At twelve and a quarter we turn on the engine of the collector truck number 42. The amber lights of the ceiling flash against the wet asphalt. Our route covers main avenues and narrow alleys of the central sector.
As soon as the vehicle slows down in front of the first row of containers, we jump on the pavement. The pace is relentless: in an average shift we lift between eight and ten tons of gross weight with our arms, dodging broken glass, woods with nails and poorly closed bags that often hide syringes or sharp waste.
Physical exertion is devastating for the knees and waist, but the body is customary; what never ceases to surprise is the contrast between the loneliness of the night and the bustle of the waste that an entire city produces without looking back.At half past three in the morning the cold cove to the bones. The sweating caused by running behind the truck cools in a matter of seconds every time we stop at a traffic light.
