Author: Riverbendcamp

So many people keep asking: “Why Christiana? Out of all damn places. You had Namibia. You had the dunes, the coast, the freedom.” And every time, I smile the same dry smile because don’t you get it? Thought of me stealing the drum?

Truth is, I didn’t steal a thing. I picked it up. Carefully. Quietly. Like a man picking up the old man’s tools after a long day of work, knowing well he’s got no choice but to carry on. This drum didn’t come easy, and it damn sure wasn’t taken without weight. It was handed over by time, by legacy, by blood. And I knew exactly where I needed to take it.

Christiana isn’t just a name on a map to me. It’s where the rhythm of the old man still echoes. That faint Vaal River ripple. His half-grin over a tumbler of whiskey while floating in life jackets in the Vaal River. The stories told without saying a word. The small things… those are what shape a man. Not the headlines, not the glory. But the calm voice that tells you when to row, and when to drift.

I came here to beat that drum not for show, not for applause but to keep a rhythm going that mattered to one man who mattered to me. And if you don’t understand that, maybe you never listened close enough to your own old man’s heartbeat.

No, I don’t trust people easily. I’ve seen the flaws, the betrayals, the thieves with their shiny smiles and empty souls. I know what a stolen drum sounds like… it’s off. Always off. Doesn’t matter how hard you hit it. The beat’s broken before the first note lands.

But this? This is different. This is sacred ground. Not because it’s perfect but because it was his. Soul, sweat all over the place. And because when I beat this drum here, in this dusty little place forgotten by most, the beat finally fits. It belongs.

Riverbend is that place where this drum has been beating for the last quarter century. And I’ll keep beating it, humbly, with a plain, simple life.

This Vaal River is no tame stallion. Sitting next to it demands respect. It took away, in the blink of an eye, so much that was written here in bricks and mortar, and it all needs to be rebuilt. How could I not enjoy that challenge? That alone is worth spending my years of experience and my curious nature on. But it has to be next to this river, the main vein running 1200 km through the southern Africa continent. If it’s not here, I might as well sit in Hermanus, or Swakopmund, or wherever. But as long as I’m granted this piece of land, I’ll learn how to coexist with this mighty, living, life-giving, calm, resilient, raging monster and enjoy every part of it while being entertained.

So no, I’m not here to prove anything. I’m not here to perform. I’m here to protect something. And maybe, just maybe, to pass that rhythm on to the next in line when it’s time. It’s called… The cronicals of Riverbend. Where camp fires burn out, and stories are born.

Look at this. Freshly baked bread, still steaming out the oven. Baked by the daughter I call my wife just like it used to be during those rare, high moments when I visited this meaningful piece of earth. Real bread. Real farm butter. Apricot jam. And a strong cup of coffee.

Is it possible for life to get any better?

No. Absolutely can’t be.

And later me and Leia, cruising into a sunset that doesn’t beg for filters. Just silence, peace, and Panache cutting through the Vaal. Yes, Panache the boat. The campsite too. Named for its meaning: “flamboyant confidence of style or manner.” That’s not marketing. That’s life

– As told by Riverbend, Don Skadario, and the spirit of my old man –

There are stories.
And then there are stories so wild they smell like gunpowder, sweat, whisky, and the distant regret of a stolen horse.

This morning I found myself parked under old Don Skadario — the River Bushwillow with more secrets than a bar fridge during load-shedding — holding court over Brooder Shade like a retired Vaal general with a pipe and a past. Leia was stretched out next to me, snoring like a wet Staffie with nothing left to prove, and in my hand? A tin mug of moerkoffie so strong it could tow a barbel upstream.

I was paging through my old man’s archive box…
…and then boom — this flipping legend jumps out:

Scotty Smith – Robin Hood of the Diamond Fields
(Born with a rifle, died with a rumour.)

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Scotty wasn’t your average hero.

He was a horse thief with a conscience.
A jailbreaker with manners.
A diamond robber with feelings.
And possibly the only man in history to escape Bloemfontein jail by stealing the president’s carriage.

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The Legend Kicked Off in the Saddle

He could lift a saddle without waking the horse.

Once, a windgat at a bar in Zeerust bragged about his steed. Next morning? No horse. Only reins on the door handle and a note:
“Lekker geslaap, dankie.”

Scotty could disappear into the night like a fart in the Free State vlaktes.

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Skeletons, Sand & a Shovel

In the final year of his life — 1919, just after the Spanish flu ravaged the land — Scotty was 74… and still hustling.

He started collecting Bushman skeletons.
Not artefacts, boet. Actual bones.
Sold them to universities for “research” money — though some had bullet holes in the skulls, and people started asking questions.

He buried them, dug them up again, and sold them twice.
Say what you want — the man had hustle.

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He Stole for the Right Reasons

If you were rich and arrogant, he’d take your horse and your diamonds.
If you were a struggling widow, he’d give you a horse.

And if someone wronged you?
Scotty would “redistribute justice” the old-fashioned way —
with a bit of rope and a laatlam rifle with a story.

That’s why the people never turned him in —
They respected him. Even the ones he robbed.

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One Last Ride

He died in 1919, in Upington. Quiet. No sirens. No drama.
No monument. Just a name whispered around fires and in the veld.
He left behind stories. Bones.
And one hell of a dusty trail — dustier than the road to Bloemhof.

He refused to let journalists write about him or his biography —
but turns out my old man had a little Riverbend version stashed away.
Handwritten notes. Newspaper clippings. A program from a 2009 Delwersfees dinner.

And now here I sit…
Under Don Skadario, with Leia dozing off and that old Riverbend wind curling around my boots…

And I swear, I can hear Scotty chuckling from the River’s edge.

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With acknowledgment to Johan Neethling and F.C. Metrowich (1962),
and to my old man — the original archivist of Christiana’s soul.
Now part of Riverbend’s campfire chronicles.
Leia says she would’ve been Scotty’s getaway Staffie.

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So ja Swaer…
When next you sit under Don Skadario’s shady judgment,
sip your coffee (or Brandewyn or OBS) slowly and listen.

Because if the wind whispers in a Scottish accent,
And your horse looks slightly nervous…

Scotty Smith is still around.

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I read it out loud to Leia, and Don Skadario silently approved — offering the faintest nod, sounding like Bushwillow leaves rustling in the breath of a light breeze brushing gently over his old, weathered frame.