To find peace, one must travel down a river with strangers, almost to where the river meets the sea. It sounds like a mythical edict, a rite of passage. And so it was. The story starts some 15 hours drive from Johannesburg. In the far north west of South Africa, on the lowest seam of the Namib desert, the Orange/Gariep River has already gathered together all its known waters from across this troubled country. Blended into a slightly muddy cocktail, the powerful stream winds its final 300 kilometres through ribbons of ancient purple hills that smell and sound of metal. It is expeditiously rinsed and cleansed by reedbanks and sands along the way, and at its confluence with Namibia's famous Fish River, its temperature drops from tropical to fresh. Most unusually for this region, there are no crocodiles - and by c.1925 the last hippo were shot out by our settler forebears.
We were a funny group. Three professors of the social sciences (a considerable bias towards anthropology and sociology), a web developer with a snowboarding qualification, and the many-hats me. We are all tied together, one way or another, by Namibia. During the journey we uncovered multiple other intersections in our pasts and kin, despite geographic and generational differences: among others, the fall of Tobruk during WWII, the Zimbabwean bush war, southern African Jewish intellectual networks, and those anthropological darlings, the San.
The interesting thing about travelling with strangers is sometimes, of course, what you find out about them afterwards. The Professor of Fewest Words, for example, turns out not only to have published multiple novels and poetry collections, but to be the captain of the Namibian spear-fishing team, along with national colours for horse racing. I kid you not. Our guide was unexpectedly a former dancer, nimble on his feet, with the energy of a thousand dragons and an infectious passion for his work. The culinary high point was seeing him produce a gluten-free chocolate cake in a cast-iron bakepot on the fire, on the beach-like sandbank. His best friend is an Australian cattle dog (the only other female on the trip) who travelled as the figurehead on his kayak the entire way, metre-high rapid waves and all.
It was full moon on our second day. We departed the vast grape farms of Aussenkehr as dark fell, and paddled as the moon rose - so tremendously bright that the other river-goers were completely illuminated, as if in the path of a spotlight. Some time later we docked in the stickiest of mud, up to mid-calf. Bathing in the warm and earthy Orange under the light of the moon before snuggling into one's sleeping bag under the stars is the stuff of make-believe and she-wolves. At dawn the moon was still luminous, crisp and high. It surprises me that the sun and the moon can appear in one vista, separated by so little sky.
I confess to a revitalised romance with nature: the extreme beauty of the early mornings (somewhat interrupted by having to break camp and load the kayaks each day), the deep quiet of the nights and, especially in the latter part, the liberating sensation of desolation. Slicing the water repeatedly with the paddle, feeling the ache of the shoulders, taking in new panoramas minute by minute, anticipating the next rapids with a shot of adrenalin -- all of this helps to focus and free the mind. The routine of camp soon becomes clear: to find a place to sleep, to set one's tent if one wants, to sort out one's belongings from the wetness of the day, to consider the best time to swim after taking on the dust of the shore. Just the right amount of brain activity.
After weaving 220 kilometres among the jagged charcoal, rust and pinkish hills, we reached Sendelingsdrift border post. Beyond this point, river and land access is tightly restricted thanks to powerful mining interests, for these alluvial soils are rich in the stones that 'are forever'. Further inland, we saw the remnants of other prospectors who have already tried and failed. Driving back to base camp on the Namibian side, but for a few strokes of green, one wouldn't know that a mighty river carves its way through this dramatically rugged and apparently inhospitable landscape.
The waters of the Orange have drawn enthusiasts for millenia. Near our base camp close to Vioolsdrift, there are ancient petroglyphs, or engravings, carved into the black dolomite by southern Africa's earliest inhabitants.
They reportedly date to around 2500 years old, though some suggest they are even older. Interviews with /Xam San informants by Bleek and Lloyd in the 1870s suggest that engravings enhanced the legendary and ritual significance of particular places in the landscape. And near those too are the farms and often unnamed graves of hardy Afrikaner settlers, many those of children. This land is a curious mix of bountiful and unforgiving.
.JPG)
* With thanks to my fellow travellers for some of the photos here.
Posts
