Afval

Sometimes I feel like an anthropologist doing a study on the differences between the US and Belgium. I am always making little lists in my head:
Same/different
American music is on the radio, but they also play a lot more techno on the radio here.
I can still (guiltily) indulge in the occasional Diet Coke, but it’s called a Coke Light here.
They sell Nutella at every store here, but peanut butter is a more elusive prey.

One thing was a complete mystery to us, though. Day one: when we got our apartment keys, it came with a special handout specifically on trash. Because there is very little room for trash here, Belgians have very strict rules regarding waste disposal. For regular trash, you have to use a grey bag with the name of the town where you live. For plastics, metal and drink containers, there is the blue PMD bag. The PMD bags only go out every fortnight, and when they do, you also put out your paper and cardboard, which must be tied together. Glass you must take yourself to special glass recycling bins that are cleverly hidden around the town, the same goes for used clothes, but these bins are in different places. Okay, no problem, we figured. We’ll just grab some trash and recycling bags when we go to the grocery store!

Days two through four: We go to four or five different grocery stores, but at none of them do they have either the grey bags or the PMD bags. Is it some sort of national secret? A game they play with newcomers? I also can’t find the trash can anywhere at our new apartment.

Day five: I begin to suspect that everyone just eats their trash.

Day six: I screw up my courage at the local fruit store. “Heeft jij de PMD zak?” I ask the forbidding woman at the counter, in my panic and poor Dutch, I accidentally refer to her with the “informal” you. Perhaps this familiarity is the magic key! She produces the recycling bags from behind the counter! I spend about the rest of the day high on my success. Later in the day, Travis asks a woman in a different store if they have the grey Zwevegem trash bags. She seems to reply yes, but no bags are forthcoming. He has not used the magic word.

Day 7: We finally both corner a woman at the checkout counter at GB, one of the larger supermarkets here, and get her to admit that they do have the grey bags behind the counter. “Do you want the large or the small?” she asks us, in her halting English.
“Large, Alstublieft,” we reply, thinking of the growing pile of trash at home.
“Sorry, all we have is the small,” she says.
“No! Small is fine, really!” It takes several reassurances before we convince her to sell us the small bags, at 1€ a bag, one package comes to a whopping 10 €.

A local assures us that this is not too bad. In some townships, the bags are clear, and if you put something that is not allowed in them, they put a sticker with a hand gesturing STOP, and leave the bag. If you do not bring the bag inside and fix it, the police will come and fine you. Yes, the local customs here are…interesting. The beer is very good, but don’t drink too much of it before you find the nearest glass recycling container!