The Tankwa Karoo is a seemingly never-ending pasture, with random twists of mountain dividing it into smaller sections. It’s sheep country, but also a playground for birders, 4x4 enthusiasts and other free spirits, says Sophia van Taak.

Kook, it’s all in the hips,” says Koos van der Westhuizen, and pushes another glass against the optic of an upside-down bottle of Red Heart. The stream of rum pours into the Coke, after which Koos carefully sets the glass down. Using a pair of tongs – strangely tiny between his big fingers – he drops a few ice cubes into the drink.

This is his bar, his hotel, his town and these are his purebred boerbulls of whose hips he speaks. It’s just after twilight in Middelpos and the hotel guests have gathered on tall barstools, huddled up, hands buried deep in their pockets. The newspaper predicts -2 °C for tonight.

“If the hips can’t carry the dog’s weight, it becomes a nasty business. That light brown bitch in the pen over there is due for x-rays in Stellenbosch one of these days,” says Koos. He mimics how a vet would grab and turn the rear legs like a braai grid to get the right impression of the hip sockets.

“And then it’s off to Caledon and Worcester for more tests, grading and the right papers.”

This man must really have great affection for his broad-chested barkers to travel to the Boland this often; we’ve arrived barely half an hour earlier from Ceres after a loong Saturday bouncing along on dirt roads.

A grim precipice
CERES TO KATBAKKIES (70km)

It’s the first Saturday morning of the month and the Ceres main road is abuzz. We weave the bakkie slowly along the sidewalk in search of parking. A few last-minute chores before we hit the road – diesel top-up, buying water and toffees – are the reasons we can’t avoid the throng.

But soon we’re on the road to Prince Alfred Hamlet, a 9 km stretch from Ceres along the R303, after which the road climbs steeply up the Gydo Pass. We leave the fertile Ceres valley – surrounded by snow-covered mountain peaks – behind us.

At a lookout point near the summit of the pass, there’s a camper with its blinds still tightly drawn. These people chose a great spot to wake up in – you’d have to travel far and wide to find a more beautiful view.

Our route veers to the right at Op-die-Berg, some 36 km beyond Prince Alfred Hamlet, on the road that leads to the Ceres Karoo. It’s a misleading name because we’re still surrounded by green trees – sheer Franschhoek – with naked branches of oak and blue gum etching the sky. A few ducks and coots drift serenely on a dam.

We quickly stop at the Boplaas cottage – a beautiful thatched dwelling with a wolf-nose gable – about 7 km after the turn-off. The memorial plaque at the front door reveals that the estate was allotted to Izak Wilhelmus van
der Merwe (ancestor of the Afrikaans poet Boerneef) in 1743 as grazing land.

Next to the outbuildings is a memorial wall commemorating all the Van der Merwes who died on this acre of land. I count four with the initials I.W.

From here on the surroundings begin to change. Massive piles of rock decorate the veld, the perfect place for a game of cowboys and Indians. The strip of tar ends at a fork in the road; we proceed to the right as directed by the Kagga Kamma signpost and enter the Swartruggens conservation area.

A little way on we come to a weird sandy patch in the veld that forms a couple of low dunes alongside the road, but there’s no time to wonder about it because the bakkie suddenly pushes us into our backrests. Ah, the Katbakkies Pass … and surprisingly it’s not a dirt road!

Honestly, I was seldom as thankful for a strip of tar as this one. Who knows how people managed to slip and slide their way up the pass before it was tarred in 1999? The sheer edges grin with evil glee around every turn, so it’s best to look into the distance (that’s if you’re not the driver, of course).

It’s a short but formidable pass (about 1.5 km long). Like gargoyles on old cathedrals, phantom faces in the rocks keep watch over us the whole way.
And your imagination freely takes flight.

The longest dirt road in SA
KATBAKKIES TO TANKWA-KAROO NATIONAL PARK (117km)

Beyond the pass is the turn-off to the Kagga Kamma Reserve, and barely a kilometre further on are two derelict ruins on a turn.

It’s the ideal place to stretch your legs and to clamber around for great views over the green landscape. The coffee flask and biltong make their appearance and we stretch our legs in the sun, talking about the lives of long dead shepherds and farmers who may have lived here once.

Shortly thereafter we twist down the 3 km of tight curves on the Peerboomkloof Pass.

The sun is directly overhead and every flower has folded open to display beautiful colours. Sheets of vygies add dabs of purple to the ridges, and patches of afrikaners and marigolds intermingle in tufts of orange. Aloes burst from their seams and over their tops you see three, four, five shades of the distant blue ridges and mountains we still have to cross today.

About 15 km beyond the ruins the road joins the well-known R355 – apparently the longest piece of gravel road in the country. This road is rock hard and glossy from traffic.

We follow it north for roughly 25 km and then, just after the Gansfontein farm, turn right in the direction of the Tankwa Karoo National Park.

Aside from a few falcons, the veld has shown little sign of life. (Or should we count the little dead snake we saw?)

We start seeing more and more flocks of sheep, their cloudy white bodies contrasted against the shrubbery like feta crumbs in a green salad. A high fence on the right indicates that there should also be wildlife, but we have not seen any.

The veld grows increasingly parched and flat; the scene is somewhat woeful.

What do the livestock eat here? I drag out the map and try to trace our route with my finger while the bakkie bounces around. The Springbokvlakte … ah, so this is where the … well ... nothing stands metres high.

After 46  km, at the farm Onder-Wadrif, the road turns off to Sutherland but we continue straight on, because we’ll have nothing left to do tomorrow if we don’t.

We’re carried over the humble Tankwa River by a cement bridge and onto the remaining 10 km to the park where the wheels go “Grrrraaaaang!” every time we cross a cattle grid.

I regret not counting them since we left this morning. A cattle grid is, after all, a brilliant invention. It’s so simple, yet so effective. (I have to wonder where and when the first sheep tried to cross a grid. Did the other sheep have a good laugh?)