Thirsty in Die Hel
JOHAN DU TOIT from Amanzimtoti writes: The feature about Gamkaskloof (Die Hel) in go! #133 touched me deeply and inspired me to share my own story about the kloof. In 1975, my family holidayed in Cape Town for the first time. We lived in Centurion back then and our neighbours, originally from Cape Town, inspired us to make the long journey. We drove via Graaff-Reinet to Stellenbosch, where we bought so much wine we had to send it home by train. We returned home via places like Mossel Bay and Kimberley. Along the way we also visited Oudtshoorn, where we did all the touristy things: We went to the Cango Caves, to an ostrich farm and to a restaurant renowned for its ostrich steak. Next on our list was the Swartberg Pass, which we tackled in my 1975 Toyota Corona. At the top of the pass, we came across a sign pointing the way to Gamkaskloof. Not being familiar with the area, and not having a road map, we were confused about which direction to drive: left to Gamkaskloof or straight along the pass? We took a gamble and turned left. On the final pass into the valley, my wife Helena and her sister Ina Eastes screamed in terror when I ventured too close to the cliffs. We saw car wrecks next to the road, which did little to lighten the mood. My wife was the first to say that she was thirsty and the rest of us soon realised that we were, too. We hadn’t been prepared for the detour at all. A while later we crossed a stream and I asked Helena whether I should stop so that she could have a drink. Her reaction? “I won’t drink water from a stream!” Further along, we saw two boys walking next to the road. We pulled over and asked whether there was a shop nearby where we could get something to quench our thirst. “The only water in the kloof is from the stream,” one of them said. Still, my wife refused to drink from it. So we drove on and saw a beautiful little cottage where a man was smoking his pipe under a tree. We pulled over to ask for water. “Of course, come in. There’s cold water in the kitchen – help yourself,” he said. His cottage was spotless and had a shiny peach-pip floor. On the table was a bucket and a tin mug made from an Ilovo syrup can. The water in the bucket was cool and delicious and we each drank our fill. On the way back out of the valley, I couldn’t help asking Helena: “So where do you think he got the water from?” It was a detour I’ll never forget.