THE occassion justified a feast. We were out in the shimmering desert called (with some reason) the Knersvlakte. It was mid-summer and we were holding a celebration camp to welcome Vic back into our midst.
Vic had just returned from three years in exile of the not self-imposed kind, to a frozen, ice-locked region of Scandinavia where for some months of the year he never saw the sun. Now, back on home soil, he craved nothing as much as a three-day camp in the blistering, summer heat of Namaqualand. His many heartsore, homesick letters from Finland proved that much to us.
So we decided to give him a
