THE FUNHOUSE MIRROR COLUMN: The story of how Sol Plaatje became the world’s first waterless wonderland – a place where dreams flowed freely, even if the taps didn’t.
By Monty Quill
ONCE upon a time, in the quaint city of Sol Plaatje, water flowed like a sluggish stream of mud. The townsfolk, parched and desperate, clung to their empty water buckets, praying for a miracle. But alas, the only thing that flowed freely was the mayor’s eloquence during press conferences.
Mayor H2O – yes, that was his actual name -Þ stood before the podium, his tie slightly askew, and his hair glistening with the sweat of responsibility. The crowd leaned in, eager for answers. The mayor cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began:
“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed citizens, and bewildered tourists, I stand before you today to address the water crisis that has plagued our fair city. Fear not, for we have a plan – a brilliant, groundbreaking, and utterly incomprehensible plan!”
The crowd exchanged puzzled glances. A plan? They hadn’t seen one of those in years.
“Our first step,” Mayor H2O declared, “is to keep the water infrastructure details a closely guarded secret. Why? Because mystery breeds intrigue! Imagine the suspense as we unveil our grand solution: a giant hamster wheel powered by disgruntled squirrels. Yes, you heard me right – squirrels!”
A reporter raised her hand. “But Mayor, how will squirrels turn the wheel?”
“Ah, my dear journalist,” the mayor replied, “that’s the beauty of it. We’ll feed them acorns infused with caffeine. They’ll be so jittery that they’ll spin that wheel faster than a politician dodging questions.”
The crowd erupted in applause. Finally, a plan they could rally behind! Forget pipelines, reservoirs and rain dances; Sol Plaatje would be powered by squirrel-driven hamster wheels.
“But wait,” the mayor continued, “there’s more! We’ve hired a team of consultants – geniuses, really – to oversee this operation. They’re experts in squirrel psychology, water metaphysics, and interpretive dance. Together, they’ll choreograph a ballet of hydration.”
Another reporter raised an eyebrow. “And what about leaks? Our pipes are older than the mayor’s jokes.”
“Ah, leaks,” Mayor H2O said, stroking his chin. “We’ve outsourced leak detection to a group of highly-trained sniffer dogs. They’ll roam the streets, noses to the ground, sniffing out leaks like canine detectives. If they find one, they’ll bark in Morse code: ‘S-O-S!’”
“But sir,” a citizen shouted, “what about the R2 billion allocated for repairs?”
The mayor winked. “Ah, yes, the R2 billion. We’ve invested it wisely – mostly in holographic waterfalls and a fleet of golden duck-shaped boats. You see, perception is reality. If people think they’re surrounded by water, they won’t notice the actual shortage.”
As the crowd dispersed, still scratching their heads, Councilwoman Goitsemedi approached the mayor. “Sir,” she whispered, “the townsfolk are getting restless. They want real solutions.”
Mayor H2O patted Goitsemedi’s shoulder. “Nonsense, my dear Medi. We’re pioneers! Who needs water when you have imagination? Besides, our next project involves turning potholes into wishing wells. Think of the tourism revenue!”
And so, Sol Plaatje stumbled forward, fuelled by squirrel-powered wheels, leak-sniffing dogs, and a mayor who believed that laughter could quench thirst. As the sun set over the dry landscape, the townsfolk gathered at the town square, ready to make a wish.
Goitsemedi tossed a coin into a pothole. “I wish for running water.”
Mayor H2O grinned. “And I wish for a squirrel with a PhD.”
And somewhere, in the heart of Sol Plaatje, a squirrel sipped its acorn coffee, ready to spin the wheel of destiny.
And that, my friends, is how Sol Plaatje became the world’s first waterless wonderland – a place where dreams flowed freely, even if the taps didn’t.
