Henties Bay

The coast here was empty of permanent settlement for most of its history: the Namib gave no fresh water, and the Topnaar and other Khoekhoe-speaking groups used the lower riverbeds inland rather than the shore. The dry mouth of the Omaruru River, where water can be reached under the sand, was the one usable point on this stretch.

The town is named after Major Hendrik "Henty" van der Merwe, who reached the coast in 1929 while hunting in the interior, found fresh water in a sand valley south of the Omaruru mouth and returned the following Christmas to build a hut in the riverbed. Others followed, plots in the riverbed were let from 1951, and the settlement grew slowly as an angling camp of shacks and caravans reached over rough desert tracks. It was proclaimed a town later, as tarred and salt roads reached the coast and made the drive from Windhoek and Swakopmund straightforward.

Growth came with holidays and with mining. Namibian and South African families built second homes along the shore, while uranium and salt workings in the desert behind the coast, and the fishing industry further south, drew permanent residents. The town is run by its own municipal council, has gained a University of Namibia campus for marine and maritime studies, and its population has more than doubled in a generation as people moved in from inland. It remains a town of two rhythms: crowded in the December holidays, quiet under the fog for the rest of the year.

Henties Bay's culture is built around shore angling. The town calls itself an anglers' town, and the beaches north and south of it are divided into named fishing spots reached by 4x4, with tackle shops, bait suppliers and guides in the centre. Competitions and club outings fill the holiday weeks, and catch-and-release practice and size limits are argued over as seriously as the fishing itself. Rods on roof racks and a cool box in the back are the town's uniform.

The population is mixed. Afrikaans-speaking Namibian families, retired people from the interior and a German-Namibian element give the town a southern African seaside character — braais in the late afternoon, rugby on a screen in the bar, caravans on the plots — while Oshiwambo- and Damara-speaking residents who came for work make up a growing share of the permanent community. English is the official language, but Afrikaans is what is usually spoken in the street.

Life bends to the sea and the sky. The fog decides whether the morning is spent outdoors; the tide decides when anglers go down to the beach. There is a strong awareness of the fragility of the desert around the town: the lichen fields on the gravel plains take decades to recover from a single set of tyre tracks, and the Damara tern nests on open gravel, so keeping to marked tracks is treated as basic good manners rather than a rule for tourists.

About 7,000 people live here, counted at the 2023 census, in a town whose numbers swell several times over in December and January. The permanent economy rests on tourism and the holiday-house trade, on fishing and the services that go with it, and on wages from the uranium mines and salt works in the desert behind the coast, which many residents reach by daily commute.

The town has a supermarket, fuel, a bank, a clinic, schools and a campus of the University of Namibia teaching marine and maritime subjects, and Swakopmund, an hour south, supplies anything more specialised. Water is piped from boreholes in the Omaruru riverbed, and its supply is a standing concern in a place with effectively no rainfall.

Days start grey. The fog usually clears by late morning, the wind rises in the afternoon, and the streets are quiet by evening except over the holidays, when the beachfront fills with families, braai smoke and vehicles heading out to the fishing spots. Formal work is limited and seasonal, informal housing has grown on the inland edge of the town, and many households depend on a mix of casual work, pensions and money earned elsewhere. Retired people form a large part of the permanent population, which gives the town a settled, unhurried feel.

Fish is the point. The Benguela current fills these waters with cold-water species, and what comes off the beach — kabeljou, also called kob, silver steenbras and the prized galjoen — is what appears on the table, usually grilled over coals or fried in butter with lemon. Snoek is smoked or braaied, and crumbed hake and chips are the standard takeaway. Rock lobster and oysters arrive from the bays further south.

Away from the sea, the food is Namibian braai cooking: beef and lamb chops, boerewors coiled on the grid, oryx or kudu steaks, and potjiekos simmered slowly in a three-legged pot on a cold, damp evening. Roosterkoek, bread rolls baked straight on the grid and split open with butter, and pap with a tomato-and-onion sauce round out the meal. Biltong and dried sausage go in the car for a day on the beach.

The German-Namibian inheritance shows in the bakeries — Brötchen, rye loaves, apple cake — and in the country's lagers, brewed to the old purity law and drunk cold whatever the weather. Vetkoek filled with mince, meat pies and strong sweet coffee from a takeaway counter are the informal food of the fishing trip, and rooibos tea is the usual drink at home.