Welcome to Trashland Read online

  For Caroline Northwood

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Welcome to Trashland

  2. Fighting Strangers

  3. On the Trail

  4. At Gifty’s

  5. X the Unknown

  6. Itching and Scratching

  7. Confrontation

  8. Lost and Found

  9. Lockup and Breakout

  10. Things Kick Off

  11. Treasure

  12. Dreaming

  Discovering Trashland

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  Welcome to Trashland

  If your phone goes wrong, do you throw it away? How about your TV or your tablet or your speakers? Or do you recycle these things?

  I bet you recycle. You’re told it’s the right thing to do. It’s kinder to the earth, right?

  Sure it is.

  It’s funny, the way the world works. Companies spend millions making cool electronic stuff like smartphones. The bits inside have to be exact, or they won’t work. People working on factory production lines carefully put the whole thing together so it’s perfect: sleek and shiny and brand new. You buy it. You love it.

  But when the thing is old or stops working, it’s not sent back to the factory. There’s no production line waiting to take it apart again and rescue the bits inside that still work, or take out the precious metals so they can be used again. Getting rid of this thing is not the company’s problem. They made it real good, and you bought it. It’s yours. If it doesn’t work any more, it’s your problem.

  So you take it to the dump and you go home and it stops being your problem.

  Instead, it becomes ours.

  *

  I like it best here at night cos you can’t see so much. There are small fires blazing in the dump 24/7, but I’m in a tiny shack with a sheet over it, which keeps out some of the smoke.

  I guess I’m lucky cos I have a sack for a pillow and some cardboard to lie on. Thing is, I share the shack with five chickens and they are noisy. I guard them for this guy during the night so he lets me stay in the shack for free. Unless something happens to one of the chickens, then I pay plenty. I’ve still got bruises from the last time a chicken got out and a dog killed it, and that was almost a month ago now.

  I have a headache too, but that’s the bad air. The smoke fills you up and makes you sick.

  I dream of living in a proper house. When I look out through the holes in the sheet, I can see dark shadows behind the fires. They could almost be buildings, you know? Buildings with no lights at the windows. A shut-up city, all empty.

  But they’re not buildings.

  The sun rises, big like an orange spilling bright juice between the clouds, and I wake up coughing. The sunlight shows you what the firelight can’t: there are no real buildings out there behind the smoke. There are just piles of trash. Stacks of fridge-freezers and dishwashers piled up high. Mountains of TVs and hard drives. Teetering towers of tyres waiting to be burned. The waste stretches out as far as I can see.

  I’m Theo. I’m thirteen, I think. I’ve been stuck here in the mega-dump for more than a year. Living. Working. Watching the chickens.

  Waiting.

  Dad brought me here and then he left. He said he was coming back. He was waving to me and he definitely said it.

  I guess something happened.

  Stuff does happen, doesn’t it? And some of it’s crazy.

  Like, I bet you never thought that useless DVD player you threw out could end up all the way over here in Ghana, huh? Or that old Xbox 360. Or that crappy mobile your friends made fun of.

  Well, chances are it did end up here. From Europe and America, all the way here to West Africa. I hope you’re listening, cos this stuff is true. Mr Ghazi told me, and he knows lots cos he runs things here in the dump.

  Mr Ghazi’s my boss. He organises us child workers. It’s not easy, cos there are hundreds of us kids here. And thousands more who are older. And we’re all scrabbling about in the dirt and the muck for the tatty treasures that can bring us the cash we need to eat each day.

  Mr Ghazi says we’re heroes. We’re the ones who are really saving the planet.

  See, if you bury electronic trash it doesn’t rot away. It stays where it is and makes the soil bad. No country wants to bury that stuff in their own soil, but there are laws to stop people sending away their trash to other countries.

  Some of the recycling companies get around that by not calling it trash. They call it “used electronics” instead and load up big boats full of it. Some of it ends up in Accra, the capital of Ghana. Some of it can be fixed and sold on. Some of it can’t.

  If it can’t, then it gets dumped here in Agbogbloshie. That’s a big name, but you don’t have to worry about how to say it.

  I call it home, but you can just call it Trashland.

  CHAPTER 2

  Fighting Strangers

  Did you ever wake up and find yourself face to face with a stranger? That’s what happened to me this one day.

  My eyes flick open and there’s some random kid bending over me. And so I shout and I push him back. The chickens go crazy clucking beside me. This boy tries to run, but he slips on an old melon rind. He falls through the sheet and into the mud outside.

  That’s when I see he’s got my magnet in his hand. He must’ve come here to steal it.

  No way I’m letting him do that. For me, no magnet means no work.

  I spend my days waving that magnet over the ground to find scraps of metal left behind by the older guys. Nails, screws, paperclips, bolts – on their own they’re worth nothing, but if I can get enough of them each day, they’ll keep me alive.

  I put the scraps I find in my sack and take them to Mr Ghazi, who weighs the metal and gives me money for it. There are a hundred other kids doing the same thing, but I’m faster than most. Maybe I’m just hungrier than they are.

  Anyway, I throw myself on top of the kid before he can run away with my magnet. “Give it back!” I shout at him.

  He won’t let go. He’s strong, but I twist the magnet out of his grip and roll away, swearing. “Get out of here,” I say.

  The boy sits up and holds up his hands like he’s saying, Be chill. “I wasn’t gonna take your magnet,” he tells me. “I was just checking it out.”

  “Liar.”

  “I wanted to see how well it works,” the boy says. “I need help, see?”

  The boy is looking at me. His face is trying to be friendly, but his eyes don’t smile. I don’t trust him.

  “My name’s Emanuel,” he says. “What’s yours?”

  “Theo.” I hold up the magnet. I scratched my name into it when I got it. “See?”

  Emanuel gets up. He’s taller than me but even skinnier. “You can write,” he says. “Can you read too?”

  “Get lost,” I reply.

  “I am lost.” Emanuel shrugs. “I turned up here yesterday.”

  I notice then that his hands and his clothes are pretty clean. He must be telling the truth about being new around here.

  “I’m here on business,” Emanuel goes on. He nods slowly, like he’s the man.

  “What business?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer me. “I saw you work for hours yesterday, Theo. You pick up more than the others. I could use your help with this … business.”

  “Yeah, well, Emanuel,” I snort. I don’t have time for this guy and his games. “I have my own stuff to do.”

  “Help me and you could earn proper money,” says Emanuel.

  “Sure I could,” I say, and cross to the big oil can of rainwater beside the chickens. I gulp some down and gasp. It tastes horrible from all the smoke and dirt around here. I dish
some out for the chickens. Sometimes I dream of eating them. But I bet they would taste of grit too.

  “You could afford bottled water if you help me,” says Emanuel. “That whole bag full!”

  He points to a market girl gliding gracefully towards us along one of the dirt tracks that criss-cross over Trashland. I know her. Her name is Gifty. She’s round here most days, selling boiled eggs from a bowl balanced on her head and mineral water from a basket. Gifty is nice, but she takes no nonsense from the guys she passes. Only their money.

  As Gifty comes closer, our eyes meet. Her eyes are big and as dark as the smoke clouds blowing about. She looks kind of sad as she tosses me a small bottle from the basket. I catch it automatically.

  “Hey,” Emanuel calls after her. “How come he gets one for nothing?”

  “He’s my top student,” Gifty says as she walks away. “But he’d better come back to class soon or I won’t throw him water. I’ll throw him out.”

  “You go to school?” Emanuel asks me. I can see respect in his eyes.

  “It’s not real school,” I say, shrugging and swigging from the water bottle. “It’s at night, in a shack in Old Fadama.”

  “What is she, fourteen? Fifteen?” says Emanuel. “She’s not old enough to be a teacher.”

  “Well, she is.” I scowl. Truth is, Gifty mostly does maths and reading with younger kids. I’ve not been to her lessons for weeks – I don’t like being the oldest there. Anyway, my headaches have been worse, and each lesson costs money. I’d sooner fill my belly than my head.

  “Listen, Theo,” Emanuel says as he ducks under the sheet back into my tiny chicken shelter. He lowers his voice. “I think we can help each other. I need someone smart who knows his way around.”

  “Why?” I snap. “What are you on about? Why are you here?”

  Emanuel reaches into the back pocket of his shorts and pulls out a handkerchief. He unfolds it. There are lines and words and numbers marked on the white fabric. It’s some kind of map.

  “I’m here to find treasure,” Emanuel says. “Help me find it, and I’ll split it with you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  On the Trail

  It’s a treasure map – and X marks the spot! It’s crazy. Like a film.

  But this is real life, and right now I have to get to working.

  Emanuel says he’ll help. Mostly he just stands about telling me his life story while I’m on my knees searching the dirt for bits of metal.

  “My older brother used to work in Accra,” he says. “He was a smelter in a machine shop. He melted down scrap metal to make parts for motorbikes …”

  “Did he have his own?” I ask.

  “Course. He drove a new motorbike every month,” Emanuel brags.

  “You’re lying,” I say. “Smelters don’t earn so much.” I know cos there are smelters here in Trashland and I hear them bitch about it. They use chemicals on the circuit boards of mobile phones to get at the good metals inside – gold, silver, palladium, tantalum. There’s hardly any metal in each phone, so you need a ton of them to make it work. “He must have stolen the bikes,” I add.

  “Shut up,” says Emanuel. “He had lots of money, OK? He was the big man. But something bad happened and he had to leave fast. He hid this treasure so it wouldn’t be stolen. He buried it here in this dump and laid low with my aunt and me.”

  Emanuel draws in a big breath and puffs it back out. “The fumes from the smelting burned out my brother’s lungs. He needs doctors. Expensive ones. The treasure he hid can pay for them.”

  I snort and hold up my magnet. “You think you’ll find it with this?”

  “I don’t know what the treasure is,” says Emanuel. His voice is low but intense. “But I’m gonna find it. It’s …” He coughs and wipes his eyes, even though the smoke blowing over the dump isn’t so bad right now. “It’s my brother’s only chance.”

  “Show me the map again,” I say, and hold out my hand. Emanuel checks round to make sure no one is watching.

  They’re not. Most workers mind their own business, only worrying about their own wallets. But there are some who watch and wait, eyeing your sack. They wait till you’ve almost filled it, then they beat you up and steal your scrap and sell it to Mr Ghazi.

  But Mr Ghazi is pretty good. He listens to us smaller kids when we point fingers at the troublemakers, and he won’t deal with thieves once he knows them. But Mr Ghazi won’t refund us for any scrap that’s stolen. Says he’s a businessman, not an idiot.

  “It’s safe,” I tell Emanuel.

  He passes me the map. I’ve been in Trashland so long I should recognise some of it, but I just don’t. Why aren’t I smarter? I started at Gifty’s class to be smarter. I know I can’t work the dump for ever – it’ll kill me. If I can read and write, maybe I’ll get a better job. If I learn maths and numbers, I can make sure Mr Ghazi isn’t cheating me. The thought makes me feel strong, even if the sums and reading make my brain hurt.

  I don’t want Emanuel to take the map to someone who really is smarter and split the treasure with them instead.

  “I think I know where this is,” I tell him.

  Emanuel’s eyes are hard and bright again. “Show me.”

  “No! Not now,” I say, and shake my head like he’s stupid. “You think we can just dig in daylight when anyone can see? The cops will bust us or someone will try to take the treasure off us.”

  Emanuel swears and takes back the map. “When, then?”

  “Maybe tonight. Maybe early tomorrow.” I pause. “First you gotta swear you’ll split the treasure with me.”

  “What?” Emanuel says, looking angry. “I told you I’ll split it.”

  “I could tell you I’m the Rock,” I say, “it doesn’t make it true.”

  Emanuel stands over me. “The rock’s gonna be in your head if you don’t show me.”

  “I want half,” I say.

  “Half!” Emanuel spits on the ground. “No way. My brother needs that money.”

  “So you don’t have long to get it, do you?” I remind him. “And cos I’m helping you find the treasure and helping you dig it up, I want half.”

  Emanuel starts swearing again, so I hold up my hands the same way he did to me, telling him, Be chill. “You think I’m gonna work for nothing just cos you told me a sad story?” I say. “I got sad stories coming out of my—”

  “A quarter,” says Emanuel. “I’ll give you a quarter of whatever it is.”

  I stare up at him. I don’t even know where this treasure might be, but I know I’ve got to find out. And I think I know a clever way to do that.

  “OK,” I say. “A quarter. So long as you shut up now and help me fill this sack.”

  *

  By the end of the day we’ve collected about four kilos of scrap metal. I take Emanuel with me to see Mr Ghazi so I can get paid. He works out of a shipping container half a mile away across the dump.

  Trashland’s working day is still in full swing, the different tribes here working to the max. Like they did yesterday, like they will tomorrow. Plumes of thick black smoke blow across the dump to a soundtrack of stuff being smashed.

  We pass groups of burners, who torch the plastic covering from wires and cables to get at the copper and aluminium below. The pounders who break up consoles and computers with home-made tools to get at the metals, magnets and machinery inside. And the smelters, like Emanuel’s brother, making themselves sick as they strip gold and silver from circuit boards, a few specks at a time.

  Mr Ghazi is as big and hard as the chair he sits on. He empties my sack onto the scales. He picks out the bits of stone and dirt that have found their way in. Then he counts out coins for the day’s work. It’s a few cedi – not much in your money, but it’ll get me some food.

  “Who’s this you’ve brought, Theo?” Mr Ghazi asks. “A new recruit?” He looks closely at Emanuel. “You remind me of someone, son.”

  “Don’t think so,” Emanuel says, looking uneasy. “I’m from out of t
own.”

  “Oh. Well, every ten years or so I am mistaken,” jokes Mr Ghazi. His smile doesn’t dance with his eyes, though, like it does when he gets money.

  “Well, gotta go,” I tell Mr Ghazi. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for ripping me off.”

  It’s the same joke I always make, but today Mr Ghazi doesn’t bother to pretend he’s shocked or check his heart’s still beating after my nasty words. He keeps on staring at Emanuel as we go back outside into the stink and smoke.

  “That was weird,” I say. “Why was he looking at you like that?”

  Emanuel shrugs. “He’s cuckoo in the head from breathing in burning plastic all day,” he suggests. “Come on, man. Show me where my treasure is.”

  “Not yet,” I say. It’s time to put my plan into action. “You say you’ll give me a quarter of this treasure, yeah? Well, we gotta make it a proper agreement. You have to swear it in front of a witness. Someone responsible.”

  “Screw that,” Emanuel says. “What witness? I don’t want anyone else knowing.”

  “We don’t have to say it’s treasure we’re splitting,” I say, and smile. “I know someone.”

  This is how we end up in Old Fadama that night, looking for Gifty’s place.

  CHAPTER 4

  At Gifty’s

  Old Fadama is the town that’s grown up near Trashland. It’s made up of clapboard and breeze blocks and a maze of streets that are more like gutters. A lot of people can’t afford the city rents on real houses, so they end up here.

  Now and then the government bulldozes some of Old Fadama. But people just pick up the remains and rebuild it. Keep trying. Yen ko! – Let’s go!

  I think it’s a good place. They even built some toilets here that anyone can use. I hope Old Fadama is still standing when I have the money to leave Trashland. I want to live here.