Khaled has the salt of the sea in his bones. Born on a boat, a fisherman since age three, the fruits of the Mediterranean have been coveted by his ancestors for time immemorial, so like 1971 or so.

Recently, his idyllic fishing community on the rancid shores of Burj Hammoud fell into disarray, the disappearance of sea life reflected in an exodus of all life from the coast.

But it’s all better now, he assures the Corniche, after the Lebanese government began dumping trash into the sea.

“My nets are full once again,” he exclaimed, hauling in his iridescent, lifeless catch.

Medical treatment for the large oozing boils and tumors forming on his cracked skin, he said, were eventually going to be covered by the Health Ministry as part of the new “trash for cash” program.

His formerly unreliable catch of around two kilos of fish used to translate into just $100 every few days. Nothing compared to the $200 he rakes in with his three-ton hauls of plastic.

“I’m filthy rich. Literally,” he said.

Plastic consumption in Lebanon is only increasing, experts say, with discarded posters of Prime Minister Saad Hariri alone making up 10% of total waste. But where the rest of the world might see an egregious environmental catastrophe, a toxic sea, public health terrorism – Lebanese see opportunity.

“Finally, I don’t fear for my kids’ future,” Khaled said. “The plastic sea is deep and plentiful … every Lebanese must fulfill their national duty of ordering 12 individually packed Mezze from T-Marbouta every day. Get them in separate plastic bags. Go crazy.”

Local NGO GreenWash hailed what they called the “organic, natural,” appearance of a sustainable green economy.

“We support this initiative,” Main funder of GreenWash Khabbi Bil Bahr said.

He dismissed claims he had an inherent conflict of interest, given he is the CEO of LibanPlastic.

“Plastic is misunderstood, it’s just another one of earth’s children.” He said, taking a large drag from a cigar.

“This innovative solution to Lebanon’s waste crisis is a world first.” He said, punctuating his words with a phallic wave of the cigar. “Fishermen are flocking back to the coast, and we’ll sell so much more plastic, I … I just fucking came!” he grunted.

Foreign visitors to Beirut working at a well-paying NGO said that the new measures added another layer to Lebanon’s alluring enigma.

“It’s so interesting here, life and death, garbage and nightlife, and my high-paying NGO salary allows me to see the country in all its oriental squalor and charm.” Danish journalism student Lars [incomprehensible] said.

In Beirut’s southern suburbs, the mood was slightly more reserved.

“It’s Lebanon, nothing changes,” one man blurted in between sips of coffee and tokes from a cigarette.”

“But what about all the changes?” The Corniche questioned.

“This is Lebanon, it remains the same.”

“The developments, though, the ones happening in-”

“We could come back in 30 years and the Zuam’a would still be stealing,”

“But plastic consumption is-“

“Fuck it, I throw my shit in the street, let them pick it up,“

“But surely if we all jus-“

“Only Nasrallah, he will guide us,“

“Fuck you mate. Fuck you.”

Environment Minister Hajj Tisalni said the initiative was not regulated by his ministry, but said it was an achievement.

“I’m not sure, but I think Lebanese people don’t care about recycling, even after the trash crisis – so It’s a solution – but its not my responsibility.” he said.

“It’s true I studied medicine and my only connection with nature is the Spanish pines I use as décor for my illegal beach-house, but, you know, the body is a lot like the sea – in fact the body is 70 percent water,” he pondered.

Word of the new recycling method has made its way up to the highest echelons of power – much like its associated carcinogens.

“The Lebanese entrepreneurial spirit lives,” Prime Minister Hariri told reporters while walking out of parliament. “Our Arab brothers would be proud. Saad Hariri is proud.”

Hariri agreed that the solution was unconventional – perhaps even incomprehensible – entirely criminal – but he smiled a forlorn smile, his greasy forehead creasing, his sweat stream thickening.

“I’m Saad Rafik Hariri … My dad’s a martyr,” he began crying. “Saad RAFIK Hariri.”