Why Fly - Gifberg Holiday Farm
I jolted; something wet was slowly slithering across my belly, gathering momentum as it slipped around to my back. We'd just returned, unpacked, and set the washing machine to a heavy load after a longish weekend at the very remote Gifberg Holiday Farm near Van Rhynsdorp.
I’d fallen into an antihistamine-induced slumber on the couch. Next to me, a Lister engine was purring in a monotonous drone. Clutched in my fingers, my coffee mug dripped the last dregs of cold coffee into my crochet work-in-progress: my latest Namaqualand blanket. Sarine’s blanket was already inked, and a large brown stain was bleeding rapidly into my flannel pyjamas. The caffeine-sweet, sticky liquid soaked even the Afghan throw covering the couch.
I resisted the urge to scratch the fiery itch from insect bites covering my extremities. On the screen, Hanna was fielding a team of highly trained operatives. I stumbled to bed. I’d sort the mess out in the morning. Fresh air, exercise, good food, and excellent company do this to me. It's exhausting, and I need to catch up on my sleep.
When we find ourselves in trying times, it's often suggested that stepping away and observing from a distance will give us clarity and a new perspective. In nature, it’s quite the opposite. The closer we focus, the more we see, experience and learn. Slipping into a magnified mode, even the most insignificant dot can be illuminating.
Imagine our surprise when two middle-aged ladies alighted from a vintage VW Golf, all smiles and Kumbaya, at the reception office at Gifberg Holiday Farm. Had we just negotiated the same Gifberg pass? I wondered. We, secure in our 4X4, hubs locked, sticks in donkey gear, clung to the terrain like mountain goats. We'd crawled up winding roads with hairpin bends in low range, sometimes on gravel and, when the road became too gruelling, on tar. For at least an hour, I gripped the door handle and prayed Butch had the right eye on the road.
The beaming duo, Harriet and Henry, dusted themselves off and shook their wrap-around Indian cotton batik skirts, sending clouds of dust billowing. Hands on their hips, they gyrated, corkscrewing themselves upright, loosening their limbs, and creaking backs snapping into shape. Henry pushed tendrils of hair off her forehead and explained that they’d come from Waterfall, negotiating mountain passes like Afghani soldiers in the Hindu Kush—an intense 8-hour adventure that tested their endurance and rewarded their effort.
Only their seats were visible as the small vehicle was packed to the rafters. The dusty car sat low on its axles, and the front tyres seemed a bar too high—the weight pushing the front end up. My admiration for them was evident as I quietly closed our truck door. They’d hear not a peep from me.
I reminded myself of Helen Keller’s words: “Life can be either an adventure or nothing.” We’d all made it to Gifberg Holiday Farm, a hidden gem tucked away high up on a plateau in the Matsikamma mountain range.
There was no need for my solicitous advice to pitch their tent as I sauntered by after we’d set up our campsite. They sat at individual tables, “so that I don’t bump Mum while she’s doing her paint-by-numbers.” Many road trips had honed their camping skills. The nylon khaki dome tent popped up in a jiffy. When the car’s hatch squeaked open, mattresses, blankets, pillows and various camping accoutrements came foaming out, spilling onto the lawn.
The Knights arrived shortly after us. Being reunited after COVID-19 meant things were falling back into familiar rhythms. Butch would braai a Picanha steak after wowing us with bacon and blue cheese chilli poppers. We all craved an early night and agreed to spend Saturday exploring the farm as much as possible. The farm offers a selection of walks and hikes, mountain-biking routes, rock pools, and picnic spots.
The first order of business on Saturday morning would be to secure internet connectivity. Mark, my brother, recovering from Covid, was celebrating an extraordinary birthday on the 20th, as was my son Timmy and Sue’s sister in Canada.
Harriet and Henry waved enthusiastically from their sleeping bags. They were lying in, relaxing, as icy dewdrops seeped through their tent. The night had been bitterly cold, and our neighbour, a lone traveller, complained of a sleepless night spent trying to stay warm. Alas, two sleeping bags couldn’t keep the chill out. Hiking Harry set off with his backpack secured, hat on, striding confidently across the campground. He mentioned his route, a 20km circular hike.
Butch and Percy took off on our Darrvin eBikes while Sue and I walked, talked, and relished the outdoors. We rehashed past hikes, caught up on news of the children, and enjoyed the surrounding beauty. Percy discovered "Sport mode" on our bikes. "What a game-changer," Butch exclaimed the next day as he zoomed over rocks, thick sand, and a never-ending uphill.
Through blue-grey fields of ripening wheat, circular corduroys of bright green rooibos tea, fields of marmalade yellow and orange spring Namaqualand blooms, we strode, accompanied by the resident Labby Jan.
Eventually, we heard faint beeps from the backpack, indicating that we could send and receive messages. We sang our own version of Happy Birthday and sent it off.
First rays of summer coloured our pasty complexions and arms bright red. Feeling energised, we committed to repeating the exercise on Sunday, attempting to do as many hikes on offer as possible. The magnificent landscape is too good to pass up.
With warnings to follow the marked footpaths diligently, Sue and I set off after our morning coffee. Hiking Harry, our neighbour, had not followed orders; he decided to run the route, got lost, and stumbled back into camp late in the afternoon. He told me later that he was confident we’d send out the guards if he weren’t back by sunset. Earlier, I had noticed his car door open and almost leaped to frightening conclusions. An emergency rescue would leave one R2K out of pocket.
We kept rotating the map to find the location we set off from, but after much speculation realised we were on the wrong path. We doubled back and started again. Fortunately, the weather was in our favour. High clouds and a gentle breeze on our backs kept us energised. The well-marked, though sometimes faded, painted footprints led the way. We were particularly impressed by the strategically placed cairns, which we could follow on our return journey too.
Along the way, we were dazzled by the opening flowers, a mix-and-match palette of colours, varieties, shapes and sizes. Around every bend, a surprise as the landscape changed—colourful profusions of blooms as the day warmed to above 18C, allowing petals to open.
Rockpools, waterfalls, streams and potholes are just some of the river’s features. At the Gifrivier waterfall, we stood in awe, surveying the snaking canyon before us. Sheer rock walls have been carved over millennia as water eroded downward. The main waterfall drops into underground potholes and channels, only to surface again downstream—an ah-ha moment.
Rock art, painted as recently as 400 years ago, adorns caves along the route; the bright ochres remain visible and preserved. The realisation that nomadic Khoisan tribes still hunted and gathered here, living peacefully, not too long ago, brought home the truth of the destruction and genocide caused by colonialism. Resilient tribes who had survived for thousands of years, living entirely off the land, trusting the stars, co-habiting with nature. Gone.
Animals are far more aware of our presence than we are of theirs, as was evident here: we didn’t spot any wildlife, only a few dassies sunning themselves on distant rock shelves. They skedaddled the moment they heard our first rustle as we clambered over rocks and squeezed through crevasses. Animal droppings and a few tracks suggested baboons, klipspringers, and leopards. On our first hike, we enjoyed a tortoise under a daisy bush, and later a dung beetle appeared. The pitch-black gecko was a surprise; I'd never seen one so dark.
A snake, a Karoo Sand snake, unexpectedly confronted Sue. At least a meter long, it was. Fortunately, it slithered off quickly to hide in the undergrowth. Thankfully. I doubt I would’ve stayed as calm as she did. By the sound of things, the birdlife is quite prolific; we weren’t looking for them, as our focus was on finding the Fertility Cave, which eluded us.
The most extraordinary sighting was the sun streaking through a hole in a rock, illuminating a small, water-filled cave. The other was the drumbeat of water in an underground cavern, in the gullies and rock pools further upstream. To hear the sound, we had to quieten down completely.
I have the luxury of showering en-suite in our Honey Badger. Butch went off to the ablutions and returned a little disgruntled, with a sarong wrapped around his waist. His shower was tricky. First the water was scalding, then freezing. It took fine-tuning and fine motor skills to get the temperature just right. As he was getting into the swing of things, the temperature dropped, and that was his shower done. Because there was no seating in the cubicle, he had to pad, barefoot, wet and cold, clutching his garments to dress “at home”. Sue, in the first shower stall, gave her experience the thumbs up.
The three-night stay ended on Monday morning. Harriet and Henry said their goodbyes the previous evening. When we awoke, they had vanished, leaving no trace, to resume their road trip. These intrepid travellers amazed us with their daredevil attitude, turning a “quick 3-day trip to see flowers” into a ten-day holiday.
I had a marvellous time, and I reiterate our theory that travelling need not be an overseas trip, a gruelling holiday to the far reaches of the compass, or something that breaks the bank. To enjoy nature, breathe fresh air, luxuriate in beauty, and recharge may be just around the corner, or a stone’s throw into the pond to experience a ripple effect. It only takes a positive attitude. Remember to KISS.
The triple dose of antihistamine I downed has stopped my itchy bites. What caused them will always remain a mystery. A swarm of midges emerged after sunset, even outsmarting the swarm of swallows feasting on them. My bites are more severe, and I still have hives on my arms. Both men found and removed ticks.
With all the necessary brakes, gears and cogs in place, Butch negotiated the Honey Badger down the treacherously steep, winding pass. I gripped the door handle as I was on the receiving end of a mishap. Those big-boy air brakes rumbled and kicked in as we made our way safely downhill, endearing the Honey Badger’s prowess to me even more.
Animals are far more aware of our presence than we are of theirs, as was evident here: we didn’t spot any wildlife, only a few dassies sunning themselves on distant rock shelves. They skedaddled the moment they heard our first rustle as we clambered over rocks and squeezed through crevasses. Animal droppings and a few tracks suggested baboons, klipspringers, and leopards. On our first hike, we enjoyed a tortoise under a daisy bush, and later a dung beetle appeared. The pitch-black gecko was a surprise; I'd never seen one so dark.
A snake, a Karoo Sand snake, unexpectedly confronted Sue. At least a meter long, it was. Fortunately, it slithered off quickly to hide in the undergrowth. Thankfully. I doubt I would’ve stayed as calm as she did. By the sound of things, the birdlife is quite prolific; we weren’t looking for them, as our focus was on finding the Fertility Cave, which eluded us.
The most extraordinary sighting was the sun streaking through a hole in a rock, illuminating a small, water-filled cave. The other was the drumbeat of water in an underground cavern, in the gullies and rock pools further upstream. To hear the sound, we had to quieten down completely.
I have the luxury of showering en-suite in our Honey Badger. Butch went off to the ablutions and returned a little disgruntled, with a sarong wrapped around his waist. His shower was tricky. First the water was scalding, then freezing. It took fine-tuning and fine motor skills to get the temperature just right. As he was getting into the swing of things, the temperature dropped, and that was his shower done. Because there was no seating in the cubicle, he had to pad, barefoot, wet and cold, clutching his garments to dress “at home”. Sue, in the first shower stall, gave her experience the thumbs up.
The three-night stay ended on Monday morning. Harriet and Henry said their goodbyes the previous evening. When we awoke, they had vanished, leaving no trace, to resume their road trip. These intrepid travellers amazed us with their daredevil attitude, turning a “quick 3-day trip to see flowers” into a ten-day holiday.
I had a marvellous time, and I reiterate our theory that travelling need not be an overseas trip, a gruelling holiday to the far reaches of the compass, or something that breaks the bank. To enjoy nature, breathe fresh air, luxuriate in beauty, and recharge may be just around the corner, or a stone’s throw into the pond to experience a ripple effect. It only takes a positive attitude. Remember to KISS.
The triple dose of antihistamine I downed has stopped my itchy bites. What caused them will always remain a mystery. A swarm of midges emerged after sunset, even outsmarting the swarm of swallows feasting on them. My bites are more severe, and I still have hives on my arms. Both men found and removed ticks.
With all the necessary brakes, gears and cogs in place, Butch negotiated the Honey Badger down the treacherously steep, winding pass. I gripped the door handle as I was on the receiving end of a mishap. Those big-boy air brakes rumbled and kicked in as we made our way safely downhill, endearing the Honey Badger’s prowess to me even more.
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