back from the ground. We tried to get most of the walking behind us in the early morning, when the air was cooler. At noon we searched for any bit of shade that rock or boulder afforded, and continued later in a gentler sun.
This river and its canyon remained one of the most remarkable places on our planet, and we found pleasure in knowing no one had ever tackled the route in this way before. The age-old rock walls and formations towered vertically around us. A small herd of Hartmann zebra looked inquisitively at the strange creatures hurrying through their world. We were ecstatic to discover that Namibia had another finger rock that no one knew about!
The evenings were the highlight, however, when we threw down our rucksacks, lit a fire and poured a stiff drink. With the pleasure of camaraderie, we joked about the day’s hardships.
But now I didn’t know – another hot day like today was going to break me. So near yet so far. Had I overplayed my hand at last?
She knelt beside me.
“It’s all right. Things will work out,” she consoled me. She took me in her arms, kissed me on the forehead and cried.
And when the day broke, it was overcast and raining in the desert. And I walked to the bridge at the Orange River – “One-two-three, block myself” – and wondered if it had been her last visit . . .
Calculate the cost
One moment we were struggling down the dry river bed and forcing the vehicles back up the bank. The next moment we were racing across a gravel plain to avoid a bend in the river. When we approached the river bed for a second attempt at crossing – a seething mass of water lay in front of us . . .
Men like Hillary, Amundsen, Speke and Burton had captured my imagination from an early age. Westerners who had been brave enough to discover unknown parts of our planet. But Hillary had stood on top of Everest three years before I even saw the light – in other words, by the time I had grown up, there was absolutely bugger all left for me to discover.
It had become an obsession to go in search of places where my neighbours and their families had never been and would never want to be. I had often succeeded, but here in South Africa there had been an annoying turn of events. I call it “the Getaway syndrome”. All my old playing fields were being tamed by the publication of articles that attracted a swarm of “adventurers”. It had developed into a race: I tried to get to an exceptional place before them, and briefly made it mine.
“Boeta, I’m inviting Kalie and you for a visit,” the invitation came.
And a dream I’d had for years took shape. A dream to stand way up north, at Angra Fria on the Skeleton Coast. Up to now it had been no more than a dream, for ordinary people are not allowed to enter there.
Luck plays a considerable role if you go in search of the lesser known, for the man who had invited us was my own brother Chrisjan, who was managing a concession area in the Skeleton Coast Park in Namibia for Wilderness Safaris.
It was early morning when we pushed the nose of the Land Cruiser northward and crossed the Piekeniers Pass to Noordoewer. A hell of a distance lay ahead, but our plan was to find our way to the rendezvous with Chrisjan in Oom Japie’s pub at Kamanjab unhurriedly, travelling along the back roads.
The first starry night found us lying in bed rolls beside a blazing fire at the mouth of the Gamkab canyon, on the banks of the Orange. Before the “G-factor”, few people had known about this isolated spot. We cracked a bottle of Bonnies and drank to what lay ahead . . .
Between Aus and Helmeringhausen our GPS pointed out “an alternative route” and we knew the G-factor had not discovered it yet, so we took it . . . It was the most beautiful time of day. Bat-eared foxes romped and raced across the red dunes, the bushman grass was tinged by the late afternoon sun. We were alone – there were no other tracks in the road. Friend Kalie and I drank a toast and grinned broadly.
At Swakop we enjoyed a beer and Hackbrötchen. We played 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