A Tangled Karoo Journey to Riebeek-Kasteel

Words and Photographs by Chris Marais

I am the self-proclaimed Minister of Journey Planning, the Master of the Road Ahead. No fancy GPS, Google Maps, or Wayze for me, thank you.

Stashed somewhere in the dusty Karoo Space bakkie is a tired and tattered old Caltex road map, complete with torn pages, coffee rings and side notes. I admit to occasionally consulting that one, but by now the back roads and byways of our beloved Karoo are deeply etched into my brain. I should know.

Or so I thought a while back, when I set up a monster assignment itinerary that began up here in our Eastern Cape home base of Cradock, and would eventually end up down in the Western Cape town of Riebeek-Kasteel with a plate of olives, a morsel of cheese and a glass of red wine to toast the Swartland region in all its parched glory.

One of our missions was to write a travel piece on the area from just outside the Klein Karoo town of Calitzdorp to the Riebeeck Valley, in time for their magnificent Olive Festival.

Not even bothering to haul out the road map, I said confidently to my wife Jules:

“It’s a doddle from here to there, probably a couple of hours,” and we left it at that. My darling wife simply trusts me too much.

The Thrones of Kings

So we leave Cradock one morning, the bakkie heaving with everything including the kitchen sink (we are not light travellers), and it’s a totally smooth run across the Wapadsberg to Graaff-Reinet (where we drop off some stock at McNaughton’s Bookshop), and further south past Aberdeen to Willowmore, (after a pitstop to Oppivlak Padstal for a roosterkoek and mince brunch) then right turn to De Rust, gateway to the Klein Karoo.

Oudtshoorn flashes past, to be followed by meerkat signs, with the craggy Swartberg range (Kipling called them the ‘Thrones of Kings’) on our right, hasty bikers roaring past, and then suddenly we find the dust road turn-off to Kruisrivier, and our mates who run an art gallery deep in the folds of the Red Mountains.

“What?”exclaims Roger Young, monochrome photographer supreme and high-end heavy furniture craftsman of note. We’re drinking whisky on his stoep.

“You think you’re getting to Riebeek-Kasteel by when?”

“Well, if we leave here after breakfast tomorrow morning, we should be there quite comfortably by lunchtime,” I reply, but there’s a wee quiver of anxiety in my voice.

“You guys travel slow, with all your stops and starts and photo ops and general meandering way. And besides, have you checked the route properly?”

“We’ll see,” I reply. Our drinks are topped up, sunset happens in technicolour mountain style and we speak no more of this.

Into the Red Mountains

Skipping breakfast the next morning, Jules and I drive out through the Red Stone Hills especially early so we can catch the early light.

Even if you’re just vaguely into rock formations and such, you’ll be spellbound by the landscapes of the Red Stone Hills at the bookends of the day. Known to geo-geeks the world over as Enon Conglomerate or the Buffelskloof Formation, these massive rock beds glow copper-crimson and break the skyline in all manner of wind-sculpted shapes and indents, sometimes with massive holes at their peaks.

We pull over in the midst of all this majesty, haul out the Stanley flask and mix up some roadside coffee. Suddenly, Roger Young’s words of caution spring to mind.

“Let’s just grab the map see where this Riebeek-Kasteel is from here.”

Hello. My aged Caltex tells me something I should already know. The next stage of our trip looks long and tortuous, full of dusty roads, all manner of mountain passes and even a short stretch along the N1 highway, the Great North Road so deeply despised by me and my very slow (but very brave) old 2003 Isuzu KB bakkie.

It’s the Road Map’s Fault

That’s because the undulating road is clogged with slow-moving monster trucks (many of them heading south packed with the possessions of semigrating Gautengers) and super-zippy flat-arsed Cape Town cars that cost five times the price of our house. There is simply no available lane for a clunky old Karoo bakkie on the Great North Road.

“I can’t even count the klicks on this route,” I complain to Jules and the sun-seeking dassies on the rocky ledges all about us. “This bloody Caltex doesn’t have all the distances. Drink up and let’s head out.” Yeah. That’s right. Make your own bad choices and then kick the can directly at an innocent old road map lurking on the back seat.

With Jules maintaining her famous even temper throughout, the bakkie and I grump our way over the Huisrivier Pass (we have a ruder name for it) because it runs at a killer gradient that sucks all the remaining revs out of our aged road warrior.

But pretty soon the mood changes as we swing off the R62 at the mission village of Amalienstein and head into Little Mordor, our name for the stately Seweweeks Poort Pass on the way up to Laingsburg.

You can bang on about the wonders of the Meiringspoort and Swartberg Passes, and I’ll agree with you. They’re great.

But to drive through the Seweweeks Poort is to journey into the Cape Fold Mountain country at her most gobsmackingly spectacular. It is unpolished and edgy, with dirt roads and riveting patterns in the rock faces.

You do not even need a headful of cannabis gummies to see the flying dragons, the breaking waves, the moon rabbits and the smiling Cheshire cats in the tortured mountain stone of the Seweweeks.

We have to stop at many places, just sit back and look about us at the wide-angle wonder of this less-travelled pass (more of a poort, really) that links the Klein Karoo to the Great One.

Suddenly a Verreaux’s Eagle swoops in on the midday sunbeams, hunting the crags for dassies. No doubt his missus is waiting somewhere strategic, ready to pounce on the chubby chaps once they’re flushed out.

A Fox at the Dam

We pass the sign to the Bosluiskloof Pass, which in turn leads to Gamkapoort Dam, where we once met a man called Fox. Lambert Vincent Ledeboer, known universally as Fox, has been the custodian of this large dam in the middle of nowhere, for as long as we can remember.

In her beautiful trip notes from that time long ago, Jules writes:

“It was late afternoon when we arrived at the end of the road. In front of us was a dam of celestial silver-blue, which looked like a piece of sky, fast asleep among the Karoo rocks.”

We then pass the turn-off to the Rouxpos Road, where we once met a guy called River Rosenthal and his wife Beverly, at their guest farm called Hartland.

I remember Beverly bringing us two warm loaves of fresh-baked bread, home-made jam, farm butter and a clutch of just-laid eggs as a welcome present. The delicious aroma of the bread mingled with that of the cut lavender in the Art Deco confines of our cottage.

I also remember River telling us that living amidst all this natural beauty stilled the “monkey chatter” in his head.

No Room at the Inns

We tarry and tarry some more down this windy and unexpected little Memory Lane until we finally chug into Laingsburg late on this Friday afternoon looking for lodgings.

“It’s a wedding weekend,” say the ladies at the tourism office. “But we’ll try for you.” Sadly, all the inns around here are full. Even the Lord Milner down the pike at Matjiesfontein has no room for us.

But these tourism ladies persist, and finally find us an available chalet at the Rietfontein Private Game Reserve, within walking distance of the Lord Milner Hotel.

Having landed in this little piece of Karoo heaven, we settle in, pour glasses of red wine and sit on the stoep, toasting every train that passes in the near distance.

Bain Family Passes

The next morning, after a very long ramble in the reserve followed by coffee and rusks, we grit our teeth and endure the N1 for a brief spell before gratefully exiting at Worcester.

We find ourselves in the super-scenic Bain’s Kloof Pass, built in the 1850s by Andrew Geddes Bain. Our unplanned journey has led us through a series of dramatic mountain passes cut by this man, his son Thomas and a whole bunch of Cape Town convicts. Together, they basically linked the Cape to the rest of the country.

Finally, after a dog-leg drive down to Wellington (keeping to the theme of the random route of this road trip) and then back north again via Soetendal and Hermon, we arrive within sight of the (by now) fabled Riebeek Valley.

“My two hours on the road turned into a two-day wonder,” I muse to Jules over a butter chicken lunch at Eve’s Eatery & Bar in Short Street, as we marvel like real Karoo country mice at all the visiting townies in their muscle cars and designer bling.

She smiles across at me and replies:

“Yeah. Let’s go again.”

• For an insider’s view on life in the South African Heartland, get the Karoo Quartet set of books (Karoo Roads I-IV with black and white photographs) for only R960, including taxes and courier costs in South Africa. For more details, contact Julie at julie@karoospace.co.za