The Skeleton Coast,
Surfing in Namibia.

"Namibia? Yeah, I'm up for that."

Having agreed to Stuart's email that I'm in for a trip, and persuading my boss to let me have three weeks off, I figured I'd better find out where Namibia actually is.

Ah Namibia. The Skeleton Coast. Famous for being mostly a big fuck-off desert, with diamonds, shipwrecks, icy seas and sharks, and almost no people. Oh good.

Right, so we'll have a decent 4x4 vehicle and the equipment for coping with the desert then. I mean, obviously. You can get lost and die in the desert, and the Namib is big. I've got my own GPS receiver so with a decent map we should have no problems.

Two weeks later we're sitting in a backpackers’ in Windhoek, Namibia's capital, waiting for our hire car to get delivered.

I'm playing with my GPS, working out exactly how far from Wetherspoons Curry Club night I actually am. 5500 miles to that chicken phaal.

"GPS? What the fuck do you need that for?" says Stuart.

Knowing what happened on Barbie's last desert trip, I'm not filled with confidence by this comment.

The car shows. A Nissan Almera. Oh good, we're going to drive across one of the most remote and desolate places in the world, on dirt and gravel tracks, in a bottom-of-the-range family saloon. "Where are we going?"

"Sesserim"

"Where's that on the map?"

"Oh yeah, maps. Don't forget we need to buy a map."

"What about water?"

"Oh shit yeah, that as well."

Barbie is the most experienced traveler I've ever met. There aren't a lot of places he hasn't visited. It's amazing he isn't dead.

After getting lost trying to find our way out of Windhoek, a capital city that's about the size of Torquay, we headed out into the bush. About two miles out of town, the tarmac road suddenly stopped and we found ourselves on a rough gravel track. It was weird to realise that this was one of Namibia's major roads. This loose gravel trail was the M4 of the country. We stopped to look around at the bush, and to get a closer look at the huge cricket-like bugs that were all over the road and which made sharp "pop" noises when we drove over them. A loud growl from the bush made us jump and a troop of baboons stared at us from a tree on the other side of the road. They were far more interesting than the bugs and we stared at them staring at us.

We had a map, and we were using it. Our map showed the whole country, and we assumed it didn't show all the roads in the country. In fact it did, it's just there isn't that many roads. It showed all the towns too, and it was a bit of a surprise to realise that what was "a town" and came with a respectable sized dot on the map, was in fact just two or three houses in close proximity to each other, stuck out in the middle of nowhere. The roads are mostly dead straight, and the mountains in the distance were getting closer and closer. We passed over the Spreetshoogte Pass, and the most spectacular view. From 250 metres up we could see across the gravel plains to the sand seas of the Namib in distance. The road we had to follow onwards then dropped that 250 metres down to the plain in a distance of about 3 kms on ludicrously steep gravel tracks, around hairpin bends, with unguarded sheer drops on one side. We raced across the plain on the road we had seen winding into the distance from the mountain behind us, while I suddenly had a unjustified panic that I'd left my camera at the top.

The next town, Solitaire, was our stop for fuel and a break. Solitaire gets a quite respectable dot on the map, but it's actually just a petrol station and a general store run by a slightly deranged but friendly chap called Percy. We bought some of Percy's "famous" apple pie and some of his "famous" bread. We strongly suspected that it was only famous because Percy told everyone who visited that it was, but it was pretty good and it did the trick of cleaning the film of dust out of our mouths. Solitaire is very "Out of Africa", and being the only fuel stop for a few hundred kilometres in any direction -- actually the only ANYTHING in a few hundred kms -- everybody stops here. Desolate and lonely and beautiful, with a poignant dead tree in front of the petrol pumps and a vista across the plains to the mountains in the distance. The window's of the store are plastered with stickers left by passing travelers and "local" safari companies, so I left a Localsurfer sticker, which the pump attendant happily stuck on a spare space.

The sun was starting to go down, and we had to get to Sesserim before sunset or they locked the gates to the campsite to prevent the wildlife blundering over people’s tents. Reservations were recommended too, it being the only campsite in the area, which we hadn't made. Percy cheerfully told us we probably wouldn't make it even if they did have space, and so we'd die of sunstroke. We had at least 150 km to go to get there. Added to the pressure was the fact that we were forbidden by the hire car company to drive after dark, as we wouldn't be insured if we hit an animal because it happens so often the insurance companies won't offer cover any more. Hitting a springbok at 80 kph wasn't a good plan.

We made it, passing herd of springbok and ostrich and the occasional oryx on the way, just as the gates were closing.

We put the tent up and admired the night sky. I'd always heard about how impressive the desert sky is at night, and I wasn't disappointed. The Milky Way is like a ribbon of glitter across the sky, and the stars looked like lanterns hanging in space. As if the sky was a black sheet with millions of holes in it showing a light on the other side. I'd also heard how cold the desert is at night, but this part of the Namib decided not to conform to that. The wind was picking up, and we hid the tent behind a large bush in an attempt to shelter from the warm wind and the dust blowing into our eyes, and then headed to the bar. After a day driving across the desert, with dust in our hair and on our skin and in our clothes, a bottle of ice cold Windhoek Lager went down very well. Or two bottles.

Next morning and we discovered that the dust is so fine it will blow through the wall of a tent. We woke covered in a film of grit.

It was still dark, we had to get 70 kms to a place called Soussevlei, famous for it's spectacular dunes. The road is closed at night, and it opens at 4.30 and we needed to get there by first light when the light is best for filming and photography. Heather, Stuart’s girlfriend, was driving and we headed off. Heather has the same attraction to potholes that Barbie has to landmines, but we managed to get to the end of the road without throwing a wheel. Soussevlei, Deadvlei, and the surrounding area is one of those places that looks incredibly familiar, mainly because it gets used as a backdrop for a lot of fashion shoots and film making, and you can see why. The sand dunes are the highest in the world, and a glorious copper colour, towering over a dried up lake bed. It was still cool, being early morning, and we all soaked up the silence of the desert, interrupted only by the occasional fly buzzing past our ears or a springbok bouncing across the lake bed, and watched the shadows move over the dunes as the sun rose. You have to walk the last five or six kms into the dune fields, unless you have a 4x4, and after a few hours the wind really started to pick up and the heat started to increase as the sun rose. We started to head back as the wind whipped up a mini-sandstorm. We fought our way back to the car as the sand stung our exposed skin and tried to blind us and our feet sank into the soft sand. It was starting to get very hot with no shade. The people who hadn't got up as early as us were appearing now in their 4x4's, driving over the sand and cheerfully waving at us from their air-conned Mitsubishi lumbar-support seated luxury without offering us a lift, while we considered what Pajero means in Spanish. Wankers. We drank a couple of litres of water each when we finally made it back to the car, and reflected on how horrific it would be to be really lost in the desert. Back at the campsite, the shower and swim in the pool felt fantastic.

Then we checked the time. We had to meet Saffa sponger Ian at Walvis bay in about 20 minutes.

"How far is Walvis?"

"Um, about 350 kms back across the desert."

"We're gonna be late aren’t we?"

"Possible."

Off we go, and another stop at Solitaire for a much-needed coffee and more apple pie. The Nissan was starting to make ominous creaking and banging noises from the rear left wheel, but we couldn't see anything wrong. It'll be fine.

Heading on from Solitaire we suddenly realised we'd got aclimatised to the place when someone commented on "all the traffic" after we'd seen three other cars in less than an hour. A figure appeared at the side of the road waving frantically. A hitcher, in the middle of the desert. Sounds like the start of a horror film, but we thought we'd pick him up.

Albertus Englander, 17 years old and on his way to visit his mum in Walvis Bay. We made his day when we told him that's where we were going. He'd been on the road for two days, traveling from Malthehoe in the south. How many lifts had he had? This was the first one, he'd walked the 200 kms to this point.

Albertus had nothing with him, no food or water, and had been intending to walk across the Namib like that. He was surprised when we thought that was insane, and casually mentioned he'd done it before.

He didn't speak very much English, but did speak Afrikaans which is close enough to Dutch that Heather, who speaks Dutch, could talk to him.

He was obviously dirt poor, but very polite and friendly, and he was thirsty and almost literally starving. He polished off a entire loaf bread, two packets of biscuits, half a dozen apples and a couple of litres of water, but wouldn't ask for anything. He obviously thought this bunch of weird white people were totally insane, incessantly offering him fruit, and couldn't understand at all why we wanted to stop every time we topped a hill to take photos of the incredible views. To him, there was nothing there but desert.

My conversation with him was pretty limited to grinning at each other and pointing at the wildlife photos in Lonely Planet.

We passed through more unbelievable landscapes, through canyons and around mountains, through sand seas and gravel plains and across dry river beds. Every time we crested a hill the terrain spread out before us with the most incredible views. The heat was getting bad though, and opening all the windows just filled the car up with so much dust that it became actually difficult to see across the inside of the car. Wind the windows up and we were in a furnace. We had no choice but to turn on the air-con in the car; something we had not wanted to do as it used so much fuel and we had no idea how far the next fill up might be. The dust level rose momentarily as the vents blew out everything that had accumulated in them.

Our priorities were changing with the desert: fuel and water were the two requirements, always at the back of our minds, that we knew we'd be in serious trouble without. Not to mention wheels. The banging rattly noise from the back wheel wasn't getting any worse, but it wasn't going away. Nobody tempted fate by mentioning it, and no one tempted fate by even thinking about what would happen here in the nothingness if the wheel came off. The mental equivalent of sticking our fingers in our ears and shouting "NAH NAH NAH I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

The roads are so straight that, coupled with the gentle swaying of the car over theuneven surface, you can get almost hypnotised by the road. On the gravel plain, with no landmarks in the entire 360 degrees around you, you can fall into the illusion that you're not moving and that it's the road coming towards you. It's also very easy to accidentally start going far too fast for a gravel road, and hitting a sudden washout in the road at 100 kph brings you back to reality pretty quickly. Every slight bend in the road has a warning sign before it, so you don't suddenly fly off into the desert in your trance.

We were close to Walvis Bay and suddenly realised we had a bit of a problem. We were meeting Ian Kruger, a SA bodyboarder, at Walvis Bay Airport which is 40 kms outside of town. We were in a very full car, with four people already crammed into it. Where was he going to sit? We could of course leave Albertus at the airport after we picked up Ian, but it seemed a little cruel to take him so close and then leave him to it. We found the airport and found a very bored Ian, who'd been sitting chatting to the cleaner for the last four hours waiting for us to turn up. He'd just about decided to find a quiet patch of ground somewhere in the airport to put up his tent when we finally showed ourselves.

Ian has traveled with Barbie before, to Mozambique, and wasn't particularly concerned by our no show. He'd have been more surprised if we'd made it on time.

We somehow managed to cram everyone into the car, with Ian and Albertus stuffed into a quarter of the back seat and Heather sitting on my lap in the front seat. Albertus now must have definitively thought these English chaps were bonkers, and giggled all the way into town.

We dropped Albertus off, and from somewhere on his person he produced a silk shirt and put it on, smoothing it out to look good for his mum. The shirt looked great but the thick layer of dust all over the rest of him spoilt the effect slightly.

Walvis Bay is a very utilitarian sort of town, being the only real port within a thousand kms or so. A bit plain and industrial, surrounded by the sand dunes of the desert and not the most attractive of places. About 60 kms north though is the town of Swakopmund which looked a bit more attractive in the guidebooks. We headed north, and read on in the book to discover that 'Swakop' is the local tribe's word for "shit" due to the brown colour of the Swakop river when there is water in it, and "Mund" is German for mouth, as the Germans had founded the town. We were off to Shitmouth.

The road to Swakopmund follows the coast, and this was our first chance to check out the surf. It was getting dark, but we could see some swell coming through, getting bigger as we went further north and out of the lee of the peninsula that forms Walvis Bay. Quite spectacular too, with the yellow dunes on the right stretching off into the distance and the blue sea on the left. The signs warning about "sand" seemed a bit superfluous though.

We found a backpackers, The Villa Wiesse, with such a loopy girl booking us in that we weren't entirely sure that she even worked there, and turned in.

Next morning and we were off for a surf. Our sole topic of conversation was about sharks.

Heading to the beach the conversation carried on about sharks. How interested in us would a shark be ... on the one hand there is plenty of food here, no reason for them to go hunting that often. On the other hand, the water is cold here and sharks are curious. They won't be used to people in the water. What if one takes a bite to see what we are? And on and on we talked, alternatively convincing each other that we were either doomed or worrying over nothing. My mum always insists on making me taking a blood transfusion kit on trips, I'm not entirely sure why. I started wondering how it worked.

Driving on the coast road back toward Walvis Bay we checked out various little semi-points and peaks. All looked surfable, though not too great, but everyone was hesitant about going in. A few miles south of Swakop we saw something in the water -- a surfer. Bloody hell, he's in on his own so there can't be any sharks! Right, me and Ian piled in the slightly sloppy waves while Stuart took some shots. The water was a lot warmer than we anticipated, but still a lot colder than you would expect in the tropics -- about 11-12C (mid 50'sF) . We exchanged pleasantries with the local guy, but suddenly we didn't want to ask him about sharks in case he said something we really didn't want to hear. We were happy in ignorance.

After about an hour Ian and the local guy got out. Surfing on your own suddenly brings the "S" word back into the forefront of your mind, so I got out too in time to meet Stuart about to head in, with Ian in tow.

"I'm not bloody going in on my own, he said, "you two are coming back in."

.Later on we headed north of Swakop and found a little bay with some fat but fun waves coming in, and an OK looking point at one end. Ian headed for the point while I rode some of the fat ones. They were a bit boring and Ian looked like he was getting some barrels on the point so I paddled over.

We were sitting on our boards chatting and watching the occasionalseal pop up, waiting for a set, when we both saw at the same time a grey shape looming inside the wave coming towards us. A big grey streamlined shape. A dorsal fin broke the surface.

"Oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck oooh fuck" The fear the fear the fear the fear.

Having absolutely no idea what the best thing to be doing was, and suddenly becoming incredibly aware of my own lack of maneuverability and speed in the sea, I just sat there and glanced at Ian.

"Ooooooh fuck!"

At which point the dolphin broke out of the surface of the wave and surfed in past us, then dove away out of sight.

"Fucking dolphins. I used to like those fucking things, but that fucker just scared the ....hey Ian, where are you going? It was only a bloody dolphin."

Ian was paddling full-bore back towards the other peak in the bay.

"Yeah, but Whites like to follow them!" Ian shouted over his shoulder. He's from Cape Town and knows about sharks.

I followed him, slightly less relieved about seeing the dolphin.

Getting out of the water we noticed a couple of guys getting into scuba gear. They were standing next to a van marked "Swakopmund Crayfish". Fishermen. They'll know the score on sharks around here.

Nobody wanted to ask them. What if they say it's teeming with Whites? We won't want to go in anymore. "You ask. I'm not bloody asking, you ask."

Ian asked.

"Aw yeah, there's blery thisands ov em," came the reply. Oh fantastic.

"Any Great Whites?"

"Yeah, but they stay out in the deep water, you won't see them. Inshore it's only spotteds and whalers. They'll come over occasionally but they won't bite. Well, they do sometimes, but they don't hurt."

Not entirely reassured by this answer we went looking for some food.

Next day we were thinking about heading north, but went looking for some waves in Swakop in the morning first. We met a local surfer in his "bakkie" or pick-up.

We started chatting about our newfound number-one subject.

"Blery millions of sharks. Specially up north." This guy was a surfer and had that "you-should-have-been-here-yesterday" gloat in his voice. He was either enjoying scaring us or was just winding us up. Or both.

"They don't attack, but they'll sometimes bump you pretty hard to see what you are."

"Um, really?"

"Aw yeah, I've been bumped a few times. Scares the blery crap out of you, yeah? Oh, and my mate got bit on the foot once."

"Was that up north?"

"Yeah, shitloads of sharks up there." He says something in Afrikaans to his mate and they laugh. "Good surf though."

It was with a bit of nervousness we hit the salt roads going north.

There are stops with areas to camp at intervals all along the road with a functional method of naming them according to how far from Swakop they are. A track led to the beach at Mile 14, and we headed off to look for waves. We found a small point with some crumbly looking waves trundling in, but the place was being fished and that made us wary of the sharks the fishermen were bound to attract. One group of fishermen about 50 metres away had something in the sand in front of them, being washed by the waves.

"They've caught a shark down there."

We had a look through the binoculars.

"Is that a shark or a tuna or something?"

"That's a bloody shark"

"Nah ... can't be."

"That is a bloody big fish though."

We walk over to take a look.

"What are you chaps fishing for?"

We're talking to a German, here on business who's come up with his colleagues for a spot of relaxation.

"Sharks mainly, we're using that small one as bait to attract bigger ones."

The "small" shark is about 1.5 metres long, and has been cut open along it's belly, spilling blood into the water.

We weren’t going surfing now, no bloody way.

"So, you caught anything?" asks Stuart, voicing the question none of us wanted to ask but we all wanted to know.

"No no, well, yes but only little ones."

"No big ones then?" We all relaxed a bit.

"Very small, only maybe three metres or so ... not worth it."

"Riiiight, three metres ... small ... yeah. And how far out do you cast? Where are the sharks?"

"Oh, well, they like to hang around about where you see those waves just about breaking now." He pointed to what would be a take-off point in the line-up. "They cruise around there."

We decide never to go surfing anywhere near anyone even looking at the sea while holding a fishing rod.

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.

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.

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 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 4x4."

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.

We took a couple of diversions where we could find them to the beach, looking for a point as good as Cape Cross, but we found nothing but wind-rattled waves. A few places showed potential, but not that day.

We did find an old bottle, with "1940" stamped on the bottom. I thought it would be fun to put a localsurfer sticker in it, with my email on the back, and see if it was ever found, just lying in the desert.

For fun, I recorded its position with the GPS: if you're ever at 21deg-22mins-23.7secs south, 13deg-47mins-11.5secs east, you'll find it.

It was impossible not to wonder how the bottle had got here, in an unremarkable bit of desert miles from any habitation: it brought to mind a story Dylan had told us, how that somewhere on this bit of coast a cart was found, built from the wood of a ship’s hull. Survivors from an unknown shipwreck desperately trying to reach safety, and never making it. Dying here alone and anonymously. Messages from other unknown souls, carved into pieces of stone have also been found, decades after whoever wrote them disappeared into the dust of this harsh place.

Now we were aiming for the last real wilderness we were allowed into, the Skeleton Coast Park. This is a protected area, and you're not allowed in unless you have booked a place to stay at Terrace Bay, right at the north end of the park. The gates closed at 3.30, and as usual it was a race.

We made it with 15 minutes to spare.

The gates for the Skeleton Coast Park are obviously designed to impress: Two huge rib bones from a whale arch over the gates, and each gate is adorned with a skull and crossbones. It really is an "abandon hope all ye" kind of moment, and it brings again to the front of your mind the thought that is always lingering at the back of it: all the people who have died here along this desolate bit of coast.

On our search for waves we came across the wreck of the South West Sea. Not much is left of this fishing boat, but you can see her steering gear is rusted over at hard to port as the crew tried to keep her away from this coast of death. Standing on the beach next to her you can't help but imagine the initial relief of a shipwrecked sailor surviving to make it to shore here, only to realise what was to come.

Onwards north, pressing hard to get to Terrace Bay before dark, across plains covered with the weird traveling barkhan dunes, giant sandy crescents traveling along with us in the direction of the wind. A scary moment where we almost became trapped here ourselves, as we crossed the sandy bed of a dead river. Coasting across the soft sand is the best way to get over, just accelerate up and then your foot completely off the accelerator and surf over. We almost stopped, and just made solid ground again before our forward momentum gave out. Heartstopping to be nearly stuck here. In other places the barkhan dunes at begun to cross the road, forcing us to make short off-road diversions around them. We made Terrace Bay just after dark.

Terrace Bay is just a collection of small prefabbed chalets, and is a fishing "resort", although that sounds a lot grander than it is. The whine of generators and the stark lights on the Martian landscape here gives the place a very "moonbase alpha" kind of appearance, and it looks like the end of the earth. As far as we were concerned though, it was: Terrace Bay is as far north as you're allowed to go in Namibia -- the land beyond here is closed except to researchers, rich tourists who can afford to fly in to the remote camps, and a few very lonely policemen in desert outposts. We hoped to find our last waves here, but first: food and sleep after the long hot dusty drive.

Next morning we look out of the window to see the welcome sight of a rolling long lefthand point break, right in front or our chalet. We suited up, and headed over to the beach, ignoring the bemused stares of the cleaning maids who were chatting to each other in their fascinating click-clack language.

The seas of Namibia are famous for the Benguela Current -- a strong cold-water current that flows north along the coast. We hadn't really noticed it so far on this trip, but at Terrace Bay, it's very strong.

We paddled out, and suddenly found ourselves heading north. Full-bore paddling against it apparently seemed to make progress, until you looked at the shore, which gave you the impression of walking the wrong way on an escalator -- you were moving forwards, yet going backwards faster.

I managed to catch one wave, ill-judged in that it was a left, going the same way as the current. I was being swept down towards a bay which I couldn't see into, and didn't really fancy ending up with a long swim back from Angola, so caught the next white water wave back to shore. Stuart was having the same problems and followed me in.

We gave up, there was to be no more surfing for us here.

An anti-climatic end to the surfing part of our trip. Namibia is an incredible place -- so barren and apparently lifeless yet absolutely bursting with animals. No words can do the landscape justice, with sweeping plains, mountains, canyons and with an ever changing colour and texture to the land. The surf was, with the very notable exception of Cape Cross, nothing particularly special. But, with a 4x4 to explore the entire coast, or even better, an aircraft to really explore the literally unknown points and capes, there is a lot of potential. After all, every day, all day, is offshore here. And nobody to share it with, except seals and possibly some pointy teethed fish which definitely adds a certain frisson to your session.

On the way home we visited the Etosha National Park, which was incredible again --teeming with all the famous African animals, and we fired off rolls of film on lions, elephants, rhino and enough zebra to get thoroughly blasé.

If you ever find yourself on the Skeleton Coast and at Cape Cross, make sure you drop in a Dylan's place - even if you don't stay there you be mad to not sample his awesome food and a cold beer. Say hi from us! .www.capecross.org

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