A letter to friends

(This is a rough translation from my diary)

Wednesday, 4 December.

Goss Point, Wild Coast, Transkei, 4 dec 1991,

Hello, my sweets in Holland,

Please, won't you do this any more? Sending such a nice letter with presents to me. It makes me homesick. With the consequence that you'll have to hear my boring stories soon. I've played with the balloons very nice and I gave them away to a girl. I met her In Malawi and she invited me to visit her home in Pretoria. By the way, she has a very nice friend, he plays guitar in a band, called The URGE. Fast, fast, fast, a torturer to the guitar. Well, you know this Andre!

I could read your letter only one time. After the reading it is soaked, because of my leaking tent. And the ink didn't last very long. But, on such a rainy day as today (it's now for 24 hours continuously raining like cats and dogs) it's is a nice game to make from the ink spots letters again.
I write this letter on a place on the coast of the Transkei. It took us (I'm travelling together with a South African biker for a few days) more than one hour off-road through a rocky grass-plot. One hour no road at all, after a few hours nice dirt roads. Nobody lives here. Only a few African huts and cows. I know now why it's called the Wild Coast!
I do have to make my apologies, because my limited number of letters to you. It's not that I'll forget you. But I' do have to send everybody letters (now already over 80), and you only to me. Also makes travelling a human body very tired. And if you stay at a place, it's because there is something to see or to do. Something which is asking my attention. I know you'll understand. See you later.

Arold.

P.S.: that remark about sending never such nice letters is of coarse a joke. Feeling homesick is every now and then nice. It keeps you remembering the place where you are from.