
Formanymen,goingtothescrapyardistheequivalentofgettingtogetherforcoffeeandcake:screwdriverinhand,theygetchattingwhiledisassemblingcrankshaftsandshockabsorbers,coolersandoilsumps.Evenforthesortofmenwhoareotherwisetight-lipped,regardlessoftheweatherandnotleastwhenthescrewsjustwon’tcomeloose.Whentheymanagetosalvagetheexactparttheywerelookingforandstowitawayinaplasticbag,thesetinkererscladinoil-smearedboilersuitsbecomepoets:aTunisianwhorhapsodizesabouthisdaughter’sblueeyesandsofthair;asmokerwhothinkswomenaremorebeautifulinthesummertimeandlongsforthebustleofMali’sstreets;anotherWestAfricanwhotalksaboutstaringdeathinthefaceonapirogueonhiswaytoEurope,realisinghewasreadytodie.Occasionallywomentoostrayontothescrapyard;ayounggirlputsaprotectivearmaroundherlittlebrother,whoisafraidoftheforklifttrucks.NadègeTrebal’scamerauncoversthemelancholybeautyofaplaceitselfdoomedtoextinction,leavingonewishingthatheritagestatuscouldalsobegrantedtothisscrapyard.(Berlinale2014)
