How to Plant a Fairy

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been captivated by fairies. I’d imagine them sheltering in majestic trees, invisible to the human eye. They would glide between the leaves, whispering secrets to the birds and making cosy beds among the branches, forever safe, protected, and held by the grounded tree. I was so captivated that at times I believed I was a fairy; that I could fly up high among the butterflies, the clouds, the sky.


Zimbabwia and I wait outside our campsite in Lagos, a southerly, Atlantic hugging town in Portugal. I knew that we’d made the right choice to come here, that this would be the destination where I would finally have some answers, some direction and some guidance.

Any minute now, Mayatitta, the mysterious witchy woman from Lisbon will come to collect me. I’ve booked a personal retreat with her to attend to my heart healing. My stomach does backflips, my mind monkeying into an array of freaky scenarios. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know this woman, and yet I do know I trust her.

My worries melt away when she arrives and greets us with a longgg hug; a hug that confirms, I’ve made the right decision, and everything is going to be fine. She then turns to Zimbabawia and reassures her: She’s in safe hands. A wave of guilt washes over me; I hadn’t even considered that this would also be a worrisome time for Zimbabwia. I squeeze her hand in parting and then we leave.

We head to find a quiet, shaded spot in a park behind the medieval town walls. Nearby you can hear the cold Atlantic Ocean churning. Mayatitta asks me to find a space and write down my intention for the day — what I want to gain from this healing session — while she prepares.

Plonking myself on the grass, I stare at the blank paper. What do I want? I let my pen tell me:

To understand my powers and my purpose
To unite my inner and outer world
To heal my heart

Satisfied with what I have written, I return to Mayatitta and find the space transformed. Rugs, crystals, oils, and some burning things that I do not recognise but later learn are sweet, earthy palo santo and herbaceous sage. She managed to create a ritual space in a public park, in Lagos. Some seriously witchy shit.

We sit opposite one another. Following Mayatitta’s lead, I take her hands and close my eyes. She invites spirits to be with us on this journey. Releasing my hands, she asks me to place my intention at the ‘altar’ — I quickly decipher that the altar is the holy looking space with candles and crystals. I am in total surrender to this experience.

Mayatitta looks fully into my eyes and asks me to share what has brought me here.

Taking a deep inhale, I summarise my tales of self-destruction with, of self-abandonment, and my addiction to love. I’m trapped in a loop, and my heart breaks every time I go for another round.

Thanking me for my sharing, Mayatitta begins to explain what chakras are and what happens when they are blocked. I frantically take notes with more enthusiasm than I ever did in any university class — Why has no one told me this?

After an hour of intellectual learning, we move into the massage, however, before beginning, Mayatitta has an offer – ganja.

You expressed that ganja was a powerful tool for you to reach the 5th dimension. I wondered if you wanted to have a small bit now, with the intention for it to heal and guide you in this process.

The proposal stumps me, I had only just vowed to my friends that I would never smoke again, but this is a healer, and if anyone surely I am safe with her.

So I do it — just two tiny puffs.

My body becomes heavy, and I lie down. Mayatitta begins to work her magic, and within moments, my back drips in fragrant, silky oils. Mayatita’s hands connect with my back, and together we create a bond. Her hands, my body, our breath, the scents and the thrum of the psytrance create pure alchemy.

And then I sense a familiar change from deep within. My rationalising brain is saying stop but reason has no power where I am going. I drift deeper into relaxation and feel myself slipping. Mayatitta’s rhythm changes and I jolt back into reality, willing myself to stay here. But the force is too great. I’ve stepped over the edge. Looking down at what should be solid ground, I see the endless void of the fifth dimension. No longer am I a body, no longer is there time, gravity; I am powerless. FUCK, I don’t want to go here again!

But it’s too late — Even as I shout ‘NO!’ I’m falling in.

I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re here, you’re here on earth, in Lagos, in Portugal with me, open your eyes. I open my eyes. In disbelief I find myself 50 metres away from our ritual space, and a sudden flashback shows my body sprinting away in terror.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, Mayatitta leads me back to the rug, lays me down gently, and requests permission to help me re-ground with reiki. I give my surrendered consent.

She places cool, heavy crystals from the altar onto my body — one on each chakra. My eyes are closed, yet I know she has begun the reiki; I can feel her energy in me. If I were to look down, I know I would see her hands hovering above my base chakra — like a liquid, radiant heat transmitting from her hands into my whole genitalia. I visualise my internal organs glowing red. How the fuck is she doing this?

Her hands glide one by one to concentrate on each chakra; with each I feel the sensation of radiating heat unlocking hidden volts from deep within. Once unlocked the stagnant wastelands of energy leave my body and I grow lighter and lighter.

Her hands reach my heart. My breath quickens as the radiant heat intensifies, burning like the sun is deep inside the centre of my chest – painful and inescapable. Mayatitta’s chanting wills me to surrender to this experience— I cry out as a force suctions me forward and my entire chest rips off the ground. My back is arched, my hands clenched like claws, my mouth agape, like a scene from the exorcism.

I thump to the ground, and Mayatitta, unwavering, continues to chant her way through the last of the higher chakras, like a true witch. I’m distantly aware of the more subtle heat that passes through my throat, my third eye, and up to my crown and whether through exhaustion or magic, I fall into a deep sleep.

Dribbling, I awake. Am I still in the park? Whose lap is this? It’s Mayatitta’s!
Hey my love, how are you? Woah, that was some serious shit you’ve been carrying.

Urging me to stay lying down, she nourishes my body with food and water. Even for Mayatitta, it was rare to witness such an intense opening.

She explains how enormously porous I am to external energies, how I open the gates for everyone, and anything to come inside and use my body.

And then some words I will never forget:

You cannot do this. You need to learn how to be grounded, to master your emotions. You chose to be here on this earth, so you need to learn how to root down, like a tree.

And so I learned that whilst I’d been admiring the fairies for so long, true elevation had always lied within the tree.


Artwork by my absolute favourite prayerpiece drawer merakilabbe

My deep and humbled gratitude to Mayatitta Devi — if you are ever in Portugal find her

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Love, Lust and Desire

I believe that the universe places certain people on our path at certain times to gift us lessons to learn from.

With women I learn these lessons easily. Mumma Africa, an environmental warrior, came onto my path when I was ready to learn about how I might make sustainable changes in my lifestyle. My mentor, Caroline, came onto my path in the last months of my degree and challenged me to think about how I would step into a career and keep my outer passions alive. Zimbabawia came onto my path, and onto this journey, so that I have always had someone deeply grounded to help plant my feet on the ground when I lifted off.

But when the universe has placed certain men on my path, these lessons have often become tangled up and lost in my deep desire to find my ‘one’, my mate.


I was doing it again, I’d found something shiny and beautiful in the universe from which there was a lesson to be learnt and instead I was trying to turn it into my love story.

North Star and I have been at Boom’s Alchemy Circle stage for hours, shaking our tooshies and lapping up the energy from the Boom crowd.

The music suddenly ends and we look up at the decks to see the next DJ take over, but no one arrives and everyone starts leaving the dancefloor entirely unfazed.

‘What the shit is happening?’ I ask a volunteer, who’s busy collecting abandoned items from the dancefloor.

He explains that this stage has a break during the hottest part of the day so that people will rest, drink some water and swim. Pretty much so people don’t cook themselves.

Fucking genius. The amount of times I’ve been at Australian festivals and simply not left the dancefloor because of FOMO… well, I can’t even count. My friends and I usually take turns going back to camp for supplies and along the way always spot a couple of humans being carried away from the stage — unconscious — because, well, they’ve literally over cooked it.

Accepting this new reality, we are about to walk away when I spot a curious looking fellow stumbling about the deserted dance floor. He’s as pale as snow, dressed in a floral shirt which he’s tucked into bright orange shorts, and is donning a wicker sun hat that flops over big blue glasses. Is this man a cartoon character?

His devastated face tells me that he too is baffled. ‘Don’t worry the music will be back in a few hours! They’re trying to stop us from cookin’ ourselves,’ I shout and start making my way towards him.

‘But I want to danceeeeeee!’ he blurts out in the most hilarious accent.

‘Where are you from?’ I quiz.

‘Brazil,’ he replies while handing me a silver plate he finds on top of the sandy floor.

‘Gee, for me? Thanks! Well then, Brazil, come with us and we’ll find some more dancing.’

I didn’t know then that this would be my most brilliantly intuitive invitation of the whole festival. Brazil was literally a cartoon character.

He had North Star and I stumbling around and wetting ourselves with laughter for hours. I asked what he was on?

‘Nothing…’

WOW. This is a straight up human justbeinghim.com — to the maximum.

We simply needed him in our crew. Or was it that I simply needed him in our crew? I noticed the all too familiar lust trickling through my system again. I invited him to join us for the night, already too attached to let him go.

On my walk to camp for my evening outfit change, I pondered — Am I doing it again? Am I falling into a man?

At nine-thirty I stood upon the dancefloor podium and strained my eyes for a floral shirt and blue glasses. Then through the techno beat came his unmatched voice shouting:

‘Ohhh my gawddddd — it’s party time!’

Elated I leapt onto his back and he piggybacked me all the way to the crew. They cheered at his return.

From that evening on we would meet Brazil everyday. On the dancefloor, at Funky Beach, at our campsite. He never changed his quirky outfit making him easy to spot. Everyday he would have our whole crew in stitches with his raucous behaviour — screaming ‘the crewww’ intermittently and whipping off his shorts and helicoptering them in the air.

Everyone loved the guy. And I mean everyone. I would watch strangers approach him for a high five and ask, ‘What are you on man?’ then I’d laugh when they gawked at his reply, ‘Nothing!’

I too felt like I was falling in love with him. I’d never met someone so absolutely themselves, so unaffected by the gaze of those upon him. While he was giving free piggy-back rides to strangers I told North Star – ‘I think I’m in love with Brazil.’ What!? she laughed, ‘You’re joking right?’

But I was not joking, I was deep in the desire that this could be my mate.

With this resolution of love in my mind I changed my behaviour from that of a new friend to a flirtatious admirer. He felt this change and soon we kissed. It was sloppy and rushed but this didn’t change my mind. We went back to my campsite and had quick, heartless sex, but this still didn’t change my mind. Everything was telling me that this was not going to be my love, but I ignored all these potential lessons to better fit my narrative — the best was ahead of us.

By the time the final day came North Star and I danced in an utterly twisted state beneath the lunar eclipse and I felt a deep sense of peace. I was in love with Brazil and we would probably end up travelling in our own van together around Europe.

It wasn’t until after the festival, when I met up with Brazil and his French friends in Lisbon, and saw him kissing a French girl that I realised he wasn’t my love story. And I was devastated.

I didn’t understand it. And I certainly didn’t yet understand my lesson.

Do you?



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Lover Nature

The sexuality of nature.

The tangible memory of fucking in nature stays with you long after. Your arousal at the risk of getting caught, your vulnerability in the borderless outdoors.

It’s a newly discovered kind of sexuality to be naked outside like the thrill of skinny dipping for the first time — rule breaking, body liberating, addictive.

It’s the surface upon which you fuck; soft sand that gives way to the curves of your body, the bark of a tree that scratches pleasingly against your back as you are thrust deeply, the sound of lapping water that synchronises with the sound of your moist sex.

But is it more primal than this?

Could it be possible that in these moments nature herself is playing a part in arousing us, secretly loving to be involved in our sexual adventures? Like a voyeur, giving in to temptation when it becomes too much.

If this is the case then I wonder, if I let her, would nature have her own way with me?


Cim encourages me to walk towards any spot that I feel drawn to.

Cim is a Swedish photographer who empowers and liberates women with the lens of her camera. Her latest project, ‘Body Love’, explores and honours the female body in all its beauty.

Naked, I obey her request and begin to follow my internal compass. I feel my bare feet sink into the forest floor, the fresh smell of moss being released with every curious step. A gentle wind tickles the parts of my body normally kept from public view as I allow myself to be drawn forwards. Through the birch trees I see a shower of light streaming down upon a large rock — my throne.

I mount my throne like a wild pixie and Cim lets out an excited gasp, encouraging me to proceed as though she wasn’t there, as though I was entirely alone, in my own world.

As the wandering pixie I stand tall and present myself to the sun shower. Arching the back of my neck I begin to bathe — allowing my skin to be kissed by the rays. I feel the heat intensify as though the sun is pleased by my surrender — my nipples harden.

I dismount and kneel down to wrap myself around my throne absorbing its beautiful textures of moss, leaves and coarse, cold stone. My breath quickens as my senses start to salivate and I feel my buttocks clench — how to bring my yoni closer?

My mind has left me and my body is taking over. I fall back into the moss and am held by a bed of foliage. I pick up a cone, it’s lingam appearance makes my yoni instantly pulsate. Yielding it I dreamily caress my breasts, my navel, down to my own foliage.

Cim squeals, unable to contain her excitement — we are enchanted and barely speak a word as I drift dreamily through the forest following my compass once more. As I edge the forest a field of lupine call my name — their alluring perfume, vibrant purple petals, and tall proud stalks make me smirk — Nature you are a show off.

This time I need no encouragement, I am intoxicated with nature’s sexuality and immediately present my arse to a lupin, grinding up along its firm stalk. I pluck one from the earth and begin to caress my wanting skin — the soft texture like a tender lover.

By the time we wrap up the shoot Cim is ecstatic and I am riding what seriously feels like a post coital high — I am beaming from ear to ear, my skin is flushed pink and a deep sensation of relaxation washes over me.

I hadn’t intended or imagined that my naked nature shoot would become erotosicm, or that I would be so aroused by Mother Nature. Yet it felt so natural.

Nature is a sexual being. Flowers are the sexual organs displaying themselves to the bee so that they will be pollinated and continue their existence. The wind is the unpredictable passion that awakens us to our wanting. Moss is the bed for the forest to mate upon. The sun is the dominant master, who we all depend upon. Water is wet flowing nectar that signals surrender.

I don’t need a lover, a camera, a cause or the thrill of being caught to enjoy nature in its sexual form. Nature is a sexual being and we should let her enjoy us just as much as we enjoy her.

When I die I will decompose and become a part of nature, maybe she is always calling me home. I am under no illusion that right now in this humanly body I am not also a part of nature. I am. Maybe I don’t want to call her Mother Nature anymore. After all, I wouldn’t do the things I’ve been thinking about doing with nature, with my Mum.


Images by the power house woman herself, Cim Ek

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BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Chicks before dicks. Sisters before misters. Breasticles before testicles. Whichever one you choose the message is the clear — one doesn’t ditch their mates in order to get their pussy wet.

If you have read my tales you may have noticed that during festivals, or life in general, I don’t exactly follow this ethic. When I set my eyes upon a man, I fall completely into his world.

I’ve never questioned this falling and nor have my friends, they’ve always allowed me to just be me. So when we arrive to BOOM festival and I quickly slip into a new man’s world I don’t think anything of it…until I do.


It’s our first night at the big arsed BOOM in Portugal; my African world swapped for a European Psytrance festival. Dancing by my side in this sea of colourful humans are Zimbabwia, North Star and Wally, three of my dearest girlfriends. Joining us are ten other brand new best friends.

Festivals are like that. Good cunts know good cunts so relationships happen on fast forward. Despite the 30 000 people at this festival, it feels like we have the tightest crew going around.

Forming a human chain we make our way to the Chill Out stage. Upon arrival we copy the other dancers and remove our shoes and as I bend down to undo mine I tune into my heart — it’s pounding. I’m filled with the electricity of all these happy humans who’ve travelled far and wide to be together for the same thing: love, unity, freedom, music.

This electricity fills me up like a helium balloon, and when I sprinkle substances into the mix I allow myself to lift off and float up into la-la land.

I’m flying high on the dancefloor when I spot him — a beautiful Desert Man. I slither my way beside him — prowler mode activated. He has skin like Zimbabwia’s something that belongs to desert lands. His hair sways by his shoulders and a scarf wraps effortlessly around his head. The bare chest and Aladdin jacket tip me over the edge. What a babe. Without having spoken a word, I know this man is Israeli.

My tunnel vision is on and he senses my hungry gaze. As though born listening to these dreamy desert beats, he spins effortlessly to face me.

The girls and I had discussed having an early first night, but they are all too familiar with ‘the look’ I get when I’m consumed by a man and so whisper in my ear ‘Goodnightttt. Have fun!’

Once they leave I feel glad that they have gone and can now drown myself in this beautiful being. The music ups in tempo and Desert Man and I begin weaving together like two serpents dancing to a flute. I’ve never danced so spiritually with a man. I can feel the vibrations between us: my fingertips spark every time I brush against his body.

Once the set has ended, I begin to wonder what will happen next? Desert Man seems to hear my thoughts and asks:

‘Want to come and see something cool?’

‘Hell yeah!’ I beam without hesitation.

He takes me by the hand and leads me to the colossal main stage — The Dance Temple — which is closed off and still under construction. Peeking through the barriers I discover its true magnitude and grandeur, I’ve never seen anything like it — an Ottoman Mosque on acid. Holding up the geometric shade cloths are rows of giant columns decorated in vibrational patterns of colour, light and energy. When this place opens it will be big enough for a psytrance army.

Why on earth has he brought me here? Again reading my thoughts he smiles at me as we breeze past the security guard and behind the barrier.

Moving as though invisible amongst the frantic people attending to finishing touches, we find our way onto the main stage. I become intrigued about my guide’s forwardness and familiarity with this epic project.

It turns out the stage artist is Israeli and Desert Man knows him well, as he himself constructs art for midburn (Israeli burning man). I’m dead.

I need no persuading when he asks me back to his all Israeli camp site. I fucking love Israelis. My new friends welcome me into their world and I notice how at ease I am, how comfortable; how light friendship is. I’m having such a good time that when Desert Man asks me to come hang by the lake, I feel vaguely disappointed to leave.

The lakeside seems to be a designated lovers hangout. On either side of us I can hear couples meeting in various ways, a moan to my left, whispering to my right — are those balls slapping or lake waves? I’m aware that Desert Man and I will soon join the chorus.

He kisses me and we start to twirl together on the grass. Although a tender lover, the weight of his big heavy body makes me feel like a little fairy.

As he undresses me, the warm night air brushes my naked back. I straddle him, my hands exploring his strong, carpenters body. He spreads my legs apart and pleasures me with his hands. My moans encourage him and he makes his way down on me. I’m lost in lust when he swivels his torso around. As I take his penis in my hand I notice how different it feels with no foreskin to fondle.

‘I have condoms,’ he says, as he pulls me back up to face him.

Once he’s wrapped up he pushes himself deep inside me.

When we finish he invites me to stay the night. This is nice and I say yes.

Morning comes and with sleep still in our eyes we enjoy sweaty tent sex. Greeting us as we climb gingerly from the tent are his entire crew, inviting me to share some lunch. But something inside prevents me — ‘No sorry, I’d better get back to my crew’.

I skip home feeling grateful for a sexy night with a yummy man, I can’t wait to tell the girls. Just as I reach the campsite Wally calls out:

‘There you bloody are! We’re about to go!’

I spot North Star by our tent and her face lights up as she turns to see me. I can see in her eyes how excited she is. Excited, because not seeing me was in fact a real possibility.

Her unconditional love and acceptance of who I am, what I do, smacks me in the face. I almost missed spending the day with my friends because of my pattern to be so instantly absorbed in someone else’s world.

‘Well go on, wet wipe your ass and get ready! The Dance Temple is about to open!’ shouts Wally again, snapping me back to my beautiful reality, my world full of beautiful friends who are right here waiting for me to fall into them.

North Star jumps into the tent with me to help me get ready. As she hands me a fresh pair of underwear I swear to myself that the rest of this festival will be dedicated to my friends and if a man wants to join me, he’ll have to join my world.


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Image taken from Boom Offical — see you in 2020!

Hairy Pits Take Europe

So apparently I’m a hippie now. I have a weird haircut, I wear random clothes, I travel for a lifestyle but most notably, I no longer tame my body hair. I didn’t used to look like this, I waxed my underarms, shaved my legs, and scheduled my monthly Brazilian appointments. I loathed the cost, effort and pain of hair removal, but I did it because ‘that’s what women do’ and… what man will want to eat out a hairy vagina?

This bohemien change occurred in the desert where I released my wild woman — in many ways. The most visible way being my body hair.

In the desert my waxed pits were the odd ones out; practically all the female volunteers were rocking their natural foliage. Never before had I wished for my pits to hurry up and grow back. Once they eventually filled out I felt a sense of pride raising my arms alongside my desert sisters.

When the desert time came to an end and we were heading to Namibia, I intended to remove the hair but Zimbabawia, Mumma Africa and Impy persuaded me not too.

‘It looks great! Al natural gal.’

And so I was convinced to keep my natural hairs even in the ‘real world’. I didn’t think much about it until my road trip with the Namibia boys. Being in their handsome presence I felt the blush of self-consciousness come over me. Still seeking further reassurance I decided to ask Lekker Boy and Mumma Lover what they thought of my pit-Afro.

‘It’s great! That’s your true self.’

‘You totally rock it!’

Although it pains me to say, the validation of two men over my three female friends made it so much easier to accept my hairy new look and believe others would accept it too.

What the fuck had society done to my brain?

So, I did it — I embraced my natural hairs. While we drove down the desert roads of Namibia I let my them flap gracefully in the wind. As I danced to Afrobeats in Rwanda I threw my arms in the air without hesitation. When I became intimate with Honey he lovingly stroked my hairy pits as though they were the most natural thing in the world — which they were.

Now, seven weeks later, I have become used to this new furry version of myself. I find myself tenderly fondling the thick, black bush of my pits and vag.

Reunited with Mumma Africa, our departure date creeps up on us and I feel that same insecurity resurface — I don’t know if I can face taking my natural hairs on a plane destined for Europe.

Why is Europe any different than Africa you ask?

Europe is where I’m meeting a bunch of non-hairy friends. Europe is where fashion becomes important again. Europe is where the German lives — and I know beyond a doubt that he won’t like my pitAfro.

Tormented by these social pressures I turn to Mumma Africa and Zimbabwia for help and we decide to do a little research…

We find out that in the 1920s there was as a dramatic change in women’s fashion. Dresses became shorter and tighter, sleeves were removed — the body was the new biggest statement. So with all these limbs on show some scheming advertisers from the men’s hair removal industry began to target women’s hair and their self-esteem

Advertisements featuring joyous women in slick summer dresses with hairless underarms began popping up in women’s magazines. These advertisements promoted hair removal products that dealt with ‘unclean’ hairs and promoted ‘female loveliness’.

Hold on a minute — unclean? Women were bombarded with a message that the natural hairs they’d always known were now suddenly unclean, unsightly and unfeminine.

So clearly I’d been unknowingly programed so to speak. But this discovery did prompt me to have the invaluable realisation — once upon a time, not so long ago, all women were hairy, and none of them knew and felt any damn different.

Keeping my natural hairs is not me making a grand hippy gesture — it’s me justbeingme.com just like my fellow al-natural sisters from the 1920s!

So no thank you Mr Gillette!

Empowered by a vision of hairy women of the past and the support of the women in my present, I throw my unused wax and razor away, then continue packing. Tomorrow we wave goodbye to Mumma Africa and Mount Kilimanjaro and board a flight to Portugal — my pitAfro can hardly wait to arrive.


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Wings

Before setting out on this journey I was in a state of doing, a state of achieving: complete two years of career work so you look stable on your resume, save up enough money to go away, and try to find a man to nourish your sexual and emotional desires while working.

I’d discuss my trip with friends. Where are you going? What are you wanting from this trip? When will you come home? I never had the answer to these questions, just felt this trip was going to mean something, something big.

When I asked for a year of leave, I knew it was pointless. I knew I wouldn’t be back, yet couldn’t bring myself to relinquish the security of a job. When I sublet my room it was the same. I told the renter she could stay for one year when deep inside I knew I wouldn’t be coming home to my quaint St Kilda apartment in one year, or ever again.

As I waved goodbye to my dear mum and boarded the plane, a tiny voice inside me whispered:

You won’t be coming back to this life.

Thirty hours later, I walked out of the Zanzibar airport. I had done it. I had closed the door on my past and my present had arrived. At this point, I could only imagine what this trip would reveal; all the adventure I’d been craving.

While snorkeling off Nungwi in Zanzibar we met a guy who had been travelling for five years. I mentioned we planned to be in Africa for seven months and he laughed.

‘Seven months?! But you won’t see anything!’ smiled the Nomad.

Something about his snail’s pace attitude called to me, and yet was so far from me, from what I was doing now. How can one travel for five years? I started to wonder.

Four months later at AfrikaBurn I had my opening where something deep in my core had been shaken. I could feel the beating of wings, trapped beneath my skin. The beating was growing louder — asking to be freed. I knew this was a message that wouldn’t be ignored.

With this feeling still aching inside and the words of the nomad echoing in the mind, Zimbabwia and I started to plot how we could become our own Nomads. One afternoon whilst plotting how to extend the length of this trip, we received a text message. A friend of ours, Jerome was dead, murdered in gang violence.

Jerome was a member of our Afrikaburn family. He was one of the first coloured* people to work for DPW. During our weeks in the desert he was a larger than life legend, whose energy was infectious.

I knew only the beautiful surface of Jerome, nevertheless felt the startling impact of his death. The desert changed Jerome, just like it did me. Our eyes were opened to the possibilities of non-judgemental, non-racist, non-elitist, non-sexist, utter freedom that life could be.

Death, they say is one of our greatest teachers of the fragility and impermanence of life. The death of a person who I’d so recently connected with, was the last gentle push towards surrendering to the potential of this journey.

I no longer view this journey as a trip, but as my life. I want to learn in this life by being IN it. I want to acquire more skills than a degree can teach me. I want to open myself to the opportunities life puts on my path because I’m not stuck to a plan. I want to allow myself to be guided by the universe.

I don’t want to wait. Life is literally, too short.

Jerome, I’m so sorry you had to be the lesson. But somehow I think you enjoy looking down and seeing the mark you’ve made on us. When we look to the sky we know there’s a new star shining down.

Your life, as much as your death, has made that whispering voice a whole lot louder. I can’t ignore it now. I’m not going back to that life.

After Zimbabwia and I cried looking up at your star, I took out my iPad and wrote my resignation.

As soon as I pressed the send button, I felt the skin on my back stretching open as my wings of freedom burst free.


*
Coloured – In South Africa ‘Coloured’ or ‘Cape Coloureds’ are an ethnic group composed of persons primarily of mixed race. At first this term shocked and offended me however I soon learned that coloured people like Jerome took no offence to the name and used it to proudly define themselves.


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The Challenges of African Dancing: Part 2 — The Challenges of Lovers

Lovers — I can’t seem to get the idea out of my mind. I want to be a lover, I want to have a lover.

But lovers aren’t necessarily singular. Take Zimbabwia, we’ve been to six countries now and she’s had a lover in five (go girl). So if I’m going to learn to be a lover, I need to learn how to love, and how to let go.

And yet, just writing that fills me with hesitation. I haven’t managed to find myself a lover on this trip, how can I possibly let him go when I find him?


I wake with that unfriendly yet familiar feeling — a hangover. I’m getting too old for hangovers. I roll over to check my phone and there blissfully waits a message from Honey! My nauseated feeling is instantly replaced with delicious flashbacks of last night’s Afrobeat base, of my booty (non-suggestively) grinding up against Honey, and the kiss… my tummy swoons with butterflies as I relive our tongues intangling.

Some replies back and forth and we arrange to meet up that evening when he and Lips have the keys to their new house.

Telling Zimbabwia the plan, we instantly realise our dilemma.

‘Shit. We can’t possibly be our usual free selves when we have a CouchSurfer Mum to go home to.’

For those of you who have couch surfed before, you will understand that sometimes — depending on the country, the culture, and the vibe of your host — you are obligated to show a certain amount of courtesy. Going out for a one-night-stand isn’t always considered courteous.

After much debate, and a little bit of embarrassment, Zimbabwia and I determine that our best option, for total freedom, is to leave Mimmy’s and ask Honey and Lips if we can stay at theirs.

‘Hey Honey, so about tonight. I know you’re just moving into your place and you don’t even have your own furniture yet. But we’re in a bit of an awkward spot and well… Could we kind of move in too… Like bring our entire lives in the form of backpacks with us? This doesn’t mean we have to have sex…’ I awkwardly stutter through the phone.

‘Yeah sure, that’s sweet,’ replies an unfalteringly sweet Honey.

And so, that is how Zimbabwia and I move in on our first date. HAHAHA.

No seriously. This story still makes me cackle while writing it. But this is just the typical ‘living in the moment’, outrageous shit that happens when you travel — I bloody love it.

With our packs on our backs we jump onto a pikipiki (motorbike taxi), wave goodbye to the lovely Mimmy, and cruise down to our new home. Little do we know that we are about to have two entirely different experiences.

Honey is already home and welcomes us by showing us around the completely naked house. Without even a cup for the wine we’ve brought we sit together on the balmy porch sipping from the bottle of red, waiting for Lips to arrive.

Lips, we learn, is a tailor at the Kimironko Market and often stays out late fulfilling orders for his many wazungu* clients.

The bottle of wine is long finished when he finally arrives. We sit together for a while and then wish each other goodnight — Zimbabawia and I’s eyes meet and we barely contain our laughter as we head into our ‘boyfriend’s’ bedrooms.

‘Have fun!’

Finally! With the door closed, Honey and I alone for the first time. As we sit down on his bed I feel utterly nervous, I really like this guy! But just like his dancing, he starts off tender and slowww.

He leans in to kiss me and I feel sparks of electricity shoot from my lips. We makeout for so long that waves of pleasure pulsate from my mouth through every fibre of my being.

Our possessed hands begin to roam freely, exploring each other’s bodies. Delicately he removes my top and brushes his hands over my underarm foliage — my skin erupts in goosebumps. I raise my hands to caress his beautiful natural dreads. He removes his top and I respond by pressing my chest against his gorgeous caramel skin, our bodies feel like they fit together perfectly.

He is a tender, gentle lover — looking me in the eyes, putting a condom on without me needing to ask, entering me slowly, with gratitude. My vagina senses Honey’s purity and fully opens to welcome his penis. I don’t need to angle my cervix or position him — we just glide.

A sensuously long time later, utterly spent, we collapse into each other’s arms and drift off into a lovers’ coma.

When I awaken Honey has already gotten up and bought us breakfast ingredients — and utensils to cook them. I’m seriously swooning so hard over him while he makes breakfast that when Zimbabwia appears, I laugh.

I forgot you were here!

One look at her and I register that her night wasn’t as luxurious as mine. We head out for the day leaving Honey to organise the house. Once we’re out the gate I turn to Zimbabawia and the gossip begins.

‘I’m a lover not a fucker!’ Groans Zimbabwia, who’s now slouched on the couch of the very impressive Inzora Cafe we’ve found. I sip on my smoothie through a bamboo straw (yes Inzora!) and listen to the tale of Zimbabwia’s evening.

It turns out Lips was the opposite of Honey. He wanted to FUCK all night and when Zimbabawia finally got to sleep he woke her up at 5am so she would let him out of the front gate. This resulted in her having approximately 45 minutes of sleep.

In the days that follow, Zimbabwia and I entertain ourselves throughout the day and in the evenings head back to our home and our housemates for dinner. I practically count the hours until I can see Honey again. I’m becoming addicted to his nectar.

Each day I find myself unveiling another affectionate flower, which has never before been watered. I’m not ashamed to show my heart in the form of kisses, hugs, making the bed, and bringing home treats.

Honey doesn’t push me back or make me feel over the top, or too obsessed. We’re just living in the now — because soon I will be gone.

Every night we make love, and every night my body yearns more deeply for his touch, his breath, our mingled sweat in the humid nights. I love touching my fingers on his scars and asking questions about his life.

With every day that passes I begin reflecting on my past romances. I have never acted this way before because I was never able — I was shamed for my openheartednes and made to swallow my affection.

Ten days later our Rwandan journey was coming to an end, and I started to feel confused. Is it possible to have this much loving with someone, this much of a connection and just leave it at that? Isn’t that a waste.

The mind began to take over and was plotting stories of how to make this work.

I could move to Rwanda!

Our last night comes around all too quickly and to comisterate / celebrate our departure Bitches, Bangles (our Israeli friend who we met in Malawi), Zimbabawia, Honey, Lips, and I all head back to Cocobean. Zimbabwia and I are rocking some seriously cool new threads* that Lips has been busy sewing all week and I am ready to shake my ass.

Honey and I melt together on the dance floor and Bitches boy is making us all wet ourselves with laughter sassing his booty around in our dance circle.

The lights and the music are pounding and I realise that my head is spinning. I ask honey to come outside with me for a bit and he escorts me next to the pool. We’re mid kiss when he pulls away and looks at me slyly.

‘Do you remember what you said the last time you were here?’

‘Oh shit. Yep. Hold on. Take this’.

Handing Honey my camera and shoes I stand up onto a chair and launch myself into the swimming pool. As my head resurfaces I hear a roar of applause, laughter, and some angry security men screaming at me to;

‘Get out!’

Soaping wet, I climb out and wave my arm in victory to the disbelieving crowd. A security guard takes my arm and escorts me towards the exit. Behind me Zimbabwia, Bangles, and Bitches mouths are all agape.

‘I guess we’ll see you later!’ They cackle.

Honey walks up next to me, holding my possessions. He smirks and says nothing.


From Honey I learnt how to African dance. How to love. How to be loved. And most importantly, I learnt how to let a lover go. I can tell you, it wasn’t easy, I asked Zimbabwia numerous times why moving to Rwanda wasn’t a good idea, until finally I had my own realisation. To ‘live in the moment’ also means that you sometimes have to leave that moment, where you found it.

So to you Honey. Thank you for tasting so sweet, and getting me addicted to the nectar of a lover.


*Wazungu: people who wander or in the case of Africa it is the common name for foreigners


*Threads: clothes.
Lips is an amazing Rwandan fashion designer who works his ass off to create unique colourfully explosive clothes, which combine western fashion with the beautiful African fabric
Kitenge.
If you need an injection of colour and culture in your wardrobe then this legend at Kimironko Market Kigali OR head to his website.


What are your experiences with Lovers? Are you a Zimbabawia, you have multiple? Or are you learning to leave the moment where you found it like me? Comment below!

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The Lover and The Prowler

So I’m a Gemini. For those who know anything about astrology it’s commonly known as ‘the twin’ — the dualistic persona. When it comes to sex, my louder persona — The Prowler, loves the freedom and empowerment of a one night stand. For years I’ve loved going to events, prowling a crowd, picking my mark and ending the night in bed with said chosen.

However, there is another side of my sex story. A side who has not had as much time in the spotlight — The Lover. She loves sex that is meaningful, and with a person whom she feels a deep connection to. Someone she can truly blossom with.

In this tale both the twins come out to have their say.


I will forever regard Windhoek as being the home to the world’s best couchsurfing-host-women, ever. Twerk Queen and her five sister’s humble home gives us our first glimpse of what it would be like to be a true local. Tucked away in the heart of Katutura Township, the thrum of music drifts from the numerous bars, children play freely on the street, prowling cats and dogs seeking scraps of food and with the right with a waft of the Single Quarters meat market fills the air.

The girls give us their bed, their food, their company, and even attempt teaching us how to Twerk (previously concluded by our tiny white asses as a physical impossibility).

The sisters are taking us into town with a group of their friends. Walking into a bar I am gobsmacked. It feels like we’ve walked into a Melbourne bar, the most obvious difference being our glowing skin, standing out amongst the dark chocolate crowd. Everyone is trendy as fuck and all walks of life are represented; there are hipsters, glam girls, gangsters, suits, you name it.

I’m positioned at the bar waiting for my GnTs and peering out at the sea of people, when the beat takes on a different nature. Oozing out of the speaker is a combination of jazz, soul and funk — I instantly feel my hips organically sway to the rhythm. It’s not just me; everyone around me is transformed by this music. Booties are shaking, hips are grinding, they’re fully immersed in dance, full of confidence, full of pride in their varying body shapes. And they are showing the fuck off. I froff this place.

Still grinning from this sight, a 6ft tall woman passes by. I recognise that she is a transvestite. Apprehensively, I look ahead to see what the reactions towards her will be… nothing.

This city is seriously blowing me away! There’s a transvestite and no one batting an eyelid! She is safe and accepted HALLELUJAH!

Let me explain. I’ve been travelling through parts of Africa e.g. Tanzania where being homosexual is still punishable by imprisonment. So now, coming to Namibia and seeing humans of all gender identifications, wearing whatever the fuck they like, dancing however the fuck they want; brings me pure joy.

GnTs in hand, I make my way outside to sit with Twerk Queen and her gang of guy friends. Somehow we get onto the topic of anal sex.

No no. That is only for gay people,’ declared one of the male friends.

I look over at his normally loud buddies and they are silent —not daring to disagree. Filled with confidence from this progressive place, I decide that this is a topic we can safely debate. And so that’s what we do; Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia and I proudly share our views of how men can enjoying all parts of a woman’s body and it does not make them gay.

As the silent friends start to find their voice and agree with what we are saying, I catch the eye of a beautiful man. He’s well over 6ft tall, wearing a bright yellow hoodie, and he’s looking directly at me. I feel myself instantly blush. He waves me over and I excuse myself from the conversation which has now evolved to tips for anal play.

Attendee introduces himself. Besides his strong facial features, impressive height, and stylish get up, he is also beautifully spoken and sophisticated. He’s effortlessly wooing me and The Prowler is letting him.

I’m here with my flight attendant friends,’ he boasts.

He introduces me to his glamourous colleagues. They tell tales of stop offs to Berlin; nights out in the Bergine; ocean dips in Lisbon and attending concerts in London. They come from another world and I am whisked away by Attendee’s stories.

Meanwhile, my gang’s night has come to an end and they are ready to to hit the road.

Are you coming with us?’ questions a suggestive Zimbabawia.

I turn to Attendee, uncharacteristically shy, and he replies:

You’re staying at mine aren’t you?

At this point Twerk Queen steps in and tells him:

She is under my supervision and YOU had better look after her. Give me your number. What’s your address? Call me when you get home AND call me in the morning!

Yes mam! She turns to leave but not before striking him one last watch it glare.

So that’s it. I’m going home with Attendee. Jumping into the taxi I hear the tiny voice of my The Lover protesting. I decide it’s just nervousness, this is my first one night stand, outside of the desert since Durban Boy.

We detour to get late night Nandos and take it back to his living room where the sharing of greasy food allows me to relax. As if a segway into the events ahead — we lick the chicken salt off our fingers and he invites me into his bedroom.

Again the nerves in my belly flare up. I sit awkwardly on his bed waffling on about the cool clothes in his wardrobe. Half listening, he pulls off his jumper to reveal a body I will never forget.

The nerves start to dissipate. This is what we’re here for. We’re not here to make friends. Not here to get to know each other. No. We are here for sex.

As he comes towards me I instinctively reach out my hand to caress this new, beautiful skin. Clearly wanting to do the same he yanks my top over my head to reveal my bra free (always) breasts.

Laying between my legs he takes each breast into his hands and tenderly kisses my erect nipples. He twirls my nipple ring with his tongue and I watch like a voyeur feeling the warmth grow in my body.

I gently put my hands on his spongy hair and encourage him to come up to face me. Finally, we kiss. Oh. My. God. My instant thought is to feel my own lips. Are my lips really that small?

Kissing him again I am in heaven. It’s like kissing the softest, most moist, beautiful black pillows. I’m only just getting started on his pillows when he lifts them off my mouth and moves them down along me; down, down, down, to pussy town.

I am wet with anticipation, if those lips felt like that on my mouth then… OMG he has arrived. He parts me with his tongue and moves his lips around my outer lips. His tongue gently strokes along my clit making me moan.

Because I find it hard to orgasm while the attention is solely on me, I swivel around so that I come face to face with his erection.

His dick; oh my gosh his dick. By now you probably realise I haven’t been with a man whose darker than my breakfast cinnamon. And now, as I take this beauty in my mouth, I am wondering, Why the hell haven’t I?

As usual the distraction of a cock in my mouth allows me to fully relax and come to orgasm. We come back to eye level and marvel at one another’s skin. Running our hands along each other we joke about our differences and then he enters me and colours are forgotten.

We are one union of pleasure, grinding down onto him I feel full of life, lust, and freedom — freedom to explore my sexuality while I travel this amazing continent. With this thought in mind Attendee climaxes and I drift off to sleep in his soft arms.

Yes, yes she’s asleep. Oh no, here she is, she woke up.’

My morning lay in is disturbed by Attendee handing me his phone.

Hello?’ I ask, quite confused. Twerk Queens commanding voice comes through ‘Girl you alright? I told him he has to bring you home’.

The phone call finally finishes with Attendee swearing that he is bringing me home soon. And then, silence falls between us.

We have nothing more to say to one another. Fascinating. How can there be so much language without words when our clothes are off. But when the morning comes it’s like we are strangers again.

When I jump out of his car I look at Attendee in his rather sexy uniform, yet I feel nothing. For the first time it dawns on me that although I love and respect my sexual freedom, The Lover, the connection seeking persona in me, simply isn’t satisfied with just penetration.

At this realisation, The Lover seems to be getting louder; ‘I tried to tell you!

I think it’s about time this twin had some time in the spotlight. I wonder who she’ll meet next?



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Artwork by @_monadoma_


A Rhinoceros Blowjob

We humans spend a lot of our time watching animals. We watch them in cages and tanks. We watch them on tv whilst listening to David Attenborough. We watch them in zoos and aquariums. We watch them on safari in foreign and exotic countries.

Our species seems to get so much enjoyment from watching animals. So I wonder… do they enjoy watching us?


We are now in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia.

As I collect the keys from a questionable car hirer, I feel grateful that our next outback adventure is about to begin. We said farewell to Impy and Rocks this morning; waving goodbye to Impy brought me to tears.

Luckily we’ve arranged to pick up two new travel buddies, thanks to the evergiving connections, from AfrikaBurn.

Before I even have time to ponder what travelling with men will be like, Lekker boy bounces into the car:

‘Lekkkkkkker Bros!’ he chimes.

Wearing high shorts, suspenders and donning a yellow ukulele strapped to his back, he hands us a bottle of viner (half water, half wine).

‘Drink up!’

Just as we’re processing this energetic, handsome and colourful being, the next one climbs in. He’s more tamely dressed, bespectacled, tall, dark haired and of course …handsome.

‘Hey, thanks so much for picking us up!’ Oh and he’s polite. Welcome aboard, Mumma Lover.

I immediately feel my energy recharging. Road trip round two, let’s begin.

We set off North of Windhoek, it doesn’t take long for the conversation to steer down the old familiar road — sex talk. The unfamiliar road, however, is that this time we have two male perspectives! We’re deep in the midst of a conversation about ‘pulling out’ when Mumma Lover explains:

‘I don’t cum inside a woman who I only have casual intentions with. Ejactuating in a woman is very intimate and I don’t want to be misleading.’

Revelation! I used to hate that The German wouldn’t cum inside me. Although this may not have been his reason, it’s interesting to hear another perspective. This is going to be an educational week.

We arrive at our first camping stop, the Spitzkoppe Peaks. Over 120 million years old, these rock formations seem to appear from nowhere, towering out of the flat desert at up to 1728m high. We pass locals selling giant crystals clearly unearthed from this sacred area.


The camping ground is rather busy. There are families, older couples with their bakkies and some serious rock-climbers — barely visible amongst the smooth formations.

We decide to camp as far away as possible from everyone. We want to connect as a group for our first day together — with the assistance of our leftover Afrikaburn goodies. Once we set up our tents we prepare for a trippy exploration of the area.

Afrikaburn taught me many lessons about tripping in the desert and these were the most vital: pack a fuck tonne of water; cover your head; and don’t bother wearing pants.

With water strapped to our bodies we begin our exploration of this unique area. We only make it a few mere meters when the giggles begin. Having spotted a dassie (a kind of desert beaver) Mumma Lover exclaims:

‘If I were to fuck an animal it would be a dassie. Look at that booty!’

Everything is ridiculous and we can hardly get a word out without breaking into hysteria. As we scramble up a steep rock face our laughter halts. Somehow, we have stumbled onto the set of a film clip…

WHAT???

A very serious group of people intently focused on cameras, lights and dancing all turn to stare angrily at us. We’ve obviously just bombarded the take. Unable to handle the absurdity of the situation our crew erupts into raucous laughter. I manage to catch my breath and shout to our audience:

‘Sorry, to disturb, but we’re tripping!’

Hearing this, their annoyed faces transform into laughter ‘Ohhhhhh!’.

Only in the desert.

As we leave the production we agree that with the sunlight fading, our bare bums are getting chilly and so we make our way back to camp.

We’re still reeling from the absurdity of the day when we spot them… A car of five have set up their camp right next to us — Fuck. We are not in a quiet mood!

Lekker boy and I stealthily climb a convenient spying-rock to check them out.

‘Holy crap, they’re young!’ I shout.

Not having been exactly subtle our neighbours spot us and introduce themselves. They’re an English couple and two (single) male friends. Seeing that we’re on.com they invite us to join their camp fire.

‘We’ve been dying for a party,’ they grin while pulling endless gin bottles from their trailer.

It seems that the madness from the desert day will be transcending into the night. After finishing off the goodies — and all the gin, we climb the rocks and dance beneath the stars.

One of the single boys, Handsome English Lad, and I hit it off and banter by the fire way into the night. When my crew ask if I’m coming to bed I feel conflicted but my intuition tells me what to do.

We say goodnight to our rowdy English pals and collapses into Lekker boy’s tent. A feeling of regret starts to creep in, but then Mumma Lover farts and I come back to reality — grateful to have chosen pals over penis.

The scorching heat of the morning forces us to rise our sad, sorry, hungover asses out of a sweltering tent. After a couple of vomits (pole sana Zimbabawia), and a gallon of water we load back into the car ready for more of the wild, wild NORTH.

And wild it is. The gravel roads take us to the Skeleton Coast where we investigate masses of animal and shipwreck skeletons strewn along the eerie road. We literally race an ostrich with our Jeep —winning by a feather. And we make a pit stop at a questionable campground where the owner casually tell us:

‘Once I was stuck in that bathroom because a lion was outside.’ Fabulous.

By the time we finally arrive our wildest destination of them all, Etosha National Park, night is falling and we’re eager to get the fuck into secure territory.

As we drive through the high security gates of the nights campground we breathe a sigh of relief. Randomly choosing a place to camp we jump out of the car and burst into laughter; camped directly opposite us are the Spitzkoppe English Gang!

Thank you Universe for potential penis round two!

‘Hey! Fancy seeing you again. We’re heading to the viewing deck. Join us?’ beams Handsome English Lad.

Bringing wine and sleeping bags, we follow along to the campground’s man-made watering hole. Here the animals routinely come for their evening drink. The water is illuminated by a spotlight and a viewing deck has been built in prime position for watching the animals.

Just as I’m settling, in Lekker Boy slaps me. Looking up confused by the assault I gasp disbelievingly… a rhino is slowly approaching the water. Epitomised as the rarest, most volatile poacher-sought creature —it is simply mythical to be in this beasts presence.

As the night wears on everyone heads to bed, but I remain. Only Myself, Other Lad and Handsome English Lad remain on the entire deck.

Though I am happy to have seen the animals, my inner animal has another agenda on her mind. English Lad and I have been quietly flirting all evening but Other Lad doesn’t seem to have caught on. Instead he asks:

‘I’m going to bed, you coming?’ to my Handsome English Lad.

And then, English Lad says ‘Yeah alright’ and stands to leaves with him! Isn’t he feeling my vibes?

‘Are you going to bed?’ he asks me.

‘No,’ I responded, ‘I’ll just stay here a while longer.’

He’ll be back, I think to myself as I settle in to stubbornly wait. While waiting I guess I fall asleep because the next thing I know Handsome English Lad is waking me:

‘Hey Charlotte, Charlotte?’

Bleary eyed, I smile at the sight of him. I knew it.

Without breaking the silence he slips into my sleeping bag, and It. Is. On. His hungry hands begin to explore my body and I arch my back, delighted for sensual touch, eagerly anticipating the oncoming pleasure.

Wizzrd Sleeve was only a few weeks ago but when I’m in a habit of regular sex I find it so hard to suddenly stop.

Our breath is heavy and audible as we intwine our tongues and bodies together. His hands reach down to my underwear and slip between my squirming legs. Feeling my wetness he smiles and begins to migrate south of the sleeping bag.

He pulls my underwear aside and I groan as his lips finally meet mine. I love being eaten — and this public environment makes it so much hotter. Exhibisionism, licking, and penetrating fingers bring me quickly to orgasm. I let out an animalistic moan.

Having finally caught my breath I start to switch places. Now I’m in the mood to use my mouth as a pleasure tool. Handsome English Lad is at the mercy of my wet mouth and I quickly have him making his own animal noises.

Whilst enjoying my power over this humans pleasure I glance out over the watering hole — there standing still as the night is a giant Rhino.

I feel its eyes penetrate my own. I pause mid mouthful wondering, what to do?

Well, I think to myself, It’s about time the animals got to be the watchers. And resume swallowing him, deep into my throat.


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Some more beautiful snaps by myself and Lekker Boy!

Mother Nature and her Women

Quiz time! Which country is so wild that it has free-roaming wildlife; is the size of Alaska, yet has a population of only 2.5 million; and is home to the world’s largest sand dune?

Don’t know? It’s Namibia, of course!

If you and your pals want to be independent, badass explorers; if you can surrender to mother nature and be prepared to tackle anything she throws your way… then make Namibia your next holiday destination.


Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia, Impy, Rocks – our new Russian delight – and I have decided that the best way to get over our Afrikaburn hangovers is to get our asses back into the desert.

After picking up our bakkie (Namibian / South African slang for a ute or pickup-car) we bid farewell to our South African friends. Upon hearing our adventure plans, they bombard us with advice for Namibia:

Make sure the car is packed with food and water.’

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

‘It can be days before you pass a shop or other humans on the road!’

‘You can wild camp* in the South but NOT in the North – the whole cast of the Lion King roams freely up there!’

Really, I think — how hard can it be?

The officers at the Namibian border crossing decide to make it hard immediately.

‘Excuse me, Officer,’ I ask in my sweetest voice, ‘but we notice you have written different exit dates for each of us and we are travelling together.’

Once we finally convince the grumpy officer to give us the SAME exit dates, Impy revs up the bakkie and we roll on in to the mysterious Namibia.

As we navigate our way towards Fish River Canyon, everyone’s eyes are fixed out the window. ‘Woahh,’ we breathe simultaneously. The road ahead is dead straight as far as the eye can see. Splayed across the horizon are layers upon layers of mountains.

‘SO many layers!’ Impy shouts, and the cameras begin to click. It takes another hour of the endless magnificent scenery before it sinks in — This. Is. It!

With the sun now setting, and not having seen a car since we crossed the border, we stop the car in the middle of the. Pumping up the one and only ‘Africa’ by Toto, we fling the doors open and dance deliriously on the road. Completely alone, utterly enraptured to be here — together — on what feels like a distant planet.

Carrying on, Impy’s happiness is magnified when she gets her first glimpse of African wildlife. Prancing alongside the car are a herd of springbok — the antelope not the rugby team.

But before she has a chance to appreciate the moment, a suicidal springbok decides to make a beeline for our bakkie. Now, as Aussies, growing up with kangaroos we are taught to slow down and hit them, NEVER to swerve. Impy, with her boss-bitch driving skills, steadily eases the breaks and — thump.

As we watch the springbok struggle back to its feet and limp away, we feel a mixture of relief and irony that the first animal we’ve seen — we’ve hit.

Fearing the appearance of more suicidal animals, we decide that now is as good a time as any to try our hand at wild camping. Finding a spot to pitch a tent in an empty desert is quite unnerving. Never have any of us been so alone, so isolated, on such an equal playing field with nature. Mustering up courage, we bravely reassure one another:

‘We’ve got this.’

With the smell of canned pineapple and chickpeas filling the air we sit on our camping chairs, rugged up against the cold night ready to eat our first gas cooker meal. Above us a spectacle of stars brightly. Total bliss. Unaware of the time, we simply follow the signal of nature’s darkness and soon slip into our sleeping bags.

Mumma Africa cooking up a storm

The next morning, we are already up and packing as the dawn pushes its way through the darkness. There’s a sense of triumph within the group at surviving our first solo night in the desert, but this is rudely interrupted when a motherfucking SCORPION scurries out from under the tent.

‘Arghhhhhhh!’

I guess the deadly arachnid decided to use our warmth as its home for the night. Cautiously, we shake out our shoes and shove them onto our naked feet.

But we won’t be deterred by an arse loving scorpion and a suicidal springbok. As we start up the bakkie and continue on our way to Fish River Canyon, we’re met with a glorious sunrise.


Impy pondering the canyon

Colour changes on the canyon

As a gas station appears, we remember our friends’ warning:

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

Pulling up, we’re greeted by a perplexed gas station attendant.

‘Where the man?’ he asks.

‘Ladies only!’ we grin.

Driving away from our entertained servo man, our conversation turns to females travelling Africa solo. Why is it that Africa is viewed as such a ‘hard-core’ continent to travel? I mean, plenty of 20-somethings have been to India, South America and South East Asia. Why is it that when you tell someone that you’re travelling to Africa, you’re met with comments like:

‘Wow, you’re brave! Aren’t you worried about rabies?’

Or the most common:

‘But isn’t that unsafe for a woman?’

Our now hotly passionate conversation is put on hold as we veer off road for another night of wild camping. Unbeknown to us our evening is about to get…hard-core.

Hopping out, we each begin our nightly jobs: Mumma Africa and Rocks make the dinner, Zimbabawia and I put up the tent, and Impy lights the fire. All is well, and then we hear it… the spine-chilling yelp of a nearby creature.

‘Kinda sounded like a hyena,’ whispers Rocks.

‘WTF! It is not a hyena, they’re not in the south!’ I bark, horrified to hear her express my own terrified thought.

We’re all frozen. Barely moving, we point our torches into the darkness, looking for the source of the sound. Suddenly, the night is pierced by another yelp, this time behind us. Whatever the creatures are, they’ve got us surrounded.

Impy, Rocks and Zimbabawia sprint towards the car.

‘HONK THE HORN!’ I scream from the fire, too paralysed by fear to leave its flickering protection. The horn rings out and we wait.

The silence seems to last forever. Eventually, we decide a safe amount of time has passed. Totally rattled, we conclude that it was just a jackal (a fox-like creature) enticed by the smell of food.

‘What were you doing to protect yourself?’ I ask Mumma Africa.

‘Mmm, I held up the salt shaker?’

Our laughter manages to cut through the lingering fear and we find our way to bed — though we sleep with one eye open.

Morning comes and we drift down the sandy road towards Sossusvlei. For the first time in days we’re surrounded by humans — tourist humans. They’re all here for the same thing as us: to climb the famous red sand dunes and see the deadveli skeleton trees.

Looking up at the 325m high Big Daddy Dune, I wish with all my manifestation might that we will be alone when we get to the top — so we can take the most epic naked pics.

It’s a gruelling climb, but an hour later we are all willing our sandy socks to take the last few steps. As we reach the summit, our jaws drop in unison. The most glorious spectacle we have ever witnessed pierces its way into our retinas: kilometre after kilometre of red and white mountains meet the brilliantly blue sky. THIS. IS. IT!

‘Mmm, guys.. are we alone up here?’ I say in disbelief.

Looking down below we burst into laughter. ALL the cars and tour buses have miraculously disappeared. We are ENTIRELY alone. How’s that for manifesting? Without a word, we each strip off our kits, and what follows is, well… this!

Because I couldn’t not!

Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. Still, at the end of the day we are primal beings, made to co-exist with her. None of us will ever forget the feeling Namibia gave us of sheer human vulnerability. But we will also never forget nature’s reminder that we are powerful women — hear us fucking ROAR!

*Wild camp – camping in nature away from organised campsites for free!


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More pictures because there were too many stories to tell!

Bullsport gorge hike — pants optional
Impy freaks out over baboon handprints in the dust — ‘It’s like a human hand but a monkey!’

I discover a gnawed off zebra leg in the Bullsport gorge…yikes!

Road side discovery –suitcase filled with letters and other random items from desert explorers.

Kolmanskop; ghost town of Namibia abandoned and invaded by the dunes of time