trash talk

Several times recently I have had to bail from Skype conversations because the garbage truck had arrived on the helipad and I had to make a run for it, so I thought that perhaps I should explain...  

The garbage truck comes every other day-ish, except for holidays and usually not on Sundays.  The schedule is unclear and I haven't even lost my colour coded reference calendar behind the fridge.  Instead I rely on the sound of the wheelbarrows on paving stones.  How the wheelbarrow runners know that the truck has arrived is one of India's great mysteries.  I am now conditioned to run at the sound because the earlier you arrive, the less you have to wait.  Waiting at the smelly truck for big restaurants to finish unloading their garbage ahead of you really sucks.   

The restaurant boys always run up the cliff with their garbage carrying cans or pushing wheelbarrows  (Unless they are delivering it by scooter, tuk-tuk or Ambassador taxi- in which case they simply drive too fast up the cliff). 

The garbage men peer in to every bag to ensure that people do not include recyclable plastic or metal in with their trash.  One day they fished a lacy bra out of the bag and a few of them mock tried it on for my amusement.  

I have decided that the boys run to the truck, so that they have time for a smoke break at the edge of the helipad before returning to work.

Your eyes do not deceive- I am the only woman who carries their own garbage to the truck.