This territory may only be entered in the company of a concession holder, not even in one’s own car. Here, they play it safe.
The tour operator obtains the concession from the state. Punctually, the tour minibus pulls up and we settle ourselves in the soft seats. An insignificant turn-off leads to the control post under the video surveillance of Rotkopf. Beyond this point, whoever gets caught without a guide and permit is liable to spend two years in prison and pay a strict fine. The reason is soon explained: this track not only leads to the tourist sites but also serves as access to the active mining areas. There, uninvited guests are not welcome.
Entering Without a Permit May Lead to Jail Terms and Stiff Fines
The Swartberg is visible even from this distance. At this black basalt monster, you branch off to the Pomona Area; there is no signpost. The tiny track runs between the hills and, all of a sudden, the high buildings of the pump station in the Grillenthal valley emerge from the sand. It was erected in 1910 to 1912 and was worked until 1935. They had to drill down for 30 to 60 metres in order to access fresh water. This well water had to be transported by electrical railway to Pomona and Bogenfels. The electrical power was provided by Lüderitz power station. Pomona mine had an extremely high demand for water to wash the diamonds. The drinking water from Grillenthal was too precious to be used for this purpose. So the mine was provided with brackish water from another nearby well. This legendary diamond paradise was discovered by the brave Stauch together with his friend Dr. Robert Scheibe.
Within a short period of time, Stauch and the brilliant geologist, on New Year’s Eve 1908, on an area of 50 m², discovered 600 carats of diamonds, whilst presumably the others were dancing in the New Year. In 1909, Scheibe writes to his parents-in-law: ”… when, after two days of sand storms and other adverse incidents… I entered the Pomona area, lying there, all virgin… we felt like we were in paradise… as if sown out, the marvellous stones…”
You can’t see much in the ruins of Stauch’s camp. But the remains indicate how the diggers might have lived to begin with. I still recall the pictures from the museum at Kolmanskop. So I can easily imagine the harsh conditions the first diggers here in the desert had to cope with, before the settlement of Pomona developed. Concrete sleeping bunks, almost like XL stone coffins, served as night shelters to the diggers and there was a very basic common kitchen. But during the euphoria of the diamond rush, the standard of accommodation might have been of no concern.
While Ramon is driving us between the mine dumps, he tells us about many an incident. One reminds me very much of Lüderitz, who failed to discover the diamonds. Originally, the company De Pas, Spence & Co was exploring the area for copper ore. In the absence of relevant expertise, at that time, diamonds were shovelled aside in order to access the desired copper ore, albeit poor in quality. Not much time went by before diamond mining flourished in the Pomona area; but the harvest had to be delivered. This was the task of ambulance man Muhlack. Twice a month, escorted by policemen, he delivered the diamonds to Lüderitz. On each of his rides he transported diamonds at a value of one million Euro in saddle bags through the Namib Desert. At the police post at Elizabeth Bay, the men slept over and usually played a game of skat. One morning, Muhlack’s horse shied from a sheet of paper that was being blown about in the desert and threw Muhlack off. The horse disappeared towards the horizon with the diamond bags. The two mounted policemen tried to retrieve the fleeing horse, but did not succeed. In despair, they loaded their rifles and shot and killed the totally innocent horse. Muhlack, however, could fulfil his task and in the end delivered the diamonds of the Pomona mine.
Pomona
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