A Drink of Dry Land

by Chris Marais

  As we dropped off our camera gear, a stunningly elegant Japanese model walked in, surrounded by photographic staff and guides. They’d been doing a nude magazine shoot in the dunes of Sossusvlei, one of the amateur German photographers confided in us.

  “But very tasteful,” he added.

  In my earlier, more coltish globetrotting days, I used to think Japanese tourists hung about in shy gaggles on trainer-wheel travels. That may have been the case back then, but it seemed to have changed. Now they white-watered in tuxedos, hiked 200 km into deserts and lay naked (tastefully, it must be added) on sand dunes in the middle of the day. Respect. I even heard about some of them riding their off-road motorbikes through the Nullarbor Desert of Australia. Double respect.

  The next day we said goodbye to lodge staff and korhaan clan and swung by Solitaire once again to pump some air into a suspect tyre. Moose couldn’t get the air pump to register the tyre pressure so we said goodbye, see you one day soon, and headed off into Henno’s World.

  During World War II, South West-based geologists Henno Martin and Hermann Korn avoided internment by escaping with their dog Otto into the depths of the Kuiseb Canyon for nearly three years. I’d read Henno’s classic account called The Sheltering Desert and was deeply impressed by their day-to-day survival techniques. Back at the Namib Naukluft Lodge, Chris Baas had given us precise instructions on how to get to their first hideout in the canyon.

  As we took the winding road into the heart of the canyon, Jules spotted a lone Hartmann’s mountain zebra on a rocky ridge gazing down at us. We passed an old truck that had rolled off a low bridge, crested the canyon and looked down over spectacularly stark views. I wouldn’t have survived a week out here. Not without a Woolworths. Or, at least, a Solitaire and a Moose.

  We found the unmarked road leading to a car park. Following a sign, we walked nearly 2 km on a narrow mountain pass to the legendary shelter, Carp Cliff. The rock formations all around us were conglomerates, studded with river pebbles like fruitcakes stuffed with raisins. It must have been a perfect environment for two people so fascinated by geology.

  “This is where they prepared their suppers,” Jules indicated an old ring of rocks around what looked like the remains of an ancient fire. We both eased ourselves onto a rock and talked about this amazing story.

  In most of the chapters of The Sheltering Desert, Henno seems obsessed with the search for food, adequate shelter and water. But when you put yourself in their place, you realise that nothing else really matters when you’re out here.

  You exult with Henno, his buddy and his dog as, nearly starving, they come across a wild steer, shoot it and begin the laborious process of butchering such a large animal.

  “For weeks, all they ate was red meat,” said Jules. And then we both remembered our recent protein overdose and shuddered. Just, I suppose, as Henno and Hermann shuddered after a while at the sight of yet another Texas-sized steak (Otto the dog, obviously, chomped bravely on).

  Then they both have a sugar craving of note, and out here there’s no rushing off to an all-night convenience store for Mars Bars. So they give themselves each a tiny block of their precious chocolate and go in search of bees and, ultimately, honey.

  Henno and Hermann also made a net of sorts and went carp fishing at a nearby pool, thus avoiding the prospect of yet another mouthful of red meat. Up there, they somehow established a garden that yielded radishes and “mangelwurzel tops”.

  “I imagine mangelwurzel to be some kind of German turnip,” said Jules and I left it at that.

  They set up a radio and listened to the war broadcasts at night. This month it was one-love to Germany, the next the Allies scored on the rebound, and so on. It must have all sounded quite silly to the two canyon refugees as they watched the shooting stars go back and forth in the night skies. And chewed another strip of biltong.

  “Speaking of which, don’t you think it’s time we headed for Swakop?” urged my wife. We had almost no clean clothes left, the bakkie needed a new air filter and my cameras had to be checked in for medical treatment because they had a bad case of dust on the sensors.

  On into the desert we drove, towards Swakopmund. The earth levelled out into flat ochre-monotony. Yet there, in the distance, we saw an oryx, looking ready for a fight.

  On what we liked to call Kudu FM, they were playing some Crowded House, Simple Minds and Spandau Ballet. I fiddled with the knob and found Dolly Parton singing Jolene on Radio Strudel (the German service). I switched over to NBC, the national broadcaster, to find we’d just missed our weekly horoscope – Gemini. At a pinch, however, sensible travellers happily listen to someone else’s horoscopes:

  “Those born under Leo,” the voice intoned, “are advised to connect with their inner selves, and avoid quarrelling with their partners over money.”

  “Let’s go back to Dolly,” Jules begged, and who was I to refuse her?

  Chapter 14: Swakopmund

  Black Forest Cake Walk

  I’ve never managed to arrive fresh as a daisy in Swakopmund. I’m either chugging in from the south-east with a mouthful of Kuiseb Canyon dust or coming in from the Skeleton Coast in the north, cold and shivering. One day I’ll be a devil and fly in directly from Windhoek, clean-shaven, with pressed chinos.

  On this day in the spring of 2004, Jules and I pitched up in Swakop with a “sugar Jones” that only a Black Forest cake from the Café Anton would appease. We’d been in the Naukluft sand too long, living on prime Namibian meat and not enough sweet stuff. Besides, we’d heard about the legendary cake, and it seemed a good enough reason to drive through the desert to find it in this most German of all Namibian towns.

  Luckily for us, we were booked into the Hotel Schweizerhaus right above Café Anton. In fact, the reception desk of the hotel was less than two metres from lots of Black Forest cake – and the fresh, strong coffee that makes a morning in Swakopmund so unforgettable.

  Equally ecstatic about our brief stay in civilisation was our bakkie, which had contracted a severe respiratory condition and urgently needed an air filter. Then there was our filthy washing, which was developing a life of its own. My cameras were showing signs of imminent breakdown. All nuts and bolts were suspect and dust had crept in everywhere, making spotty pictures that looked like a severe case of photo-acne. I, personally, needed a break from two-minute noodles. So, all in all, the bright lights of Swakop shining through the coastal fog were very welcome to us travellers and our ailing accoutrements.

  First stop, after a wash and a lightning sugar-strike on the Black Forest cake, was Foto Behrens, where the owner, Henning, set to work on my equipment. The friendly Henning (who wore a leather waistcoat I rather admired) had been in this situation before. It seemed that he was the first stop for many woebegone tourists whose equipment had experienced a touch too much of the great Namibian outdoors. He tightened a few screws, blew some photo-air onto the quivering digital sensors and recommended some “Adobe Photoshop for the spots when you get home”.

  Henning also gave us great advice for the rest of our journey. He told us where to buy special gifts for the Himbas of the Kaokoveld, where good trading tobacco was to be had and how to get to the Moon Landscape outside town. I hardly noticed spending more than a grand on blank CDs, lens filters and a miracle cleaning pen. Henning was a traveller’s sanctuary indeed, and the cleaning pen really came in handy along the road.

  We got ourselves an official permit to drive out to the Moon Landscape and then discovered that we were also supposed to have picked one up to visit Henno’s place in the Kuiseb Canyon. Just so that we were street-legal, we bought one of those as well. Which confused us for a moment since we’d already been out to Carp Cliff in the Kuiseb. In retrospect, it was a good idea. Or was it? Oh well. It did make us feel better at the time.

  We drove to the impressive Moon Landscape, but I kept my eyes out for something else. Nearly a decade before, a guide called Jan van Wyk had brought me somewhere around here to see a poignant still
life in the dunes that consisted of white horse bones and rotted leather halters. The bones lay in long, half-moon shapes in the lee of the dunes, the shifting sands of the Namib hiding a jawbone here, a bleached ribcage there.

  “In 1914,” Jan explained, “the rinderpest swept through Swakopmund, which was then a German-held settlement. It struck the Kaiser’s cavalry badly. One afternoon, the German horsemen all rode into the desert. They formed semicircles here in the sand and dismounted, holding their horses and drawing their revolvers.

  “At a given command, each man shot his horse. But look here, you can see something went wrong. Some of the horses broke away and tried to escape. They had to be pursued and killed. The riders trudged back to Swakopmund. Can you imagine how sad they were?”

  This time, I couldn’t find the spot. My sketchy Swakop records show that the rinderpest swept through here in 1897. But I told Jules the story anyhow. We were just about to go into post-cake depression when she suggested we watch the sunset, beer in hand, from the deck of our favourite bar, The Tug. Good plot.

  “And you know, I’ve never seen that green flash over the ocean.”

  “What green flash?” I wanted to know.

  “As the sun vanishes, there’s an emerald moment.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s have two more Tafels and see.”

  And it happened, right before us, on the far western horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. And Jules whooped with delight, causing a number of drinkers to turn their heads and stare.

  The next day a mist cocoon had wrapped itself firmly around Swakopmund. Jules decided to have her hair cut, and soon struck up a conversation with the Damara and Owambo women in the salon.

  “Tell us about Johannesburg,” they asked her. Were there rich people? Were there factories? Were South Africans Christians? Did we only eat fish? Did we all have to drive 4x4s? And so on.

  In the meantime, I was drinking some more of that powerful Swakop coffee back at the Café Anton and missing my friend, Mr Einstein. The last time I swung through Swakop I stayed at Sam’s Giardino, a guesthouse run by Sam Egger and his Swiss Mountain Dog, Mr Einstein. Sam had promoted the genial Mr Einstein to the position of marketing manager at the guest house and even printed a business card in his name. Nothing wrong with that. If you’d ever met Mr Einstein, you’d know what I mean.

  Mr Einstein had a little girlfriend next door called Minka, a very pretty collie-cross. Sam approved of the relationship.

  “Dogs must have other dogs in their lives,” he said.

  One morning, Sam and I called Mr Einstein out of his Emmenthalercoloured kennel and off we went on a guided tour of Swakopmund, right up to the old Martin Luther steam engine at the edge of town.

  “I get my best ideas while walking with Mr Einstein,” Sam told me. And it was on just such a walk that he came up with the timeless slogan for his guesthouse:

  “Hospitality – with love.”

  Another good idea of Sam’s (thanks, Mr Einstein) was to stock excellent single malt whisky and fine cigars. I was just about to revisit Sam’s Giardino for that very reason when I realised it was barely 10 am and a little early to be getting funky in Swakopmund. So I decided to buy a pair of kudu veldskoene instead.

  With me newly shod and Jules freshly shorn, we strolled amid the craft vendors outside our hotel. I bought her an exotic Kugelschreiber Pen Stachelschweinborsten im Makalani Halter. Which is basically a Bic pen encased in a porcupine quill and set in vegetable ivory. It was here that we’d met Lizette Mubanga the last time around.

  Lizette had painted a piece in the style of Tanzanian artist Edward Said Tingatinga, and I now wish I’d bought it from her. It was a gory, high-gloss depiction of an elephant upending a man, with villagers fleeing in terror.

  “I saw this thing happen, with my very own eyes, up near Etosha,” the smiling young artist assured us.

  We continued to the Swakopmund Museum, which is very well put together with indigenous art, Dorsland miniatures, stuffed wildlife and a uranium exhibit. We did a serious dive into their bookshop and went for lunch at the Swakopmund Brauhaus, where I attemped in vain to conquer Mount Eisbein.

  This veritable Kilimanjaro of crispy pork knuckle stood before me like a delicious challenge. Hungry as I was, I could only reach its base camp before quitting with a burp and an apologetic rub of my tummy. And then the waitress said, with a hint of derision:

  “We serve German portions here.” OK then.

  I spent the afternoon running off my lunch on the dunes outside Swakopmund, trying to photograph a bunch of adrenaline junkies on sandboards and quad-bikes. The sandboard instructor, Beth Sarro from San Francisco, had a dog called Jazz. Jazz liked to chase the sandboarders and, when he tired, he moved into someone’s shade and dug a hole down to the cool sand before collapsing in a panting, grinning heap. Ah, the hounds of Swakopmund.

  It was only after we’d returned to town and stuck our noses in a Bradt Guide to Namibia that we discovered something daring called “dune thunderball”. A levy of N$200 secured you three rides down a dune in a huge transparent ball. Hmm. That’s a tick for next time.

  You can’t escape Swakop’s coffee aromas in the morning – and you can’t miss the beer fumes at sunset. Jules and I wandered over to the Hansa Brewery for a drink with Wilfrid the brew meister. He held a Bachelor of Science degree in beer-making (only in Germany), a qualification I’ve often laid informal claim to. Over an hour, we watched 13 000 bottles of our favourite Namibian beer come off the production line, and then we repaired to The Tug to try to drink them all.

  The soft light of a new morning brought a flock of talkative budgies to our porch at the Schweizerhaus. The fog had lifted, and it was time to photograph Swakopmund’s extraordinary architecture. It’s only when you’ve schlepped a good few thousand kays across a desert to get here that you fully appreciate how strange and special these very Germanic buildings are.

  Sandy filigrees, large Atlas figures looming like gargoyles, bay windows – even the prison on Moses Garoeb Street is a national monument. The famous “Atlas House” (real name: Haus Hohenzollern) was once a bit of a gambling den but it’s now used for residential and office purposes.

  Once the shops opened, we lurched off towards Walvis Bay to have the bakkie looked at. While the Pupkewitz Delta people pored over it, we ate toasted sandwiches at Rootman’s Home Industries nearby and watched the locals come in and buy vetkoek for breakfast.

  With the bakkie now breathing like a young dragon with its new air filter, we drove to the waterfront to photograph flamingos. I had my eyes firmly fixed on the pink ladies in the middle distance as I descended a rocky bank. Unfortunately, the last stretch of bank was slick with oil and I landed heavily, cutting my fingers in various places. The flamingos nonchalantly walked away from the scene of the accident.

  To take my mind off the nagging pain and the uncooperative flamingos, Jules took me back to Swakop to visit the Kristall Galerie. She knows I like to see things like the world’s biggest glass-fibre crayfish, the world’s biggest glass-fibre pineapple and the world’s biggest postbox. I saw, at the gallery, the largest known crystal cluster in the world. I have to say that it beat the postbox and the pineapple hands down. The crayfish is still right up there.

  This amazing 14-tonne cluster is more than 500 million years old and crowns a great display of Namibian crystals and gemstones. If you want to talk in terms of “My Precious”, I think they leave the average diamond in the dirt, so to speak.

  On the same shopping spree, we went to the Bargain Corner, a busy downtown shop advertising poop scoops and furniture. They sold crystals, calculators, carvings, warthog-tusk bottle-openers, Jehovah’s Witness Watchtowers, calabashes, crested teaspoons, Herero dolls and second-hand mincers. Once inside, it was almost impossible to dislodge the magpies visiting from Jo’burg. An hour later, we stumbled out and went next door for biltong and Brie.

  Then it was time for a photo session with a Black Forest cake at the Café Anton, where the owner
, Heidi Snyman, welcomed us. Since the mid-1960s, the Café Anton has been the Black Forest beacon for hundreds of kilometres around: a fresh one is made every day. It is at least as famous as the famous Smithfield Omelette in South Africa, or the famous Two Tables Prawn Surprise in Zanzibar. At least.

  That night, full of cake and good intentions, we took our enormous bag of laundry to Joy World Laundromat. The experience took me back to a dodgy laundrette in Putney, London, where, in the company of housewives and chars, I listened to a range of voices from Cockney to Caribbean, all gossiping amid the monster washers and driers. And yes, there was powder, dispensed into a polystyrene cup.

  Here at the Joy World, however, they’d turned the experience into a tourist attraction, with video games, a bar, snooker tables, vending machines and a huge noticeboard announcing fêtes, special trips, discount adventures and such. The people with us were locals, hotel workers and backpackers. The security guard doubled as a laundry expert, checking on our whirling T-shirts, jeans and underwear from time to time. I needed a sock-herd, because mine had swopped partners and wandered across the room like woolly zombies in search of a Big Night Out.

  While the rest of Swakop’s upmarket tourism sector was sitting down to a seafood platter accompanied by good Cape wine, we were cheerfully chewing on breakfast bars while reading Henno Martin in Joy World.

  That night back at the Schweizerhaus, Jules read to me from the hotel’s in-room Gideon Bible.

  “Just a little warning, my sweet,” I said. “Frightening your travel partner with extracts from the Gideon is the first sign of insanity on the road.”

  The next morning, on the way north to Cape Cross, Jules bought an industrial-sized bag of tobacco called Skaaplek at a bulk supply emporium on the business side of town. It chased all the travel funk right out of the Isuzu and turned it into a cute little tobacco shop.

  Then I remembered: we needed coffee mugs. I dashed inside, where locals were chatting in Afrikaans over commercial-catering quantities of purchases on trolleys. They took one look at my two little coffee mugs, smiled, and immediately addressed me in English. From then on, the mugs were called “The English Cups” …