To the Hell and back in the Karoo, South Africa

by Mariska Ford (South Africa)

I didn't expect to find South Africa

Names tend to rub off because of the magnetic power within the spoken word, and it was on the road to The Hell that I boarded this thought train. Why would anyone name their dwelling place after torture and misery? The Gamkaskloof or The Hell is a narrow and extremely isolated valley in the Swartberg mountain range that is 20 miles long and at most only 600 feet wide. It was first discovered and inhabited by the San Bushmen, and in 1830 a farmer wandered into this remote and fertile piece of earth and made it his home. Soon other families followed and the community grew to around 160 individuals. It was only in 1962 that a road was built connecting this community with the outside world. For more than a century the ‘klovers’, as they called themselves, had to journey over the mountains on horseback to reach civilization. With the road making it easier to get around, the last farmer left Gamkaskloof in 1991 and it was declared a national monument in 1997. We stocked up for our expedition in the quaint village of Prince Albert. Homegrown lamb, fynbos honey and fresh bread were on the menu. From there it was two and a half hours’ drive (37 miles) to the entrance of The Hell. C.S. Lewis said that the safest road to hell is a gradual one with gentle slopes. In this case, the road to The Hell was a gravel road with steep slopes and sharp switchbacks, dropping a hair-raising 3000 feet down into the valley. The views are extraordinary, jaw-dropping and nail-biting all at once. We reached the only kiosk and restaurant in The Hell after three hours. The air was warm and filled with a strange kind of antagonism. We were the only people there and the place looked deserted. I went into the shop and saw a young woman packing jam onto a shelf. “Can I help you?” she asked. To my amazement, she was the owner of the kiosk and the last born and bred ‘klover’ that is still staying there. We looked at photos of how life was like in The Hell and regardless of what you may think, the residents had smiles on their faces. Our final destination was a restored original farm dwelling an hour’s drive from there. We saw no other people on the way and with my vivid imagination a Stephan King bestseller played out in my mind. The thatched roof cottage was rustic indeed, complete with a touch of spider webs. We shared a small splash pool with a family of frogs, but we gave one another space to escape the sweltering heat. Nighttime was the pinnacle of my internal journey and this is where I disembarked the train to enjoy the moment. The majestic Swartberg Mountains sheltered us from both sides and the multitude of stars made me feel very small and insignificant. With the only available technology reduced to a flickering flame of a weather-beaten paraffin lamp, we found ourselves deep inside this isolated place called The Hell. We savored a meal of lamb, bread, and good South African wine and felt heavenly contentment around our humble feast. The night was dark and silent but with the first rays of sunlight came the songs of hundreds of birds. “Shh! Keep quiet. Don’t tell too many people about this rare jewel”, I wanted to say to them. On our way back, we visited the old school and visitors’ center. It was there my thought train crashed as I discovered the truth about where the name, The Hell, came from. An animal inspector that once traveled down the mountain described the exceptionally difficult journey as “hell”. Even though the residents despised the name, it got stuck. Who knows, if the animal inspector came down from the mountain with a different perspective, this place could just as easily be named The Heaven. With these wise words of Oscar Wilde, I laid my thoughts to rest as we took the road leading out of The Hell into the light. “We are each our own devil and we make this world our hell.” Oscar Wilde