1976 Revisited

We all know that 1976 was the year that the Soweto uprisings started. The children, or as they are now known ‘learners’ (where on earth did that word come from?), refused to take instruction in Afrikaans. That was the start of the trouble.

Well, here we are in 2009 and those of us who speak what used once upon a time to be known as English, are now being subjected to similar and equally demeaning treatment – only that to which we are being subjected is more subtle, more insidious.

SABC TV’s channel no 3 has traditionally been reserved for English; from time to time there have been some fairly horrendous mistakes in pronunciation (but then you have to expect that when most of our continuity announcers come from another language background), and there have been a few times when programming left much to be desired. We have borne all those things with a certain amount of equanimity; after all, you can always turn off the TV if it gets too much or too bad.

However, in the last two weeks a new and worrying trend has, silently and almost imperceptibly, appeared. On Thursday nights we are now being treated to a really awful piece of programming entirely in (you guessed it) Afrikaans, and on Fridays we have the slightly more palatable De Kat (also in Afrikaans).

I would assume, therefore, that channel no 3 is no longer exclusively in English.
Come all you payers of licences and critics of the SABC, gird your loins, pluck up your courage, and in true South African fashion, lets burn down every government building we can find; lets lay waste to every school, every electrical appliance shop; lets turn over every police vehicle and march against the guns of the SABC. We have as much right to our language and heritage as those who demonstrated against Afrikaans in 1976!!!

Our rights are being violated. In popular terminology, we are ‘suffering’. Our language, our heritage, our very culture is being assaulted and belittled by those very people who found the enforced teaching in Afrikaans so unsavoury. We have a major bus strike in Johannesburg, the threat of a nation-wide strike of doctors, taxi operators threatening hellfire and brimstone if the bus rapid-transport system is introduced, political figures shouting unpleasant and defamatory epithets at our new administrator of the Cape (Helen Zille), and threats of legal action because a certain body does not recognise her right to choose her own cabinet as she sees fit – so lets do our bit and demonstrate against those in power at Auckland Park who see fit to quietly drop the occasional Afrikaans programme into our hallowed English station. GO GET THEM – VRYSTAAT!!

The Zuma Inauguration

I swore that I wouldn't listen to the radio or watch this spectacle on TV because I am heartily sick of the fanfare and noise that this whole thing has caused in this country. However, I was amused to read just now that the whole thing was marred by a downpour of rain, causing all the hallowed guests to run for cover. Serves them all right!!
One thing, however, has to be said: the stupendous amount of money that has been lavished on this ceremony leaves one speechless. For a humble man who was voted into power by the great unwashed masses of this country, Zuma has excelled himself in hypocrisy; whilst his supporters take shelter in their shacks, watching this amazing sight on their TVs (very often stolen), powered by electricity which is illegally re-routed from legal connections, they are no doubt cheering and drinking the health of the new president.
However, they would not know the taste of French Champagne at R100+- per bottle; theirs will be a diet of Black Label or cheap whisky. They are unconcerned that the cost of such an undertaking would have provided them with many many homes, or could have been used to good ends in elevating the poor. No, for some reason they regard Zuma as some kind of hero, to be addressed only as "Comrade". I rather fear that they may receive their just desserts when he drives his new administration into top gear and forgets all those who voted for him.
It is interesting to note, also, that while South Africa has taken a 'holier than thou' attitude to King Mswati of Swaziland and has banned him from receiving any of the good things of this country, someone like Mugabe, whose litany of human rights abuse can never be covered by a simple article like this one, has been present at this 'do'. Makes you think, doesn't it?

A Few of my Paintings (for those who want to see them!)

Riversong Oaks

Muratie

Cosmos

Richtersveld

Kolmanskop doorway

Evening train (Kenya)

Crossroads

Red Alder tree in our garden

If you want to see more, just let me know and I will post them with titles.

WHERE WILL YOU BE WHEN JZ BECOMES PRESIDENT?

(I wrote this article in September 2006, but it is interesting to look back now on things as they were then.....)

I must appeal to all your readers, as ordinary Sethafricans, many of whom no doubt think that ‘circumstance’ is spelt ‘sirCUMstance’, to help us get rid of the self-servers in our government who invariably put themselves above both the law and the will of the people. While I must take off my proverbial hat to our financial moguls, who alone seem to be doing the right thing and keeping their noses clean into the bargain, I am thinking of the likes of our Ministress of Health who insists on spouting absurdities publicly (and looks like some sort of a smiling root tuber beneath an acrylic tea-cosy), her predecessor who is now Ministress of Foreign Affairs (please note most of these ladies have given themselves hyphenated names to announce their importance), our good Ms Fraser-Moleketi (hyphenated, of course) who manages to use a great many words in saying very little (bullshit baffles brains), the ridiculous antics of one Tony Yengeni who is enjoying the luxury of prison just 20 kms from myself, and the frightening (if not laughable) Jacob Zuma with his perennial rent-a-crowd and endless court appearances. Not only does he spout inanities publicly – not his fault, I suppose, because he was somewhere else when education was being dished out – but he has the nerve to invent wicked little ditties about machine guns and the lack of shame to actually get up and sing these songs in public.

Does he realise what will actually happen if he manages to make the Supreme Court go away, enters the race for State President, and finally gets elected?

I can tell you: the majority of Sethafricans will pack up and go to New Zealand, or somewhere far enough away that they will not have to witness the catastrophe that this country will rapidly become. While graft and corruption in high places is a problem at the moment, it will, under his presidency, become the norm; we shall be able to achieve nothing unless the right palm is greased with the correct amount of cash. To this end we are probably doing the right thing to keep our famous Ministress of Health because all we shall need in order to guarantee our safety after sex is a shower to wash away any little viruses we may have contracted. We will safely be able to do away with the judiciary (they will in any case have left, if they have any sense) because, with large enough crowds in the streets, we shall be able to disregard their findings with impunity.

You think that things are bad at the moment? Baby, you haven’t lived.

I can assure you of one thing: if Cde Zuma becomes the next president, my bags will be packed and I will be joining the queues at the airports (we don’t know what they will be called because they keep changing their names to remind us of various little political upheavals) for any flight, anywhere but here. His ascendancy to the presidency will herald the commencement of a new era in this country: the Age of the Comrade. Any old Tom, Dick, or Themba, will be able to seat himself in a palatial office and become a millionaire overnight, whilst the poor and dispossessed throng the streets with their begging bowls, if they haven’t died of AIDS, that is.

When P.W.Botha warned us of a future ‘too terrible to contemplate’ I think he must have meant just this; lucky man, dishonoured and forgotten in his house in Wilderness, he will probably have had the good fortune to die before his awful prediction comes true.

But seriously, before it’s too late, lets get rid of these mamparas from our halls of government; lets show the rest of the world that we are indeed a thinking and responsible people (even though we live in Africa), and, for pity’s sake, lets try to shut the stable door BEFORE the horse has bolted.

Otherwise, our future will be too terrible to contemplate.

The End of Innocence

Where Was I on June 16th 1976? The End of Innocence.

On that fateful day in 1976 I was living in the Northern suburbs of Johannesburg and working as a medical rep in the Jeppe St area, calling on all the specialists up and down the street. I had been living in Johannesburg since 1968, when I arrived on holiday from UK and simply never went home! In fact South Africa was such a wonderful place in those days that the thoughts of going back to the dreariness of suburban England with its memories of Harold Wilson creeping onto our television screens like some ante-deluvian mollusc and delivering a speech through his nose were too awful to contemplate.

Although my generation, who had never been further than the boundaries of their own towns, decried South Africa as a police state and were all consummately knowledgeable about our every misdemeanour, often refused even to discuss this country with me, and although we lived here in the shadow of Apartheid, South Africa was a wonderful place to be. I can hear the murmurs off-stage of ‘only if you were white’ and the echoes of today’s trades unionists warbling about ‘The Struggle’ and about how dreadfully the blacks suffered at the time, but let me tell you: unemployment was much lower than it is today and relatively few people ever went to bed hungry.

Anyway, the purpose of this article is not to raise the issue of the unfairness of the system or the behind-the-scenes brutality of the Bureau of State Security (the head of which was an erstwhile client of mine); it is perhaps to debunk some of the outpouring of white guilt that we have seen in the last ten years, and to give the lie to those who mistakenly equate Apartheid with the Holocaust. We were not afraid to speak our minds (although only those of us who courted disaster on a regular basis would have shot off our mouths too loudly or too publicly) nor were we afraid to live our lives as we thought best.

Coming from a relatively liberal background, I had always seen and treated people as people and not judged them purely by the colour of their skins; for the first couple of years in this country we even had maids – until we became tired of being constantly ripped off by them and their families. I personally had many friends who were ‘not the right colour’ and was a frequent illegal visitor to Soweto where I enjoyed a freedom of spirit and a generosity which was certainly lacking in the white areas. The same people often came to my house unhindered, joined in our merrymaking, and were free to come and go as they chose.

However, all that came to an end from June 16th 1976 onward. By the end of that day my house had become more of a refugee centre than a home as cousins and siblings of friends arrived begging for asylum from the madness which had gripped Soweto. They were not politicos; they were simply children who ran away from what was beginning to look more and more like a war-zone; they were running to somewhere where they would be safe.

Perhaps June 16th 1976 was really the end of innocence for so many of us; almost overnight everything became politicised, from the language you spoke at home to the colour of your skin. Although the Apartheid system had imposed a whole raft of legislation about where you could and could not go, depending on what colour you were, we had always been relatively free to go where we chose and associate with whom we chose – provided, of course, we didn’t fornicate with them in the streets! I soon learned that public fornication was limited to the pillars of society of the day who would run across the border to Swaziland every few weeks to assuage their wicked desires! Let any visitor to Mantenga Falls show me a car with a registration number that did not belong in Randfontein, Pretoria, Krugersdorp, or Ventersdorp, and I would truly be surprised.

My decision to leave Johannesburg permanently (and never to this day to go back) was made first thing in the morning on June 17th 1976 when I had to duck into several doorways to avoid volleys of rifle fire in the central city. I made up my mind there and then that nowhere was worth that kind of sacrifice and so, very shortly afterward, I flung a few things in the car and left permanently for Cape Town. It was the civilised thing to do.

Since that time, despite whatever has happened over the years, we as a society have become more and more politicised; we have grown further and further apart; we have been divided into ‘us’ and ‘them’. Yes, for the sake of peace and the future of this country, those of us with any sense voted ‘yes’ in the referendum of 1992, and peace reigned, but it turned out to be a peace which allowed a small group to rise and become super-rich while their compatriots (they would say ‘comrades’) continued to suffer; it was a peace which heralded the dreaded ‘affirmative action’ whereby those with the knowledge and experience were forced into early retirement or exile whilst those without either of the former rose to prominence in our country; it was a peace which paved the way for crime to blossom and corruption to flourish, a peace which turned our South African world on its ear; the age of innocence ended for all of us on June 16th 1976 and that is why the day should be remembered with sadness – nostalgia for values which have now become lost and totally forgotten.

Freedom was certainly anything but free.

The Wild West in South Africa

Democracy notwithstanding, we still live in the Wild West.

For those of you who have read and who remember your history lessons The Great Trek took place in the early part of the 19th century. As I understand it, the Trek took place because the stout patriarchal Afrikaner was loath to live under the unwanted yoke of British law and order, so in order to continue his lifestyle of bible in one hand and gun in the other, he upped stumps and sought pastures new out of reach of the stifling authorities of the day.

Despite many intervening years which should have acted as a poultice on this wound of unruliness, it would seem that old habits do indeed die hard.

The story I am about to tell all took place, in the Cape, between February and May this year.

On two occasions since my arrival here in 1968 I have had the somewhat chilling experience of driving along and seeing one of my rear wheels overtaking me. The first time I had this experience was in Durban on a late afternoon in spring when I had just fetched my car from the garage which had repaired the rear brakes. I was in the usual heavy traffic in West St when suddenly I saw one of my rear wheels pass me on the left and flatten a queue of people waiting for a bus.

The second occurrence was in February this year; I had just retrieved my vehicle from the garage which had repaired the rear brakes and was on my way home. Suddenly, in the middle of the N7, the left rear wheel and half-shaft of the vehicle bounced past me, crossed the road and sailed over a fence into a field of ostriches.

That was on a Friday; the towing service was called and the vehicle was returned to the garage responsible. However, they refused to accept delivery and instead instructed that the car be sent to an engineering shop a few blocks away. The engineering shop refused to accept the vehicle and so, when I went in search of same on the Monday morning, I found the car in the yard belonging to the local scrap dealers who are also the towing service. I paid for the tow and returned to the garage responsible for the repairs and suggested that they sort the matter out.

The following morning I learned that the car had been taken back to the engineering shop and, when I asked for an estimate for the repairs, I was told that these had already been finished, although I had given no authorisation for any work to proceed. However, because of other damage which occurred when the wheel parted from the vehicle, the car could not be started.

We now jump about six weeks to just before Easter when I once more retrieved the repaired vehicle from the garage. After driving the 22 kms back home, I discovered that the other rear wheel was overheating and that there seemed to be a problem with the gear linkage and the brakes on that side.

Another mechanic was called and ten days later the matter was sorted out. Although I had paid for the original repairs and the towing, no invoice had been received from the engineers.

At the end of April I received a phone call from the engineers asking why they had not been paid. I asked them to fax me an invoice and promised payment in due course. The invoice arrived almost immediately and was so enormous as to warrant further investigation. I immediately faxed a letter to the engineers asking them to explain how they could charge me more than three times the amount that the final garage had been paid for the same work to the opposite rear wheel. There was no reply.

Once more, last week the engineers phoned and asked when they could expect payment; I referred them to my letter, which they claimed not to have received. When I checked the fax number in the phone book with them, it appeared that this number was incorrect and I was given another number to which I immediately faxed the letter. Their invoice bore no phone numbers at all. I then made an appointment to go in and discuss the matter with the owner of the engineering business last Friday.

When I arrived there was no owner in sight; however, after a phone call he duly appeared. It was abundantly clear that he had not read the letter (he probably couldn’t read English anyway) and soon became even clearer that he had no interest in its contents whatsoever. His only interest was in being paid the full amount immediately.

When I attempted to discuss the matter he simply walked away, shouting over his shoulder that he had parked directly behind my vehicle in his yard and that I could not leave his premises until the amount had been settled in full. Any attempt to discuss the matter further or to remonstrate with him was in vain.

So there I stood, in a cold and windy shed at the end of the industrial area, without any means of departure, unable to offer him a cheque because he had made it quite plain that this was not acceptable, unable to pay with a credit card because he had no facilities with which to accept this, and with a mere R40 in my pocket.

I should be grateful, of course, that he didn’t hold me at gunpoint; I quite expected he would. Eventually I was able to talk my way out of the situation with one of his employees, who kindly removed the vehicle blocking my exit and allowed me to leave.

It seems that the old saying ‘The more things change the more they stay the same’ applies here. I am now laying charges of extortion and demanding money with menaces with the local police. It seems we are still living in the Wild West and that the old story about only those who couldn’t read crossing the Orange River was just that: only a story.

The Forgotten Highway

Mitchell's Pass

The Forgotten Highway

Whilst we live in a very beautiful country, it is interesting to note that its main history is fairly recent, only really going back to about 1850. Before that date the hinterland was largely unknown and unexplored and tended to be the bailiwick of various African tribes who fought one another for territory; even the Voortrekkers made only a small impact on the land beyond the Witteberg mountains as they ran to escape the rigours of British rule. Those that headed eastwards along the coast towards Grahamstown had other problems, but this article is too short to deal with those.

Until 1850 the Great Karoo and the lands beyond the Orange River remained largely untamed and only intrepid botanists, missionaries, and other explorers ventured so far afield from civilisation. There was a reasonable road from Cape Town north to Paarl and Wellington, and thence a wagon trail along the mountains and through the old Roodezand pass to Tulbagh, where a small farming community had laid out a village at the head of the Bree River Valley, then by an even more tortuous route over the Witsenberg into the Warm Bokkeveld, through which the wagon trail led towards what is now known as the Theronsberg Pass. The trail crossed this pass, continued through Hottentotskloof, and entered the poort known as Karoopoort, described by W.J.Burchell in 1811 as ‘the door to the desert’, since it marked the exit from the Warm Bokkeveld into the Ceres Karoo.

Somewhere between 1827 and 1848 the course of the road was changed when Mostert’s Pass was opened through the gap in the mountains made by the river as it flowed down from Ceres, just a small settlement in those days, past the peak known as Mostert’s Hoek, to join the Bree River; this pass was later re-surveyed and engineered to become the present Mitchell’s Pass, which was opened in 1848. With each new development the road to the interior became easier and more frequented and in 1850 an inn was opened in Karoopoort.

There had been a farm in the poort which was noted as far back as 1774 by Thunberg, a Swedish gardener from Kew Gardens. The farm consisted of a thatched homestead, some cornfields, a fruit orchard, and a stream set about with oaks and poplars. The inn was a very basic structure built to the south of the present house and provided little more than overnight shelter to the weary traveller. However, it was an inn which was destined to offer its limited hospitality to many well-known people such as Rhodes, Le Vaillant, Dr.Livingstone et al.

In 1852 Bain’s Kloof was opened and this year really marked the beginning of the period in which the road to the interior became a highway. Travellers would take the train as far as Wellington (which was in those days the end of the line) and then would continue by wagon or on horseback through Bain’s Kloof, Mitchell’s Pass, and Ceres to Kafferskraal (where there is still a farm of that name) where there was an outspan. They would then carry on to Leeuwfontein (which still exists, but not under that name) where they could overnight, and then over the pass to Hottentotskloof, where there is still a picnic spot with water. The next stopping place would be at Karoopoort, where they could stay the night, before continuing into the Ceres Karoo, where there were outspans at Platfontein and Smitswinkel.

In 1870 the diamond fields of Kimberley were discovered and for a brief time the road, now known as ‘the Forgotten Highway’, became exceptionally busy. A weekly service between Cape Town and Kimberley was started by a company known as The Diamond Fields Transport Company and diggers, fortune-hunters, speculators, and traders in their thousands passed through the poort on their way to make their fortunes. Soon afterwards, a coach service was begun from Wellington via Beaufort West to Kimberley. At times there were as many as thirty wagons, nose to bumper, travelling through the pass, carrying wine, brandy, hardware, mining equipment, tobacco, biltong, dried and fresh fruit, vegetables, and skins. They were not only headed for Kimberley as there was another road which led eventually to Calvinia and thence northwards to Gordonia and Namaqualand. This road fell out of favour in 1877 when the Pakhuis Pass was opened, offering a more direct route from Cape Town; in the same year, the railway line had reached Touws River, making road transport less attractive and effectively beginning the decline of the Forgotten Highway through Karoopoort.

By 1895 the road was all but deserted, and in 1900 the inn closed. The Forgotten Highway was passing into history, overtaken by the railways and the need for speed and comfort. Parts of the highway can still be seen: Bain’s Kloof remains largely unchanged except for the tarred surface, and until 1948 it was still the main road from Cape Town to Johannesburg; Mitchell’s Pass, although much wider than the original, is still the only road from the coast to Ceres; the farms Kafferskloof and Leeuwfontein still exist and their outspans are still clearly visible; Hottentot’s Kloof is still there and still used; there is still a road through Karoopoort to Calvinia and Sutherland, and the original farmhouse, inn, and fig orchard are still very much in existence, as is the outspan under the poplar trees by the river; in 1981 the fig orchard was made a National Monument, and even today there is still a clause in the lease over the farm (it is still owned by the Sate) stipulating that free overnight accommodation must be offered to travellers; the farms Platfontein and Smitswinkel are still there for those who care to look, but the road with its motley crowd of hopeful travellers, has long since disappeared into the mists of time.

When next in the area, pause awhile under the poplar trees by the river, switch off your engine and you might hear the beat of hooves and grind of wagons as they toil through the poort; imagine how what is now a quiet and lonely spot was once the Forgotten Highway to the riches of the future.

Ceres: The Warm Bokkeveld

Karoopoort Farm

Ceres: A Trip into the Wilderness and Paradise

Of all the towns in the Western Cape, Ceres, nestling in the south-western corner of the Warm Bokkeveld, is one of the few places which are not only attractive but also is an excellent spot from which to explore some of the most interesting areas of our wonderful country. Instead of writing only about Ceres itself, I am going to suggest an ideal three-day trip from Cape Town – a chance to get away from it all and see some of the very best that this part of the world has to offer.

Leave Cape Town on the N1 and travel north-east through the Berg River valley, leaving the N1 at Klapmuts (R44) and turning left round the bottom of the Paarl Mountain, following the signs to Wellington, which you will reach after crossing the Berg River and after only forty-five minutes drive. Turn left for Nuwe Kloof Pass; turn right again over the railway bridge at Wellington and at the first traffic light turn left again travelling down Church St. The road leads straight through Wellington and continues up into the mountains (R303). This is the original road built by Thomas Bain and opened in 1852 and was for many years the main highway from the coast to the interior. Follow the road as it twists and turns on its tortuous way up the Hawequa Mountains and pause at the top to enjoy the view towards Table Mountain over the Berg River valley. Continue with this road as it falls away down the valley between high peaks with the Witte River tumbling along on your right. At the end of the pass is an excellent bush pub where you can stop for lunch before you continue your journey across the Bree River valley. Pass the turn to your left to Wolseley and carry straight on until just after passing the Mill and Oaks on your right, the road joins the R46 and enters Mitchell’s Pass.

In 1848 the present Mitchell’s Pass was opened and took over from the original Mostert’s Pass, which followed the riverbed through the bottom of the valley. Today, Mitchell’s Pass is a relatively high-speed road and, despite being busy, winds upwards through some of the most awe-inspiring scenery of the Western Cape. From the beginning of the pass the road climbs steadily with the twin peaks of Mostert’s Hoek on your right; just before the end of the Pass on your left you will see the original toll-house which is now open for light meals; soon after this, almost without warning, there is a sharp left turn, a short downhill stretch, and you are right in the middle of the town itself. At this time of year the plane trees and oaks are already turning colour and losing their leaves and there is a definite chill in the air, unlike the lower regions where the end of summer still clings. Ceres is a good shopping centre with every kind of shop you could wish for; it is also a very pretty town through which the Titus river joins the Skaap river and then tumbles through the pass and joins the Klein Berg river to flow through Nuwe Kloof Pass and into the Berg River proper. The river in Ceres is lined with trees, rustling now in the autumn wind, and passes under the main road as you enter the town. There are many good accommodation establishments in the tree-lined backstreets and a stop here is highly recommended. Ceres also has a very good golf-course and wilderness area as you leave Mitchell’s Pass. Ceres is the centre from which most of our local fruit comes and an ideal place from which to explore areas such as the Warm Bokkeveld, the Koue Bokkeveld, Bo-Swarmoed, Agter Witsenberg, and the Ceres Karoo.

Once rested and refreshed, and having explored the town itself, you are now ready to hit the road again. Take the R46 north-eastwards out of Ceres towards the towering wall of Theronsberg straight ahead. Soon after passing the informal settlement which lies to the right of this road and the jail which lies to the left, take a right turn for Bo-Swarmoed and follow this secondary road as it meanders through fruit orchards towards the backs of the Hex River mountains; climb the Swarmoed Pass, keep left and re-join the R46 just after Hottentots Kloof, a small picnic area. Follow the R46 for a short distance until, keeping straight on when the R46 turns off to the right for Touws River, the road becomes gravel and is now the R355. You should have been able to cover this distance in less than one hour from Ceres.

The R355 then descends into Karoopoort, one of the most fascinating and historical roads of this part of the world. Because of the high volume of traffic to the interior (and this was the only road, known as the Forgotten Highway) an inn was opened in 1850 and the original homestead still stands. There had been a farm in the poort which was noted as far back as 1774 by Thunberg, a Swedish gardener from Kew Gardens. The farm consisted of a thatched homestead, some cornfields, a fruit orchard, and a stream set about with oaks and poplars. The inn was a very basic structure built to the south of the present house and provided little more than overnight shelter to the weary traveller. However, it was an inn which was destined to offer its limited hospitality to many well-known people such as Rhodes, Le Vaillant, Dr.Livingstone et al. The original fig orchard still runs alongside the road on the left and the whole area is a national monument. It is a magical spot which is well worth stopping for; park your car under the trees by the stream where the original Outspan was, and listen to the absolute silence while you imagine the creaks of ox-wagons, the crack of the driver’s whip, and later the rattle of stage-coaches as they made their way through the poort.

Continue on the R355, ignoring the right turn for Sutherland (this is a journey in itself), until about forty kilometres from Karoopoort you see a left turn marked ‘Kaggakamma’.

All the way from leaving the mountains which form the gateway to the Ceres Karoo at Karoopoort you are travelling through the wilderness known as the Ceres Karoo. On your left the Swartruggens mountains rise towards the blue of the sky, while in the distance on the right are the Komsberg and the Roggeveldberg; the central area, through which the road drives, straight as a dye is a vast grey plain relieved at times by small hillocks. It is a dry, dull, area where on a clear day you can see for miles and over which the endless sky arches. Apart from the occasional ground squirrel and pygmy meerkat almost nothing moves and distant cars can be seen as great columns of dust in the veld. Despite the apparent emptiness of the place there are several fascinating farms and old homesteads hidden in the spurs of the mountains on your left.

Turn left at the Kaggakamma road and start your twisting and turning climb into the Swartruggens mountains. As the road climbs ever upwards there are some wonderful views backwards over the plain. After about half an hour’s drive you will see a signpost on your right pointing to Kaggakamma. Be warned: although the restaurant here is open for lunch, the kitchen closes at two p.m. sharp and the service road to Kaggakamma is often stony and seemingly endless, although it is only eighteen kilometres. Kaggakamma, despite being very well-known, was to me a rather disappointing place perched high up on a plateau above the Koue Bokkeveld. Overnight accommodation is available here, although it is fairly pricey and very much for the four-wheel drive brigade.

If you choose to ignore the right turn to Kaggakamma, continue to follow the minor road as it twists and turns through the mountains to suddenly burst forth on the edge of a dizzying precipice. You will be warned to engage low gear here as you start the amazing drop down the Katbakkies Pass. At the bottom of the pass the road crosses a curious white pan through which the Riet River passes, and then soon afterwards it joins another minor road which leads, on your right, to Mount Cedar, the Groot River, and the Cedarberg Pass to Clanwilliam. Mount Cedar is a large, modern hotel on the banks of the Groot River and is well worth a visit. Overnight accommodation is available here and the hotel is fully licensed. On you left the road soon becomes tar again and leads past some of the richest fruit-farms of the Koue Bokkeveld before joining the R303 at Op Die Berg.

At this T-junction, Citrusdal lies off to your right along a road which is particularly scenic but also somewhat precipitous when it crosses the Middelburg Pass, and to your left is the road back towards Ceres. Turn left here and follow the tar R303 through the Koue Bokkeveld, the Skuurweberg on your right, until you begin the descent of Gydo Pass. On your right is a turning marked ‘Agter Witsenberg’ and, if you still have time, this is a fascinating detour. The road quickly climbs the Skuurweberg, crosses the summit, and descends into a wonderfully green area laced with lakes and smaller farms; tar all the way, it is definitely worth making the small detour.

Back on the R303, you now find that you are dropping rapidly down the side of Theronsberg – the Gydo Pass - towards the Warm Bokkeveld. There are various viewpoints on this road, and it is well worth stopping to see the whole of the valley stretching away below you; you can see the road running through Prince Alfred’s Hamlet and then on towards Ceres.

The round trip is well under two hundred kilometres and I would highly recommend it. Take your camera, and some padkos, because you will need both!

The road back from Ceres to Cape Town is no less interesting. Follow the R46 back down Mitchell’s Pass and at the end of the pass turn left for Worcester (R43). Pass the Mill and Oaks on your left and follow the road until the next left turn at Bree River (R43). Follow this road for only four kilometres and then turn right onto a road signposted ‘Slanghoek’. The road soon crosses the Bree River and once more becomes tar as it wanders through the lush wine-farms of the Slanghoek valley. The views are stupendous, there is a very good winery, and twenty-one kilometres further on you come to the old N1. Turn right here if you don’t want to have a look at Rawsonville (there’s not much to see) and follow the road until it joins the present N1 at the beginning of the pass.

There is a good restaurant and winery off to your right in the middle of the pass, otherwise continue straight, pass through the Huguenot Tunnel, and then it’s a straight run back to Cape Town.

You will not forget the wonderful places you have been to or the sights you have seen.

Hidden Corners of the Cape

Left to right: the schoolhouse, Lenie Marais House, the road to Die Hel, the Gamka River

To Hell and Gone – exploring Die Hel

I have always been one of those people with strange ideas: many years ago I was a steepleholic – if there was a church steeple with a good view I would be the first to climb to the top, then there would be disused railway-lines and tunnels, or canals from the Industrial Revolution. Since we have few of these in this country it has always been a mission of mine to find places which the average person would overlook. In this article I would like to take you to some of the places hidden away in our wonderful country which the various guide-books hardly ever mention and which, to my mind, are well worth a visit.

Over the years I have crossed the famous Swartberg Pass between Prince Albert and Oudtshoorn several times and have always been strongly attracted by the sign at the top of the pass pointing downwards through the mountains to Die Hel. Perhaps the attraction of this road is the warning that there is no petrol available for the entire trip, or it could be that most of the books warn of a road which should not be undertaken by the faint-hearted. That is probably why, on a dreary damp morning in June, three of us sandwiched ourselves and enough supplies to keep an army going for a week into my small Mazda Soho and set out on our voyage of discovery.

We made Oudtshoorn in mid-afternoon; the clouds had lifted and a pale sunlight lit our way as, with a full petrol tank, we started the climb up the Swartberg Mountains. Firstly the road led through the endless tourist-traps (Crocodile ranches and the like) which have sprung up to the north of the town, and then, becoming more scenic wound through Schoeman’s Poort, hills high on either side, towards the famous Cango Caves. Soon after the caves the road changed from a good tar to a particularly slippery dirt and we began climbing the Swartberg proper. The pass climbs 1000 metres in only about 25 kilometres and has changed little since it was built by teams of prisoners over a period of four years, finishing in 1888. The clouds descended once more as we skidded through hairpin bends, climbing steadily all the time, until at the end of what seemed like an eternity we reached the top of the pass and stopped for a breather at the signpost to Die Hel, about 55 kms from Oudtshoorn.

There was little to see on this relatively flat plateau at the summit, but since the afternoon was rapidly sinking to dusk we headed westwards towards Die Hel, better known today as Gamkaskloof. The road was at first wide and gravely, leading past dark stands of pines and all the time following the Waterkloof River which flowed in the valley to our right. Then it began to climb and become steadily narrower. We crossed a ridge, descended to the bottom of a valley where we crossed a stream, and then ascended again towards the stars which were now beginning to come out. Apart from the fact that many of the bends are steep and narrow, the road, where it crosses streams (and there are five of them in all), is clearly not designed for long wheel-based vehicles as the dongas are narrow and deep. Guide books which actually mention this hidden valley warn that the road is not suitable for busses, caravans, or mobile homes. In the deepening twilight we crossed three long ridges until, cresting the final one, the awesome valley of the Gamaskloof could just be discerned far below us.

The history of this virtually unknown place has always fascinated me. First inhabited in 1830, Die Hel could only be reached by following the Gamka River from Calitzdorp, a trip of at least 35 kilometres through very rough terrain. Official history tells us that the valley was discovered by accident, but local rumour is somewhat different and tells of smuggling and all sorts of dirty deeds from the past. In 1841 the first farm was registered in the kloof and there was no road access until as late as 1962. Until the road was built there were just three routes in and out of the place: the riverbed to Calitzdorp in the south, the riverbed to Prince Albert in the north, and up a particularly hair-raising track (known as The Ladder) to Ladismith in the west. A few families found that this was the ideal escape from civilisation (no phones, no tax-inspectors, no police service) and they farmed here successfully for just over one hundred and fifty years. When the children were old enough to go to school they would be tied on the backs of donkeys which would then be slapped so that they trekked over the mountains to Calitzdorp. In later years a small school was opened in the valley. Due to the fact that only a few families ever settled here the problems of in-breeding were well-known; however, as long as one remained reasonably healthy this was an ideal environment in which to live. In 1991 the last inhabitants packed their bags and left and Cape Nature Conservation took over ownership and management of the area.

We ground our way down the precipitous road into the bottom of the valley in first gear, darkness closing in on all sides, and then made our way slowly through the valley to the cottage we had hired on the other side of the Gamka River. We soon had paraffin lamps lit, food cooking on the stove, a fire in the grate, and thought longingly of deep feathery beds under the thatched roof beneath the stars.

We were fortunate to be assigned to part of the original farm, Ouplaas, where we occupied Snyman’s House, just above the tranquil Gamka River as it gurgles through beds of reeds beneath the road and then winds onwards through the mountains to Calitzdorp. The cottages are comfortable and well furnished and the beds, although one of the bedrooms was only accessible by walking along the stoep, are superb.

Straight after breakfast, which we ate on the stoep so that we could admire the view of mountains and wilderness all about us, we scrambled our way to the deep and silent pool where the river cuts through almost sheer rockfaces as it comes down from the Gamkapoort Dam. The going is particularly tough, so if you have not brought along all your hiking gear you can’t really get very far, but the scenery and the silence was well worth a couple of hours out of the day. The old track southwards along the river towards Calitzdorp has largely been obliterated by flooding over the years but part of this is still visible and can still be followed by the more intrepid hiker.

However, before following the various hiking trails, which are quite well marked, we wanted to have a good look at the hidden valley itself. Before the present road was hacked through the mountains one would come to Ouplaas first in the widest part of the valley; one would then follow the track eastwards along the valley bottom, the mountains closing in steadily until one reached the narrow end where the precipitous ascent to the Swartberg pass disappears into the sky. Although the mountains themselves are largely bare, the bottom of the valley is green and wooded and, in places, so deep that the winter sun never reaches even the roofs of the little clusters of cottages.

Travelling eastwards, then, you would pass Cordier’s house on an open bluff to the right, then Mostert’s house up on the left, then Lenie Marais’ house on a bend up above the road also on the left. The houses were built from whatever materials were available in the valley; the foundations are of packed stone on which the walls of raw brick stand; the roof-trusses are made from poplar or olive-wood and the ceilings were made of reed, on which a clay packing was placed in order to make the ‘solder’ floor, the roof-space being used for storage, usually of foodstuffs and, of course, one’s coffin. The floors were always of packed earth which was then smeered with cow-dung mixed with thorn-tree sap (misvloere). Outside doors were always split horizontally so that the top half could be left open as an extra window and inside doors consisted only of an opening over which a curtain would be hung. Few of the windows were ever glazed, rather consisting of an oblong opening which was closed with wooden shutters; Lenie Marais’ house is the only building in the valley to have gables and it is interesting to note that this tough lady built the entire place herself.

Lenie Marais was the only ‘doctor’ in the valley, having a good knowledge of herbs and Boer remedies. If a conventionally qualified man was required, then Dr. Luttig would ride alongside the river from Prince Albert.

The first school of the valley being on the farm Boplaas, at the Ladismith end of the road and just beneath The Ladder, was erected in 1904. From Lenie Marais’ house the track then leads through Middelplaas where a second school was opened in 1928, the window-glass, benches and blackboard being brought into the valley from outside. This second school was closed in 1980, showing how, gradually, the small population dwindled as it left for the towns and the challenges of the outside world. The school buildings doubled as the local church with the teacher as preacher; local festivals were always held in the valley, but more important happenings such as weddings were usually held in Prince Albert or Calitzdorp.

The track then winds past eight other houses, some of which are almost hidden in the trees; there were only a total of five families in this secret spot, living on either side of the track which stretches for fifteen kilometres along the valley floor.

Anyone who has spent time learning the history of a village will tell you that the best way to un-cover the past is by spending some time in the local graveyard. There is a small and very peaceful one near the school and, although the inscriptions on the tombstones are now a little hard to read and at times very basic, a visit there is well worthwhile.

Thus Die Hel remained basically unchanged from 1830 until 1959 when Dr.Otto du Plessis arrived on horseback and promised the inhabitants a road over the mountains to the Swartberg pass. From that moment onward everything changed forever; bakkies were bought so that local produce could be taken outside and the products of civilisation brought into the valley. Tourists began to appear and the tranquillity of life in Die Hel became a thing of the past. Families started to leave, beckoned by the bright lights of the towns and the valley fell into dereliction and disrepair.

Die Hel was effectively saved from disappearing into folklore by Cape Nature Conservation, who gradually bought up one farm after another until only Boplaas remains privately owned.

The result is a spot, overlooked by most of the roadmaps, where time has stood still; it is a spot well worth a visit if you remember to bring everything you need with you (and take everything you don’t need back with you too); the scenery is stupendous, the road frightening and only for the intrepid, and the cottages, most of which can be hired at a very reasonable nightly fee from Cape Nature Conservation, extremely comfortable and well restored. Spend a few nights there – you won’t regret it!

South African Elections

Well, here we are, the other side of the elections (I haven't heard them referred to yet on the radio as "erections', but I'm sure it will happen before the week is up! Well, congratulations to the South African electorate for managing yet another peaceful election; despite long queues at polling stations and some mysterious bundles of voting papers found in strange places and on the occasional person, the whole thing went off well.
Except for the result: ANC yet again.
I can't understand why a thinking and intgelligent populace would want to appoint as president a person who has so many question marks hanging over his head as to his probity. It seems that, not satisfied with the amount of corruption and nepotism that we have come to regard as normal, South Africans would want to continue in this vein. However, it seems clear to me that Zuma is about to rape this country for all it's worth!
You ain't seen nothing yet!!

The Real Hisotry of Apartheid

The History of Apartheid in South Africa

Contrary to what other articles on your site aver, Apartheid (although the name itself was not coined until 1948) was actually started by the fortune-seekers who descended on the Big Hole in Kimberley in their search for diamonds. Although there were many nationalities represented there, you could say that the British were the ones who really started this interesting, and much discussed, system.

Before the discovery of diamonds in what is now Kimberley, most European races had little or no interest in South Africa at all, other than the fact that The Cape offered a prime opportunity as a victualling station for those involved in the spice trade. Even after the initial discovery of diamonds, the British government had no wish to further colonise what it considered to be a useless piece of land south of the Equator.

However, some five years after the initial discovery of these gems in Griqualand West, a situation developed which necessitated some form of strong intervention in order to prevent what was considered in Whitehall to be a looming problem. The inhabitants of South Africa, both black and white, had hitherto been an entirely agrarian race of people, living a simple life off the land and, generally, minding their own business. Yes, they were backward by European standards – they had no indoor plumbing, had produced no writers or painters worthy of mention, and the black nations were, apart from their nomadic farming existence, too concerned with fighting each other for land and its use – and Europe was really not interested in this rather barren and unexciting part of the world.

However, once it appeared that Kimberley was more than just another South Sea Bubble and was indeed here to stay, decisions had to be made – and most of these were at the behest of Cecil John Rhodes who, apart from being involved in Cape politics, had serious interests in the diamond mines from which Kimberley sprang. The news of the discovery of considerable amounts of alluvial diamonds, apart from attracting diggers from as far away as Australia and America, also became noticed by the local black tribes, who had one indispensible item that they could sell: their labour. With this in mind, they converged on Kimberley in considerable numbers and, in the beginning, actually owned certain claims in what is now known as The Big Hole.

However, where there is money in large amounts to be made, you can be certain that crime will soon follow. It seems to be an immutable fact of life that if you have something, someone will try to take it away from you by fair means or foul! It was not long, therefore, before IDB (illicit diamond buying) became almost as profitable as the production of diamonds themselves. It is believed by many that personalities such as the Barnato Brothers, and others who went on to become rich and famous, also derived quite a large portion of their early income from this source; but, the principal players in the IDB game were the blacks, who would employ whatever means they could in order to make a quick killing.

Because of this, black labourers were firstly made subject to unseemly and unpleasant body-searches as they left the mine each day in order to make sure that they were not leaving with more than that with which they arrived! Within a very short period of time it was decided by the major players in the Kimberley mine that the only way to protect themselves against the illegal removal of gems was to restrict the African labourers to their own compounds and to severely limit their freedom. It was at all events a matter of considerable importance that the value of diamonds be controlled, and the free-for-all system which had hitherto existed in Kimberley had urgently to be manipulated. This was actually the beginning of Apartheid. It had nothing to do with politics, human rights, or the suppression of the masses, but was simply instituted in order to protect the price of the product, which, without this protection, would have slumped considerably on world markets.

The same scenario took place on a larger scale on the Rand. Kruger and his government were not interested in prospecting for gold, but, being almost bankrupt, the Transvaal (as it was then known) needed every bit of revenue it could lay its hands on, and so taxes were levied on the mines, and these were paid without demur by the Randlords, as they believed that the placation of the Transvaal government would allow them to continue their efforts unmolested. Even then, Britain was particularly reticent about any kind of interference or colonisation of the area.

By 1895 an interesting phenomenon had occurred in both places: segregation of a sometimes purely voluntary and personal nature. Both towns had, by now, considerable populations of both black and white, but each population lived in its own area, and, apart from the occasional drunken revelry, it was destined to remain so. When the Transvaal was finally annexed by the British, it was their wish that no form of racial segregation should be enforced or made law, and they went to some lengths to ensure that this should not happen. However, those at the ‘coal face’ had other ideas, and so, this was really the beginning of Apartheid, or separation of the races.

Whilst the British standpoint changed little in the ensuing years, in true British fashion they sought to rid themselves of what they considered to be a tedious burden and so passed the Act of Union in 1910. This allowed South Africa to become pretty much autonomous; England was not unduly concerned about the black vote, or black freedom; it had other more pressing concerns to deal with, and for some years a more or less free society was allowed free reign in South Africa.

However, in 1948 the Nationalists came to power and, despite an earlier attempt which failed after a few weeks, they steadily began to entrench separatism, or Apartheid as they called it, and by the time that Hendrik Verwoerd took over, Apartheid had grown to be what was later considered a blight on this continent. Verwoerd (who strangely enough was Dutch, not Afrikaans) had his own ideas of how things should work and, this said, he was only slightly to the left of Adolph Hitler. It was his idea of Separate Development, and his translation of the biblical role of the races, his idea of white superiority, which inevitably led to the excesses of later rulers.

The rest, as they say, is history, and need not be re-hashed. One can only be thankful, as a resident of this country, that personalities such as Mandela and De Klerk finally came together, saw the wood for the trees, and established the democracy that we now have. It’s taken a long time!

Robben Island

ROBBEN ISLAND – 1994 – 2009

As far as I remember, Robben Island, that infamous jail of political prisoners, was first opened to the public in 1994.

No-one would ever have heard of this place had it not been for the fact that Nelson Mandela was incarcerated here for many years. Robben Island is a small piece of land, 8kms from Table Moutain in Table Bay. It is remorselessly flat and uninteresting, except to the penguins who nest there in huge numbers. However, having started its useful life as a place where the governing body of South Africa threw its otherwise unwanted persons, it later became a leper colony (not much difference really), and then reverted to a security prison for political offenders.

As a result of the famous Rivonia Trial, Mandela and several of his cohorts were banished there in 1964 to chop up large lumps of chalk for the rest of time.

It was with considerable curiosity, therefore, that I made a pilgrimage there to see it for myself in 1994.

It was a day in early May (our Autumn) and the sea was deliciously flat, apart from the occasional enormous swell, as we thrummed our dieseliferous way in the old Susan Kruger – a boat which did not yet bear the legend ‘Winnie sat here’. The bay was deceptively calm and sunny and it looked like a very short distance from the Island to the nearest shore; however, various prisoners over the years found this to be a particularly horrid swim – not only because the distance is totally deceptive, but also because the water is enough to freeze the knackers off a brass monkey. There was no need for sentries, or bars at the windows of the jail, for the sea was a deterrent in itself.

The island consisted of a rather empty harbour, a number of pre-historic motor vehicles which had never left once they were delivered, two rather solitary churches, a street of nice white houses, a large and rather imposing guesthouse, and the usual ubiquitous curio shoppe.

Unfortunately, because the prison was still in use, we were not allowed to see the famous cell in which Mandela was incarcerated. However, this was more than made up for by the amusing remarks of the tour guide (an erstwhile warder of the prison), and a visit to the fortifications made there in case of attack in the Second World War. We visited many penguins, saw a few buck, a great deal of coastline, and then chugged our way back across the harbour.

Last year (2008) I had occasion to visit again with my daughter, and rather looked forward to the expedition. Once tickets had been exchanged, and a fairly antique boat had been boarded (the famous Tri-maran was not in service for some reason), we made our way across the bay. However, the swells became more and more mountainous, and those of us who were unfortunate to stand in the stern of the boat, had a free shower bath long before we reached the harbour.

Full of expectation, and suffering from severely wet feet and legs, we staggered along the quayside towards the waiting bus. Hey presto – it was the same bus that had carried us in 1994, but this time somewhat dilapidated and down at heel.

We managed to squeeze ourselves into two seats and prepared to set off. However, our guide (no longer the prison warder of previous times) had other ideas. She clambered onto the bus – large and Black and possessed of the ability to speak Afroglish enormously fast and very loud, despite the fact that most of the passengers barely spoke a word of ordinary English, - and proceeded to regale us with long eulogies of Robert Sobukhwe.

Unfortunately, most of the passengers had no idea who he was, who she was talking about, or the history behind that name. In her mind the Pan African Congress must have loomed large, but in most memories of the non-South Africans on board, the name meant nothing. It was a bit like O R Tambo Airport – nobody, other than fervent ANC members, had the faintest idea who he was (nor, I suspect, could they have cared). They all wanted to hear about Mandela, but there was scarcely a mention of such a person.

So, somewhat bemused and overpowered with rhetoric which fell just short of a toi-toi, we made our way slowly into the interior. We saw the two churches and stopped for a brief photo-opportunity through the rather grimy windows of the bus, and then carried on past the street of once-white houses. These had been made much more homely by the addition of washing hanging from every conceivable eave, nook, cranny, and line; weeds grew in profusion in the streets and the occasional deer munched peacefully on the pavement.

Trundling on, and somewhat bemused, we ended in what seemed to be a large chalk-pit with a hole in one side. This, she explained, was where political prisoners were brought to hew stone, and the hole was used both as a latrine and for the storage of rations. Hardly surprising that we now have an epidemic of cholera!

Cameras clicked and flashed and in a few minutes, after a further diatribe about Sobukhwe, we continued to the most glorious rubbish dump I have ever been privileged to see. It was made glorious only by the fact that it had a wonderful view of Table Mountain and two large prefab toilets. She graciously invited us to take photos there and announced that we would be stopping for five minutes.

Having regaled ourselves of the sights (and the interesting smells of the toilets), we climbed aboard the ancient bus and made our way back to the prison where an erstwhile warder herded us into a rather ungainly line and led the way to the cells.

It was almost impossible to make out what he was trying to say because the wind had now freshened, but we followed like sheep to the slaughter. The prison appeared well looked-after and, in considerable heat and humidity, we filed reverently past the famous cell where Mandela spent so much of his time. Having glanced briefly inside, we were then herded into a long, narrow hall which was almost devoid of seats and were treated to a long lecture on the hardships of being a political prisoner.

I must be fair on our guide and tell you that he had himself been a prisoner there for several years, so what he had to say was at least germane and had about it the ring of truth, as opposed to the paeans of praise that had hitherto been heaped upon Sobukhwe.

Tired and rather sweaty, we clambered onto the bus once more and made our way back to the harbour. I think we saw one or two penguins on the way, but the gun emplacements which had earlier been a great attraction for me, were no longer considered to be of any consequence.

Dragging ourselves along the quayside, many gazes lit on the formidable tablecloth on Table Mountain, and those of us who know these climes, knew we were in for a bit of a rough passage.

The famous Susan Kruger waited for us, her engines beating away on idle, as we were herded aboard. The attendant warned us not to sit upstairs in the open as he felt it might be a fairly unpleasant trip. Nevertheless, my cousin and his girlfriend chose to sit up there because they felt that inside they may have been seasick.

Once clear of the harbour, we thrashed, crashed, lurched, leapt, churned and crunched through one enormous wave after another. The portholes had become totally opaque, giving the impression that we were indeed like a load of washing inside a machine which was set on ‘maximum’. Water streamed down the steps from the deck, and soon attendants were rushing hither and yon with nice little brown paper bags for people to vomit in.

After nearly an hour of this, even the hardiest of us was eager to see the relatively calm waters of Cape Town harbour. My cousin and his girlfriend eventually disembarked, soaked to the skin despite their raincoats, and we dripped our way towards one of the many bars of the waterfront in search of a restorative drink.

I had to consider that Robben Island, like so much of this wonderful land, had seen better days, and that, all else besides, we had paid a fair amount of money for a cold salt-water bath!