There are nearly half a million Venezuelans in Ecuador. Organized into an association, many of them have found an answer to the challenges of socio-labor integration in the circular economy.
By Sebastián Vera
Juan Ramírez uses all his strength to move the blue plastic trash containers toward him. The stench is intense, but he does not wear a mask. He also lacks gloves. Nevertheless, he opens the bags and collects everything he can recycle—paper, plastic, metal, cardboard—to place it in his cart.
When a container is too heavy, Juan takes a small jump and puts half his body inside the structure to search for anything that might have a second life. In Venezuela, he was a merchant; in Ecuador, he is a recycler and president of RECIPRI, an association of Venezuelan recyclers from the Priorato parish, ten minutes from the city of Ibarra in Imbabura. Juan is 48 years old, and according to the inter-agency coordination platform for Venezuelan refugees and migrants (R4V), he is part of the nearly 445,000 Venezuelans who arrived in Ecuador seeking peace. However, in recent years, almost nothing has been left of the once-called “island of peace.”
Priorato does not appear on any road signs. For those living in the northern Sierra city of Ibarra, the parish is marked by the Yahuarcocha lagoon—less than a ten-minute walk from its central park. The lagoon is known for the thousands of corpses that turned its waters red more than half a millennium ago due to the battle between the Incas and native populations. This town is known for its fried fish restaurants and the José Tobar International Autodrome.
Walking through Priorato is like stepping into a Bomb at rest—a musical genre characteristic of the Valley of Chota, Imbabura. In the streets of Priorato, “Caminante soy” plays, repeating as a mantra: “I come in search of the truth.” The truth that the members of the RECIPRI recycling association found in the tranquility of Priorato and their new form of employment: recycling.
Juan Ramírez, originally from Cumaná, leads the RECIPRI association. He and some of his companions traveled from Venezuela to Ecuador by direct transport for five days. He has lived in the country for two years. “In Priorato, I am independent. I work on my own terms. I am my boss and do not depend on anyone. RECIPRI was an opportunity that presented itself. We all organized ourselves, and thanks to God, we are strengthened with the association,” he says.
For Juan, recycling represents something better than a regular job, but he acknowledges that they need more support from people. In his words, he came to Ecuador “to work and strive.”
According to the Ecuadorian Institute of Statistics and Census (INEC), in 2023, 62.8% of Ecuadorian households sorted or separated some waste, with plastic being the most separated waste. Although responsible management of this material exists, residents continue to mix waste such as oils, fats, medicines, insecticides, cartridges, and toner when discarding rubbish. Thus, separating it is a necessity that generates informal employment.
The Zero Waste Alliance Ecuador, a group of social and ecological organizations, public and private entities, academia, and individuals promoting zero waste models, says that the country produces five million tons of solid waste annually, of which only 5% is recycled.
Approximately twenty thousand base recyclers—workers who reuse and trade solid waste—recover 50% of the recyclable materials discarded daily in the country.
According to Statista, two million people in Latin America are base recyclers, meaning they collect and separate waste. Thanks to their work, they prevent the emission of tons of greenhouse gasses and contribute to society socially, economically, and environmentally.
Despite their complex, valuable, and critical work in developing circular and sustainable economic structures, most recyclers are in the informal sector. They face income inequality and a lack of norms and regulations that guarantee better working conditions.
For Mariélyth Díaz, a 27-year-old from Caracas who has lived in Ecuador for three years, the story of RECIPRI is very straightforward. Before the creation of the association, there were many recyclers, mostly Venezuelans. Since she arrived in Priorato in 2021, Mariélyth began recycling because she did not have a job, and it was the option she found to support herself and her family.
In most municipalities and cities in Ecuador, there are rubbish containers, usually mistreated by how people use them, such as keeping the lids open with sticks, which damages the mechanism of the levers holding the heavy lids. Although the containers are intended for collecting trash, there are always plastic, paper, organic waste, cigarette butts, and beer bottles around them.
Every day, usually in the morning from around nine and in the evening around seven, base recyclers across the country, including Venezuelan migrants who have found a way to sustain themselves through this, venture into the containers to search for cardboard, paper, plastics, metals, and anything that can be given a second life through recycling.
In November 2023, UNHCR, the UN refugee agency, provided them with biosecurity and hygiene workshops and helped the Venezuelan migrants establish the association. They elected a board of directors and began to organize formally and legally. Thus, RECIPRI began generating income.
When the project with UNHCR started, RECIPRI had 17 members, but some left due to work issues—different jobs and other employment opportunities—or because they returned to Venezuela.
Along with Mariélyth, there are currently seven other people in the association. Besides sharing work in recycling, they also share the sadness of migrating from their country. They feel the void of absence in their stomachs living in Ecuador, embraced by nostalgia and the weight of the distance from their loved ones, but with the conviction to keep moving forward.
Mariélyth Díaz says, “In Priorato, everything is quieter, the weather is very pleasant, and it’s not as dangerous as other cities in Ecuador. Some people treat us with respect, but sometimes, while working recycling, they look at you badly as if you were going to steal or throw trash at you. That is tough. Our work helps the environment. We recycle as a means of livelihood because there are no stable jobs. That’s how we pay for health, education, and food.”
Mariélyth says she can earn up to 15 dollars a day. However, she has been unable to regularize her stay in the country because her ID expired in 2024. She wanted to process her passport, but she couldn’t do so when Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro closed the consulates in Quito and Guayaquil. The only way to do it would be to return to Venezuela.
“I miss my country because there’s nothing more beautiful than being with my family and friends,” Mariélyth says. But now she is focused on growing RECIPRI and achieving a recycling plant with her partners so that more people, regardless of nationality, can join. She wants to resume the recycling fairs that were previously organized to showcase the association’s work.
In these dreams, she is accompanied by Willeyska Montilla, 26, from Aragua, who believes that Venezuelans have no borders. It took her a month to travel from Venezuela to Ecuador, and she is currently the administrator of RECIPRI. She has lived in Ecuador for three years. “I stayed in Ibarra because of the weather. I left Venezuela due to the economy and to provide better well-being for my children,” she says.
And although she is finding her way, she acknowledges that she was unaware of xenophobia upon leaving her country. “We encountered it upon arriving in Ecuador. We’ve tried to deal with it as best we can because we are in a borrowed country, just passing through.” She says Venezuelan migrants did not come to take food away from anyone and that she is among those who prove daily that the good people outnumber those who made mistakes.
Willeyska reflects aloud on the weight of being a wanderer and what is lost on that journey. “I miss my mom a lot. I haven’t seen her for six years. She still hasn’t met my youngest daughter. It’s very hard to adapt,” she says.
Becoming a recycler is difficult for some, but finding decent employment results in complex labor exploitation contexts. Migrant populations work in areas unrelated to their profession or training due to the needs they must cover and the problem of validating their university degrees in the country.
Several stigmas have been established in society regarding labor matters, such as the fallacy that migrants “take” jobs from locals, which is a problem of unemployment affecting society as a whole.
Despite the hardships of being a migrant, Willeyska says that being part of RECIPRI is a positive experience. The organization has made satisfactory progress thanks to its legalization process in Ibarra and its savings box, where each member deposits one dollar daily for various procedures.
The association’s goal is to expand gradually. “Benefits will come with hard work. Our goal is for more people to get to know us; in this way, more organizations will support us in having our own space,” Willeyska says enthusiastically.
María Rojas, another member of RECIPRI, entered the country via a trail: half walking and half by bus. The 40-year-old from Anzoátegui has been living in Ecuador for a year and a half and stayed because one of her daughters asked her to.
“I was doing well in Venezuela. My family is small; my mom and dad have passed away, and we are few siblings. Many people complain, but I came for my daughter,” she says. However, she plans to move to Quito in a year because she believes there are more job opportunities in the capital.
While she acknowledges that the country has given her opportunities, she has encountered many Ecuadorians who have criticized Venezuela but “are now in the same situation, migrating to the United States. The tongue is the body’s punishment.”
Yajaira Pérez, 50, also from Anzoátegui, has lived in Ecuador for a year and a half. “I spent five days walking from Colombia to Ecuador. I migrated for my niece, who brought me here to see her. I left my daughter with my grandchildren, whom I miss a lot. I miss my family, the beaches, the rivers, the fun, but the harsh situation there,” she reflects. For her, RECIPRI has become her family.
If all the people from Quito and Guayaquil suddenly migrated—around 4.7 million people—they would represent half of the Venezuelan diaspora of the last decade and the number of people in mobility seeking food, shelter, health, education, and formal employment, according to the Refugee and Migrant Response Plan (RMRP) data from May 2024.
70% struggle to access basic rights and dignified lives in Latin America and the Caribbean. Millions decided to leave hunger and despair to venture into the unknown of other latitudes, regardless of the climate or dangers along the way and at border crossings. Latin America is the grand stage of an epic odyssey. Moving implies inhabiting another, something different.
Since 2022, Ecuadorians have become the second largest nationality to transit through the Darién province after Venezuelans, with 29,356 people registered in 2022 and 57,250 in 2023. According to Panama’s National Migration Service, by May 2024, 12,128 Ecuadorians had used this corridor. These figures reflect that the lack of work is a widespread problem, evidenced by Ecuadorian migration through risky routes.
Migrating is intertwined with the reconstruction and representation of expressions that, like a multifunctional archive, nourish stories, narratives, and memories. Migration is a journey of roots, displacement, and relocation, the experience of a historical journey of multiple and different voices, working through differences, the loss, and the debt of a forgotten territory.
Migration is an opportunity to (re)build a life despite the countless cries of sorrow. It coexists with life because it continues beyond exile, beyond the absolute in pain and love. It is a new chance to construct a vital narrative, move in imagination, be hidden, celebrated, forget, recreate home, and live in a country far from imaginary lines.
This journalistic piece is the result of the Scholarships for covering migration in Ecuador, awarded by the Gabo Foundation in alliance with the World Bank and the International Organization for Migration (IOM), with the support of the Government of Canada and the Office of Population, Refugees and Migration of the Government of the United States.
The opinions, analysis, and conclusions expressed here are the authors’ sole responsibility and do not necessarily reflect the official position of the institutions that support this work.
This story was originally published in GK (Ecuador) and is republished within the Human Journalism Network program, supported by the ICFJ, International Center for Journalists.