Street kids stretching out their arms for the silver on every corner. Hunting in packs all over the wide roads of Willowmore. Or less. The same as most of the small towns across South Africa.
Bargained the campsite down by R50. Showers fluctuated from luke-warm to cold. I like my showers. Not this one. I hated life for that three minutes. Willowmore bites when the sun drops. Layered up and we went to Royal Hotel. Filled with farmers in hunting uniform. Man in blue with fluffy cigarette stained moustache yakked at me about whatever. Fumes of ‘I’m the big shot at this table’ dribbled onto my clothes. I turned and ordered a coke. Bad choice. My teeth always feel soft after a coke. Myself and Sipho played pool. Back into the cold. Nothing out. Not even the popular pack of street kids. A ginger cat showed my its asshole. End of my night.
Next day I chatted to three males making a fire in their garage. I asked them about Willowmore. Seems they have no idea what they are doing here. Or they are hiding something. Relaxed about pouring petrol on the fire. I decided to jump back on my bmx. Buggered off in no particular direction, but could not escape the all seeing eye of the N.G. Kerk.