pool in the De Duine Hotel at Henties. At Spitzkoppe we outwitted the G-factor by pitching our tent at Kleine Spitzkopf and in solitude we watched the earth swallow the sun.
The reunion with Kleinboet was a happy one. We don’t see each other often. He had been in the Kaokoland desert for six years. He knew those parts like the back of his hand. He enjoyed a position of trust among the Himbas and he knew the desert elephants by name.
Cousin Danne was also with Chrisjan and in two vehicles we sped off to Grootberg. Somewhere on top of the pass we drove into the bushes, lit a huge fire and, fortified by a shot of whisky, Chrisjan told us about the last no-man’s-land in this southern land. Nature Conservation had declared the region an off-limits nature reserve. He told us about a group of tourists who had ignored all warnings and gone into the reserve. He and the men from Nature Conservation had followed their tracks, which would be a silent reminder of their destructive behaviour for many years, caught them and handed them over to the police. All their vehicles and equipment had been confiscated, they had each been fined R10 000 and deported as personae non gratae. Clearly you didn’t go looking for trouble around there – not even if you were a G-factor enthusiast.
In the early hours the heavens opened suddenly and it rained. We threw our bedding into the vehicles and scrummed down around the valiant fire while the water poured over us in bucketfuls. We sang and danced like demented baboons, knowing it was the desert and tomorrow everything would be dry again.
That was true as we drove through the dry Hoanib just past the Khowarib Schlucht. Chrisjan was uneasy. He knew if it had rained higher up, the rivers of Kaokoland would come down in flood and we could be stranded for days.
The moment of truth arrived when we reached the Skelm River. This little stream rises high up in the mountains east of Warmquelle and flows into the Hoanib near Sesfontein. The locals were standing around, unable to cross.
We didn’t have much time. We two brothers waded through. The water came up to our balls, but the current was strong and tugged at our legs. Boeta was in a hurry to show us his world. He pushed the nose of his bakkie into the river, but failed to reach the opposite bank. The river began to play with the bakkie. Water poured in through the windows. We charged in and I could feel the sand being swept from under the wheels.
We’re going to lose the vehicle, it crossed my mind, and I called out to Kalie to bring the larger Cruiser so that we could pull the bakkie out.
On the opposite bank at last, we poured a stiff gin to put a stop to the worst shivering. I pushed a CD into the player and Valiant Swart sang:
“As jy anderkant haal, dan moet jy wys en betaal, en as jy terug wil kom . . . gaan maak maar self daai som” – If you reach the other side, you’ll have to confess and pay the price and if you want to return . . . you’ll have to calculate the cost.
And I wondered how prophetic those words would be.
Now we were standing at Purros and in front of us the Hoarusib was in flood, a seething brown mass that swept along everything in its path. Where we were standing, it was as wide as the Orange. It was an awesome sight. We looked at one another . . .
That night the mosquitoes were a nuisance and I didn’t sleep much – had we reached the turning point?
Was the Skeleton Coast eluding me? I wondered as I tossed and turned. Beside me Chrisjan was also struggling to settle down . . .
But if a man really puts his mind to something, he can do it, and around noon we decided that we were going to give it a try. The river had run down considerably, but we were afraid of the next deluge and we tied the vehicles together with towropes. Adrenaline pumped as we ploughed through mud, weeds and water and reached the opposite bank with roaring engines.
And if you want to return, you’ll have to calculate the cost . . .
And we drove into the desert and it was so beautiful and so solitary and we were so privileged and I understood why my brother was unable to return – where could a nature lover like him find anything better?
We drove through a sea of shifting dunes, we climbed up basalt hills and looked far into our futures, we walked across salt pans to meet our past, we found the shelters of the Strandlopers that are hundreds of years old, we frolicked with seals in the icy waters of Cape Fria and washed up with the wrecks at the mouth of the Khumib, we picked up handfuls of agate and amethyst and let them run through our fingers, we sat around fires till late, encompassed by the starry skies, we laughed and we cried and we discovered, like the travellers of old . . . And I knew we had already calculated the cost: we had rediscovered friendship, brotherhood and camaraderie.
A different kind of Christmas
I was still opening my present (I happened to know it was a Bible), when kleinboet Christian toddled through the glass door on the stoep. In front of my eyes the window shattered and a shard fell from above like a guillotine, piercing his upper lip. He was only two years old and couldn’t understand all the blood and the screaming. It was the first Christmas Eve I can really remember. That evening in my eleventh year I dedicated my life to the Lord – please let Boetie live – as I carefully took the glass spear out of his palate and picked him up and handed him to Ma and Pa like an offering.
My mother, Margaret, believed that Christmas Eve was a Bakkes evening – as a family we would open our presents; we would be together. All her chicks under her wing. But she hadn’t taken into account what she had created, for it certainly wasn’t potatoes that she had planted and raised. Each of us, Marius, Christian, Matilde and I, had a yearning to seek out new horizons and to do things our own way . . .
On Christmas Eve 1982 I found myself in Oshakati, Sector One Zero, Vamboland. A few comrades and I had just liberated three chickens from a nearby village. The logistics men at the bulk supply shed had liberated a bottle or two of booze. Tonight we were going to celebrate Christmas – the troops in the observation towers of Alpha Company were on the lookout and would stop the enemy in their tracks . . .
On the fire the chickens became burnt offerings to Thor as we mounted the Buffels. For the soldiers at Oshivello, Christmas Eve had got off to a blazing start – 61 Mechanical Brigade was under fire and looking for support. It was no “Silent Night” for Swapo. I remember the wild look in my comrades’ eyes – what a Christmas gift it would be to survive . . .
We hung scraps of white paper from the thorns of the acacia that extended its branches like a crucifix over the Kwando flood plains. It would be our Christmas tree tonight. The quiet of the Western Caprivi settled in our hearts.
The elephant herd was unaware of our camp site.They were lumbering towards the river and heading straight for us. It was a large herd – about two hundred strong, the matriarch sniffing, her trunk raised like an antenna. I remember Pottie saying softly: “Don’t fuck with the king.” And then the wind turned and they were upon us and they were charging and trumpetting and we were shouting and beating on pots and lids and we knew if we ran now, it would be the end; and we stood our ground and they veered past. That evening my Christmas gift was a handshake, wrapped in friendship.
A white Christmas. It was bitterly cold – all year round in these parts. We were somewhere on the slopes of Numbur, a sacred mountain for the Sherpas of the Himalayas. We were lying in – actually we were snowed in. There was no escape. Certainly not tonight. Kalie and I lay snuggled up in the two-man tent that was buckling under the weight of the snow. When one hip gave in, we said “turn”, and we turned and faced the other side. “Boeta, do you realise it’s Christmas Eve?” I asked,
