PLANET OF SLUMS!

tiny birdlike figures, deformed by leaking toxins, grow vegetables on the refuse islands, snare seabirds, recycle electronics, plunder circuit boards for gold....
whole populations support themselves in this way, on offcuts, waste, detritus.
squabbling with gulls and rats.
the refuse islands are enormous. the boats come in. those that live on the islands were stowaways, or the descendants of stowaways.
the islands are manmade. mountainous. studded with hovels. villages smoke in the shadow of garbage mountains. energy extracted from the heat of rotting waste.
in truth, there is no shortage of food here. there are dangers by the dozen, but no scarcity. there are landslides, whole settlements enveloped as a hillside shears off.
toxins leech into the skin. contaminated food. dangerous work. fires flare up without warning. but no scarcity. that's why so many people live here. rooting through the rubbish. fellaheen. snaring seabirds. fishing in the shallows.
Houses rise from the rubble, the hummus of organic waste, plastic bags..... jerrybuilt
painted with the images of popular heroes and homespun gods or with the images of meadows, forests, beaches with sun setting over golden sand....
driftwood frames, improvised concrete embedded with shells, plastic action figures, coins, the bones of fish and seabirds, charms and amulets...
streets of trampled down rubbish
stench of sulphurous hell
mansions of mob bosses on top of rubbish heaps, rat skulls on lengths of sharpened wood, guarded by teenagers with bloodshot eyes
knife fights in the night streets....
wildfire cults spread messages of mania, dancing till collapse, apocalyptic creeds tied to political ends, harnessing the god fervour
small fishing craft bobbing off the refuse islands, flinging out nets
fires spew toxic smoke, thick and black, swallow houses, whole streets eaten by fire
diseases mutate, swarm through the narrow streets, bubonic plagues and cholera, TB, smallpox.... old devils in new dress
and on the mainland too, in the squatter camps, in the old factories huddled together on concrete floors, in tents under leaking roofs
in housing estates long abandoned. walls are broken down, warrens formed, new architectures
Cracked ashaplt in which dandelions, thistles and nettles grow. Sycamore trees. Pigeons. Rats. Fires in steel drums. Buildings. Old office and retail space. Solid grey concrete. Rain streaked. Or metal hangers. Functional and drab. And in between, around and built onto these, shanty structures of corrugated iron, driftwood and shipping containers. And inside too. In shopping malls and retail hangers. Tent cities. Firelight. Pigeons in the rafters. Disrepair. On walls amateurish murals fade. Paintings of masked, armed men clenching fists aloft in victory. Memoirs of more idealistic times. When people hoped for more than just survival. Or had the energy to pretend to do so.


Peter Familias is making his rounds of the dinner hall
"there is to be no desert until everyone and i mean everyone, has cleaned his plate. Yes, that includes you Jenkins, eat your greens"

The captains of the refuse-ships have a monopoly on everything salvaged from the rubbish. Whatever can be resold or recycled. The profits are handsome.
The inhabitants of the islands have no other way to get their goods to the mainland.
Most of these islands are in the hands of mobs, their makeshift societies subject to rigid hierarchies held in place by violence and intimidation. On others a fragile anarchism still prevails and a man may enjoy the fruits of his labour.

In the African football factories children as young as 4 are practising kickups. Everytime they allow the ball to drop to the floor they are whipped.