A Trip to Robben Island

The Guesthouse is still in good repair

The old chapel on the Island

A general state of dilapidation and dereliction

(This is an excerpt from a much longer story, but deserves to be published here.)

Less than one week later found us on another trip which had taken some organisation and to which we all looked forward considerably. We hurtled down the highway towards Cape Town, where we parked the car at The Waterfront and sat in the shade of one of the large hotels and had a late breakfast. I went off and collected the tickets for the boat, which I had reserved some time earlier, and shortly after twelve midday found us waiting eagerly in a large room which was somewhat redolent of the arrivals hall of the international airport.

Clumps of tourists of all colours and nationalities milled around aimlessly looking at a barrage of photographs of political prisoners and their families, most of whom were now members of parliament and, to boot amazingly rich, as they stared back from the walls, defiant of an old order which had long-since passed away. Many of the names were utterly unfamiliar to the onlookers, but that of Nelson Mandela stood out; everyone knew who he was, and most of the sightseers knew his history.

Soon after twelve-thirty a whistle blew and a queue formed at the door to the jetty. One by one we handed over our tickets and walked slowly out into the sunshine and up the gangplank. For some reason, the large tri-maran which was supposed to be in service on this trip, had failed to materialise, and so we were herded onto a rather lovely old boat with lots of wood and brass, but which had to have been built sometime in the 1940s. Unlike the tri-maran, though, it was fairly small.

Ian and Heather took their seats inside the cabin and looked, somewhat fearfully, out at the sunshine on the afterdeck. Ron had climbed up on top of the cabin where she had found a seat quite easily, and I stood on the stern, camera in hand, eagerly waiting for the boat to pull away from the quay. We chugged easily out across the harbour over sluggish waters and watched with amusement how the seals basked in whatever sunshine they could find. Some were lying on the tyres surrounding the quays, some on rocks, and some could be seen proudly slipping beneath the tranquil surface of the green water. We ran smoothly through the harbour mouth and were soon riding long, gentle swells as we headed out to sea. The chatter ebbed and flowed over the sound of the diesel engines and there was a mood of eager anticipation amongst most of the passengers.

However, the swells, which at first had been long and lazy, gradually became larger and more urgent and the boat began to crest each one with a labouring sound of engines and then to corkscrew interestingly into the trough which followed. Those of us who had decided to stand in the stern soon had to hold on to whatever solid fixtures we could find in order to keep our footing and maintain our balance. This was all rather fun as far as I was concerned because I had never suffered from sea-sickness, but for some of the passengers it must have been a bit of an ordeal. However, it ceased to be quite so funny when one or two large swells actually washed over the stern, soaking our feet and legs right up to the knees. The boat was now pitching around to such an extent that it would have been impossible to move to a drier spot, so we had no choice but to stand and grin rather sheepishly as our feet were washed again and again with the boiling green waters of the Atlantic.

Just short of one hour later, we arrived, somewhat wetter, certainly wiser, in the small harbour of Robben Island, where we disembarked and were herded without further delay into a waiting bus. I had made this trip in 1994 when the island was first opened to the public and so felt I knew what to expect. It had been a pristinely clean and brilliantly white place, the chalk of its land reflecting the brightness of the day, its small houses all neatly painted, its gardens tended, and its ancient cars, most of which had never returned to the mainland, rotting away in silence by the side of the road. It was with some dismay, then, that I noticed that the same bus which we had used in 1994 and which had been in pristine condition, was still in use, if somewhat scuffed and elderly by now. Ron and I took our seats near the back.

The tour guide clambered aboard and the engine started. The guide turned out to be a rather squat black lady in a sort of uniform who barked at us through a microphone in a gabble of English that even the English would have found hard to follow. She seemed blissfully unaware that many of the tourists on board could only manage the most simple phrases in that language, and since there was no interpreter, she soon lost the attention of many people on the bus. Whereas we had had, in 1994, one of the prison guards who regaled us with some interesting stories about the island and his charges, she was obviously an employee of the company which now ran the island as a museum, and it soon became apparent that she was highly politicised. Even worse, she seemed to lack even the smallest vestiges of a sense of humour. For ten minutes, while the engine ticked over and we looked around the empty harbour area, she rattled away about Robert Sobukhwe and I was quite sure that most people on the bus had never heard of him.

‘Who was Sobukhwe?’ Ron asked me, at sea, like the rest of the bus.

I had to think hard before I gave her an answer.

‘I think he was head of the Pan Africanist Congress, but I’m not sure.’

‘What about Nelson Mandela?’ she asked.

But there was little or no mention of this icon; indeed for our learned tour guide, he seemed never to have existed. It seemed in some ways to be redolent of the re-naming of Johannesburg International Airport: instead of naming it after someone or something which would have meaning for the foreigner, the government had decided to call it O.R.Tambo – again a name which had little meaning for most people.

The bus lurched forward and drove slowly through the village, stopping for us to take photos of the old leper colony and the two churches and grumbling past the local village street which was now very dilapidated, its houses badly in need of paint, washing waving from lines, and deer nuzzling around the dry grasses of its verges. The only building so far which was in good condition was the guesthouse, which, unlike 1994, was now off-bounds to us as it was used by members of the government. We stopped for a few minutes to admire a large hole in the quarry in which Mandela and so many others had spent so much of their time, but once again, his name was scarcely mentioned by our guide, who rattled away, oblivious of the fact that few of us understood a word she said, about several people whose existence even I had forgotten. She seemed to be totally out of touch with the mood of her audience and utterly unaware of what interested them. The significance of the quarry was lost to most of the people on the bus. One tended to be reminded of the kind of propaganda to which the white population had been exposed for so many years under Nationalist rule.

About thirty minutes into what increasingly began to look like a boring tour, we pulled up in the middle of what was clearly a rubbish dump which boasted, however, two clearly marked toilets. We were told we would stop here for five minutes so that those of us who wanted could use these, and the rest could take photographs of the fine view of Table Mountain. There was indeed a good view but the surroundings were most unappetising; there was no café, no souvenir shop, nowhere for us to spend our Rands, only a derelict and rusty building on the edge of the water, and two toilets.

‘Talk about ‘things ain’t what they used to be’, I said to Ron as we looked around the rubbish dump.

We were once more herded onto the bus and driven fairly fast back towards the jail. In 1994 the tour had lasted some three hours and had taken in the gun emplacements which had been built for the second World War, and had also included a complete trip round the island. We had seen buck and many many penguins, but these were no longer on the itinerary. In those days, however, we had not been able to see inside the prison, because this was still in use.

The bus ground to a halt outside the prison buildings and we were once more herded out onto the hot tarmac. A long line formed and we filed past the cell used by Nelson Mandela for so many years of his imprisonment. What should have been the highpoint of the tour for so many people was no more than a tiny room with a bed, a desk, and a barred window.

‘Ja, well, no, fine,’ I found myself saying, almost under my breath.

‘What did you say?’ Ron asked, looking inquiringly at me.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

We were herded into a long, hot and rather foetid room where someone regaled us of the hardships of being a political prisoner on the island. Since he himself had been imprisoned there for some time, his words had a meaning and a poignance which was not lost on his audience. He also spoke a much clearer and better English and so was easier to follow. For the first time the audience seemed to be taking an interest in what he had to say. However, the heat was oppressive, the lecture was very long, and the room was noticeably devoid of any seating, so many of the group began to look somewhat tired and strained. It was with some relief, therefore, that we were herded once more into the sunlight and told we had less than five minutes in which to visit the seals which nested next to the harbour. To see these in the time allotted was quite impossible, so we shambled along on our way to the waiting ferry.

I had been watching with some alarm, as we made our sluggish way around the island, how the tablecloth on Table Mountain had been growing steadily during the day; I now saw that it looked decidedly ugly, and that meant only one thing: the sea was going to be very rough. Obviously the authorities had taken note of this and instead of our trusty old boat waiting for us, the old Susan Kruger, the ferry that used to make the trip ever day when the island was still a prison, had been pressed into service once more. The Susan Kruger was a fair size – more the size of a small cross-channel ferry in Europe – and she was waiting for us by the quayside. As we filed aboard we were warned not to sit up on deck as we were likely to get wet; we were also asked to remain in our seats once the boat left the harbour and not to leave them until we were safe and sound inside Cape Town harbour again.

Ian and Heather, perhaps afraid of sea-sickness, perhaps deaf, had chosen to sit outside on the upper deck and so we saw nothing of them until we entered the harbour almost an hour later. We left the relative calmness of Robben Island and headed out for the open sea. Ron and I were sitting opposite each other at a table next to one of the large portholes; I think she was somewhat afraid of sea-sickness herself, but even I was not really prepared for the trip that awaited us. As we headed into open water great green waves with white crests battered the superstructure of the boat from all sides; every so often one of them found its way down the steps to wash around our feet. It was something like being inside a washing-machine with the cycle set on ‘high’ – the only thing missing being the soap, but one could imagine even this as the waves foamed past our window, often blotting out the view entirely. The boat heaved and shuddered its way from crest to crest, sometimes tossing badly in the troughs, and conversation was almost impossible as it was totally drowned out by the sound of the diesel engines pounding away at the sea for all they were worth. People on the other side of the lounge seemed to rise and fall in an alarming way, and every so often the bottom seemed to drop out of our world as we crested one wave and crashed into another. This had become a ride worthy of the best funfair but the only thing was that, unlike a funfair which you know is only going to last a few moments, this was good for almost an hour. It was no surprise, therefore, to see stewards urgently running around with paper bags in their hands, which they gave to several of the passengers, who were beginning to look decidedly the worse for wear.

Nothing could have prepared either of us, however, for the sight of Ian and Heather when they appeared on the pier in Cape Town harbour. They were both absolutely wringing wet from head to toe and they both looked frozen. I began to laugh at the sorry sight.

‘What on earth persuaded you to sit outside?’ I asked as we walked slowly up the quay.

‘Nobody told us it would be that bad’, Ian replied, wringing out as much of his clothing as he could decently manage.

‘We sat out there because we felt that we were less likely to feel ill’ Heather remarked, lamely, taking off her shoes and shaking the water out of them.

Ron, although rather shaken, was still quite dry.

‘That was quite an experience,’ she said, somewhat ambiguously.

‘You mean the trip or the boat?’ I asked.

‘The boat mainly. I always wondered what it would feel like to be inside a washing machine, so now I know,’ she laughed.

We stopped off at one of the many restaurants on the Waterfront to have a restorative drink. Ian and Heather dripped quietly over the white plastic seat and onto the floor and the talk was largely made up of the sort of hysteria that people evince when they have been through a rather frightening ordeal and have survived. We all laughed like drains.

(Robben Island, once pristine and glowing, is now in a rather sad state of dereliction and dilapidation. Only two buildings remain in good repair: the guesthouse and the gaol; the rest is really rather sad and the area to which we were taken to take photos of the mainland was actually quite appalling.)

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.