Barely enough for a can of coke

They took us to an aluminium recycling plant in the heart of Serekunda. Immediately western images filled our heads with walls and workers and health and safety laws. But here we met two men, with more skin on show than was covered by shorts and fraying shirts, sitting around a pit of molten fire, their burnished toes hanging over the edge of the melting pot. The factory was cramped, the floor no different to the ground of outside and the corrugated walls seemed to lean in as though they too had begun to melt under the agonising heat.

We took it in turns to fill the tight space and gaze into the inferno inches from our canvas covered feet. Those that were taller could barely stand and the sweat on our noses began to drip and make potholes in the dust. Moulds hung from the walls for pots and cauldrons and various utensils. The men just sat and watched and stirred. A few moments was all we could manage before we tripped from that place and let the next batch in.

In the next section of the factory, consisting of a yard situated at the back of the hut we had come from, aluminium products were being plucked from mountains of rubbish and collected in a heating vat to begin the process of transformation. I looked at what counted as precious to the people who worked there, and was ashamed to see many items that I would have deemed unusable. 

       

Finally, we stood in a cavern of matt silver as the final products dangled from ceilings and leant against walls. ‘Please touch’ was the invitation given by a bobbing vendor. The surfaces were rough and satisfyingly grainy. Tiny hollows where tools had beaten the metal into shape were visible, trademarking each item as handmade and unique. We bought generously, baffled at the prices that seemed so little. I traced the delicate outline of a leaf, its veins spreading like tributaries to the very edges of the perfect dip in my serving spoon. Twenty five Dalasi, barely enough for one can of coke, and yet a handful had gone into making my gift.    

Later, as we drained the last drops of water from our plastic bottles, children with orange feet held out their hands for what they could use and we would throw away.