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Page 17
It will be seen that the key to the advance over the Namib Desert was
the Swakop River. The water-holes of the Swakop River are very
singular; they form the nucleus of a kind of settlement (even if it be
only a couple of small huts) right in the dry river bed. At
Kaltenhausen, to take but one example, there is a splendid
shooting-lodge slapbang in the centre of the river; it has a fine
courtyard walled and railed in. It seemed extraordinary. At these
water-holes you suddenly leave the stony sand of the desert and come on
to finest soft sand. It is quite pleasant at night, but day tells another
story. Just after sunrise a wind starts blowing down the river valley and
raises this superfine, mineralised sand. To lie exposed to this for a day
is an awful experience; the fine dust will penetrate anywhere. I am sure
it must lead to positive blindness in time.
I mentioned the water-holes of the Swakop River for the particular
reason that their situation in most cases adds immensely to the merit
of the Northern Army's great trek. The trek-road from Swakopmund
follows the river only in a broad sense; the Haigamkhab, Husab and
Gawieb water-holes are really three to four and five miles from the
road and the camping grounds. That is to say, the columns, after a
twenty mile trek in the sand and sun had another quarter of the
distance to go--_to water_. And to water usually means across the yard
to the troughs, so to speak. We shall remember the water-holes of
South-West Africa. There is many a fellow now back in civilisation who
can recall vividly the tramp over stony, loose gravel through those
great echoing rocks down to the water-holes at Haigamkhab, Husab and
Gawieb. Hour after hour the processions of weary riders passed each
other in a cloud of dust that rose five hundred yards and filled the
choking canyon. The invariable question from him going wearily to water
to him coming refreshed and smothered in water-bottles and with a
livelier horse from it: "Is it far, boy?" And the stereotyped answer of
encouragement was as always: "No, no; just round the corner." All these
water-holes are almost duplicates of each other. I suppose not the echo
of a bird now hurts their pristine and awful quietude.
[Illustration: A Beauty Spot passed during the last Trek]
[Illustration: The Last Phase. Conference at Omaruru. German Staff
lunching]
[Illustration: The General receives his Bodyguard at a Garden Party
after return]
The marvellous series of changes as one advances constitutes the most
striking feature of the advance to Windhuk from the coast. By rail it
is not so striking; but taking the marching route via the Swakop River
water-holes--Swakopmund, Nonidas, Haigamkhab, Husab, Riet, Salem,
Wilhelmsfeste (Tsaobis), Otjimbingwe, Windhuk--the changes in the
country and the stages that show them are as palpable as if marked by a
system of parallel walls. I have never seen this feature of the veld so
marked elsewhere in South Africa.
Swakopmund is the limit in the down-grade--deep sand; brak water; a
treacherous, dreary climate, with visitations of furnace-heat desert
winds; a huge cemetery; moths and flies. From Nonidas to Haigamkhab and
Husab the sand lightens and hardens, the atmosphere improves, rocks,
barren kopjes begin to appear; the little water you get is fairly good.
Riet comes; the barren kopjes are more frequent; the atmosphere, hot in
the day, is beautiful by night; the water is perfect. Salem is a
duplicate Riet; a small settlement in the river bed; but the water is
more plentiful, the vegetation more profuse. Then comes the great trek
to Tsaobis.
It does not look far on the map; it is a huge stretch nevertheless. For
the first three hours it was Riet-Salem country with extensions and
additions. Vast gorges, black and brown kopjes, boulders, sand
stretches, clumps of bush, minute trees. And then, on Thursday the 29th
of April (memory holds the date like a vice), we saw grass. It was
grass. It was undoubtedly grass--the kind of grass that gave one the
feeling that this particular veld, like a man prematurely bald through
worry or riotous living, had been trying some hair restorer with
ludicrous results--grass whitish, feeble, attenuated, that to be seen
at all wanted an eye levelled along the ground.
Each half hour brought its surprise as we moved along, General Botha on
his white horse at the head of the column, just visible to the eye
through the thick curtain of white dust our horses' feet flung up into
the sun glare. We rode in great gorges between kopjes. We crossed dry
river courses. We clattered over the hard bosoms of rocks, switchbacked
up and down each hour working out of the desert. Trees began to
appear--caricatures of trees. Then game spoor was reported. And suddenly,
just after noon, rain fell--out of one cloud in a sky otherwise brazenly
clear five drops fell. I counted five on my bridle hand.
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