The fog came in thick again this morning, and for a while the whole town seemed to be holding its breath. I woke up in the guesthouse with the window open, and the air was cold and damp, the way it gets here in August, with the Atlantic right there, just a couple of blocks away. I made coffee in the room and stood by the window for a long time, watching the fog drift past the roofs of the old German houses, thinking about how this town has a way of making you slow down without asking for permission.
I decided to walk to the jetty first. It's called the Mole, and it's a sturdy stone structure that pushes out into the cold grey water, a relic of when this was the main harbour for German South West Africa. The town itself was founded in 1892 because the Germans needed a port, and they built this little piece of Bavaria on the edge of the desert to make themselves feel more at home. You can still see it in the gabled roofs and the half-timbered facades, but the fog softens it all, takes the sharp edges off the history.
I walked out along the jetty, and the sea was a strange, milky green under the grey sky, the surf hissing against the rocks below. There were a few cormorants perched on the stone blocks, drying their wings, and a couple of seals bobbing in the water, watching me with those big, curious eyes. I stood there for a while, just listening to the water and the gulls, letting the cold air fill my lungs. Moro, I thought, is not really a word for a moment like this—it’s a greeting, a spark—but it felt like the right thing to offer the morning anyway.
After the jetty, I walked back along the Strand and up into the town centre, past the lighthouse and the old prison tower, that red-and-white striped landmark you can't really miss. The streets were quiet, with a few other early walkers and the occasional car, but mostly it was just me and the fog and the sound of my own footsteps on the pavement. I was heading for the Swakopmund Museum, which sits right beneath the lighthouse on Strand Street.
That museum is a proper old-school collection, crammed full of everything—stuffed animals from the Namib, bird eggs, beetle collections, old photographs of the town when it was just a few tents and a jetty, and plenty of painful reminders of the colonial era. I spent a good hour or so in there, wandering through the rooms, looking at the things people chose to preserve. There's a whale skeleton hanging from the ceiling, and a display about the desert elephants of Damaraland, which got me thinking again about the road ahead.
The museum entrance was, I think, around a hundred Namibian dollars, which is maybe five or six US dollars. It's one of those places where you could easily spend a whole day, so it felt good value. After I came out, the sun was starting to burn through the fog, turning the light a pale, watery gold. I walked back towards the centre, feeling that shift in the weather. I stopped at a cafe for a flat white and a pastry, just to sit and watch the town wake up properly.
This town is walkable, which I like. End to end it’s maybe a thirty-minute walk, so I’ve been mostly on foot. For anything longer, there are kombi taxis, the shared minibuses that handle local transport, but I haven't needed one yet. I stopped at a small branch of Bank Windhoek to ask about opening an account, just to see what it would take. The staff were friendly and explained the process in detail, but I'll need my permanent address sorted first.
In the afternoon, I walked south, past the waterfront houses and towards the Swakopmund Mole, which is a different thing from the jetty. The Mole is a man-made bay, a harbour that was probably a bad idea for the Germans, because the sand kept silting it up. Now it's a place where people walk their dogs and launch small boats, and it's a good spot to think about how people try to bend the landscape to their will, and how the landscape always pushes back.
As I walked back into the centre, the sun had won, and the day was a clear, crisp winter afternoon, about seventeen degrees at most. I ended up in the old part of town again, and this time I went to see the Martin Luther Steam Locomotive, the one they call the steam-ox. It's in a glass shelter on the inland approach, this enormous 1896 German steam tractor that got stuck in the sand when they first tried to use it here. It's a funny, stubborn object, all wheels and pistons, an apology for an engine. I stood looking at it for a while, thinking about how much of this country's history is written in iron and sand.
Later, I had a slow dinner at the Swakopmund Brauhaus, in a warm, wood-panelled room that had a proper German feel to it. I ordered a fish dish, which was fresh and simple, and a half-litre of the local draft, which cost about twenty-two Namibia dollars, not even a dollar and a half. The meal itself, two courses, came to about two hundred and fifty or three hundred dollars, which is maybe fifteen US dollars. For a town that caters to tourists, the prices still feel reasonable, at least for food. I lingered for a while, watching the other tables, a mix of tourists and locals, and thought about the rhythms of the place.
On the walk back to the guesthouse, the fog had begun to creep in again, and the streetlights were glowing in that soft, blurred halo way. The air was cold and damp, and I could hear the distant sound of the surf. I stopped at the edge of the pavement and looked up at the lighthouse, its beam sweeping around in a slow circle, and I felt very much present in that moment, in this odd, beautiful, complicated town.
I've been thinking about what the road ahead looks like. Sossusvlei is a day's drive to the south-east, through the Namib-Naukluft, and I'm told the dunes there are even more dramatic than Dune 7. And Etosha is a long drive north, maybe five or six hours, and the dry season is the best time for game viewing, when the animals gather at the waterholes. I'll need to plan carefully, check the distances, decide on a route.
I've also been mulling over the cost of living here in Swakopmund. A monthly rent for a modest one-bedroom flat is estimated at around ten thousand Namibian dollars, which is maybe five hundred and fifty US dollars. A three-bedroom house starts from about twelve thousand. The housing pressure is the thing everyone mentions here—the gap between the affluent suburbs and the informal settlements is stark, and it's impossible to ignore.
There's a weight to the history of this place, too. The Swakopmund Genocide Museum, which I visited yesterday, tells a story of the 1904–08 massacre that cannot be separated from the German architecture that feels so charming to an outside eye. It's a memory that is very much a part of the present landscape, and I keep thinking about how the beauty of a town can sit right next to its darker origins. I'm glad I went.
Tomorrow, I want to go further out, maybe drive down to Sandwich Harbour, which is where the dunes meet the sea, a famous and dramatic spot. From what I hear, it is best to go with a local guide because the conditions are rough. I'll need to arrange something in the morning. The sky is mostly clear tonight, and the stars are coming out over the Atlantic, so I think the day's fog will stay away for a while.
So the plan is forming. I've got a few more days here on the coast, before I need to turn north towards Damaraland, then on to Etosha. I've got a list of things to check, from car rental details to the practicalities of getting a local SIM card. It feels good to have a shape to the journey, even if the days themselves are gentle. This town, with its cold sea and its layered history, it’s a good place to pause and to think about the long road ahead.
The last thing I want to tell you about is the feel of the place at night. I stopped by the Sound Garden, a small venue in the centre, where there was an intimate live-music evening advertised for around fifty dollars. A jazz-inspired set, I think. It was a small, candle-lit room, full of the quiet murmur of people. I stayed for one set, had a drink, and let the music wash over me. It felt like a secret, a little pocket of art in a cold coastal town, and I went back to my room with a feeling of contentment.
And that was my third day. Not a day of big adventures, but a day of settling in, of paying attention to the textures of a place. A day of walking, of thinking, of looking at where I am. The fog will come back tomorrow, I imagine, but that’s okay. I'm in no hurry. The road north to Etosha is waiting, but so is this moment, and I'm learning to be here for both.
Totsiens, Swakopmund.