IN CONTRAST to Payatas, the San Mateo sanitary landfill does not resemble the apocalypse, at least not on the surface. Spanning over 70 hectares in the hills beyond Antipolo, seemingly a world away from Metro Manila, this garbage site does not even smell like garbage. Flies are scarce. The waste is buried under a layer of earth by bulldozers. Only workers can be seen walking here. Scavengers are prohibited. During the day, it appears downright bucolic. There is little daytime activity here because all the action is at night.

Egay and I spent one evening there. Each night, it opens late for traffic, as a compromise with Antipolo residents who complain of the trucks clogging their intersections and lowering their quality of life. At the scheduled time, hundreds of these behemoths rumble to life and maneuver in single file into the dark muddy field to unload their smelly cargo. MMDA workers with whistles and powerful flashlights guide them to their spots. Other men drench the trash with chemical spray to kill germs, flies or whatever else is alive in there. Bulldozers then take over, leveling the presumed disinfected piles and covering these with earth.

We see many items being blended with the soil that would have been grabbed by scavengers in Payatas: not just recyclable bottles and cans but old mattresses, shoes, clothing and broken pieces of furniture. Within a few hours, the place is silent again (we presume the chemicals have killed off the birds and insects as well).

Critics say this is when landfills begin doing their damage, as toxic fluids from the buried garbage start seeping into the soil, through cracks in the lining and into the underground water flows that end up in reservoirs, rivers and other sources of water supplies. Advocates for the closure of the San Mateo landfill point out that it is in an elevated part of a watershed that must be protected from any type of pollution.

Using this argument, it would be difficult to imagine any safe large landfill in a mountainous, rainy archipelago. And almost every flat parcel of land that is anywhere close to Metro Manila is being used for farming or being converted into some kind of commercial development. Yet at least, no matter what threat the landfill poses, San Mateo does not appear to be in danger of repeating the kind of sudden tragedy that occurred in Payatas or anywhere else with hills of garbage teetering close to collapse.

The MMDA seems to be giving in to Antipolo's powerful constituency by promising to close the San Mateo landfill even before it is full. The closure has been delayed by the government's failure to find an alternative site, although there is some new talk now about Carmona, Cavite, where residents have conducted their own "not in my backyard" campaign.

As part of our investigation, Egay and I followed a pair of trucks carrying loads of Antipolo garbage just to see how the proud people of this city deal with theirs. The journey through narrow, leafy streets ended in Barangay San Luis, which resembled a smaller version of the Payatas dump. But instead of seeing hills of trash, we peered into a big, smoky ravine where tons of garbage had been pushed by bulldozers.

Just beyond the trash were a subdivision and a cement factory. Right above the ravine was a community much like Payatas, except that most of the scavengers here were relative newcomers to the dump. There was little controversy about this one. Few Antipolo residents we asked knew that this was where their garbage was dumped.

Most of Metro Manila did not know about it either, until a fatal landslide occurred on July 22, 1999, during the week that we had been visiting the site shooting footage of - what else? - garbage. Then anyone watching TV news learned about it.

A hard rain fell on Antipolo the night before. In the morning, a dozen or so people were on the slopes of the ravine picking through the wet garbage. According to witnesses, they heard a rumble, then the ground shifted beneath them, as garbage loosened by rain slid down the ravine toward the bottom. Most were able to escape; one man grimly described riding the garbage slide the way a surfer would mount a cresting wave.

Larry Lanoy, a father of three, and Alfredo Lucas, 12 years old, did not have that chance, being at the bottom of the ravine working. Within seconds they disappeared, in the same way that the 200 to 300 people in Payatas would be entombed a year later. Since these were two people and not 200, the media did not pay any more attention after announcing news of the tragedy. The deaths did not become occasions to discuss the general state of garbage disposal or issue calls to close the Antipolo dump. Firemen worked for over a week digging through the smoky sludge that the wet, shredded garbage had become. Then they gave up, leaving the bodies under tons of waste generated by the people of Antipolo.

DISPOSAL SYSTEMS that send waste on a linear route to wherever -- against the cyclical laws of nature - are bound to come back to haunt people. Unfortunately, those haunted first are the poor, who are the least able to exert pressure on policymakers to adopt safer and more sustainable approaches.

The current public debate is about centralized locations and collection systems. The assumption is that this is a gargantuan job that only a gargantuan government can do. If it is to have any redeeming value at all, the tragedy of Payatas should be the shock to ridourselves forever of these deadly notions about our garbage. For this gargantuan crisis starts small, in every household and community that refuses to take responsibility for the fate of its basura.

The key it seems is to develop new policies, incentives and attitudes for people to deal with their garbage at the lowest possible levels, starting with their homes. Numerous small-scale systems must replace a few big ones. Alas, centralized control over garbage is a form of political and economic power that governments are loathe to give up.

But communities can still say no. Isolated examples already exist that can serve as models. Both Sun Valley subdivision in Parañaque and Blue Ridge in Quezon City, for example, have developed local collection systems that encourage residents to sort their garbage at the household level. Organic waste is composted at community sites where the generation of rich soil makes for some lush gardens. Recyclables are stored in common areas until commercial firms collect them. Noisy garbage trucks need not enter these communities and foul their fragrant surroundings. Neither do residents there need to feel that they contributed to the dangers in Payatas, San Mateo, Antipolo or any place else where garbage finally winds up. Indeed, not only is small more beautiful, it's infinitely safer and smells much better.



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