When Things Get Trashy
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in the US, cramming all our usual doctor visits and errands into a much shorter visit than usual. We hit the ground running, and were here more than 48 hours before I even had time to open up my computer and connect it to the hotel internet. I’m in serious git ‘er done mode.
When Things Get Trashy
When our kids were small, we celebrated Christmas with the standard suburban pile of gifts under the tree. Every year I’d buy wrapping paper and ribbons and spend an hour making everything look pretty, only to watch the children rip it to shreds in ten minutes flat. Then I’d gather the scraps into a garbage bag and put it in the wheelie bin that lived at the top of our driveway.
Come Tuesday, we’d wheel the bin to the curb, and by afternoon, the bags of garbage had magically disappeared. We’d wheel the bin back up the driveway and start the cycle all over again.
Our bin (which was provided by the city) had wheels, for ease of use. At the grocery store, we had a choice of trash bags: stretchy or not, perfumed or not, built-in strings or or corner flaps for tying. But the very best part was that moment when the truck rolled up and the automatic arm grabbed our bin, dumped it into the truck, and put it down again.
We could make as much garbage as we wanted, and never had to think twice about it. Once a year, like clockwork, I had a twinge of guilt over that bag full of wrapping paper, but it never stopped me from wrapping up toys for my precious babies.
Garbage is a global problem. Everybody has it; nobody wants it.
Privilege is throwing all your refuse in a black plastic bag, then dropping it in a bin or down a chute, knowing someone else will make it disappear.
In Tunis, when you get out of the touristy areas, garbage is piled up on every corner—massive piles, waiting to be collected. Stray cats and dogs rip the bags open and the contents spill out on the sidewalk and into the gutters and roads. People rummage through the bags, gathering plastic bottles. We haven’t asked, but we assume you can collect a small fee for turning the bottles in.
In the country-side, people burn their rubbish, but there’s a stunning amount of litter, too. Plastic grocery bags are everywhere, tossed about by the wind, caught on fences and clogging up ditches.
The same is true in Egypt. Garbage is ubiquitous. You step around it when you walk, and try to angle your photos so it’s just outside the frame.
The first time Lee went to Egypt, he unknowingly arrived during the celebration of Eid ul-Adha, which celebrates Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac on God’s command. The Islamic festival is marked by charitable works, but also by making a literal sacrifice—based on Lee’s experience on the streets of Cairo, in modern-day Egypt that sacrifice is usually a sheep.
It sounds horrifying, but I’m not sure it’s all that unusual. I once went for a very early-morning walk in New York, and kept having to give wide berth to piles of restaurant rubbish. I distinctly remember the sight of a whole, cooked salmon spilling out of a bag, splayed across the sidewalk. A particularly American sacrifice to the gods of excess.
I struggle with my aversion to garbage. It freaks me out—it’s disgusting and gross and smells bad, and I’m pretty certain it’s full of rats and diseases. I am hyper-aware of the reality of garbage—everybody has it; nobody wants it. I don’t want to see it. I would love to pretend that everything I throw away just disappears. But I know that’s not the case. It all goes somewhere, and impacts the planet in one way or another.
I’m just glad I’ve never had to pick my way through piles of sheep bits.
Take care,
Lisa
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