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Posts Tagged ‘Dumpster Diving’

I have a vivid memory of the first time I saw the San Juan Islands. In a park, somewhere on the Washington Coast I took photos of a magic sunset, beams of light pointing down to the spattered land masses while my good friend Sarah stood close, both us smiling, calmy content.

When I pedaled down to Washington Park in Anarcortes, three years later on the final day of my bike tour – it was with a leaping heart that I realised: I recognised where I was.

Complex patterns on a map are usually the only reference I have for my surroundings… If I’m familiarising myself with the area, it’s generally on the way out of town. In the Carribean I was comforted by well-known trees and plantlife… now I was soothed by seeing old photos come to life. The pier we dangled our legs from still stood, sturdy as ever, and it may well have been the same fisherman tying up at the dock after another long day.

This syncronicity marked the beginning of a beautiful period. Old threads are pulling together – old friends, old memories, clearing through the cobwebs. My welcome into Vancouver was from a familiar face – James, the first stranger I met on my coast-to-coast, way back in Nyack, New York. Originally from Canada and visiting for the week, he came to escort me off the ferry and, through his brother organised amazing accomodation for my stay in the city. A beginning and an end.

Then I got my oldest friend ever, Ange, like a lung full of fresh air. Her familiar sneezes, her tales about Australia… the tim-tams in her backpack – all such comforting delights! The same city brought me Leon too, the Irishman I cycled with through Ontario who had also just arrived by bike. We ate ice-cream and giggled over coffee, able to pick up where we left off. It was rejuvenating to take a break from the usual 20 questions, all the getting-to-know you fluff.

If ever there was a story that needed an ending, it was Guisepi’s – (freeteaparty.org). We met during my last trip to the States, and frolicked together up and down the coast, falling in love along the way. To credit just one person for igniting my wanderlust would be too simple and too difficult – but there’s no denying Guisepi is partly responsible. He sparked my love of freight trains, he dumpstered my first bin-meal and just generally set an example for low-cost, high-adventure, freedom. I flew home, that time, with a broken heart and a longing to return… it took three years and a lot of other journeys – but finally I made it back.

So hugging him again, after only loose letter and email contact, felt as complete a circle as any. We spent a long time just looking at eachother – waiting for the surreal to become reality. Then it was a full week of endless chatter, sharing all that we have learnt in the absence and inspiring eachother once more. We wrote letters by the lake and rode our bikes over the hills… we made tea every hour, tried Tibetan and Chinese brews and read stories from our books (his on tea, mine on bikes) until the night came to a close.

More serendipity and I found myself a ride to Eugene with Mariah, a Madisonian and someone I felt I knew already. With a reloaded bike I managed 5 days of blissful pedaling down the coast, across the Oregon/California border… until time ran out and I went back to thumbing it.

My Dad and Niece were arriving to San Francisco airport at 10 o’clock Saturday morning. Straight off the highway, I stumbled to the arrivals terminal at 10.20. Dads suspenders, flannel shirt and beat up suitcase were easy to spot and tears came as I hugged him again after almost three years. My sister and her partner Dani flew in from Barcelona later that night, and for the first time in a long time, I went to sleep with family under the same roof.

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Skipping Waste” is a documentary about dumpster diving, created in 2009 by Lily Barlow. It was shot in France and the Netherlands. The movie is distributed under the conditions of the Creative Commons Share Alike NonCommercial Attribution license.

Monopolizing chain supermarkets dominate food sales. Bananas from Columbia and avocados from Brazil are filling baskets throughout European winters. These unsustainable consumer habits lead to a well of waste, burning oil and overflowing landfills. Desperately seeking an alternative, dumpster divers are taking to the streets, feeding hundreds with the found food. ”Skipping Waste” follows these communities through France and the Netherlands as they recoup and reuse what capitalist society has deemed as ‘trash’.

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ahhh how the bins do provide here!!!

ahhh how the bins do provide here!!!

Clickety-clack goes the keyboards behind me, dozens of busy heads tilted, focusing on the work that lay ahead. Im sitting in a refuge of warmth, the Library. Outside the gauge will read somewhere below zero… where exactly the needle lies is arbitrary to me, from here on in, it’s just FUCKING COLD. Traveling, as you all know, forces you to face many challenges, comfort zones and strengths, and I have become well adapted to living in a state of instability… not really ‘missing’ “home”, wherever that may be, understanding that all things are fluid and friends and family will come again. But the weather. Oh the how i miss the weather. Dreams of hot summer days, the sun sparkling on our salty skins, the birds and the bees (and the cigarette trees?). Australian summer will never be found here. 

 

And yet, here is where I am, and here I shall call home. There are friends and loved ones holding little pockets of space warm for me, and as was said to me upon my arrival, months ago now: “where the sun always shines in the hearts of the people”. 

For six months I’ve been couch-surfing, officially and unofficially, from home to home, life to life and heart to heart. Sharing fragments of people’s worlds for days or weeks, exchanging stories and building on this one world culture we all belong to. Fitting then, that I shall be resting my weary body now in a place known as ‘THE COUCH’.

A town called Leiden, 30 mins from the infamous Dutch capital, and a group of people I call beautiful. Dreamers, anarchists, squatters, hippies, punks, whatever the labels, none will categorize them all. My home for now is an ex-pub, squatted by two belle boys, almost as many years ago. Inside,  the walls are layered with treasures, posters and stickers on most flat surfaces, objects of art telling more stories than a lifetime could listen to. Madame Wednesday brings us the eating cafe, a vegan, dumpstered dinner shared and relished by all fairies and friends who attend. The crisp, clean air outside, however cold, brings a feeling of calmness and the blanket of white hushes all sounds.

Our fingers frozen from digging in skips, my toes numb, it’s with a shaking hand that we open the big metal door and slip inside. It bangs shut behind us, slapping the winter chill across the face, posting a sign “NO ENTRY”. We’re home. It’s definitely no Aussie summer, but at least its above zero.

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“One farmer says to me, “You cannot live on vegetable food solely, for it furnishes nothing to make bones with”, and so he religiously devotes a part of his day to supplying his system with the raw material of bones; walking all the while behind his oxen, which with vegetable made bones, jerk him and his lumbering plough along in spite of every obstacle.

Some things are really necessaries of life in some circles, the most helpless and diseased, which in others are luxuries merely, and in others still are entirely unknown.” -Henry David Thoreau-

And so by this standard i wish to live. Understanding that most of what I have are indeed luxuries, of which I am capable of doing without. Challenging the status-quo and simplifying religiously.

A driver looks at me questionably when i speak to her of my diving in dumpsters, wondering if picking me up was such a good idea after all. I wish to make a film, so succinct and well-rounded, that I may hand it to her and open up her world. That she may watch it and immediately understand Thoreau’s (and my own) philosophy, realising that “this spending of the best part of one’s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it,” is neither rewarding nor rewarded. That I may save my breath while cruising the highways with her, and avoid my verbal blunders in an attempt to convince her of this lifestyle.

The film has yet to be realised but the process has begun. I’ve been collecting footage along my journeys and hope to have a realised product withing a few months.

In the meantime, of which I am most concerned, hours have and will be spent living and loving. Freight trains are rolling over my heart again and cold, dark, windy adventures are plentiful. An auto-rack rumbling around Holland has provided moments of magic, and plans for Slovenia are coming together. Hopefully another will carry us there. By November, Mandy and I will be rolling, riding and rambling southward. There are some big, white, snow-covered mountains awaiting us there and my feet have already begun to itch.

Until then, I can be found down by a silent lake, boiling my own beans by an open fire and watching the sun’s movements from dawn til’ dusk. A little tent and some words on paper to keep me company, I’ll wait there until the loneliness washes over me, filling in the empty pieces to this somewhat jumbled puzzle.

I know that a person is rich only in proportion to the number of things they can afford to let alone, and so it will be that the moon, stars, sunrise, and a few ‘necessities’ will be my only treasures for a little while.

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