My Durban friend of Eastern Cape extraction tells me they speak four languages in this neck of the woods: English (of a sort), Afrikaans (of a sort), isiXhosa (of a sort), and Lower Albany. This turned out to be true, so I reached out to young Allister Gordon-Peter in desperation for translation services, but he was unreachable. So I struggled on alone among the boets and the swaers that inhabit this strange country.
Turns out he was doing the Pondo Plod from Port Edward to Mtentu, Mkambathi and beyond, shuffling southwards from shebeen to shebeen along the beach in the teeth of a howling Westerly, pretending he was having fun.
– Call this fun? –
The only part sounding like fun was that some shebeens now have Black Label beer in 1l (one THOUSAND millilitre!) ‘quart’ bottles, so that helped. Him and his ilk (all older’n me, much older – months!) can only do the blerrie hike thanks to frequent copious ingestion of strong drugs. These fools have done this trudging many times, suffering as they do from perseveration. When they paddle a river or hike a mountain or shoot a rhebuck, they do it over and over, year after year.
They have even done some hikes unsupported, camping rough, though nowadays as they age and grow decrepit they more often engage in ‘slackpacking,’ aka ‘limping,’ using motorised transport to carry their swag, sleep in four-poster featherbeds en route, and get tucked into bed by kind Pondo mamas. I’ve heard.
Rumour has it their drugs of choice include, but may not be limited to, Black Label, Zamalek, anti-inflammatories washed down with whisky, and an occasional puff of boom.
Eventually Alli phoned me, apologising for being out of blue teeth and off the line for the last week, and advised me to backtrack to Hogsback for some beautiful scenery and beer.
Which advice I followed, only to find the pub here doesn’t have 1l Black Label bottles. It was fake news. I’m having to drink milk stout and Old Brown.
– Hogsback shebeen –
Footnote: I’m told the specific brand of boom they rook in the Eesin Kyp is called ‘Pondoland Cabbage’ and just one amateur-rolled spliff gets you speaking fluent Lower Albany; slowly in lo-ong sentences with many words repeated. Look, boet, this is what I’m told hey.
Anton used to tell me about the Baviaans with great excitement and enthusiasm. You gotta go there, Pete! Well I finally got there about thirty years later. After, when I got to Gqeberha I phoned my old colleague, now in Jo’burg, to tell him the valley was even better and more spectacular than he’d said!
The full Baviaanskloof route was a lot longer than I had thought; it was also far more rugged than I’d imagined; and it certainly was beautiful and spectacular, as Anton had shouted while also telling me how indestructible his old Toyota bakkie was. You know what Toyota groupies are like.
On the way we met Ian, farmboy from Ireland, put-putting through the kloof alone on his motorbike while slowly going round the world. Africa is his last continent and he’s doing it slowly and thoroughly with a puptent for a home. Made me feel overdressed, did Ian, what with my Ford Ranger and canopy tent!
We stayed at Zandvlakte farm in a lovely big cottage. Only after leaving there did I realise the friendly owner Magriet Kruger was the co-author of this magnificent newly published book! Aitch would have kicked me (and bought three copies!).
Life in the penthouse was fantastic, as always! Rita has hosted us there since even before we were afflicted with children, and has had the kids there many times, sometimes even as ‘Unaccompanied Minors.’ Brave lass!
Jess had a hair makeover, thanks to Rita’s friends Raikie, Berlin and Linda, who treated and spoiled her. Braids out, Curlers in.
It’s Rita’s pozzie so food plays a central role. Gourmet meals and restaurant outings. This time Italian.
Sunset over the Atlantic from the balcony; The top pic: Table Mountain mist from the other balcony.
On our way to Riebeeck Kasteel I phoned ahead to ask Lang Dawid how we’d find him when we got there. ‘Just drive in, I’ll see you,’ he said. As I parked under a tree next to the Groot Kerk I got a call: ‘Look right,’ he said.
And there was a lang skraal athletic figure waving at us from outside his new cottage. Above is his view of the kerk from his stoep. From the steeple the dominee can see right into his bachelor bedroom. Complaints may follow.
Dave very kindly hosted me and daughter Jess on our travels in his new cottage he has built on the grounds of his boet William and wife Mary’s lovely home which doubles as their photographic studio and professional printing business. Check out their portfolios on that website – stunning.
Some lekker eating joints in the dorpie. From this table you can see Dave’s cottage right in the middle, next to his boet’s home and studio.
Dave is an accomplished birder and bird photographer. Not only has he exceeded my forty year count in far fewer years (not that I count, of course), but he has a photo of every one of his 650-odd birds recorded. With my 620-odd tally (not that I count, of course), you only have my word. We met other weird okes talking shutter speeds, ISO, length of your equipment, whimbrels and curlews. Or was it curlew sandpipers?
– spotted a spotted moth in Dave’s garden –
And wow! Here’s a picture Mary took of that same view of the kerk from their home:
God was more besig in the skies on her day.
Jess, I said as we drove off after a lovely kuier, Dave is a Springbok canoeist and he was on the trip I went on when we kayak’d the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Oh, says Jess. Also, Dave’s birthday is the same as mine, April Fools Day. NO WAY, DAD!! SERIOUSLY!? THAT’S SO COOL! says my Jess. I’m lucky, I can still impress my child.
Met old school chum Fluff in Bloemfontein for coffee. We were in pre-school together at Kathy Putterill’s home, went on to the local sandstone Kleinspan school, then the local sandstone Volkskool down the road, all the way to matric up in the yucky modern brick high school on the hill below Platberg. Meantime also Sunday School in the old local sandstone Methylated Spirits church. Also quite often sport on Saturdays – rugby, tennis and cricket for him to shine and me to get ducks for balance – and jolling weekends and after hours, so me n Fluffy shared much of our childhood.
Great chat over coffee, gentleman Fluffy very kind and considerate towards my Jessie; followed by an ussie taken by Fluff (see above) – he remembers to actually take pictures. I too often remember afterwards!
Driving south-west out of Bloem towards the Groot Gariep river, there’s a beep on my phone and there was the image, sent by Fluffy.
I showed it to Jess and asked, “Can you believe we’re the same age?”
NO WAY Dad! says my darling daughter, wide-eyed.
So how much younger do you think he is than me, Jess?
“Dad, I thought he was like, in his early fifties.”
No supper for you tonight! I laughed.
Pointedly explained to her that he is actually 68 and 13 days, whereas I am a mere 67. He is actually a full year older than me for six weeks every year, Jess!
We visited Louis n Gail in Oudtshoorn. What lovely hosts! They invited us to their holiday home in Groot Brak. They know I enjoy the byroads, so suggested we go to George via Montagu Pass.
The first road between Oudtshoorn and George, the Montagu Pass was opened in 1848, and is SA’s oldest unaltered pass still in use. It took about 250 convicts three years to build the seventeen kilometres at a cost of 36,000 Pounds Sterling. A magnificently scenic, narrow – in places very narrow – gravel road, it ascends from the tiny hamlet of Herold, on the northern side of the Outeniqua Mountains up and over the summit and then descends to the outskirts of George. – See Mountain Passes South Africa for videos, including wonderful aerial views and detailed descriptions of the history and places to see en-route.
Just outside the metropolis of Herold a big sign blocked the road but there was just space enough to squeeze past it and off we went. Jess said something like, Dad! That said ROAD CLOSED, but I wasn’t sure she read it right.
At the end of the pass there was a neat old stone store and tollhouse, and another sign appeared, but it had nothing written on it. The Ole Ford Ranger squeezed past again. Looking back, it appeared to agree with Jess. Oh well, it was a beautiful pass and we’d have missed the roadside flowers if I’d been literate.
In Botswana’s Khama Rhino Sanctuary I was visited by Bennets woodpeckers, Burchells starlings, Meyers parrots and Meves starling. African feathered beauties saddled with the surnames of European explorers and naturalists.
The biggest of the beautiful trees in Makongwa Campsite are called variously the Mongongo nut, or Manketti, or Makongwa. Scientific name Schinziophyton rautanenii (was Ricenodendron before).
As I left, I spoke to a German couple who said they were going to exit Botswana at Gaberone “cos we want to drive longer in Botswana – we like it here.” So I changed my plan and did the same. Instead of heading east to Martin’s Drift / Groblersbrug border post, I meandered south to the Tlokweng / Kopfontein crossing.
As afternoon approached the old familiar Where To Stay dilemma started – not my favourite part of this procrastinator’s meandering life. For a change I decided to ask someone, as Groot Marico turned out to be a surprisingly not-groot dorpie. I ran out of main street in three seconds flat. Just outside the ‘city centre’ the Wag n Biekie Pub looked enticing, set in a green shady garden, so I drove in, parked and strolled in.
Three heads swivelled to check Wie’s Die Ou? One maybe thinking Wie’s Die Oom?Manne looking comfortably ensconced at the large pub. One my age was nursing a brandy n coke; one who said he was the youngest oke left in the Groot Marico at 36, nursing a brandy n coke; and Brian, nut farmer, ‘No not macadamias, the climate is wrong. Pecans,’ nursing a brandy n coke. Once Brian and his gabbas had sussed me out – What you doin’? Where you goin’? How old are you? Where do you hail from? – he hopped onto the phone to sort out a place for me to spend the night: Hello Liddy my darling. Listen, Wild Bill Hickok has come to town and is needing a bed, can you help him sweetheart?
Liddy could, so Brian drew what he assured me was a very accurate map to get to Evergreen farm I couldn’t miss it. Luckily I listened carefully as he scribbled.
I bought a round then, as when they heard it was my first visit they winked at the barmaid and she brought me a glass of amarula liquer. ‘Watch out, don’t choke hey! There’s something in it,’ I was warned. I thought maybe a chilli or a mopani wurm, but turned out to be a cherry, which I slukked.
While the kind ladies in the pub kitchen made me a supper to take home we all had another dop, then I departed with thanks for the lekker hospitality and sage advice.
Evergreen Farm’s chalet was great and the monster Wag ‘n Biekie pub burger I had for supper was delish.
The next day I discovered the Groot Marico river runs gin-clear as it’s source is an ‘oog’ – a large dolomitic hole in the ground, a spectacular scuba diving spot. I now remembered as a student listening to friend and fellow student Dave Crouse raving about driving here in his Vollies – Volvo – and diving deep in crystal clear water. He was a wonderful life enthusiast was Dave!
It flows northwards, does the Marico; after a stretch it is named Madikwene, then reverts to the name Marico, bends northeastwards and forms the border between South Africa and Botswana. Further downstream the Crocodile River joins the Marico from the right – bringing its badly polluted water all the way from iGoli/Joburg and Tshwane/Pretoria. After the confluence these two rivers become our famous Limpopo River, no longer gin clear. In fact, some Pom called it ‘grey-green, greasy.’ Bloody cheek!
After just one night I was off again, heading south-east, uncharacteristically in a hurry as I had committed to a meet-up – a matric reunion. So I have yet to experience the district where Herman Charles Bosman’s lovely stories were hatched.
So we did *sometimes* go where the signs *sometimes* said Notice: Maybe You Shouldn’t.
We were rescued by friendly Damara ous in the Namib desert, by feisty ous in tight khaki shorts on Mocambican beaches, and by faithful Bahá’ís at their picnic on the Báb’s birthday on a Malawian beach. Bless em all.
You just gotta have faith ye shall be rescued.
– stuck in the Namib –– whenever I got stuck Aitch was out with the camera like a shot! – Zavora Bay, Mocambique –
We three sidekicks of the august bakgat editorial team had great fun while friend Charles was writing his autobiography Bakgat. One of the causes for mirth and ribbing was centred around punctuation, with some wanting precision and others wanting to be slapgat in bakgat. You can read about the fun here, but here’s an excerpt showing Barbara’s humour:
Puncture-ation: Deep discussions were held on punctuation. Commas and apostrophes were debated the most. Barbara:I’ve been reading a book on punctuation written with a lot of humour by someone who calls herself a stickler for correct pronunciation and punctuation. She dithers outside a charity shop that has a sign in the window which reads, “Can you spare any old records.”There is no question mark! Should she go in and mention it? “But what will I do if the elderly charity shop lady gives me the usual disbelieving stare and then tells me to “Bugger off, get a life and mind your own business?”
Pete: Well, Barbs knows my sympathies lie not with the author, but firmly with the elderly charity shop lady!
Much later I read about 18th century author Timothy Dexter in wikipedia and had to tell Barbara about him!
At age 50, Dexter authored the book A Pickle for the Knowing Ones, in which he complained about politicians, the clergy and his wife. The book contains 8,847 words without any punctuation and with unorthodox spelling and capitalization. One section begins:
Ime the first Lord in the younited States of A mercary Now of Newburyport it is the voise of the peopel and I cant Help it and so Let it goue
Here’s my email to the Masons, suggesting ‘Punctuation – a good solution perhaps for our 3rd edition of Bakgat?’
Dexter’s first edition was self-published – like Bakgat – in Salem Massachusetts in 1802. In the second edition this successful eccentric practical-minded author responded to complaints about the book’s lack of punctuation by adding an extra page of 11 lines of punctuation marks with the instruction that printers and readers could insert them wherever needed—or, in his words, “thay may peper and solt it as they plese”.
~~oo0oo~~
bakgat – from Afrikaans meaning cool; nice; expression of appreciation for something well done; often stated by us Seffrickins as, ‘no, bakgat man’
slapgat – also from Afrikaans meaning ‘lazy.’ Used to denote a person not pulling his/her weight, or doing something haphazardly or carelessly – literally, a slack or lazy arse.
commas – in case anyone feels like I’m short, here are a few commas they can use in my writing , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Thanks Timothy Dexter
I first heard about this lovely lodge on Jejane Private Nature Reserve“up towards the Olifants River area” way back last century from Rob, one of the early members. Now at last I got to visit, thanks to Carl and Mandy, co-owners with four other families – all farmers around Harrismith and Bergville.
It was everything I’d imagined and more; we had a lovely stay with game drives, lots of laughter, great meals, lots of beer, sunshine, lots of rain. Carl and I were on our best behaviour as we were outnumbered, Mandy having brought in three young lasses from her distant past to stand by her. All from GHS – Grey-headed Sparrows? Or was it PSGH – Posh School Girls Har? I dunno, don’t quote me. We sensibly didn’t have those kind of schools in the vrystaat. We had schools that you just went to till you were allowed to leave and you didn’t endlessly talk about them for decades afterwards.
Mandy is full of nonsense and I am well-behaved. She told this raucous crowd before I arrived that I was ‘a genius,’ so, having not been taught manners or etiquette at whatever school for ladies it was, they ripped the ring out of that handle. I suffered. Or maybe Miss Manners did try to teach them, but the four of them stuck their fingers in their ears and yelled na na na NA na?
These four cheekily nominated me Airfryer Fundi, pretending they didn’t know what to do with the machine; so I, the least experienced in any kitchen, pushed, pulled and stroked various knobs so they could cook dinner. That seemed to work. Meantime its really just always 180⁰ for 20mins, fullstop.
– impressive clouds came and went, rain and sunshine, rainbows every day –
The rain was lovely – not as hectic as in the Kruger Park next door, which had actually been closed down completely, if briefly. I got out just in time, driving from Berg en Dal camp in the SW corner of the park.
In Jejane, dams and pans that were mud puddles filled rapidly and overflowed. Streams rushed all over, threatening road crossings, but the level would soon drop and the roads remained good as the water soaked into the sand.
Paradise.
~~oo0oo~~
After Jejane I pulled into Waterval Boven on my way back to KwaZulu Natal, to an Inn I had visited years before. This time I had a less eventful stay. Quiet, early to bed.
The manne were curious at least, won’t say envious. Tom had caught five fish before the other ten or so anglers on the beach caught their first. Hey, Rasta! What bait are you using? Then they started catching too. And then the fish went off the bite. Tom only caught anther two. All small stone bream, he called them.
Maybe Tom had an advantage though? He had, after all, fished here before, in 2005:
This time he was his own gillie. No smelly fish bait for me.
Three days in Mfolosi’s Mpila camp with two demure young ladies.
We saw a few confrontations: Two male impala, two male lions, four rhino, with one male threatening the others. Nothing much came of these feints and threats, despite the loud shouts which came from the back seat, where the two demure young ladies were seated: FIGHT! Fuck him up!
Actually to Ondangwa, but that doesn’t sing like Tipperary.
So after I’d dug myself out of the hole on the – I now know – Bravo cutline 4X4 trail **, I headed due west past Okongo and Eenhana to Okatope, tiny towns, then south to Ondangwa, big town. A thought: Eenhana must feel so eensaam being in Northern Namibia and not starting with an ‘O.’ Do they apologise for this, I wonder? Like, jammer Oom . .
I was looking for wifi to do emails and banking but no go, so I kept moving, looking for a campground to stay, or a lodge if I had to. Didn’t find any. Drove on and on all the way to Omuthiya where I decided I’d have to reluctantly return to Ondangwa for a better chance of lodging, as the sun was setting, big dark storm clouds loomed and intermittent showers fell. A beautiful 🌈 rainbow shone to the South East.
The clouds got blacker and stormier and lightninger till the heavens opened, my windscreen wipers impotent against le deluge; and then an impressive thunder-crack switched off all the lights in Ondangwa. Taking this as an omen to stop being so stubborn, I tucked my tail between my legs and reluctantly checked into the Protea hotel, getting soaked carrying my stuff in even though I’d parked just ten metres from the door. Ja, ‘strue, this wimp checked into a soulless hotel with his camper parked at the door.
Oh well, hot water, warm bed and, when the lights came back on, wifi.
I was the only person in the large dining room for breakfast the next morning; the food was fine but the mood was ruined. Softly in the background they were playing Jingle Bells. In October. Or maybe it was November, was it? Gave me jingled bowels, it did.
On to Etosha, where wide open plains stretched as far as my eyes could see – literally. To the east there was a low line of trees in the far hazy distance, but to the west the grassland continued uninterrupted to the horizon. Herds of springbok, gemsbok and zebra scattered themselves about so as to look picturesque and Africa-y.
I had a good look around Namutoni camp. My last visit had been in 1986 and my first way back in 1969. The fort looked the same, but I think the camp behind it has grown.
Now my destination was Kakombo farm outside Omaruru, but first this ou had to drive through some more ‘O’s’ – Otavi and Otjivarongo.
‘Middle’ being a middelmannetjie; ‘You’ being four Big Beef Bulls. It was Louis’ fault, of course.
I usually go nowhere slowly, but right now I was in a slight hurry, and I had an actual destination for a change. This hurry relative to my normal pace would slow down my progress, as we’ll see. I had just left the beautiful Cubango river in the pic above, which forms the Angolan border with Namibia. I wanted to meet Louis on his farm Kakombo outside Omaruru in two days time.
Go via Tsumeb, said Louis. No, that’s tar! I protested. Ah, said Louis, I also like the back roads; There is another way. I thought it was a cutline but when I went down it it was fine. The D3600? I asked, looking at my maps.me app. Yes, I think so, said my Local Knowledge Personal Route Advisor, not looking at a map. The one that goes dead straight south for about 130km? Yes, I think so, he said. He didn’t say when he had been down that road; nor what he’d been driving – I now know he drives a macho Namibian 4X4 called toyota (which is a Herero word for ‘rugged’) with wheels like a large John Deere. You know what those ous in khaki are like.
As I turned off the tar I thought ‘piece o’ cake.’ A good sand road. Third gear, 40kmh, smooth and a low middelmannetjie. In the dips it was softer and I’d have to change down to second. There were three surfaces: Reddish sand was firmer; light cream was deeper and the lightest grey sand was the deepest and softest. Keep up the momentum through those hollows, I told my driver. Surprisingly, some stretches were jarringly corrugated under the sand! 4X4 ous blame these corrugations on 2-wheel drive vehicles but 2X4 me tells them the 2X4 forums say 4-wheel drive vehicles are to blame. Luckily, so far none have asked me about those non-existent forums. They’ve just laughed at me. But I’m used to that.
After a few km’s I was thinking Uh Oh! and then soon it was 2nd gear and 30kmh with only occasional 3rd gear and 40kmh; After 50km of Uh Oh! it just got too deep, I lost momentum, slammed into 1st gear, but no go; I came to an abrupt halt. Stuck in the middle.
So I switched off and let rip with a long string of all my swearwords, repeating many of them and searching for the best ones.
Then I stopped to think. And what I thought of was that I was near the Angolan border and they speak Portuguese there, which reminded me of the Portuguese swearwords Abel Luis Aparicio Caixinha had taught me in primary school, ca.1966. So I let rip with those a few times. I thought that might help.
Cleverly, I had got stuck next to a lovely shade tree, so I left the Ford Ranger in the blazing sun and went to stand under the tree to think. I was not alone. Those four Big Beef Bulls I mentioned lay chewing the cud and staring at me thoughtfully through half-closed lids. I could see what they were thinking. They were thinking What A Doos.
What I was thinking is, I’m glad Aitch isn’t here. She’d be asking me innocently – knowing full well that I hadn’t: Did you bring a spade this time? Just because I had got her stuck in deep sand in the Namib desert thirty years ago, she’d assume I hadn’t brought a spade again. Correctly. If I patiently explained – again – But Think of the Weight I Saved, she’d roll her eyes so hard she’d see her occipital cortex. Again.
I thought Better Start Digging, but the shade was cool so I lingered. Me and the bulls were not alone. Each of them had a thousand flies buzzing around their bums and on the bovine crap which covered every inch of shady ground. A few dozen made a beeline straight from those bums to my lips and my Ffff! Phhh! Ffff! and slapping my cap at them startled the bulls, so they jumped up and stared at me through wide-open eyes, thinking What a Doos. Standing, I could see they were fully-qualified bulls, not cows or oxen. I needed visual proof, not being a good farmer.
I’d run out of thoughts and excuses now, so there was nothing else for it: I’d have to dig. I stepped out into the hot African sun and knelt next to the right rear wheel and started digging. Five seconds later I was back under the tree. Damn! that sand was fiercely hot on my bare knees, shins and foot arches!
Once I got a towel to kneel on I did the wheels one by one followed by a break under the tree to cool down. Then I let down each of the tyres to 1.1 bar, again with a shade break. This undid my initial dig so I needed to repeat, but only after digging out the fifth wheel: the spare slung underneath, buried in the middelmannetjie. One more round of digging in the same sequence and I was ready.
Time to fire outa here. I was determined to get out at first attempt. A failed attempt would dig me down towards Australia and I’d be stuck here until someone happened to drift down this lonely road as no-one had all day so far. Taking a deep breath I started off with a 3L turbodiesel roar in first gear and difflock for two metres, slammed into reverse and rocked back six metres, back into first and forward! Into second gear, and keep it up for the 300m to the harder red sand. I was out! Much better with 1.1 pressure, should have done that earlier. Plus removed my spare from under the vehicle!
On the hard stuff I stopped to think. 40 to 50km of known track down, about 80 to 90km of unknown challenge to go. Retreat! A four-point u-turn had me heading back north, exhaust pipe tucked under my bumper, discretion beating valour. Back on the tar I pumped all tyres back up to 2.4, swallowed an ice-cold tonic from my fridge and headed west, past Eenhana, then south to Ondangwa.
– Central Northern Namibia – Tracks4Africa calls my shortcut “Bravo cutline 4X4 trail” –
middelmannetjie – raised hump in the middle of a twin track
ous – men
ous in khaki – real men; hard to see when they stand in front of a khaki background; the background in Namibia is often khaki coloured
Didn’t think to take photos of the stuck Ford Ranger, or the bulls, or the shade tree! Damn! Aitch would have got pictures of my bum as I dug sand with my hands, as she did, here in the Namib, ca. late-1990s. Also in a 2X4, two of the wheels not helping, just nogschlepping.
Camped at Simanya River Lodge near Nkurunkuru. Quite an operation! Big chalets overlooking the river; Huge convention hall, a chapel, a restaurant. Smart campsites, each with own kitchen and bathroom. Phew! Seems OTT?
In the tree above my camp, a Yellow-bellied Greenbul seemed to be ‘anting’ or ‘de-lousing’ a juvenile Drongo. Even while an adult Drongo looked on. Seemed strange.
Saw a Copper Sunbird pair – LIFER- at the deck in front of Simanya Camp’s convention hall overlooking the wide blue Cubango River – some 100km west of where they’re meant to be found! I rushed to fetch my camera, but they were gone. No evidence! I’ll watch to see if other birders confirm. Mosque Swallows, Bee-eaters. Must find my birdlist (if I made one).
On to Louis’ connection Winni Metzger at Kanyikamma Rest Camp. What an operation Winni and vrou Metzger run! Shops, farming, butchery, a lodge and much more. I stayed in one of their big smart stone chalets.
A Dutch couple on a tandem bicycle arrived. They had cycled from Windhoek to Angola and were on their way to the Caprivi. Sandy roads on a tandem with skinny-ass tyres is not my idea of fun, but they were young, skinny-ass themselves, and full of spirit and can-do! They were looking forward to the tar roads ahead of them.
– malmense –
Southward now – down to Etosha, then on to Omaruru where schoolmate Louis lives on Kakombo farm.
