Somewhere in a rustic far north Queensland village, where people are trying to enjoy themselves at their annual harvest festival as they struggle through another ferocious winter, several nomadic b***p ***** s are wandering down near Wharf St trying to stay warm. “Was ist das, Knut? Ein Krokodil?” “Ja, ein Krokodil.” “Less stealen das Krokodil!” “Ja, gut Idee.” So without further thought, or indeed any thought, they borrow a 4 metre fibreglass reptile mysteriously lying near the railroad tracks as if abandoned. Back in their yurt they drink their philistinic Shnurtwein, eat goat’s whatevers and howl at the moon, delirious with their offering to their insatiable Teutonic/Gallic/ Nordic/gypsy gods. They place Das Krokodil on one of their ceremonial red shopping trolleys belonging to the deity Kolls, the Great Giver, and roll it along the Golden Way which the ignorant natives call Macrossan, to the foot of Valhalla, the little lighthouse in Jalun Park. There, though decorated with their ceremonial laundry, the little lighthouse refuses to cast an approving light. Darkness, just darkness. Is Kolls unhappy? What if it stops giving! They bring out the temple rattle. They sing their secret hum. Still nothing. Morbid nothing. Gripped with terror, the Huns/ Vikings gather all their red trolleys and rush them back along the Golden Way. One trolley continues on and deposits the Krokodil, now spurned by their bleak souls, back down by the railway line. The other sacred Kolls lie abandoned, all along the Golden Way and in ones and twos on Warner St, where they can still be found today – the grim testimony to the nomads who had lost their way, fooled around with other people’s totems and suffered The Curse of Port.