This afternoon (Mr. Becker), funerals eight.
Monday, September 16.—Flood.
Our Camp one sheet of water and mud; furrow too small for the rush of water; great inundations; many tents flooded; great misery; and how about the cooking business? Everything to be done outside (we are among the few privileged with a kitchen). Women have to wade through water and mud; wet wood; raining continually. Just picture the scene!
Came to one tent; in front of door one mass clay and mud; inside awful; and yet there lay a girl very dangerously sick, and another also down.
425, Mrs. Booysen; skeleton; completely flooded; everything wet; and the floor! Yesterday they got her a bedstead; till now she had to lie on the floor; sick daughter; wonder where she will sleep. Floor? Impossible.
In another tent rain leaked through; water all over.
Another matter which tells of fresh misery. The sanitary sheds and screens are all some distance out of the camp. Imagine the painfulness of affairs on days like this, when one hardly dares put head out of doors.
Overheard conversation between old man and doctor:
You, what do you want here? Go away from this —— tent! Voetzak, voetzak! Get away from this —— tent!" This was to an old man. It makes one's blood boil. There is no real—no, not a particle of—sympathy.