Parrot conversations and other Covid stories
Dark, dusty, cold. Only 40km of remote farm road left to Pondok Paleis, and Delores Koan hits a wobble. What the hell, we are heading off into the dark.
But I have just had a weekend from Heaven. I have done about 750 trouble-free kilometres on my incredible KLR and now I am going to crash. Again. Why is the world, fate, the cosmos so extreme? Not a stuff. I tramp on the back brake, hoping the Makhanda bike prof’s incredible repair job on the rear caliper does its thing, and pulls her derrier in tight, a bit like mine right now, and straightens her up. Then I countersteer like a demon.
Finally, I tighten my crotch (you snigger, it’s a real ball of balance) and swear and curse that my faithful KLR will fulfil my mission and head back to safety.
She does, it is a collective effort here on the lonely Karoo vlakte and I crab my way back to my lonely pussy cat who was left a mountain of food and water in our den, with the cat door open to the hunting grounds.
I have strapped my final shopping from the wonderful Graaff-Reinet Spar who always wait, as darkness falls, for me to do the rigging dance.
Interesting how one small issue transfers into another: on Thursday, the day before I left for Slums, my faithful ratchet tie-down gadget gave up the ghost and lost a spring. Now the rig ritual has shifted and I miss one tie point, and the whole load story changed.
But the road, the open road, all 900km of it from Camdeboo to Vincent, and back, awhooo! What a rush! I had come to collect, ostensibly, a work laptop, my ID book, and biker leather jacket I had left in town 143 days ago.
My swim friends, led by the mermaids and KFC (Keep Flippin’ Crawlin’) crew were waiting, and we were off into the sea at the slipway at Gonubie point, into the river for a picnic with all manner of koekies and dops in my honour, and two more swims off East London at a secret venue everyone knows about.
I was out there again, but this time, those who were first were last. My KFC buds Barbs and MC kindly hung back a bit to let me keep up.
So incredible: 200m or more offshore, just the lapping of the Berg-wind brushed swell, and superb sunny-blue light.
But the lockdown stories! Ai! One tjom whose business went into a dive like all others took to the couch and watched Netflix for three weeks, until she realised her bed needed making and there was a new world order to get to grips with. The cat was furious when her warm, soft human pillow finally got up.
Others had acted like secret service agents, slipping into the rivers in the black of night, wearing black cozzies, and black swimdoekies, even freewheeling to the river’s edge with lights off!
A surfing bro found salvation in an ancient parrot, like him, an African Grey. He said his best mates had left but he preferred the parrot’s conversation!
Seems like people have taken refuge in pets and vegetable gardens, which is great. It was shocking to see the Daily Dispatch newsroom looking so empty, with most staff now working from home. Covid has taken its toll from the top down. Incredible that such brilliant reportage was maintained throughout the time of covid tyrrany by a brave, brave bunch of journalists. Salute!
As usual, I had come to town via the town formerly known as Gatstad and my Pootler brothers showered me (no, not literally, though I did enjoy urban plumbing while there) with repairs, maintenance and kit.
I also took Delores shopping to Carl at
MotoMecca where Lester gave her a new battery, indicator and spark plug and tightened her carrier bolt, and I bought myself a new pair of skid-and-crash pants, having worn the last one out. I could buy a size smaller...
But the thought of Little Baron Leigh van Avon on Avonleigh, eeking out an existence without his noisy old owner, ate at me. He had been visited, and petted, if it is at all possible.
I made home and he came out, tail high, even gave my ankle a welcoming rub, dropping his scent and claiming me. Inside his four bowls were empty and three water dishes were dry, leaving him with one.
He was wild, both his raw cat and his loving boy. I came bearing gifts a bag of catnip, a sponsored brush, a harness and leash so that we can travel, but no cat backpack. They are a trend out there, but not here yet. Also got him a clicker to train him to get on the bike, in a harness, in an astronaut bag.
Cats, when they ride to a happy place of treats and not merely the vet, love to travel.
Much training lies ahead, but right now, I am dealing with a serious leak, and on Saturday at noon, the big dreaded wind hits 100km here, according to Kobus Botha’s schtonkers weather service.
See you on the other side, again!
I send my love to those fighting Covid. In all my travels it was mask on and sanitiser at hand.
It was shocking to see the DD newsroom so empty, with most staff now working from home ... Incredible that such brilliant reportage was maintained throughout the time of covid tyrrany by a brave, brave bunch of journalists. Salute!