De Tails of a Naughty Afrikaner

Chapter 2: Russian Ladies, eating Whopper’s and racing to the Creek.

What they say and what I have heard before about Russian woman, well, just about any of the old Eastern Bloc countries I’ve worked in, is true, they sure are beautiful, plentiful and everywhere. From the ladies cleaning your room in the hotel to ladies working on the street doing roadworks, you keep being amazed by what you see.

To explain one incident, after said night of not tackling Mr Big, you can image I am feeling like shit! I do not by default get hangovers, but there is a regatta happening in my stomach with creatures racing on the vodka/beer/brandy/tequila and can the ‘Real Slim Shady’ knocking on the inside of my head please stand up.

A friend’s version of why men are so horny when they have a hangover is because your body thinks it is busy dying, and genetically it has been bred into you to reproduce before you die. It makes sense ladies, so forgive the wandering hand in the morning trying to reach for your privates – we can’t help it.

Getting out of Russia seem to be more stressful than coming in since Putin and Zuma are very good buddies. It most probably stems from the old days when Zuma was the Head of Intelligence (now that’s a laugh) for ‘uMkhonto we Sizwe’ and Putin an agent for the KGB in Berlin – so no visa for South Africans.

Leaving Russia going back through customs is really very scary, especially if you are dying, and look like it. Standing outside in the snow and cold helps for about 30 seconds, then you get sucked into the warm comfort of the airport and you are right back where you started – maybe even worse.

Mr Customs agent seem to look through you, to the back of your scull reading your thoughts through brain analysis and KGB trained interrogation techniques. They read your passport back to front and back again, pulling the pages for some reason, ask you questions like: “Wat you name?” and “Were you go?” as if it’s not blatantly in front of them. They do it in such a way you actually start disbelieving yourself – “Who am I?” and “Where am I going?”

Lucky for me he could not see anything through the blob that was my brain after the previous nights partying, so I get through customs, race to the bathroom, get sick, wash-up, and hasten myself to the closest fast food place which happened to be Burger King.

Since Burger King was new to our country then, I stare at the menu board in the sky, which is all written in Russian, trying to figure out what I am going to point to so I can eat. I am now hungry, the little bit of breakfast I tried to muster have left the body and staying in Russia, and I need oily fatty things in my tummy, fast!

A voice from somewhere under my stare ask in Russian which I assumed is “What would you like?” I start staring downwards to the voice, slowly to not upset Slim Shady, and this being my first Burger King and not being able to decipher the Russian, I remember from television programs/movies something called a “Whopper”. I mumble “Whopper please”, my slow stare down from the menu now reaching the voice, and in front of me stands a super-model.

Just over 6 foot tall, body to match, manicured/pedicured/eyebrows done – you name it and it’s done, beautiful blond hair flowing from under her perforated light blue hairnet, and even though the Burger King outfit did not really follow the curvature of her lean athletic body, she even made that look sexy. She looks straight into my staring bloodshot eyes with her beautiful cool blue eyes and ask in a heavy Russian accent: “Do you wvant fries wviff dat?” (Do you want fries with that?)

For a moment the words: “I would like you to have my kids with that!” spun through my slow churning mind, but as I was a happily married dying man, knowing my wanting to reproduce is genetically forced into my body, I just mumble “Yes please”, waited for my food and slurped it down.

There other reason I did not ask miss Supermodel to have my kids was that I was a man on a mission. The mission to get back to South Africa for arguably our best, and definitely my favorite, annual music festival: “Up-the-Creek”. Been going there for 20+ years and the highlight of one of the 2 festivals I try to attend every year – the other being Afrikaburn.

So let’s see how quick I can get there – Snt Petersburg, Russia, to Up-the-Creek, couple of kilometers down a river, outside Swellendam, Western Cape, South Africa. Google maps says it is a distance of 15 571km and you should be able to walk it in 117 days.

First flight Snt Pete to Heathrow on time – leaving at 16h00 on Thursday from Pulkovo Airport – 2-hour delay in flight from Heathrow to Cape Town International Airport – I land, get through our customs, my car waiting for me at the airport I then drive to Stellenbosch where I was living at the time.

I packed my motorcycle before I left for the trip to Russia – ticket/tent/bag/booze – all waiting for me. I run into the house, kiss the wife hello, shower, kiss the wife goodbye, jump on the bike and race to Up-the-Creek, driving into the venue 14h00 on the Friday.

Unofficially (I have still not been proven wrong) I believe I am the person in all the years of the festival who has travelled the furthest, the fastest to get there. 15 571km in 22 hours (could have been 20 hours if not for the delay at Heathrow) leaving Russia in -14 degrees C, and driving into Up-the-Creek in 41 degrees C.

And what a festival it was, it never disappoints! I am sure you can imagine how I felt that Monday……….


Chapter 3: The most beautiful love to come from the Vietnam war. It never happened…….

Mr D Gunner start spraying the area with his machine gun to try get the troops to their own cover, bullets flying everywhere with screaming, shouting and people dying all over the place. Swinging his weapon to one of those hiding covers, down his scope he was looking directly down the barrel of a 16-year-old Chinese girl’s rifle.

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