A Twist of Sand

The deeper we got into the Kaokoveld, the less became my chances. I was only useful as a guide, a navigator. At what point my usefulness ended was what worried me. Certainly once the beetle had been found. Or was it one of those caches of diamonds real or imaginary, that have lured men to certain death so many times in this wild, untamed region ? That was my guess. If so, then Stein must have some notion of the exact spot, but certainly on his map there was nothing to indicate it. He had been quite open about our destination -- somewhere in the region of the Otjihipoberge, leaving the river at the Nangolo Flats. Such frankness with me meant one thing only -- I wasn't meant to come back.

But why then all this talk about the Onymacris beetle? And why the girl ? She obviously wasn't in the plot. Where did she fit into Stein's scheme of things ? Looking into the leaping flames, I saw the answer to none of my queries. I only knew that in the Skeleton Coast I must obey the laws of the Skeleton Coast -- I must kill or be killed. Johann must be my first objective. To subdue Stein I must have the Remington's range against the Luger's. And to get back, I must have water. I calculated that two days without food or water would see me at the end of my tether. I needed two days from this spot to Curva dos Dunas. Up river there might be more water. It would be suicide to venture from the course of the Cunene. The five-thousand foot peaks of the Hartmannberge were eloquent warning of that.

On the Angola side the Serra de Chela looked even worse. The outline of the massive range on the map looked like some evil animal clamped along the course of the Cunene for sixty miles, with a tail near the Nangolo Flats, where the river bent sharply northwards, as if stepping out of the way of the creature which sucked at its lifeblood on the other side of the Baynes Mountains. Stein had said there was a seven-thousand-five-hundred-foot peak in the Baynes Mountains not far from where we were headed; God alone knows what height they are in the Serra de Chela -- no one has ever surveyed them, not even from the air.

I brooded into the gloom. Almost as if reading my thoughts, Johann stirred, and the barrel of the Remington gleamed dully in the firelight. Johann wouldn't sleep.

We ate out of tins, each one of us preoccupied with his or her own thoughts. The water, heavy with minerals, offset the overpowering taste of baked beans and bully beef. Far out in the night distance came the chuffering roar of a lion hunting. Stein looked at Johann and then at me. I suppose the roar of a lion when one is isolated in the bush is one of the most frightening things there is. He must have been miles away. Anne shivered slightly.

"No watch for you tonight, Captain," said Stein. "We shall guard you. But tomorrow night you'll take your whack."

"At least there are some compensations for being held hostage," I replied wearily. I took my single blanket and scooped out a place in the soft sand amongst the roots of the trees. Anne did the same. All the scorpions in the world could not have made me keep my eyes open.

Despite Stein's assurance about a late start, we were shuffling along the course of the river before nine o'clock. The east wind blew down the course of the river into our faces, but the sun was not unbearably hot yet; it had not had time to accumulate the heat of the slopes which makes temperatures in winter on the Skeleton Coast higher actually than in summer, when the seawind brings welcome coolness.

Stein marched alongside me, tensed and anxious. The fringe of the river was dotted with huge ana trees and a load of chattering monkeys made us all feel better. At least there was some sign of life. They stared at the small party in open disbelief and chattered wildly as we passed. We were as much out of place as a journalist at a garden party. The river gorge was narrowing rapidly and a glance ahead showed clearly that the course of the Cunene was the only cleft in the great mountains, and probably the only route through them. Looking at the giant tumble of the Ongeamaberge, which stretch out like a pirate's steel hook from the northern fringe of the Hartmannberge to the river, I could see that any thought of getting across them on foot was out of the question. There might be game tracks, but even so they would be scarce. Besides, it would only be purely mountain animals which could negotiate the riven clefts and precipices, which I could see through my glasses even at this distance. Another dry stream, the Orumwe, hit the Cunene above the cataract with a wide delta shaped like the roots of a dead tooth, but the cleft ran north and south and was no good to me. I wanted a cleft running east to west. There wasn't one.

The river gorge narrowed and more shrub and smaller trees appeared on its walls.

Then the cataract came in sight.

My reaction was one of extreme disappointment.

"Look," said Stein, jubilantly. "There it is! Why, there's nothing to it."