Adventures in Swaziland: The Story of a South African Boer

by Owen Rowe O'Neil

The rains made the roads so heavy that it was all the mules could do to drag the wagonette. Hence we had to walk practically the entire way, and it was "foot-slogging" of the hardest. Tuis was a very obstinate kaffir and made a nuisance of himself on every opportunity. If we had not needed him so badly, I would have either killed him or sent him back.

One of the features of the trip was the fact that both Sibijaan and Tuis were constantly ill. That is, they said they were. The only medicine which seemed to help them was gin, and they would frequently feign illness to get some. Now and then I would refuse, and then Tuis would give an exhibition of sulking that was wonderful. Of course it is strictly against the law to give alcohol to kaffirs in the Transvaal, but the fact that it was administered as "muti," or medicine, made the act less criminal. Those boys of mine, however, needed "muti" frequently, but the rain was a sort of justification, for I know that we white men were only able to keep going by using it.

On the second day out of Ermelo we ran into the Scottish section of our country. The little villages there have such names as Lochiel and New Scotland, and the people are quite as Scottish as these names. In fact, we were able to get some oat cakes at one of the farm-houses. These would have been rusks, had the people been Boers.

Although our trek had been miserable enough so far, we did not have any real trouble until we reached the Masuto River. It was swollen by the heavy rains and the ford was washed out. Instead of the usual clear rivulet, it had become a raging torrent of muddy water. We had to cross it or go back, so we made camp on its bank and held a council of war. All our blankets and supplies were soaked through, and a fire could not be started. We were just about as uncomfortable as we could be.

Just when we were beginning to despair, a Scotch civil engineer showed up. He was building a bridge over the Masuto, his entire working force consisting of kaffirs. He proved a cheerful person and made light of our troubles. This was well enough for him, since he had a good camp a short distance away, while we were marooned on a desert of dampness. I suggested to him that we would appreciate some hot tea or coffee, but he carefully refrained from inviting us to his camp to have some. Instead, he told us that we could get what we wanted from Oom Van der Merwe, who had a farm not far distant. The Scotch are a careful and canny people!

We trudged over to the Boer farm and received a cordial welcome. They received us with open arms and insisted that we remain there for a few days, or at least until the rain stopped. This we could not do, since I had made the Zombode appointment with Tuys and did not want him to have to wait so long that he would give us up and leave Swaziland.

The farmer's womenfolk gave us all the hot coffee we would drink, and then supplied us with bread, butter, milk, and the hind quarter of a sheep. We returned to our thoroughly soaked camp very reluctantly and passed a most miserable night.

Next morning we tackled the problem of getting across the Masuto, which had risen further during the night. The Scotch engineer came to our assistance with good advice, and this is all he would have offered had I not discovered that he had several cables stretched across the river. After much argument he agreed to let us use one of the cables to get the wagonette and supplies across. This was done, although with great difficulty.

Knowing we would have to swim for it, we white men had put our clothes in the wagonette. The kaffir boys did not wear enough to matter. The Scotchman consoled us by telling us that we were a ludicrous sight, and we must have been! There we stood, naked, cold, and disgusted, our entire possessions on the far bank and facing the prospect of swimming the turbulent river, driving the mules across at the same time. However, it had to be done, so we plunged in. The current was strong and we crawled ashore a full half mile below the wagonette.

True to his bastard breed, one of the mules turned back in midstream and proceeded calmly to the take-off bank of the river. We had to swim back and get him, but it was adding insult to injury when he tried to run away and we had to chase him through the long grass and undergrowth of the river's edge. Finally we captured the brute and then swam the river for the third time as his watchful escort.