Urban Gleaners of Malé
Day 1
Moosaa Ibrahim Didi Goalhi may not seem remarkable. It’s just like any old goalhi except for this: people have set up an informal third-hand flea market here. It’s been going strong for nearly two decades as per one onlooking participant of this market. In between the intersection of Boduthakurufaanu Magu and Moosaa Ibrahim Didi Goalhi, facing the sea, people use this public corner to sell trash thrifted; of unknown origins and utility left to give.
I slowly browse through this infant sized bazaar.
It feels like an erasure to call the merchandise on display here “second hand” or grossly summarise them “thrifted”. The commodities are sourced straight from the discard piles that congregate in third spaces as they wait for their commuted fate to Thilafushi. Thilafushi should have its own parliament member made of trash by this point to represent and fight for the rights of waste, it has been considered an island since the 90’s. The ideal choice of waste disposal seems to be out of sight and out of mind till the ghosts of our waste come back to haunt us; in every breath we take, every step we take, microplastics will be watching us.
Not too long after I stand and run my eyes over the daily pickings, I become part of the audience that listens to Ibrahim’s* outburst.
“I am not an animal!” He loudly proclaims unprompted.
I believe him truly. I keep nodding my head as he reiterates his statement in English and his explanations in Dhivehi. Ibrahim gestures fervently with both hands despite one being bound by a sling holding his broken arm in a cast. The other limb is free to point toward the micro businessmen around us till his sling gives away and both hands moved free. He elaborates and announces his support for his peers with pride and confidence. Most of the men here are meek, timid and polite. Familiar faces who can be seen busying through the streets of Malé looking for trash to repurpose are here.
The kind faces, hardworking bodies and spirits of the third hand flea market look at Ibrahim as he unloads his spiel of faith, belief and hope for this community. I have called graffiti the pleas of an aching city. I have called Hulhumalé a form of sociological cancer of human settlements. I have called our households an absent father in the relationship we have with trash. However, I will call the urban gleaners of Malé one of the finest sustainable Islanders among us. An NGO did not have to fund and project this culture. Governments offer little to no support nor acknowledgment while the public offers disapproval and scorn.
Backpacks behind, trolleys and wheelchairs ahead, and both feet in tow these people move about Malé. Often going through the trash-bags of households to unearth commodities that have more life to live and uses to fulfil. Their skill and expertise lie in their ability to notice, curate and revive items that are meant for landfills. One man’s trash, is another’s treasure; ergo no such thing exists as trash subjectively. Even dust has purposeful utility in its existence and the microplastics exist as the next incorporation to human evolution or devolution, time will tell.
People sit, stand, walk and linger around. The vendor-curator sits on the cold corner of the curb, the pearls of their trash-dives laid out on the pavement and perched on the windowsill of the adjacent store. Clothes, books, utensils, jewellery, and the like. If you are lucky, some electronics and toiletries to peruse. Unlike most second-hand markets, the inventory of this market depends on the collective and communal whims of what is left behind. Items deemed no longer useful sitting idle and those inside bags ready to depart to oblivion are unearthed and resuscitated by these men. Cleaned, tested and lovingly displayed ready to be sold for steep bargains.
One of the vendors approaches with a cloth tote slung over his shoulder.
“konche thi hoadhanee/what are you looking for?” He asks.
“Fotheh/a book” I say and he immediately opens his bag to reveal a few options of notebooks.
“Kiyaalaane fotheh ebaintha/got a book to read?”
He sheepishly smiles a no.
“Mirey maa lahunn dho mi aadhevunee, aanmukoh thankolheh kurinn lavvaalaane dho/I’ve come a bit late tonight haven’t I? If I’d come earlier I could’ve been in luck, yes?”
The man assures me yes enthusiastically and his colleagues chime in to agree with testimonials. Books are a hot commodity that gets increasingly rare in these times of intense digitalisation.
Day 2
I miss the golden hour of this day to rains that come and go akin to bouts/fits of persistent coughs. The urban gleaners who’ve set up shop on the raw concrete have no defence against the elements. Rain, sun, wind and heat do not stop these men from attempting to make a living enough to survive. For many here, there aren’t many options and sources for income aside from the humble work of gleaning urban leftovers to sell. Gleaners is a 14th century term from old French describing those that glean agricultural leftovers of harvests. Produce unsightly, ugly and unsellable recovered by the rural poor to be consumed for survival. And it was not too long ago that children also made an industry out of collecting kitchen waste to resell as animal feed.
Gleaning used to be a dear practice in agricultural islands. The defective, deficient and disposable leftovers of harvests are called “gurudu” — up for grabs by the permission and good grace of the farmers after they’ve had their pick for sale. It is a symbiotic relationship between the farmers and their communities. Varieties of produce; greens, gourds, chillies and the likes, that did not make the commercial cut remain on the trees and soil until gleaned. The farmers offload their unwanted stock, the community saves money and reduces agricultural wastes.
Just like the original gleaners, the urban gleaner scavenges urban leftovers to survive. Unlike the gleaners of agricultural leftovers, the urban gleaner sates their hunger with the money earned by reselling thirdhand items from curb side trash piles of Malé. Urban gleaning is an informal profession created out of necessity and adaption to brutal urbanisation. Malé is an urban cesspit devoid of farmlands that could sate the hunger of marginalised communities. With more cities birthing on the carcasses of islands, gleaning is on the decline and essentially dead in Malé city. However, this city does not have a memory of ever growing without a Neelann Fihaara.
Neelann indirectly translates to the auction, bidding and reselling of forgotten, abandoned and discarded items. Ishaq claims Neelann fihaara has existed well over 40 years ago as I buy off a perfectly usable bottle of glue and a hello kitty figurine from him for MVR 15. He has been in this profession for eight odd years, on and off, for durations up to two to three months at a time. Like most of his colleagues, he is a commercial urban gleaner; hovaigenn, dheegen, maraamaathu kohgen. With daily curbside gleaning, with the support of some households who offload their refuse pile into the hands of the urban gleaners and after the repair/rejuvenation of their thirdhand items. Quite unlike Neelann/auction bidding, yet not too far off in its identity with Gurudu hovunn/urban gleaning.
The rains have dampened the roads tonight but they don’t not dampen the spirit of this community and space. Like any other day the pavement is full to the brim with commodities rescued from the fate of wasting away. Tonight, the pickings are more abundant as the sun has yet to set. The curation hours start with sunrise, pavement kiosks open by noon and the market fizzles out before midnight.
My eyes catch a weathered but promising looking outlet extension cord. I ask for the price, 80 Rufiyaa. Later, I own a third hand extension cord of three plug points. While I wait with my friend to get the change, I ask around to see the collections of books that were recovered from the curb side harvests of today. Like any other night, the urban gleaners rummage through their inventories of repurposed items; of bags, suitcases and trolleys. Yet again, it is my sheer luck, to be offered notebooks, journals and the likes. Moosa* flips through one such book in his sales pitch to discover some poor soul’s attempt at studying marketing. Moosa and I gossip about this book with only one introduction to show before the previous owner had given up on their study. Moosa goes on to describe the daily perils of authoritative disapproval.
Ishaaq who sold the extension cord returns from a store with the 20 Rufiyaa change. A bargain for me, who pervasively analysed this space and its people to write. Business for the seller and one more piece of trash liberated from the doomed Thilafushi ferry.
Moments before I show up after Isha, the cops had allegedly pestered and dispersed this informal third hand flea market yet again.
“Miee halaal masahkai/It’s honest work,”says Meekail* who remembers this market being around even 17 years ago.
I reply “Aan, miee bura masakatheh vesme/It’s also hard work.”
There is no formal system, infrastructure or organisation for this profession. And the practitioners of petty thievery also frequent this space to sell their stolen goods beside those who scavenge for inventories. It comes as no surprise that the authorities surveil, suppress and scrutinise this community.
The urban gleaners allege their confiscated inventories are redistributed among the coppers’ peers and migrant workers. It is a marvel that these men can somehow fix electronics good enough to extend their lifespan.
I type this as I look at my extension outlet cord that is hard at work.
If our rapid consumerism needs any evidence the ‘vadhufoshi kanmathi’ is where you go. This is also where you go to seek out-of-date, out-of-stock and out-of-production items. Whether it be electronics; with minor faults easily remedied, archaic mobile phones, speakers with missing plastic bits or other seasonal time-capsulated finds.
On a good day, the third hand market agrees earnings are about MVR 1500 and on a good Friday MVR 3000. Decent money, good enough to fill bellies with some financial stability and dignity. There are no homeless shelters, not enough worthwhile rehabs, not enough social workers, and not enough resources to offer adequate support to uplift this community. Despite the stigma and suppression, the community keeps coming back to the same place. These people take pride in the work they do, the service they offer and the inventories they curate to resell.
This profession is a valuable component to an intersectionally marginalised community facing homelessness, economic duress, addiction, and mental health crises. Even if minuscule in scale, these urban gleaners reduce the items fated to become obsolete in landfills. This is an avenue for economic means with a community, a social institution of purpose and an informal flea market.
Passersby and devoted shoppers stop by to seek a useful item at a low price. My eyes narrow as I see another customer approach the pair of slippers I am eyeing. Ishaq insists the man tests the slippers and for only MVR 100 I watch perfectly decent sandals leave my grip. Finders, keepers. And that pair of slippers were not my roadhi to begin with. All of us are temporary owners of everything we own and the urban gleaners can attest to that.
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