Free spirit.
Vagabond.
Storyteller.
Self-proclaimed visual thug.
The rattle of my Isuzu bakkie, the clatter of camping stuff, the staccato-tongued swear words between patches of gravel-road corrugations, a sweaty wipe of a travelled face, and fine layers of dust on everything, ears-eyes-nostrils. Blessed are the wayfaring travellers who seek the far-flung tracks of our land.
My eyes are stinging from the heat and dust of the Northern Transvaal (now Limpopo province), and the high screeching of cycad beetles pierces my ears. I am dirty and thirsty and itchy and hungry and pictorially disillusioned by this blêddie bleached African landscape that hazily coats my senses.
There is a stop sign that I have been watching for almost 50 years now. It is situated within the Tsitsikamma National Park and is surrounded by many square kilometres of Knysna-Amatole montane forests. The stop street is at the end of Saint George’s ...
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