Speckled Bean

17/04/2025

Wors, Deadlines & the Leader of the Free World
A Klappersfontein Prelude to Panic
From my old rocking chair—strategically placed for evading phone calls, final demands, and the temptation to do anything remotely useful—I watched as the last rays of the African sun bled out across the sandstone koppies. Those ancient, gossiping hills have seen more of South Africa’s real history than any Minister of White Lies and Public Relations could name without first checking the WhatsApp group titled “Talking Points and Other Fiction.”
They glowed the way they always do before impending catastrophe: rich orange fading into burnt marmalade, like the final toast of a power outage or the colour on a boerewors packet just before the expiry date.
It was during this sacred hour of reflection—reserved for peace, Moerkoffie, and artfully dodging one’s publisher—that Baksteen arrived, radiant with purpose.
“I’ve invited Oom Donald,” she said, like one announces that the church roof’s caught fire again.
There was a silence. Not the usual kind either. This was the sort of silence that lands after a shotgun misfire at a funeral or when you realise the dog’s just eaten your last tax return.
Pieter looked up from the braai like a man who’s just remembered where he buried the spare keys—in 1994.
“Who?”
“Oom Donald. Trump. You know—the President.”
“The current one?”
“Yes,” said Baksteen, chest puffed like a rooster on election day. “The Leader of the Free World. He’s coming to Klappersfontein for a lekker braai.”
Now, under saner circumstances I would’ve chuckled. Or poured another Klippies. Or at least asked if she’d recently switched chemists.
But I didn’t.
Because survival instincts—sharpened by years of bureaucracy, braai smoke, and municipal billing errors—kicked in.
Especially as my publisher, who communicates exclusively in all-caps and war-cries, had just sent his fifth message for the day:
“DEADLINE! DEADLINE! ARE YOU STILL BREATHING OR DO I CONTACT THE LOCAL UNDERTAKER?”
And here I was, trying to cobble together a coherent tale while the farm around me was morphing into an international incident held together with old fencing wire, burnt mielie husks, and the faint hope that Wagter wouldn’t mistake a diplomat’s leg for a wors roll.
The panic began at dawn.
Not with Oom Donald himself, mind you, but with the advance team—swarms of agents in dark suits, earpieces, and enough attitude to make the Dominee’s rooster give up crowing entirely.
One of them eyed the compost heap suspiciously, declared it a “possible biohazard,” and promptly interrogated the prayer group about cyber-terrorism.
Another fellow pointed at the rooster, yelled “Hostile Surveillance Unit!” and shot it stone-dead.
“That’s Roy,” said Baksteen. “He’s just suspicious by nature.”
By mid-morning, a note appeared—written in gold ink, possibly with presidential DNA on the margins:
“Oom Donald would prefer a round of golf before the braai.
Please prepare an 18-hole course.
Must include caddies, sand traps, and a presidential podium.”
Pieter collapsed like a punctured lilo.
“We’ve got three holes. All of them dug by moles. And the only caddy we have is the Dominee, and he’s still at choir practice.”
Then came the culinary crisis.
Tannie Melania, it was revealed, followed a strict vegetarian regime—“no meat, no dairy, no fun.”
This sent shockwaves through Klappersfontein’s entire braai doctrine.
“I don’t do meat alternatives,” growled Tant Sarie, flinging a lump of tofu across the stoep like it owed her back rent. “Last time I braaied one of these, it exploded and took out the beetroot salad.”
But to her credit, Baksteen adapted.
Brinjals were polished. Marrows were sliced. Lentil patties—grudgingly—were introduced to the fire like wayward cousins at a family reunion.
Meanwhile, I sat and watched the sun dip behind those same koppies—those old Free State sentinels that have survived droughts, deluges, load-shedding, and five presidencies with barely a twitch.
Still more reliable than any Free State municipal invoice.
And as Wagter snored at my feet, Pieter attempted to rig a putting green using a tractor tyre, two milk crates, and a lot of prayer, I allowed myself a moment of wild optimism.
Maybe—just maybe—when the wors has curled, the mieliepap’s fluffed, and the fire dies low, Oom Donald will lean back in his camp chair, ketchup in one hand, and say something human to Tannie Melania.
And maybe, just maybe, she’ll smile. Not like a diplomat. But like a woman who’s finally tasted proper chakalaka.
And together—her with a marrow skewer, him still in his golf glove—they’ll sit beneath the stars of a Free State sky.
Where the air is cool, the wors is spiced, and the only wall we talk about is the one that keeps the goats out of the kitchen.
And who knows? Maybe even my publisher will stop shouting.
But probably not.
With that said, I bid you a great long weekend further and may your potjie talk to you the way they have always done - Simmer. Bubble. Whisper. Wait. Don’t ever stir.
GB

30/03/2025

M S A H A !
A Hole-in-One for the Soul of the Nation
Make South Africa Honest Again: One Chicken at a Time, One Smart Ball per Miracle.

It started, as most important things do in the Valley of the Hammered, with a puff of pipe smoke, a long stoep, and a woman with a plan.
I, your humble and underpaid, had been sitting there, fretting over my stuttering manuscript and my stuttering publisher, when Baksteen marched out from the kitchen like a woman who’d just reorganised national priorities over a pot of apricot jam.
“MSAHA,” she said, pronouncing it like someone sneezing while being corrected on the Constitution.
“Make South Africa Honest Again.”
It sounded, to my weary ears, like the unmistakable squawk of a Hadeda caught mid-lie.
But the plan was clear: Feed every government employee in the land one full-grown chicken per day, every day, forever.
The maths was terrifying. The logic - scary. The slogan—already trending among the guinea fowl, who had begun wearing smug expressions and holding secret dances.
But feeding millions requires funding.
So, naturally, Baksteen decided to visit Donald Trump.
And not empty-handed.

Enter: The Smart Ball – no I kid you NOT!
The Smart Golf Ball™—Pieter’s masterpiece, blessed by the Dominee and soldered under great duress using leftover cell phones and the spiritual energy of last month’s electricity bill.
“Hole-in-one. Every time,” Pieter said, tapping the ball.
But this was no ordinary golf ball. It had features:
• Built-in GPS – tracks flight path, spin rate, and can navigate back to your pocket if your playing partner is dishonest.
• Grass Health Scanner – assesses the fairway, reports on moisture levels, fertilizer composition, and whether the greenkeeper deserves a bonus or a good hiding.
• AI Ethics Engine – rates your score card entry based on honesty and alignment with governmental principals.
• Monkey Avoidance System – emits a high-frequency beep when monkeys approach, then logs their biometric data to a central wildlife registry.
• Wi-Fi Hotspot – automatically connects to the nearest clubhouse network and uploads your performance to YouTube under “ .”
• USB Port – for recharging, data transfers, or emergency distress calls for spiritual assistance.
“It’s more than a ball,” said Baksteen. “It’s a small, spinning embassy of integrity.”
Even the Dominee agreed:
“It’s like communion, but with trajectory.”

That evening, the braai fire burned hotter than the local budget committee in a forensic audit.
The Daily Pothole gave it front cover, which, I agree, is nothing to write home about – but still, it’s something!
Pieter passed around schematics of the Smart Ball, drawn in pencil on the back of a faded Agri-SA calendar. The Dominee began sketching possible sermon titles:
“And lo, the Ball did not lie.”
Two additional sips of OB’s, demanded Baksteen include a meat voucher in the deal for pensioners. The guinea fowl, having heard that chickens were now a national food priority, held a moonlit concert in the mielie field. One even attempted a harmony. It did not go well.
I lit my pipe, smiled for the first time in weeks, and wrote down a title:
“MSAHA – It Starts with a Chicken and Ends with a Wi-Fi Golf Ball.”
The laughter rolled like thunder across the veld.
And even though we knew Eskom would trip the switch again and ask for more, and that the chickens were probably already unionising, we felt—just for a moment—that honesty was possible.
Especially if Pieter remembered to install the anti-theft sensor.
I bid you farewell for the week, your April copy of Speckled Bean will be available shortly at www.speckledbean.com

24/03/2025

From Helicopters to Hashtags
South Africa’s Soul-Saving Industry Gets a Digital Upgrade
In recent years, South Africans have witnessed an unexpected transformation in the world of spiritual outreach. Not long ago, communities looked skyward as well-funded religious groups soared above townships and cities in helicopters, casting blessings—and pamphlets—across the land in a spectacle of airborne salvation.
But in a dramatic shift, the soul-saving business has moved from the clouds to the cloud. The new battleground is digital, and the warriors are podcasters, influencers, and keyboard crusaders—all armed with webcams, controversial opinions, and donation links.
“We’ve gone from sermons in the sky to algorithm-driven altar calls. Now it’s less about saving souls and more about subscriber counts,” says one political leader who refuses to be names for TAX reasons. “It’s big business!” he concluded.
The modern format features livestream debates, dramatic callouts, and exclusive content for paying members—often blurred somewhere between faith and monetisation. Viewers can now choose between basic salvation or premium enlightenment, complete with bonus teachings, downloadable PDFs, and virtual debate circles.
Across platforms, a growing number of digital preachers are competing for attention in the crowded online space. What once required a tent revival, and a sound system can now be done with a smartphone, a ring light, and a data bundle. And while the message may remain rooted in tradition, the delivery has been fully updated for the bandwidth age.
What’s next? Analysts predict the rise of AI-generated prophets, virtual baptisms via QR code, and augmented reality confession boosters—complete with in-app purchases. South Africans may soon be asking whether their next spiritual breakthrough will come through fibre optics or divine intervention.
Whether this evolution signals greater accessibility or a dilution of meaning, one thing is clear: faith in South Africa is adapting rapidly—and sometimes comically—to the digital frontier.
You have a lovely week further,
GB

23/03/2025

Good morning from the bustling metropolis of Clarens!
So, I live in the small town, right? Wake up, rub the sleep out my eyes, stumble over to my PC like a zombie in slippers, switch it on… and bam!—a full-blown dashboard explodes onto the screen. Weather updates, news summaries, global stock exchange reports: DOW up, FTSE up, Nikkei... whatever. I’m half awake and already feeling like I’m running the IMF.
And then—wait for it—it tells me: “Traffic update: Light congestion in Clarens at 06h00.”
I just stare at the screen like… Bo****ks, man.
Traffic in Clarens? At 6 in the morning? The only thing moving outside is a confused guinea fowl and a few geese.
Well I guess the geese take up some of the old dirt road, but still……
Good morning Clarens
From the
Speckled Bean Team

16/03/2025

Die Regmaker
You know the story, ja. Everybody knows the story.
The Washington man has been fired. Our highly esteemed, internationally-renowned, tax-funded sales representative was given the order to pack his suitcases—filled, no doubt, with duty-free ci**rs and embassy stationery—and get on the next plane to South Africa. This, at least, is what the Daily Pothole reported, and if you can’t trust a newspaper that still uses a typewriter for editorials, who can you trust?
I leaned back in my old rocking chair, watching the Free State sunset, which was doing its best to imitate a veld fire. The evening air was heavy with the smell of Ou Hout smoke and freshly crushed optimism—the latter coming from Pieter, who had just discovered that the braai wood had mysteriously disappeared.
“Must’ve been the VAT Man,” I muttered.
Wagter, watched both of us with that expression peculiar to dogs who have done something, abnormal but hope you’ll blame the nearest municipality instead.
Now, you have to understand, to be a South African these days you need three things:
1. The min-set of a buffalo—so that you can charge straight into problems without hesitation.
2. The heart of a lion—so that you can keep a brave face when VAT goes up again.
3. And the foresight of something only found in the Dominee’s divine liquid, consumed in copious amounts to ward off the devil.
4. The Dominee was there, naturally, unscrewing the lid from a fresh bottle of OBs, with the casual indifference of a man who had never once re-used the same bottle cap twice in his life.
5. Tant Sarie had also arrived, settling in with the air of a woman who had every intention of gathering material for her next skinner session. And Baksteen—well, Baksteen was writing.
Now, when a woman sits quietly with a notepad in front of her, that is when you start to worry. It’s like seeing an empty pothole: it’s not what’s there that’s dangerous, it’s what’s about to happen next that is.
“I’ve got it,” she declared suddenly, shaking Pieter’s ear like a government worker at month-end trying to get the ATM to cooperate.
“Got what?” Pieter asked, with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for tax audits.
“The solution to all our problems.”
Even Wagter raised an ear, snorted and rolled over.
“Hard of hearing,” Baksteen announced. “That’s the problem with these bliksems. They don’t listen to the customer. And we are the customer,—right?”
We all nodded. That much, at least, was self-evident.
“And we are the customer,” she repeated, nodding her head. “They just don’t get it. So I’ve invented a new device that will sort them out once and for all.”
A silence followed. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that comes when people start wondering if they’re about to be called as witnesses in court. You know that feeling, I’m sure!
“It’s a new chair,” she went on, eyes glittering with purpose. “A specially designed chair for politicians. It keeps them awake by squirting cold water in their face every minute. Then—just to keep them motivated—it dangles a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken just out of reach. The moment they try to grab it, the chair moves back.”
Pieter swallowed hard. “And then?”
Wagter, sensing danger, edged further into the shadows of the black wattle tree. Tant Sarie sat back with the keen interest of a woman who lived for this sort of thing. The Dominee took a pious swig from his bottle and made peace with his God.
Baksteen continued, oblivious to the rising sense of doom.
“The best part is,” she said, “it doesn’t need electricity. So it’s ESKOM-proof.”
The Dominee made a sound of approval. Tant Sarie clapped once, as if awarding a prize at a church bazaar.
“And then,” Baksteen said, in a voice usually reserved for announcing the arrival of a politican, “it has a massive megaphone strapped to the back, facing forward. It’s split into two tubes, perfectly positioned over the user’s ears.”
Pieter looked like a man who had just been told he owed SARS a fortune in unpaid taxes. “Why?” he asked weakly.
“Because,” Baksteen said triumphantly, “every time the chair senses that a politician has dozed off, it automatically amplifies the cries of the people—at full volume. If they try to close their ears, the chair vibrates violently.”
There was a pause.
Then I said, “Maybe this should be standard issue in Parliament.”
That, it turned out, was the only encouragement needed. Before long, the evening’s discussions had shifted from politics to production: the design of the prototype, the costs of manufacturing, potential export markets, and whether it could win an award at the annual GNU Best Performing Politician ceremony.
And of course, a great invention needs a great name. Many were suggested. Even Pieter came up with one, though we all agreed later that his idea—“Die Skelmkop Skudstoel”—sounded too much like an initiation ritual.
In the end, we all agreed.
It would be called:
“Die Regmaker”
Because, let’s be honest—somebody has to fix things.
And with that tall story, I bid you peace.
May you have a good week further
www.speckledbean.com

25/02/2025

And The Darwin Award Goes To…
The Darwin Awards, for those unfamiliar, are given posthumously to individuals who, through feats of exceptional folly, have graciously removed themselves from the gene pool—thus doing the future of humanity a small but meaningful favour.
Now, in a country like South Africa, where we have long learned to laugh in the face of adversity (mostly because the alternative is to weep into your mug of Moer-Koffee), we have seen our fair share of contenders. One such laureate of natural selection is the late Pastor Wesley, whose unshakable faith in divine intervention was, unfortunately, not quite as unshakable as the laws of physics.
But few can top the 2019 saga of the Rhino Poacher and the Circle of Life.
In what can only be described as a biblical tale with a Kruger Park twist, our intrepid poacher embarked on his noble quest to rid the world of yet another rhinoceros—because, as we all know, powdered rhino horn is widely believed to improve certain, shall we say, masculine deficiencies (the irony is staggering).
Armed with nothing but determination, questionable ethics, and what must have been an expired map, our hero slipped past the park rangers and into the bush. He might have imagined himself a rugged safari outlaw, a Hemingway-esque figure braving the African wilderness. Unfortunately, the first act of this bushveld drama ended abruptly when he encountered an elephant—who, unimpressed by the intrusion, promptly introduced him to Newton’s Third Law.
What followed was the kind of poetic justice that would make a Greek tragedian weep with joy. The poacher, now flattened to a more manageable size, was soon discovered by a pride of lions who, never ones to let a free meal go to waste, proceeded to mop up the remains with the efficiency of a township shebeen at closing time.
By the time the rangers found what was left of him, the only identifiable features were his shoes—standing there forlornly, much like his now-defunct career prospects.
If there is a moral to this story, it is this: In South Africa, as in life, it is always wise to respect the local wildlife. And if you absolutely insist on playing the role of an apex predator, at least make sure that every creature within a 10-kilometer radius hasn’t already got dibs on the title.
And so, to our dearly departed poacher, who came to take from nature and instead was taken by nature, we say this: You have gone the way of the dodo, but at least you did it in style.
And for that, dear sir, we salute you with the highest honour Darwin can bestow.
www.speckledbean.com

17/02/2025

Join us on a musical journey with This Land We Call Home—a powerful Country & Western anthem celebrating Africa’s beauty, unity, and hope. Set against the golden savannas, rolling rivers, and vibrant cultures of our continent, this song is a call for peace, rational thinking, and the deep love we hold for the land of our birth.
With soul-stirring male and female vocals, the song weaves a tale of resilience and unity, carried by the rich sounds of fiddle, violin, guitar, and pan pipes. The lyrics echo the dreams of generations past and future, reminding us that no storm, war, or struggle can break the spirit of Africa.
As the eagle soars high, as rivers flow strong, and as communities come together, this anthem serves as a tribute to the land we cherish—forever remembered, forever free.
🎵 Listen, share, and be inspired!
📌 Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe for more uplifting music that speaks to the heart of Africa!
🎶✨

Join us on a musical journey with This Land We Call Home—a powerful Country & Western anthem celebrating Africa’s beauty, unity, and hope. Set against the go...

14/02/2025

Love n Light.

13/02/2025

The Return of the Kwagga
Baksteen
I sat on the stoep of Klappersfontein, contemplating my new short story with the kind of deep, meaningful expression that only a writer and a man avoiding real work can manage. In my hand, I cradled a tin mug of Moer Koffie, thick enough to hold a teaspoon upright and strong enough to make a man reconsider his past sins. In the other hand, my pipe smouldered lazily, filling the air with the comforting scent of Springbok to***co.
The morning stretched out before me, quiet and full of the kind of promises that never quite pan out, when Wagter let out a bark—the kind that suggested either something was terribly wrong, or incredibly interesting.
I followed his gaze past the mielie lands, past the windpump that hadn’t worked properly since the British were here, and there, emerging from the golden haze like a misplaced relic from another time, stood a Kwagga.
I blinked, took the pipe from my mouth, and stared at the apparition before me. Then, with great composure, I looked at the smouldering bowl of my pipe and muttered, "Well, that’s the last time I buy to***co from Oom Frik. This stuff’s strong enough to raise the dead."
Wagter, who had chased off everything from stray baboons to overly persistent traveling salesmen, took a different approach this time. He trotted forward with the sort of cautious enthusiasm one might show when meeting a long-lost cousin at a family braai—curious but prepared to bolt at the first sign of trouble. The Kwagga, unbothered, gave its tail a flick, and just like that, a silent, unbreakable agreement was formed. Wagter had found himself a new best friend.
It was then that Baksteen emerged from the house, her strong farmer’s stride purposeful, her hands wiping on her apron as she surveyed the scene. "Wat’s hierdie lawaai nou weer?" she called, spotting Wagter sitting proudly next to his new-striped companion.
"Jy sal dit nie glo nie," I said, still staring at the creature that by all accounts shouldn’t exist. "Maar ek d**k ons het nou ‘n Kwagga op Klappersfontein."
Baksteen, ever the practical one, walked up to Wagter and his newfound friend, hands on her hips. She studied the Kwagga with the same appraising look she’d give a new plough before deciding if it was worth the trouble. "Hmm," she said, reaching out to touch its shoulder. "Hy voel reg, lyk reg… en hy’s beslis nie ‘n spook nie. Wagter het ‘n nuwe tjommie gemaak."
The Kwagga flicked an ear, unbothered, while Wagter beamed with the self-satisfaction of a dog who had just arranged the most remarkable of homecomings.
I scratched my head, took another sip of coffee, and considered the facts. "Nou maar kyk," I said, though to whom exactly, I wasn’t sure. "That’s a Kwagga. Hulle’s uitgesterf. Or so the clever university types say."
The Kwagga, with the air of an animal that had successfully outlived colonial wars and bad farm policy, simply looked at me, as if to say: Uitgesterf? My voet.
And that was that. Because in the Free State, things don’t disappear—not lost socks, not old grudges, and apparently not Kwaggas either. Pieter, looking as confused as a man trying to read an English newspaper for the first time, wandered over with a spanner in hand. "Is daai ‘n…?"
"Ja," I said. "Dit is."
So we did what any sensible Free State people would do. We fetched a bucket of water, Pieter found some oats, and Wagter sat proudly beside his new-striped comrade, looking like a dog who had just been promoted to guardian of something remarkable.
I took another sip of my Moer Koffie and sighed. Some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved. After all, there were mielies to harvest, a story to write, and now, it seemed, a Kwagga to look after.
Have a great weekend
www.speckledbean.com

04/02/2025

Baksteen and the Potjie Pot Crisis
Garth Brook
On Baksteen’s farm, Klappersfontein, just outside Clarens, where the Pencil Poplar trees stand like gossiping old men with their arms folded, the afternoon had settled into that lazy stillness found only when nothing important was expected to happen. Which, of course, was precisely when something did.
Baksteen sat at her rough-hewn kitchen table, staring at a crumpled newspaper with the same intensity she once reserved for suspicious looking mielie bags after the neighbour’s goat had paid a visit. Wagter, her African Bull Terrier, sprawled underfoot, twitching occasionally as if chasing bureaucrats in his sleep.
Pieter, thin and angular like a fence post forgotten in a veld fire, hovered near the door, sensing the kind of trouble that didn’t need to be fetched because it had already arrived.
“They’re taxing everything,” Baksteen muttered, her finger jabbing at the print. “Wine, steel, rooibos tea… even koeksisters.” She paused dramatically. “But—” and here her voice rose with the righteous fervour of someone discovering a family heirloom untouched by time—“they’ve excluded the South African Potjie Pot.”
There was a silence, broken only by Pieter’s attempt to sip his coffee quietly, which he failed at miserably.
“This,” Baksteen declared, rising as if summoned by destiny itself, “is an act of heroism. I must thank Donald Trump personally.”
It was at this critical juncture that the Dominee arrived, as he often did, with the impeccable timing of a man who sensed both free coffee and potential scandal. He listened to Baksteen’s proclamation, his eyebrows performing a slow dance of theological disapproval.
“Before you set sail, Baksteen,” he said, folding his hands like he was about to bless his latest harvest of OB’s from the Dop Shop, “consider one obstacle—Elon Musk.”
Baksteen frowned. “Elon who?”
“Musk. The man who tried to reinvent the Potjie Pot with lithium batteries. Failed every competition. Burnt a potjie so badly, it had the structural integrity of a charred sermon note.”
The Dominee leaned closer. “But he’s dangerous. To men like Musk, tradition is something to be upgraded. He could convince America to tax the Potjie Pot—or worse, to replace it with something called an ‘Eco-Friendly-Stew .’”
Baksteen’s eyes narrowed. “Then I’ll not only thank Trump—I’ll warn him about Musk. Wagter, fetch my hat. Pieter, don’t burn down the farm. Dominee, pray for me. I’m off to defend the honour of the Potjie Pot.”
And as she strode out, Wagter at her heels, the dust rising in small, indignant clouds, it was clear to all that history was about to be seasoned, slowly simmered, and served in cast iron.
I bid you a good day further
Garth Brook

02/02/2025

Clarens on the Map!
Dear Speckled Bean Community,
We are thrilled to announce that the February issue of Speckled Bean is now available at www.speckledbean.com. This edition is packed with vibrant stories, local highlights, and exciting features to inspire both our loyal readers and new audiences.
But this isn't just about a magazine—it's about Clarens and our greater region. To expand our reach beyond local borders and attract more visitors to our beautiful area, we’re leveraging the power of Magzter.
What is Magzter?
Magzter is the world’s largest digital newsstand with over 79 million paid subscribers globally. That’s 20% more than the entire population of South Africa. Yes, people still read—and they read a lot. Just take a stroll past any newsstand; the big names are all there, and now, Speckled Bean is standing proudly among them.
Why Magzter?
• Global Reach: Your business, our stories, and the charm of Clarens will be showcased to readers across South Africa and around the world.
• Targeted Marketing: It helps us attract travelers whose limited budgets demand clear choices. We aim to be their first choice.
• More Foreign Currency: By drawing in international visitors, we're bringing vital tourism revenue directly to our community.
The Mission for 2025:
We don’t want to be second or third on anyone’s travel list. We want to be Top Gun throughout 2025. That means aggressive marketing, compelling content, and a united front from all of us in Clarens.
To all local businesses, please work with us. When we reach out for information, it's not just for Speckled Bean; it's for your business, your neighbour's, and the prosperity of our entire town.
Enjoy the February issue. There's plenty to read, plenty to love, and plenty of reasons to visit. Together, let's make Clarens the destination everyone is talking about.
Visit: www.speckledbean.com
Warm regards,
The Speckled Bean Team

20/01/2025

The Vanishing Gold of Harrismith
Baksteen
Sunday evenings at Klappersfontein had a rhythm that never changed. By late afternoon, the fire would be crackling in the hearth, the smell of woodsmoke mingling with the faint aroma of marinated sosaties. I sat in my rocking chair, nursing a nip of Klippies and puffing on my pipe, as the rest of the gang began trickling in.
But the real adventure started Friday morning. First came Baksteen, her scrapbook clutched to her chest like it held the secrets of the universe. Behind her was Pieter, looking as skeptical as a jackal eyeing a porcupine, and, of course, Wagter, tail wagging like he’d just discovered a fresh dinosaur bone. Tant Sarie arrived soon after, with the Dominee trailing behind, looking resigned, as though he already knew he’d be dragged into something beyond his calling.
“Ja, so now,” Baksteen declared, flipping open her scrapbook to a yellowed page, “here’s something to put meat on Sunday’s fire. Gold in the Platberg, hidden by a Boer commando! Tomorrow, we’re going to dig it up.”
Pieter grunted. “Baksteen, the only thing you’re going to dig up is trouble. Remember last time? You swore there was a treasure chest in the old quarry. We found a wheelbarrow full of goat bones!”
“This time, it’s real,” Baksteen retorted, jabbing a finger at a crude map. “Here’s the proof.”
Tant Sarie gasped, her knitting forgotten. “Dominee, we must go. What if this is the Lord’s way of providing for us?”
The Dominee adjusted his glasses. “I’m not sure if this is divine intervention or just human folly,” he muttered, but the look Tant Sarie gave him ensured he’d be joining the expedition.
The next morning, as the rooster crowed, they set off for the Platberg. I stayed behind, of course. Someone had to guard the homestead. Besides, I knew how these adventures of theirs usually ended—with tales bigger than the treasure they ever found.
By evening, they returned, covered in dust and disappointment, except for Wagter, who trotted in proudly—what he’d been up to, heavens only knew. Sarie produced their only find: a solitary British sovereign. She held it up like a relic, her eyes shining with triumph.
“Well,” Baksteen said, brushing dirt from her hands, “it’s not a chest of gold, but it’ll buy a round of Klippies for next weekend’s braai.”
As the fire roared and the sosaties sizzled, Baksteen raised her glass and declared, “You’ll never find gold if you don’t pick up a spade.”
And there it was—our motto for the week. Another Sunday evening at Klappersfontein, where the stories were always richer than the treasures they sought.
www.speckledbean.com