I’VE begun dumpstering. One night, my friend and I rode to a suburban shopping centre in Melbourne’s north.

Rubber-gloved, overalled and booted, I swung into the bin. I began by sifting through several cartons of discarded, in-date eggs, searching for organic, free-range ones (in the case of food wastage, beggars can be choosers).

Suddenly I looked up and to my left. I saw an old Pakistani man with a full white beard, peering at me over the edge of the bin. He wore a head torch and surgical gloves.

“Do you come here often?” he enquired.

“Ah, um, we’ve been here a couple of times,” I stammered.

He introduced himself, explained that he lived nearby and raided the bin regularly, and promptly sprung over the side.

There ensued some minutes of silence as he searched, and I stood back, not knowing the etiquette. He gathered two bags of potatoes and some eggs and took his leave, shaking my hand, smiling broadly, and commenting that it had been a pleasure to meet us.

A moment later he returned. “If you’re going to come again,” he said, “it’s best to come after eleven-fifteen, because there are staff around earlier. Sometimes they see me and break the packaging so I can’t take it.”

Other employees turn a blind eye. The supermarket bins are locked, but the master keys are in wide circulation – the waste removal companies prefer it that way, so skip-dippers don’t break locks to get in.

Once you’re in, it’s a lucky dip: you can find everything from plums to pedestal fans, canned beans to Camembert. Often, the item’s presence in the bin is baffling. “Don’t even question why,” one long-term gleaner advised me. His lounge room is stocked with crates of essentials picked up over time.

For me, the experience has been thrilling. Sure, it’s icky. And thankfully, I can afford to feed myself otherwise. But it’s a small act of civil disobedience, a harmless protest against a mad world.

Australians throw out more than $5 billion worth of food each year. And that’s just from the produce that we bring into our households. More is trashed before we even get the chance. Supermarkets toss good food if the packaging is damaged or the best-before date is approaching.

As a new dumpster diver, I’ll need to learn to trust my own judgement about what is good to eat, rather than relying on the shop’s approval. My bearded friend from the northern suburbs, and his family, must have learnt that lesson long ago. And I’m sure they’ve been eating well.

Wanted: Heritage homeowners who’ve done an eco renovation.

This is a slightly unusual post for me, but I received this enquiry from Paula Judson, who is studying the eco-chops of heritage buildings. She’s looking for people to participate in her research. 

“As part of a research study on heritage buildings and environmental performance, I am seeking to interview households (in Victoria) that live in a heritage dwelling about: the issues experience/d in upgrading a heritage dwelling to higher standards of environmental performance; their values and priorities; and how conflicts between protecting heritage and interventions to improve energy performance are dealt with.”

“I would like to hear from home owners who have recently undertaken renovations (within the last 2 years), are currently renovating, or about to commence renovations to improve the environmental performance of their heritage dwelling (this may include modifying the existing building, upgrading the services, or extending the existing dwelling), either using professionals in the construction sector or ‘do-it-yourself’.”

Does that sound like you? Contact Paula: paula.judson@student.rmit.edu.au

WHILE I was on the Sunshine Coast, I attended a bamboo-building workshop. Actually, it was more of a tea-drinking workshop, with occasional breaks in which we dabbled with bamboo.

The workshop was hosted by Tim and Kate, who run a café called Chocolate Jungle at the Woodford Folk Festival. There, from within a huge structure concocted of bamboo and tarps, they serve chocolaty organic treats to all comers at all hours.

This year, they wanted a trial run, in the hope that construction would go more smoothly at the festival. I’d arranged to meet Kate in Nambour. As we drove to the workshop, she laughed often and told many tales – ukulele-playing, festival-going, caravan-living tales.

We arrived at a bamboo grove in Cooran, where there were about 60 kinds of bamboo, some growing as tall as 30 metres; others short and fine, with gently spreading leaves like fairy’s wings. When the wind blew, the clumps clicked and clacked as though they could collapse at any moment.

But bamboo is strong and flexible: a few years ago, when I visited Hong Kong, I was astonished to see modern skyscrapers enveloped in bamboo scaffolding. Another reason it’s a good building material is that it grows quickly, some varieties 60 centimetres a day, under the right conditions. In two years, a pole can be strong enough to use in a temporary structure.

Our building, however, grew slowly. Tim is a dreamer, tall, tanned and lean: with a faraway look in his eye he’ll conjure a glorious second storey, not noticing the first is lacking its corner posts. After four days, although the structure was far from complete, it had taken shape in Tim’s mind; and in any case, we’d all enjoyed ourselves tremendously.

After the workshop, I set a southerly course and happened to hitch through Woodford. I got a lift from two women, Danielle and Kassandra, who were volunteers with the folk festival’s art department. They took me to their shed, where they were assembling giant decorative flowers. They’ve been volunteering once a week all year, and will shortly begin a six week full-time stint. They assured me that Woodford is less a festival and more a way of life.

Later that day, a funeral director called James drove me from Toowoomba to Warwick. He dropped me at O’Mahoney’s Hotel, next to the railway station, for a cheap room.

One of my resolutions on this trip was to stay in old country pubs. At O’Mahoney’s I found just what I was looking for: high ceilings, rambling hallways and a broad verandah. The hotel was built in 1887; now, trains rarely stop and the main street has long since migrated east. On the first night, the owners, Joan and Glen, invited me to eat with them. I stayed a second day.

Every Wednesday evening, the Warwick folk circle meets in the Ladies Room of the hotel. In turn, the members play a song or recite a poem, both originals and covers. It was the day before Remembrance Day, and one man sung Eric Bogle’s anti-war ballad No Man’s Land. I remember my dad listening to that song when I was a kid.

In many ways, it was an unremarkable scene. They seemed like ordinary townsfolk – tradies and salespeople; café owners and teachers; parents and children – yet, here they were, exercising the greatest gift. I found their songs deeply moving, the more so for the fact they were playing together.

When I hear simple singing like that I seem to lose track of everything I think I know; or, at least, it disappears for a while, and comes back gleaming, like a vintage car that’s had a cut and polish. I think I’ll take up the ukulele – one way or another, it’ll make people cry.