Although I remember the beauties of the Valley of Heaven as though it were yesterday, still the difficulties that befell us there made me at that time regard it as the "Valley of Hell." We had come down about two thousand feet and the climate was hot, moist, and uncomfortable. Our energy was sapped, the donkeys were worn out, and our kaffir boys were lazy beyond all use.
The trail ahead consisted of a succession of low hills cut by little streams. Many of the inclines were steep, and I estimated that we would be lucky if we made five or six miles a day. It was practically impossible to judge distance, and this led me into error. I had picked out a camping spot seemingly about six miles away, and Sugden and I started to walk to it. The grass was six feet high in most places and full of deadly snakes. Few of the little streams were fit to drink, and the farther we walked the farther the chosen spot seemed to recede. Finally we saw a fair-sized stream which we thought was two miles away, but which turned out to be nearer four. When we reached it we drank, after straining the water through our handkerchiefs. We were very hot and uncomfortable, and were made supremely unhappy by the realization that the wagon could not reach us for at least two days.
There was nothing to do but go back, and we finally reached the outfit at sunset. The donkeys were completely exhausted, so we camped right there. I realized that for the last thirty miles before reaching the royal kraal at Zombode we would be lucky if we made three or four miles a day.
Because of this experience I changed our trek time. Instead of trying to make it in daylight, we did most of our traveling by dark. This helped a little, but we failed to make more than a mile every two hours, even when the going was good. To add to the misery of the trek, the mosquitoes tormented us continually. However, these pests introduced a little comedy into our suffering, for my companions would recall the mosquitoes of New Jersey, U. S. A. and compare them with those of South Africa.
Crespinell summed up the comparison when he said:
"For brutality and ruthlessness these 'skeeters take the biscuit, but the New Jersey breed have got 'em skinned a mile when it comes to technique!"
At the end of five days of untold hardships we climbed out of the Valley of Heaven and reached the stream that divides the royal from the common ground at Zombode. We arrived there at about nine o'clock at night.
Fires were burning in front of many of the huts and there was a hum of life in the air. The sounds were all the more noticeable because no one appeared to have any intention of meeting us or giving us a welcome. We pitched camp and Din prepared the evening meal. By this time we had a score of little visitors, all Swazi children of about ten or twelve years of age. Usually these little beggars are in bed at this time of night, but the noise of our wagons had aroused them and they had sneaked out of the huts to investigate.
None of the indunas, warriors, or women came near us, and I soon realized that we were in disfavor for some reason or other. Only a direct command from Lomwazi or the old queen would have made the people avoid us in this manner. However, it was not fitting that I should visit the royal kraal without invitation, so I did not stir from our camp that night. In the morning I announced my arrival to Labotsibeni without the indignity of supplicating an interview. This came about in a peculiar manner.
Shortly after dawn I was awakened by the deep bass of a native who seemingly was greatly annoyed. The voice was strangely familiar, but I could not place it for the moment. In a little while Sibijaan came into the tent with my coffee and announced that I had a visitor.