My brother arranged for a tour of the local dump in Amersfoort, where I lived from 1972 to 1977 or so. I still visit occasionally because my parents are there. The tour is an outside chance, a singular piece of good luck. A regular citizen doesn’t have ready access to garbage once it’s passed into the hands of the people who make away with it. I’ve eyed the mountain from the motorway to Amsterdam, wondering how I could get close enough for a good picture.
I’ve admired especially the herd of deer that maintains the grass at the appropriate height free of charge, although I’ve also seen a flock of sheep wandering like dirty clouds across the brow of the garbage tumulus. The animals are undoubtedly there to inspire warm fuzzy thoughts in the passing motorists.
Definitely, the mountain puts its best face forward, grassy slopes with cute animals turned out. But there’s no denying that, if all goes according to plan, the mountain will be the highest point in Amersfoort in some 15 to 20 years. And on top, the whole thing looks distinctly menacing, hosting a variety of recycling operations as well as ongoing dumping of materials that are too dangerous to burn.
