TransNamib: Dimensions of a Desert. Gabi Christa

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      The Pomona mine is half-buried in deep sand. I stumble across the remains of rails when approaching the ruins of the stables and the police post. Sand and wind have sanded the corrugated-iron roof to the thickness of paper. You are allowed to walk around, at your own risk. The buildings are about to collapse. What has survived for the past 50 years may collapse at any moment, nobody monitors it, and every visitor has to take care of him or herself. Birds’ nests nestle in inaccessible places. Different animals’ tracks disappear inside the mine building, the iron remains of which point up into the sky like a bizarre skeleton. Here, the brown hyena is common. It loves to hide in the protection of the ruins as does the puff adder or less dangerous animals. So, I move around with utmost care, always making sure of an escape route, and I stay outside when the space gets too narrow. As I carefully pull open the wrought-iron hatch of a pipe stove, a torrent of sand pours out. Staircases have toppled, fly wheels have not been rotating for a long time. Knurls, screws, chains, vices and belt rests, everything has been attacked by rust. In 1931, the plant went quiet. In my imagination, I recall the noises caused by the gigantic fly wheels and the rushing water, separating diamonds from worthless pebbles and sand. Three to five hundred Germans and four to five hundred local workers, mostly Ovambo people, worked here in day and night shifts. The interior, the heart of the mine, has completely collapsed. Water pipes, bolts and taps have been under the command of the ravages of time for decades. On a distant hillock, I make out some of the houses of the Pomona settlement. This place was set up in no time, so that, after work, people could go home, to Pomona, to their families.

      Pomona is the name of the goddess of growing fruit. That this desert on a peninsula and an island off the coast, where even a blade of grass surely never grew, not to mention fruits, of all names acquired that of the said goddess, is not very astonishing. At the time, when the first English ships searched the islands for guano, they were still considered nameless. This left every captain with the opportunity to immortalise himself. In the case of Pomona, it might have been a can of tinned fruit by the London “Pomona Fruit Canneries Ltd”. Other islands as well bear curious names, for example Roastbeef Island and Plumpudding Island. Well, everyone may consider for himself what there might have been on this island, besides guano.

      Pomona commands the hill, which the railroad tracks climb up. A derailed water carriage lies on its side on the slope, probably having entered the bend way too fast. While Ramon is preparing lunch, we enjoy the majestic view into the distance. To the one side we can see the ocean and hear its roar; to the other side the endless valleys and hills that had promised riches to the then residents. In Pomona as well, the companies had endeavoured to provide the best possible facilities to their executives and families. There was a fashionable hotel, a shop, a school, a skittle alley and a casino. Not as big and pretentious as in Kolmanskop. But the Champagne was the same and, considering Pomona’s situation far-off in the desert, it was well equipped. On the toilet house cross-beam you still can read: Please do not spit on the floor! There must have been a sound reason for putting up this notice in capital letters. I wouldn’t be too surprised if social life, due to the absence of the fair gender, had become somewhat monotonous and if European civilisation from time to time drained away in vices. In an old report, I read that women were supposed to make men stick to the rules, and rein in their rough manners, when they were enjoying Pilsner Urquell and Whisky soda and had their evenings of gaming and drinking binges. It couldn’t have been an easy task at that time, motivating a woman to come along to Pomona, in spite of diamonds, electrical power and what comfort was available. I ask myself, what might have been more alluring to the women, the free steamer passage to German South-West Africa or a great love and profound feelings? Today, northerly winds are blowing, bringing nice sunny weather. But, during many a summer’s day in Pomona, the sand is hurled about by gales.

      The relentless wind has long ago pulled the door of the casino from its hinges and hardly a window pane is still intact. The strongest winds on the African subcontinent have been recorded in this area. The window panes which have not yet broken are dulled by the windborne sand. The iron frame of a Singer sewing machine stands waiting in an entrance. Was it forgotten or simply left behind? The interiors of the houses were carefully painted; people had made efforts to also live nicely. Even the rooftrees and rafters of some houses show adornments. At the corner of a house, a hare is sitting, astonished; it looks at me with a fearful glance, then swivels its ears and hops away. The tracks of a jackal are visible outside the houses. There are ants, beetles and pestering flies, more life, though, cannot be detected. Further down the valley, the Bushman Candle is growing. A coat of wax protects this plant, which resembles the spurge, from heat, sun, and drying. Once the plant dies, the wax remains. Ramon lights it for us. This natural candle not only sheds light but a nice fragrance also bewitches my senses.

      Two houses in Pomona have been scantily refurbished by Namdeb. These serve VIPs, researchers and Namdeb executives. By the end of this day the wind will have erased my footsteps and nothing will ever show that I have been here. This was Pomona, but the desert fairy tale should go on.