A Twist of Sand

The realisation took a long time to sink in. Panic really only assailed me next day when I tried to dig for water in the bed of the Cunene. The going was easy enough and I had traversed the Orumwe valley and was following the main course of the Cunene downhill towards the first easy cataract. My half-conscious strike along the zebra path over the formidable peaks of the Kandao range had made a wide detour of the lions' barrier. I panicked when I found that I couldn't get the hole for the water more than about eighteen inches deep. The sand poured back far quicker than I could scoop it out with my hands. It was like playing sea side sandcastles -- but death stood by and laughed. It had seemed so easy with one of the small spades Stein had brought. I clawed frantically. The sand returned mercilessly. The tips of my fingers were wet. I sucked them frantically. Then a wave of panic swept over me and I threw myself at the flaccid hole like a rabid dog. The gritty stuff tore the skin off my fingers. I plunged my face into the damp sand and only got a caking like a custard pie across my face. I knew, then, how weak I was. I had tapped my strength across those high peaks. A muscle kicked spontaneously in my left arm above the elbow which had been crooked round Anne's body. The exertion brought a faint new trickle of blood from the wound in my shoulder.

I sat back and weighed the chances. I must take it easy, I told myself. Imagine you're playing golf, I told myself. Swing easily, never force the swing, I kept repeating. If I could get at the water a couple of feet down, I could make it to the sandy delta where we had first encountered the Cunene on our way in. I'd drunk as much water as I could at the pool before leaving the site of the old ship. I was only thirsty now, not really in desperate need of water. Assuming I could get to the seaward turn-off, I would have another two days' march to Curva dos Dunas. It might be a bit longer in my present condition. I had no food. Nor was there the slightest chance of finding any. We had seen on our way in that the game hid itself pretty thoroughly during the day. Even a rifle wouldn't be a particularly big asset. I made up my mind. I'd dig for water farther down where the river bed looked firmer. I'd strike out for the turn-off. I'd drink as much water as I could and then try and make Curva dos Dunas. . . .

I got as far as the turn-off when the north-westerly gale started. Had I been in better shape my mind might have registered the fact that the wind, instead of being behind me from the east, had backed rapidly into the north-west. At sea a sudden backing into the north-west in winter time means only one thing. An enormous sea builds up and chops against the great Benguela current. For miles the sea bucks like a tormented thing. The winter north-west gales have twice the lash of the perpetual south-westerlies; the most remarkable thing about them is that the wind, blowing one moment high up in the Beaufort scale, will suddenly end, as if cut off by a knife. The sea remains anguished, while complete calm prevails. Then comes fog -- the thickest fog I have ever encountered at sea.

I might have tried for water sooner had it registered that the wind had changed. But I was pushing mindlessly for the turn-off. The full realisation struck me when I emerged from the sheltering funnel of the cliff-bound river into the open. A solid curtain of sand struck me. I couldn't see where I was. The sun was hidden in the murk of white, gale-lashed sand. The gale seemed to bring every particle of sand with it which lay between me and the mouth of the river, ten miles away. I retreated a quarter of a mile the way I had come, but it was too late. The gale was now funnelling up the narrow bed and, if anything, the sand was even worse than in the open. Eyes smarting and streaming, my nose and mouth blocked with sand, I staggered back into the' open delta, keeping as far to my left as I could. I sank down and tried to make a small cup in the sand -- anything to get water. It was hopeless. I couldn't even get a wet finger-tip. I remembered how we had had to go down almost four feet, Stein and I, for water here. My mouth was so full of sand that I retched weakly. It made things worse. Now I couldn't get rid of either the sand or the vomit in my mouth. Turning my back to the sand-driven whiteness, I scooped the muck out of my mouth with my fingers. This is where I had counted on one last long drink before my trek to Curva dos Dunas. If I stayed, I might wait for three or four days before the gale blew itself out. They seldom last less than that. I knew I'd be dead long before then. The only thing was to strike south -- if I could find the elephant track along the edge of the sand delta, the wind screaming and plucking, bitter with sand. Now I knew why the feel of the sand had tormented Johann.

After about three hours I found the track. I stumbled southwards.

By sunset I knew I was finished.