On these harsh shores it hardly ever rains. The sun beats down onto the desert coast, blinding white and yellow and brown and apricot and pink on the sand dunes that stretch on and on to the east. To the west the cold Atlantic seethes and crashes, stretching for thousands of miles to the Americas; this land is called the Skeleton Coast, for so many ships have wrecked themselves on its treacherous expanse, and so many shipwrecked men have perished. If they survived the savage sea, they died of thirst and starvation after they came crawling ashore. Here nobody lives. The only people who sometimes pass through this land are the strandlopers, hardy people from the hot hard hinterland of Namibia, who journey out of the vast desert to catch seals and shellfish.
This blinding day in June, 1945, two Damara strandlopers sat on the hot shore, resting. Before them, the vast Atlantic ocean was empty. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened.
Less than a thousand metres away, a man came out of the sea, like a demon. One moment there was nothing but the seething sea; the next there was a man, his arms thrashing. He started swimming frantically towards them. The two Damaras stared; then, to their further astonishment, another man erupted out. The two Damaras scrambled up and ran over the sand dune. They peered over the top.
The two demons were rearing up in the swells, disappearing in the white crashing thunder of the breakers. The man in front was the slower. He looked frantically behind him. He came labouring and gasping closer, then suddenly his feet found the bottom. He staggered upright and then collapsed as another wave hit him. He staggered up again, then came stumbling up onto the beach, the waves crashing about his exhausted legs. He looked back, his chest heaving, clutching a small package to his chest. Then he pulled a pistol out of his pocket. He pointed it wildly at the other man, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He turned and staggered off down the beach, trying to run, his legs buckling.
The second man came floundering towards the beach, wild-eyed. The two Damaras could see that blood was flowing from his head, flooding red into the crashing sea. He wrenched off a life-jacket; then he started trying to run after the other man.
The first man was fifty yards ahead, but he was slower. He staggered along, looking back wildly; then he could run no more. He reeled to face his adversary, and pointed the gun at him again. Again nothing happened. Then he hurled the gun. It hit the man a savage blow in the face, which caused him to lurch; and the first man pulled out a knife, and came at him. The second man recovered, and then went into a circle, crouched, his bare hands bunched, the blood streaming down his face. The first man circled after him, his face contorted, the knife in front, his other hand clutching his package; then suddenly he dropped it, picked up a handful of sand, and threw it. The second man staggered backwards, clawing the sand off his bloody face, blinded, and the first man lunged at him.
He came wildly, his killer knife on high, and plunged it deep into the man’s breast. He lurched backwards, one arm up to ward off another stab, but the knife flashed again, and sank into his shoulder. He sprawled onto his back, blood spurting, and tried to scramble up, and the first man crashed on top of him, and the knife lunged down again. He pulled it out, and stabbed and stabbed the man four more times, whimpering. Then he toppled off and clambered to his feet.
He staggered, blood-spattered, and stared at his victim. The man was a mass of blood, welling from his chest. Then he tried to get up. He tried to roll over and heave himself up onto his hands and knees, and the first man gave a cry and lurched back at him. The second man tried to raise his arm to defend himself, but he collapsed. The first man dropped to his knees beside him, and sawed the blade across the man’s gullet.
Then he clambered to his feet, red sand sticking to him. He looked at his victim; then he turned and picked up his package. He looked for the gun, picked it up, then wiped the sand off it. He sat down with a thump, chest heaving, getting his breath back; then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an oilcloth bag. He cut it open with trembling fingers, and pulled out a cardboard box. It contained bullets. He opened the magazine of the gun. He pulled out the shells, and reloaded. He scooped up the empty shells, and threw them into the sea. Then he turned to his package.
It was also an oilcloth bag. He cut the stitching. Inside were two smaller bags. He stood up unsteadily, and buried one in a trouser pocket. In his other pocket was a bulky leather wallet. He pulled it out and put the other bag in its place. He then tried to stuff the wallet into the pocket beside the bag. It was too much, so he stuffed it into his breast pocket. Then he turned back to the corpse.
He took hold of the dead man’s ankles and dragged him above the high-water line: then he began to scoop out a shallow grave.
He rolled the body into it. He scooped the sand back over it, then clambered to his feet. His mouth was parched. He walked unsteadily back to the sea. He washed the bloody sand off his arms and face. Then he started plodding down the burning shore. He only knew that he had to head south. That was where civilization lay. How far, he did not know.
He only got about a mile before he had to rest. It was blazing hot and he was frantic with thirst. There was a promontory of rocks. He clambered over them. On the other side, he crept into the shade of a big boulder, and sat down, the gun dangling between his knees. That is how he was when the two Damara strandlopers came creeping over the rocks, following him.
The white man jerked and swung the gun on them. The two Damaras stopped, frightened.
The white man scrambled to his feet, the gun trained on them shakily. Then both Damaras turned to flee, and in a flash the man fired. Both men froze, cowered, terrified. The white man stood there, wild-eyed; then he motioned with the gun, ordering them to drop their weapons.
The Damaras laid down their bows and their slingbags. The terrifying white man held out his trembling hand. ‘Wasser!’ He made a drinking motion.
Carefully one Damara opened his bag. Inside was an assortment of old bottles with wooden stoppers. He lifted one out.
The white man snatched it. He drank feverishly, his eyes never leaving them. He swallowed and swallowed, and the two men watched him fearfully. He drank the bottle dry, then threw it down. He held out his hand for another. It was given to him. He drank half of it. Then he said:
‘Swakopmund!’
The Damaras understood. Neither of them had ever been to the white man’s town faraway to the south, but they had heard about the extraordinary place at the mouth of the river which is almost always dry. The Damara who was called Jakob pointed down the hostile coast.
The white man picked up their bows and motioned them to start leading the way.
In less than an hour he knew it was hopeless: he had to struggle to keep up, and tonight, when he fell asleep, the two men would disappear. He could not afford to leave witnesses, and when the sun began to get low he decided to kill them so that he could throw himself down and sleep. First, however, he wanted them to make a fire.
There was plenty of driftwood. He called a halt, and motioned them to put their slingbags at his feet, before indicating that he wanted a fire. The Damaras set to work. The white man collapsed in the sand. He opened one of the slingbags and found dried meat, which he began to chew ravenously.
The two Damaras made the fire. Jakob took a straight stick, the size of a pencil, out of his bag, and a piece of flat wood. He put a pinch of sand on the very edge of the wood, and some kindling underneath. Then, holding the straight stick vertical, he rubbed it between his palms onto the sandy wood, very hard, until the friction caused smoke. A tiny glow fell off the wood into the kindling below. The other Damara, called Petrus, blew on it, whilst Jakob ground the stick, and the kindling blossomed into a little flame. They scuttled about on their haunches, getting more kindling, crouching to blow. Then Petrus suddenly gave a gasp and pointed down the beach; the white man turned to look, and Jakob hit him.
Jakob seized a piece of jagged wood and swung it with all his might and the white man flung up an arm. The wood crashed against his wrist and gashed it to the bone, and he sprawled. His wallet jerked out of his pocket and the gun went flying. Jakob bounded and swiped the man’s mouth, and his lips split and his front teeth smashed off