Counting teeth, p.7
Counting Teeth, page 7
“We don’t know exactly what happened to Dias’s ship,” Crispin takes a different tack on his story. “We know from Cabral’s records that the ship disappeared in a storm northwest of the Cape of Storms. It could have been tossed about on the ocean for days, drifting with the prevailing current and the winds. That is why there was such excitement about the wreck of the caravel they found near here a few years back. But that didn’t pan out, for the ship had coins with Ferdinand and Isabella on them. They came after Dias.”
And so both Dias and his woman remain lost in a cloud of fact and fiction. If Dias did indeed drop a woman off along this coast, she stood little chance of survival. Da Gama’s account of a landing further south, at Saldanha Bay, records the hostility of the locals and the treachery of the travellers. Colonial encounters are always tricky.
We leave the bottle store shortly after noon and we stop again at the curio shop to get some postcards. The woman suggests we take the scenic route D707 to Sesriem and travel along the edge of the Namib. From there, it is plain sailing to Walvis Bay and Swakopmund. From the curio shop, we head to the Diaz Coffee Shop for lunch. Beside us two women talk about the upcoming Heroes’ Day celebrations. As the speaker becomes more animated, I overhear a snippet of their conversation: “Cuito!” she says. “Always blêrrie Cuito Cuanavale. I’m tired of Cuito! We spent decades in Angola and it’s time we left. What are we still doing there? We need to forget about the past. Think about the future.” I’d like to agree with her, but I can’t. The road to Cuito Cuanavale coils repeatedly through my memory as it works its way slowly northward. It is strange, for since I have been here, I have not heard a thing about Cuito. So unlike when I was here in 1990 and Cuito Cuanavale was on everybody’s lips.
Sinead and I finish off a series of postcards and mail them on our way out. We collect our laundry and find the Lüderitz Museum. I had hoped that the bones of the body they found in Griffith Bay were still on display, as Crispin Clay had suggested they might be, but no such luck. It is a small-town museum filled with the usual ephemera and heirlooms from local families. Ghosts from the past and mildewed memories. In the end this is what remains of all those voyages of conquest – muddled memories and the smell of piss on a weathered stone cross.
|Kaggen is a man in a hurry: he’s trying to find his child, the eland-child born of Coti, his wife. As he passed by the Tiras Mountains during the night, he hucked up streaks of red against the edges of the Namib. The early morning sun attempts to break through the night’s clouds and we can see clearly where |Kaggen dragged his white karos across the mountains. Snow! That’s a rarity in this world and we take several pictures of seed-cotton fluff that is so unlike the thick layers of Canadian snow that I have become accustomed to.
This is surely the world created by |Kaggen in his stories. It’s an ancient world in which sometimes only the stories of those times have survived. Here, I’m convinced, |Kaggen still wanders about searching for his eland-child, the child who was slain by its siblings. Here he is determined to create new life, a whole herd of eland from the nothingness of his sorrow. Here, against the bleeding cheeks of the Namib, in |Kaggen’s creation garden, my daughter and I find ourselves on the road to Sossusvlei and Swakopmund.
We left Gunsbewys farm early. We’d slept cold the night before as the temperatures dropped to minus eight and we woke to snow on the Tiras Mountains for the first time in living memory. The sun peeks through the clouds and gradually Sinead wiggles her body from the folds of her sleeping bag. At Betta, we fill our tank. Who knows where the next gas station will be.
Gradually, the road tears itself away from the bleeding hills of the Namib and climbs its way through the Tiras Mountains. Small herds of zebra and springbok graze by the roadside and a stray ostrich kicks its way down the road ahead of us. In the distance, a pack of bat-eared foxes chase each other in play. Then the rolling grasslands give way and the bleeding hills appear once more. Somewhere near the tip of the rib of fertile valley that sticks out into the desert lies our first destination, Sossusvlei.
Just inside the gates of the Sossusvlei Rest Camp, a road leads to a tear in the earth, just like the one through which, we are told, the cries of the children of |Kaggen were first heard on earth. “Tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun has risen, you and I will be travelling down that path,” I tell Sinead as we drive past. “That road leads to the Sesriem Canyon. It is in such a place that the stories of this earth were born. And that too is where I was born in stories.”
“Before we reach for more stories, can we at least unpack and drive to Sossusvlei?” It seems as if the last of the antibiotics coursing through Sinead’s veins have done their work well. She’s been chatting steadily all morning on the road here and clearly, she has an answer to everything I say. She knows me well, this child of mine. She knows my head gets stuck in stories and then I forget about other things. The Namib is a tangle of stories that have me stuck in the branches of an ancient camelthorn tree and her job is to pull my feet back onto the ground and to keep us on track as we make our way north.
After checking in, pitching our tent and throwing down some lunch, we head into the desert to the vlei. The deeper we travel along the artery toward Sossusvlei, the redder the dunes seem to become. We stop briefly at Dune 45 and scramble to the top. From there, the Namib stretches in all directions. In the distance, along the ridges of the dunes to the north, we can see the thin strip of trees that marks the course of the Tsauchab River. To the west, and running along the southern part of the valley, the dry bed of the Aub River contours toward Sossusvlei.
Exhausted from our climb, we drive deeper into the red desert. In the parking lot at the end of the tarred road, we transfer into a 4 × 4. Our guide negotiates the deep sand of the dry riverbed with skill and we inch closer to the heart of this oasis. About halfway down the track to Sossusvlei, he stops and points to his left. “Dead Vlei,” he says. “See you in an hour’s time. I have to go and rescue someone stuck in the sand. Bloody foreigners who always want to blunder into the sand dunes.”
Between the sand dunes we walk, Sinead and I. Through the sand and the shrubbery until we reach Dead Vlei. It’s an ancient, dried out pan that leans white against the bleeding red of the sand dunes. And believe me, these dunes bleed, for reports suggest that underneath them lies oil. Fifteen billion barrels full, if the prospectors are telling the truth. Most of this black seed is hidden under the ocean, but there have been some promising finds in the desert too, just beyond this karos of red and white in which we have swathed ourselves. If the oil barons have their way, they will be drawing the black blood from the earth very soon. As if they know what’s coming, the blackened trees of Dead Vlei hang their branches like oil derricks caught in mid sway. I can imagine the oil barons of Calgary exporting masses of steel padrões to be planted in the desert like Dias’s cross. In this nightmare, the padraõ-derricks proliferate in the Namib: our future is bleak if we continue to rape the earth like this.
I force these dark thoughts aside and help Sinead find a decent tree to climb. A scarab beetle scurries into the knotted trunk of the tree.
The guide is waiting for us by the time we get back to the drop-off point. “The last trip back to the parking lot leaves Sossusvlei in an hour,” he announces when he drops us off again.
Sossusvlei has always been a transient place. No one lives here. They all stop here en route to elsewhere. Here, |Kaggen walks side by side with his children and those who chased them from these lands, the Dorsland Trekkers and the Germans who followed after them. Once their calves had been fatted, they departed. Just |Kaggen remained and as the greed of his children became overwhelming, he cried in the hollow between the sand dunes. Then the vlei filled with water and the abundance brought the birds and the herds back to Sossusvlei. This has been a year of abundance. Sossusvlei is filled with water and the avocets and ducks play. What will become of them once the oil mines splatter their acid rain over this place?
A gusty wind blasts through the rest camp and tosses about anything that has not been tied down properly. I pull a sweater over my head and stoke the leftover coals from last night. I’ve caught Sinead’s cold and I feel exhausted. Minutes later, she pokes her head out of the tent. By the time she’s done folding the sleeping bags and striking the tent, I’ve got coffee and breakfast waiting. As soon as the sun has dulled the worst of the morning’s sharpness, we drive to Sesriem Canyon.
At a first glance, there’s little to see: stunted grass stretching out endlessly and, in the distance, the blue of the Naukluft Mountains rising above the plain. In this vast expanse, it is easy to miss what is right under your eyes. The tear |Kaggen left when he created the earth is well hidden, but as you approach it, the ground gives way suddenly. The wind pushes hard against us as we descend into the bowels of the earth.
No photo, no idol from an enclosed box of light or panoramic film can capture the heart of Sesriem. Here, only words whirl in the wind, mixing with the hesitant cries of |Kaggen’s children.
“The stories lie! They lie! There never was a world like this! Look! Look around you. The world mourns at the gaping wounds of our greed. There were never grass stubbles here. You did not see mountains in the distance. Only the wind that howls between your legs has always been here, mourning.” |Kaggen’s children wail over their own obduracy and the walls of the canyon groan as we walk past them. This is how the earth mourns.
I know the wind tells the truth. Stories and pictures lie. Here in the upper reaches of the Sesriem Canyon, the years of abundance leave small pools of water like the one we’re approaching. Somewhere in the sand beside that pool you might still find a short piece of rib from a fat-tailed sheep buried in the sand. The rib isn’t as old as Adam, and not as old as the wind that howls down the canyon, but it is older than I am. There’s a story attached to that rib that makes this place part of me. A story from the time when Sesriem Truter still owned the homestead where the rest camp now stands. Old Man Truter wasn’t filled with book knowledge, but he knew how to make his karakul herds flourish and he knew who he should count among his friends: the minister and the bank manager. The one to care for his soul and the other to ensure that his earthly belongings were also proliferating. Dad was a religious man, but he was no preacher. Fortunately, he was a bank manager, and so it happened that every now and again, he would be invited to come and spend a day with the Truters on their farm. Early on a Sunday morning, before church (the minister would surely understand), he and Ma would set out from Maltahöhe and head for the edge of the Namib. Then they and the Truters would drive out to the Sesriem Canyon to have a braai in the pool at the upper end of the canyon.
“Right here,” I say to Sinead as we settle down on the sand beside the pool to enjoy the water and the coolness, “right here, your Grandpa and Ouma also sat and told stories. I grew up hearing this story. Every once in a while, Dad would take down the old 8-mm projector and film reels, and he and Ouma would give us running commentary on the silent films. That is how we got to know our family. In amongst all those films is a scene that was shot right here beside this pool. Now let me tell you, Sinead, a picture only paints half the story. You have to hear your Ouma tell the whole thing.
“Ouma and Grandpa and the Truters would come and braai here. They chatted while the rack of ribs sizzled on the coals. Just when it was done, Sesriem Truter lopped a nice chunk of the rib off and gave it to Dad.
“ ‘It was mostly fat, with a thin strip of meat buried somewhere underneath,’ Ouma would always remind us.
“ ‘And then his wife stuck a piece of boerbrood in my hands,’ Grandpa would chime in. ‘A nice fat slice that had risen to the size of a paving stone.’
“ ‘I could smell from afar that it was sourdough bread.’ It was Ouma’s turn. ‘Listen, I’m not fussy about food, but sourdough bread is disgusting.’
“ ‘So I went and sat next to Ma . . .’ Grandpa picks up his side of the story.
“ ‘And he stuffed the entire slice of bread into my hand! “There, Daleen, you love boerbrood, don’t you?” So there I sat with a chunk of sourdough bread in my hand. I couldn’t be rude and refuse to eat it, so I chewed my way through it bit by bit.’
“By now, a chuckle had started deep in Grandpa’s soul. He’d shake like a car on a gravel road and his face would grow redder as the sound welled up inside him. Beside him, Ouma’s face would also turn red, but that was from being irritated, fifty years later.
“ ‘Ja, John, you laugh, but you were sitting behind me digging in the sand like a chicken. You’d tear off strips of fat and bury them behind my back. Then when you were done, you waved the rib in the air and buried it too. You buried your deceit. I had to eat your lies.’
“By this time, the laughter would burst out of Grandpa’s body and wash over the company. Ouma would pick up her yarn and start crocheting indignantly, but she knew: in the morning there’d be a fresh rose beside her coffee. That’s how love works and that’s how Grandpa and Ouma always told their stories together. Stories that crept from mouth to mouth until we no longer knew who had been part of it and who hadn’t.”
There are quite a few Namibia stories where I know I could not possibly have been around, but over the years they have become such a part of the family lore that I may as well have been there. Like the story of the braai at Sesriem. That’s how families are made, in those moments when the silence descends after the storm.
Sinead and I sit by the side of the pool and rest a bit before heading back to the car. As we emerge near the parking lot, the icy wind throws itself at us. Sinead cannot wait to see the coast again. “I hope Swakopmund is warmer!” I have to agree. The harshness of the air tears at my infected lungs.
In the car, we pore over our maps. Distances are deceptive: the GPS tells us we are now two hundred forty kilometres from Walvis Bay; the map says three hundred twenty; the odometer says three hundred sixty. All you can do is watch the level of the mercurial gas meter. It sticks at three-quarters and then drops suddenly to below half. It is anyone’s guess just how much there is in the tank, and so I tend to fill up whenever and wherever I can. The last thing I’d want is to be stuck here without fuel. At least I have a jerry can full of diesel for an emergency. Through the Polaroid filters of my dark glasses, the Naukluft Mountains glimmer in a golden hue. It’s a fool’s trick, I know, an illusion, like the gold the Germans sought in these lands and the stories that swirl around us.
“We need to leave,” Sinead says. “I don’t care how far it is to Swakopmund, but we need to leave. I want to walk on the beach. We have to get there before darkness comes.”
As the Portuguese made their way down the coast of Africa in the late fifteenth century, they erected wooden crosses along the shoreline to indicate the arrival of Christianity in these places and to stake their claim to the land. The wooden crosses used by the earliest Portuguese explorers proved to be too fragile for the harsh African climate and were soon replaced with ones made from limestone. The first explorer to use these new padrões was Diogo Cão, who set sail from Lisbon in 1482. Cão soon passed the usual turnaround point at São Jorge da Mina and continued down the African coast. Just south of the Congo River, he erected a stone padrão. From there, Cão and his crew sailed down the coast until their provisions ran low at a place they called Cabo do Lobo – Seal Cape. There, he erected a second padrão before heading back to Lisbon and a hero’s welcome. The name Cabo do Lobo has disappeared from maps of Africa and the cape where this second stone padrão was erected is now known as Cabo de Santa Maria, which lies along the present-day Angolan coastline.
On his return, Cão immediately began preparations for a second journey, setting sail in 1485. This time, they passed Cabo de Santa Maria and a little further south, at Cabo Negro, he and his men erected a third padrão before pushing even further south. Early in 1486, the explorers passed the Kunene River. The desert coastline seemed endless and offered the exhausted sailors no hope of replenishing their supplies, so they decided to plant their last padrão at a place they called Cabo do Padrão, Cape Cross, and return home. The words on that cross read, “In the year 6885 of the creation on the earth and 1485 after the birth of Christ the most excellent and serene king Dom João of Portugal ordered this land to be discovered and this padrão to be placed by Diogo Cão, gentleman of his house.” Cão died shortly after landing at Cape Cross and the cross he planted remained alone on the desert sand for centuries before the entrepreneurial Captain Becker found it in 1893 and decided to take it to Germany, leaving a wooden replica on the rocky outcrop to mark the spot.
Little more than a hundred and sixty kilometres south of Cape Cross lies the holiday town of Swakopmund, the place Cão may have been referring to when he mentioned Baie de Verde in his journals. The town owes its existence to the importance of seafaring and has built a tourist industry out of the wrecks that litter the Skeleton Coast to the north. For many years, Swakopmund served as the primary port in German South West Africa. The Germans did have a port at Lüderitzbucht, but it was inconvenient and remote and so, in 1892, they chose an inlet at a place the Nama call Tsoaxaub-ams. In Khoekhoegowab, Tsoa means “anus,” while xaub refers to the excrement that emerges from it. The suffix, -ams simply means “place of.” This is, quite literally, the arse-end of the world, where the desert deposits copious amounts of brown sludge from the hinterland into the Atlantic Ocean when the river floods. In the mouths of the settlers, however, Tsoaxaub corrupted into Swakopmund, the Mouth of the Swakop River.
We find a place to stay at the Alte Brücke, a self-catering establishment just back from the beachfront. It is pure indulgence after a week of winter camping in the desert and several hundred kilometres of dirt roads. We have dinner at a restaurant on the beachfront. The entire room is flooded with light from a sunset over the Atlantic.
