Category: Uncategorized

1 August 2025

RIVERBEND. 1°C. WATER AT 12°C.

I stood by the river this morning. Mist rising. No drama, no filters just cold air and silence. Felt sacred.

Got back yesterday from the Namib. Quick recce trip. Scouting a new camp spot in the desert. On the way back I passed those damn fairy circles again perfect, dead spots in the sand.

Reminded me of that trip I did for Beefmaster last year. Proper crowd. Radios in every car, stories flowing like brandy in a shebeen. I picked up the mic.

“Look right. You see those circles? Scientists call them fairy circles. I’ve hosted nearly all of them. Left more confused than they arrived. Here’s what really happened…”

SOUTH AFRICA: OX DUNG

According to our brainiacs, Voortrekker oxen dropped nuclear turds in the 1800s that sterilised the soil permanently. “Historic bovine urea concentration.” I framed that report. It’s in my toilet.

CHINA: BREATHING HOLES

Seventeen scientists. One interpreter. Tai chi in the heat. Called them Earth’s acupuncture points. One fainted. Coke revived him.

FRANCE: PADDA BOUDTJIES

Four French scientists and a perfume chemist. Their theory? Long ago, the desert held shallow pools frog breeding grounds.

Mass gatherings. Moist soil. Chemical buildup. Over time, the land changed.

They sniffed the soil, sprayed cologne, and claimed to smell “ancient resonance.”

One oke got emotional said it reminded him of a forgotten frog choir at dusk.

These days, when the rains come at Riverbend, our own frog chorus kicks in loud and proud no cologne needed. Just nature tuning up.

GERMANY: LASERS AND BEER

Mapped circles, scanned gases, blamed tectonic shifts. Then claimed malt was discovered here. Reinheitsgebot territory. Drank Windhoek Lager every night. Fair enough.

ITALY: SIN AND SOUND

A priest refused to step inside. Called them punishment sites. A professor tested echoes. Blessed a scorpion. Left confused.

NETHERLANDS: FUNGI AND FANTASY

Fold-up bikes. Claimed fungi killed the grass. I pointed to the heat. They said fungi adapt. I said good luck.

GREECE: GODDESS THEORY

Aphrodite’s footprints, they said. One cried. Rose petals. No samples. Just feelings. I didn’t ask questions.

USA: SPACECRAFT

Gear for days. Ground-penetrating radar. One oke swore each circle was an alien launchpad. No one laughed. That was the scary part.

RUSSIA: NO QUESTIONS

One guy. Dug two holes. Smoked. Drank Vodka. Left a note: “They watch from below.”

PORTUGAL: LOST BUT COFFEE

Got lost. Camped inside a circle. No gear. Made coffee strong enough to restart a Land Cruiser. Said the circles make you think. They’re not wrong.

AUSTRALIA: TERMITES, BEER, DUCT TAPE

Dug pits. Built a model from biltong and duct tape. Backed the termite theory. Signed a beer can. Left it as “evidence.”

NAMA: DRAGON BREATH

Forget the lab coats. The Nama already knew.

Each circle? A dragon’s nostril.

The dragon sleeps under the desert /Gaosanub/. When mist rises, it’s his breath.

You don’t build near it. You don’t step inside. You show respect. Or things go wrong. I’ve seen it.

This morning at Riverbend, the mist rose off the river like a memory. Reminded me of that same ancient breath I saw in the Namib.

Some things don’t need explaining. They just are.

The fairy circles? Let them be. The desert watches. So does the river.

And here at Riverbend, our own flood scars raw patches stripped bare earlier this year are slowly healing. Grass and daisy lawn pushing through, quietly covering the wounds like nature always does.

So come. Pitch your tent. Sip your coffee. Cast a line. Watch the mist.

You might just feel something breathing beneath your boots.

We’ll leave a spot open for you.

Just not inside the circle.

19 July 2025

Riverbend’s Darkest Secret Stirs Again

There are days when the river runs quiet — so quiet you can hear the old ghosts shifting beneath the mud. And then… there are days when the river growls.

After the flood that roared through Christiana this year — the kind that rips trees from the earth and history from the ground — something has changed.

Something… deep.

Let me take you back.

A couple of years ago, during planned maintenance at the Vaalharts Weir, the water level dropped just enough. Bloemhof held back. Vaalharts opened.

My old man took me out on a cold, quiet morning — not to fish, not to fix anything — but to show me a secret.

We launched the boat early, water still like a mirror, the kind of day where even the wind holds its breath.

He pointed to a stretch in the river, leaned over, and said:

“There it is. The diving bell.”

The Bell.

The diving bell of 1921.

The very one where thirteen men went down… and never came back up.

Boat humming quietly, the cold biting our fingers. He didn’t say much. Just pointed.

“There it is Bas. Look.”

Peeking out of the Vaal like a rusted crown.

A diving bell, German-made by Krupp, sent to dig the river’s soul. And when the air failed that day… it became a tomb. A steel coffin sealed by water and time. The men inside? Never found. No funerals. No names carved in stone. Just gone.

He showed me the coordinates. We marked it. And then life moved on.

But now…

After the flood?

Everything is different.

The edges of the river are shattered.

The average depth has increased by two full meters in places — as if the river grew teeth and swallowed its own banks. Landslides. Mud scars. Roots exposed like old secrets.

And then I saw it — on the fish finder.

Something. Something big. But not where the bell used to be.

It’s deeper. Shifted.

Or worse… moved.

Did the flood drag it further downriver?

Is it buried now forever — deeper than any man can go?

Or is it… coming loose again?

Because here’s the chill my dear friends…..:

When steel breathes beneath water, it doesn’t rust.

It remembers.

I’ve attached two relics from my old man’s archives — an old Volksblad sketch from 2007, and the haunting article about the day the river took those men.

We don’t know their names.

We don’t know what went wrong.

But here at Riverbend, we remember them.

Not as footnotes.

As brothers in the dark. Forgotten by the world, but never by the Vaal.

This winter, our boat rides will follow a new route — the deep route. We’ll pass over the GPS location. We’ll tell the story. And maybe, just maybe…

we’ll hear the bell breathe.

This isn’t a tourist attraction.

This is sacred ground now.

The kind of place you lower your voice.

And listen.

Because the river doesn’t forget.

And neither do we.

Riverbend Camp | Christiana

Where history sleeps in silt. And sometimes… it stirs.

18 July 2025

The Winter Warriors of Riverbend

Riverbend Legends,

So it’s midwinter at Riverbend. The kind of cold where even the dassies wear jerseys and the fish in the Vaal request hot chocolate before biting.

Early morning. The grass is frosted white, hard as a tannie’s fruitcake from 1993. My breath looks like I’ve taken up vaping again, and Leia, our beloved mini Staffie, waddles out of the house, onto the stoep with that “Hell no, not this again” face.

Now I’m cradling a mug of steaming coffee like it owes me money, and just as I’m about to make peace with the day, I glance down toward the river…

Steam.

Not smoke. Not mist.

Condensation straight-up roaring out the windows of two caravans like a miniature power station.

For a moment I thought someone’s geyser exploded or maybe the Gautrain took a wrong turn and landed at the firepit.

But no.

It was just body heat. And life force.

And the glorious aroma of Moerkoffie, rusks, and NO WHINING.

These weren’t city slickers.

These were hardened, frost-seasoned, under-the-duvet veterans of the road.

Faces glowing like mieliepap under a heat lamp, chatting away like it’s summer in Swakopmund.

So, of course, Leia and I strap on our metaphorical gumboots and waddle over. She’s vibrating like a kettle from excitement (and probably minor frostbite), and I’m grinning like a baboon with a Chappie.

As we approach, the one oom raises his mug in salute like a commander on the front line.

“Môre, boet! Bit fresh this morning hey?”

The other one chirps:

“Ja, I had to spoon the gas bottle last night just to feel alive!”

By the time I get there, I’m handed a mug faster than a Pitbull grabbing a worsie.

We talk diesel heaters, the politics of caravan leveling blocks, and which rusks hold out longest in freezing conditions (Spoiler: Ouma’s Buttermilk. Built different.)

Meanwhile, Leia is belly-up next to the fire, officially abandoning her Staffie dignity in favour of biltong crumbs and back scratches.

And just then…

I think of all the Karens from Gauteng—the ones who rock up in summer with portable fairy lights, gluten-free marshmallows, and the attitude of a spa manager on her off day.

I picture one of them now—trying to survive a Riverbend winter morning.

She’d step out of her tent, her hair looking like it got into a bar fight with a goose, lip quivering, breath fogging, crocs squeaking on the frozen grass…

And her face?

Her face would look so depressed… so offended by the cold you’d swear she was a dog turd that had been lying in the frost all night.

That exact expression— wet, hopeless, betrayed by the elements.

Like she came for glamping and ended up in the Game of Thrones: Bushveld Edition.

And I can’t help it. I laugh.

Because this—this band of cold-hardened nomads, their frosty eyebrows and lungs steaming like kettles—is the opposite of Karen energy.

Karen would’ve seen the frost and said,

“This isn’t what the brochure said. Can I speak to the climate supervisor?”

She’d be bundled in five layers of Woolworths fleece, sipping lukewarm rooibos from thermos like it’s radioactive waste.

But these legends?

They’re sipping joy.

Living large in 3°C with only a *blanket, body heat, and a deep appreciation for silence and second helpings.

And that, my friend, is when I realised:

If you’re not willing to watch your breath freeze while dunking a rusk, you haven’t really camped in South Africa.

Riverbend doesn’t care if you’re cold.

It rewards those who show up, bundle up, and laugh anyway.

Later that day, one of the oumas gave me half a banana bread and told me I have “a soul like a warm gas bottle.” I cried a little. Blamed the wind.

Anyway… we put up a new sign by the entrance:

No Wi-Fi. No Whining.

No Hot Showers Before 7.

Bring Coffee. Share Fire. Leave the Karens at Home.

3 July 2025

After 2 months of mud and dust (lots of it) and suds, we are back in business. What a privilegde welcoming back our guests at our pristine campsite.

We are back, not bigger, but surely better!

27 June 2025

At a mere 0 – 10 degrees max today

We brave the cold and continue our last stretch of maintenance

with an

‘Ode to Winter’

Fall…

And then comes Winter….

When you feel the bone structure of the landscape

The loneliness of it

The dead feeling of a cold winter’s morn.

But something waits beneath it. The whole story doesn’t show… Not yet anyway

Winter is a time for nature to take rest,

And gather strength,

For when winter comes, the promise of spring is not far behind….

12 June 2025

Flood? Mud? Crack? Collapse?

Ja… all of the above. But we ain’t dead yet.

PIC 1

A brand-new launch pad now greets the river.

Built from scratch, just like our patience.

If this was a human, it’d be a guy who got retrenched, divorced and still showed up to gym with a six-pack.

PIC 2

Perch Haven campsite’s got a facelift – freshly paved and levelled.

We had to lift the whole damn thing to stop campers from slipping into the river like overripe mangoes.

PIC 3

Panache now has a two-compartment family tent — yes, for those who love their children but not enough to share a zip.

Perfect for cousins, mother-in-laws and marital ceasefires.

PIC 4

Full riverfront restoration and new paved levels at Barble Bliss and Carp Cove.

Like Botox for campsites, except here, the wrinkles are paved slabs and water levels.

PIC 5

Private ablutions being rebuilt. The ones that took the hardest punch during the floods.

This is where the trauma happened.

But here we are — rebuilding in the mud with spades, sweat, and probably a few curse words.

PIC 6

This was the mud aftermath. My literal footprints in the thick sludge.

Still don’t know how some of this stuff ended up high up in the trees — either the water rose or someone had a braai on a cloud.

PIC 7

Found Riviera Rendezvous — or what’s left of it — hanging by a tree.

Looked like a suicide scene, but I reckon he just panicked and climbed the wrong branch during the storm.

RIP, buddy. You were a lekker plek.

PIC 8

And then there’s Plat-Anna — the little Plataan tree that made it through.

Still standing, like a survivor in a frog-suit, clinging to the mud with hope and sass.

PIC 9

The tree that couldn’t swim, but somehow still survived by snatching a life jacket mid-flood.

Now THAT’S called bushveld instinct, folks.

The orange vest? We’re keeping it. It’s now part of camp history.

We reopened by 6 June 2025 already, with 2 glamping tents and 1 campsite.

Whole campsite will be ready by Monday 16 June

Come witness this wild river memoir in real time — scars, laughter, and all.

[Bookings/inbox open – you know the drill.]

25 May 2025

We always joked the people at Riverbend were a bit bent — now it turns out the land is too…

The past weeks hit hard.

While I was chasing dust, dreams and hope in the Namibian desert with the Rough & Tough Rally (which was a massive success — check it out here), https://www.facebook.com/roughtoughrally ,nature had her own rally back home. A raw, relentless one. One that didn’t check in or ask permission.

The riverbed at Riverbend is still moving — 25 to 30cm per day.

And so did the land.

70% of Riverbend is damaged.

The wall’s cracked. The jetty’s shifted.

And worst of all — our beloved Mara, one of the three Wheeping Willow sister trees, is splitting down the middle.

You may remember the plaque we put up about those sisters:

“Bound not by blood, but by roots…”

Well, those roots are still fighting — but even they’re not immune to a force this wild.

It’s emotional. It’s symbolic. And for me, deeply personal — almost as if this river came to reclaim not just the soil, but close off a chapter that started with my old man.

But Riverbend doesn’t go down quietly.

We rebuild. We restart. We rise.

From 6 June 2025, Riverbend will gently reopen — not for events yet, not for big crowds, not for glamour — but for the soul-searchers. The curious. The real. The river-listeners.

1 campsite.

2 Glamping tents.

Clean. Safe. Honest.

And you’re invited to come witness this chapter as it unfolds —

Come walk the riverbank.

Come feel the cracks.

Come stand next to old Mara and hear her whisper.

It’s not every day you get to watch a force of nature claim and reclaim — while we rebuild around it. This is something raw. And real. And powerful.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed the journey.

We’ll keep sharing. Because Riverbend still has stories to tell.

With mud on our boots and hope in our chest —

Riverbend lives on.

Riverbend | 1 May 2025 – Morning Update

There’s something eerily calming about a river that starts listening again.

This morning, the mighty Bloemhof Dam has begun reeling in the beast:

10:00 – Outflow reduced to 3,000 m³/s

12:00 – Down to 2,800 m³/s

14:00 – Further trimmed to 2,600 m³/s

Gauge Plate: 18.760m

Capacity: 115.13%

Area: 25,487.3 ha

Rain: 2mm | Evaporation: 3mm

Meanwhile upstream, Vaal Dam keeps playing nice:

Two more sluices closing today

Current outflow: 1,129 m³/s

Inflow: 783.59 m³/s — a breath, not a roar.

To the keyboard cowboys yelling “It’s too early! More rain is coming!” — we hear you too.

Yes, there is a warning for more severe weather.

We don’t ignore it. We’re not fools.

But we also won’t fold in despair.

We’ve already been soaked, stretched, and shaken.

This river took our fences. It nibbled at our homes.

And it took our patriarch with it — in silence, with dignity.

But it didn’t take our resolve.

It didn’t wash away our humor.

And it sure as hell didn’t touch our spirit.

So go ahead, round three.

We’ve got sandbags full of resilience.

Waders made of backbone.

And if all else fails… a lilo, a staffie, and a braai grid.

To the Vaal Dam team:

We salute the precision.

To the Bloemhof managers:

You’re holding the line like it’s personal.

And to the mighty Vaal herself: We hear you. We see you. But today…

we stay on our feet.

For those who’ve walked this muddy road with us:

We’ve bled together. We’ve packed. We’ve bailed.

And we’ve posted — not just for drama, but so that someday, when people ask

“What happened in the floods of ’25?” —

we’ll just send them to the Riverbend Chronicles.

—

And through it all… one voice is quieter now.

To the man whose story is written in this riverbank…

Your legacy lives here.

Let’s carry on. Let’s clean out. Let’s wait and see.

From the banks of Riverbend — where water recedes, but stories remain.

Photo Credit: Archie Scorgie (Vaalharts)

29 April 2025

Today, we finally received confirmation:

Vaal Dam and Bloemhof Dam will maintain their current releases.

Inflow is steadily dropping.

Recovery is beginning.

And still… scrolling through Facebook feels like reading the graffiti on a bar bathroom door.

Everyone an expert. Everyone shouting.

“They should have opened earlier!”

“They mismanaged it!”

“Keep the dam 20–30% lower permanently!”

Really?

Here’s the Grade 1 maths you need before hitting “comment”:

Vaaldam current release: Around 1800–2200 m³/s

Bloemhof Dam peak inflow: Over 4200 m³/s

(And yes, this flood surge from the Vaal took 2–3 days to even reach Bloemhof.)

Yet the massive surge into Bloemhof didn’t come from Vaaldam alone.

It came from Bloemhof’s OWN massive catchment area —

223 km² feeding it through dozens of tributaries: the Vet, Vals, Sand rivers… and more.

When these rivers flood, Bloemhof takes the punch — not Vaal Dam.

At 4200 m³/s inflow, the entire Bloemhof Dam could fill in just a few hours.

If you try to “keep it low” permanently, you’ll either:

Blow the dam wall, OR

Starve agriculture and communities during the next drought.

This is not Xbox Flood Simulator 2025.

It’s engineering. It’s survival. It’s called balance.

And about floodline developments?

Nobody is bribing anyone.

You sign a waiver.

You accept the risk.

You build at your own risk.

We live next to the river because we choose to.

Floods come about every 7 years — and we take it like men.

Because for every flood, there are 6+ years of sunsets, crops, campfires, and life richer than anything your Wi-Fi feed could ever show you.

So before you sit dry and warm 500 km away, commenting like a keyboard cowboy…

Ask yourself:

Can you even calculate the basics of inflow, outflow, and common sense?

Or are you still…

reading life off the back of a bar’s toilet door?

We’re rebuilding. We’re learning. We’re living.

At Riverbend, we measured a vertical water rise of nearly 10 centimeters per hour over the past few hours.

The 36-hour window after Bloemhof’s floodgate increase is closing in fast… and you can feel it slow, unstoppable, no mercy, no guarantees.

And now…

The real story begins:

While the mighty Vaal rages and races its way to the sea, we… well… we float.

Today, my son showed South Africa exactly how to survive a flood Riverbend style:

One lilo

One loyal miniature Staffie paddling alongside

One calm heart

And one hell of a “Mudslide Whisperer” cocktail balancing the moment!

Behind him… the Panache ablution block still doing its proud job floating canopy and all, just like it was designed to.

Around him… 1210 kilometers of Vaal River muscle, stretched like a stubborn artery through our country roaring past farms, game reserves, tiny towns, big dreams, and tough hearts.

We don’t ignore it.

We respect it.

We live with it.

We drink in the sun, even when the waters rise.

Perspective check:

This river doesn’t just flood a campsite.

It floods the lives of thousands farmers, families, wildlife, every living thing along its banks.

It carries hope, destruction, rebirth… and today, a floating son and a loyal dog, refusing to let chaos steal their moment.

Oh, and by the way…

While we’re riding these waves with grace, guess what tried to crash the party earlier this week?

Yes you guessed it:

The Great Karen Tsunami of 2025

She came. She saw.

She conquered… a gravel municipal road.

She left us a 1-star Google review because, apparently, the rains didn’t consult her travel plans.

(She also left three bags of trash behind. Bless her.)

Meanwhile…

Check out Riverbend’s Google reviews.

90% glowing 5-stars.

From real travelers.

Real adventurers.

Real people who know that life like the river doesn’t always roll out a red carpet.

Sometimes, you pack a lilo, mix a drink, float like a boss, and say,

“Bring it on, Mother Nature.”

Because here at Riverbend Camp, or shall we say “Lagoon”

We don’t panic.

We paddle.

And when the waters retreat, and the fields green up again, Riverbend will still be here  a little wiser, a little stronger, a whole lot prouder.