A Twist of Sand

The bus, run by the railways, swung up the steep gradient and turned left on to the harder desert road. At least on the open stretches the dust would tend to be left behind in the airstream. Walvis Bay lay on the left as we headed northwards towards Swakopmund. There were half a dozen European passengers in the forward end of the bus, and in conformity with the creed of apartheid on public transport, a score or so of Coloureds and natives sat behind the wire-meshed dividing grill. Whether they were dustier or more uncomfortable than the European passengers forward, it is difficult to say. But the grill was certainly not enough to make one unaware of their presence, if such was its intention, for with the dust and oil fumes were wafted in heavy, ammoniacal odours of unwashed bodies, that repellent which may be one of the deep, unconscious roots of apartheid. It cuts both ways, however, and a non-European will tell you that he cannot bear the stink of a white (washed) European. Livingstone was the first to find that out.

I caught a glimpse of Etosha at her mooring, and the thought of the sweet, clean sea-air made me regret I had not stayed with her for a day or two rather than come ashore. After Hendriks's sailing-ship had nearly cut us down, we spent another five days out on the fishing banks. The hoodoo of Stein persisted, in its effect on the catch. After" five days of fruitless, temper-fretting fishing which had yielded a bare four or five tons, I put back to port.

Etosha had to be got ship-shape again, although I was little perturbed when I found out that the two new boats which I had ordered from Cape Town would not be ready for an indefinite period. Mac wanted to iron out some infinitesimal fault in the engines and the spell in port would give him the opportunity. I felt rather like an admiral without a quarterdeck, so I decided to spend a few days ashore. I must admit that the first day was not auspicious. I started a round of golf in the morning, but in the rising wind it would have taken Bobby Locke In keep the ball in play. In disgust I gave it up. At the clubhouse I rang Mark, who kept the Bremen, a neat little hotel at Swakopmund which was almost a club to me ashore.

"Well, come up," he said. "But you know, Geoffrey, what hell Swakopmund can be when the season's finished. It's June, and there's not a soul about. None of the fine fishing and swimming which make it the Pearl of South West Africa!"

"The fewer people about the better," I said. "And as for fishing -- I damn well never want to see another fish again."

Mark laughed.  We got along well together.

"What about a new trip to the Brandberg some time?" he said, half-seriously. A collection of Bushman paintings was Mark's chief interest in life, apart from the superb meals he cooked with his own hands for his personal friends. The Brandberg is a great chunk of mountain between Walvis Bay and the border of the Skeleton Coast where ancient rock paintings, said to be by Europeans of Egyptian or Mediterranean origin, can be seen if you take the trouble to climb the craggy heights. The main one is of a woman with red hair, known as the "White Lady of the Brandberg." I think Mark was one of the first people ever to see it. He had a truly Livingstonian passion for exploration coupled with his hobby, and we had done several trips together, first by jeep, and then on foot through the giant sand-encrusted, rock-strewn mountains to the north.

I fell for his bait. Even if one did not make the trip, half the fun was planning it.

"I'm game," I said.  "What about Oshikuku?"

"Where in hell's that -- Japan?" said the voice, suddenly becoming disembodied as (we always averred) a heavy gust of wind struck the wires across the desert.

"Middle of swamp -- north of Etosha." I yelled.

"Blast it!" replied Mark faintly. "Come up on the afternoon bus and we'll discuss it." The rest of his words passed into oblivion. Into the sand. Always the sand. The sand is the master of this world.

The driver changed down. A fresh spate of sand and more hot oil fumes filled the interior of the vehicle as the force of the wind caught up with its speed. We ground our way up to the top of the sandhills, which lie on a level higher than the shifting dunes lower down and must, however, be traversed before the hard desert road is reached. I looked eagerly to the north and north-east, hoping to catch at least a glimpse (although they were twenty miles away) of either Mount Colquhoun beyond the railway track, or its neighbour, which stretches up a 2,000-foot thumb like a hitchhiker thumbing his way through eternity. The air was too full of sand -- swirling, sickening, everlasting sand -- which blotted out even the road a mile ahead.