Trashed, Burned, and Scarred

The central market in Babati is often awash in the bright colors of the goods that are sold there. In the late afternoons when dust is low and congestion is minimal the market becomes a sanctuary, a testament to the tiny indescribable details of creation.  When business fades away and afternoon crowds begin to dwindle, the fruits and vegetables lining the small shops and vendor stalls practically pop in brilliant shades along the color spectrum. Giant deep green bunches of bananas contrast with the brightly colored purple fruit of the zambarao tree. Cherry red tomatoes nestle among glowing yellow peppers and muted brown potatoes. Men and women sit chatting under the overhanging trees as children run back and forth between stalls swapping produce and filling orders.

In stark contrast to this scene, another plot of land rests several hundred yards to the south. On particularly windy days the smells from this neighboring parcel drift and float into the open spaces of the market and permeate the fragrance of the fruits and vegetables. The scent traces its way outside the main entryway of the bazaar and continues through several wandering side streets before finding its home in the small mountain that rests on this land. Smoke snakes skyward from tiny open fires around the base and sides of the peak. Piles of unused dirt line the land’s perimeter and try in vain to contain the mountain’s growth as it expands on all sides. Kids play and rummage through the areas around the lower slopes, searching for anything useful or necessary for their families or their survival.

This area, this blot on the landscape, was once the city dump. Years of trash and refuse have built up and now form the abominable peak.  It has long since been abandoned by the government as new waste lands have been formed, little being done to manage, remove, or even quell this rotting parcel.

For centuries Tanzania and other developing countries have dealt with trash and refuse in unchanging patterns. Namely, it is burned. Small fires line the roadways at night as leftover packages and bottles mix with fallen leaves and other natural debris in the flames. What can’t be burnt is often left on the roadway unfettered or tossed in the cement culverts designed to manage huge quantities of rainwater. When the rain does come, trash often clogs the drains built into these culverts and as a result a mixture of water and filth wash over the sides and flood the roads. When trash is removed from the streets it is usually taken to centralized locations just outside of town. While there is no government or privately operated garbage disposal service, occasionally excess money will be allotted to pay individuals for the service. Young men will scour the countryside for wagons and wheelbarrows and collect a few shillings for every scrap they’re able to deliver to the dump. When the efforts to burn what trash collects at these sights fail, small mounds of dirt are pushed over the rubbish and the town does it best to ignore the horrid smells emitting from the property.

These methods were once appropriate and beneficial. Agricultural societies of the past drew all of their resources from the land, and excess waste was naturally biodegradable. But with the introduction of new products and machinery into the system, the ability of nature to naturally soak up waste was forever changed. Plastics, rubbers, oils, electronics, and Styrofoam couldn’t be treated and disposed of in the same ways as natural refuse. While the byproducts and waste matter changed, the methods of disposing them did not and excess buildup began. Governments with neither the will nor the resources to manage this new excess waste have pushed the issue to the fringes of conversation. Despite its role as a major environmental health hazard, there simply aren’t financial capacities to develop both short and long term solutions to the issue of waste management.

For our part we are forced to handle the excess waste on our property individually. For better or for worse, we do so in several ways. First, we try to repurpose and reuse as much as possible. Ziplock bags that we would have thrown out in the states are washed and reused for several years at a time. What had been their original purpose can still be found written along their sides, as often the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I bring for lunch are labeled as dog food, wildebeest, or impala. We filter water to reduce the need for plastic water bottles, and reuse those bottles when we are forced to buy them. Plastic bags from the store are reused until their holes become too large to function. We compost all excess food waste and utilize it as fertilizer in our gardens.

All that being true, we are still left with additional garbage at the end of each week. Anything that cannot be burned is placed inside a walled 10-foot pit along the back of the property. We dug the pit upon our arrival and in three years it is only 1/10 of the way full. In a number of years, when it does reach capacity, it will be covered over with dirt. What is left and flammable is placed inside an incinerator that rests several feet away from the pit. Mud bricks house a metal chamber where the refuse is burned. A small smokestack extends upward from the chamber and another small box collects the ashes below. For a number of years, the weekly task of burning this waste fell upon the youngest of our watchmen, a small Tanzanian young man named Festo.

Festo was still a young teenager when he began working as a watchman on our compound. Having dropped out of school for poor grades, he jumped at the opportunity for a steady income. Before doing so he spent his post school days wandering through town and taking the few delivery jobs he could find. He was barely old enough to own a driver’s license and couldn’t afford to purchase one. Instead he would borrow a friend’s motorcycle and make illegal trips through town, the small Chinese motorbike he was using weighed down by masses of boxes and goods. Another of the watchmen knew Festo, so when the opportunity for a job became available, Festo was brought in to interview. After three months of trial employment he was hired by the previous missionaries and was a fulltime employee when we arrived.

When it came time each week for Festo to burn the trash he would gather the bags from the house and carry them to the incinerator. He’d ask for a small box of matches and we did little to dictate the procedure with which he’d accomplish the task of removing the refuse. In addition he would remove a small blower from the container and use it to pump air into the chamber of the incinerator and thusly stoke the flames. For months the operation went smoothly.

One afternoon things took an unfortunate turn.

Frustrated by what was a difficult fire to start, Festo decided to search for something that might decrease the duration of his task and move the flames along. Having searched the immediate area he settled on a small bucket of gasoline that had been used to clean oil-based paint off of several paintbrushes. He carried the small flammable bucket to the edge of the incinerator. Slowly he opened the door and took note of the tiny flames that were eating away at the trash inside and the small plastic blower shooting air in through a small hole along the side.

He casually tossed the gasoline into the flames.

The repercussions were immediate. A ball of flames erupted back towards him as he stood holding the now empty canister. It happened in an instant and he could do little to protect himself. He ran to a nearby hose and splashed his face with water. Too ashamed to admit what had happened and in fear of being fired, Festo continued hiding behind the incinerator and finished burning the trash before an hour later he approached the house.  He pensively rapped on the screen.

When I opened the backdoor I didn’t immediately recognize Festo. His once dark face was white. His eyebrows were missing as well as the line of hair just atop his forehead.  After a moment of shock and a few seconds of recognition, I threw open the screen door and walked outside. With his head down and his eyes focused on the stone pathway he slowly explained what happened.  I threw my arm around him and led him towards the car, trying to articulate my concern and understanding as we walked.

We drove out of the gate and down the mountain as he continued staring away from me. I could only see the back of his head as he sat turned away and looking out the window. We stopped at the hospital that lines our street, and after parking, waited in the long line that twisted away from reception for our opportunity to see a doctor. Some 20 people were waiting nervously in front of us, and I watched as the line swelled to our rear. Men and women seemed to come in droves. Some hobbled up the hillside on the shoulders of their friends. Others arrived via automobile before being carried from the backseats and placed along the cement portico. 

We leaned against the side of the brick wall as we waited our turn. We had given up communicating and waited in slow silence. When we finally arrived at the small window of the receptionist I watched as she momentarily gawked at Festo’s face before regaining her composure. Festo explained what had happened and we were led through a series of small outbuildings to the pharmacy. The doctor reacted in much the same way as the receptionist, but we were relieved to hear that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. We were given a topical cream and told his face would return to normal after a couple of days. I dropped Festo off at his shared apartment and returned home.

Several days later Festo returned to work. He wore a mask over his face to cover his skin and to protect his wounds from the heavy dust that often accompanies the dry season in Tanzania. It would be several more days before Festo would start looking me in the eye again, and almost a week before he could remove the mask. When he finally did we were relieved to see that the color had returned to his face and his eyebrows had begun the slow process of re-growing.

Looking back at those events now I can remember how confused I was at Festo’s initial reaction to the explosion.  Over time I’ve come to understand what was behind that decision from a cultural perspective, but in that moment I could not fathom someone not immediately reaching out for help.  Rather than rush for assistance and deal with the problem facing him, Festo retreated to the safety of silence. The problem with this however, is eventually the issue becomes too overwhelming, too severe to ignore any longer. When the pain of your problems becomes too large to carry on your own, silence can be deafening.

The lesson to take away from all of this isn’t complicated or easily overlooked. The issue of waste management in Tanzania and other developing countries will continue to grow and fester until it’s no longer possible to just cover it up with a few scoops of dirt. Our own problems, much like Festo’s, won’t go away because we hide them within ourselves or because we attempt to cover them up with fake smiles and the rhetoric that “everything is ok.”

Healing begins when honesty overtakes us. It doesn’t matter if it’s a mound of trash in Tanzania, an embarrassing mistake that leaves us burned and scarred, or a secret we chose to keep because we’re too afraid of the consequences of its admission.

If we don’t start the conversation, eventually all of our trash will consume us.