Postcard #10: Sweeping

Cleanliness is a sisyphean task in this country. Dust is everywhere. It erupts from the dry dirt at the bases of trees. It’s piled up along the side of the road. It is swept away daily only to return. The air is hazy from pollution and this dust. I wake up to the scraping sound of women sweeping the street and sidewalk, the scraping sound of their palm frond hand brooms as they kick up the perpetual dust of the city. The sweepers brush the leaves away while throwing the dust back into the air. The leaves are then transferred to bigger piles of organic and plastic debris, just a bit farther down the road.

 At 6pm, it’s already dark. When I leave yoga at that time every evening, the air smells like woodsmoke. The air is already hazy and obscures more with smoke. In the beams of headlights, I can see the dust particles. Sometimes trash is burning in the empty lots. People litter, not hesitating to throw something in the pile of plastic detritus. Piles of concrete, broken flower pots and old cushions pile up in front of the massive gated houses. My taxi driver opens the door to spit at a red light.

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