Skeleton Coast - the edge of nothingness on Earth

We drove for four hours and still hadn't seen another soul. No people. No cars. Just a strange, empty void stretching south to the horizon. To the left, the desert; to the right, the ocean. A road of salt and sand crisscrossed the two sides. Under the gloomy sky, the sand, sea, and road blurred into three long, indistinguishable grayish-brown streaks.

We were traveling along Namibia's Skeleton Coast, a land often described as the "end of the earth." Looking through the dusty windshield, I thought the name seemed fitting. The wild Skeleton Coast begins at Namibia's northern border with Angola and continues 482 kilometers south to the former German colony of Swakopmund, where bakeries and pubs still line the streets—and where, a century ago, thousands of Africans from the Herero and Nama ethnic groups were massacred by German soldiers.

This region holds a unique blend unlike anywhere else on the globe—of cultures, landscapes, and species—and at times, evokes the image of a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

A year earlier, we had packed up our lives, left home and quit our jobs in Seattle with plans to travel the world, only for everything to be suddenly turned upside down by the Covid-19 pandemic just weeks after our first trip.

As things gradually reopened in late 2020, we decided that with careful planning, we could still restart our previous travel plans. So we had to answer these questions: Which countries are currently allowing U.S. citizens to enter? (Very few). Where is it safe to go, based on assessments of COVID-19 infection rates, testing regulations, and mask-wearing requirements? (Even fewer). And most importantly, where would we not become a burden on the local healthcare system if we were to contract the disease?

Namibia quickly rose to the top of the list. Among the countries with the lowest population density in the world, and a place where we could travel completely independently, it seemed like the perfect choice. At the time, we had no idea how amazed we would be by the vastness and diversity of the land.

Before choosing Namibia as our next destination, I knew very little about the country, so we immediately set about researching its history and geography. When we arrived at the Skeleton Coast, reading stories about shipwrecks, the strange landscapes, and 20th-century diamonds, I was completely captivated. The unspoiled, quiet, mysterious atmosphere – all of it ignited my imagination, and I knew I had to experience and photograph this place.

The gate leading into Skeleton Coast National Park, near the Ugab River, is guarded by two towering skulls and whale ribs. They stare as if warning: "Give up hope, visitors!"

We held our breath as we drove into the Skeleton Coast, praying that our rented Toyota Hilux—our shelter for the past few weeks—wouldn't suddenly get a flat tire; and that we wouldn't be devoured by the coastal lions; for ahead lay no longer human territory.

The arid desert, stretching on, leads to the colossal waves of the Atlantic Ocean—a sea that once claimed the lives of sailors, ships, planes, and animals. The wrecks of cargo ships and stark white skeletons remain, serving as a reminder of this harsh reality. It is a desolate land, where virtually nothing grows, and danger lurks everywhere: from the barren mountains to the thick coastal fog.

Tourists are often fascinated by the coastline dotted with shipwrecks. Although only a few of them survive to this day, the truth is that hundreds of ships met their end on the Skeleton Coast and were slowly swallowed up by the natural environment.

To the far north, the remains of the cargo ship Dunedin Star still stand. And the British ship Blue Star, which sank and drifted ashore in 1942, leaving 106 passengers and crew completely stranded. Or an airplane and a tugboat, with their crews perishing before rescue could be reached. To the far south, the cargo ship Eduard Bohlen, which ran aground in 1909, now only visible from above, lies more than 400 meters from land, a ghostly vessel surrounded by the desert.

We saw the remains of the South West Seal, a ship washed ashore in 1976, now just a pile of rusty wood and metal peeking out from the sand. Zeila, a fishing boat that ran aground in 2008 near Henties Bay, was also dilapidated but at least still intact – now home to dozens of cormorants just offshore.

The few man-made landmarks here are all in a state of disrepair: faded, stained road signs, an abandoned oil rig reduced to a pile of rust, slowly being eroded by time, sand, and sea air. Every few minutes, I stopped to photograph them, turning what should have been a 6-hour trip into an 11-hour journey.

Along the way, we passed other peculiar places: the Cape Cross Seal Reserve, home to over 200,000 foul-smelling brown fur seals; or the Walvis Bay Salt Works, where enormous salt pans glowed bright pink due to the presence of the microalgae Dunaliella salina, harmonizing with the flamingos stalking shrimp in the nearby swamps. Makeshift tables lined the road north of Swakopmund, displaying dozens of pale pink halite salt crystals, often next to rusty money boxes, waiting for unsuspecting passersby to drop off a few dollars in exchange for a treasure.

The barren landscape felt like another world, raw and majestic. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. The colors of the scenery and coastline gradually changed, the sand turning red as we traveled further south and entered Namib-Naukluft National Park, home to the world's oldest desert: the Namib.

Namibia, a young nation that only gained independence in 1990, has a Namib Desert that has existed for at least 55 million years. It seems as though throughout this endless expanse of time, towering sand dunes have relentlessly plunged towards the turbulent sea.

The solitude and detachment we were pursuing at the time, in our quest for a lonely part of the world, allowed us to escape the raging pandemic and the grueling hours of everyday life. Namibia made us feel small and insignificant, in a wonderful way. It was a vision I often longed for when living in a world steeped in instant gratification and never-ending battles for attention. And finally, the Skeleton Coast was a strange and beautiful reminder that we humans are powerless against time. That in the battle between man and nature, nature always wins.

(Article and images by Genna Martin, in the series "The World Through the Lens," published in the magazine)New York Times January 23, 2022)

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