THE THIRD AND LAST WE HOPE

Howard was the harbinger of the bad news that my man, the lad I had had such high hopes for, had reported that my horse, the love of my life, my bakkie, my beloved and vital pick-up truck had been stolen from the farm!

‘Oh woe is me’, cried I ‘OH NO NO NO”.
I was not happy, this was a lot worse than just a heart attack this was an attack on the very foundation of survival for all on the estate.

Now Wonder boy as readers of these ramblings might recall arrived on the farm a few years ago and deeply impressed me with his clever hands and brain, but mainly that he seemed to want to work and make something of himself, a rare attribute out here. I vested in him trust and responsibility, I set him above other men and gave him all the wisdom and knowledge I could, I had such hopes and he has taught me a profound and expensive lesson.

Like most disasters this started very small, and there in is the rub. A battery charger disappeared, a small and really quite insignificant thing.
I who locks nothing, and who has lived here on my mountain with many people and have lost less could not believe that it had been stolen, and settled on the ‘lost’ theory. This was in retrospect my blunder and I must now beat my chest and once again cry ‘mea culpa’ as I should then and there have made a big fuss.

So began a series of mysteries, a cow, chainsaw, various tools, petrol all sorts of things just started to disappear but no one could be identified as the perpetrator. Actually we all knew, just knew it was him, but I refused to see the evil in him, so I lost my old bakkie, rolled when drunk and now even my fab Toyota Legend 35 pick-up with leather seats, blue teeth and chromed roll and nudge bars was dead because of him the bastard.

I delayed my return to the farm for both medical and practical reasons as well as the fact that I had no desire to interview Mr. Wonder whom I knew was to blame and on whom I had nothing on.

Having rented a vehicle I wondered my disconsolate way back, and as a consolation I stopped at Woolworth at Witbank to get some goodies, while there I just happened to call my good chum Phishy Tim to enquire after a product he had found there and naturally the discussion turned to recent events.

He had a tale to tell that changed the entire complexion of the dreaded interview with the wicked Wonder, suddenly from being a third rate power in my own domain I was elevated by Phishy Tim’s tale to that of all powerful and mighty.

It transpired that at last the bugger had made a blunder and had taken the bakkie to Tim’s place (without permission) to get some money from him and was thus bust to rights and could be immediately arrested and thrown into prison. I was delighted and having arranged this with the authorities was spared any confrontation and he was hauled off never to be seen again.

Once in the tender hands of Inspector Michael Mthunzi he soon spilt the beans and the whole sad and sorry tale came out. Nothing unusual or funny, in brief he took the money from Phishy and spent it on booze, got drunk and crashed the vehicle into some other folk, ran away and concocted a pathetic story about a mysterious theft, so he is gone and I miss him but am glad that that sad saga is over.

Just as an aside, when I went to the cop station to turn him in I found Brendon, Michael and Karel sitting around their prison look strangely smug. Like cats that have got the cream. I enquired at this sudden contentment with their lot and was gleefully informed that indeed my powers of perception were not letting me down and that yes indeed they were reveling in some long absent job satisfaction.

There had been riots in town that had handed them the opportunity to stick it to many members of the chattering classes who had in the past, been less than polite/helpful in their dealings with the officers of the law. They mentioned that over 7000 rounds had been expended in their struggle to maintain law and order. They were well pleased.
As was I, it seemed that the heavy hand of the law so long absent was being felt.

TROUBLES COME IN THREE’S THEY SAY SO………………………… I HAVE SOMETHING TO ADD AT LAST. Good news is so dull.

I have been longing to write for some time but life has been so pleasant and thus uneventful that there has been nothing amusing to relate but this could of course not last I knew and dreaded it.

The farm had grown and prospered with another few hundred hectares being added, the lodge is soooo smart that I now have to beat relatives and friends off with a stick to keep them out, paying guests are still as illusive and unreliable as ever. The hiking camp is a success beyond expectations and has been and remains full.

So that is the good news, and there is more, the deep satisfaction and contentment found in all the new life abounding around the place. I am slim again though beauty eludes me, the farm has managed to go a second year without a single fire, the cows are fecund the game is contented. God has been quiet in his heaven and all seemed well in my little world, but I knew, I just knew it could not last.

Poor poor Gromit was the first victim of our misfortunes, poor poor little Gromit and it was pure ‘mea culpa’ on my side.

I took the dogs with me to the timber yard and left them behind!

Mea Culpa, mea very culpa, I just drove off without them, Chaka went to the nearest friendly face and settled down there and was swiftly found but Gromit just disappeared.

The whole family being here on a holi, all were motivated into the search, posters were printed and distributed, money was offered, many, many fruitless hours were spent whistling and driving around trying to find her.

There was even the inevitable moment of joy swiftly dashed when another similar pooch was found.

It was all just awful and worse still, I had only myself to blame, naturally I lashed out at a few imaginary culprits, the eejits at the yard for not locking them up, but they had called me to tell me about my lapse, so really what could I say, the idiocy of the dogs for not sticking together but the truth is that I was to blame and Chaka still gives me the eye wondering where our chum has gone, and what has happened to her.

The mind does not help, by conjuring bleak scenarios of cold and fear and I still go the long way around the dirt roads with an eye open for her, we mourn and miss dear Gromit.

Big poo number 2 started quietly with a bit of indigestion at 8 am one morning.

Strange thought I, as took a Zantag and forgot about it till the next day when it struck again, same time, same place!

This was dull and a bit more painful so I took a zantag and a neurofen as well as having sawdust and cow goo for breakfast. That seemed to do the trick for a day or two. Then it was back again and again with tingling in the arms so I called the doc. I thought it was the right thing to do, sensible

.

Dr Emily expressed puzzlement and demanded I go to the hopital and get them to do a series of tests that she dictated to me.

The Nelspruit medi-clinic sucked me in, stuck me, drained me and plugged me onto a machine, scooped a couple of grand out of my wallet and declared me fit and well, mentioning in passing something called angina which I concluded was indigestion, gave me some pills and tossed me out.

This was sort of vaguely satisfying; nice to be called fit with a fine ticker but the continuation of the discomfort every morning was worrying even to an old cowboy like me.

Things soon got so bad I had a guest in the lodge to drag me to the scary tender mercies of the local municipal meat house, who sent me off much pleased with their service, which was cheap and included a nice jab in the bum which contained some very pleasant feel better juice.

I was now panicking quite a bit and called Howie, who immediately set the wheels in motion and after consulting various and many hypochondriacs, loaded up our resident hospital victim Bruce who has been in and out of hospitals pretty much on a weekly basis since birth, climbed into his weapon and fetched me to the big smart, shiny hospital in town, with Brucies terrifying hospital tales to entertain us, not!

I was dumped there in the early evening so depressed at this bodily betrayal that they prevented me from stopping on the way for a smoke, I was that disheartened. Excuse the pun.

The weirdest part of all this was that other than the ‘episodes’ I was feeling just fine, strong in fact. I have never been so fit, which is just as well.

The hospital plan went into smooth operation and I was again sucked in, jabbed and drained, x-rayed and generally shoved about the place after which I was left alone perched on the end of the bed feeling like a big bullshitter among the holt and the lame.

I was sure that at any moment some one was going to notice that I was fine and throw me out and I would be in big trouble with my insurers, having had a vast battery of expensive tests performed on me ordered by some absent mega doctor.

An hour or so ticked by and I was just casting about for an escape when this team of nurses charged in, literally flung me onto the bed, confiscated my watch and knife and had my kit off on the run as I was wheeled practically with sirens blowing down into the bowls of the place with just the breathless information that, “A test has come back positive” ringing in my ears.

What test? Why the fuss?

This was very worrying, they were sticking the whole world into me and attaching me to the rest with wires, all very ER and this on an oke that would have cheerfully walked a few miles to see a tree or what ever, but an extremely fine fit fellow!!

When the mega doc appeared at the end of my bed obviously having been roused from his favorite TV program in the middle of the night, eyeing me with an altogether too calculating look, discussing the subject of open heart surgery I finally realized I was in BIG trouble.

I desperately assured him that I was fine and would last the night and managed to avoid any precipitous actions on his part, and he went off having dictated a list of substances to be inserted into me, leaving me with the uncomfortable information that he had dragged me back from the very brink of death, cliff edges were mentioned.

I got the distinct impression however that when assured that I was not going to die on his watch and embarrass him, he had fun scaring the be-Jesus out of me, the bugger.

He toddled off leaving me now time to look around at where I was.

The curtain parted to reveal total bedlam, I had heard the noises but they had not prepared me for the awful hellhole I was in.

I was among the close to dead, the very close too dead! An army of nurses, doctors and burly okes from the ambulance teams were running around in a state of organized panic. There were hideous noises coming from behind curtains.

There seemed to be a lot of paper work involved.

Opposite me was some old skeleton with a mask over his face groaning and gasping. His machines were going hell for leather with anything from one to five blue glad drones laboring over him and squirting who knows what into him with an urgency that was disconcerting but thankfully knocked him out quite fast.

He had hardly settled into his comma and his sirens died down a bit when another army of wekkers heaved some poor old bugger in, who made the gasping skeleton look positively chipper.

This sad piece of meat called Mr. Levine, had been in an ‘exident’ and was in no state to be polite, he was fresh flesh and the hospital was having a feast. Paper was being produced in large sheets, and filled with small type and many signatures. He was heaved onto his pallet begging for help and mercy crying pitifully. He was in agony.

I was sat bolt upright in my corner with a bad case of the ‘I wanna get out of here’ blues, I did not want to be witness to all this let alone be some wall flower plugged into the same machine.

I had had a long day what with the debilitating effects of panic, long drives, much intimate prodding and baaad news, it was past midnight and I was not ready to sleep at all. The noise and constant toing a frowing did not help.

Eventually they knocked out poor old Mr. Levine and then dragged him of to pastures new and replaced him with a very quiet very unhappy African lady whom they seemed to be accusing of faking it before she started having a really bad time behind her curtain.

The next morning started early and I swiftly had to learn the tricks of survival in this new world, like how to pee in a bottle, they refused to disconnect me from their kit, even scrubbing me down in the bed and confiscating my underpants too.

My humiliation was complete; I was reduced from a leader of men to the plaything for the concerned and caring.

I was subjected to vile and strange procedures, listened too, pricked and prodded and left to rot with the promise, nay threat of more to come.

Things were explained to me in a foreign language and things were done to me with no explanation at all, in equal measure.

The wonders of this place did not extend to the meals, which were nasty beyond the realms of understanding.

Eventually I was wheeled of to be done.

The experienced in this sort of thing took it all with great calm, so I sort of settled into a coma myself, Emily my doc was there to hold my hand and all seemed to know what they were up to.

I was wheeled into a set from star wars with whizzing lights and big machines on computers with teckies and nerds banging away at keyboards and staring intently at monitors discussing their love lives and the lunch menu.

Everybody is very keen to keep the victim informed, one senses that this is corporate policy but frankly I was not in the mood, and their fascination with their procedures, even those to be performed on me, missed me entirely.

I was well pleased when they stuck happy juice into me and I ceased to be concerned about the economy of the Ivory Coast or anything at all in fact and quite enjoyed the show. I love drugs.

Look I must tell you that other than the fact that the ‘heart’ was the subject it was all very standard stuff, just another day in the office for all but I and other than an uncomfortable night I was rota-rootered my pipe was unblocked and though the plumber (surgeon) studiously maintained an aura of godhood he was other than a well tailored arse crack a plumber and I was jobby no 10 for the day, but he let me out the very next morning and boy did I bolt out of there.

Well that was disaster number 2 and catastrophe number 3 was in progress as I lay in my bed.

2 b continued

THEY SHOULD MAKE THEM GET A LICENSE TO WEAR BOOTS.

I have already mentioned the difficulties I have been having with lost hikers. They are a nuisance and a danger, wondering aimlessly around in a daze but their shrill complaints has not fallen on deaf ears.
I after some experimentation, I had had manufactured very slick and visible markers printed on metal plates which I hoped would be permanent, effective and very smart too.
So Anne and I did the trail with her leading, and if she hesitated at any spot we put a marker. If this was not sufficient I had Howard my chummy who gets lost on the way to his own house if he doesn’t have a GPS, do the trail as the leader and again put a marker where he got confused.
I felt now wholly confident that even the dullest would find the path with great ease.
Well Howard left his camera on the trail and I had to go and get it the next evening, and thank god I did because as I was sitting at a view point enjoying a nice smoke in the setting sun I spied a couple of eejits humping bags along the firebreak!!!! Obviously completely lost.
I was outraged; this was a blatant insult to my efforts not to mention those of my partner and partner.
I stormed down to them demanding to know how they had gone astray, they were scratched to hell and back and the woman was on the point of collapse.
She had followed her man blindly as they missed the path and rather than backtracking a bit and finding it again he just went hell bent up the mountain. Started wondering around as lost as a fart in a thunder storm, in no particular direction going in the opposite direction to any common sense.
I loaded her bag onto the bike; he insisted that he needed, as a man, you understand, to hump on with it.
I pointed them in the right direction, dumped her bag at the camp, fed the fish and the cows and other sundown stuff and thought I would just go and yell at them a second time as I was passing the camp and saw that they had as yet not arrived, not good. It was nearly dark and the thought of these two wandering around the place falling off things was not a happy one.
Well I found them and shouted at them the entire way back.
The funny thing is though, they were absolutely enchanted about everything, it was their 7th anniversary and nothing was going to bring them down, they liked being lost together, there is a lesson to be learnt in there somewhere.

JUST HOW COLD CAN A WITCHES TIT GET??

We are all agree that this winter has been hard, usually a fairly balmy affair with short spasms of cold lasting a couple of days, not this endless remorseless bitter wind bringing ice and death in its wake.
I love winter on my mountain. The world is blue and gold, the aloes are red and the sunbirds think it is Christmas in the middle of the year. The days are sunny and bright even if the nights are bitter, but not this year.
Well I think it is nasty but I have been assured, by the old and grumpy in the village, that this is nothing as the diesel in the motors has yet to freeze, the mind boggles.
As well as the cold, this wind from the North, has blown disquieting neighbors into my world, bringing with them a world of troubles.
From the East came the call about the Wildebeest that had escaped through an opened gate, opened by I suspect the very people who were complaining about these peaceful souls. I cannot actually bust them but I just know, you know?
They now claimed that they were threatening the mans livelihood and the well being of his children, wife and cattle, with he claimed their propensity to infect cattle. (See fat boring piles of inbred grass to protein converters, with no redeeming feature other than to make meat), with something called ‘snot sickness’ and they had to be destroyed, shot, murdered.
The man was really quite insistent even getting his wife to call.
It is one of the less appealing sides to country life, this propensity to dispense death with nary a thought as to the spiritual and sweeter side.
Down I went and had a look at the situation that was not very hopeful. The beasties would react to logic and good sense not to mention life saving attention with the distrust and suspicion that only thousands of years of persecution can instill.
In short the second they saw any two-legged monkeys running around they fled with great vigor. I fobbed off the insistent pleas for their death with mock charges into the field with friends,guns and bikes, to show willing in the hope that a season would go by and they would be spared.
My good intentions which seemed to be working, as young Boet Jan seemed to have overcome his fears and seemed satisfied at my intentionally futile efforts, but other country eyes, less romantic than mine were also watching, and they were hungry and had dogs.
And have I mentioned it is bloody cold!
The situation was getting out of hand, we now had the local lads hunting them with their nasty skinny hounds, and they eventually tore one to pieces.
My pleas and protestations were met with stoic indifference.
I was in a spot, even reporting them to nature conservation, had little impact, none in fact, their persecution continued unabated but the NC officers did give me the number of ‘Nicko’ who they said could come and dart them and thus save them, yea!
The darter man however was less than enthusiastic to come and do the deed, as he could see little profit in the enterprise for himself, but when after many fruitless calls I sensed that he was a man with Zebra to sell, and being a man who lusts for the same a deal was struck. He arrived pronto and shot them just after selling me the stripy ones, ahh well winter is hard.
I did get a moment of hope that something positive might come out of all this, as we caught the baby but she also died…bummer.
Add to this Chloe the donkey and a baby Haartebeest that also passed this is turning into a dark season indeed, winter is not the time to be old or young.
But nothing stands still, the world rolls remorselessly and brings joys with every disaster, and we now have 8 very nice zebra, my other tiresome neighbors have decided to throw in the towel and we are buying their land with it's many wonders and the opportunity to expand the trail into a 5 day marvel of the world.

ORIBI GIRLS AND WINTER with its sadness ARRIVE’S

Some time ago I was informed the ‘Oribi Wildlife Preservation Society” was to grace our area. Their task, to help concerned landowners to deal with this scarce buck. We were fed and watered at a neighboring estate before the inevitable process of ‘death by power point’ was imposed on us.
We learnt little and offered less. My impression was that they wanted to take control of our land; we would none-the-less do the work and put in the money too!
This on the basis of a tedious and lengthy presentation that told us nothing of real value to the day to day process of living in the bundu or to what to do about the stupid ungulates they were so concerned about either. So I was dubious about entertaining another.
A intense very young blond who should have been wearing an outfit with epaulets but was not, which I complained about, arrived in a large pick-up with logo’s all over it advertising ‘green’ activities but clearly identified as being paid for by those actively involved in the destruction of the planet, an oxymoron made flesh.
She was devoted to her little bokkies and all things great and small, she wanted to help, she would personally give her all in the cause, but thankfully I was spared her pitch as my Inkulu’s old lady passed and the news arrived on her heels which naturally made all plans redundant.
A death in a staff member’s family, no matter how distant, requires some considerable expense and aggravation for me. I am required by some very convenient cultural thing to give over dosh, help with transport and supply a whole lot of firewood, which I reluctantly do.
This required the entire estate to drop tools and spring to, to get this all together, and Oribi girl and I had long drive with weeping ladies clinging on to the back of the wood laden bakkie which I had to negotiate down tracks to huts in the wilderness. We were then embroiled in some dark African family disagreement over the arrangements. Drunken faces peered into our space ship to eagerly explain the wickedness that was being enacted. All quite captivating though completely incomprehensible.
We took some pictures of this strange world and departed, dumping a forlorn and troubled old man to wander into the bush to lay his woman in the ground, very poignant, sad.
We live here in this vast continent and really we can only hope to be informed visitors, the endlessness and cruelty of this land is beyond our ken.

The East Rand Hiking Club

The East Rand Hiking Club was at the Five Assegais Hike this last weekend. 19/06 to 21/06/2009 We were in two groups. 8 base camp and 7 backpack.
As the leader of the backpack group I would like to thank you for a wonderful weekend of hiking.
· The information available including maps and write ups from Five Assegais was comprehensive and very informative.

· The accommodation at Gods Window was excellent and at Bermanzi was also great.

· The hiking was magnificent. The beauty of the flowering aloes at this time of the year was remarkable and it made for some spectacular hiking and pictures.

· The marking of the trail from the Five Assegais side was very good. The marking on the Bermanzi side was not as good but in the direction that we took the marking were fine. We did meet up with the hiking group based at Bermanzi and they complained that the marking was poor. (They followed the trail in the opposite direction to us in the River valley.)

· The trail on the second day was particularly difficult as the trail had not been maintained for some time and we found it tough going having to duck and crawl with our packs. (Also in the river valley and the beginning of the assent out of the valley.)

· The views and terrain that we hiked through from the waterfall to the river valley and the sculptured rocks the entire experience was marvelous. I did the hike with my son for Father’s day and we will both have very special memories of this Father’s day for many years to come.

Thank you again for allowing us to share in this magnificent part of the country. Will you also pass on our thanks to Atty. Tell him his donkey was a persistent but amusing visitor.
Best regards


Alex Elshove

‘THEY’ COME TO GRADE ME…….BRRRRRRRRR

Some time ago when contemplating my occupancy and wondering what I was doing wrong while channel hopping I came across a program called ‘Hotel Inspector”, about some quite formidable woman going around to nasty hostelries and telling them how to make their terminal business a success.
The first thing she pointed out to the poor frightened old man that possessed the place under discussion, was that unlike all his competitors on the street, his was the only one that had no stars.
I realized that on the great highway of the inter world I too was lacking such, and so after a lot of soul searching and trepidation I contacted the authorities involved in this classification thang.
Loot was extracted and an appointment was made, the lodge was given an extra sprucing and I was up and ready, sort of, for the day of reckoning.
I was very worried about this whole thing and expected the worst, what with my lackadaisical attitudes not to mention my distrust and hostility to all forms of authority.
My image of what constituted a hotel inspector was filled with thoughts of extremely anal, bossy, power mad, snotty fart pants, which would turn its nose up at my ‘arty’ little lodge.
Instead I got a charming chap in an unsuitable car who it turns out had also been an acolyte of the advertising/ marketing world and was very amenable and kind about everything we were doing out here.
The long and short of it subject to some oversight committee making it’s pronouncement I am now a 4 STAR fully graded and established establishment.

WHERE ARE ALL THE PHISHER’S?

I am feeling a little sad and disappointed, like a girl all dressed up with nowhere to go. After a lot of effort and some considerable expenditure the new dams are full of crystal clear waters which are heaving with fat trout, but nary a well heeled fisherman to be seen!
This is disappointing.
The hikers are as thick as thieves, the cows are bringing in the lolly as predicted but even after imploring in all the major publications and the www for the troutist’s to come practice their trouting here, the luxury and splendor of my phisher lodge lies unappreciated.
Even more disappointing!
The trials and tribulations of the international financial collapse seem to have washed up to my door and impoverished the misty morning fly flickers.
The government has also entered with misguided enthusiasm into the fray with new laws and regulations to irritate and distress those perceived as having been less deprived than others. They have decided, with I am sure only the best intentions to deprive many troutist’s their sport and more distressing have also decided that many that make a crust from these fish should not do so anymore. It is amazing how the chattering classes are willing to stick it to others to promote their own agenda’s even if that hurts their own!
They have fairly arbitrarily decided where these fish might be tolerated and where not, and that we all need permit’s which require a fortune to obtain, neither will help the theoretically threatened Tilapia fish, the environment or the down trodden that are their brief to aid.
So things are looking grim, the fishermen are poor and the government hates me, oh boo hoo.

CUTING A NEW HOLE IN MY EYES, MY FRIENDS FALL DOWN AND MY BRAND NEW LODGE IS SADDLY EMPTY BUT I AM DECLARED FIT!

CUTING A NEW HOLE IN MY EYES, MY FRIENDS FALL DOWN AND MY BRAND NEW LODGE IS SADDLY EMPTY BUT I AM DECLARED FIT!


For a while now I have been moaning and groaning about my specs, I just could not see right. I was shouting at the optician, the only medical boff’s I visit with any regularity. We experimented with all sorts of different combinations of spec but nothing seemed to work! I was despairing and had decided that I would take the plunge and do the laser thing, scary! However when I went to the specialist chap I was informed that in fact my problem was cataracts, which sent me into a decline I can tell you that!
Appointments and arrangements were made, and I was deposited at the allocated place of pain, the club of the sick and the holt in the mighty metropolis of Middleburg, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Actually it was just an office block opposite the cop shop and the reception looked more like a hotel than a hospital! This was all new, manned or is it ‘womanned?’ with bright young things in airhostess outfits and helpful attitudes. The vibe was more of a conservative advertising agency than a place for the miserable and doomed.

Upstairs things fell back into the old model of hospital, with sad old people stashed in beds and chairs, all clean and nice, with a gaggle of tough old bags with titty watches and epaulets directing events.
I was swiftly stripped naked, watches, wallets and pen knife were confiscated, which I thought was a bit strange for an eye operation, but those ladies had a system and a bolshie old fart was NO hurdle of note, and thus reduced to but a piece of meat on a trolley I was left to meditate my fate for quite a little while.
If ever an entire industry can be accused have having NO respect for their calendars the medical biz is the worst by far. The time you are allocated never coincides with the time they make available; it is just an indication of from when you should be available for their attention, arrogant buggers.
Eventually the system swept me up and after a fun time flirting with the nurses I was wheeled into the heart of the matter. Tubes were attached and I was rendered malleable with a dose of delicious intravenous Dormicon. I slipped from a state of mild terror into total bliss and woke up some time later with my eye in a bandage. The next day I presented my eye to the man, who peeled of the covering and a wonderful bright new world appeared to me, I still cannot believe the difference, I have been half blind for ages it is all like an acid trip with brilliant colours, sparkling clarity and NO specs JOY!!
While I was under the knife the world continued normally being all tooth a claw out there, my particular chum was involved in one of those mysterious prangs that one passes on dead straight sections of the highways, got well smashed about and is sad and broken in his bed, too manly to wear a safety belt the eejit, the driver who is less concerned with his sexuality and did is fine. At the same time a neighbor and fellow lodge owner is down with the big C, and it must be bad, she is a lovely lady but straight as frozen rope, and she was very enthusiastic about glugging down my famous Honey and weed juju juice.
Well all this suffering and torment around me prompted me to get hold of a chum of a chum that is now a chum and also a medicine woman, who owed me for some country hospitality and was roped in to check out my organism.
I was very relieved to discover that modern medical practices have moved beyond the rubber glove scenario and that blood was enough which she drained from me, listened to my heart and lungs and surprisingly did not claim that I was a gurgley chested emphysema sufferer, which surprised me. A few days later she informed me that other than high cholesterol whatever that boggy is, that I had the constitution of a mildly dyspeptic ox, which all feel is a great injustice in the scheme of things, me having behaved as badly as I have all these years. The final straw was when the results of my lung x rays were revealed, perfect, and that after 40 fags a day for 30 years!
I am very smug

HIKERS ARE NOT AS INTREPID AS I THOUGHT, BUT GOLLY NICE.

HIKERS ARE NOT AS INTREPID AS I THOUGHT, BUT GOLLY NICE.

I thought that hikers were a bunch of hardy folk used to the bundu and well able to look after themselves.
It turns out that this is not entirely true, many are indeed resolute but a significant portion of them are eejits of the first order and are prone to flinging themselves off cliffs, twisting their bits and have a tendency to wander in an exhausted daze into the lodge in the hope of rescue from their torment.

On several occasions, small round ladies straining under large backpacks have arrived at the ‘ short cut’ sign which shall be changed to ‘emergency exit only’ as shorter it is not, and their sad little faces when informed of the torment still to come is heart wrenching. But the big burly men are the worst. Generally they have some long suffering woman in tow that they have guided into disaster due to their manly attitude. They get lost and naturally blame me and my marking for their lack of tracking skills. Anyway I have now remarked the trail and frankly if they get lost now they should enter their names onto the Darwin list of endangered eejits

However hikers as a group are fit, leggy people with great bums who almost welcome disasters that occur from inclement weather to power cuts. Nothing phases these wildly enthusiastic people with their boots and sticks, we have had one group that was turned back at the waterfall after a storm and could not cross but other than that they have all been very intrepid indeed.




HUTS BITE ME IN THE BUM

When I decided to build a trail I went to some of my neighbors to have a peak at what was required. Wimpie the lady who was in fact instrumental in persuading me to become a trail owner in the first place, is the proud proprietor of the farm Wathaba, a well know and long standing trail with her camp situated on the Elands river.
This is an eclectic group of structures that she and her son Guys have added to and expanded over many years into a veritable warren of different structures with donkey water heaters and galvanized buckets converted into sinks, dead charming, wooden and wattle lean-too’s with braai places and bunks all quite primitive/rural, difficult to really appreciate the extent of it from a brief visit but the overall impression was of a sort of permanent well organized camp.

Anyway the long and the short of it was that it all seemed quite ‘knocked together’ and quite easy to do, so as the entire trail was still to be constructed I put it on a back burner, BIG mistake.

It is only when faced with the reality of a ‘hut’ that one can really plumb the depths of what actually is required, My memory of Roberg Hiking huts were clouded by romance, words like shack, hovel, cabin, shed and lean-to had distorted my judgment.

Albert Bossert the trail builder arrived with his team of lads equipped with hoes, picks and implements of destruction and disappeared with them into the undergrowth. At first I was a bit over his shoulder as he hammered his way through the farm but I soon realized that he is an artist and his feeling for the trail, where it should go and at what pace was masterful.

The weeks and months drifted past with Albert coming and going with various ladies in tow, he is a real old goat, admirably so, and the path got longer and longer till I could no longer avoid doing my side of the thing.

I had not been entirely idle mind you; I had toiled long and hard at finding some original way to build a hut, as they were to be situated in a most spectacular place and deserved something special. But tucked away in the rocks as they were the complications and difficulties were too soon apparent. What looked great on the computer and in my head, just did not fit into the space allocated, concepts had to be changed to fit the reality all along the line. There was the issue of what to do with the poo poo. I could not just dig a drain away as it was all stone and thus needed to be transported away in long pipes, these needed to be disguised and such were just the first of many things that I just had not associated with building a couple of huts.

At the end of the day in despair at the cost of thatching, the difficulties with weather and the eccentricity of the site, I had an epiphany in the local junkyard. There among the skeletons of farmers dreams was a mound of old steel frame windows, not my favorite architectural feature of the modern world but none the less the answer to my problem of making a comfy bedroom in the rocks, I would make the huts entirely of windows, so one could lie after a long hike nursing ones bits and stare over the wonders of the Skurweberg.

This having been decided and after some negotiation which also suited my tight wad inclinations I carted piles and piles of rusty crap back to the farm, and dumped this at the feet of my incredulous staff with steel brushes and grinder to clean and paint.

But this was in fact just the start; one overlooks the many years of steady progress that had culminated in the smooth machine that Wimpie boasted.
Huts require a lot of kit, from cups to bog roll holders it is endless.

The second mistake I made was to underestimate the enthusiasm of hikers. We were well on our way, sort of about a couple of months from completion I thought anyway. Being a lodge owner now for a few years I thought that if I sent a few ‘invites’ to the local hiking pages and clubs to introduce the trail, they might, if I was lucky, fit me in in a few months time.

Not so, I had unleashed a torrent of wild fervor to have a go. They were elbowing each other aside to get in. So now I had imposed a further state of panic in my heart by creating a deadline.

I had not retreated from the maddening crowd for this! NO NO NO.

Well we pulled through, just, and there were a few shortcomings that were gleefully pointed out to me, everybody is a critic. I have now done all the ‘helpful hints’ that have been lavished on me and the cries of lost and confused hikers, the glasses have been bought and another hot plate installed among other things and the pointed comments in the hikers book have changed from bitter recriminations to songs of praise.

THE DAMS FULL at F#$% ing last!

THE DAMS FULL at F#$% ing last!

On this day of our Lord (whoever you choose lord wise) the eleventh day of February 2009 all the dams on the estate are overflowing!!!! JOY
Indeed the dams are finally as they should be for the first time after nearly 3 years, it has been a long wait, enlivened with many disappointments, from drought to leaks and the demise of the damn dam builder who engineered his untimely death by falling out of the sky.
Great fortitude was required to face this huge empty hole I had dug right in front of my home, I did feel silly a lot and went back to all the calculations and flow meter observations to reassure myself that I was not a complete eejit.
But now it is very full and looks GREAT, and my math’s has been confirmed. It looks better than ever I expected.
Ducks, blacksmith plovers and even a fish eagle have now graced my waters, not to mention the happy phisher folk who have been lavish with their praise for these extensive waters filled with active and vibrant trout.

The estate now can boast 4.5 plus hectares of crystal clear spring water, that is nearly 10 acres of great phishing, what can I say we need a boat!

BURNING COWS

The life of a cowboy is rich and varied and these gentle bovines are a joy, so it was with heavy heart that I eventually decided that I must fulfill the letter of the law and burn their bums with several red hot irons, ouch.

Cows each and every one of them have their own number, this indicates whose they are, on which farm they were born, and when they were born.
Lots to say when it is being scorched into ones backside, and my liddle babies each had to have the letters RDB, a number or 2 depending on what order they were born on the farm and a 07 to indicate that was the year of their birth, a minimum of 6 hot irons pressed into flesh for 6 looong seconds each, making for a full half minute plus of solid torture, a long time indeed.
As a townie this seemed a cruel and unnatural thing to do to those that trusted and admired one.
But it is the law and had to be done. So the irons were heated in the iron-heating machine, the young beasties were confined and electrodes attached to front and rear rendering them immobile with electricity, quite a handy thing, and the smell of burning hair and flesh filled the air.
Well let me tell you those animals seemed to not feel this unpleasant thing at all, a low moo did escape sometimes, but hey, when released from the crush they did not even look at their so recently tortured bums, just returned to the daily task of sucking grass as though naught had transpired.
If I had been scorched on my arse like that believe me I would have complained a lot and rubbed etc but these stoic beasts just shrugged it of, amazing!
It was noticeable that the last of them to go through the fiery gap and had watched their chums go through before them did seem to show some marked reluctance to get into place, so they are not that thick, but all were eventually done and I felt very manly indeed.

Die Vyf Assegaaie Voetslaanroete


Die Vyf Assegaaie is so vernoem, en dis my eie teorie, omdat dit die elemente van die vyf bekende mooiste staproetes bevat.

• Daar is die opdraendes en die rondom-wye berguitsigte van die naby-geleë Bermondsey.
• Die pragtige vergesigte, diep klowe met swewende miswolkies en eskarpement-voetpaadjies van die Rooi Ivoor.
• Die lieflike Hansie-en-Grietjiebos, verbyst erende watervalle en borrelende rivierstrome omsoom met wuiwende varings van die Magoebas.
• Die lekker gemaklike Mabalelpaadjies van die ook naby-geleëWathaba.
• En het ek gehoor van die mense sê: “Dit herinner aan die Outenikwa, want hier is bome en plante in die inheemse bos wat ek nog nooit gesien het nie!”
• Daar was die verstommendste koraalrooi blommetjie, met blare soos krappote, maar dit was nie 'n blommetjie nie, het díe wat weet gesê: “Dit is 'n sampioen!”.
• Die veldblommetjies was so mooi en so vol-op dat een van die vrouens afgebuk het, 'n bossie vol gepluk en dit in haar blink-blond opgestapelde hare gedruk het. So verassend, so verfrissend, so mooi, maar o weëmy, so uitputtend…

Dalk was dit omdat ons weens die baie reën heen en weer oor die vol rivierstrome moes klouter, oor vlymskerp slymgladde klippe, dalk was dit omdat ons verdwaal het in die lang gras, dalk was dit omdat ons die paadjie byster geraak het omdat díe agter 'n omgevalle boomstomp verdwyn het, dalk was dit omdat die handjie-tekens in plaas van die voetjie-tekens nie altyd sigbaar was nie, dalk het ons die merke wat soms net 'n wit blerts was verwar het met iets anderste, dalk was dit omdat die doringtakke oor die paadjies gelêen ons moes ompad neem, dalk was dit omdat ons eers moes stry watter afdraai-paadjie om te neem, dalk was dit omdat die laaste ent die slingerpaadjie eers af en toe op en toe weer af en toe weer op gegaan het, dalk was dit omdat die opdraandes te kwaai en die rugsakke te swaar gelaai was wat die swakkes se moed geknak en die sterkes moerig gemaak het.

Dit was 'n pad wat vyand Andries en vyand Jurie as "netlekker" sal bestempel. My vriendin Elzabe sal dit 'n"rowwe eniekie" noem. Aan die einde van die pad het ek presies geweet waarom hulle dit die VYF ASSEGAAIE genoem het, maar dit moet jy vir jouself gaan uitvind. Moet net nie soos ons, as julle soontoe ry te vroeg afdraai van die grootpad af as julle die 'Bloemfontein' teken sien nie. Die eintlike pad na die VYF.. is 'n paar tree verder aan.


Lekker stap!
Jeanne

9 Februarie 2009

108 TREES

There are in this world strange men, nice men and then there are men who love trees! In Witbank one such man and his acolyte who simply adore trees, all trees from the pantyhose tree to the mighty Yellow wood.
Van Dyke Zeeman is his name and he came the other day to the estate to look at ours.
It turns out that we have many trees, 108 different species to be precise. That’s a lot of trees, in fact Mr. Zeemann has never seen so many on one estate before and from a man who does little other than visit proud landowners to ID their trees this is high praise indeed.

Van Dyke is a startlingly fit heavy smoking 75 year old who having retired from the dubious joys of running the financial affairs of the city of Witbank has devoted his remaining years to the study of South African trees.
He and his side kick Johann, arrived here a to add their knowledge to my trail with a weighty box or two of tree labels so that the hikers and I, with a couple of bemused tree label humpers, can be illuminated as to the name and genus of the vegetation they are passing We arrived at Gods Window camp early in the morning and spent an hour or two labeling just the trees that are a feature there alone, and indeed just around the camp there are about 30 species from Jasmine to parsley trees, starry rice bush trees and stunted Outeniqua yellow woods, candle wood and blackbird berry trees oh just to many to mention.

Well that was quite an exercise, but nothing compared to what was to follow. We trundled off down the Hells Bells trail, a walk that should take a couple of leisurely hours to navigate, but with these two tertiary dendrologists in tow, this little walk took the entire day. We hardly walked more than a couple of steps at a time without them getting into a little huddle over a leaf, by the time we got to the bottom my neck felt like I had been star gazing for a week, my head was bursting with all the new facts and tales of all things dendrological.
Did you know that the Transvaal Milkplum or Stamvrug tree known to its friends as ‘Englerophytum magalismontanum’ has a symbiotic relationship with ants rather than flying insects and so grows its flowers along its stem rather than at the end of its branches like most trees, well now you do and this was but a snippet of all the things I was told, sadly most of which went straight in one ear and out the other, there was just too to much to take it all in.

So all you tree lovers, you want to walk down a wonderful path and at the same time be illuminated as to all names of the trees, look no further than this trail, we have named a few hundred of the trees (many repeats) so you can really learn their names, and through that become aware of how little one knows about the wonderland that we live in and I think appreciate it all the more for that.