TG Newsletter: SPOEGRIVIER CAVES
(9 – 23 October 2020)
Chikita signing in. I'm guest-writing because the fees-komitee can't also be clean-up crew. Skinny threw me one heck of a groovy birthday party so this is my thanks.
Since our America tour plans kinda fell through, and similarly also our northern Namibia plans, we had to slum it in sunny SA for my annual birthday adventure. Long on the Tank Girls To-Do list was Skinny's idea to go where humankind had braaied its very first tjop:
THE SPOEGRIVIER CAVES
The only way there is through the thickest sand barrier known to man. Impenetrable. Visible from space. Scariest terrain imaginable.
To prep, we DIY’ed a training day at Rhino Park, achieved nothing, and settled on a different strategy: We would take two weeks. If two weeks aren't enough to get there and back then it simply can't be done.
So we left everything we knew and loved behind and set off, starry-eyed, for the Namaqua coast!
We arrived in Kamieskroon just as all the blommekykers had buggered off. Chairs were neatly stacked up on the tables in the corner and they were busy rolling up the tar road. Flower season was over and the resident ghosts roamed freely once again. A chill filled the air and the wind picked up steadily.
We checked into the hotel and our travel plans were just starting to take a whiskey stained shape outside on the stoep when this KTM640 rode right up to me and (I dunno how she pulled it off, but) it's Metaljockey! A great adventure rider and hero from way back when I just started riding! What a rad surprise! Thanks Skinny!
We got to swap war stories all night and I drank way more than any sleep-deprived adventurer should after a sixteen-hour commute from Mooinooi... Sorry Erich. But no-one even drew a moustache on my passed out ass. Are we really getting too old for that?
Specialized Adventures guided a group of riders through many of the same places we ended up going. We did it without the Unimog and matching mini eco system though, but the guys had really nice coffee!
Where it's usually only us two and our own familiar morning rituals, to be afforded this rare glimpse at the pack-animal dynamic was, I wouldn't say valuable, but certainly amusing! It takes a special kind of morning person to sleep under the stars in howling wind.
Hopeful to catch what’s left of the world famous wildflowers, we looped around the Kamiesberge, passing quite a few establishments that were closed for business. Tail-end of the season we presumed, or perhaps a Corona-corollary, but we could norrevok find cold drinks anywhere, never mind beer! Now I don’t need to explain the science but that’s a pretty serious problem when you’re afflicted with severe afterthirsties…
By 4pm we would look for a spot to camp, preferably near a river (unlimited supply of free water, you see)! Outta nowhere this sign glides by for "Thys se Kombuis en Pub"... We instinctively registered “something something PUB” and pulled up. It looked quiet, but not haunted... Out from the back garden, accompanied by celestial choir music, appeared Annemie, a jovial blue-eyed vision with open arms and wide open bar! Four Zamaleks and two venison pies, and our tent auto-pilot pitched itself right on the lawn.
Upon hearing of my forthcoming Fête d’ Fortay they poured us each a shot of Thys’ home-distilled WitBlits and insisted we join them again the next evening for a celebratory dinner. Beautiful hosts, if you can understand the heavy accent… “Jy ken my nié!”
We continued our flower quest in the direction of Leliefontein, traversing some exquisite mountain passes, amongst which Studer’s Pass and “Bloedsmaak se Hoog,” once again puzzled by the limited watering holes? Garies Hotel didn’t even have ice! Or refrigerated coke!
There was, however, a tenacious dimwit who tried to wipe our dirty bikes with his even dirtier rag and then insisted to be paid for it! One thing about folks in the Northern Cape: they don’t have teeth but they’re goddamn relentless!
Melk picked out a nice and scenic spot in the sun to play stubborn horsey-stubborn horsey. I turned the ignition key, quickly set up Jet Girl (the drone) for a fly-along, remote control secure between my teeth, hopped on and the start button said “CLICK!” instead of “hoiinghoiinnggVROOM!” – Eyebrows go “^ ^” – Chikita goes “$#@%!”
Between mouthfuls of biltong we unhooked the battery to see if anything would reset. When nothing happened, Skinny cleverly suggested we try a push start, which did the trick alright! Brain farts ablaze! We narrowed it right down to “something with the battery…” Wise beyond our years, we are.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Thys was chomping at the bit to take us up the mountain and show off his special sunset spot. He’s a big guy on a little bike with a floppy hat and infectious smile. Following our chilled day-ride, this was the adrenaline rush we didn’t know we craved! A spirited ascent with our guide blitzing back and forth on his Suzuki DR200 to help either of us up. “Whoops, another one down.” We simply couldn’t get over the hat!
Jollie the snow white cutie-cat had to have her stitches out and Skinny’s the most qualified because her dad is a parasitologist. After the surgery, we enjoyed a spread and tales that’ll be remembered forever. Like how a Sandton family stayed for a weekend and ended up taking one of the piglets home. “’n Leeeeelike varkie met swart kolle!”
Our operation moved a little further west, with a pit stop in Hondeklipbaai, where Rusty the Pomeranian sang me Happy Birthday and I turned 40 without spontaneously combusting or anything! (Ed: touch wood) Koos meanwhile tried his best to get us into the Richtersveld but the end of the line simply said, “no bikes allowed”.
The puffy in the road had us clutching our seatbelts for 15km to the Namaqua park gate. What other creepy crawlies would we conquer in this strange wilderness? Teenage mutant ninja sea turtles? Navy blue seals? Jealous fish?
A nasty little sea breeze pestered the campsite, which, the later it got, transformed into a vicious typhoon type thing, but the yellow sun sunk low and slow over the restless Atlantic and we toasted forty blissful years of everlasting childhood.
The only other campers, Allan and Kae, invited us into their cozy little canvas cocoon-cave where we gibber-jabbered like age-old friends. Late that night we got a little fire started for much needed warmth, but also for getting an exclusively improvised DIY chocolate pudding birthday cake baked! (Ed: the secret ingredient is Sprite) Follow us for more recipes!
I was treated to an orchestral rendition of Lekker Verjaar, concluding this superbly special day, ride-or-dying with the best! <3
That night the ground hardened the hell up right under our bones so we rolled out of bed and straight into a foggy sunrise, pretending to be way more excited than we really were about the sand riding that lay ahead… It was also the morning we discovered to our horror that we never packed even one of our five CO2 bomb adaptors. We had all the tools and spares with us from the start but could in no way inflate a tire… Okay, so now it’s a party!
Looking a lot braver than we felt in all our armored glory, we started down a coastal shortcut toward the caves. Not very far along, we stopped to adjust a camera and Melk (Husqvarna 701) threw the old familiar “I won’t start / you’re not my real mom!”-tantrum. It gave Skinny an opportunity to forget how terrified she is of thick sand and ride back for a tow rope – pushing was not an option. Few minutes later we had the bikes hooked up footpeg-to-footpeg and scrambled out against the little incline on all fours until I felt enough momentum under me to drop that clutch. Sparks flew, we said our hielielies and fled back to the main road. Only the last few km’s would be deep stuff and we were more than okay with that.
Our tires hummed along happily at 1 bar, the first time we’d ever bothered to deflate them. From the turnoff it looked like someone had gone and built whoops into the road which helped a damn lot with traction, Melk ran lekker once I got up to third gear. Skinny employed a skiing technique she’d read about online and didn’t cry once! (Ed: though the volume at which the swear words were uttered…)
We descended quite suddenly down a dune right by the river mouth which had us both more than a little worried about getting back out later. But there they were – in all their majesty – The Spoegrivier Caves! We’d made it, after all these years!
The first ever domesticated sheep bones were found here some 2000 years ago, and apparently they were charred. Which led us to believe that our contemporary Saturday night heritage hails back to this very sacred spot – where the first ever braai took place. We’re not sure when braaibroodjies became a thing.
Man, all this talk of dop and tjop got us so hungry! They don’t allow fires in the caves these days so we opened a box of spicy bean salad for brunch (we welcomed any and all of the extra propulsion to get up and outta there.) But first, we had to walk a mile on the beach, I think it was about three miles actually, five if you factor in the wind.
We were surprised to see my cocktail flamingo cake decorations out there in the river mouth! But we really didn’t enjoy the squall and much preferred getting back to riding some sand.
Climbing out of sea-level altitude was unexpectedly easy in the end. We ran into some oncoming traffic but it was nothing we couldn’t heave and roost our way around. Not many 4×4’ers realize how difficult it is to move up out of a deep track with one-wheel drive…
Our sense of accomplishment was palpable. The tequila was warm. Best day ever.
Back at the camp, which was now chockablock full of rooftop tenters, Kae and Allan (who are both 650 riders themselves) wanted to hear all about our day. Camp fridge woes got them cooking everything they had so we needed to help ‘em eat. There wasn’t a thing we couldn’t talk about, and these people have lived!
Sleeping in the car that night was not so great but almost worth the extra 2°C of warmth. Next morning, we made ourselves a consolation cuppa Ceylon and tried to come up with a devious plan for the day. Skinny felt abnormally strong and proposed that we ride the park’s 21km safari loop. We had to plough through a stretch of dunes to get there but she didn’t regret her decision yet. She first regretted it walking in on a puff adder at the old ruin. (Ed: never again will I buy white panties) We would have knocked but someone had made off with the door decades ago.
The rest of the ride was just scenic tweespoor, a big herd of gemsbok and for lunch, an ice-cream tub full of picnic chicken. A moody fog bank loomed over the beach where we crinkled our noses at the bleatin’, flippin’, stinkin’ seal colony.
We’d done everything we wanted to do in the area, headed back inland and based ourselves at the Kokerboom Motel in a hot, dry and mercifully windless Springbok for a brand new cloverleaf experience. Since Richtersveld was out of the question, we drifted up to the north-western corner of the country.
It was a damn long ride and everything after Wildeperdehoekpas was a bloody massacre! Straight, corrugated, unending. We passed countless “heuweltjies” which are believed to be ancient termite mounds covering the entire surface, neatly visible from Jet Girl’s POV. There was not much else around. In fact, there was less than nothing. Our sightseeing went into the negative!
Overwhelmed by such absolute isolation, which literally comes with the territory, we wondered how people could exist here! The Spoegrivier settlement already had us stumped why anyone would let precious life just go by in such a godforsaken place. We think they choose it simply because it’s all they know. Us wild wanderers may never understand it. The remoteness, stillness, nothingness. Acceptance. But we have way better things to do than get all caught up in the philosophy...
We headed into Komaggas for a cool quart and spent fifteen minutes looking for a shady spot to drink it. A couple of neighbourhood kids entertained us from afar with backyard gymnastics and their grasp on bikes – they know you gotta wring its ear to go BRAAAP! We waved hello at the lady sweeping her stoep, dressed in satin pink nighties. She squinted at us for a sec and hollered, “Ek ken jou nie! Jy’s mos ‘n wit nooi!”
We finally enjoyed a belated paella di pesce on Port Nolloth’s beachfront where a multiplying group of students dared each other into the freezing ocean. It was the first sunny day of the season, which meant everyone with dropped suspension and their aunties were strutting stylishly through the main street.
Back on the cyclone coast and wrestling a mean side-wind, we pulled into Alexander Bay, immediately stopped at the Engen to top up our tanks and appropriately rubbernecked around for anyone to help us, but to no avail. Turns out you had to pay a R100 after-hours call-out fee for the attendant to come and pump juice. They close at 4PM on Fridays and remain closed for the weekend. What?!? Hell no, that kind of nonsense we shall be boycotting.
So we carried onwards a smidge to the border post for a picture of the Orange river from the bridge. Alas, the gate was locked and the sign said ‘nope’. We completely forgot about lockdown. Skinny believed all her life that if your head could fit through a gap then the rest would unflinchingly follow, (Ed: I still do) and that’s how I got talked into squeezing through a steel-framed gate into a foreign country without a single government official around to stop us! We operated swiftly in our panic to get the shot and get out, running up and down crouched over like trained movie criminals. Not suspicious at all!
Thugs like us made us rethink our intentions to wild camp so we sailed upstream to Brandkaros backpackers. The corrugated five-lane gravel highway was painfully polluted with poofy powder pits and the seat of my pants calculated that fesh-fesh instantly reduces your average speed by a whopping 60%.
We’d barely arrived when two guys walked up asking whether we had any other brands of sand planned! They recognized us from the park dunes. Wide open spaces trapped in a small world body! Then as we rode up to reception, a lady popped out behind her 4×4 asking, “Where’s your bakkie?!” – “Huh?” Turned out to be shrapnel from our campsite by the sea, the Scannell brothers with all their wives! Three brothers, one wife each.
We watched closely for wishful twinkles as the sun set over the scene where Baxter Brown picked up his first diamond in 1964. The old man still lives in the area on herbs and homeopathies.
Attie wanted to organize fuel for us at Sendelingsdrif but it was a gamble of a detour should bikes really be forbidden. I now know that two-wheelers have travelled there, so no more misterplayitsafe henceforth. We back tracked down the icy R382, spluttering into Port Nolloth on fumesicles. Gallop got 233km from one tank which is 70km more than he’s capable of at altitude.
Smalltown was crawling with cops but we acted cool, defrosting our lifeless fingers at Mar-e-Sol. Rozanne, the owner, had her jeans on backwards but it turned out that’s just how ahead of the time trendy these people are. She gave us a swanky paper map to help navigate the long, straight roads out of there, supplemented with massive debates by Poeier and the Porra, to ride this road rather than that. They gave us one job: Don’t break a leg.
The gravel turnoff to Kleinsee was barricaded by a police roadblock. Bollocks! The dog ate both our number plates… We got off with a “Take caution over the red sand” – Phew!
We eased our way through the abyss until the landscape picked up again and we found ourselves on Spektakel pass. Heaven to feel some actual corners again! After a long hard day of nothing much we had damn well earned our drinks, but as luck would have it, most of Springbok’s power was out and we had to settle for not-so-frosty Red Hearts. We soon realized we stank and quickly flipped off to our motel room for a bubblebath and better outfits.
Elite Rebels, Hannes and Warren, saved our spot at the bar and by the time we returned the place was pumping – generator huffing and puffing in the street, ice machine rolling in the cubes, live music and barefoot dancing! We partied the night away and Danie very enthusiastically nudged us towards our next destination. Local folks always know the good spots, count on it.
We figured we’d make it to the Groot Melkboom and back the same day, so we packed only a little extra fuel and journeyed north past Concordia on a quiet dirt road. When we spotted a handsome white stallion, we stopped, opened a can of fish and box of eet·sum·mor’s, and proceeded to enjoy the scenery while there was any.
Paul Salen rushed over to check that we weren’t up to no good there on his property and reassured us that Oom Abraham who lived near the big tree with his wife would gladly help us out if things got hairy. We expected a more technical ride from the goosebumps Danie got telling us about this Cruiser Country of his. It was mostly rutted tweespoor, some sandy river beds and one or two rocky patches but completely doable and we were able to relax.
Found the spot and gravitated straight towards the river where we cooled off for a good while before unanimously deciding to stay and camp there, even though we didn’t bring the tent, or sleeping bags, or even a lighter!
Little fishies nibbled on our feet until we ultimately succumbed to our thirst, braved the consequences and just drank the river water. You’ll be happy to know that until this day, we’ve not suffered the squirts. Nor did we dehydrate and die that day in the middle of nowhere! (Ed: How many lives do we have left?)
The big tree itself had unfortunately sustained fire damage when someone tried to smoke out a beehive. So we were told by Martin, herder of two hundred plump goats, wandering through the hills with his ragged old uncle and two young dogs. The greyhound was aptly named Turbo so we nicknamed the younger pup Vtec after the “V” on his forehead. The two of them stayed behind long after the last goats had left.
Dinnertime was a table for four, sharing with two hungry doggos, a can of sweetcorn and leftover shortbread. And river water. It all went down a treat! Bedtime followed with one emergency space blanket, one serendipitous fleece blanket, and hey presto, we had a big ol’ cuddly krismisbed! We snoozed under the Milky Way like people with clear consciences.
We were up before sunrise with the barking baboons. There wasn’t much to do but saddle up and head back, no tent to fold or bags to pack. Just two handsome pooches to kiss goodbye.
We went around the mountain past Oom Abraham’s house and I had to leave my little green jerrycan behind. It had chewed through the rokstraps, which it always threatened to do, until it finally did. We hope that it might someday become a famous point of interest to the guild of illustrious overlanders.
Quiver trees are indigenous to the northern cape and southern parts of Namibia, and we later learned that they are critically endangered because the bushman arrow population expanded so much they can’t keep up!
The road back to Springbok, was flat and featureless just like we left it, but it felt nice to wave at a familiar face – Paul Salen was out fixing the crush as he had pledged to do.
While we were looking forward to fresh, locally produced dates (the fruit, not single boerseuns) and a potentially scenic wild campsite, our drive to Pella was quiet, both of us reflecting on the past few days, still astounded by the vast expanses of barren land between any two points on the map – and that those points themselves were seldom more than a bottle store besieged by badgering beggars…
We had the absolute displeasure to have to stop for a six-pack when the bakkie suddenly wouldn’t start. Ohnoes! It was maybe 35°C outside. One lightie said he’d push start us for R2. It was worth a shot, but just then an old toothless man with crazy eyes elbowed his way past the kid and would not let go even after the bakkie had jumped to life and I’d paid him R10 for his help. I don’t do well in crowds and was stressing out. Skinny and I became irritated with each other trying to get the hell outta there. We eventually found our way, but it took about 15km of internal hemorrhaging from corrugations to get back on speaking terms. It was the loneliest half hour of my life!
At the water’s edge people walked by with their goats or buckets of river water so we felt a bit like intruders there and Pella Orange River Resort was more than happy to accommodate us. While we still had our shoes on, Ouma Anna made us go help her daughter, Bridget, herd the goats. All we wanted to do was drink beer and forget that whole afternoon ever happened but we obliged and chased them around like good lassies.
A huge hairy scorpion dashed across the lawn while we were busy with a braai fire. I was subsequently handed a green plastic rake!?! “No thanks, uhm, the yard looks fine. You go put some shoes on!”
Vlooi, the gloss black dog had just had puppies and she chased all the light reflections from our watches and cellphones. We played with her and Mollie, the young bobtail cat, until all our snacks were finished and Ouma Anna said, “Stop it, julle maak my hond mal!” (…you’re making my dog crazy!) She also said when Mollie starts purring in her arms at night she just whacks him lightly, “Stop that rin-rin-rinning!” – “Go away Vlooi, jy’t lelike tieties!”
She called it a place to clear your head. No cell reception, no TV, no broad bed where you must lay next to your wife.
The day’s last rays cascaded slowly over those Great Pella mountains and in an airconditioned room nearby, two adorable explorers slumbered oh so sweetly.
After our morning tea we hit that achy breaky earthquake of a road back to Klein Pella where Karsten farm’s gate guard, Job, kindly informed us they’re closed due to you-know-what. He treated us to an improv spoken-word tour of their impressive facility and had us mesmerized with their date-infused whiskey. Employees weren’t allowed to enjoy the on-site bar though, even now that there weren’t any visitors. “As onse mense dronk word dan huil ons mos baie lelik,” he said.
Hostages of rumbling tummies, we snuck into a coffee shop in Pofadder where the waitress seduced us with fresh pasties straight from the oven. When we asked what kinda pies they were, she confirmed with the kitchen and proudly announced that they were, indeed, meat pies! Our lucky day!
Every Northern Cape town has a toothless old hobo with a funny walk and this place was no different. We narrowly escaped his onslaught and made our way to Augrabies Falls National Park.
At the gate we had to push start the bakkie again and surmised that it might also be battery troubles? Since there was no longer a shop or restaurant inside the park, we had to pass back out for water and supplies anyway, and while there was time, found a fitment center in Kakamas. With a shiny new battery under the hood, we procured all our booze and snacks for the coming days at Hartebees convenience/bottle store, but as true as Robert – Again!
Frederik, Marius, and Jessica helped us finally push the damn thing over a cliff in my mind’s eye, but in real life the Ford fired up and the nearest workshop’s deep-voiced, broad shouldered, red-headed receptionist redirected us to to WP Trekkers around the corner whose diagnostics machine revealed a faulty diesel injection system. They weren’t in a position to help but it was sweet of them to try, and we were cheerfully sent on our gloomy way. Two minutes to closing time, we tried our luck to get the battery’s money back. JP quickly swapped the old one in again and for once we started without a glitch.
With an unreliable vehicle we weren’t destined to spend as much time in Augrabies as we’d have liked but we popped in by Vera and Louis Naudé for an exclusive hand carved gift-knife where we chit-chatted the rest of the afternoon away, sweating out all of our moisture in +40°C.
Augrabies Hotel’s drinks were uncharacteristically cold, the food was tasty and Hekkie the dog was dangerously close to getting kidnapped. Barman Pietie didn’t seem to know too much about what went on outside his immediate surroundings. We tried to fish for info but there wasn’t any interest in, for instance, land speed records, which to us had been a pretty big deal! I bet you can guess where we were off to next…
But first we had to sleep in our car again, instead of pitching the tent and packing it all up in the morning. So efficient! And moderately comfortable. We were up at dawn again and a bewildered man was already running around the campsite, brandishing a slingshot. Baboons! And as if the poor people hadn’t suffered enough stolen groceries, we scooped some of their kettle water for our morning brew. They were hooking up with Voetspore in the Richtersveld while we jumped hot on the trail of Bloodhound LSR!
There we were, in the middle of a railway crossing, when Gallop’s chain adjustment just couldn’t wait any longer. Out came the tools and for about ten minutes we swung those spanners around. The train never came. Thank goodness we had our own transport.
We found gourmet cracker-stacks of green fig preserves and bybelkasies under a windmill’s scanty shade. Our caterers were absolute maestros, but we were running notoriously low on fluids. (Ed: …AGAIN!)
A formerly majestic mansion motioned for us to enter its weathered walls and reminisce over long lost lifetimes that had played out there. Where was the sense in ever building such a conspicuous construction in the middle of nowhere? We were thrilled to find zero puff adders this time around.
We rode into Noenieput at noon, and thirsty as hell. We’ve come to count on little one horse towns to have a liquor store and typically plant ourselves right in front of it. All the beer was warm so we settled for room temperature cool drinks.
A man with long silver hair walked up to us wearing a briefcase on his head. He introduced himself as Barrie, South Africa’s most mounted missionary, whose life story had been made into a movie. We learned strange and sweaty facts about his wife, and he told us about Willie, the most beautiful man who ever lived, in Askham. He explained at length what the road was going to be like and that we were in for a treat at the pan!
The final 90km stretch was severely rutted with sporadic fesh-fesh traps placed hazardously at blind crests. It was brutal. We were caught in a giant sandpit and outnumbered by bullies. Screams for help were ineffective and Skinny’s eyes were chopping onions for a soup kitchen. (Ed: if you didn’t see the tears you can’t state for a fact that I cried.) So we stopped at a mostly deserted desert lodge to regroup, and maybe give some liquid courage a try? We also exchanged vows not to ride that quicksand-infested road back to Augrabies ever again – our sanity depended on it. “What sanity?” you ask.
Moving on. The landscape levelled out again and pretty soon we were out the other side of Philandersbron, and right onto the world famous Hakskeenpan. The 21km track was meticulously marked out kilometre for kilometre. Our own high-speed run yielded dazzlingly diverse results – Skinny topped out at 267km from 12L of petrol and I chickened out at 172km/h. Because I’m not a Binder.
There we were, in the middle of a pan, and someone left the stove on! We were sizzling, the hazy heat emphasized by a desperate dryness in our throats.
Drinking tea when you're hot can apparently trick your body into feeling like outside temperatures are cooler than they really are. There wasn’t enough water for tea but some boiling hot beer happily did the trick!
We parked in the shade of our bikes until the light was lekker, unleashed the Jet Girl and had her follow us around. A seven-minute flight gets a bit long in the proverbial tooth with a drone remote clamped between your actual teeth. I suffered lockjaw for a while after that!
Once we’d taken all our photos and reached the approximate centre of our universe where everything was equally flat and far away, we threw down our sleeping bags and feasted al fresco. It was quiet, the wind was calm and we were carefree.
As naturally as it may come for us to just go out and do what we do, we realise how rare it is and how lucky we are. For as long as the sun rises over us, adventure will be had.
Daniel Mulder Distributors (www.dmd.co.za)
ANTIPANTS - ANTIPOACHING:
17 January 2021
Scrub your undies – it’s almost time for the AntiPants event again! Keep the date open – we will give more information on the FB page (www.facebook.com/skinnybikerchicken). This year we will support our elephants. We will still send you the details of the non-profit organization we will promote.
Starting venue: Union Buildings (8am, leaving at 9am)
CHIKITA PRODUCTIONS PRESENT:
Riding through Northern Cape to find the Spoegrivier caves – where the first Braai-day was held about 2000 years ago. To see nothing for days. The flatness extends past the horizon where it is hard to differentiate between the off-white at the end of the earth and the light blue at the beginning of the universe. The earth is flat… trust us! Never trust us!!!
Honestly, this lockdown has caused unfathomable devastation outside our city borders. If you’re not making a honesty donation for our newsletter, then at least fill up your tank and take a ride-out – go look for yourself. Support where you can – they need it!
If you're familiar with the rural concept of the honesty bar, this honesty newsletter ain't much different... I'm a completely un-paid journalist, relying instead on readers using the honour system. You read the newsletter and then leave an amount you see fit for the entertainment you've received.
If you don't find it particularly amusing, then you fork out NO dosh. I won't stop sending you the letter – it is still mahala to those that count their coins and... I love sharing my stories.
As requested by my overseas readers, you can donate to this newsletter on my PayPal account: email@example.com
You can do an EFT transfer to the account below.
www.pinterest.com/skinny400 YouTube: Skinny van Schalkwyk