Now I Know More (20 page)

It's hard to find an urban area that does not have a significant homeless population. Be it New York, San Francisco, Tokyo, or Madrid, you're likely to encounter someone for whom life has dealt a bad hand. Some homeless have taken creative measures to adapt, finding ways to persevere in the concrete and asphalt wilderness around them. In one city, this will to survive is not solely in the domain of the human homeless.

Meet the homeless, subway-riding dogs of Moscow.

There are about 35,000 homeless dogs in Russia's capital, roaming the streets and alleys looking for a meal. Most of them are feral and eschew contact with people. However, about 500 or so have done what many homeless people have done and become semi-permanent denizens of the subways—in this case, the Moscow Metro. The advantages are more than just a roof and associated shelter from the weather. The dogs can cozy up to riders in hopes of getting food tossed their way, or, if opportunity knocks, scare an unsuspecting train-goer into dropping his or her snack. Either way, this newfound meal is critical to the hungry subway-living dog.

For about two dozen or so dogs, though, the bark-and-eat gambit is merely a start. These advanced dogs have taken the subway game to the next level: They have become commuters. Areas with office buildings are crowded during the day but sparsely populated during the early mornings and late evenings; meanwhile, the opposite pattern is found in residential neighborhoods. Therefore, it behooves panhandlers, canine and human alike, to be near the offices at lunch time and near people's homes at night. So, some Metro pups do exactly that—as reported by both ABC News and the
Sun
newspaper, the dogs have figured out how to navigate the train network to optimize their locations throughout the day.

And they do so in style. The dogs have figured out which trains offer more room, so they can curl up on a bench for an in-transit snooze.

The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is responsible for the mass transit needs of the greater New York City area. As part of its services, the MTA operates more than 6,000 train cars over 800 miles of track. Those 6,500-plus vehicles have a lifespan of thirty to forty years before they wear out and are no longer viable for use.

Then they go to sleep with the fishes.

Really.

For decades, the MTA has been running a program to turn disused subway cars into artificial reefs, situated off the Mid-Atlantic coast of the United States. The MTA pays to remove the doors, wheels, and windows from each train car, as well as clean off any hazardous materials (such as some petroleum-based lubricants), which federal law prohibits from being dumped into the ocean. Then the cars—more than 1,500 of them—are shipped off to New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, South Carolina, and Georgia. Once there, the cars are loaded onto barges equipped with specialized cranes and dumped into the ocean just a few miles off shore.

In doing so, the MTA and its partners have not only managed to find an environmentally sound way of disposing of these hulking transports but also revitalized the Atlantic fishing industry. Before the subway cars landed in the Atlantic, the relatively barren waterways weren't a good place for fish to hang out, as natural predators could easily hunt them down in the open water. That changed when the trains arrived. As one Delaware official told Reuters, “a 600-car reef in that state's waters had increased the local fish population by 400 times, and boosted the number of angling trips to 13,000 a year from 300 before the reef was created.” As an added benefit, crab, mussels, and shrimp also have begun to colonize on many of the reefs.

Many of those concerned about the environment and the ecology of the oceans are fans of these artificial reefs. While there have been some problems, most notably in New Jersey where some cars deteriorated faster than expected, these projects are generally seen as a resounding success. In 2007, according to a report by transit blog Second Avenue Sagas, train cars that had been submerged for nearly a decade and a half were still 67 percent intact.

In part because of these successes, other man-made items have been tossed to the bottom of the sea in hopes of creating a similar home for fish and their friends. Perhaps the most notable example: in May 2006, the U.S. Navy intentionally sank the long-decommissioned USS
Oriskany
, a 900-foot-long aircraft carrier. It now sits on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico off the coast of Pensacola. Not only is it a great place for marine life, but if you're a recreational diver, it's close enough to shore that you can go pay it a visit.

There's an old saying: “One man's trash is another man's treasure,” the origin of which has been lost to time. The saying is a commentary on how there is no accounting for taste—what one person may think is worthless may be cherished by another. In the case of one type of refuse, the literal meaning of the phrase rings true—to the point of fueling organized crime in parts of the United States.

That product? Old cardboard boxes. While some people are trying to throw them out, others are stealing them before the waste haulers come by.

Cardboard boxes are recyclable. As recyclables go, they make for some of the best garbage out there. They are easy to transport because they can be baled up and thrown in the back of a truck, allowing tons of cardboard to be carted for miles without much labor or fuel costs. The recycling process itself is centered on something called a hydropulper, a moving bath of warm water that mixes the bales until the cardboard turns into an oatmeal-like paper pulp. That pulp can be turned back into boxes or other products made of corrugated fiberboard.

Because cardboard boxes have a second life, they have value even after they are emptied of their contents and sent off with the waste hauler. While municipalities and companies alike will pay such service providers to take their garbage and recyclables away, the haulers also make money by selling the bales of cardboard to recyclers. However, others are aware of cardboard's value—approximately $100 a ton—and grab it before the haulers can. Because the waste management companies have contractually agreed to take the trash (at a price lower than they would if the recyclable cardboard were not present), taking cardboard is often considered theft.

One notable such crime spree involved three New Jersey men who, over the course of four months, made off with over 900 tons of cardboard, as reported by
Metro
in Philadelphia. While most cardboard runners simply steal the boxes lying on the side of the road (which is typical in larger cities) or from behind large stores like Walmart or Target, the New Jersey trio was more creative. They created a sham corporation called “Metro Paper, Inc.” and rented trucks. Then, they monitored the pickup schedules at large stores that went through a high volume of boxes. Once they had the schedule down, the men made sure they arrived before the legitimate haulers, picking up the boxes and moving on to their next target.

Seem like a waste of time—or a crime not worth the risk? According to Waste Recycling News, the group sold their treasure trove of used cardboard boxes for just north of $100,000.

If you're in the United States and there's a lime nearby, it's almost certain that the little green citrus in question came from Mexico. The United States imports nearly all of its limes—95 percent—from its neighbor to the south, and typically, supplies are stable and therefore, so are prices. In recent years, limes sold for about $20 for a thirty-eight-pound case (wholesale), according to a
PBS Newshour
report. However, in the early part of 2014, the prices spiked five-fold and remained there for a few months. In mid-May, prices restabilized, and the prices of limes fell back to their traditional levels.

In most cases, the lime-producing farmers would be cheering on the era of expensive limes and bemoaning the subsequent price crash. In this case, though, the opposite was true. The higher prices went, the more scared farmers became for their lives and livelihoods. When the price returned to normal, it was because something great had happened.

It meant the drug lords had gone away.

The lime wars started innocently enough. Toward the end of 2013, heavy rains in some parts of Mexico's lime-producing regions damaged crops while bacteria invaded another region. (A person with an affinity for puns may point out that parts of Mexico had to deal with a particularly bad epidemic of lime disease.) Supply fell, demand stayed roughly the same, and the basic rules of economics kicked in, leading to a small but noticeable uptick in the price of limes. If you were one of the affected farmers, hopefully you had diversified your crops or had banked some money in case of bad times. On the other hand, if you had limes to sell, it was a good day, as you made a little more profit than usual.

If you were a drug cartel, you suddenly had access to a product you could import into the United States without risking incarceration or worse.

The cartel in question is the Templarios—the Knights Templar, in English—a criminal organization active in the Mexican state of Michoacán. The Templarios aren't just drug smugglers—they're more akin to the Mafia than anything else, with a history of kidnapping, counterfeiting, money laundering, arms trafficking, and murder. In many areas of Michoacán, there's a good chance that any businessman you meet is paying protection money to the Templarios. For his sake, he probably should be.