It’s Raining Men

I hear the same thing from my girlfriends all the time. There are not enough men to go around. Where can we meet them, which is the best dating site, and should we try Tinder?

Well, I am here to tell you to go hang out in the small town of Magoebaskloof. That one, up there in Limpopo, five hours out of Johannesburg.

The weather report in Magoebaskloof this weekend? It’s raining.

But it’s raining men.

It’s also five hours out of Johannesburg, off the beaten track, surrounded by the most beautiful mountains and forests, and is especially known for it’s walking and biking trails.

Off I went on this romantic idea – strong, brave Violet – on a journey of self-discovery. I booked myself a small cottage by the lake, took my yoga mat, muesli and fresh orange juice, and planned a retreat. I would rediscover myself, my inner beauty, find my spiritual core, maybe do a bit of writing, try my hand at poetry…

Ha Ha.

I discovered Men.

Men in leather. Men in hiking boots. Men on bicycles. Men who were in good shape. Farming Men. Mining Men. Business Men. Men who were with other Men.

But Men.

And Men in uniform. Firemen and policemen. Strong Men. Handsome Men. Helpful Men.

Next door to my little cottage was a large hotel, and after struggling with the very first line of my would-be poem, I headed to the bar for a whisky.

Whisky is an integral part of the journey of self-discovery.

I sat next to a Fireman. That heavy uniform, big boots, red- hot fire engine outside.

My knees went weak. I dropped my poetry book.

The Policeman sitting nearby picked it up for me. Handcuffs dangling off his leather belt, a truncheon by his side.

I knocked over my whisky.

The bikers nearby ordered me another.

Bikers. Helmets on the floor, in their leathers, mud splashed jeans, drinking beer, very sexy, delicious bikers.

All these men were incredibly polite. And helpful . They helped me with my poetry. They helped me unroll my yoga mat, they helped me light my fire. They helped me find my core, my spiritual well being, and one of them may have even helped me find my g-spot.

I wrote. Reams and reams of poetry. Mostly senseless I think, but hey who cares, I wrote. And when I’d finished writing, I was ready to come home. Inspired.

I stopped at the small coffee shop in the village of Haenatzburg on the way home.

Farmers. In their khaki pants, wearing gumboots, bearing pick-axes.

Mountain climbers. Carrying rope, strong, tanned and muscular.

I had to leave before I got into trouble. I picked up my latte, packed my yoga mat and headed to my car.

Of course it was the policeman who gave me a speeding ticket as I sped off on the windy roads. But he winked as he handed over the R 500 fine. And I winked back.

Magoebaskloof. My new spiritual homeland.

highway patrolman writing ticket

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