At the Landfill (aka the Dump)

We headed out early in the truck full of kiwi trimmings. The dump is always such a shocking place, and the city trucks are coming in and out at this hour with great speed. The constant noise of their backup chimes doesn’t completely drown out the sounds of the flocks of seagulls as they swoop down and rise up again into the clear sky. The trucks dump huge piles of green waste on this side, and wood over there on the far corner. A few oranges and a grapefruit roll onto the hard packed dirt surface, bits of color in the sun. The attendant is yelling something at us, waving his hands and pointing; I have no idea what he is trying to say.


To the right is a man with a bulldozer going back and forth in front of our little truck, which is about a third or maybe even a fourth of the size of his vehicle. I feel invisible and very very vulnerable. Off he goes to push some more green stuff around. Mr. S is in the back untying the tarp and trying to shove off all the stuff in the truck—branches and weeds and sticks and some dirt. There is one more small truck parked next to us. The woman in that party seems much more inclined to get out and help. Mr S pretty much told me to stay in the car, which is fine with me. My toes always curl up in my shoes when I walk on this ground.


We have brought our breakfast with us, not to eat in this place, but to have a picnic along the beach somewhere out this way north of town. We find a lovely spot with tables and an unbeatable view, the sweet smell of the sea, and the gentle sounds of the surf. What a relief! I don’t know why we always eat our cereal at the dining room table when we can be in a spot like this in only a few minutes.