Gårsdagens forsvindende job

Forud for 1. maj, AFP journalister, video- og fotohold talte med mænd og kvinder over hele kloden, hvis job bliver mere og mere sjældne, især når teknologien ændrer samfund.

Bogotas sidste gadebetjente

Indsætter et blankt ark i sin Remington Sperry, Candelaria Pinilla de Gomez begynder at skrive. En af Bogotas gadebetjente, hun har brugt de sidste 40 år på at taste utallige tusinder af dokumenter.

63 år, hun er den eneste kvinde blandt gadefunktionærerne, der har stillet deres bittesmå borde op på fortovet uden for en moderne kontorbygning i Bogota.

Iført jakkesæt, men ingen slips, forfatterne arbejder i det fri, under en parasol, siddende på en plastikstol med skrivemaskinen på knæene.

Der var engang, disse funktionærer spillede en væsentlig rolle - med offentlige gerninger, skattedokumenter og kontrakter alle passerer gennem deres hænder.

Pinilla de Gomez lærte faget af sin mand, da de ankom til den colombianske hovedstad i 1960'erne. Han havde en gård "men guerillaerne tog den af ​​ham, " hun siger.

"I Bogota, han fortalte mig, at jeg skulle lære at skrive... og at stave. Han lærte mig (jobbet), og så døde han."

Cesar Diaz, nu 68, er stolt af at være pioner inden for et erhverv, der er endt med at blive et "tilflugtssted" for pensionister, der ønsker at supplere deres månedlige tillæg.

De arbejder fra mandag til fredag ​​og tjener mindre end $280, som er mindstelønnen.

Indtil nu, de har formået at overleve stort set alt – måske undtagen internettets fremkomst.

"Disse dage, en mor vil bede sin søn om at downloade en formular, udfyld det og send det via internettet, " indrømmer Pinilla de Gomez.

"Det ødelægger virkelig tingene for os."

— Billeder af Luis Acosta. Video af Juan Restrepo

Vaskekvinder, deres handel forsvinder som sæbe i vand

Delia Velozs hænder har næsten mistet deres fingeraftryk fra den konstante rytmiske bevægelse af at gnide snavset tøj mod ru sten på et gammelt offentligt vaskeri i Quito.

Med en moppe af krøllede grå krøller, denne 74-årige er en af ​​de få mennesker, der er tilbage i Ecuador, som stadig praktiserer det gamle og krævende arbejde som en vaskekone – en handel, der bliver mere og mere sjælden på grund af den udbredte brug af husholdningsvaskemaskiner.

"Jeg kan ikke lide vaskemaskiner, de vasker ikke særlig godt. Du kan skrubbe tingene bedre i hånden, " fortæller Veloz med stolthed til AFP, da hun hælder en krukke med frysende vand fra Andesbjergene over en jakke.

I mere end fem årtier har hun arbejdet på Ermita, et offentligt vaskeri i det koloniale centrum af Quito med sin rektangulære sten, tank med vand og diverse ledninger til at hænge ting ud til tørre.

For hver 12 beklædningsgenstand, hun tjener 1,50 dollars (1,20 euro) fra sine stadigt færre kunder – for det meste dem, der ikke har en vaskemaskine, eller som foretrækker, at tingene vaskes i hånden.

På en god dag, hun kan tjene mellem $3 og $6.

I Quito, der er stadig mindst fem offentlige vaskerier, som blev bygget i første halvdel af det 20. århundrede.

Der er også dem, der kommer for at bruge vaskeriet til at vaske deres eget tøj eller dem, der tilhører deres arbejdsgivere - hvilket der ikke er noget gebyr for.

Og en gang om måneden, de samles alle for at holde lokalerne pæne og ryddelige.

— Billeder af Rodrigo Buendia

Waterboys begynder at løbe tør

Manglen på rindende vand i Kenyas fattigste kvarterer har, gennem de sidste 18 år, betød til livets ophold for Samson Muli, en vandsælger i Nairobis Kibera slumkvarter.

"Da jeg voksede op, ville jeg være en forretningsmand, siger den 42-årige far til to, der leverer vand til slagtere, fiskehandlere og restauranter på det overfyldte Kenyatta-marked.

Klædt i en dun dustcoat bruger Muli en slange til at fylde sit udvalg af cylindriske 20-liters jerrycans med vand fra tre fritstående 10, 000-liters tanke. Han læsser 15 ad gangen på en vogn, og slæber dem til sine kunder.

Marginerne er små - Muli køber vand for fem shilling ($0,05) en dåse og sælger for 15 - men det kan lægge op til 1, 000 shilling om dagen, nok til at gøre en forskel.

"This job has changed my life because my children are able to go to school and I am able to afford to pay school fees for them, " han siger.

But Kenya's gradual development and the spreading provision of basic infrastructure, including piped water, means Muli's profitable days are numbered.

— Pictures by Simon Maina. Video by Raphael Ambasu

Rickshaw pullers fade from India's streets

Mohammad Maqbool Ansari puffs and sweats as he pulls his rickshaw through Kolkata's teeming streets, a veteran of a gruelling trade long outlawed in most parts of the world and slowly fading from India too.

Kolkata is one of the last places on earth where pulled rickshaws still feature in daily life, but Ansari is among a dying breed still eking a living from this back-breaking labour.

The 62-year-old has been pulling rickshaws for nearly four decades, hauling cargo and passengers by hand in drenching monsoon rains and stifling heat that envelops India's heaving eastern metropolis.

Their numbers are declining as pulled rickshaws are relegated to history, usurped by tuk tuks, Kolkata's famous yellow taxis and modern conveniences like Uber.

Ansari cannot imagine life for Kolkata's thousands of rickshaw-wallahs if the job ceased to exist.

"If we don't do it, how will we survive? We can't read or write. We can't do any other work. Once you start, that's it. This is our life, " siger han til AFP.

Sweating profusely on a searing-hot day, his singlet soaked and face dripping, Ansari skilfully weaved his rickshaw through crowded markets and bumper to bumper traffic.

Wearing simple shoes and a chequered sarong, the only real giveaway of his age is a long beard, snow white and frizzy, and a face weathered from a lifetime plying this trade.

Twenty minutes later, he stops, wiping his face on a rag. The passenger offers him a glass of water—a rare blessing—and hands a bill over.

"When it's hot, for a trip that costs 50 rupees ($0.75) I'll ask for an extra 10 rupees. Some will give, some don't, " han siger.

"But I'm happy with being a rickshaw puller. I'm able to feed myself and my family."

— Pictures by Dibyangshu Sarkar. Video by Atish Patel

Hong Kong's neon nostalgia

Neon sign maker Wu Chi-kai is one of the last remaining craftsmen of his kind in Hong Kong, a city where darkness never really falls thanks to the 24-hour glow of myriad lights.

During his 30 years in the business, neon came to define the urban landscape, huge flashing signs protruding horizontally from the sides of buildings, advertising everything from restaurants to mahjong parlours.

But with the growing popularity of brighter LED lights, seen as easier to maintain and more environmentally friendly, and government orders to remove some vintage signs deemed dangerous, the demand for specialists like Chi-kai has dimmed.

Despite a waning client-base, the 50-year-old continues in the trade, working with glass tubes dusted inside with fluorescent powder and containing various gases including neon or argon, as well as mercury, to create different colours.

He bends them into shape over a powerful gas burner at a scorching 1, 000 degrees Celsius.

"Being able to twist straight glass materials into the shape I want, and later to make it glow—it's quite fun, " siger han til AFP, though it is not without risks.

Chi-kai works without a safety visor and has been scalded and cut by glass which sometimes cracks and explodes.

"The painful experiences are the memorable ones, " he adds philosophically.

His father used to scale Hong Kong's famous bamboo scaffolding while installing neon signs across the city.

Believing the installation work too dangerous for his son, he instead encouraged him to learn to make the signs as a teenager. Chi-kai became one of only around 30 masters of the craft in Hong Kong, even in neon's heyday.

Although demand is now significantly lower than at neon's peak in the 1980s, han siger, there has been renewed interest and nostalgia for its gentler glow, immortalised in the atmospheric movies of award-winning Hong Kong director Wong Kar-wai.

Some of Chi-kai's clients are now requesting pieces for indoor decoration.

"I've been working with neon lights all my life. I can't think of anything else I'd be better suited for, " han siger.

— Pictures by Philip Fong. Video by Diana Chan

Developing film as if digital didn't exist

With an ancient 50-year-old Olympus camera and an enlarger that he bought in 1980, Venezuelan photographer Rodrigo Benavides works his "magic" inside a tiny improvised darkroom at home.

Although working with equipment and techniques that have virtually disappeared, he carries on as if digital photography doesn't exist.

"Doesn't interest me at all, " han siger.

Using his bathroom as a makeshift lab, he develops negatives, turning them into black and white prints. And it still fascinates him every time as the image slowly emerges on coming in to contact with the chemicals.

"I have always tried to be economical with my resources, always have done, always will do, " han siger, extolling the wonders of his Olympus 35 SP which uses a reel of film, doesn't need batteries and is completely manual.

Born in Caracas 58 years ago, he still remembers the excitement when, at the age of 19, he bought the enlarger in London.

And it was there that he became a keen follower of Group f/64, an influential movement of photographers who championed sharp-focused, unretouched images of natural subjects.

He thinks technology has "upended" photography, turning it into a work of "fiction."

"We have become desensitised to reality, which is much more interesting than fiction, " han siger.

Some 400 of his pictures taken over 30 years have been compiled into a book on the Venezuelan plains. Others are stacked up in his living room, forming a towering pile, some two meters high.

"They are like my children, " says Benavides, who describes himself as a documentary photographer practising a trade on the verge of extinction.

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© 2018 AFP