Leaving Cape Town on a wet day, we rumbled up the seemingly dead-straight N7. After refreshments at the Northern Cape town of Springbok, the N7 slashes across a desolate landscape painted red with sands blown down from the Kalahari.
As we neared Vioolsdrif, the terrain was peppered with piles of car-sized boulders, as if God himself was piling up pebbles for later use.
Our 175km paddle would start from Oewerbos River Camp and meander the length of the Richtersveld, with our final take out at Sendelingsrift, the border post on the South African side of the Orange River.
The expedition party consisted of 16 people and our three river guides, without whom this would not have been remotely possible. The rugged trio would carry all our food and the means to cook it, with just one resupply over the eight days.
Our inflatable crocs – not the kind you buy for the swimming pool, unfortunately – were our trusty steeds for the journey. While the guides’ boats were packed high with an impressive amount of supplies and gear, our two-man Arks carried a large cooler, our dry-bags and anything else you were eager to strap down, lest it be taken by the river.
SETTING FORTH
Joining us on the expedition was the camp manager’s Jack Russell terrier, Mufasa. Loyal but clearly full of wanderlust, he hopped on our boat. He soon began whining and we couldn’t figure out why. Turns out he has to be on the lead boat… we’re on his expedition.
The first rapid, aptly named Morning Showers, christened us and gave a small taste of what was to come as we headed westward. In February, the Orange had been in flood and the evidence remained, with twisted cathedrals of trees and sticks piled up rocks over five metres above us serving as a warning of the power of moving water.
The barren mountains of the Richtersveld grew larger at our flanks as we wound our way further down the river. Rocks of all colours lined the shore, a reminder of the mineral-rich lands of the region.
After setting up camp on the Namibian side of the river, we were treated to Chicken à la King by the fire. After a day of sweating on the boat, every single dinner was moreish. For some late-evening entertainment, one of the guides reeled in an impressive barbel that was almost the size of his rod. Bottom-feeders don’t make for good eating, so he laid it on the sand and we watched the stricken fish flip and flop its way back into the water. What the barbel lacks in looks, it makes up for in durability, because apparently the hardy fish can crawl for several hundred metres.
The next day, we stopped at a clearing for cheeseburgers and ice-cold Oros. We had been told stories of an abandoned fluorite mine and a guide led us up a rocky crevice to a massive gash in the side of the mountain where the crystal was being sought. We dug amongst the debris and found ourselves some treasure.
That evening, we threw our pale green and purple fluorite stones on the hot coals and watched as the thermoluminescent crystal heated up, glowed bright neon blue and exploded in a tiny fireworks display.
But the fluorite wasn’t the only thing glowing in the night…
One of our crew spotted a Deathstalker scorpion on the way to his tent. Our guide came along with his black light, illuminating the nasty arachnid. Sweeping around the area, we found a few more. Needless to say, no tent was left unzipped that night.
Adjusting our eyes to life on the river, we noticed other creepy crawlies hitching rides on our boats every day. We’d be in the centre of the river and see spider webs in the air as our eight-legged stowaways attempted to jump ship. A favourite was the colloquially named red roman, also known as the Kalahari Ferrari for its judicious speed.
More incredible rock formations awaited us the following day as we plunged deeper into the park. Birdlife was abundant, with Pied Kingfishers, Klipspringers and the enormous yet graceful Goliath Heron keeping us company. The occasional accidentally-on-purpose fall into the river gave us some respite from the 35-degree heat.
Our guides amazed us with their bush culinary skills that night, whipping up a chocolate cake baked in a pot on the fire.
Also joining us along the riverbanks was the odd Nama herder with his goats, breaking the monotony of the sparse flood plains. These hardy folk mind their animals for weeks at a time in the harsh environment with no shelter and little to sustain them.
SINGLE FILE!
We then arrived at our first major challenge, the Gamchab rapid. We peeled off to the shore to go and inspect, which was difficult with the glare of the setting sun. The river narrowed to a channel around six metres across, creating a raging torrent downstream. Our lead guide gave us instructions to follow him in single file. At the entrance, he skillfully stood on the back of his Ark, craning into the glare to find safe passage.
Frantically, he began to signal “right” with his paddle. But with many behind him already on the centre line and lacking the skills to maneuver, we were committed. A drop-off leading to a four-foot standing wave tipped two boats, but all made it to safety. In the maelstrom up ahead, Mufasa and the lead guide were dumped on. The fearless dog emerged soaked but unperturbed, still standing firm on his Pride Rock, looking for the next challenge. Collecting ourselves afterwards, the guide mentioned we’d just faced our first Class 3 rapid of the trip.
The adrenaline dump fueled excitable chatter amongst our group for the next few hours as we searched for a place to make camp for the evening. After settling in, we took advantage of nature’s tumble-dryer as an oven-like katabatic breeze flowed off the Richtersveld, drying our soggy clothes.
At our resupply point outside Aussenkehr, we spent the night on a riverside campsite complete with a toilet, shower and glorious grass. That night, we had deliciously sweet pot bread, veggies and chops.
But these luxuries came with punishments. Being one of the leading producers of table grapes on the continent, the Namibian town is a hive of farming activity. As we pushed off the next day along the fittingly named Divorce Straits, it was impossible not to notice the scores of irrigation pipes slurping their fill of water for the kilometres of vineyards that lay beyond the riverbanks.
With nature’s spell somewhat broken, we continued down the painfully flat waterway, our shoulders and backs reminding us of the work done days prior. In the greenbelt on the riverbank, vervet monkeys barked from the treetops, a warning to their kin of the approaching Mufasa, who ignored their cries from his bed atop the lead guide’s boat.
Goliath Herons were a feature on this part of the river. We’d get close to one perched on a rock and the shy bird would take-off effortlessly, its impressive blue-grey wings gliding just centimetres above the surface of the water, yet leaving no trace. The heron would find a new spot a few hundered metres down the river, only for us to repeat the game of cat and mouse later.
THEY’RE MINERALS, MARIE!
It’s difficult to write about the Orange without mentioning mining. With mining rights superseding land ownership rights, it matters little that the combined |Ai-|Ais/Richtersveld is a National Transfrontier Park. Mankind’s pursuit of diamonds knows no bounds.
Our introduction was an old mine named Redbark on the Namibian side of the river. Abandoned engineering littered the desert landscape, with massive diesel engines, several rock-sorting apparatuses, an x-ray machine and a giant bulldozer. Our guide said that while the mine is from the 80s, the dry air has kept the metal from corroding.
Later down the river after setting up camp, a short hike up the closest koppie revealed a massive mining operation on the opposite bank. Obscured by the riverside trees, the hill we thought was a part of the Richtersveld range was actually a mine dump. That evening, a cantankerous digger clad in spotlights clanked its way down the valley, ascended the man-made mountain and parked facing us as if to signal its bad intentions.
The smell of boerewors greeted us as we descended. The guides were preparing a South African staple of pap and wors, which tastes even better next to the river.
Getting back on the water the following morning I was reminded of Chris McCandless’ deathly pursuit of immersing himself in nature. Here we were, seemingly at the edge of the world but the unrelenting wheels of industry were grinding all around us. As the call of the Fish Eagle rang down the valley, I couldn’t make out whether it was agony or ecstasy.
Nonetheless, Eddie Vedder’s Into the Wild album played on repeat in my head as we plodded on through the flat water admiring the distant peaks.
The last river obstacle of the journey was the weir just north of Sendelingsrift, which provided a fun drop and a final sprinkling. I noticed the group’s pace slowed tremendously in those last bends as we tried to lap up the final offerings of the mighty Orange, which had been our home for the last eight days.
Our trip back to Vioolsdrif on the truck took us out through the incredible valleys of the Richtersveld, bordered by sharp black peaks in the distance. The sand slowly turned a peach hue as the sun crossed its apex above us, creating the perfect setting to reflect on the expedition.
While Oewerbos River Camp still lay hundreds of kilometres to the east, I wondered if we could hop back in the boat and do it all again…
READ MORE: Tales from the Trails: Incredulous Injasuthi
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