Lodges in the Wilderness

by W. C. Scully

The previous day had been unusually cool, but that morning opened with a breath from the Kalihari,—the definite and unalterable promise of severe heat. This would last until the sea-breeze reached us, late in the afternoon. We marched along the river bank, admiring the towering bluffs that glowed in the sunshine and then allowing our eyes to sink down and drink refreshment from the delicious greenery of the forest. We were now well round the eastern section of the bend, and were travelling almost due west. More pheasants and monkeys fell to my gun. An army on the march must levy tribute on the territory it passes through.

The character of the country somewhat changed as the river curved southward. On the northern side of the river the mountains were not quite so high; on the southern, they now sprang steeply from the river bed. Here and there, under the overhanging edges of the higher terraces, we noticed caves. A murmur stole up the gorge and waxed as we advanced. It came from the steep and tortuous foaming rapids where the mighty chasm remade itself for a space. Here the river was as though flung like a ringlet among the menacing ranges.

But in view of the fact that we had not been able to make quite as much headway as I had anticipated, I regretfully felt constrained to leave the vicinity of the river for a time and take a course across some very rough country behind the south-western bluffs. We could not get from the guides an assurance of being able to make our way down through the tortuous gorge.

We soon reached a large, broken plateau, on which several small flocks of goats were grazing. Later, we found some scherms occupied by human beings. These rudimentary dwellings consisted of a few bushes piled, crescent-wise, against the wind. A rush mat, its position being altered with the changing hours, afforded shelter from the sun. Rain falls so seldom that it is not taken into account in the architecture of the Richtersveld. The dwellers in these scherms were of the same ill-favoured type as my guides. They were filled with curiosity as to the object of my expedition. But curiosity paled in the joy of receiving a little tobacco. And I found I could still spare a few dates for the children.

In one of the scherms was a newly-born baby, a girl. It weirdly resembled a hairless, light-yellow monkey. I made the mother very happy by presenting her with a shilling and my only pocket-handkerchief,—a red bandana. The shilling judiciously invested at compound interest, might provide the youngster with a dowry.

After a long, monotonous and extremely hot walk, we got beyond the convoluted gorge and once more began to descend towards the river. We now had a view of the level coast desert—or would have had if the landscape had not been to a great extent shrouded in fog. The river had widened and apparently become deeper. After its plunge into the abyss at Aughrabies, its struggle for many hundred miles through the depths of the black, torrid gorge,—it advanced with silent, stately, deliberate stride to rejoin the ocean—the mother that gave it birth.

The landscape ahead had completely altered its character. On the northern side of the river it was still mountainous, but the mountains had receded somewhat, and they rapidly decreased in height to the westward. On the southern side the mountain range came to an abrupt ending. Rounded hillocks emerged here and there from the plain which, as it approached the coast, was carpeted with patches of white, slowly-drifting fog. This made the detail difficult to appraise.

We descended the flank of the last really high mountain, intending to rest just below the lordly gate of the immense labyrinth from which we had emerged,—from the threshold of which the mist-shrouded plains extend to the Atlantic. For when the hot winds of the desert stream over the cold antarctic current that washes this coast, they draw up moisture which is blown back landward in the form of vapour. Herein lies the explanation of the circumstance that the coast desert is occasionally, for months at a time, densely shrouded in mist.

There—before the mountain gate—where the wearied water glided away in thankful silence from the last of the thunderous rapids that vexed its course,—was one of the favourite resorts of the only remaining school of sea-cows on that side of Africa, south of the tropical line. Of all the myriad hosts of wonderful wild creatures that until lately populated these desert plains and mountains, only this one school of hippopotami and a few hundred springbuck survive. I could hardly hope to find the sea-cows—at all events while daylight lasted; it would suffice if at night I might listen to their snorting and blowing—to the rustling in the reed-brakes as the huge creatures emerged from the water in search of food. These sounds would bring back memories of days long past—of adventures in other pastures of South Africa’s rich and varied wonderland.

Before the sun had set we camped in a sandy hollow, a few hundred yards from the river’s bank. There were no rocks in the immediate vicinity so we hoped to escape the usual plague of tarantulas. After a long, luxurious swim in the placid river, I returned to examine the collections of Flora and Fauna. The latter had been permitted to wander afield that day. The number of centipedes, scorpions and miscellaneous reptiles which had been soused in the poisoned spirit was so great that I no longer feared her attempting to sample it as a beverage. The harvest was more rich and interesting than usual. Flora had found a gorgeous stapelia with a more than ordinarily atrocious smell, and Fauna had captured a beetle infested with a most extraordinary parasite; also a small, speckled toad—a novelty, I thought—and a scorpion which, when stretched out, measured eight and a half inches. Well done, Fauna!