Text: Roberth Nordin
Photos and video clips: Roberth Nordin
Roberth left Peter and Christer in Cape Town the 6th of August and spent his last days
Chapter 5 - Dirty whales and marsupials
Yet another phase of the journey has begun. Peter and Christer are disappearing in the swarm of Cape Town. The ebullient city swallows them whole, that including their packed backpacks. The last thing Jacques and I saw of the by the South African climate hardened men are their backpacks which eventually disappeared in the crowd of people.
There are six more hours of daylight when we leave Cape Town. The N2 is jammed up and we are searching for other ways to take us to the east. The agenda of the remainder of the day is perfectly planned and it doesnít allow any speed below 70 km/h. We manage to find our way out of the suburb or town Somerset West and head out on R44 which directly heads south and cling on to the coastline like a scared kid clings to his mother¥s leg.
Sea, mountains, fishing villages and relaxed tourist areas pass outside of the windshield. It¥s hard to find anything more beautiful. Gordon¥s Bay, Pringle Bay and Kleinmond are just some of the countless villages which we pass. The houses are picturesque and harmonise well with Mother Nature. The idyllic gatherings of houses in the coastal area are quite the opposite to the other houses in South Africa. They look more like fortresses. The houses we pass now lack high fences, barbed wire and iron gates.
The R44 heads east by Pringle bay and takes aim for Hermanus, our first stop. Hermanus is well known among whale watchers. The rest of the worldís population knows little about this place. We find our way down to the harbour, park and prepare ourselves to spot whales where they belong.
It soon turns out that we donít have to leave the parking lot. A group of people have flocked along the wall which protects them from falling down on to the cliffs. And there, less then a hundred metres out, are the whales tumbling around. They are without any remorse having sex, out in the open and unprotected. These huge bodies roll around in the waves totally ignoring the people watching them. But there is one thing which is good with these dirty whales. They belong to a rare species. The Balaenidae is almost extinct.
Jacques thinks that we should climb down the cliffs but Iíve no intention to crush my torso towards the cliffs and end up as food for some horny fish look-alike bastards. It might be that the whales are no man-eaters but parts of my torso might tangle up in their baleen.
We keep a distance to the love making whales and make an acquaintance with another one in the neverending line of Mother Natureís pointless animals. It is a small rat-like marsupial with the size of a cat which appears and start to beg for food. The crowd that has gathered to see the whales is ever so amazed by the little vermin. The vermin has nothing against being patted. I rather not know which kinds and form of deceases are spread this way. It turned out to be a hyrax, a rock hyrax, which lives a careless life among the rocks, well fed by the tourists. Further fact searching shows that this low ranked creature is the closest relative to the elephant. It is during moments like these that one might start to question the DNA-research.
There is still some daylight and no reason to slow down. We buy ourselves some braii-food and head for the streets. We thank the R44 for good companionship and head north, towards the interior via the road known as R43 and later road R326 until we finally head into R316.
Mountains surround us during the beginning of the trip but they suddenly disappear behind us while an enormous agricultural landscape opens its farming arms to greet us. Darkness is falling but we make it to the first night stop before the sun travels on over the Atlantic Ocean.
We check in at The Suntouched Inn, a boarding house in a village called Napier. Napier is a sleepy farmerís village nestled 111 metres over the sea and inhabited by around 2500 persons that have nailed their mailbox here. We decide to take a quick stroll in the village before we tuck in. The village is situated on a slope towards fields, meadows and some other land which makes the farmers feel safe. There are some coloured people living in the outskirts, In a pretty nice area. There are no blacks at all here.
We check in in the ever so cosy little boarding house. Typical farmer things are used for decoration and there are of course cow hides on the floor. A really quality place to say the least.
Jacques has been here before and is familiar with the couple running the place. The couple can proudly say that they brew Africaís southernmost beer. It doesnít take long before my lips gets to experience the familiar and ever so pleasing feeling that only a quart of cold beer can bring. The beer is tasty and splashes around in the empty stomach. We head out to prepare the evenings braii which combined with the lovely beer is a flavour sensation which match never have been experienced in the young villageís history. The wildebeest is just as tasty as the ostrich sausage. The pub of the boarding house is filled with local people while we enjoy the braii. A friendly cosy feeling appears. We shoot pool and associate with the farmers in the way farmers do.
Chapter 6 ñ Flat tire in the farmers promised land
Waenhuiskrans will be the first stop of today. We are offered a hearty breakfast which consist of bacon, egg, bread and coffee and we consume it all before we head out and drive along R316. Our direction is southeast and we take aim for the village of Arniston or as the local say, Waenhuiskrans. That means roughly translated "ox wagon vehicle" and refers to the huge cave which is just by the village. It is said that the cave is big enough for an ox wagon to turn around inside of it. We have no ox and neither any plans to get us some, but we do plan to visit the cave.
The name Arniston refers to a ship which sank outside of the village in 1815. Only 6 out of 378 survived. The name of the ship was Arniston. We doesnít spend this sad facts any thoughts as we drive along the R316 which splits the Overberg district in two.
It will be a struggle against Father Time and Mother Nature¥s maybe toughest element, the sea. The cave is neighbouring this relentless element and can only be reached at low tide. We drive as far as possible to save time, which leaves some fine tire tracks in the untouched beach. But soon the sand is just too much and we are forced to leave the white Opel and walk.
We reach our goal at 11.00. The water reaches its lowest point at 10.00 but weíve driven far and will not let some moist hold us back. The cave is conquered; weíve shown Mother Nature that we are no quitters. We wade with firm steps into the magnificent cave. I empty my bladder, walk around and take some nice pictures before it is time for us to leave the place. We risk, if we wait any longer, to be badly beaten by the furious ocean which is about to enter the cave.
The ocean loses this battle and the winners head on. But we do have plans to return to the coast and the untamed oceans within the next hour. The journey back along the R316 is just a decoy. We refuse to follow the road to the north and instead head straight to the west on a smaller road. Small farms, windbeaten fields and practise areas for the army are passed before we reach the R319 which without mercy head straight south. Weíve decided to go as far south as one white Opel and two white men can head on the African continent. We have set our aim on the small fishing village which is called L'Agulhas. We first pass the slighter bigger fishing village of Struis Bay which make the R319 to suddenly turn west. Without leaving the car we are able to see some old houses which belong to some fishermen. They have a touch of something picturesque, kind of cosy and homebound. But I am ever so happy that my house doesnít look like these.
The very village L'Agulhas doesnít have much to offer unless you are particularly interested in the history of South African fishing. It might be so that some people will find a meaningful thing to do in this harsh part of the world. This place brings by my book a new definition of the word of outskirts, outback, cabin fever.
L'Agulhas didn¥t impress anyone of us because we¥re not interested in fishing history. We are here for other reasons. We put pressure on the Opel and drove as far as possible on the rugged cliffs before we once again are forced out of our car. The wind tare the torso, the ocean splashes water and the rocks and cliffs are slippery. But we refuse to stop, halt. We reach the spot, this is supposed to be the southernmost point of Africa. The place is insignificant and marked with a sign. This is the meeting point of two oceans, two roaring forces which are united in Mother Nature¥s rage. Waves which kills, beats, wets and anger. Meterhigh waves with their frenetic madness tries to reach us with their ancient fury. We take some pictures and leave.
The ocean has been our escort and inspiration source for 24 hours. We are turning our backs to the wet and moody element and head north towards the inland beyond the mountains where the surroundings consist of land farmed by farmers.
R319 takes us back straight north to Bredasdorp, a small pointless village where the road turns northeast. Gone are the salty splashes of the sea, instead another kind of sea is undulating sea is spreading out. The agricultural landscape which we face is just as infinite as the ocean. The farmers seem to have a low season and they let the fertile soil rest. Some cattle are peacefully grazing ever so careless. Jacques explains that cattle thieves used to ravage here before. But it is a friendly landscape which devours us.
We leave the R319 and head east to get a genuine feeling of country life. We switch from the secure asphalt to the yellow gravel road which meanders throw the vast fields which Jacques refers to as the pantry of Africa.
Countless of miles of agricultural areas sure impress an old tenant farmer. A farm is now and then spotted far away. They look like ships on an endless sea. Our friend Mother Nature has once again shown examples of her variable characters. This part of Africa might be tamed by the farmers but the landscape still brings a feeling of marvellous nature and mankindís insignificance in the greater context.
An hour has passed and we are getting fed up with the views. The road stays and remains yellow and the landscape look the same as before. The question which appear is have we really moved at all?
Three more hours and we are getting hungry and weíve begun to understand the meaning of the word eternity. Suddenly it happens just as we have begun go give up hope to see anything else but farmland. Weíve reached the village of Malgas. It is a small village. It is just a few houses in the middle of nowhere. It takes, although we are driving at a low speed, no time to drive through and pass the village. But we are once shown by the African continent which one is in charge. We have to stop in the outskirts of the village. All of a sudden our road is cut off by a mighty river.
It is the river Breede which has come in our way. Breede, which originates from the Kwaggaskloof dam 100 kilometres away, runs slowly to the sea without taking any care of the two tired travellers. Weíve had nothing to eat since breakfast and Malgas total lack of any form of restaurant doesnít make it any better.
Weíve spotted the solution to our problems on the other bank of the river. A small ferry slowly comes towards us and we begin to feel some hope. It turns out to be a small ferry. There is only room for three cars, but it will not be so crowded since we seem to be the only ones going over. This is the last ferry of its kind here in South Africa.
Malgas was founded in 1819 and is a product of the roadless land which was ravaged by the harsh settlers. The village became a peeing place for the skippers who took their boats along the river towards Swellendam. A ferry was put to use in 1860 to bring traffic between the riverbanks. Now 149 years later the white Opel drives on to this ferry which still is driven by handpower, although there have been some technical developments since the ferry first was put to use. Two hearty black men are pulling the ferry with the help of a rope. We do of course kick in and help them to take the ferry over to the other side.
The unplanned stop in this village, which makes the Amish seem like modern city folks, is short. We say good bye to our newly found black working brothers that without any sweat pulls the ferry back across the river. We are once more out on the yellow road in the promised land of the farmers.
The hours run along and the daylight is lacking. It happened just as the feeling that we will never see asphalt again struck us and our mood reached a new low. What happened was the appearance of R322 just like main land appears before the rough sailors.
The tires of the white of Opel are caressing the black asphalt. R322 is soon united with a large road N2, and now it is full speed ahead to the east. We are pretty soon in the promised land of bridges, asphalt and the merry civilisation. Heidelberg is passed without reaction or breaking. Weíve set our aim for Mossel Bay. Nothing can stop us now. But destiny has something ready for us.
We are in the vicinity shortly after Heidelberg as we are driven by by a black woman who shouts and waves towards us. She seems upset, almost hysterical. We wave back at her and laugh at the variety of people that seems to be among all God¥s creatures.
Five kilometres later and the laugh is on someone else. The black woman in the passing car was ever so sane. The white Opel has a flat tire. The left back wheel is punctured, it is only flat at the bottom, but there is no chance that we can drive on.
None of us has oil running in our veins but we do our best to change the wheel. It turns out that Jacques are inadequate to loosen the final nut. A coloured man came out from the building weíve stopped by. He tried to help us and we soon understood that the reason why we couldnít remove the nut was all due to the tool and had nothing to do with our mechanical skills. The coloured man tells us about an auto shop opposite of his food place. Jacques drives on with a flip flop sound to the auto shop. There proper, solid stuff removes the nut without any problems. We are on our way again towards Mossel Bay fifteen minutes later, this time a bit more humble towards screaming black women.
We just take a sniff of Mossel Bay, make a stop in the outer areas and buy some sausage for the eveningís braii. We will explore the village itself later, our goal is beyond the mussel village which is supposed to be the gate way to Garden Route.
N2 is broad, with fresh asphalt and pleasant to drive on, especially since we travelled far on the farmer¥s roads. But even N2 must obey to the laws of Mother Nature. This time in form of a combination of mountains and ocean can come out. The mountains run steep into the roaring waters with thunder resembling that of the Red Armyís bombardment during World War two. We make a stop at a parking place just by a cliff. From there we¥re able to see the amazing nature which surrounds the small village Wilderness, which is about to take care of two hungry and tired travellers.
Wilderness Beach House is located not far from the beach. We accommodate in the dormitory and head down to the open area outside of the place, a place with a bar and a place for braii. The hostel is half empty. Some local teens are accommodated here together with some young ones from Australia. A man from Norway turns up as we are feasting on our braii food. The confusion is total as he tells us that he is from North Cape, a place in northern Norway sometimes thought to be the northernmost part of Europe but that is instead Cape Nordkinn. Jacques tries to explain in a gentle way that such a place as North Cape doesnít exist in South Africa. They do got Western and Eastern Cape but no North Cape. No way!
We settle the geographic problems and got a lecture about the chaotic modern history of the Middle East. The Norwegian is a UN-soldier stationed in Lebanon. His task there is a kind of vague, but it seem to be related to be to keep the Norwegian flag high. The guy from the north isn't that amazed by the whales and the nature. The Norwegians eat whale and steep mountains and roaring oceans is ever so common. But he didnít mention their oil.
The dormitory is just as freezing cold as all the other rooms in this country. There is no use in removing the clothes before going to bed. I go to sleep with the roaring ocean as background music. Some snoring neighbours can be heard in the roaring thunder.
Chapter 7 ñ Among flees and elephants
The morning has arrived just as expected. The fog covers the sun but the ocean keeps on roaring. Shower and breakfast is next to come.
We are having breakfast with the young Ozzies. Their guide tells us about a hot well where we can take a bath, a thing that is put down in our agenda. The guide whose name is something similar to Mbumba Humba is a genuine Zulu from the areas around Durban. His vocal cords seem to have broken down and he can only hiss out some hoarse guttural sounds.
We take a quick walk over a deserted beach before we pack the Opel and are off towards new adventures. An unwritten chapter of this African adventure waits to be written.
We reluctantly left Wilderness and goes east on the N2. It is Saturday and the African continent is resting. Saturday in South Africa means garage sales and we donít have to drive far before we meet the first one. We stop and become a part of the Saturday entertainment. Peasants and riff raff swarm around between the stalls. Everything is out for sale. Jacques buys a painting and I buy a necklace from a hippie. The hippie is from a nearby hippie community, a place which doesnít feel necessary to visit. There might by cheap junk, cosy feelings and suspicious food but we continue our journey to the east.
Weíve driven for some 30-40 kilometres as we slowly enter Knysna, a picturesque village which surrounds some lagoon like water which has an opening to the ocean. The views are impressing, but it isn't the charm and cosiness of Knysna that are the reason of our stop. We stop as soon as we see a tire shop and Jacques buys a new tire. It isn't very wise to drive around without a spare.
We say goodbye to the wife of the tire shop owner and speed up to travelling speed. We pass Plettenberg Bay for another time. Our next stop is at Natures Valley, a small village tucked in in the deepest of forest. It is impossible to get a grip of this strange village. We drive around among the houses which are surrounded by ancient wildwood. Some strange law from the dawn of time forbids the local residents to cut any of Mother N:s creations. Not a single twig can be broken. Natures Valley isn't just a suspicious village without any planned streets. It is also the end of the line of the famous Ottertrail, a hiking trail running through the Tsitsikamma National Park.
We make a short visit to the village¥s only food joint, Natureís Valley Restaurant and Shop. The open air dining area is just as empty as our provisions. The forest gets closer and gives us a free view of about two metres. Some used out walking shoes left by tired walkers are for some reason hanging from the trees. We eat a hamburger and are off.
Natureís Valley is the easternmost point of our trip. It is time to head west.
Plettenberg Bay which we left for later is now visited. We stroll around in the little town neighbouring to be a village. There is a gigantic white cube by one of the beaches. A cube which turn out to be Beacon Isle Resort Hotel.
We let the Opel rest while we visit the beach belonging to the hotel. The beach is almost deserted. Our crave to take a swim rises but we decide to just dip our toes in the foaming waves of the ocean. We have plans to take a bath a little later.
We start to prepare mentally to encounter the heavy kind of animals here in Africa and let the inhabitants in Plettenberg see our backs disappear in the west.
Knysna Elephant Park, a genuine elephant park is towering itself in front of us. We are not met by any roaring rut activity but the surrounding gives us a feeling of elephants as we leave the Opel. We are together with some other tourists offered a ride on the elephants. There is no gallop or bullrun, just a slow pace over the fenced in savannah. The mahout thinks that I shouldnít wear shorts since the elephant has such a hard and rugged skin. I reply that that goes for my skin as well.
The journey heads on to the west and our nocturnal hostel. We stop somewhere between Knysna and Mossel Bay to battle the forces of Mother Nature. We throw ourselves into the ocean and wrestle the metre high waves. Jacques instruct me how to behave against the roaring ocean, which wave formations one should avoid or be sucked out. An important lesson that shouldnít be skipped.
The dusk appears as we enter Mossel Bay. We eventually find our prebooked hostel by the beach, Santos Express Train B&B.
The evening is rounded up at one of countless restaurants of Spur. Spur serves hearty steaks for hearty men. The big steak is washed down with an Amarula drink, not so manly but ever so tasty.
Life is an amazing thing and we are ever so pleased as we hit our sacks in a compartment each in one of the hostels wagons. The ocean is roaring outside and we begin to fall asleep.
We are not aware of the fact that it is womenís day in South Africa. We are not aware of the fact that women actually celebrate this plastic festival. It all becomes clear to us as some women storm the place to sleep their intoxication off after a wet night on the townís casino. They are yakking on in some incomprehensible language. A yak which with ease drowns the sound from the ocean.
Chapter 8 ñ Among ostrich barons and hot springs
Mossel Bay offers a lame breakfast, far from the ones we had before. We got off the train at the same place as we got on it. The women are still sleeping their intoxication off as we start our adventure which today will take us north.
We have so far driven the Opel between the ocean and the mountains. This lush and green area has offered us various kinds of nature even though Ma Nature¥s garden has been limited. Our course to the north puts an end to this.
R328 becomes our new travel mate. The road heads straight towards the mountains which are towering up pretty fast. Some places are passed as we begin to notice the climb. The road follows the valley and sometimes climbs upwards in switchbacks. There is a mix in emotions between the wonderful view and the fear of failing breaks.
R328 winds on past one of the mountain passes and the landscape begins to flatten out after a couple of hours. But there is another landscape which awaits us on the other side of the mountain, the semi desert with a few bushes spread out in front of the hood of the Opel.
It pretty soon becomes obvious that this dry and deserted area is far from lifeless. This is the promised land of ostrich farmers, Countless ostrich paddocks can be seen along the road and there is the saucy head of the ostrich in bushes and behind rocks wherever we look. The local residents have made a living from these birds for the last centuries. There is a big industry connected to the feathers. The dry and dull landscape has been conquered by the ostrich barons.
Our first stop is by Oudtshoorn, a town which was built during the glorious days of the ostrich barons. The stop isnít planned or what we want. The police force has stopped us and a woman in police uniform approach us. Jacques and the police woman are discussing something for a while. I understand that it isn't something positive although I donít master Afrikaans.
The police have issues about the fact that the white Opel lacks a frontal license plate. I think it isn't much to argue about, but one must follow the law. The license plate came off a couple of weeks earlier as a dog was run over on the highway. We get away without any fine and are advised to attach the plate to the windshield. This is the reason for this dayís second unplanned stop.
We found a minor group of stores in Oudtshoorn and bought some blu-tack. We carry on with the license plate stuck to the windshield. We stop after some kilometres at Cango Wildlife Ranch. We get the chance to see some amazing creatures. We get a possibility to watch some small wallabies. Doubtful pleasure, but so are most things in the land of the ostrich barons.
Oudtshoorn has nothing else to offer. A long journey out in the outback begins with R62 as the only friend and companion. The road splits this semi desert in half. We once again put our trust to the white Opel. We donít want to be left standing 300 kilometres and eight hours from the airport
The old Opel is as faithful as an old mare. It, just like the Duracell bunny, keeps going hour after hour. We carry on to the west and pass Zoar, a small desert place without even breaking. We leave the R62 and the security as we are close to Ladismith. A dirt road takes us north and to a small hotel. The view is kind of bizarre, here we are in the middle of nowhere and there is a hotel here. It is located here due to the nearby hot springs which attracts people.
A couple of minutes later we are in a pool with a water temperature of 42 degrees. It stings in my skin but it is so nice. The torso feels best as it stings. It feels great now in the winter but who climbs in during the summer? The temperature in the air is 25 degrees Celsius. What will the mercury show as summer comes?
We canít remain here forever. I got a flight to catch and we are hungry. No fun and no play.
Ladismith is minor town or larger village. A nice food place offers traditional South African cookery. We fill our bellies, relax for a while and chit chats with the owner.
It is once again time to climb the mountains. R62 shows no mercy. Steep climbing and ornate curves challenges the Opel. But this is common stuff for our car and it takes us with ease over the mountain range.
We are tempted to take the broad, fine N2 towards Cape Town but choose to keep on along R62 which brings more pleasant views on our journey to the west.
The wine districts; Roberts, Worcester and Paarl are passed. Solid huge vineyards dominate the landscape. The final mountain is conquered before we stop by at Stellenbosch. Weíve come to a full circle. Our four day tour has come to an end. We are filled with some melancholy. This road movie of trip will of course remain. Maybe some frightful director might some day make a movie about us. Who knows?
in South Africa with his friend Jacques. They did a lot during a couple of days. Read about it here!
Thursday 6th of August
Towards new adventures.
Roberth in Hermanus.
Dassie, a relative to the elephant.
Roberth at The Suntouched Inn.
Friday 7th of August
Cape Agulhas. You can¥t get further south in Africa than this.
Roberth is discovering a lighthouse.
A road without an end.
The old car ferry in Malgas.
Bad things happen sometimes.
Saturday 8th of August
A big tree in Natures Valley.
Roberth near the hotel Beacon Isle Resort Hotel in Plettenberg Bay.
Roberth and Jacques riding on big animals.
One of the residents at Knysna Elephant Park.
Sunday 9th of August
Beautiful mountain views in the Western Cape Province.
Roberth is spending time with a kangaroo at Cango Wildlife Ranch.
A lion is enjoying life.
Roberth is having a rest at this beautiful spot.
Temporary stop on the journey to the airport.
Epilogue
We had our final dinner in Stellenbosch before it was time to leave. The flight home to Sweden went as planned. Just like a firmly oiled clockwork. I once again saw my home in the evening of the 10th of August.