You always know you are close to Port Elizabeth by the pong. When you cross the Swartkops River from the north, the offshore gale carries a whiff of mud and bad prawn. Enjoy it, because very soon the reek of organic rot will be overtaken by a peculiar eye-watering stench that could only come from the Algorax factory.  

In the mid-1980s, I did not begrudge Algorax its vile mark on the world. It was a client, an integral part of the city, and I was a citizen.

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