CAPE ARGUS –
1939, March 4
“When tigers
roamed our valley,
there were tigers roaming all over South Africa; when
‘voortrekker’ clothing was worn here,
it was fashionable in the outside world,
too.
We live in isolation but not in the wilderness;
we may be remote from the
rest of the world
but we are not uncivilized.”
So spoke an
inhabitant of South Africa’s most isolated community, known to outsiders as
“Hell,” to the dwellers merely as Gamka Valley. There seemed something of a
rebuke in the words, a rebuke which perhaps we merited. We had heard strange
tales of half-wild mountain folk living a life apart in this valley lost among
the dark kloofs of the Swartberg mountains; so when, after hours of toiling
over rocks and sand, crossing and recrossing a mountain torrent, we at last
came upon the first of the dwellings, we were prepared for a meeting with real
“Hill Billies.” We were forced to alter our opinions regarding the people; the
tales had in no way exaggerated the isolation and inaccessibility of the
valley.
WILD AND
RUGGED RANGE
The Swartberg
mountains contribute much to the beauty of the Cape scenery. It is a wild and
rugged range, capped by such peaks as the seldom scaled Towerkop, and pierced
by the tortuous rifts of Seven Weeks and Meiring’s Poort. Pink granite crags,
densely wooded valleys and brawling streams; to the traveler from the dusty
Karoo the shady mountain passes offer relief and contrast. And stories of a
“forgotten valley,” deep in the heart of the range, cannot fail to fire the
imagination of the most fantastic tales about this region seem plausible; the
dim chasms, sun-lit for only a brief hour or two, the sharp peaks and
pinnacles, piercing the blue Karoo sky, inspire the atmosphere of a Rider
Haggard romance. Even the mountains of outer Mongolia could make no better or
more romantic surroundings for a Shangri-La, that refuge from the world sought
by so many.
Little is
known about this valley. People living less than 40 miles from its narrow
entrance are ignorant of its very existence. Even in the towns of Prince
Albert, Ladismith and Calitzdorp, which surround it, information regarding it
is scanty and inaccurate. And few, very few have visited it, for there is no
road, not even a footpath.
“HELL DOES
EXIST”
By devious
means I had heard of this community. Vague bits of information that placed this
almost fabulous valley somewhere in the neighbourhood of Prince Albert. These
rumours were intriguing but nebulous. An inquiry addressed to the magistrate of
that town produced more concrete data; a cordial letter containing detailed
information. “Hell does
actually exist…. A very isolated spot, and the access thereto is most
difficult. Any vehicle could only be used to the entrance of the valley; from
there one has to go on foot … for nine miles … The place is indeed unique and
well worth a visit.”
So, the dawn
of a summer day found us reluctantly abandoning our car 28 miles beyond Prince
Albert on the Ladismith road. Despite the lack of a path, we were bound for
“Hell.” Clad in shorts, we were prepared for the rough going about which we had
been warned. The Gamka and the Dwika rivers unite before entering the mountains
through a narrow gap; following the stony banks of the muddy stream, we were
soon in the gloom of a narrow mountain defile. On either side of us rose sheer
cliffs, unscalable, even to the most agile of mountain goats. Many hundreds of
feet above us was a narrow ribbon of blue sky in which we caught an occasional
glimpse of a hovering eagle. As we scrambled over the rough ground in single
file, we found ourselves talking in subdued tones… if we raised our voices we
were mocked by the echoes. To shout in that valley was to arouse a thousand
devils. The atmosphere was eerie, almost frightening.
The kloof
makes many turns. Often, we had to half wade, half swim across the shallow
river, for the walls are sheer, sometimes 100 yards apart, sometimes less,
never more. Always the going is heavy. Sometimes we were clambering over great
rocks, sometimes toiling through sand and over round river stones. And
constantly with us was the unpleasant feeling of being “hemmed in.” One of us
had tactlessly remarked that Karoo rivers have a habit of coming down without
warning… our position in that eventuality, we felt, would be much the same as
rats caught in a server.
A MOUNTAIN
PARADISE
The sun had
crossed our orbit of sky when we at last emerged at right angles to our narrow
road; and as we came out of the gloom into the sunny vale we all agreed that
only the approach was “Hellish.” Paradise would have been a better name for
that mountain-encircled domain. The Gamka
Valley is a sheltered mountain paradise. Many almost unknown varieties of
indigenous trees grow on the slopes, little fields of lush Lucerne are hedged
with fig trees. Clumps of banana palms add an exotic air and vouch for the
temperateness of the climate. Few houses are to be seen. Most of them nestle in
little side valleys, shaded by giant pear trees. Twenty
families inhabit this fertile mountain valley. The Le Cordeurs, the Mosterts,
the Marais’s, and one or two others; over a hundred simple, hard-working people
make up this almost self-contained community. Most of them own their own farms;
probably none of them have much money, yet their standard of living is high.
Their houses are rough, but well built, their meals better than those of most
town-dwellers – canned food forms no part of their diet. Sugar and coffee are
the only real necessities for which they are dependent on the outer world. Yet these
people are not the ignorant “Hill Billies” that we had been led to expect. They
have a community school, once a month they are visited by the “Predikant” from
Prins Albert. Occasionally they are visited by a police patrol, but this has
developed into a mere social call. Crime of any sort is quite unknown. The
communal spirit is well developed in the Gamka Valley. There is but one wagon
there; it was carried in piecemeal. All helped to lug it over the stones; now
all take turns in using it for harvesting. Even in Hell money is necessary;
taxes have to be paid, clothes to be bought. Fruit, Lucerne, even grain, is loaded
on to donkeys and sold in the outside world. But the path down the river is
arduous; donkeys, sure-footed as they are, have to be helped over the rocks, so
at “export” time neighbourly help is called in, and is given freely.
£12 a
VISIT
The District
Surgeon pays periodical visits to the valley; but like those of the policeman,
his visits too are mere formality; the community has a singularly clean bill of
health. Children there are brought into the world without medical aid; it is
seldom thought necessary to pay a fee of twelve pounds – for that is what
doctors charge per visit! There are two
other ways of entering the valley, but both are more difficult than the route
chosen by us, which is the only one that can be negotiated by pack animals. One
way is by following the kloof which the river takes after it leaves the valley
and flows towards Calitzdorp, the other by scaling the mountains on the
Laingsburg side, by a route known as “The Ladders.” For the river route, one
has to be a champion swimmer as well as an Alpine climber; the title of the
other speaks for itself. It is a three-mile climb over crags.
The Mosterts and
the Le Cordeurs are the pioneers of this valley; families of Marais and Botes,
too, have been there for two or three generations. There has been no
intermarriage; the young people of both sexes usually seek mates beyond the
mountain barrier. Colonel Deneys Reitz describes, in his book “Commando” a
visit to the valley while being harried by British troops. Cordeur and his
family were then the only inhabitants. We met his son, winnowing his crop; he
clearly remembers, as a boy of ten, leading the colonel to safety by a secret
path. “They never caught him,” he told us, “although the whole world was “yellow
with khakis.”
Simple,
hospitable people, these dwellers of the valley. And lucky people, even if they
themselves do not realise it. Life must be very peaceful and even in that
forgotten valley there are no motorcars or radio sets. It seemed to us that
here was an ideal escape from the turmoil and strife of modern life … almost
reluctantly we entered the dim poort on our long homeward trek, carrying away
with us memories and a suppressed desire to share this life of isolation in a
valley protected from all outside influences by the grim cliffs of the
Swartbergen.
With aching muscles,
we came into the outer world, and as we emerged from the poort, we knew that we
had been privileged to gain a glimpse of a real “Shangri-La.” Our visit was
timely, too; soon a dam wall is to be built across the Gates of hell; an
irrigation furrow, followed by a road, will invade the valley … then, well “The
lonesome trail won’t be lonely anymore!”
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