Back in the car and northward ever onwards, looking for the perfect combination of good waves and no one fishing. It seems weird to be somewhere where there is absolutely no chance of running across crowded surf, but still having to avoid crowds of fishermen instead.
A few miles north of where we met the Germans, we come across a strange collections of buildings on the beach. Not one of them is a proper building, but have been thrown together from whatever seems to have been at hand. It’s all very well done though, a kind of up-market nouveau shanty town. There are two-storey buildings made from shipping containers welded together. Another seems to have been made from old railway carriages with the wheels either removed or buried in the sand. Every type of bodge-it-and-scarper construction method had been brought together to create this little, utterly deserted but not desertified town. We drove up to investigate. Each building was overshadowed by a long-legged water tower, but the entire village of maybe 50 or 60 buildings was eerily empty.
A roadside warning
The guidebook told us that this was Woltzkazbaken, and it’s here simply because a chap called Paul Woltzke thought the fishing here was rather good and set up a shack. Not one to keep secret spots to himself the word soon spread and this impromptu holiday colony sprang up. Some of the buildings had skull and crossbone signs nailed to them, with the worrying legend “Warning. This Property is Protected By Booby Traps and Other Devices.” We thought that was too cool and had to investigate and get a photo of this sign. We had to point out to Stuart that his mine-clearing technique, which entailed dropping a rock the size of his head at arms length on to the ground in front of him had a potential drawback, though after realising that the owner may have booby trapped the inside of the house but was pretty unlikely to have claymores set up in the garden, we boldly followed Stuart’s footsteps across the yard to get a shot of the sign. We were slightly disappointed by the lack of any explosions, and headed back to the car. This place was starting to get a bit scary with the total lack of people and the impressive collection of whale bones decorating the walls of the houses gave it very much an “abandon all hope” air and we got back on the road.
About 20 kms north we passed a pub at the side of the road. In the middle of the desert with nothing for miles around. We were too scared to go in.
At Mile 65 we found a deserted campsite, fired up a braii and fell asleep. Next morning we found some nice waves coming in in front of the tent. Nothing special, but there were a few small barrels to be found. More importantly, no fishermen and so we hoped the shark count would be low. It was a fun surf to wash the desert dust away, and a good start to the day, surfing waves with nothing but sea in front and endless desert behind. Nothing but two opposites of vast emptiness stretching from horizon to horizon.
Next up northwards was Henties Bay, or Hentiesbaii. We were pleased that to see a sign on the way into the town that proudly declared that “Hentiesbaii is an OK town.”
We were less reassured by the gallows, complete with noose, we passed next. More investigation.
A plaque on the gallows was even more baffling as it explains how the gallows was erected by the town’s founders as an appeal to keep the town and beach clean. I’d have thought some litter bins to have been more effective, though admittedly less dramatic.
We found a place to stay and headed to the beach. Disappointment. The beach at Henties is dead straight, with no points to shape the waves and funnel the wind — nothing but closeouts. To the pub for a drink and a big steak instead.
Then to the tourist office for information and we killed the day by driving out into the desert to the Spitzkoppe mountains. A fun day scrambling over the rocks stacked in unlikely balanced combinations, and searching in vain for the cave paintings left on the mountains by the locals of thousands of years ago.
Next morning and the relentless drive north continued. We had high hopes for today, we were heading to Cape Cross. We knew from the World Stormrider that there was a nice left point break here which apparently was fantastic. Stuart then mentioned that it was him who had written that bit of the Stormrider, so the information in it might not be as accurate as we hoped.
Cape Cross is named after, surprisingly, a cross stuck on a cape. The explorer Diego Cao had come this way back in the 15th century, and after a couple of weeks cruising past nothing but desert had decided that there wasn’t a lot of point heading on further south. As a marker for navigation, plus with a consolation bonus of claiming this apparently worthless land for Portugal, he set up a stone cross which then stood there for 400 years or so before a German naval captain decided to take it home. A few decades after that, possible feeling a bit guilty for nicking the cross, the German government decided to put back a replica of the cross, the original being a bit too knackered in their opinion. This is where it all slightly descends into farce. The replacement cross was put back in the wrong place, only 15 metres out, but enough for the historical purists to get a bit annoyed. Sixty or so years later, the historical purists decide to put another replica cross on the exact position of the original, where it should be. But by now the first replica, the German cross, has become a historical artifact in it’s own right as it’s been sitting there so long. So they left that one up, and put the second replica one back on the site of the first original. There are now three Cape Cross crosses, one in Germany, one at Cape Cross in slightly the wrong place, and another one also at Cape Cross right next to the second one, but in the correct place. All very confusing and, I think, quite amusing.
Los Cruces -- Cape Cross
But there are also three point breaks here, all linking into one another. We all knew the potential of the place, and we were excited. We were also worried by the 200,000 locals who live here, all of them expert watermen. One of the world’s biggest seal colonies.
You need a permit to visit the seal colony, and we pulled up at the little building at the side of the road and piled inside. We could see some very nice looking peeling righthanders on the next point to the colony, and we were up for a surf.
The rangers looked at us, after we casually asked if it was OK to surf, like we were insane, and then point blank said “No.”
Looking over at the point, I can’t say I was overly disappointed. The sea was alive, literally, with a slick of seal lions. The smell was incredible as a sizeable proportion of Africa’s seal all crammed themselves together on this little rocky point, snarling at each other or dozing in the sun. I couldn’t see how you could physically paddle out, there just wasn’t enough space. The waves looked pretty good though, with a long peeling lefthander rolling down the point, with seals bounding out of the shoulder, dropping in on each other, pulling into the shore break with reckless abandon and going over the falls. The point flattened out about 100 metres away, and then dropped back into another bay with another point, peeling just as well as the first.
“Well, can we go in over there then, away from the seals?” gesturing to the seal-free point.
“No. You will upset the animals.”
Every morning at certain times of the year, they cull these seal: there are just too many of them and they are in competition with fishermen – one of Namibia’s main industries. They kill a few hundreds each morning. We thought it a bit late to worry about upsetting them.
The left at Seal Point
The warden patiently explained in the face of our increasing agitation at the thought of not being allowed to surf, that a few years ago some South Africans had actually surfed the main point with the seals, and they wouldn’t let it happen again. I ‘d love to have seen that; surely they’d have had to take the fins off their boards just so they didn’t come to a sudden stop every few feet when they ran a seal over.
We were getting pissed off. We had come all this way and we just wanted a surf, away from the seals, but annoyingly still in front of government land.
They wouldn’t be persuaded. Tempers were fraying and we weren’t doing ourselves any favours. We gave up.
Back in the car and a quick diversion to Cape Cross Lodge, a rather up-market hotel stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, a spot of luxury in one of the most remote places in the world, complete with it’s own gravel airstrip. We pulled into their yard and had a peek over the beach to see if there was a way onto the peak from here.
A man came out from the hotel. Still bristling from our encounter with the rangers, we weren’t in the mood to be shouted at again, and got ready for the argument about to follow. The chap strolled over as we carefully ignored him.
“Is one of you called Ian Kruger?” he said.
We all looked at each other. Then looked at Ian.
“Er…yeah, I am,” said Ian.
“Ah, your mum says can you give her a call, cos she hasn’t heard from you. You can use my phone.”
Ian just walked into the hotel with a puzzled expression to use the phone while the rest of us stood there open mouthed.
“She rang yesterday,” said the man, as if that explained how Ian’s mum could possibly have known where to find her son in the middle of the Namib desert.
The man’s name was Dylan, and he ran the Cape Cross Lodge, and we got chatting. Dylan is a South African, and a surfer. We explained how we weren’t allowed to surf here and his immediate response was fuck that, this is my land here. Paddle out in front of the lodge and up the point and as long as you don’t touch the government land they can’t do a thing. This is the best break in Namibia.
We took his advice, and he wasn’t lying.
Paddling out the long way on the point takes at least 20 minutes, even without having to do any duck diving, but it was worth it.
The point at Cape Cross Lodge, or Factory Point, doesn’t look that special from the beach, but when you get out there it’s an incredibly fun wave. The swell comes in and gently walls up giving you a nice’n slow easy take off. You’re given plenty of time to set yourself up for the line, a couple of pumps to get your speed up, and then the wave feels the reef and throws out a peeling, fast and easy to ride barrel. 50, 60, or 70 metres down the line you get chucked out on to the shoulder for a nice cuttie, and then you get the 20-minute dry hair paddle back out to do it again. We were joined by the occasional seal, bounding out of the face of the wave, turning it’s head to check us out with a gleeful expression as it flew past and showed us how it should be done. We spent a happy couple of hours as the sun went down hooting each other and taking it in turns to pull in until it got dark and the thought of sharks crept back into our minds. A game of chicken ensued as to who would be the last to catch the last wave in, and so be out there in the gloom on their own.
It was me, and a seal with an evil sense of humour jumped out of the water next to me and scared the crap out of me. The sea was dark and suddenly dangerous, full of beasties both real and imagined. I was glad to get back to the beach.
Back on dry land we chatted again to Dylan, and how he ended up running this rather nice establishment in the middle of nowhere, and what other surf spots there were. “Lots of points up north,” he said. “Just head up the beach if you’ve got a 4×4.”
We glanced at our by-now filthy Almera.
“Ah, not in that then. I’ll give you a ride up the beach tomorrow in my truck.”
We were slightly embarrassed that we wouldn’t be staying at the Lodge, and asked if there was anywhere near by we could camp without getting in the way.
“Fuck that, you can stay in my house. Go up and take a shower and come to the lodge and I’ll get you some dinner.”
Dylan is the coolest guy on the planet, and spoilt us rotten. We were all prepared to rough it for the three or four days we would be in this part of the desert. We had just about enough water, some charcoal for a fire, and some braiiwurst – cheap barbecue sausage, and were prepared for sleeping on the rocky ground in the freezing desert night, hoping the stories about desert lions were just stories.
Contrasting that, thanks to Dylan, we found ourselves with an enormous steak each, a few bottles of nice South African wine, a log fire and good conversation. Followed up by Dylan insisting we join him in a few tequilas before a comfortable bed. We weren’t sure how Ian’s mum and tracked us down, but we were bloody glad she did.
Next day, true to his word, Dylan piled our boards into the back of his ‘bakkie’ and we motored up the coast looking for waves. The wind here is constantly cross-offshore — the ‘Ostwind’, or east wind, and today it had picked up. Away from the shelter of Cape Cross, the waves became ragged and it looked unlikely we would find anything. A Cessna came over us, very low, and Dylan waved out of his window as the plane waggled its wings in reply.
“That’s the boss,” Dylan said.
Dylan explained how the lodge at Cape Cross has only been there for a few years, but was doing pretty well out of being on the main route, (actually only route) along the Skeleton Coast. Not many people come this way, but those that do tend to have the money to stay somewhere nice, and Cape Cross Lodge fills that requirement perfectly.
The surf trip was a bust, and we headed inland to explore a bit of the desert.
Dylan obviously loves this place, and was an encyclopedia on the scrubby plants we passed, or how the narrow faint tracks through the rocky ground were pathways created by the jackals, who come down to the shore to munch on the seals. Cresting a hill we came across a surreal sight of dozens of derelict road building vehicles and cars. They’d been here 30 years, left when the salt road was put down, but in the dry desert air looked almost as if they’d been left there yesterday.
“Might find some scorpions here,” said Dylan, enthusiastically lifting old tyres and bits of plastic.
The landscape here is a dull red, and looks exactly like the recent pictures back from Mars, with low rolling hills covered in heavy gravel and stones. We trundled around exploring, with Dylan being careful to follow only existing tyre tracks. The stones are covered with a slow growing lichen, which is very easily disturbed. Tyre tracks left in a few seconds can last for decades here, waiting for the lichen to grow back.
Back to the lodge, enjoying Dylan’s running commentary on every detail of the flora and fauna of what looks like, at first glance, barren wasteland. The waves looked good again, and we headed back in.
“How often does it break?”
“Every day. It does this every day. When a really good swell comes in, the waves join up to the next point and you can ride for almost a mile.”
Dylan told us the story of how a longboarder came here once, and caught one of these long, long waves. Dylan got in the bakkie to drive up the beach to bring him back. “It’d’ve taken him a week to paddle it.”
A very comfortable and entertaining couple of days was spent at Cape Cross, thanks to Dylan’s incredible generosity and hospitality, but that north road was calling us. After a last surf at Factory Point, it was goodbye and we headed north yet again.
