By Caleb McClain
“Before we head back, we’re going to make a quick stop,” my PH said as he pulled the worn-down Land Cruiser off the road. Much to my surprise, a tiny oasis emerged in the Limpopo bushveld.
My PH turned to me. “This is At Se Gat—also known as Clarky’s Pride. If you go anywhere in South Africa, they’ll know this bar. I don’t care if you’re in Cape Town or Durban or wherever. Hell, ask your outfitter in the Free State next year—he’ll know it.”
I thought he was full of it—this wild claim about a random dive bar tucked into the bush in a town about 50 miles from nowhere.
He parked the Cruiser, and I got out reluctantly. I say reluctantly because earlier that day we’d already been in a sketchy situation when diamond miners were on strike and had started burning piles of tires in the middle of the road and rioting just a few miles away. But hell, we had beer in the truck in case we needed to bribe our way through.
A Bar in the Bushveld
Before we even stepped inside, I knew this place wasn’t your average watering hole. In what would normally be a koi pond, there were baby Nile crocodiles paddling around. The hallway into the bar was dimly lit with yellowing bulbs that looked like they hadn’t been replaced since the ’70s.
The bar itself was part tiki bar, part dive bar. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I noticed stools upholstered with scraps of zebra and impala hide, a full-body leopard mount on top of the cabana, and a cheetah mount posed in the corner that might be 60 years old. Taped to the walls was currency from a couple dozen countries. Damn, maybe this place really was famous.
To the right of the bar, one wall was plastered with photos of trophies taken by the founder, “Clarky.” There were pictures of him with all sorts of game: a bongo, a massive eland, and a kudu that had to be over 60 inches, among dozens more.
“Hallo, Gert! Who do you have with you today?” the bartender called out. She was a middle-aged woman who I later learned was Clarky’s daughter.
“Americans here for a hunt,” Gert said. “This is Caleb and Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you! How’s the hunting been?” she asked.
“He killed a damn nice impala! But today we’ve just been up at Mapungubwe,” Gert said before I could answer.
“Beautiful day for a game drive! What will you have to drink?”
“Let’s get a round of Black Labels and Amarula shots,” Gert ordered.
Small Bill, Smaller World
We talked and drank for a couple of hours. The place was mostly empty as it was a weekday, but I was assured that on Fridays and Saturdays, you’d be lucky to even get in the door. Four or five rounds later, we paid the tab—about $20 worth of rand—and headed out.
Nine months later, I was sitting around a fire in the Free State with my outfitter, knocking back a couple of the same Black Labels and reminiscing about that trip.
“So where in Limpopo were you?” he asked.
“Alldays,” I replied.
“Oh, Alldays! There’s a bar there called At Se Gat! I love that place!” his wife chimed in.
I guess Gert wasn’t full of it after all.
