One Man's Trash...

Trash elephant - downtown Livingstone, Zambia

A friend of mine came for a visit during the entire month of June. As she settled into the house, the inevitable question arose around garbage: “Do you have recycling?”

“Yes,” I hesitated, “But not in the way you may think.”

In the west, we are now hardwired to Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. But, the separation of tin cans and plastic and newspaper and soft cardboard that ends up in blue bins doesn’t exist here. What does exist is another, more interesting form, more along the "re-use" spectrum.

Malawians don't typically own a lot of stuff, so what they do have, they treasure. This includes trash. I’ve seen bottle tops wired together to make toys, baskets, plant holders, fridge magnets, trivets. I’ve seen pop cans slit open and hammered flat to make toy cars, notebook covers and house siding. Plastic bags can be woven together to make purses. Plastic bottles, in particular, are most treasured. As a side business, many Malawians make “thobwa” a sweet millet-based beer, or mlambe (baobob) juice, to sell, so these bottles are in high demand.

This type of recycling inevitably creates a weird dynamic for an American expat.  For one, you know without a doubt that your garbage is being gone through on a regular basis. How would your habits change if you knew without a doubt that someone (or perhaps even the whole neighborhood?) was going to see what you threw away? I bet you’d shred a lot more documents. You wrap those maxi pads extra thick. You waste less food.

Lifecycle of a sparkling water bottle: full, empty, and thobwa!

I’ve taken to leaving out bottles I know that my housekeeper will want to use in making thobwa. My gardener wanted to try a terrarium out of wine bottles, so I leave those to slowly become yard art. He also put together the chicken coop from cardboard boxes and plastic garbage bags. It looks kind of like hobo-town around here, but I think it's cool.

I also find myself not throwing things away because I either don’t want someone to find it, or I can’t bear to see that embarrassing thing show up somewhere else (old, hole-y underwear).

What remains is still too much (plastic bags, arg!) but overall, this reuse is kind of cool. It makes you aware of the value of things that we take for granted. The mish-mash of garbage toys and plastic lined thatch houses admittedly contributes to Malawi’s shabby feel, but it’s also a testament of ingenuity, its MacGyver-attitude. 

Work and Culture

Part of my job is giving out government grants. I read proposals, rank them with our team, conduct site visits and pull together all the paperwork (to ensure we’re not giving money to terrorists). There are a ridiculous number of hoops to jump through to get one of these out the door, but I’ve spent the better part of the year getting the system nailed down. I’ve done 13 grants this year, ranging from $100 - $38,000, each requiring about 25 pages of paperwork (no matter what the size).

Recently, I went to see a guy who applied for a grant in Nkhotakota (about three hours from Lilongwe). He owns an agro-vet supply store, filled with chemicals, seed, farming tools, and animal vaccinations. It’s in our project area, deals with vet supplies, and buys seed from my organization’s farmer groups. He’s a good candidate, and I wanted to talk to him about the in’s and out outs of what it means to get a grant from us and what he needs to do (the hoop jumping doesn’t end with me, unfortunately…)

The guy had waited for me, but I was late. I’d been visiting with our admin team, who often need a bit of guidance and direction. In addition to heading up the grants department, I’m also head of Operations and Administration, which means whenever the lights go out, fuel goes missing, guards don’t show up for work or basically someone want to complain, I get involved. It’s frustrating, but I’ve built up a pretty good team. They just need some personal attention and management from time to time.

So, I was late. By the time I got over there, the business owner had left for a funeral. I had no idea whose funeral it was, why he was there or what his role was. It could have been his mother, it could have been his neighbor’s mother. He didn’t tell me he had a funeral to go to; I didn’t tell him I was running late.

When someone in your neighborhood dies in Malawi, you are absolutely required to give a bit of money and conduct visitation, even if you have to take off of work.  In our office, this sometimes causes a problem because four of our staff live in the same neighborhood. If someone dies in their part of town, it basically shuts down our office. However, one apparently faces severe social stigma if this isn’t done. So, I was surprised that he had waited for me.

My colleague offered to go get him, but I was unsure. I find it kind of nice that the whole community is socially obliged to mark someone’s passing and I didn’t want to get him socially ostracized because I was late. As development professionals, we’re told to be as culturally aware as possible. I try- I really do- but I'm learning that this dogma has limits. In this situation, I could come back later (but not too much later, as we still had to drive back to Lilongwe). Further, I didn’t know how long this funeral would take (they often go all day). I hemmed and hawed. I felt guilty for taking the time to help my staff while this guy waited. I should've called.

And then I remembered: I was there to interview him for a $10,000 grant. I was giving money to him. Why did I have to feel guilty? He should've called! If he wanted the money, he would come. Full stop. I didn’t think that taking 20 minutes away from a funeral for $10,000 would cause him too much social stigma.  

Apparently, he didn’t think so either, because he arrived 15 minutes later.

We made it through the interview, but these observations stayed with me as I drove away. It’s important to be culturally sensitive, sure. But why had I so quickly allowed myself to be led into ambiguous and guilt-ridden ether over it? It doesn’t hurt to have my own hard line (which, in this case, turned out to be exactly the right thing). In fact, without doing so, I lose respect for myself. I’m sure others do, too.

It was a banner revelation, and one that feels just a little bit naughty: I didn’t have to constantly bow to culture just because. Not that I’m going to start demanding my own way all the time. We both certainly could’ve communicated better.  But, I also have a right to get my stuff done, too.  I won’t feel guilty or nervous over having those needs. I’ll continue to struggle and learn how to accomplish that is a culture that is not my own, but I will no longer feel bad.