Copyright 2001 www.tombraiderchronicles.com

[ November 24th 2001 ]

The declaration of the famous Strandfontein Landfill as a National Heritage Site is yet another argument for staying at home this Christmas.

With the rand so poorly, it's best to take your annual break either in your very own back yard, house-training your big red ants, or tooling around in your psychedelic Beetle with the kids and the long yellow puppy in the boot with their virtual reality bubble suit. When you climb into it, you clasp a sensual Angelina Jolie simulacrum unless the software has been mined by Microsoft and you fall into the fetid embrace of the Springbok pack after a very rough match.

Why wheel inordinately large sums of money to travel agents in exchange for holidays in far-off romantic Afghanistan in the 0,025-star Osama bin Laden Memorial Bunker; or Thailand, home of the hungry dog-lovers? Stuff the cash under your bed.

I certainly plan to visit the Strandfontein Landfill Site as often as possible. This is partly because selling season tickets has been entrusted to the quavering paws of my tattooed clone Knuckles McDuck (not his real name) and he will keep me company while scouring the wind-blown sands for nude bathers with those large bottoms he so much prefers. I have also been promised a scrumptious lunch of sealburgers and battery acid by that mistress of haute cuisine, and indeed mistress of the rand billionaire Drenko Mad Dog Grbrvich, the Serbian war criminal who has done so much for inward investment in the Cape. I refer to Grisha Snodgrassia, flame-haired temptress of the Little Karoo.

Drivers drifting through the Valley of Desolation often see Grisha spring into the leaden road, gaily tossing away her well-reamed copy of Crime and Punishment and flashing her crimson toes in the hot air, as temptresses are wont to do. She's best left behind, though, since Drenko's revenge is terrible to behold. He forces his enemies to eat prickly pears, prickles, worms and all.

Drenko and Grisha hold court at the up-market malaria-free Landfill Lodge, a stilty construction of indigenous sneezewood surmounted by a platform of faux quagga hide. Here, while merrily drinking slivovitz for weeks on end, visitors observe the natural beauty and wildlife of the site the gangsters rapping as trucks deliver giant loads of disposable nappies, thin plastic draped over many exotic and endangered piscine species, the remnants of bergie picnics, and decaying comic books.

Often, at sunset, huge clouds of feral crows descend to feast upon offal and one can catch glimpses of the shy peckerbird. In such company, while Knuckles wanders off to The Spineless Maggot for refreshment, one feels so, so very civilised. Just the other night Mad Dog turned to Grisha and remarked: I see, my darling, that a Sydney abattoir worker has been given a life sentence for killing, skinning and cooking her husband. She then fed him to the children, except for the head which was later found steaming in a pot. A good enough reason to stay just where we are, wouldn't you say?

Grisha cackled acquiescence while I was compelled to concur. One should never emigrate to Australia. If husband cooking becomes de rigueur, I'm sure there will be many volunteers right here at home, safely trapped by our roadkill-style currency. The Strandfontein Landfill Heritage Site would be immeasurably enhanced if chosen as a venue for competitive cannibalism. SA can boast many fine game lodges and wilderness preserves, but few match what Drenko and Grisha offer, within reach of exquisite oil slicks and toxic waste dumps.

With so much to choose from, frankly, Rome and Venice can get stuffed.

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