Carol’s Column

Total onslaught all over again

I know that you will be as happy as I am to learn that an International Congress on Responsible Weed Control was held at the Kruger Park last weekend.

Presented under the auspices of the Southern African Weed Science Society and the National Parks Board, the congress concentrated on extermination. Which, I suppose in present climes, is not an unlikely topic.

And, not only was extermination discussed, but a demonstration of “Total Extermination” was given on the peaceful banks of the Crocodile River under the bridge near the Malelane Gate. Here, the exterminators went into full swing, using their death sprays on the fearsome water hyacinths, then hacking down wicked invader plants.

This joyful little snippet of information was sent to me by the charming Marie Wessels, public relations head of the South African Tourism Board.

Can it be that the Tourism Board is about to mount an international campaign something to the effect of “Come to Sunny South Africa and Eradicate our Stinkblaar”?

The mind boggles.

Nevertheless, the South African Weed Science Society does have a point and every weed does have its place. Which by unjustified repute is in the great big weed bonfire in the sky. This probably distresses the anti-pollution environmentalists who get uptight about polluting the heavens. Not to mention God who might not be happy about having fresh air tainted.

All this weed extermination was food for thought.

I mentioned the conference to my good friend Betty as we jogged around Zoo Lake.

“This is a definite reason to visit South Africa,” she puffed. “Each city could hold its own extermination demonstration.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. “We don’t have to stick to weeds,” I remarked just as my left extra-arch-support takkie was attacked by a Great Dane dog dropping.

That afternoon, I sat on the stoep with its characterful wooden trellis supported by one pillar, the others having crumbled through dry rot, and surveyed our garden wherein weeds grew thick and lush, each one a tribute to my lack of gardening prowess.

In the Standard Encyclopaedia of Southern Africa, a weed is defined as “any plant that grows where it should not”. Yes, there was no doubt, our garden was filled with plants that grew where they should not — cockleburs, dodders, ragworts, teazels, blackjacks and slangbos.

And our lawn was a glorious mat of nut-grass, which strangled everything else in sight.

“This garden is a disgrace,” said my husband as he exerted himself downing a beer. “There are more weeds than flowers.”

Personally, I love weeds, for they grow when all else dies and require the minimum of upkeep.

Foolishly, I mentioned last week’s Weed Extermination Congress.

The last time I saw him get so excited was on the first night of our honeymoon. His eyes sparkled. “I’ll ring them first thing on Monday morning,” he said.

It is a disadvantage having a mouth that is in perpetual motion. For I arrived home on Tuesday to discover my garden inhabited by 10 weed exterminators wearing gas masks and out to kill.

Even as I watched, the garage door disintegrated into fine dust. “I think the mixture is too strong,” said the leading exterminator. As he spoke, our new security gate melted.

I stopped them just before they attacked the house.

Well, our weeds have been exterminated and we are the only house in the street with a garden resembling the Namib Desert.

“I rather like this,” said my husband as we strolled barefoot on the lawn, the sand trickling through our toes. “All we need is a camel and the ambience would be complete.”

They don’t still grow camels in Africa, do they?

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