Refuse

When I lived in Côte D'Ivoire, West Africa there was a garbage problem, typical of any city or small town in Africa. There are no dumps, at least not official ones. So our yard boy, Joel (he cut our grass with a machette because a small glass powered push mower was about $3000 Canadian then), the garbage would disappear each day, going to some magical place that was, St the very least out of my mind, and view. One day I was walking down a dusty dirt road about a mile from my house and I was walking with my gaze fixed to the ground. As I walked I stepped over a piece of paper, a torn portion, which had a logo that instantly jumped out at me as being familiar. I stepped back, bent over and picked up the scrap, and sure enough it was from the travel agency I use. It was addressed to my name and had my Canadian mailing address on it. I took two more steps and found another scrap I recognized. It was then that it dawned on me that we need to be burning our papers,. Where Joel was dumping them I had no idea, but they were floating around the small town.
We soon clued in that street vendors would take our scrap office papers and wrap up there greasy alocho, or begnetes. The ultimate re cycling... years later the mayor, sick of the mess in the town,  finally instituted barrels for garbage pickup, and forded the locals to pay a modest fee. They would pick up one a week. Our barrel rarely needed emptying, as soon as the gate was closed after disposing new things each day, the local kids dug through, and  divided up what was in the 2 foot high can. It remained empty for most of three years until the day we left our African home for a new adventure.