Written by ThisOldHag on 11 Jul, 2005
At Ondangua, northern Namibia, I met up with the convoy I was travelling with into Angola. We encountered no border controls and continued on past Ruacana Falls to Xangongo, which was once a prosperous Portuguese town, but now most buildings had no roofs, and the…Read More
At Ondangua, northern Namibia, I met up with the convoy I was travelling with into Angola. We encountered no border controls and continued on past Ruacana Falls to Xangongo, which was once a prosperous Portuguese town, but now most buildings had no roofs, and the town was quiet and overgrown. Many of the crumbling buildings’ white-washed facades were riddled with bullet holes. In some places, the road was not clear, and the convoy needed to backtrack several times. On one such occasion, when the convoy had stopped, we heard faint music to the east. We followed the sound and found the road lined with people walking to a nearby village, joyously singing hymns.
Piet, a rugged and amiable member of the convoy team with Johannesburg registration plates, spoke in Portuguese to one of the passing Africans. He translated that the Madala (wise old man) had said, "He reckons his people were emerging by the thousand each day from the jungle, children with stomachs bloated by malnutrition, scrawny mothers dressed in rags and terrified fathers who feared punishment for supporting the defeated rebels." Piet looked away and gulped, "The Madala and the other village elders felt that the fog of war was still slowly lifting in Angola, revealing a country close to the Dark Ages, with millions of starving, homeless people, following years of living wild in the bush."
The convoy continued further and came across a woman walking towards Xangongo, now some 15 kilometers behind us. She stepped off the road to allow us to pass and shaded her eyes against the bright sun. She hitched up the weeping child she carried on her bony hip and found a smile for the passing vehicles. Piet told all the drivers before leaving Xangongo that the Madala suggested they do not stop to hand beggars food as thousands would come charging out of the bush looking for similar sustenance.
Regardless of this caution, I could not pass the woman without rendering some aide and rummaged through the cooler box, handing her two sandwich packs. The woman gently placed her child on the gravel road, ripped open the cellophane packaging and then stared at its contents in awe. She had clearly no idea what she held in her hand. The child started to cry and held his arms up to his mother who knelt down and fed him broken off pieces of the bread. I saw that one of his eyes was gummed with infection and his drum-tight, distended stomach strained over his splayed ribs. I said a silent prayer and continued.
In treacherous, stormy weather, we travelled on toward Chibemba and met up with our Police escort. It must have been quite a sight for the locals - not since the South African Defence Force arrived in the mid 70's had this town seen such a large convoy of vehicles. Piet spoke with the Police Captain at length about their recovery from Africa’s longest running bush war. He translated, "The Captain says there is a vast population living in fear deep in the bush, a long way from international aid organisations, and some did not even know the war was over."
Once passports were checked, names and registration numbers noted down and vehicles given a cursory inspection we once again moved on. The Police were driving Land Rovers and armed with cheap imitation Oakley sunglasses and very real AK's and each had a leg hanging over the side of their bucking and bouncing 4x4. The front convoy vehicle got stuck in thick black mud and one of the Namibian drivers came to the rescue with a snatch strap, which he hooked up and snapped the Land Rover out of the mud sending the drivers' head reeling back against the headrest, his eyes staring wildly forward and a silly grin on his face.
At sunset we stopped for the night outside Honga; in a very colonial fashion the men put up the tents and set out their canvas chairs. The party relaxed, the temperature eased down to around 30 degrees and there was a collective sigh at the sound of the ceremonial opening of the first beer. A while later a group of Himba tribesmen appeared from amongst the trees. They walked up to the campsite, leant on stout poles and gabbled on in their native tongue, frowning and pointing. Without warning, the police captain shot a round into the air and the Himba dispersed. He settled back against the tree, pulled his cap over his eyes and laid his AK across his chest.
Dinner that evening was a barbequed goat, which one of the policemen procured from the woods. With the proverbial bull of campfire chat and lots of alcohol, the convoy and police escort partied till very late. The policemen were drunk before dinner and spent the evening maintaining that state. Later the Captain became trigger-happy and used moths for target practice.
In the middle of the night, a donkey (Himba-owned) felt the need to play and made a racket galloping around the campsite, neighing for all his worth. I felt certain the captain’s weapon was the most thought-about item during that long night.
Breaking camp before dawn and traveling further north the following day took us through some breathtaking mountainous areas. At one point, we were surrounded by peaks that changed colour, from black to blue to green, and then, as the sun picked up the undergrowth, so the flowers brought the landscape to life. All the towns we passed were shot up, with bombed-out police outposts.
We stopped off at Huambo – another town shattered by bullets, mortar, and artillery fire. At the police station, which displayed their country’s colours on a flagpole which clearly had not been taken down since independence, passports were again collected. This was a ritual that had to be followed in every town we stopped in. Names, registrations, and who travelled with whom was noted.
The drive north was picturesque. The setting sun shone through the dust kicked up by the vehicles ahead, with a foreground of pale green grass contrasting against the pink mountains. Rounding the next bend was a town out of a spaghetti western. Again all shot up and left to rot. The theme tune from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" sprang to mind.
That night, we slept in rooms adjoining a brothel/disco. The police escorts soon found company, and thankfully, the loud music drowned out all the other sounds.
The following morning, a young African boy was begging by the entrance. He told Piet his sole possession was a tattered anorak. He had not eaten in two days. His legs were blistered and scarred. One of the prostitutes explained that children like him often suffered such injuries because without any clothes or bed linen they were forced too close to the fire at night.
The police captain announced he had been radioed by his HQ to change tack. There had been an incident in a town on the route we were to have followed and as such, the Captain decided to head due west, to the coast. It was a hard drive along roads that had long since dissolved into rubble and sand tracks. We passed many beggars, purposefully walking to who knows where. It was clear that starvation was the norm in Angola. We eventually arrived in the coastal town of Cubal, I was awestruck at the beauty before us.
Whilst the convoy pitched tents and got themselves ready for another night of festivities, I detached myself from them and took a long walk along the beach, six-pack in hand. I found a small cove and sat on the powdery white sand to watch the pink sunset. I turned my walkman up and felt certain Dire Straits had been sitting on this very beach when they composed "Brothers in Arms".
A while later, a young, good-looking African couple emerged from the trees. I beckoned to them to join me so we could enjoy the sunset together. The woman’s name was Manuela and her companion was Enrique; in broken English, they managed to explain that they were nurses at the nearby Lobito hospital and had worked at several other hospitals throughout Angola. Enrique, nodding gravely, told that the civil war had started before he was born and now that it had ended, they were still treating landmine victims, many of whom were children. Manuela said the hospitals were rundown and medicines were in short supply, often requiring that they treat injuries without anaesthetic or even painkillers. Roads that people thought were safe suddenly became death traps and casualty rates were rising.
Read the rest on www.cindyloudale.com/landofendlesswar.htm.
Written by Karlplatz on 15 Feb, 2005
Angola... it was perhaps the most mysterious location on my 2003 travel schedule, and I approached it with some trepidation. I had looked forward to this trip for more than a year with anticipation and apprehension. After more than 25 years of civil…Read More
Angola... it was perhaps the most mysterious location on my 2003 travel schedule, and I approached it with some trepidation. I had looked forward to this trip for more than a year with anticipation and apprehension. After more than 25 years of civil war, how would I find the country and its the people?
Would I be able to sense tension in the air, or have the Angolans put the internal strife behind them? And how would they view me, an outsider from the bastion of capitalism! After all, anti-Americanism is very popular the world over these days....
Like a child who is flying for the first time, there are all sorts of thoughts that pass through the young mind as an airplane is landing at a new destination. After several take-offs and landings, the child’s excitement subsides, but I think touching down in Africa is different. That excitement of the unknown, be it good or bad, is always there because you never really know what to expect. At least the excitement has returned for me, and the thoughts above were just a few going through my head as my Air Namibia flight from Windhoek started its decent.
The pilot did a corkscrew descent, circling over the city twice in a bid to lose altitude on the approach to Luanda International Airport. This gave me plenty of time to view the city below. From containerships and oil tankers in the bay to shantytowns and new industrial parks under construction at the edge of the city to its downtown core with shiny office buildings, I had the perfect view of Luanda, the city whose nickname before the civil war was "the Rio de Janeiro of Africa."
The city seemed to be running right up to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean only to jump off into the deep blue sea! I could see thoughtfully planned out streets, outdoor markets busy with Sunday shoppers, and children playing ball games on neighborhood courts. There was a lot of activity, this was Angola, this was Luanda--I had finally arrived!