Basura in Basura out

The pile in the back yard was assuming amazing proportion: yard clippings, felled branches, fronds and nuts from a 30-foot-high coconut palm, broken brick, clumps of concrete from renovation projects.

And the bodega bulged with its own detritus: leftovers from the former owner of our home, small appliances rusted or broken, gadgets and gimcrackery brought from the states we discovered we did not need to enjoy life in San Pancho.

The thrice-weekly garbage service, tremendously improved since our arrival four years ago, has limitations. Although we oblige the expected Christmas tip (suggested $200 pesos), we can’t set out for pick up what we please. Items verboten include large sacks of yard waste, construction materials, debris of heft and girth. Once we tried to give the guys a rusted-out water heater. They tossed it in a neighbor’s vacant lot.

Periodically we’ve asked the location of a municipal dump. We have a truck. We are happy to cart our own stuff away. Response from the North Americans: My workers take care of it for me. Response from the Mexicans: It’s up the road, toward La Penita; colorful gesticulations signal the vague direction. We searched but all we ever found were unofficial garbage sites along the side of the highway. We considered following the municipal garbage truck to its final destination.

Last week we approached Manuel, bagging up brittle fronds from the palapa repair he completed for us.

"Where do you take that stuff," asked Win, my husband.

"To the dump," he said.

"Can we go there, too?"

"Not a problem. Open all the time."

Manuel drew a simple map. He and his workers left. Win and I executed a quick high-five, then began loading our truck.

Directions: from San Pancho head north. Just before reaching La Penita Pemex #8489, a tad past km 94, turn right. At this writing your landmark is a large pale yellow building. About two blocks, turn right when you see a store emblazoned with Coca-Cola advertising. Drive past a soccer field. Keep driving even though the road narrows to one lane. Keep driving past fields of agave, both sides of the street. Keep driving for approximately three kilometers. A guard shack stands left of the entrance.

The zopilotes will greet you, wicked-looking vultures that feed on what you would rather not think about. Park amidst the acres of garbage, the fish heads and dirty diapers and broken furniture and old clothing and deflated tires. Don’t be surprised if what you unload is quickly appropriated for a second life.

The municipal dump is open every day, around the clock. And it’s free.