To Wallfish Bay

The Afrikaans word “walvis” (pronounced “vull” to rhyme with dull and “fis” almost like “fizz”, but more of an ‘s’ on the end), actually translates to “whale”, but many English speakers refer to Walvis Bay as “Wallfish Bay”, which sounds funny to my ear, so I have always used the Afrikaans. 

Apparently it got this name because of the large numbers of southern right whales that were drawn to the bay by the presence of a great deal of food, it was then, and still is, a place where marine life is rich, varied and abundant. Walvis Bay has a very interesting history thanks to its geography. It is the only natural deep water harbour for hundreds of miles north and south along the southwest African coast line. The Cape Colony, on behalf of Great Britain, annexed the bay together with a small arc of surrounding land, amounting to about 430 square miles, in 1878, shortly before Germany annexed the rest of what is now Namibia. The arrogance, greed and generally disgraceful behavior of our recent colonial ancestors is quite breathtaking when viewed from the zeitgeist prevailing today. Nonetheless it was a canny move to grab this enclave, Walvis Bay is the gateway to Namibia and remained part of South Africa until 1994, when the government of South Africa handed it back to Namibia, A very fair thing to do in my view as it had no business not being part of Namibia from the beginning. In any event this small port city (population 85,000) is where we are heading.  

Map - predates Namibian Independence

   

My own history with this city goes back to those dark days when I was stationed there as a conscripted lowly gunner in a field artillery regiment. Our unit was not actually stationed at the barracks in town, but right at the edge of the enclave, beyond the dunes, at the base of a great big lump of red sandstone known as "Rooikop"… Red Hill. Of all the postings that a conscript could get, this one was regarded as the shittiest, only marginally better than a stint in detention barracks. The accommodation was primitive, all 120 of us slept in a corrugated steel aeroplane hangar that we shared with eight 5.5 inch field guns. The hangar had no windows and massive doors on rails that had to be dragged open and closed, an effort that required at least three men pushing with all their might. The floor was rough concrete that sloped towards the doors. Although we had electric lights these were switched on or off from the duty officers’ room, there were no electric outlets, which was a blessing in disguise, we were at least not expected to iron our uniforms and nobody played loud radios deep into the night. When the wind blew off the desert in summer there was no relief from the heat and dust, and when the temperature dropped on winter nights to below zero, which it occasionally did, the temperature inside the hangar was the same as outside.

Rooikop - as close as we could get to it, it is still a military base and restricted

The bathroom facilities were even more primitive. We shared five showers and three wash basins and as water was brought in by truck, running out of water was a regular occurrence, sometimes in mid shower. I recall that I always shaved my downy cheeks, brushed teeth and washed my face using my steel helmet filled with water taken from an outside faucet rather than wait for a basin to come available. The shower block was constructed out of 44 gallon drums filled with sand and a flat tin roof, when the wind blew as it often did, it howled through the gaps between the drums like avenging angels. Toilets were the worst of all, you did it straight into a tank, no running water, just through a horrible bloody hole, sometimes in the company of three others, privacy in the army was not big on the priority list. The tank was emptied twice a week by a truck that we called ‘the honeysuckle’. It is funny that although I can easily recall the toilets, my memory of actually making use of the facility eludes me completely, it is as if those memories have been completely erased in the interest of self-preservation.

We had no kitchen at Rooikop so all of our meals were trucked in from the main base in Walvis Bay about 15 Km away, you can just imagine how yummy our food was.

Being far away from the scrutiny of any civilian authority, it was also a paradise for sadists, an animal that all military establishments seem to be well supplied with. I suffered under a particular bastard with the inappropriate name of Major Human, Major Inhumane would have been so much more accurate. However, Rooikop had four positives, the officers went home at 5 pm and left us mostly to our own devices until morning, it was in the desert proper, which I grew to love, the threat of denying weekend passes was utterly meaningless and we somehow tapped into a seemingly endless supply of good quality, inexpensive weed. Smoking weed is of course a thing of the past, but I am looking forward to seeing Walvis Bay again.

   

To get there I decide to take the longer route, the B2, which tracks an arc, north from Windhoek to Okahandja, west to Karabib and Usakos, south west to Swakopmund and then a final 30 Km directly south to Walvis Bay along the Skeleton Coast. It is 400 Km, a whole 50 Km longer than the C26, but it has the distinct advantage of being paved 100 % of the way. I have discovered that outside of the main towns and cities, Namibia has relatively few paved roads. The absence of touring motor cycle rentals makes sense now, my Suzuki Boulevard would be close to useless, if you want to ride a motorcycle here, you’d better get something that can handle gravel and loose sand, maybe next time I come here that’s what I should do. I am starting to realize that the only way to really get around here is with something a lot more robust than a VW Polo Vivo, a 4x4 would have been much better.

The trip passes very pleasantly with conversation, six and a half years catch-up… so much gossip, so little time, the Kardashians have got nothing on my family. Once we get beyond several miles of road works close to Windhoek the road settles down to a single lane highway, the blacktop is in reasonable nick, though the lane is quite narrow. I’d guess this is the most important artery in the country, linking the second most populous area and the only harbour, to the most important city, still it is not much more than a typical country road that you’d find anywhere in Ontario, such as between Zephyr and Mt Albert. The speed limit is 120 Km/h, but the traffic speed is mostly about 130. The VW Polo holds its own, provided that you work the gears. There are of course plenty of assholes that feel they really do need to go at 160 even though the road is not safe at that speed. The scenery is nothing short of magnificent. Close to Windhoek its hills and dales, but that does not last long and soon it is all flat plains with thorn bush and mountains in the distance. We cross many rivers, but not a single one has a drop of water, this is supposedly the rainy season, but it is as dry as dust, and it gets dryer as we go west. Next to the road we spot warthog (Pumba for those whose experience of African wildlife is restricted to the Lion King). It’s hot, it’s dry, it’s empty of people, it’s just wonderful.

Hills and dales near Windhoek 

Namibian River - bone dry!

Usakos - if I recall correctly, pretty anyway

As we get closer to the coast the bushes shrink and the length of the grass shortens until it disappears all together. We are in the Namib Desert, believed to be as old as 80 million years, the oldest desert on earth. This is moonscape, it is so different to what we are used to; conversation dries up as the awe of the scenery fills our minds. This is what I remember from my army days, walking out with a water bottle into the baking, empty and completely silent desert, paradise for an introvert that hated noise and constantly having people around. This was my weekend pass, where I got in touch with my sanity again, this was the iota of freedom I had. I now remember why I made that promise to return. To the right several miles away we spot Spitzkoppe, German for pointed peak. It is a group of bald granite peaks, like nine or ten really enormous boulders. The granite is more than 700 million years old and the highest peak rises about 5800 ft. above sea level, about half that much above the desert floor. I’d love to get closer, but note that the road to get there is marked as 4x4 only.

Spitzkoppe 

Emptiness, divine

Moonscape

Always life no matter how dry

 A few miles from Swakopmund fog rolls in from the ocean and the sun sets quietly obscured by it. We are by now pretty darn hungry, but it appears that Swakopmund is closed for Christmas Eve. I recall that this is a very German town and Christmas Eve is when Germans do the family get together, around the O Tannenbaum I suppose. We drive around in mounting despair, the packet of biltong we shared along the way is long gone. For those that are not in the know, biltong is sort of like jerky, only tastes really good, there is a butcher in Oakville, Ontario, that makes some pretty good biltong. We had envisaged a pleasant supper in a German style establishment, eisbein, sausages, steaming piles of cabbage, bratkartoffeln, perhaps an oompah band and serving wenches with large boobs carrying great fistfuls of beer tankards…well perhaps the last item was only on my list. Swakopmund is supposedly a bit of a party town, but it ain’t doing so tonight!

My sister mentions that she is sure that there is a casino here, which must surely be open, casinos never close (something about the work of the devil is never done) and at the casino there certainly will be some establishment that will serve us dinner. We are still wondering where the casino could be when we realize that we are actually passing it at that moment. The Mermaid Casino appears to be very quiet, but we decide to try it anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained. We find one of those ubiquitous Chinese restaurant all red and gold, dragons and temple lions, it’s open, not exactly pumping, but there are customers and it is serving dinner. The service is good, if light on the serving wenches and tankards, and the food is entirely passable. I settle for a bottle of Tafel Lager to accompany the rice, noodles and sizzling this and that, in the end it works out pretty well.

After dinner we follow the coast road south to Walvis Bay, we can just make out the ocean to the right, perhaps because of the lights of the many ships riding at anchor. On the left is a range of massive dunes, I know this from memory only as it is too dark to see anything. We pass the lights of a few beach village developments, the buildings are all new, sort of Middle Eastern style. They certainly did not exist the last time I came down this road, hitchhiking back from Swakopmund after a weekend of A.W.O.L. I remember that trip as if it were yesterday. A little fellow with a large wife picked me up in a small car, a Datsun, if memory serves me. The wife held a baby on her lap and the man had very greasy, dandruff ridden hair and chain smoked the entire trip. All the windows were shut so as to ensure that the baby did not catch a chill, as the wife explained. This was on a hot mid-afternoon driving through a bloody desert. At the time I smoked as heavily as my meagre army pay allowed, but I remember stepping out of the car in Walvis Bay gasping for air with my throat on fire, no doubt the poor child has since either made it as a jockey due to seriously stunted growth or is breathing through a little tube in its throat. No such problem tonight, my daughter has never smoked and both my sister and I are ex-smokers, as virtuous as prostitutes taken holy orders.

Walvis Bay is quieter than Swakopmund, but this suits us just fine, we are tired, well fed and seriously ready for bed. It has been an awfully long day. I know three things, the guest house is on Sam Nujoma Drive (every town in Nambia has a Sam Nujoma drive, street or avenue), which runs north/south and the place is called ‘The Shifting, Whispering Sands’. It takes me less than five minutes from entering the town to stopping in front of it. Tula and Tilla welcome us to their establishment, it is spotlessly clean and comfortable, but ever so slightly reminds me of Fawlty Towers. Tilla makes an older, but perfect Sybil and Tula is Basil down to his toenails, later we will meet a small black dude that is a dead ringer for Manual. As we unpack the car I realise that I cannot be happier.