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A tale of two towns: one German, one English, both Namibian

By the time the prevailing easterlies off the Indian Ocean reach the west coast of southern Africa the air is wrung dry.
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Swakopmun railway station, Namibia. Photo by Jack Souther

By the time the prevailing easterlies off the Indian Ocean reach the west coast of southern Africa the air is wrung dry. Unlike our own west coast where lush forest is nourished by rain from Pacific storms, the west coast of Namibia is lucky to get 15 mm of rain per year. Nothing grows there except lichen and the few trees that have tapped into water seeping seaward through the sand of dry riverbeds. The west coast of Namibia is a desert.

As we leave the bushveld of the high plateau and descend toward the coast even the clumps of hardy thornbush and euphorbia disappear, and at Cape Cross a strip of barren rock is all that separates the pounding South Atlantic surf from the sands of the Namib Desert. Except for the gravel road and a small snack shop nothing much has changed at Cape Cross since the Portuguese explorer Diogo Cao landed here in 1485 and erected a stone cross. To have made it ashore at all he must have arrived on a rare calm day. Unfortunately he didn't make it back and is buried on a nearby headland.

Diogo was followed by other Portuguese mariners searching for a route around Africa to Asia. They called this part of Southern Africa's coast the "Sands of Hell." For more than a thousand kilometres, from the Angolan boarder south to the border with South Africa, there is virtually nowhere a ship can find shelter from the sea. And the sea off Namibia's shore is notorious for treacherous currents, shifting sandbars, and impenetrable fog. Countless ships have been wrecked along its coast and the seamen who survived the groundings faced the burning heat and thirst of the desert. "The Skeleton Coast" as it's now called, is a graveyard of sorts – for ships half buried in the all-encompassing sand, and the bones of men and animals bleached white by the desert sun. For almost 300 years after Diogo Cao first landed at Cape Cross the Skeleton Coast was given a wide berth by ships heading to and from the Cape.

Before leaving Cape Cross and continuing on to Swakopmund we walked out to the seal colony. First the smell, then the sound, and finally the sight of thousands of cape fur seals – females and pups lounging on the rocks, using one another as pillows and generally ignoring the hyperactive males frantically trying to defend their harems. An estimated 200,000 to 300,000 seals haul out on these rocks to give birth and mate. They consume a staggering tonnage of fish but thanks to the Benguela current there is an abundance of food. Flowing north up the west coast of Africa the cold nitrogen-rich waters of the Benguela are loaded with plankton, which support huge shoals of sardines and other pelagic fish.

Arriving in Swakopmund was like stepping out of Africa into a bustling village on the Rhine. Surrounded on three sides by sand dunes and facing the pounding surf of the cold South Atlantic on the other it's an unlikely location for a town. With no secure harbour the town ended up here because of competition between colonial powers rather than geography. Yet this immaculately preserved slice of old Germany, with all the facilities of a modern urban community, has become Namibia's premier holiday destination.

Walvis Bay, 30 km south of Swakopmund, is one of the few natural harbours on the entire coast. In 1795 the British laid claim to it and they hung on even after the rest of Namibia became a German protectorate in 1884. Needing ocean access to their territory, and with no other options, the Germans decided to build an artificial harbour. They chose the present site of Swakopmund because it had a small fresh water spring and a bit of flat land between the surf and the dunes. The first 40 settlers – the pioneers of Swakopmund – landed in 1893 and began the task of creating a town. Although a successful dock was never realized the German Imperial Government invested in extravagant buildings and a rail link to the interior. But if Walvis Bay had not already been occupied by a rival colonial power, the town of Swakopmund might never have been built.

Today, using water from multiple wells, the stretch of desolate coast where those first German settlers came ashore has been transformed into an oasis of green palm-shaded lawns and gardens. We spent our first day in Swakop, as the locals call it, just wandering the streets, and soaking up the old-world atmosphere. Many of the buildings and houses still date from the German colonial period – the railroad station, even the Alte Gefangnis (Old Jail) and dozens of other intricate buildings, are among the finest examples of German Art Nouveau architecture in the world.

During our visit in October the town was not crowded but it is clearly set up for tourists, and during January and December thousands of people flock here to escape the mid-winter heat of the interior. Although the ocean is too cold for swimming the temperate climate of the coast is a welcome change for many Namibian and South African visitors. The shops are filled with local and imported merchandise and a huge open market offers high quality African crafts. The wine and food are excellent and for those seeking an adrenalin rush there are a host of other activities. Some of our traveling companions went sky diving. Others opted to race around the sand on dune-buggies. We considered going sand boarding but with no lifts and temperatures hovering in the high 30s the prospect of climbing sand dunes in ski boots seemed less appealing than a trip to Walvis Bay.

We met Billy at the waterfront and climbed aboard his boat, Flipper, for a cruise of the harbour. The contrast between Swakopomund's tourist-friendly beaches and the industrial foreshore of Walvis Bay is a striking example of the different roles played by the two towns. Pulling away from the dock, we passed warehouses and fabricating shops flickering with the light of welding torches. Ships of every imaginable size and condition fill the harbour – some at anchor others tethered, four or more abreast to the docks. Billy, a third generation Namibian of German heritage, was a wealth of information, given first in German and then in English. He pointed to a couple of rusting hulks that have been riding at anchor for 15 years. "When the Russian fleet pulled out of Angola at the end of the civil war," he told us "they stopped here for fuel, took on a million dollars worth of diesel, but had no rubles to pay for it. The ships were seized and several are still here."

Looking back across the town, its buildings dwarfed by giant dunes, it's obvious why this coast was shunned by early mariners. The lighthouse at Pelican Point, which marks the entrance to the harbour, is painted black and white. "It was originally red," Billy told us "but from offshore it was hard to see against the red dunes so she was given a fresh coat of black paint."

"What's that," I asked pointing to a huge platform on stilts in the middle of nowhere. And we got the guano story.

Since pre-colonial time ships from around the world came here to collect guano from tiny off-shore islands where birds had nested and left their droppings for thousands of years. In places the valuable nitrogen-rich fertilizer, referred to as "white gold," was a hundred feet thick. But by 1932 most of the ancient deposits had been carted off to enrich the farmland of Europe.

That's when Adolf Winter, a local carpenter, got the bright idea of building a guano island of his own. For three years the birds ignored his creation and the huge platform, suspended on 1,000 stainless steel pilings, came to be known as "Winter's Folly".

And then they came. Cormorants by the hundreds of thousands crowded onto Adolf's platform to nest and raise their young. And as the poop built up on his platform the money piled up in his bank account. Within a few years Adolf Winter was a millionaire and an inspiration to other entrepreneurs who have since made harvesting guano from artificial islands a thriving export industry.

On the way back to dock Billy cut the engine and lowered a gate on the boat's stern. Within seconds a large seal clambered on board. Ignoring everyone else she headed straight for Billy who dropped a sardine in her mouth. "This is Gertie," he explained "she knows the sound of Flipper's engine and always comes for a treat." He threw the rest of the sardines overboard and Gertie dove in after them.

"Can't just feed the seals," said Billy as he produced a tray of fancy sandwiches and a bottle of schnapps. And that's how we finished our day – drifting in the South Atlantic off the Skeleton Coast of Namibia, drinking a toast to Billy, and Adolf, and Gertie, until the schnapps was gone. Skoal!