Florianópolis, the Brazilian city that wants to eradicate waste
The city in southern Brazil is the only South American municipality among the 20 worldwide recognized by the United Nations for its efforts to promote recylcing
Florianópolis, the capital of the Brazilian state of Santa Catarina, is known in Brazil for its beaches and quality of life, and more recently for its innovative waste-management policies. In March, the United Nations named it one of the world’s 20 “Zero Waste” cities. Across the Americas, only two others made the list: Zapopan, in Mexico, and San Francisco, in the United States. The designation recognizes decades of painstaking work dating back to the 1980s, when the city first introduced public policies aimed at promoting recycling.
In Florianópolis, residents diligently sort their waste, wait for the designated collection day for paper and plastic, and dispose of glass containers in dedicated bins. It is not very different from what happens in a typical medium-sized European city, but it is light-years ahead of the reality in most Brazilian and Latin American urban centers.
“Every week we receive a mayor who comes to study how we do it,” Florianópolis Mayor Topázio Neto, who has led the city for four years, told EL PAÍS by phone.
In 2018, Floripa, as the city is affectionately known, officially set itself the goal of recycling 60% of its dry waste and treating 90% of its organic waste by 2030. Those figures rise every year, but the city will need to accelerate its efforts to meet its targets: current rates stand at 20% and 15%, respectively.
Florianópolis has nearly 600,000 residents and the unique distinction of being located on an island, connected to the mainland by just a bridge. The city is spread across neighborhoods separated by hills, lagoons and unspoiled beaches, which helps residents feel connected to the environment.
Its island setting has also helped raise awareness about limited space and the need to find sustainable solutions for waste disposal. Until the 1980s, all of the city’s garbage was dumped in an open-air landfill. Later, however, Florianópolis began using a sanitary landfill 30 kilometers (19 miles) from the city, where garbage is compacted and buried underground.
“We started long ago with schools,” says the mayor. “Today the city’s 123 municipal schools have a waste-separation program, and half of them have their own garden and organic composting. The logic is simple: children practice at school and then take the message home. Education and public participation must be greatly strengthened.”
Residents’ commitment has been crucial from the very beginning. Nicole Pimont grew up in Itacorubi, the neighborhood where separate waste collection was first introduced in 1986. She recalls being shocked when she left Florianópolis to study and saw that little recycling took place elsewhere in Brazil. “I think it’s a movement very much our own, perhaps because we live on an island and see the limits clearly,” she says.
Unlike many cities that begin by recycling plastic, glass or paper, Florianópolis chose to tackle the hardest task first: promoting the recycling of organic waste to make compost. Pimont recalls that there was strong resistance at the start. “There were many problems because people found it disgusting. But it’s not gross, food is pure life,” she says.
Today, in the pioneering neighborhood of Itacorubi, the city’s Waste Recovery Center transforms organic waste into compost that is used in more than 150 community gardens.
Over time, Pimont realized recycling alone was not enough. Alarmed by how quickly her kitchen bin was filling up and by studies suggesting that there could be more plastic than fish in the oceans by 2050, she launched the Casa Lixo Zero (Zero-Waste Home) movement a decade ago. She was among the first people in Brazil to advocate conscious consumption and a low-waste lifestyle. She bought her first worm composting bin in 2016, when such a thing was still considered eccentric.
Now, the city government itself helps residents get started with composting. It has distributed more than 2,800 free home-composting kits, complete with worms, which together divert nearly 32 kilograms (70 pounds) of organic waste per household each month — the equivalent of about 1,100 tons annually.
Florianópolis even has a Museum of Waste, which welcomes school groups every day to help children see rubbish from a different perspective. Its collection of 40,000 repurposed objects showcases the potential for giving materials a second life.
A central pillar of the city’s strategy is the idea that all waste has value. Nearly 200 families make a living from managing recyclable materials. Glass recycling is a standout example: a dedicated network of collection points located in strategic areas — such as districts with large concentrations of bars and restaurants — now recovers more than 436 tons of bottles every month.
“We must teach children the value of waste: what is discarded has value and sustains jobs and many people’s livelihoods,” says the mayor. “If we keep building awareness in schools, it may take 20 years, but that’s how the machine will start to gain momentum.”
Florianópolis has become a model for many public officials who scarcely know where to begin. In much of Brazil, recycling still sounds like science fiction. Many neighborhoods are still struggling to secure something far more basic: regular garbage collection. According to official figures, Brazil recovers just 1.82% of the municipal solid waste it collects.
The federal government recently unveiled a plan aimed at raising that figure to 24.5% by 2035, but achieving that goal will depend heavily on available funding and the political commitment of local governments.
The obstacles are structural and extend well beyond poorer municipalities. In Rio de Janeiro, for example, the city government spent a substantial sum distributing more than 15,000 orange waste containers throughout the city to collect all kinds of refuse, with little regard for separating recyclable materials. Waste-management experts criticized the initiative for its lack of strategic vision, and the city ultimately scaled it back following complaints about its visual impact and unpleasant odors.
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