The art of making compost

As autumn lays its cover of surface dew on the early morning veld here in the KwaZulu-Natal midlands, talk at the Boshoff Street Country Club has naturally turned to making compost. The world, as you know, is divided into two groups of people. Those who make compost and those who don't.

A friend of mine, who is also a compost aficionado, says she recently moved house and one of the things she misses is her compost heap. It is sad to leave a good heap behind. I wonder what the movers would say if you asked for your compost heap to go with the baby grand and the Persians. How would you value it for insurance?

At home I have been known to take visitors out especially to view ours.

Admiration is encouraged. Not over-the-top praise but oohs and aahs are not taken as out of place. Perhaps only compost connoisseurs will understand the inner warmth that a compost heap can generate, not only in itself but in the owner's soul.

Eugene Marais wrote in his book, The Soul of the White Ant, about the life that goes on in the private parts of an anthill. My opus magnus on The Soul of the Compost Heap has yet to see the light of day but will describe the inner hierarchy of compost dwellers. All the characters of life are there and a cosmopolitan lot they are too. Colonies of bacteria lord it over the lower orders of moulds and mushrooms. The aristocracy of the heap appears to be the worms. They are an aloof and elusive lot and also the largest, except for the odd lonely maggot chewing its way in melancholy solitude through the cabbage leaf.

Once decomposition is really under way - and decomposition is the name of the game in these parts - the heat emanating from the centre tends to make life rather uncomfortable for the higher orders, whereas the micro-organisms revel in it. The warmer it gets the more action in the bacteria. Like a whirling discotheque, it's almost reproduction at every second.

So you can see that it's all action here in the Last Outpost.

Over the years I have found that the care of one's compost heap is a difficult subject to raise as an object of discussion. It is not really suitable conversation for over a meal. There are few enthusiastic takers at a polite Wembley dinner table. Perhaps it is a very personal subject that should not be aired in public. One might offend the sensitivity of the cook's creamed spinach. But compost heaps themselves have, I'm sure, a cheerful disposition.

This brings up the subject of whether one should talk to one's compost heap like beekeepers talk to their bees. Apparently bees in the hive at the bottom of the garden like to hear about news such as births, deaths and marriages in the family. Perhaps one could talk politics to a compost heap - that should take care of its cheerful disposition. It might decompose even faster. After all it is a living organism and a depressed compost heap can't be a pretty site. Perhaps one is being presumptuous in assuming that they speak English. What language would one use? I know my wife says that I have been talking compost for years.

Then there is the vast subject of what one should add into the heap.

Almost every type of vegetable, the autumnal leaves and summer grass give a seasonal variety and character to each occasion. The ultimate touches are personal ones. I am referring, of course, to that evening excursion to pee onto the heap under the light of the moon after a well-matured bottle of Shiraz. For was it not the Prophet who said that man was but a minutely set, ingenious machine for turning, with infinite artfulness, the red wine of Shiraz into urine. And what better recipient than our friendly mound.

I should think it would appreciate the added warmth.

One could form life-long friendships with people one met in this way. Fellow compost connoisseurs bonding together over a ripening heap and swopping recipes. It beats talking politics any day.

·  Chris Ellis is a Grand Chef de Compost and a city GP and author.
Publish Date: 22 May 2002