The behavioural differences between living in a flat (apartment, to you Americans/Canadians) are significant. For one thing, what happens outside your unit is only remotely your problem. In a house, everything is your problem.
The rubbish (trash, to you Americans/Canadians), for one thing. We have to cart our bins out to the edge of the street on collection days, so that the rubbish guys can load it on to their huge, noisy, smelly trucks for removal. They only come once a week so you daren’t miss that collection.
Except in Camps Bay, where things worked a little differently – because the rubbish guys also offered a door-to-door dagga delivery service. You could buy Majat (a cheap local brand) fresh off the back of the truck – quick, cheap and never bothered by the cops. But that’s another story. Remember to remind me to tell you about Aunty Gertie.
So part of the Circadian rhythm of rubbish days in the ‘burbs is that you need to know when that truck is coming round. And of course it’s different for everyone. For us it used to be mid-morning but suddenly a few weeks ago the truck came early so we had to recalibrate and I thought I had it under control, alarm clock and all (who gets up at the ungodly hour of 7.30 a.m. without a pressing reason?)
But this morning I heard that big diesel engine roaring outside our gate before my alarm went off, and by the time I’d switched off the security alarms, unlocked the front door, unlocked the front door security gates, unlocked the gate halfway down the garden path, unlocked the three locks on the front gate and got the bloody bin onto the driveway – that machine was trundling along halfway down the next block. I yelled and waved and yoo-hoo’d for all I was worth but alas, neither the driver nor his bin-men heard me.
I decided to run.
And there goes Friedland, utterly unkempt, dressing gown billowing in the wind, winter pyjamas with fly agape and slippers flopping, running and yoo-hooing down Daniel Road with his wheelie-bin in tow, a la Spike Milligan in an Inspector Clouseau movie.
Alas, ‘twas all in vain.
Those bloody diabolical machines go faster than you might think. Eventually the truck got out of sight and I had to turn back, rubbish and all. Suddenly the adrenaline was gone and the bin was surprisingly heavy. And I’d run quite a distance. And my working neighbours were reversing out of their driveways and heading off to their workplaces. And because our pavements are grass verges, I was in the road. And people were giving me funny looks. And next we’ll be ready earlier.
“But” – you may very well ask – “why on earth don’t you just put the damn bin out the night before and save yourself the rush?”
“Because”- I will tell you –“because Africa.”
Meaning that in Africa there is no such thing as a thing which cannot or will not be stolen, vandalized, pissed on, or set alight.
I don’t actually mind if poor hungry people rummage in my garbage for food or anything else which may conceivably be useful to them. I just don’t want them to throw everything out and turn my sidewalk into a local branch of the city dump. And to be honest 90% of them won’t do that.
It's just that there are downsides to this strangely parasitical world: there are those who do leave a mess, and there are those who don’t - and there are those who would turn the bin over, tip everything out, and steal the bin: the bins are very strong and durable and can be (and are) used as carts or as waterproof sleeping places for vagrants. It’s a terrible thought, but there are people in Africa who are of less value than your empty rubbish bin. And they want that bin. So you put it out at the last minute and you haul it back in at the first opportunity.
It's all rubbish, man!
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© HARRY FRIEDLAND
June 2023
Hearts & Drums
