With every suction, my feet were scorching. The last twenty metres were pure hell. We realised if we had left the mine half an hour later, we would have been burned to death on this pan one by one . . .
“This is becoming a dangerous situation,” muttered Brook Kassa as the Afar of Arho crowded round the vehicle. They refused to let us go. What had we come here for? Who were we to want to escape from the underworld? If your road takes you to hell, and the angels of darkness get their hands on you, you can’t just presume that you will be allowed to return!
And then the engine fired, and with a roar we burst through the milling mass – back to the light.
Promotion
As I was dragging my backpack through the thick sand in sweltering heat, I thought: Please remind me what the hell I am doing here!
Sweat was soaking through my bandana and trickling into my beard. My brain had shut down, so that I no longer saw the shiny rippling of the river to my right and the rough cliffs surrounding the canyon. People were trudging behind me. My clients and my responsibility.
Philemon – or Fielies, as I had named him – was Ndbele. Born in the Messina district, he had found work in Pretoria as driver and apprentice mechanic. Those two towns comprised his entire world and frame of reference. When I had picked him up that morning, I saw that his eyes were glistening with excitement. We were on our way to recover a bakkie of mine that had broken down in distant Namibia. He was apprehensive, but with his brand-new, first-ever passport and his “baas” – boss – by his side he was ready for adventure. To Fielies “baas” was not the way an inferior person addressed his superior – it was my title, my name. “Meneer” or “Johan” simply didn’t carry the same weight.
For the past fifteen years – year in, year out – I had been taking groups of people through the Fish River canyon in southern Namibia. It is a remarkable place that can only be appreciated the hard way and under one’s own steam. Nowhere else in the world is the sky as blue. Nowhere else are the stars as bright. Nowhere else is the brilliance of the setting sun so bloody amazing. The eerie streaks of moonlight on the rough cliffs conjure up dreams of medieval castles and knights on horseback. Ever since my first visit I had felt the urge to make this harsh beauty accessible to others. I couldn’t keep it to myself, I had argued.
En route Fielies and I chatted. When we passed through Ventersdorp I told him about the right-wing organisations; he told me about paying eight head of cattle and R10 000 as lobola. At Vryburg I showed him the place where the British hanged four colonialists for helping the Boers; he told me tales, passed on from one generation to the next, of Makapansgat in his district. Fielies drank in everything I told him. It was as if new worlds were opening for him the further we travelled. The mealie fields of the Western Transvaal filled him with awe. He was amazed by the red dunes of the Kalahari. The great Gariep was the largest stretch of water he had ever seen. We had a beer at a little bar in Upington and looked out over the brown mass of water rushing past. Ill at ease in the unaccustomed luxury, he kept questioning me about this and that.
In the course of fifteen years the way I introduced visitors to the canyon and conducted the hiking tour had developed into a fine art. My main aim was to get every member of the large group safely to the other side and to establish coherence within the group. Equally important, though, was that everyone should enjoy the experience. My greatest reward was when, beer in hand, I watched the hikers arrive at the finish and saw the delight in their eyes.
It was late at night when we approached Karasburg. Crossing the border had been an adventure for Fielies. Proudly he had handed over his new passport to receive his first stamp. He was entering a foreign country for the first time.
I decided to book us into the hotel. “Fielies, I think you should call me ‘meneer’ around here,” I suggested. Fielies gave me a strange look. We were allocated our rooms and I bought him a beer. The little bar was staunchly Afrikaans, as were the few cronies. Fielies went to his room and came back wide-eyed. “Baas, there’s a shower – do you think I could wash?” I realised that even the stay in the hotel was a brand-new experience for him.
On a desert hike I wear my Arab robe, staff and headgear. Hence the nickname Moses among the Witboois of those parts. Mind you, on a previous occasion I had been promoted: A few members of my group had been unable to tackle the entire route and they were going to set out from Ai-Ais to join up with us. Because I thought they might not find the rendezvous, I sent ahead a Dutchman who had attached himself to our group. He greeted the others with the words: “Jesus is waiting for you.”
But fifteen years is a long time and people are strange. I don’t know whether it was my fault or theirs, but the joy was no longer there. Perhaps people were expecting me to make it worth their while, perhaps they came only for the party and failed to notice the beauty. That was when I decided: I was no longer going to take people to the canyon. I was going to put a stop to it. To add insult to injury, my bakkie broke down, and now Fielies and I were on our way to fetch it at Ai-Ais.
It was early when Fielies woke me with a cup of coffee. “Come, baas, let’s go. I want to take a look at our bakkie.” We drove through the granite hills leading up to the Fish River. As you approach the canyon, there is nothing to warn you that you are about to come across a vast chasm ripped into the earth. No one fails to be moved by the sight, but Fielies reacted with silent shock. I took him to the start of the hiking trail, where a few hikers had gathered, and sent him down the cliffs for a taste.
Beer in hand, I waited for his return, while I chatted to the group that was about to go down. Then he was back.
“Fielies, so what can you say to the meneer?” I emphasised “meneer” to remind Fielies of the presence of others.
“Meneer, my arse, baas,” he replied, tears rolling down his cheeks. And I realised that there were still people to whom I wanted to show this place after all.
Uhuru
Were these drops of blood on the snow and ice in front of me? The steamed-up dark glasses were deceptive, for here and there I saw patches of green grass dancing in front of my eyes. The small cracks in the ice looked like bottomless crevasses as I forged ahead like an automaton. One, two, three shuffling steps; rest for ten counts. I no longer remembered why I was here.
“Is someone bleeding?” I croaked. “I think it’s red cool drink,” came a voice from above. I didn’t look up. I could just see the tips of Cara’s boots stepping in her father’s tracks. “How are you, Pa?” my fourteen-year-old asked with shuddering breath. I really couldn’t say, although I wished I could.
This particular piece of hell, consisting of ice, stone and inadequate air to breathe, had begun that morning at a quarter past midnight. Our guide had woken us with the words: “It’s time; now is the hour.” We had gone to bed with our boots on, insulated against cold of minus 15 degrees. Wearing a woollen cap, scarf and headlight, I had tumbled out of the igloo tent, looking like a yeti. Cara’s words – “I’ve been dreading this moment” – had summed up my own feelings.
The route led up sheer cliffs that had been towering above us since the previous afternoon. This route had not been part of our initial planning. Our chief guide, Sammie, who had been studying our group of twenty-five over the previous four days, had recommended it and we had agreed, because by following this route – although fearfully steep – the group would be less liable to contract the dreaded altitude sickness.
