I Was Hungry and You Gave Me Dumpsters

I had the opportunity to dumpster dive while in Los Angeles. I was invited often during my last months, yet for many reasons I declined the offers. But the ideology behind dumpster diving was something I truly respected. In its best form, dumpster diving or food salvage or urban gleaning seeks to liberate food that has been unnecessarily discarded. Once gathered, the food is shared among community. The work is really what we do at the Hippie Kitchen: bringing forgotten and discarded men and women to community.

Sadly, or quite possibly luckily, I never had a reason to go search for free food. I was always provided with an abundance. But when I took a three week house sitting gig, I was confronted with the prospect of buying food. Since I'm trying to save money for travel and am still unemployed, my budget to spend any money is quite limited. I was not looking forward to spending it on food. The dumpsters remained my option.

The Internet proved a useful tool, once again, to educate me. Dumpster diving is a nocturnal activity. It's advised that a diver doesn't start until at least an hour after the store closes. Many places will have separate bins for food stuffs, or compost bins that look like dumpsters. There were a litany of excuses one could use if confronted by a store manager or, God forbid, a cop (many were "I'm sorry," followed by leaving, or a form of this response). And I should prepare to get dirty--wear long sleeves, pants and shoes.

On Wednesday, I skulked and whined and moaned. I was nervous to do it without familiarity of the process and all by myself. I scoured the Internet for more tips and hotspots around Portland, and hoped there would be meet-ups or groups already formed. There weren't as far as I could see, so I tried to form my own. I scrolled through my contact list and called my friends I thought would be interested.

Lo and behold, Karen called me back. Lovely Karen who, while we were at the University of Portland, became one of my few allies in social justice and peace effots. Preparing to leave Portland in less than two weeks, she heard my message and decided, "You only live once." She came over and gave me shoes to wear, as I only had sandals at the time. We loaded up. Armed with flashlights, a few bags, and NPR on the radio, we drove into the dark, suburban night.

It was disappointing. We traveled the roads of northwest Portland and its suburbs, and found that all of the suburban markets used trash compactors. We stopped at at least ten locations ranging from bakeries to cafes to fancy markets (ie: Trader Joe's, New Seasons). After the slew of trash compactors, we grew desperate. Our fear of approaching the dumpster took flight and we found ourselves tempted to look into each dumpster we saw, hoping for a treasure trove of unwanted food. But no. Leftover suburban food, it seemed, was to be fed to the hungry and effective trash compactor. After driving for 1 1/2 hours, our enthusiasm and excitement was slaughtered. We gave up and drove home in our clean clothes. I fell asleep at 1am, defeated.

The next day, I was determined to find food and feeling much less anxiety toward confronting the green, metal bins. Another UP ally, Valerie, RSVP'd for a Thursday night session. For the second night in a row, I peeked under the dumpster lids of Portland markets. Valerie and I made a few stops, only finding some oranges and apples in a Trader Joe's compost pile. Feeling less defeated than the night before, yet still unsatisfied, I dropped Valerie off at 12:30am and made my way back home.

As I crossed the Willamette River into northwest Portland, I decided once more to see if there were any stores that donated food via dumpster. I didn't want to go home empty-handed. I couldn't even find the dumpster at a second Trader Joe's, but a market nearby had an open dumpster right in plain sight. I parked, hopped out of the car and expected to see nothing, or a lot of trash. But right on top was a large bag, full of bread. I balanced my torso on the edge of the dumpster leaned my head in, and pulled out the bag only to reveal more food. I was ecstatic. Checking the hardness of the bread, it was clearly still good. I reached in the dumpster once again to liberate more food.

Driving off, I was motivated. I cruised for more dumpsters. At another store close by, a line of three dumpsters were carefully situated between the concrete walls of two buildings. It seemed to good to be true: the area was well lit and the dumpsters were wide open. I peered inside the nearest bin and saw, underneath a few garbage bags, dozens of bananas. I tried to balance my weight on the dumpster as I had done earlier, but I couldn't reach the bushel. I took a step back and stared at the dumpster for a moment, wondering what to do now. Then, quickly and instinctually, I climbed in and stood on top of the garbage bags.

I'm sure I looked like a frightened fawn learning to walk. I lifted my knees and kicked my feet in my attempts to maneuver in the metal compartment. At some point, I stopped caring about propriety and cleanliness. I was already in a dumpster, mingling with trash bags. So I started making room my myself to dig down and get the produce. Chucking bags in other dumpsters, pushing, tugging, smiling the whole way. My adventure was set to the soundtrack of the market's reeled music still serenading the empty lot. I conquered two of the bins and retrieved two dozen bananas, nectarines, cantaloupes, apples, grapefruits, onions, roses and a single potato.

As I piled the food in the back of the car, I felt more than a sense of real accomplishment. I confronted my fear of failing at new experiences and anxiety of facing challenges alone. And I came out unscathed. In fact, at the end of night, I realized my strength and capability.

I drove home, proudly unloaded my find, took a long, refreshing shower and went to bed. At 1:30am, I feel asleep happy for the first time since arriving in Portland.