Speckled Bean

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

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Garth Brook
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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...

02/01/2025

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

Let’s add some sci-fi vibes to Clarens this year—what do you think?
GB

21/12/2024

The South African Christmas Tree
Baksteen
It was just yesterday when Pieter came home carrying what he declared to be the perfect South African Christmas tree. Now, I’ve known Pieter for a long time, and I’ve seen him mistake a dead aloe for a modern sculpture, so I braced myself.
“It’s festive,” Pieter said, brushing the dust off its spiky leaves. “And it’s… versatile.”
Baksteen, whose opinion is often as sharp as the Y-shaped willow branch our local water diviner uses, leaned back against the kitchen doorframe. Her expression was that of someone trying to decide whether to call the police—or the Dominee.
“Pieter,” she said, her voice as steady as the As Rivier in better times, “that’s not a Christmas tree. That’s dagga.”
Now, I don’t hold with people who look down on dagga. It’s like looking down on pumpkins because you once got hit in the face with one during our Pampoen Panties Miss Clarens harvest festival. The plant has its uses—some of which involve long pipes and philosophical parliamentary debates about looting reduction. But even I had to agree that hanging fairy lights on it was bold.
Wagter, Baksteen’s African Bull Terrier, circled the tree with the suspicion of a veld coroner examining a particularly mysterious skeleton. When Wagter sneezed and backed, Baksteen took it as a sign.
“And what,” Baksteen continued, gesturing at Pieter’s handiwork, “were you planning to do? Light it up and hope the neighbours think we’re celebrating the newly announced “ESKOM, Customer Is King” program.
Pieter, never one to let good intentions be clouded by good sense, tried to defend himself. “The man at the roadside stall said it’s a ‘green gift that keeps giving!’”
I had to admit, it was keeping things lively already. Wagter barked as if to remind Pieter that the ‘gift’ had other uses—none of which included tinsel.
Just then, Tant Sarie arrived, holding a tin of her famous Koeksusters. She stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes fixed on the decorated plant.
“Baksteen,” she said, in a voice that usually prefaced announcements about babies born with AI, “are you hosting Christmas this year… or a revival meeting for Rastafarians?”
Baksteen didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t worry, Tant,” she said, “we’re just testing new incense for the midnight service.”
Tant Sarie left muttering prayers and crumbs, and Pieter began trying to fit the tree into the corner without making it look like an offering to unknown gods. Wagter, meanwhile, took it upon himself to ‘water’ the base.
Later that night, as the stars came out and the pipes were lit—strictly for research purposes, you understand—I reflected that Pieter’s tree had, in a way, brought the spirit of the season to Clarens.
And as the Dominee and Tant Sarie drove past, slowing just long enough to see the fairy lights glinting off the leaves, I thought I saw him cross himself.
Well to you and all, have a joyful festive break and remember, don’t drink and drive when you can smoke and fly.
From us at Speckled Bean, Da Team!

11/12/2024

"Dear Irene,
On this special day, may you feel the love and joy of the Speckled Beans community. From all your readers, Da Team and GB, we wish you a year ahead filled with endless blessings, boundless hope, and all the happiness your heart can hold. Happy Birthday, Irene!"

10/12/2024

Morning Greetings from the Speckled Bean Desk

So here we are, the shadows of ’24 receding behind us, and we raise a toast, as the old saying goes, “The king is dead, long live the king.” It’s been a year that took its toll on Speckled Bean. Sacrifices—big and small—were made to keep the pages turning, the stories flowing, and the readers thinking. But can we stand here and say we’ve won? I think not.

Our world, much like Macbeth’s troubled Scotland, seems forever at war with itself. Shakespeare’s tragic lessons echo still—proof that we’ve not grown wiser with the centuries. Water quality deteriorates, our grasslands wither, and our heritage stands neglected. These are treasures that don’t feature on anyone’s balance sheet, and therein lies our folly.

We wax lyrical about tourism as if we all know what it is to wander foreign lands. Yet we can’t even manage the simple task of answering a cell phone, let alone composing an email or drafting a business plan. And still, some among us draw a tidy salary at month’s end for doing little more than doodling on forms in triplicate.

But, as for us at Speckled Bean, though we’ve lost a few battles, the war is not over. It’s not lost. What we’re doing here, we believe with conviction, is the right thing. If only corporate South Africa could lift its gaze long enough to see that.

A moment of peace in the Middle East would be a sight for sore eyes. Think of the possibilities—less spent on tearing each other apart, more spent on tending the planet we all share. And now, with the winds of change stirring faint hope in that troubled region, we might dare to give peace its due.

Still, it’s thanks to our loyal supporters that Speckled Bean presses on. Our humble magazine now graces even the global stage on Magzter, a platform that spans continents. Visit us at www.speckledbean.com to find the link.

But now, my work calls. The January issue is taking shape, themed around hope, a glimmer of light for the road ahead in 2025. Share with us your plans and achievements, dear reader. Submissions are due by the 20th. Let’s make this a new year to remember.

Yours in digital and perseverance,
GB

02/12/2024

Hello Speckled Be***rs!

The December issue of Speckled Bean is officially LIVE at www.speckledbean.com! 🎉

Baxter's wagging, Dave's grinning, Irene's buzzing, Sue's plotting the next adventure, and yours truly is sipping on coffee while typing this (and spilling half of it on my keyboard, naturally).

This issue is packed with heart, laughter, and everything that makes Clarens and beyond so magical. So, show some love—support local, support Speckled Bean! Let's keep the festive spirit alive!

Visit us online and dive into the joy, peace, and quirky charm of our latest edition. And its on the international bookshelf - Magzter.

Warm beans and warm wishes,
The Speckled Bean Team (Da Team)

P.S. Don't forget to tell your friends, neighbors, and even the postman! 😉

30/11/2024

Heads I Win, Tails You Lose: The Great Pumpkin Patch Showdown
See dramatized version; https://youtu.be/5SdYqBm1AaI
Last Saturday dawned bright and windy at Klappersfontein. The air crackled with tension as Wagter, Baksteen’s mischievous African Bull Terrier, had trampled through Tant Sarie’s prized pumpkin patch, leaving a trail of devastation.
Fuming, Tant Sarie marched up the dusty path to Baksteen’s farm, her bonnet flapping like an angry flag. She pointed a furious finger at Baksteen’s husband, Pieter, who was leaning against the tractor, chewing lazily on a stalk of grass.
“You owe me pumpkins, Pieter!” she shouted, her voice rising above the wind.
Pieter froze mid-chew, his eyes darting toward the Dominee, who was just arriving for a pre-fundraiser chat. Tant Sarie wasn’t finished. “No pumpkins, no pie for the Dominee’s fundraiser!” she bellowed, ensuring the Dominee overheard every word.
The Dominee, always eager to mediate, stepped forward, his hands raised like a referee at a rugby match. “Let’s resolve this in a proper South African way,” he suggested, attempting to inject calm into the storm.
Baksteen, stepping onto the scene with her coffee jug in hand, rolled her eyes. “Enough talking! We’ll settle this right now—with a coin toss,” she declared, pulling a bent coin from her pocket. She held it up dramatically, letting the sun glint off its battered surface. “Heads, I win. Tails, you lose. Fair enough?”
Tant Sarie hesitated, her bonnet momentarily still as she considered. The Dominee, eager to avoid further conflict—and hungry for pie—nodded. “Seems fair to me,” he said, adjusting his collar.
With a flick of her thumb, Baksteen sent the coin spinning high into the air. It tumbled, flashing in the sunlight before landing with a dull thunk in the dust.
“Tails!” Baksteen announced triumphantly. “I win!”
Tant Sarie squinted at the coin, suspicion furrowing her brow. “What happens if it lands on heads?”
“Same thing,” Baksteen replied with a smirk. “I win.”
“And tails?” Pieter asked, now looking increasingly nervous.
“You lose.” Baksteen’s tone left no room for argument.
Tant Sarie folded her arms. “That doesn’t seem—”
“Fair? Of course it’s fair,” Baksteen interrupted briskly. “Basic math, Sarie. Keep up!”
The Dominee, sensing dissent, clapped his hands together. “The Lord’s will is clear: Baksteen wins!” he proclaimed, hoping to move on to dessert planning.
But Pieter’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait a minute… heads or tails, we always lose!”
The small crowd gasped in unison.
“You’ve been scamming us!” Tant Sarie cried, pointing accusingly at Baksteen.
Baksteen shrugged, climbing onto her tractor and pocketing the coin. “Not my fault you’re all mathematically challenged,” she retorted, her voice carrying on the breeze. “Now, who’s next? Heads I win, tails you lose!”
No one dared step forward.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the hills and the Old Brown Sherry flowed freely, even the Dominee had to admit: it was the most entertaining fundraiser they’d ever had.
www.speckledbean.com

END

24/11/2024

A Comedy of Codes
Another weekend, gone quicker than a farmer’s bakkie over a pothole. The country, like Baksteen’s chickens scratching for seeds, is scratching for answers—only to find the ground picked clean - looted. But ja, we push on. Pieter and Wagter are out gathering wood for the “choppies,” and the Dominee’s Old Brown Sherry waits, like salvation, in the jug.
Inside, Baksteen faced her Eskom box. That thing has a logic more twisted than a thorn tree in a storm. She punched in the first code. Beep! Victory. The second? Another beep. She was a woman on a winning streak. Then came the third.
“INVALID TOKEN,” blinked the screen. “START AGAIN, SUCKER.”
“Invalid?” Baksteen’s voice rose like the price of paraffin. “I’ll show you invalid!” She grabbed her phone to call Eskom, only to recall her last attempt—an hour spent listening to violins screeching like they’d been strung by a drunk fiddler, and that smug voice: ‘Your call will be recorded for quality reasons.’ Quality! She’d seen better quality in Tant Sarie’s Koeksisters.
I shook my head. “And that, my friend,” I said to Wagter, “is why kerosene lamps make sense. They may stink, but they never argue.”
From the stoep, I saw Baksteen marching out, candles /sticks in one hand, Pieter in tow. No doubt off to light the donkey boiler. Poor Pieter looked like a man being led to his own hanging.
I lit my pipe and chuckled. “Eskom,” I said, “the only company that can keep us in the dark while providing the best comedy in the land.”
In the distance, Pieter’s clanking and Baksteen’s muttering mingled with the night, while the Dominee’s Very late-harvest warmed me like the fire Eskom could never provide.
www.speckledbean.com