Pardon me if your Afrikaans is not up to deciphering the above headline (mine isn’t) but there’s something about to happen in my home village that brings out the klein bietjieboereseun (little bit of farmer boy) in me.
Stand back Hatmense, I’m about to announce South Africa’s Barn Dance of the Year! Jami and Peter Kastner of Stanford Hills Estate make one of the country’s most stunning pinotages which goes under the name of Jackson’s Pinotage.
They also make a hell of a barn dance. This moerse opskop (one hell of a knees-up) is happening in the flower shed at their Weltevreden Farm on Saturday night. But you can pick up the details on the poster which is pinned up on almost every tree around town…
Yes, you're liking the look of this already, aren't you? Feet twitching?
Don’t fight it. Just relax into this whole phenomenal vibe, babies. You’ll want those feet warmed up so that you can hit the sawdust bouncing and ready to slide into some serious langarm or however it is you deploy to cut up the floor at a barn dance.
There are some tickets left but only because the Kastner’s flower shed was previously used to house 43 tractors, a Boeing, a few wheelbarrows and a medium sized aircraft-carrier. So there’s room for you if you’re late to clock on to this one.
Now, what the poster omits to tell you is that the legendary Baardskeerderbos Orkes will be strumming up a vibe second to none on the night. You do know what this means, don’t you? OK. This means that those exceedingly trendy boots that you’ve been mincing around in this winter will have the soles worn off them just in time for spring.
Die Baardskeerdersbos Orkes will ensure that you'll be too sore to hit the gym for a week Pic: Annalize Mouton
Because we’re not talking polite jiggery-pokery with more poke than jig at a Cape Town nightclub here, brothers and sisters. This barn dance speaks only the language of off-the-charts opskoppery not witnessed since that last really embarrassing dancefloor episode of yours at cousin Bernoldus’s birthday bash.
Yes. That’s the level we’re pitched at. Every move attempted, no prisoners taken. And, if the 120 ront spitbraai option is a tad too steep for your recession-ravaged piggybank, then I can reveal that R60 will get you in at the door with boerie rolls on offer at a tenner each. So, you’ve got no excuse, have you?
Mooi, man. Sien julle daar!
* Those contact details again… to book (essential for the R120 spitbraai option), call Jami on 082-897 2390 or e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org. Oh, and there’s no need for you to be picked up dronk-op-straat or dronk-op-plaas or dronk-op-jou-rug… a shuttle will operate from and to Stanford at R10 a ride. Visit Stanford Hills Estate to get the lay of the land.
So you’ve got your tickets for South Africa vs Mexico and you’re feeling very chuffed with yourself. Smug even. You’ve been winding up old Fanie at work that you’re going to be at the opening match of the World Cup while he he has to sit through SABC’s waffle on the game.
But hang on. You’ve forgotten something. Something that could potentially ruin your enjoyment of the occasion. You’re taking your Dad, right? And your old man only ever goes to the rugby. So it doesn’t really matter at Loftus or Newlands or the Shark Tank whether he knows the words to Nkosi Sikelel i’Afrika, does it? He can move his mouth, like the rest of the okes, during the African language part and then give it loads when it gets to the Afrikaans and English bits at the end. Yes?
It’s OK. Relax, bru. I’m guilty too. I sukkel big-time with all that “maluphakanyisw’” and “imithandazo” and “gebergtes” stuff as well. But help is at hand. Your Dad’s going to be just fine. The people around you at Soccer City aren’t going to check you out skeef. Your “SA-positive” blog to the rescue. Here follows a totally kiff idiots guide to learning ALL of the words of our seriously confusing national anthem. Even I can understand it. So check it out… (warning: people older than me and over 40 might need a magnifying glass)…
There. Sweet, hey? I bet you’re feeling a lot better about taking your ballie (father or old man for our foreign readers) to the big game. Just print this baby out and you’re well on your way to enjoying some serious credibility among the seasoned soccer fans at the stadium. And, an extra tip for absolutely free, don’t forget to take your vuvuzela. But don’t get slack and blow it DURING the national anthem. That would just be silly. Save it for the Mexican anthem. Psychological advantage and all that. Only joking! Sepp Blatter will probably have you and the old guy thrown out!
* I must proffer a Diski-style jig of the old red hat to fredhatman.co.za Wildlife Correspondent Daryl Balfour for sending this in. Nice of him to stop photographing lions and rhinos charging at him long enough to think of me!
OK. So it turns out that Geoff “Heartman” Brink, our intrepid and totally nutty unicyclist who is fixed-wheel pedalling all the way to Cape Town, has a good dose of Afrikaner in him.
This doesn’t surprise me. Although he’s been maintaining for some time that he’s one part Scottish, one part Viking (whatever that means). I mean, the longer we are on this madness of a Heart and Sole Tour – and the longer we travel the byways and dirt roads of our wondrous South Africa – the more he acts really boor… I mean, Boer-ish. He’s gone all feral on me.
It (The Unicyclist) speaks to cows, yells at hills, neighs at horses… and, if that weren’t enough, it held a long conversation with a very amiable and supportive Afrikaans-speaking geezer what called himself Jacques the other day. While chewing biltong at the same time. All rather perplexing, if not downright alarming, for a back-up driver/blogger/kiepie who is a regte soutpiel (English-speaking South African) brought up of Anglo-Scottish stock in Pietermaritzburg, widely considered to be the Last British Outpost.
So I wasn’t completely shocked when, upon finding evidence of buck droppings the other day, Meneer Brink challenged me to a bokdrol spoeg kompetisie. A what?! Er, that translates to “buck droppings spitting competition”. Afraid so. There’s no getting away from it. And there was no chance of me getting away from it. We do challenges – and sticking a perfectly-formed and rounded piece of buck crap – which looks like an earthy Ferrero Rocher – in one’s gob and seeing how far one can propel it using one’s power of lung expulsion seems perfectly normal behaviour. Um. Well, it does when you’ve been following a very feral unicyclist around the country for a month and a half.
OK. So it was game on, old chap. And may the man who can spit a piece of buck crap the furthest win. Let us – if you can bring yourself to do it – see what that looked like…
The presentation of the deer dung to be used as ammo in the shoot-wild-animal-crap-out-of-the-mouth contest. Yum.
Up first, The Unicyclist... and his best bokdrol spoeging effort reaches a distance of 4.52 metres. Impressive!
Next up, The Back-up Driver... and, wait, his pea-shooting experience at Pelham Primary School proves to come in handy as he propels the impala poop a full 5.06 metres! Wholly crapness!
Not bad for a Engelsman who didn’t grow up on a farm eating half a cow for breakfast and not wearing shoes until he went to university, hey? And even more formidable a victory when it is considered that The Unicyclist doesn’t drink or smoke and is as fit as a butcher’s dog while the Back-up Driver does both the former to Richard Burton-like excess. And, it must be said, is about as fit as the butcher.
OK. so we’re all rather relieved that that little malarkyness is over. Well, almost over. How did this most indecorous of games come about? Well, it had got far too hot to ride a unicycle, as tends to happen every day, and we went off-road to seek some shade. We thought it rather cool to do that in a game reserve and plonked our mattresses under a tree near the reception office and promptly fell aslumber.
Only to be woken up by the “executive chef” of Kichari Game Reserve doing a Gordon Ramsay impersonation and shrieking at us to wake up and get inside the building. We were then chided for sleeping in a spot where elephants, rhino and lions are known to roam! And had pointed out to us a nearby tree that had clearly been used as a back-scratching post for a jumbo. There wasn’t much of said tree remaining. Our midday nap was rather ruined and the bokdrol spoegery ensued. Now you know.
And want to know something else? We had no sooner got back on to the road for a spot of marathon unicycling when we he heard an unmistakeable roar. The Unicyclist fell off his one-wheeled steed, I nearly ran over him, we both grabbed our cameras and ran to the side of the road. This is what we saw…
Ahem. Imagine waking up under a tree in a game reserve to find this feller peering down at you? I did. Not nice!
Right. Well, where to next? Somewhere a little more gentle, perhaps. Oh, yes. We saw a nice sunset. Again. Here you go…
Hang on. What’s that black speck just above the horizon? Let’s have a closer look…
Mmmm. I think we have ourselves a bird flying through the setting sun. Let's see if I can crop in a tad on that chap?
Yes. A bird all right. How good of it to fly into shot at just the right time. I do like it when that happens. When nature decides to co-operate with my persistent efforts to get a decent snap. Nice.
There. That wasn’t so bad after all, was it? No. You’re right. it wasn’t. So all’s well that ends well (a saying that just came to me in a flash and, yes, do feel free to use it as the mood takes you). I just can’t be sure that I’ll be getting to kiss anybody anytime soon!
Look. I might be new to blogging (just 14 weeks in the game). And I might be a total stranger to the intricacies of the internet. Indeed, I’m still trying to work out what pingbacks, analytics and plug-ins are. No pork. I’m groping around in a worldwidewebbed wonderland here. And having too much of fun.
But here’s a thing. This blog’s Google Analytics, whatever they are, show that the searchwords that bring the seventh highest number of visitors to South Africa’s only “medically diagnosed SA-positive” website are, cough, splutter, “Genevieve Morton naked”. Are you with me here? Yes. After, quite understandably, “Fred Hatman”, “proudly South African”, “Umdloti”, “world’s best blogger”, “unicycle” and, er, “world’s biggest liar about being the world’s best blogger” comes “Genevieve Morton naked”. What’s that all about?
OK, so I’ve mentioned Gen on my blog a few times. I would. She’s a close friend and confidante. And she raises even Umdloti’s temperature when she takes her permanently reserved suite at Hatman Mansions and lies around my rimpool in that white bikini she likes to wear. And my staff very much like her to wear.
But have I posted any naked pictures of her on this blog? No. This is, to all intents and purposes, a family blog. Even if I do have naked photographs, and I do, I wouldn’t share them with the world, would I? No. That’s quite correct. I wouldn’t. So stop searching for pictures of Gen naked on here, OK? It’s not nice.