As we had a great distance to traverse, we this time took the precaution to load ourselves well with water, each man starting with several spare bottles, which we buried at prominent spots along the route. By midday we were at the Salt Pan, which we skirted, and with a short rest pressed on, and by evening had reached the big pan, “Kobo-Kobo.” It is one of the most perfect pans in the desert, as true a circle as though drawn by a compass, surmounted by extremely high dunes, and with a perfectly level, spongy, alkaline floor. In common with most of the pans, it appears to have at some time contained a large quantity of water, as the margin was covered with a miniature beach of pebbles of jasper, banded ironstone, etc., identical with the deposits found along the Orange River. On one of the dunes near it stood a solitary _wit boom_, a big tree for these parts, about 10 feet high, and in the branches of which was a Bushman’s sleeping place, composed of a few sticks placed across each other, and on which they take refuge at night, when leopards or wild dogs are around and they do not wish to make a fire. It was a very old nest, however, and the bird had long since flown. Here we rested comfortably, the dry sticks making a good fire. Towards morning a cold, gusty wind got up and the morning broke with a sky completely overcast. It had threatened rain so often that we thought nothing of it, and leaving our food, water, etc., in the tree, we set out towards the highest dunes on the farther side of the pan, from which we hoped to see the smaller one we wanted so badly. Arrived there, however, we found that this time at least the thunder-clouds were not bluffing, for rain was coming across the desert in that direction in a perfect sheet, and whilst we stood discussing plans, the first big drops began to fall amongst us. We were totally unprepared for it, being dressed in two garments only of the thinnest khaki: it was quite useless for us to attempt to find the pan till it was over, and with one accord we turned back towards the tiny tree--the only bit of “shelter” within a day of us. By the time we were half across the pan the rain was coming down in sheets, punctuated with flashes of lightning, and the spongy surface of the pan was transformed into a quagmire in which we struggled up to our ankles. So soft did the _brak_ become in a few minutes that I had serious misgivings as to whether the whole place would not dissolve into a sort of quicksand and engulf us, and I was extremely glad to be again amongst the dunes.