THE “PANS” OF THE KALAHARI DESERT—THE MOLOPO ROUTE—BOOMPLAATS—ENTERING THE RESERVE—SPOORS—THE WATER CAMP—THIRST—THE GREAT SALT PAN—LOST!
The first few days of our trek lay through the route referred to in Chapter V—the post road to Rietfontein and the north. Except that both grass and water were even scarcer than on that occasion, everything was exactly the same—the infrequent “homesteads,” naturally somewhat dirtier and more dilapidated, and the accumulation of dead animals and similar horrors somewhat increased on account of the drought. This latter, however, did not appear to be as bad as we had been led to expect, as water was still plentiful at the usual wells and water-pits. The veldt was very bare, and Du Toit was often obliged to drive his tired oxen many miles from the outspan before he could get a mouthful of grass for them.
So our trekking was of necessity slow, and, on account of the great heat, most of it was done at night. Thus we crawled through Areachap, Steenkams Puts, Grondneus, and Zwartmodder, into the old bed of the Molopo, where there was water in the deep wells, but fodder was non-existent, and the oxen apparently lived on pebbles. We were now skirting the south-west extremity of the Reserve, which stretched east in a vast, dim, featureless, and apparently boundless world of sand-dunes, but the spot at which we intended entering it was still days to the north. The few habitations became fewer and wider apart, a long day’s journey of heavy sand-dunes usually dividing “neighbours” in this lonely fringe of huge desert farmlands on the Kalahari border, and water being unobtainable in between them. In fact, numbers of these vast surveyed desert farms had neither permanent water nor habitation on them.
Ten days of trekking, and our eyes were gladdened by the most welcome of all sights in such a country, a large vley of water, in which cattle stood knee-deep, and over which flew Namaqua partridges in countless thousands. This was “Abiqwas” Pits, close to the tiny police post of “Obopogorop,” where two unfortunate young police troopers were stationed, within a mile or so of the equally desolate German border. Here we shot partridges to our hearts’ content, browning the big coveys shamelessly, for cartridges begin to be valued by the time one has spent a few months in the veldt.
There were several waggons here, Boer families trekking to Upington for their periodical nachtmaal (communion), which festivity, if it may be termed as such, appeared to be the one exciting event of their dreary, monotonous existence. They were incredulous as to our being allowed into the Reserve—with rifles!
“Allemachtig!”—why, then, should we verdommte uitlanders be allowed in the Reserve, when they, who lived on its border, scarce dare follow a strayed beast a day’s trek into it without the police being after them?
But there—we should see! The police would take but little notice of our precious permit, and we had better look out! They were cantankerous and surly, and evidently wished us all the bad luck they prophesied. According to them, there was no t’samma in the whole Reserve; we should die of thirst.
We asked them how they came to know this, considering that they professed never to have been in the forbidden area. They said they had “heard so.”
We had no dop to placate them with, though we made coffee all day long for them. They were living on mutton, or goat, rather, when their half-bred greyhound lurchers failed to bring down a buck for them, that is to say; for they were out of cartridges too. And when I say “mutton”—I mean just that—not with its attendant “fixings” of potatoes, or carrots, or turnips, or caper sauce, or even bread, but just vleesch along with every meal, every day! They had been out of Boer meal for weeks, so there was no bread, or even mealie pap, to accompany it; the meat was hacked off in shapeless chunks, and half-boiled in a Kaffir pot, or thrown in the embers, and torn apart by the teeth as a native would tear it—cinders and all! Coffee they had not seen for weeks, using as a substitute a vile-smelling and vile-tasting decoction made from the root of the wit boom (carrion-tree). Yet these men had property, broad farms (even though of poor land) and plenty of flocks and herds, and undoubtedly a goodly number of sovereigns tied up in a skin bag, and buried somewhere in or near the hovel they called a “home.”
The only time they relaxed their sour visages was when, after tobacco and coffee and the loan of all the meal we could spare had failed to make them more companionable, we had the happy idea of inviting them to try our rifles. Then they became quite jocose, and as we had plenty of rifle cartridges, we had a regular Bisley of it there in the sand-dunes. They were good shots, but only when they could choose their own position—that is to say, lying down. This, of course, not only gives them a better chance at game, but is their normal posture. Stand and shoot they could not, and their attempts at doing so were weird and wonderful.