Barrelman’s Blog
Holly Joe Slovo Barrelman
Travel Log:
Getting to Cape Town was a ridiculously long journey. Met a man named Joe Slovo on the plane…turns out he is somebody. Table Mountain also does not suck either. So far, everything is cool, but everyone keeps asking me if I like and know of someone called Rodriguez.
Do you want to learn more about how and why I fell in love with this place? If so, I will tell my story here.
The Barrelman
Meeting Babalas “Just Now”
Travel Log:
My first morning in South Africa started with a coffee order gone wrong—whipped cream instead of cream. Later, I found myself in a tiny pub called De Stomme Jonge, where Simon introduced me to Pinotage, a local wine with a kick. After a few glasses, he mentioned a guy named Babalas I’d meet the next day.
The next morning, I got a call: “We’ll collect you just now.” I rushed to get ready, but hours later, I was still waiting. Turns out, “just now” in South Africa doesn’t mean what I thought.
The Barrelman
Great Whites and the Michelin Man: An American’s First Dive on the Skeleton Coast
Travel Log:
My first week in Cape Town was a bit dramatic. I met the folks who would become my best friends. I attempted to dive for crayfish and perlemoen, and successfully dodged Great Whites…all while defining wetsuit couture.
Curious about how a too-cool-for-school American survived his first South African diving experience? Stay tuned and share my story here.
The Barrelman
South African Cultural Adventures: Wine Barrel Uses and Finding Drunken Sorrow
Travel Log:
The night began innocently enough: Pinotage with Simon at The Stomme Jonge, a few jokes at the American’s expense, and the ever-persistent Brandy & Coke challenges. It ended, however, with me introducing myself to “Mr. Dronk-Verdriet”—drunken sorrow personified.
By morning, I was in a full negotiation with Babalas, wondering if Margot’s suggestion of a BP Pie had been the best idea. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
The Barrelman
Cape Point, A Whale, & The Best Kombi Ride Ever
Travel Log:
Travel Log:
Cape Point wasn’t just a destination; it was a journey filled with laughter, padkos, and Kombi-Chenin. From the Atlantic Seaboard to Chapman’s Peak, every turn of Victoria Road left me speechless. By the time we reached the lighthouse, I’d seen breathtaking views, a whale breaching the waves (fondly named “Big Sushi”), and learned why South Africans are so proud of this corner of the world.
If you want to hear how a kombi ride changed my perspective forever, read the full story here.
The Barrelman
Hunting the Hippo
Travel Log:
It’s been a hot minute, folks! Life’s been busy in this neck of the woods, and I’ve been grinding hard with the Saffers. But do they know how to unwind? Let’s just say I found out the hard way on a recent ‘retreat’ to a place called De Stomme Jonge.
Now, one of the lads had this bright idea: “Let’s go hunting!”
Me? Hunting? Why not! I’ve faced tougher critics than a grumpy antelope. “How hard can it be?” I thought. We humans have been hunting since our caveperson days—it’s practically coded in our DNA. And I had the camouflage outfit ready to wear since I set foot on the South African shores.
The plan was simple: a morning hunt. Apparently, that’s when the animals pop out for breakfast at the local watering hole, much we did only at sunset at de Stomme Jonge. Just hoping we were not the prey of a greater predator. The night before, we sat around the campfire swapping questionable hunting tales, stalking prey, hunting large Kudu, initiation tales of buck shots and blooding and toasting with a certain South African delicacy—Witblits. Big mistake. Quickly the stories grew bigger and bigger, until…
…The Witblits, being a generous host, invited its best mate Babalas to join me at dawn. And Babalas did not disappoint.
Babalas showed up early, loud, and armed with a vuvuzela in my skull. In hind site, I think he brought along his cousin too, Dronkverdriet and a couple of elephants.
I eventually staggered out of my tent around noon (so much for sunrise), with my head pounding like a stampede. Decided a dip in the dam might cure me. Just as I was floating there, an overripe grape, trying to recall when exactly the elephant had danced on my head and pondering the meaning of life and my poor decisions, flashbacks of stories told, thinking most of them cant be real, made up, when I heard shouting in the distance.
At first, I thought it was German… until I caught the words:
“Hippo! HIPPO!”
That’s when it hit me. I’m the hippo!
Turns out, a hungover man floating belly-up in muddy water bears a striking resemblance to Africa’s deadliest mammal. Who knew? The hunter had become the hunted.
Needless to say, I won’t be winning any hunting trophies anytime soon—unless they hand out medals for “Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a Hippo.”
The case of mistaken identity might have been a blessing in disguise as only after the whole ordeal, did I learn what the buck shot initiation entails. Balalas and my stomach would agree that the results of such an initiation would have been detrimental to my reputation, ego and interior of my humble little tent…and of course the poor buck’s manhood.
So I’ve decided to stick to what I know best: grapes, barrels, and good company. Next time, maybe I’ll try something safer—like paragliding off Table Mountain with a bottle of Merlot.
Until next time, stay wild (and stay sober), my friends.
And remember: if you go hunting, make sure you’re not the one being hunted… or worse—mistaken for lunch!
Campfire Q&A with the Barrelman
Q: Did you actually catch anything on your first hunt?
A: Only a wicked hangover and a new nickname—The Hippo Whisperer.
Q: What’s Witblits, and would you recommend it?
A: Think of it as South Africa’s way of reminding you who’s boss. It’s like drinking fire that forgot to be polite. Highly effective, but not for beginners—or for early mornings.
Q: How did Babalas get involved?
A: He wasn’t invited. He just shows up unannounced, eats your breakfast, and refuses to leave until mid-afternoon.
Q: Will you be going hunting again?
A: Only if there’s a wine cellar nearby. Preferably one without hippos.
Q: What wine pairs best with a hunting story like this?
A: A bold Fat Barrel Shiraz—because it bites back just enough to make you feel brave, but smooth enough to forgive your mistakes.
Q: What’s the moral of the story?
A: Never underestimate Witblits, always check for hippos, and if you can’t shoot straight—pour straight.
The Barrelman
