An excerpt from Margarethe von Eckenbrecher's Africa: What It Gave Me, What It Took from Me--Remembrances from My Life as a German Settler in South West Africa:

Note: At 27 years-old and married to her cousin for only a few days, Margarethe von Eckenbrecher arrived in present day Namibia in 1902. By 1904, they had established a successful farm in Okombahe, only to be chased away and almost killed during the Herero Insurrection. They returned to Germany and settled in Weimar, but unhappy back home, a divorced Eckenbrecher returned to Africa for good with her two sons in 1914. Settling in Windhoek, she lived there until her death in 1955. Below is an account of her first glimpses of Namibia. Her first nights here were spent at the Furst Bismarck Hotel in Swakopmund. The first photo is from 1910, after it has been spruced up. The second photo I took two days ago of the still standing building.

Swakopmund 

Under brilliant sunshine, the settlement of Swakopmund appeared friendly, full of promise. Our steamer was welcomed by brightly colored flags that fluttered on many a house and contrasted with the darkness of the sand dunes. It was with happy anticipation that we awaited our removal to the shore, though the wait proved to be a long one. Standing at the railing, we looked at our land of promise with warm, evocative feelings: Over there, your new home beckons you! Will you find happiness there? What lies in store for you? 

The day passed and the seas grew increasingly rough. That evening we celebrated our impending departure from the ship late into the night. Morning came. A heavy fog settled along the coast and taxed our patience. By noontime, the heavens took pity on us by driving away the fog and calming the waves. Swakopmund sparkled under the warm, glittering sunlight, and we prepared to disembark. 

Our belongings were quickly packed, and we readied ourselves for landing. Dressed in our oldest clothes, as we fully expected to be soaked by the spray of the breakers, we took a cordial leave from the captain and the officers, and waited our turn to be offloaded in the most primitive manner into the landing craft. These boats rocked mightily in the waves below. One after another, we were set in a basket that dangled from a chain as a crane lifted and then lowered us into the boat. A Kru-Boy stood ready to pull us from the basket, after which it was drawn up for the next passenger. 

I must admit that I have experienced far more pleasant moments than hovering between heaven and ocean in a creaking basket that landed with a jolt inside a small boat tipping headily fore and aft beside the Eduard. Hardly had we taken our seats when a warning shot was fired from the coast signaling that no further boats would be allowed to bring passengers ashore. We were hoisted back on ship and had the pleasure of waiting another two hours. It was a necessary caution, however, as almost immediately the dreaded fog settled again, making all movements impossible. The boat that preceded ours nearly capsized when the crew wrongly assessed the situation of the breakers because of the dense fog. Only men who are entirely familiar with the surge can make it through it unharmed. In nearly every landing several boats will capsize; lives are lost, and many pieces of luggage, as well as bales, crates, and railroad ties are immediately buried under the silt. 

Since the customs house closed at three o’clock in the afternoon, we were most anxious to get ashore. Many things had to be settled before journeying inland on the passenger train that scheduled to leave the following day. If we missed that train, we should have to wait three more days for the freight train, as well as paying twice the fare, or wait another eight days for the next passenger train. Wondrous prospects! At last the signal was received that landing could resume. Again, we were lowered in the basket, and with all our luggage, auspiciously landed on target in the boat. After the long ride across the calm sea we approached the giant breaking waves. I admire the skill of the Kru-Boys who plunged their oars with determination and cool heads into the waves and quickly moved forward. But the moment I saw the colossal breakers at close range, towering far above us and then plunging into the depths, I could not help but feel concerned. So, I thought, we were to land over there on the shore, but would this tiny craft survive a battle with the elements? I cannot say that I was exactly scared, but I somehow felt that peculiar tingling I always experience in moments of great danger, when all my nerves must function correctly in order that my powers of reason can remain clear. I was to have that same peculiar feeling many times in my life. 

The tension and excitement were so piqued that I had no time to be scared. Like an arrow, we shot along the breakers until, with a mighty thud, the front end of the boat slid onto the beach just as the boat’s stern was lifted up high into the air. Several natives came running from the shore, and before I knew what was happening, one of them loaded me on his back and swiftly carried me to dry land. 

Now that I was on land, I looked about for my husband. He was far too tall and heavy to be carried by one man alone. Thus, several natives fought over this “sweet load” (almost one hundred kilograms), and since not one of them was willing to forfeit the handsome reward paid once they arrived on the land, they pushed and shoved one another until my husband was finally dropped into the surf and disappeared under the water. Soon, however, he emerged, shook himself like a dog, and eventually dried out in the sun. 

There was simply no time to change clothes since we had to declare all our belongings at the customs office. In those days, this was quite a cumbersome procedure in South West. During the German-Herero War, for example, all officers arriving on shore had their personal weapons impounded. They were only returned after days of negotiations and, as far as I can remember, only after Colonel Dürer had arranged free entry for them. Hence, all our belongings were given a most thorough inspection upon arrival, though I must admit that we passed through customs quickly enough and that the customs inspector treated us most politely. Indeed, his kindness knew no bounds after I offered to help “lick” the customs declarations to expedite this official procedure. Before long, all the proper stickers were resplendently displayed on each piece of luggage. Even so, the entire procedure took nearly two hours to complete. Afterwards, we waded through the deep sand to our hotel, the Fürst Bismarck, which does not in any manner resemble the splendid edifice found there today. 

In those days the hotel was nothing more than long, black, wooden barracks. To access the guest rooms, we were required to traipse across a filthy courtyard where several grunting, squealing animals ran wild, continue past a manure pile, and dodge the clotheslines on which the wet, dripping laundry was hung. It was unsightly, but it was practical. Located inside the wooden barracks were the tiny hovels—our rooms—laid out in a row. Each hovel contained two camp beds, an inverted crate with a tiny bowl on top, serving as a wash basin, and a towel. The floor was genuine, bottomless dune sand. The bedding, the crate, the basin, in fact everything in the hovel, was covered with a thin layer of sand. And the tariff per night: twenty German marks. 

Since we had a bit of time before the meal was served, we took a walk through Swakopmund. The diligence and endurance of the people who lived there had accomplished an unbelievable feat. Wind motors are constantly running, pumping water. In the bigger streets, the walkways are surfaced with stones. Many houses have a little garden in front with carefully tended flowers. The town also has a few large buildings in which various companies have located their offices: the Damara and Namaqua Trading Company, the Colonial Company for South West Africa, Erhardt & Schultz, Rascher & Thielecke, Wecke & Voigts, and many others. In some buildings, one can find second-, third-, and fourth-rate restaurants, along with the apartments of private individuals such as the harbormaster, as well as government officials serving in the colony. And last, but certainly not least, there stands a rather pretentious-looking railroad station from which the narrow-gage train departs for the interior. 

Over the past few years Swakopmund has grown considerably, and since the beginning of the war (the German-Herero War) it has truly blossomed. This blossoming is due in part to the increased demands of the people living in the interior, in part to the railroad line that links Swakopmund with the mines in Otavi, and also from the heavy traffic in the harbor on account of the war. But this rapid growth has, on the other hand, brought with it some negative undercurrents. At present there are elements in Swakopmund that, to say the least, cannot be considered to belong to the upper crust of society. All sorts of shady characters and general riff raff carry on their dubious business. If one of these rogues needs to leave town in haste, within twenty minutes he can easily pass into the British territory of Walfisch Bay—with no police guard to prevent him from crossing the border. Many a crook has spent a night in the little guardhouse on the border, but recently the shack has completely disappeared. 

We had a great deal to do in Swakopmund: draw money from the bank, check our luggage, purchase all the necessities, and visit a number of people. Soon it was time for dinner. My first meal on South West African soil did not at all agree with me. The meat from an old draught ox was too tough, I never cared for prunes, and at that time I was still accustomed to proper cleanliness. From a single glance of the soiled tablecloth one could read the entire menu from the previous week!