Speckled Bean

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

17/01/2025

The Troubled Ghosts of the Malutis
Baksteen
When the African sun slid down behind the koppies of Klappersfontein, like a fat gold sovereign slipping through a hole in a poor man’s pocket, I sat beneath the sprawling arms of an old blue gum tree. My pipe, packed with enough Springbok to***co to make a lesser man’s head swim, wafted a fragrant haze into the still air. It was that hour when the veld seems to hold its breath, waiting for the night to spread its dark kaross over the land.
Around the fire, the heart of any honest farmstead, Baksteen stood, her silhouette cutting a figure against the flames that could have been carved from granite. She was tossing logs onto the fire with the same nonchalance a child might toss pebbles into a dam. Sparks danced upwards, like a flock of fiery birds taking flight. At her feet lay Wagter, the African Bull Terrier, snoring softly, his ears twitching at some dream of hunting porcupines or chasing vagrant chickens.
Beside her, Pieter perched awkwardly on an upturned paraffin drum, his scrawny frame barely casting a shadow. If Baksteen was the solid rock of the farm, Pieter was the reed—flexible enough to survive the storms, but barely noticeable in the landscape. Yet Baksteen loved him with the kind of devotion that only a woman who could plough an entire mealie field before breakfast could muster.
I had been spinning a yarn about the ghosts of the Malutis—how they haunt the high passes and valleys, rattling chains that once tethered ox-wagons and whispering secrets to the night wind. Baksteen, though, wasn’t having any of it. She turned to me, her hands on her wide hips, her gaze sharp enough to cut through any nonsense.
“We’ve entered,” she said, her voice carrying the same weight as a boulder rolling downhill.
“Entered what?” I asked, tamping down my pipe and peering at her through the smoky twilight.
“The storytelling competition,” Pieter piped up, his voice as thin and reedy as the man himself.
“Haibo!” I exclaimed. “You’re taking on the big leagues, then?”
“It’s not just any competition,” Pieter said, adjusting his battered hat with a solemnity reserved for funerals and tax audits. “Entries have come in from as far as Cape Town. You know, where the ouens sit in their coffee shops, drinking imported cappuccinos and pretending to be deep.”
Baksteen snorted. “Ja, those ones with their degrees in ‘Creative Writing’ and their workshops where they talk about character arcs and plot twists. And here we are, sitting with nothing but a cup of the Dominee’s ‘Triple Blessed Old Brown Sherry’ and a bit of guts.”
The Dominee, who had been nursing his glass quietly, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was used to Baksteen’s candor and probably agreed that his sherry was, indeed, a divine creation.
“Well, what’s your story about?” I asked, leaning forward.
“The Troubled Ghosts of the Malutis,” Baksteen said with a sly grin that could have charmed the devil himself.
I nodded, impressed. “A classic title. What’s the twist?”
“It’s about a Boer and an Englishman,” she began, “who meet their end on opposite sides of the same mountain pass. Their ghosts are bound to haunt the place, arguing over who really owned the land, until one day a Basotho herdsman comes along and sets them straight.”
“Sets them straight?” Pieter asked, scratching his head.
“Ja,” Baksteen said, her grin widening. “He tells them they’re both wrong—it belongs to the sheep. After all, they’ve been grazing there longer than any of us.”
We all roared with laughter. Even Wagter stirred, opening one eye as if to join in the joke.
As the fire crackled and the stars pricked the vast African sky, I raised my mug. “Here’s to you, Baksteen,” I said. “May your story win, and may the sheep inherit the earth.”
The Dominee chuckled, shaking his head. “Storytelling is a God-given gift,” he said, “and if Baksteen doesn’t win, I’ll bless the judges with a good tongue-lashing.”
We sat there long into the night, swapping tales and laughter. The Malutis loomed dark and mysterious in the distance, as if guarding their own secrets. And in that moment, I thought: in a land where the soil holds memories of wars and weddings, where the wind carries the voices of the past, and where even a frail man like Pieter can find his strength beside a woman like Baksteen, there’s no better stage for the stories that keep us human.
And no better storytellers than those who, like Baksteen, have the courage to speak with the voice of the veld.
You have a wonderful weekend further
www.speckledbean.com

17/01/2025

AI Bird Feeder Announced
A Revolution in Feathered Feasting!
Friends, gather round—I’ve just stumbled upon a discovery so exciting; it makes my old Hi-Tech days look like I was trying to send emails with carrier pigeons. And, ironically enough, this involves pigeons. And mossies. And sparrows. In fact, it involves all our feathered friends, served up with a side of AI wizardry that would make a meerkat look twice.
Introducing the AI Bird Feeder—a marvel so smart, it could probably decipher your Eskom account. if it weren’t so busy identifying birds and dispensing feed with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. This gadget doesn’t just toss breadcrumbs; it knows who’s visiting and what they need. It’s like having a maître d’ for your backyard, only it doesn’t expect tips.
Here’s why I’m over the moon:
• Real-Time Bird Recognition: It’s like the SASOL Book for birds! Spotting species faster than you can say, “Is that a red-winged blackbird or just an indecisive mossie?”
• Automated Feeding: It doles out food with the precision of a butler who went to bird school. No waste, no fuss, just happy chirping customers.
• Environmental Monitoring: Temperature, humidity, air quality—it’s basically the weatherman your backyard always wanted.
• Community Connection: You can share sightings, contribute to bird conservation, and even brag about that rare finch on your app.
If technology and nature had a baby, this AI Bird Feeder would be it. My Hi-Tech roots are positively glowing, and I feel like a proud inventor, even though someone else did all the work. Friends, this is the future—and it’s feathered, fabulous, and about to make your garden the talk of the bird world.
Now that’s something Clarens needs.
Love and light
GB

05/01/2025

Pump For Joy
On Klappersfontein, where the gossip is louder than Tant Sarie at the co-op, Pieter sat frowning at the "Daily Pothole Gazette," a paper that reported facts with all the precision of a drunk sheepdog herding shadows.
"Look here, Baksteen," he said, folding the paper into a shape that resembled last week’s rooster pie. "The Lords of Poverty—soon to be renamed the Founding Fathers of the House of the Falling Bricks (Woke… FFHFB) —want us to drop everything and join a scheme called 'Pump for Joy.'" Or PoJ’s (Woke again).
Baksteen paused mid-slice of biltong, her knife glinting like the Dominee’s eye during a well lubricated sermon. "Pump for Joy? Sounds like another plan dreamt up after too much mampoer. What now?"
"Six thousand boreholes," Pieter said. "And trampolines. We jump up and down to pump water, designed by someone’s brother’s cousin for only a few million."
Wagter, their Bull Terrier, growled—a sound usually reserved for census takers and politicians.
"I don’t trust any plan involving coordinated bouncing," Pieter said. "Next thing, we’ll be knitting winter scarves for the “Honourable Ones” sleeping in parliament."
Baksteen leaned back, folding her arms like ox plough traces. "And when the trampolines tear?"
"Spare parts arrive in eight months, assuming the trains aren’t hijacked or replaced by Coal trucks from Eskom."
Wagter snorted.
"The only thing getting pumped is my patience," Pieter said.
Baksteen grinned. "At least the crows will enjoy the show." Wagter caught a biltong slice mid-air, proving some things still worked properly.
See you at the Pump Station,
Your copy of Speckled Bean Awaits
www.speckledbean.com

05/01/2025

05/01/2025

Speckled Bean - January 2025 Issue Now Available!

Great news! The Speckled Bean January 2025 issue is officially on the wires and ready for you!

www.speckledbean.com

🎉 Get your FREE copy today! 🎉

You have multiple ways to enjoy it:

Flipbook Edition – Experience the magazine online with a quick and seamless flip-through format. Perfect for readers on the go!

PDF Version – Read it directly on your screen or download it for later. Whether you prefer digital convenience or a printed copy for leisure reading, we’ve got you covered.

Whichever option you choose, Speckled Bean is here to inspire, inform, and entertain.

Thank you for your continued support—happy reading!

We Serve.Da Team

02/01/2025

News Feed posts
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Facebook
Garth Brook
otsnoprSed01g7f0u57h3u2ftii3093876m45tlg830lgggc5i2
6
it
m
1f6h6
·
Shared with Public
Let’s shake things up in Clarens this year with something truly unique—the Theremin! 🎶
For those who don’t know, the Theremin is one of the earliest electronic musical instruments, invented in 1920 by Russian physicist Léon Theremin. What makes it so fascinating? It’s played without any physical contact! Instead, you control the sound by moving your hands near two metal antennas, creating ethereal and otherworldly tones.
Finding a Theremin in South Africa might take a bit of digging, but it’s not impossible! You can check out the Burns B3 Theremin, perfect for both beginners and pros, available online for around R6,755 at Desertcart South Africa.
Curious about how it sounds? Take a listen and watch it in action here:
👉 Theremin Performance - YouTube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYSGTkNtazo&t=304s
Let’s add some sci-fi vibes to Clarens this year—what do you think?
GB

Learning one of the most unique instruments I know of from master theremin player Carolina Eyck.Carolina Eyck's website: https://www.carolinaeyck.com/YouTube...