True, it's not the most environmentally conscious method of waste disposal, but I like to think that the burned grasses act as a kind of fertilizer. Plus, sometimes it's just really cathartic to watch shit burn.
The system here (or lack thereof, as is the case in most villages) is that everyone is responsible for their own trash. In some cities, there are public sanitation workers who empty trashcans, clean streets, etc. But even in Ebolowa, a regional capital, I never saw a "garbage man" or any kind of service that came to people's homes. Instead, in my host family's neighborhood was a sort of designated trash corner where people would throw plastic sacks, vegetable peels, and juice boxes, and one of the neighbors would burn it about once a week.
Since the beginning of dry season in October, I've learned to differentiate between the smells of burning grass and burning trash, and the crackles and pops of a grassy ditch on fire have become a familiar, even comforting, sound.
But aside from the tall grasses that have died of thirst, there's not even much trash to burn, as most things are repurposed rather than thrown away. Old clothes become pot holders or rags to clean the floor. Empty sardine cans become toy race cars. A few weeks ago, I saw a girl, maybe six years old, playing with her baby doll, an ear of corn, and she was braiding its hair, strands of silk.
Being here has forced me to adopt this mentality of repurposing to a certain extent: after all, I can't hop in my car and go to Target whenever I need something. Sometimes, especially when planning activities for my students, I have to improvise using what few things I have around the house. By American standards, my games look extremely low-budget and thrown together (because they are), but I've impressed some of my fellow teachers with my ingenuity, and the kids usually have a lot of fun. And that's good enough for me.
