for the bag she carried to collect rubbish, you would never imagine she was a scavenger. She seemed to keep to herself.
When I told my colleagues what I had observed of the scavenger woman, they piped up one after the other that they too had noticed her, not wanting me to feel that I was in any way unique. One of them even told me that the scavenger women were keen listeners to my programme. I could not tell if they were mocking me.
From the sidelines, Big Li, who reported on social issues, rapped his desk with a pen, a sign that he was about to give his younger colleagues a lecture.
‘You shouldn’t pity the scavengers. They are not poor at all. Their spirits transcend the mundane world in a way that ordinary people can’t imagine. There is no room in their lives for material possessions, so their material desires are easily satisfied. And if you take money as a standard by which to judge people, you will find that some of those women are no worse off than people in other jobs.’ He told us that he had seen a scavenger woman in an expensive nightclub, covered in jewels and drinking French brandy at a hundred yuan a glass.
‘What nonsense!’ retorted Mengxing, who worked on the music programme. To her, the difference in their ages alone meant that she never believed anything Big Li said.
Normally the most cautious of men, Big Li unexpectedly got the bit between his teeth and offered to make a bet with Mengxing. Journalists love stirring things up, so everyone else enthusiastically started pitching in with suggestions about what the stake should be. They decided on a bicycle.
To carry out the bet, Big Li lied to his wife saying that he would be doing some evening reports, and Mengxing told her boyfriend that she had to go out and research contemporary music. Every night, for several days in succession, the two of them went to the nightclub Big Li claimed was frequented by the scavenger.
Mengxing lost. Sipping whisky, the scavenger had told Mengxing that her income from selling rubbish was 900 yuan a month. Big Li said that Mengxing had been in shock for hours. Mengxing earned about 400 yuan per month, and she was considered one of the favoured employees of her grade. From then on, Mengxing was no longer particular about the artistic value of a job; as long as she could earn money, she would take on absolutely anything. Everyone in the office said that the loss of her bicycle had brought on this new pragmatism.
Despite having noticed the tidy woman who lived in the scrap castle, I had not paid much more attention to the manner in which the scavengers passed their days. Frankly, part of me shied away from them. However, after
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