Plastic water bottles are the scourge of Africa; discarded from buses, trucks and cars, they litter the bush for miles, like some mutant paperchase, leaving a trail of the passage of humankind from urban to countryside and back again.
In my bid to grow something in this patch of dust I optimistically refer to as a garden I am endeavouring to put the waste to good watering use.
I hope that in a few weeks time the bottles will be rendered invisible by feathery carrot tops, glossy green leaves of swiss chard and the fat flat pancake foliage of cucumbers and water melons. And if not, it will not be for lack of trying.
James and Sylvester (not as in Stallone, as in Sylvester the Shamba boy) thought I was mad before. That I asked them to plant several rows of bottles has doubtless convinced them of my insanity. I can imagine them guffawing when I was out of earshot, ”Silly old bat, she thinks she can solve the water shortage here by planting water bottles, haha!”.
Unfortuantely for them, I have begun a collection of waste bottles for their own vegetable patches. They will look as nuts as I. But perhaps we will all eat better as a result. Mad or hungry? I’d rather have a full stomach and be regarded as faintly potty, thanks.