How horrible 'padkos' led to peril on the Swartberg Pass

Accidental Tourist Debbie Derry learns the hard way that you should never to lie to a nun

It's fair to say I tell the occasional white lie. Don't we all? I am also scared of heights. It wasn't so long ago that these failings of mine colluded against me with long-term consequences.

It was during a road trip by car from Montagu to Prince Albert, when we stopped at a farm store not unlike any other, brimming with produce, home-made goods and offering a trusty cup of tea and sweet treats.

This, however, was where the stereotypical niceties ended because we were served by an Afrikaans-speaking nun. She was elderly, intensely forthright and wore a strange headdress.

I was interrogated as to my lack of Afrikaans (I grew up in the UK) but praised for my attire - a dress that covered my knees.

Though not the product of a convent education, I was immediately subdued and on my best behaviour.

And so, the white lie came to pass.

The pancakes I'd ordered were simply the worst I'd ever eaten: thick, rubbery and tasting of burnt sugar and cinnamon. I forced one down while scurrying the other into a serviette and into my handbag.

"How were your pancakes, Madam?" the nun asked.

"Lovely," I lied.

I just didn't want to hurt her feelings. Pleasing people is another of my failings, which is why I'd naively agreed to the H's decision of travelling to Prince Albert via the infamous Swartberg Pass.

As we ambled towards the latter, I learnt that said padstal "nun" was not a nun after all, but more likely a member of a Christian sect that lays much weight on the "end times".

The H had deduced as much from the lettering on her headdress and his parting conversation with her. (I was too busy trying to cover my legs and hide my pancake.)

It was an ambitious and talented Thomas Bain and 250 convicts who made the impossible possible, carving a dirt-track route through the Swartberg Mountains way back in the 19th century.

It took three hours for a convoy of 100 horse-drawn carts to reach "the top" (1,575m above sea level) of the pass to celebrate this engineering feat in 1888.

Thereafter, a transport wagon led by eight mules would regularly traverse the pass between Prince Albert and Oudtshoorn, delivering post and paying passengers. By 1904, the first car had successfully completed the 27km pass with its acute bends, steep gradient (1:8 in places) and gravel surface.

I know this now.

Had I known it beforehand, I would never ever have consented to the one-hour-20-minute trip.

The warm sensation of the renegade pancake in my handbag was nothing compared to the anguish I was to endure. While I have already admitted to a fear of heights, I also suffer from a recurring nightmare - that of going over a cliff in a car. A double whammy.

Anyone who has conquered the notorious pass, which is still gravel and not suitable for heavy vehicles or acrophobics like me, will know that opportunities of going over the edge are in abundant supply.

It is only carefully concentrated driving at 20km/h and preferably having both sides of the road entirely to yourself that will get you safely through this "engineering marvel".

I cared not for the H's amiable acknowledgement of passing motorists, less still for his "breathtaking" updates of majestic mountains, rock formations, untouched flora and historical anecdotes. In fact, the H's every utterance simply intensified my suffering.

I'd lied to the "end times" nun. I closed my eyes to block out the terror and to pray, begging forgiveness and travelling mercies. The H was now mute.

Nothing was going to pacify his traumatised wife. When we reached our destination I wanted to both thank and castigate him. In the end, silence seemed wisest.

And so, there'll be no more white lies from me. Nor trips through hectic mountain passes.

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