Tag Archives: Dave Walker

Bumbling down another River

How you doin’? I asked Indomitable Felix, after a night on a sandy riverbank under a clear, jet-black starry sky. We both pretended not to be stiff or limping. He’s been fitted with spare parts made of yards of titanium, used plastic buckets, steel tubing, iron bars and crushed Tafel beer cans, but after considering the question for half a second he announced with a huge grin, “Swanie, I’m RIDDLED with good health.”

Had I asked him the same question forty two years earlier on a riverbank fifteen thousand kilometres NW of the riverbank we were now on, I’ve no doubt the answer would have been in much the same vein. That was the last time we’d been on a river trip together.

….
I knew this Felix Unite trip was going to be great, with good people, good grub, spectacular scenery, and that we would be fine with the unknowns – the weather and the water level.
It actually turned out amazing above and beyond. Felix’s gang of friends were terrific. They love the man, and they included and accepted me warmly. The food was next level; Felix’s men were skilled, well-trained, friendly and genuinely helpful. The weather and the river level fine-chooned themselves skilfully to be friendly and helpful; the moon also obligingly tucked away behind the western hills early so the ink-black sky could be at peak clarity. We had twenty four stars on the river and a billion in the sky.

And then to me the biggest tell – the thing I loved the most of all on this magic float down his river: The way he, as the founder and legend they had heard about from their fathers and uncles, treated his men; mucking in and helping them, coaching them, telling them the forty-year history of his famous river adventure company. He strummed his guitar round the kitchen fire, singing off-key and in-choon both, them joining in when they could. He quietly gave generously of his time. Above and beyond.

Also for a birthday:

I am so glad that, thanks to Lang Dawid Walker’s ongoing friendship and staying in touch, I finally made good on my decades long intention of, “I must do one of Felix’s trips one day.”

I’ve done some unforgettable river trips; they’re forever part of my memories. This one moved to the very top of them all.

I drew a long straw for a paddling partner on my first Orange River trip. I got Monica, who has been down this river many times. Here’s the point on the first day when she realised the oke in the back of her boat was no evinrude:

All too soon we had to klim innie bus for the ride back to base camp and a delicious last meal:

~~oo0oo~~

That other river trip is here:

Kayak the Canyon

…

Gonarezhou

It rained in the mountains of the Eastern Highlands. Quite a lot. But I think only in the last few days after our Chimanimani stop at the Frog & Fern cottages did we have days where it rained almost non-stop. I remember the drive from Chimani to Gona, and the last day from Gona to Beit Bridge as being the rainiest. In Gona we had a rather windy night at the Chipinda Pools campsite. I tried to position my camper to block some wind and Dave erected a groundsheet to block more, but only when Esme put up a second groundsheet did we finally get some effective shelter.

Chipinda Pools campsite

The Rhunde river was really high and it kept rising. Jess and I went to look at the submerged causeway downstream. The next day Dave and Esme went, and the river was about three metres higher!

Rhunde causeway
Same causeway one day later

Most of the roads had been blocked off. We really could only traverse up and down the main Chipinda – Chilojo road. We made the most of it, plus the road to the dam and the causeway.

Saw way too little of Gona. A return trip here is a must.

Back to the highways! Jess spotted a flap-necked chameleon on the road. We moved him off the tar.

Bvumba Mountains

The Vumba Mountains or The Bvumba – Misty Mountains just SE of Mutare. Our base was the well-known Seldom Seen cottages where the staff did us proud in a large comfy farmhouse with a great view eastwards into Mocambique.

Resident birding guide and everything-else Buluwezi was great. He took us up into the Miombo woodland in search of the very special African Spotted Creeper. One flew in and gave great binocular views but was too quick for the cameras, Then one arrived and sat still for maybe ten minutes! Most un-creeper-like. So we all got pictures.

He’s Spotted – and hard to spot
Until he moves

Also Red-faced Crombec, Purple-crested Turaco, Yellow-streaked Greenbul, Miombo Double-collared Sunbird, Black-eared Seedeater, and yay! at last, a Stripe-cheeked Greenbul sat and looked at me!

On our own walks we saw Black-fronted Bushshrike, Cape Robin-Chat, Lemon Dove, Stone Chat, Long-crested Eagle, Fiscal Shrike, Bronzy Sunbird, Tawny-flanked Prinia.

Buluwezi saved my most-wanted-bird of the whole trip for last. After a big circular walk to various spots in the forest below the homestead, he brought us back to near the garden and had us lying down in the damp soil and leaf litter peering into the gloom. There a male Swynnerton’s Robin sat inches off the ground and preened itself for ages while we got saturation views. I didn’t bother with my camera, just kept my Zeiss binnies glued to him. I hope to get a pic from Dave or Esme to show here. Here’s wikipedia’s pic by Maans Booysen as a place-holder.

Onward! South to the Chimanimani Mountains and Chirinda Forest. Except the latest intel on Chirinda Forest was that the road was simply too bad to be worth it. So Chimanimani and then Gonarezhou.

~~oo0oo~~

Aberfoyle

On the way north to Aberfoyle near the Mocambique border we enjoyed one of Dave’s signature tea stops: Chair and table out under a big tree; hebcooler and Stanley flask out; Soon lovely tea and a snack. While we were enjoying our break, Jess said, Dad there’s a bird. I brought her binocs and she got a good view of a beautiful Pytilia in among the miles of tea plants. Hey, she said, That was actually quite cool! Her first bit of interest in what we had been doing all along. Also her last.

Roadside Cafe David
Melba Finch -Pytilia – wikipedia

We booked into one of Aberfoyle’s self-catering cottages a couple k’s above the lodge. A great option, quiet and comfy – and Jess could stay on the lodge veranda while we went birding. Here too we had some solid downpours where we were glad we had some solid corrugated iron overhead!

Jess’ lodge stoep waiting station

On the way down to the lodge we got a great view of Swynnerton’s Spurfowl, the local tuxedo-morph of the Red-necked Spurfowl. At the lodge the Red-throated Twinspot posed dutifully so even my sedate, patience-testing little camera could get reasonable shots. Resident birder Morgan Saineti then took us straight to the very rare Lesser Cuckoo he had discovered. I got a good view, but no chance of a picture. It was most certainly a cuckoo, but was it a Lesser? Yes, cos I believe Morgan as he has showed it to a lot of good photographic birders. I got good views of Green-backed Woodpecker, Singing Cisticola and Green Twinspot. The Blue-spotted and Tambourine Wood Doves sat still; My camera tried its best…

Here’s a lone Zambezi Indigobird in miles and miles of tea where there should be grasslands.

Whattapleasure to be taken by Morgan to where he knows his birds hang out . .

~~oo0oo~~

Pungwe B Power Station

We needed a place to stay. Aberfoyle’s cottages were full and we were not going to pay Aberfoyle Lodge prices. Dave, as he usually did, found the solution: You can camp at Pungwe B power station – and only US$5 a head! Boy, I like prices like that.

We had traveled south to get down the mountain. As we headed east across the Honde Vally we saw the falls we’d hiked to a few days prior: Mutarazi Falls and its twin – the Muchururu Falls.

Red arrow = Mutarazi
both falls – waterflow more than we saw

The road to the power station was quite rugged and steep. Beautiful, and – birds along the way. On the way there I got a pair of Red-throated Twinspots. On the way out, Dave got a Black-winged Red Bishop. New to me in southern Africa – I had seen one in Malawi under ‘interesting’ circumstances decades before.

The weather was fair; The weather was foul; We had sunshine and we had a few torrential downpours that got the stream roaring. They’re used to rain in the mountains – check the roof for the outdoor braai.

Once again a communal shelter came to the rescue – we could cook and eat in dry comfort. We did ironically have a little power outage as we sat in the power station, but they soon fixed that.

And outside our loo with a view, Hooligan’s Robin sang his heart out.

Cossypha heuglini – The White-browed Robin-Chat, thanks xeno-canto.org

And here I have to admit the camper canvas seemed to have sprung a tiny leak and the mattress was ever so slightly damp! Jess may dispute my downplayed description of the problem! She was a star as ever, simply getting on with life.

Two nights here and now on to the famous Aberfoyle that every keen southern African birder has read about.

Riebeeck Kasteel

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.

~~oo0oo~~

Birds n Ballies

. . and a lower quota of Booze.

Lang Dawid came to visit after decades in the hinterland. Always very organised, he sent bearers ahead of his arrival bearing two lists: Ten new birds he wanted to see; and Three old bullets he wanted to see.

We delivered thirty percent of his DD bird list: Desperately Desired: A Red-capped Robin-Chat, A White-eared Barbet and a Terrestrial Brownbul;

– Dave Walker’s pics –

Forty percent if you count the bonus male Tambourine Dove that landed in a patch of sunlight, a photographic lifer for Dave.

– Dave’s dove –

All this thanks to Crispin Hemson showing us his special patch, Pigeon Valley in urban Durban. Talk about Guru Guiding! with his local knowledge, depth, anecdotes, asides and wandering all over, on the ground and in our minds. And his long-earned exalted status in this forest even allowed us to avoid arrest while climbing through a hole in the fence like naughty truant schoolboys. Whatta lovely man.

– Crispin scans, Dave holds his bazooka at the ready – turn a blind eye to the bottom left corner –

Then Dave and I retreated home to my patch in the Palmiet valley, where Tommy had cleaned up, readied the cottage for Dave’s stay and started a braai fire. Spot on, Tom!

We beat his thirty percent bird score when one hundred percent of Dave’s list of old paddling mates arrived. Like homing pigeons, Allie, Charlie and Rip zoomed in. So I had four high-speed paddlers in their day on my stoep, race winners and provincial and national colours galore. We scared off any birds that might have been in the vicinity (feathered or human), but had a wonderful afternoon nevertheless, with lots of laughs.

After they left, Dave and I had braai meat for supper; This morning we had braai meat for breakfast and he was off after a fun-filled 24 hours. I sat down to polish the breakfast remains and another cup of coffee and as a bonus, a female Tambourine Dove landed on my birdbath:

– not Dave’s camera –

A tragic consequence of their visit was an audit of my booze stocks the next day. Where before they’d have plundered, quaffed, burped and depleted, this time I ended up with more than I’d started with. How the thirsty have fallen!

~~oo0oo~~

Dave's camera equipment is impressive: 
- a Canon EOS 7D Mk2 body; 
- a 500mm telephoto lens; 
- a 70-200mm lens.

His main aim is getting a pic of every bird he sees. He shot his 530th yesterday here in Pigeon Valley. So he chases all over Southern Africa ticking off his ‘desired list.’ A magic, never-ending quest: there’ll always be another bird to find; there’ll always be a better picture to try for.

Here’s an adventure Dave and I shared back when we were bachelors, not ballies. That time it was beer n boobs, not birds n ballies.

~~oo0oo~~

– more Dave pics from behind the boerewors curtain –

~~oo0oo~~

R.I.P Herve de Rauville

Dammit, Hervie died!

Herve
Me, Herve, Dave Jones, Jurie, Steve - The Lincoln loaded
– Me, Herve in red, Dave Jones, Jurie the cameraman and Steve Fourie, Chris Greeff’s buddy –

Greeff took the pic, cutting off the nose of the Lincoln to make sure he got my elbow in. The Lincoln is loaded and ready to take us to paddle the Ocoee River in Tennessee after a night at Dave Jones’ house in Atlanta. Dave is a military man, a dentist and an international paddler. We were there cos Chris Greeff is a military man, a dentist and an international paddler. Weirdos like that tend to stick together.

Here’s Herve on all fours studying my map of the rapids of the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Willem van Riet left of Herve with the ducktail is telling us about the moerse rapids he went through that day.

1984 Grand Canyon (3)

Here is Hervie again, red cap left back, in the Swim Team, much as he tried to earnestly explain why his swim didn’t actually count as a swim! Competitive swine, our Herve!

Canyon 1984

. . and here he stands dead centre with the faded red cap at the end of our 360km 12-day trip through the Canyon:

1984 Grand Canyon (4)

My last supper with Herve was positively biblical: He arrived in a cloud of holy blue smoke in a hundred year old chariot – a faded yellow Merc diesel with four million miles on the clock. Nice car, Herve, I said. ‘Hey! Think of the money I save’, said he. He brought four quarts of beer and six bottles of ‘communion wine’ which he called his ‘quota wine’. I thought, ‘quota for the night!?’ but it turned out he owned shares in a Western Cape wine farm and – just like they did with their workers – he get some of his pay in liquid form. Suddenly I thought through the blur that I understood ‘liquidity.’

We had gathered together, dearly beloved, to write down Herve’s tales of the Umko canoe marathon. As the evening progressed I would say ‘but Herve, wasn’t that the Dusi?’ Oh, Yes! We’re talking Umko, hey? But Herve, wasn’t that the Berg? Oh, Yes! We’re talking Umko, hey? But Herve, wasn’t that the Breede? Oh, Yes! The Crocodile? Oh, Yes! But you didn’t saw your boat in half to get it on a plane to go to Umko, did you, Herve? Oh, Yes! We’re talking Umko, hey?

We laughed for seven and a half hours. We talked of the hardship of owning property in England – Herve’s a farmer, things are very hard, you don’t understand. Then he left after midnight in a cloud of holy blue smoke in a hundred year old chariot – a faded yellow Merc diesel with four million miles on the clock.

That was the last time I saw Hervie.

Too soon. Go well, Herve.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Bumbling Down the Grand Canyon

(early draft needs work – and being worked on as I find stuff)

1984 was one of the very few years since 1960 that Colorado river water from the Grand Canyon actually reached the sea. High snow melt had pushed it past the point where golf courses and old-age homes are draining it of all its water and it reached the beautiful estuary at Baja California into the Sea of Cortez ! Unknown to many, this also made it the first-ever time Mexico would have been able to taste Mainstay and river water. Well, recycled Mainstay and river water. Passed through the kidneys of a mad bunch of South Africans that Chris Greeff had assembled to paddle through the famous American Canyon.

That’s because we were on the river sponsored by Mainstay Cane Spirits and South African Airways. The “Mainstay” we drank was actually an SAA Boeing 747’s supply of tot bottles of whisky, brandy, gin, vodka – and some Mainstay cane spirits – which we decanted into 2litre plastic bottles to help the stewardesses on board with their end-of-Atlantic-crossing stock-take. We had resolved to drink the plane dry, but man, they carry a lot of hooch on those big babies (I spose in case they end up with all 350 passengers happening to be as thirsty as paddlers are?).

Fifteen paddlers from South Africa joined our guides Cully and JoJo Erdman on a trip down the Grand Canyon from Lee’s Ferry to the take-out on Lake Mead 270 or so miles downstream. We were accompanied by one other paddler, an Argentine José who was ticking off his bucket list, having climbed Everest. Five rubber inflatable rafts carried the food (and the Mainstay and a few hundred beers) and a motley assortment of rapid riders from America and SA. Talking of motley: Us paddlers ranged from capable rough water paddlers to flatwater sprinters to happy trippers to complete novices. Some had Springbok colours, others had a lot of cheek.

GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (48) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (2) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (6) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (8) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (26) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (28) GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (30)

Some twists in the tale: My boyhood kayaking heroes had been the van Riet brothers, Willem and Roelof, who won the Dusi three times just as I was first learning about the race ca 1970. As I started to participate in the race Graeme Pope-Ellis was winning the first of his eventual fifteen Dusi wins. Both Willem and Graeme were with us on this trip. More: In the year I first saw the Colorado river (1973) by walking/running down the Bright Angel trail from the South Rim to the Colorado’s swiftly-flowing green water, Willem had launched a boat at Lee’s Ferry, done an eskimo roll and come up with ice in his hair, causing him to postpone his trip to this one, eleven years later – in the summer!

The trip was put together by yet another iconic paddler Chris Greeff, winner of more kayak races than I’d had breakfasts. One of the craziest races he won was the Arctic Canoe Race on the border between Finland and Sweden. About 500km of good pool and drop rapids in cold water. When he arrived at the start with his sleek flatwater racing kayak (the others had wider, slower, more stable canoes) the local organisers thought Ha! he intends portaging around all the rapids! (they’d heard of the Dusi and how mad South Africans run with kayaks on their heads) so they amended the rules: Every rapid avoided would incur a time penalty. Chris just smiled and agreed enthusiastically with their ruling: He had no intention of getting out of his boat!

Later: On the trip our American kayak and raft guides kept asking us about our sponsors stickers we had attached to kayaks and rafts. SAA they understood, but what was this “Mainstay” stuff? Ooh. you’ll see! Was all we’d say.
At ___ rapid on Day __ around the camp fire we hauled out three or four 2litre bottles filled with a suspect-looking amber liquid. THIS we said, was that famous stuff!

GrandCanyon'84 Greeff (65)

1984Grand Canyon (1)

The little Colorado was flooding and massively silt-laden. At the confluence we stopped and had mud fights and mud rolls. I fell out just downstream and got some of that ‘water’ up my snout. A month later I had to have an emergency sinus washout!

GrandCanyon'84 Greeff Confluence (1)

Lunch on a small sandbank, Colorado River, Grand Canyon - Five rafts, seventeen kayaks
Lunch on a small sandbank, Colorado River, Grand Canyon – Five rafts, seventeen kayaks

Grand Canyon Chris 2 Grand Canyon Chris Crystal-001

Jannie Claassen stands. Clockwise from front Left: Swys du Plessis (red shorts), Me just visible, Dave Walker back left, Willem van Riet, Herve de Rauville kneeling, Alli Peter lying down in back, Chris Greeff ponders, Bernie Garcin stands behind Chris, Wendy Walwyn, Cully Erdman (our guide) is front right. All poring over the map, plotting the next day!
Jannie Claassen stands. Clockwise from front Left: Swys du Plessis (red shorts), Me just visible, Dave Walker back left, Willem van Riet, Herve de Rauville kneeling, Alli Peter lying down in back, Chris Greeff ponders, Bernie Garcin stands behind Chris, Wendy Walwyn, Cully Erdman (our guide) is front right. All poring over the map, plotting the next day!

The Mainstay SAA Team from SA; At the usual take-out before Lake Mead; Paddling is over (for most of us!)
The Mainstay SAA Team from SA; At the usual take-out before Lake Mead; Paddling is almost over (for most of us!)

?Me and trip girlfriend Wendy in foreground

Bernie Garcin - great mate; - - and WHAT a campsite!!
Bernie Garcin – great mate; – – and WHAT a campsite!!

Happy daze drifting in the current, lying back gazing up at the cliffs and watching the waterline as century after millenium of geological lines rose up out of the water and each day rose higher and higher above us.

Then you’d sit up and listen intently. Then peer ahead with a stretched neck and drift in a quickening current as the roar of the next rapid grew in the canyon air. The river was running at an estimated high 50 000cfs (about 1650 cumecs). Once you could see where it was, you pulled over and got out to scout it. Plot your way through it.

Lava Falls
Lava Falls – *click on pic* spot the blue helmet

Dave Walker led the singing:

The canyon burro is a mournful bloke
He very seldom gets a poke
But when he DOES . .
He LETS it soak
As he revels in the joys of forni- CATION!

and (to the tune of He Ain’t Heavy)

Hy’s nie Swaar nie

Hy’s my Swaer . a . a . aer

.

We went down the Canyon twice

I always say we did the Canyon twice. Once we would bomb down in our kayaks, crashing through the big water; The second time was much hairier, with bigger rapids, higher water and far more danger: That was when Willem would regale us with tales of his day on the water around the campfire at night. ‘Raconteur’ is too mild a word! The word MOERSE featured prominently in his stories.

~~~oo0oo~~~

I recently had a letter returned to me that I wrote to my folks in August ’84, the month after this trip. So now I know the extra section of river we paddled was 21 miles. This after the Diamond Creek planned take-out point was washed away in a localised flood; I now also know that the trip across Lake Mead sitting back drinking beer and staring at the sky while a motorboat towed out the four rafts (one of which had 14 kayaks lashed onto it) was ‘about 50 miles’ – according to my letter).

BUT NOWADAYS we check such statements. I’m going to check how far it actually was. Aha! The total distance from Diamond Creek to Pierce Ferry is 54 miles. So no exaggeration happened in the telling by our boatmen and trip guides, who would’ve known. The planned trip was 225 American miles, Lee’s Ferry to Diamond Creek. This extra leg made it about 275 miles, or 440km over the 12 days in the end.

A snapshot of the level in 1984 from google earth.

– the unplanned extra leg – bottom right to top left – where the river pours into Lake Mead and tragically! – stops flowing! –

Three kayaks weren’t on board this makeshift, motorboat-towed floating raft train: Crazy Chris Greeff, Wild Wendy Walwyn, and someone else paddled the flat water too! Nutters.

~~oo0oo~~

google earth will fly you through the canyon here.

Tugela Gorgeous – Boats and Bosoms

Bernie Garcin (Bernie and the Jets), Doug Retief (Doug the Thief), Dave Walker (Lang Dawid) and me at Fig Tree Sandbank campsite, one of KwaZulu Natal’s most beautiful spots.

Three plastic (or ‘tupperware’) Perception Dancers and one Quest in 1984 and 1985 – we went both years. In those early days old-timers would still mock plastics – roto-moulded plastic kayaks – saying ‘tupperware keeps turkeys fresh’ but we knew their toughness, and the joy of not having to schlep fibreglass patch kits along, so we just smiled!

At the time Greg Bennett was sponsoring and competing in a motorised rubber duck race down the Tugela (sacrilege!). In ’84 he had Jerome Truran as crew, in ’85 Rip Kirby. We used Greg’s bakkie to get to Ngubevu.  Who fetched us at Jamieson’s Bridge?

On one of the trips bare-breasted maidens flashed us. We saw a Landrover parked on a hill on the left bank, then saw some swimmers in the river, who ducked down as they saw us. As we passed two of the girls popped up their lily-white tits to huge approval. They were like this except the water was brown. And they had no cozzies on.

Tugela boob2
– she was like –

Four-man Hole was soon after that and I crowded into a Bernie-occupied eddy straight after the drop and punched the nose of my Quest into his ribs. Being Bernie he didn’t even wince, but I knew it had hurt.

The current swept us past them, but the mammaries lingered on.

Overnight at the duck race camp the sponsors Lion Lager thought we were competitors so their beautiful beer hostesses liberally plied us with ale. OK, lager. When they ran out I rummaged in the boats and found wine papsaks we used for flotation and squeezed out the dregs. Karen the gorgeous, voluptuous newspaper reporter (remember the days when they wrote stuff on paper?) covering the event for The Natal Mercury held out her glass and as I dispensed I gave her the patter: “A good wine. Not a great wine, but a good wine, with a delicate bouquet”. She shook her mug impatiently and said endearingly “I know fuckall about flowers, I’m in it for the alcohol,” and I fell deeply in love. My kinda dreamboat lady in shape and attitude. She was like . .

Cleavage
– she was like –

Dave too, was smitten as one of the comely lager hostesses joined him in his laager and treated him to sincere sleeping bag hospitality above and beyond the call of duty, ending the session with a farewell flash of delightful décolletage as she kissed him goodbye in the morning.

Tugela beermaid
– she was like –

As we drifted downstream we sang:

The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous

The landlord had a daughter fair – parlez vous

The landlord had a daughter fair

Lily-white tits and golden hair

Inky Pinky parlez vous

We sang to the resident goats:
I ain’t afraid of no goats

We sang (to the tune of He Aint Heavy . . . ):

Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swa-a-aer

.

Ah! Those wuz the daze!

~~oo0oo~~

We stayed at Figtree Beach Camp again a few years later.

This should actually be on my pre-marriage blog vrystaatconfessions.com

Hy’s nie swaar nie, hy’s my swa-a-aer – he ain’t heavy, he’s my bro-in-law