It’s a long long road ….

The N1 national road between Laingsburg and Beaufort West in the Karoo is a tedious two hundred odd kilometers long. Many kilometers are straight single carriageway uphill and down dale interspersed with kilometers upon kilometers of level, monotonous, yet generally well maintained roadway. It is a busy stretch of road carrying people and goods between the industrial hinterland and the coastal port city of Cape Town. Extra heavy duty trucks, 96 seater buses, South Africa’s ubiquitous taxis and light motor vehicles share the lanes in both directions. Many a driver arrives at this stretch of asphalt having traveled a considerable distance during the early morning hours, just at the point that the Karoo summer heat picks up and the sun beats down relentlessly on this semi-desert part of the country. A confluence of circumstances conspires to visit tragic accidents upon those who traverse this stretch of a long journey – weariness, heat, waning concentration and, at times, blinding sunlight directly in the field of view of intrepid drivers, at whose mercy are passengers and valuable cargo on this main artery of a modern industrialised state.

Five o’clock in the morning in a Cape Town apartment on a January morning in 1980, Yvette is jolted awake by her alarm clock. She reluctantly slides out of her bed and begins to scurry around the flat in anticipation of a long haul to Johannesburg. Ablutions and dressing in a comfortable driving outfit are done in time for her to start her Ford Escort Mark 1. It had already been packed with all the luggage she intended to take for a quick week long visit to Johannesburg on a business trip. Her friend and colleague, Miriam, had to be picked up at six o’clock en route and together they were poised to hit the road which would take them over the du Toit’s Kloof Pass, through a short tunnel and past Worcester and Touws River and a short rest in Laingsburg, where they would enjoy breakfast at the fast food outlet at the far end of the town. Road works were an irritating delay, as work had already started to convert this stretch of road into a Toll Road and the new Huguenot Tunnel which was slated for opening in 1988. Vehicles overtaking around blind corners over the pass, with drivers cocking a snook at the barrier lines, were a known menace over the mountain passes. A break at Laingsburg at around ten o’clock would be welcome relief before embarking on the notorious stretch to Beaufort West.

In Bloemfontein Kuhle had already boarded a taxi bound for Cape Town, joining passengers from Johannesburg. She was one of eighteen (including the driver) jammed in cheek by jowl. A trailer was merrily following  the taxi, somewhat overloaded with some of the luggage and one of its tyres bald and a tad soft and bulging. On the roof rack, luggage stacked precariously above the chattering passengers attempting to converse over the din of a blaring boom box belting out mbaqanga, township jive music, the odd penny whistle, Jazz and the like. Kwaito hadn’t quite made it onto the music scene yet. The driver had been at it for several hours already and anticipated filling up the petrol tank in Beaufort West about four or five hours further into the journey. The taxi was showing signs of a hard, long life. Abused by overloading, it lived up to Toyota’s reputation of being reliable and it continued to chug along, rattles and bumps aside, with the driver’s right foot fully depressing the dodgy accelerator pedal. In those days the stick shift was on the steering column, so that allowed for an extra body to be squeezed in between the driver and  other front passenger.

A massive eighteen wheeler was also making its way from Johannesburg to Cape Town, as these other participants in the drama about to unfold unknowingly embarked on their treacherous journey. It was hauling a load of several tons, so moved at a pace commensurate with its size, load and ageing diesel engine. It belched out thick black smoke with gay abandon. Siyanda, the driver, was a seasoned professional of thirty years standing. A cautious and courteous driver of these big rigs, he obeyed the traffic regulations, albeit making the odd concession to politeness by edging into the yellow lane road shoulder to allow faster vehicles to overtake more easily. He was already in Beaufort West, and was filling up the diesel tanks for the final stretch to Cape Town. It guzzled copious amounts of diesel, as he’d pushed the envelope considerably. At that time South Africa enforced severe fuel restrictions because fossil fuels were not easy to obtain on the open market and sanctions were taking their toll. Refueling could only be done in the daylight hours between six in the morning and six in the evening and not over weekends at all. At that particular time special permits were only issued for after hours refueling in emergencies or if members of the South African Defence Force (conscripts) required the facility. Official government vehicles (SAP, SADF etc.) could fill up at military bases and depots. Siyanda could perhaps have obtained one had his cargo been considered economically strategic. Suffice it to say, he didn’t have a permit and was restricted to daylight refueling. He had been driving most of the night, so was weary and appreciated being able to drink some strong coffee whilst the diesel flowed into the tanks.

Siyanda, Kuhle and Yvette were destined to have an unplanned encounter at around midday on the stretch of road between Laingsburg and Beaufort West. Siyanda’s eighteen wheeler was negotiating one of the few steep inclines that placed immense strain on the truck’s ability to maintain a reasonable speed. As it edged its way closer to the summit, he selected a gear that would provide maximum torque, yet the load was at a tipping point that had stretched the ability of the powerful diesel engine to the limit. The closer it came to the summit, the more it slowed down, much to the annoyance of several vehicles that found themselves in his wake. Frustratingly for all of them was the fact that the yellow lined road shoulder had narrowed to an extent that he could not pull over to the left and permit traffic to overtake safely, as he would have wanted to do. A bold barrier line clearly instructed responsible drivers not to overtake on this blind rise. Oncoming traffic was out of view. Kuhle’s taxi driver, overcome with frustration, weariness and the sense of haste brought on by the need to maximise the number of journeys to ensure adequate income, diced with fate and death. He squeezed to near breaking point the limits of speed he could coax out of his heavily overloaded vehicle. In the opposite direction and at the maximum permissible speed on this stretch of open road, Yvette and her colleague were still out of view, but nearing the top of the ridge. A head-on collision was inevitable and the taxi and Ford Escort met with an almighty thud. Siyanda’s truck was merely collateral damage as these two vehicles were lifted into the side of its trailer and bounced off into the ditch on the opposite side. He was a witness to this horrible scene from the safety of his cab and, massively traumatised, brought his eighteen wheeler to a stop many metres from the point of impact.

In the taxi there was mayhem as Kuhle was flung out of the ripped side and came to an abrupt landing on the gravel at the edge of the tarmac. She was concussed, had a broken femur and several cracked ribs, one of which had pierced a lung. She lay still, but gurgled as the blood and air frothed out of her mouth. She was the sole survivor in the taxi at that point. Inside the mangled wreck were the other passengers and the driver – dead where they sat. The impact had been so intense that bodies had been ripped open and blood spewed everywhere as the blunt force of the speeding metal frame had sown devastation. Their lifeless bodies were mangled beyond recognition. 

The Ford Escort had been wrecked beyond repair and recognition as it has been lifted into the air and deposited on the hot tar. Its driver and passenger were thrown out of the spinning hunk of crushed and torn metal. Miriam miraculously cheated death. Broken bones and shredded skin seemed to be the only damage suffered. She would be a fortunate survivor that would have the gift of feeling the pain inflicted on her body, with multiple bruises to match. The bulk of the taxi passengers were oblivious to their injuries, the end of their lives mercifully swift. Their demise upon impact was infinitely preferable to a slow, painful and traumatic end. Most would have preferred to have lived, but would no doubt have opted for a quick end should their death have been inevitable. As for Yvette – she lay where she landed in the middle of the road on this sweltering summer day. The sun was beating down on the scene relentlessly. Temperatures in this patch of the Great Karoo, a semi-desert, had reached 42 degrees Celsius (in the shade). On this stretch of road the heat was so intense that the tar had begun to melt. On that tar, Yvette lay motionless, apparently dead on impact.

1980 was still more than a decade and a half away from the advent of cellphones. It was on the old technology of CB radios most truckers had in their cabs that Siyanda summoned help. Within half an hour the first responders arrived – ambulances, paramedics and traffic police. Triage was immediately done and their observation determined that there were no survivors in the taxi except Kuhle who was rapidly running out of time. Miriam was clearly the least severely injured, but a quick glance convinced the responders that Yvette had succumbed to her injuries. The only lifeless form out in the open was Yvette, so she was duly covered in a white sheet. Kuhle and Miriam were transported to the nearest large hospital in Beaufort West. It would be another few hours before the bodies could be extricated from the taxi. By that time the first morgue vans began to arrive to collect the bodies.

The white sheet was folded away for Yvette to be placed in a body bag. It was with immense shock and horror that the mortuary team heard a faint groan emanating from her apparently lifeless form that produced a heartbeat which was almost undetectable. There had been no discernible chest movement and breathing had seemed to have ceased when triage was first performed. Urgent attention had to be given to this desperate victim by the lone paramedic still at the scene and via police radio a “casevac” helicopter was summoned.

Remarkably, Yvette was slowly nursed back to life at Tygerberg Hospital to which she had been transferred. Of the lasting injuries she suffered were the third degree burns on her back, arms and legs that had been exposed to the melting tar for an interminable length of time. She spent many months in recovery and endured plastic surgery for her burn wounds. But she was alive!

The road to recovery for both Kuhle and Yvette, neither of whom were responsible for the great tragedy, was a long, long road. Both clung to life and persevered with their recovery regimen, to once again be able to return to work. Both have a “Can do”, “Never give up” approach to what they have viewed as a new lease on life.

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©Paul M Haupt