Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Congo, Brazzaville
CONGO-BRAZZAVILLE
We arrive from Kinshasa with plenty of time to clear Immigration and Customs, which we anticipate will be closing at 1700. However ...
For whatever reason the ferry Captain (the Big Boat is really just a barge with accompanying tug) cannot, despite multiple attempts, find the angle needed to get us onto shore. We jig, we jag, we veer, we reverse, we float sideways past unattached to the tug while it manoeuvres around, we move with purpose only to get wedged in between other boats moored along the banks ... The attempts are numerous, but the humour of it all begins to fade as quickly as the light as the minutes turn into 60 then to 90 – we could almost spit into Immigration from the ferry but it’s almost certainly closed by now and in any regard there seems to be no chance the Captain will find the right moves to actually get us ashore.
FIIIIIIIIINALLY we crash up against the shore, still 5 feet off dry land but – all crew decide - close enough to launch the truck off the ramp. The space between the ferry ramp and land ramp is a jagged pile of broken cinder blocks and other concrete detritus and I’m less than happy to have to launch across it but have little choice and get into low and go, splashing across the gap of Congo and shore, bumping wildly side to side across the tire-shredding shore and then, getting purchase but with little in the way of control or power, up and onto the steep ramp. And then stall. The diff has slipped out and I’m revving nothing but air, and lose about 5 feet of hard-gained ramp until I can get the emergency brake locked. With a shout I’ve gangs of helpers piling rocks behind the back wheels within seconds and, diff engaged properly this time, am up and over the top to cheers from the masses gathered in the gloom to watch the spectacle.
The Carnet is quickly stamped but I am then told Immigration is not at this location and I am to follow a ‘helper’ – or so I think as I try and follow the rapid-fire French. Off out of the terminal I am led, leaving Clare behind. Not good. Immigration turns out to be about 3 blocks away at what I expect is the true Beach, we having arrived at some side-option. Immigration is - of course - closed and this presents a bit of an issue: we had been lead to believe Visas were issued on the boat. They may be – but not on ours. I am told to come back tomorrow and so we move off into Brazzaville without clearance (“is no problem” I am assured. Surrrrrrrrrre it’ll be no problem ... ).
We move into the ‘famous’ Hotel L’Hippocampe, apparently the overlanders mecca, and set up camp – for free, which is outstanding - in the parking lot. It’s fine, with friendly if not over-accommodating or interested young French owners – maybe a mecca previously, but now seems primarily more restaurant than hotel – but still, I think the only option in town and good enough. Also close by the Embassies and we submit for Gabon first thing before heading back to the Beach to sort the visas.
Round One: disbelief at our having arrived – and subsequently left – without a visa last night. Much discussion. A decision is reached – no penalty is to be meted out, but we are only eligible for a 3 day Transit Visa. I explain – numerous times – that we have submitted our passports for the Gabon visa, it’s Thursday, Sunday is the 50th Anniversary of Independence celebrations which means Monday will be a holiday (if not Friday and Tuesday as well) and we’ve then still got to get up north to the border. There is no way we can do this all in 3 days (and with the clock already ticking ...). Nothing he can do, but we can talk to The Chief. Standing stiffly to attention, I explain the situation in emphatic, if halting, French. The Chief is unmoved – utterly, impassibly, unblinkingly unmoved, like he’s heard not a word (or, quite possibly, understood not a word ...) and, with a sigh (very Gallic ...) stops me mid-stream: “You have two choices: take the 3 day Transit Visa, or get on the next ferry back to Kinshasa. Tell me right now.” One hundred USD slides easily into his pocket and a 3 day Transit Visa it is then ...
Once the transaction is completed he softens completely and tells me it will be no problem: due to the holiday nobody will care if we get to the border over deadline and as it’s his signature in our passport nobody will (dare) question the issue. Sounds all very self-inflating and I am completely unsold but, left with little (read: no) choice , cross-fingers and go.
Gabon delivers the next day, so we head to the Cameroon Embassy to try our luck on a two-fer. We are met by Jean-James, head of the Visa section who speaks perfect English and is very interested to hear of our travels. A quick 102,000 CFA later and we’re submitted, with the promise of a Monday return. Later that afternoon, as I am returning from the bar at Hippocampe, I am met by Jean-James: “There is a problem Mr Bullen, so I have come here to discuss it with you.” Crap, I think: they’ve lost our passports – it’s got to be serious if there’s a personal effort made to discuss directly. Turns out to be quite the opposite: Jean-James was concerned about the upcoming holidays so went into the Ambassadors office on our behalf, got the visas issued in a two hour turnaround, and has brought them here to us. We spend the next 2 hours talking about Cameroon over a beer, with promises to visit his hometown when we are there. Outstanding guy.
Down with hundreds of thousands of our closest, sweatiest friends to the Independence Day parade Sunday, which is an incredible spectacle with military participation from across the continent as well as from the French. Full pomp and circumstance; great show. There is one very odd interaction though: on arrival we are stopped by a flank of Police in full riot gear and frisked. In my thigh pocket I’ve a pen and (stupidly) a small folding knife. So my pen is confiscated; but not the knife (despite ‘Clare Can Tell No Lie’ pointing out helpfully that I should be careful as I’ve also a knife in my pocket they may confiscate. Thanks for that, very helpful ...). No pens allowed I am sternly admonished, and shown the gutter, which is full of snapped pens. But I can get mine back when I leave. Sure I can ... But, hours later as we move through the huge crowds departing the parade I am stopped by a hand wielded by a huge figure in black Kevlar – bit of a search-about through multiple pockets and lo if he doesn’t produce my pen to return it to me! Bizarre - pen obviously mightier than the sword and all that I guess ...
Few more days of faffing about – it’s a decent town to wander about in; with a small but good market for trinkets, nice waterfront and cafes serving decent coffee and mixed-culture foods on offer - and also to meet up with Clare’s friend Ron, who divides his time between Pointe Noire and Brazzaville so provides some good local colour and we’re off – now 3 days past visa expiry and with a long hard slog ahead. And a hard slog it is, roads a mess of deep sand we punch through in second for hours on end, dragging the diff through and furrowing a third track.
The Carnet passes without question and is duly stamped at a small wayside shack passing for the official Customs outpost, though the ‘agent’ does follow me out after and starts asking at the truck to know exactly what electronics we’re carrying, how many cameras, how we guide (“map or gps?”) – all of which is a line of questioning that could easily veer from idle interaction and/or curiosity to serious interference all too soon but gladly passes without incident through the magic of bold-faced lying (one small digital camera and a paper map are put to display – the box clearly stencilled ‘Electronics’ and Clare’s huge DSLR smoke-and-mirrored out of the agents line of sight - and we’re off without too much delay. Then we move on down the road a few kilometres and stop at Immigration (not easily spotted but recognizable from experience as a roadblock manned by a sleepy figure lolling under a tree idly waving at the truck to stop and pointing to the shack-with-flag behind ...).
I know I’m in for a hard time here and take the 10 paces to steel myself for a few tough – and possibly very expensive rounds of questioning ... All is going fine and the stamp is poised until, with a frown, the Chief stops mid-downswing and fires off a question to one of the gathered minions. I catch an emphasis on today’s date and some quick maths. He looks up and so begins multiple rounds of (roughly translated) “why (the hell) are you in the country after your visa expired 5 days ago?? This is a very serious matter!” My initial volley of supplication mixed with humour (“I know! Isn’t this a crazy thing, but I was told it would be no problem because of applying for visas and the holidays blahblahblah”) is quickly batted away. Not god enough. I ramp up my next offering with full agreeability but some intractability on who is to blame. Not good enough – what must be done, this is a very serious matter! So I go for broke and bring on the Righteous Indignation, repeatedly – with full palm-slapping-thigh emphasis – directing the issue to the Chief having told me it would be no problem and taking “plus plus de dollar” (turns out on further review he actually took the correct amount for 2 Transit Visas – even if he did pocket it – but I went with stoking greed and envy at the outpost for the wonton actions of those who are afforded the opportunities gained working at the Beach and not being lost out here in the hinterland). This (magically) works – and thank god for that because I knew as I listened to myself blazing on that I had gone well, well past the right side of Working Effectively With African Officialdom, where arguing angrily gets you very quickly in the opposite direction you were aiming for ...
Negotiations commence.
Finally – after many, many rounds and back and forths until we settle on what is considered by all to be “fair” – we’re off, exit stamps in place, and at 15,000 CFA for less in the end than the true cost of a 7 day visa. Score! And actually – in the end, as we’re allowed to leave, I’m not in jail nor being flogged out back for insubordination and my wallet’s not nearly as empty as it could have been - quite a fun interaction overall ...
More grinding through the thick dust and road-less roads leading north until suddenly – like a mirage – a clean strip of tarmac magically appears out of the scrub and with a gentle bump then a happily-surprising smoothness after so many hours of crazed driving we’re up and into Gabon ...
We arrive from Kinshasa with plenty of time to clear Immigration and Customs, which we anticipate will be closing at 1700. However ...
For whatever reason the ferry Captain (the Big Boat is really just a barge with accompanying tug) cannot, despite multiple attempts, find the angle needed to get us onto shore. We jig, we jag, we veer, we reverse, we float sideways past unattached to the tug while it manoeuvres around, we move with purpose only to get wedged in between other boats moored along the banks ... The attempts are numerous, but the humour of it all begins to fade as quickly as the light as the minutes turn into 60 then to 90 – we could almost spit into Immigration from the ferry but it’s almost certainly closed by now and in any regard there seems to be no chance the Captain will find the right moves to actually get us ashore.
FIIIIIIIIINALLY we crash up against the shore, still 5 feet off dry land but – all crew decide - close enough to launch the truck off the ramp. The space between the ferry ramp and land ramp is a jagged pile of broken cinder blocks and other concrete detritus and I’m less than happy to have to launch across it but have little choice and get into low and go, splashing across the gap of Congo and shore, bumping wildly side to side across the tire-shredding shore and then, getting purchase but with little in the way of control or power, up and onto the steep ramp. And then stall. The diff has slipped out and I’m revving nothing but air, and lose about 5 feet of hard-gained ramp until I can get the emergency brake locked. With a shout I’ve gangs of helpers piling rocks behind the back wheels within seconds and, diff engaged properly this time, am up and over the top to cheers from the masses gathered in the gloom to watch the spectacle.
The Carnet is quickly stamped but I am then told Immigration is not at this location and I am to follow a ‘helper’ – or so I think as I try and follow the rapid-fire French. Off out of the terminal I am led, leaving Clare behind. Not good. Immigration turns out to be about 3 blocks away at what I expect is the true Beach, we having arrived at some side-option. Immigration is - of course - closed and this presents a bit of an issue: we had been lead to believe Visas were issued on the boat. They may be – but not on ours. I am told to come back tomorrow and so we move off into Brazzaville without clearance (“is no problem” I am assured. Surrrrrrrrrre it’ll be no problem ... ).
We move into the ‘famous’ Hotel L’Hippocampe, apparently the overlanders mecca, and set up camp – for free, which is outstanding - in the parking lot. It’s fine, with friendly if not over-accommodating or interested young French owners – maybe a mecca previously, but now seems primarily more restaurant than hotel – but still, I think the only option in town and good enough. Also close by the Embassies and we submit for Gabon first thing before heading back to the Beach to sort the visas.
Round One: disbelief at our having arrived – and subsequently left – without a visa last night. Much discussion. A decision is reached – no penalty is to be meted out, but we are only eligible for a 3 day Transit Visa. I explain – numerous times – that we have submitted our passports for the Gabon visa, it’s Thursday, Sunday is the 50th Anniversary of Independence celebrations which means Monday will be a holiday (if not Friday and Tuesday as well) and we’ve then still got to get up north to the border. There is no way we can do this all in 3 days (and with the clock already ticking ...). Nothing he can do, but we can talk to The Chief. Standing stiffly to attention, I explain the situation in emphatic, if halting, French. The Chief is unmoved – utterly, impassibly, unblinkingly unmoved, like he’s heard not a word (or, quite possibly, understood not a word ...) and, with a sigh (very Gallic ...) stops me mid-stream: “You have two choices: take the 3 day Transit Visa, or get on the next ferry back to Kinshasa. Tell me right now.” One hundred USD slides easily into his pocket and a 3 day Transit Visa it is then ...
Once the transaction is completed he softens completely and tells me it will be no problem: due to the holiday nobody will care if we get to the border over deadline and as it’s his signature in our passport nobody will (dare) question the issue. Sounds all very self-inflating and I am completely unsold but, left with little (read: no) choice , cross-fingers and go.
Gabon delivers the next day, so we head to the Cameroon Embassy to try our luck on a two-fer. We are met by Jean-James, head of the Visa section who speaks perfect English and is very interested to hear of our travels. A quick 102,000 CFA later and we’re submitted, with the promise of a Monday return. Later that afternoon, as I am returning from the bar at Hippocampe, I am met by Jean-James: “There is a problem Mr Bullen, so I have come here to discuss it with you.” Crap, I think: they’ve lost our passports – it’s got to be serious if there’s a personal effort made to discuss directly. Turns out to be quite the opposite: Jean-James was concerned about the upcoming holidays so went into the Ambassadors office on our behalf, got the visas issued in a two hour turnaround, and has brought them here to us. We spend the next 2 hours talking about Cameroon over a beer, with promises to visit his hometown when we are there. Outstanding guy.
Down with hundreds of thousands of our closest, sweatiest friends to the Independence Day parade Sunday, which is an incredible spectacle with military participation from across the continent as well as from the French. Full pomp and circumstance; great show. There is one very odd interaction though: on arrival we are stopped by a flank of Police in full riot gear and frisked. In my thigh pocket I’ve a pen and (stupidly) a small folding knife. So my pen is confiscated; but not the knife (despite ‘Clare Can Tell No Lie’ pointing out helpfully that I should be careful as I’ve also a knife in my pocket they may confiscate. Thanks for that, very helpful ...). No pens allowed I am sternly admonished, and shown the gutter, which is full of snapped pens. But I can get mine back when I leave. Sure I can ... But, hours later as we move through the huge crowds departing the parade I am stopped by a hand wielded by a huge figure in black Kevlar – bit of a search-about through multiple pockets and lo if he doesn’t produce my pen to return it to me! Bizarre - pen obviously mightier than the sword and all that I guess ...
Few more days of faffing about – it’s a decent town to wander about in; with a small but good market for trinkets, nice waterfront and cafes serving decent coffee and mixed-culture foods on offer - and also to meet up with Clare’s friend Ron, who divides his time between Pointe Noire and Brazzaville so provides some good local colour and we’re off – now 3 days past visa expiry and with a long hard slog ahead. And a hard slog it is, roads a mess of deep sand we punch through in second for hours on end, dragging the diff through and furrowing a third track.
The Carnet passes without question and is duly stamped at a small wayside shack passing for the official Customs outpost, though the ‘agent’ does follow me out after and starts asking at the truck to know exactly what electronics we’re carrying, how many cameras, how we guide (“map or gps?”) – all of which is a line of questioning that could easily veer from idle interaction and/or curiosity to serious interference all too soon but gladly passes without incident through the magic of bold-faced lying (one small digital camera and a paper map are put to display – the box clearly stencilled ‘Electronics’ and Clare’s huge DSLR smoke-and-mirrored out of the agents line of sight - and we’re off without too much delay. Then we move on down the road a few kilometres and stop at Immigration (not easily spotted but recognizable from experience as a roadblock manned by a sleepy figure lolling under a tree idly waving at the truck to stop and pointing to the shack-with-flag behind ...).
I know I’m in for a hard time here and take the 10 paces to steel myself for a few tough – and possibly very expensive rounds of questioning ... All is going fine and the stamp is poised until, with a frown, the Chief stops mid-downswing and fires off a question to one of the gathered minions. I catch an emphasis on today’s date and some quick maths. He looks up and so begins multiple rounds of (roughly translated) “why (the hell) are you in the country after your visa expired 5 days ago?? This is a very serious matter!” My initial volley of supplication mixed with humour (“I know! Isn’t this a crazy thing, but I was told it would be no problem because of applying for visas and the holidays blahblahblah”) is quickly batted away. Not god enough. I ramp up my next offering with full agreeability but some intractability on who is to blame. Not good enough – what must be done, this is a very serious matter! So I go for broke and bring on the Righteous Indignation, repeatedly – with full palm-slapping-thigh emphasis – directing the issue to the Chief having told me it would be no problem and taking “plus plus de dollar” (turns out on further review he actually took the correct amount for 2 Transit Visas – even if he did pocket it – but I went with stoking greed and envy at the outpost for the wonton actions of those who are afforded the opportunities gained working at the Beach and not being lost out here in the hinterland). This (magically) works – and thank god for that because I knew as I listened to myself blazing on that I had gone well, well past the right side of Working Effectively With African Officialdom, where arguing angrily gets you very quickly in the opposite direction you were aiming for ...
Negotiations commence.
Finally – after many, many rounds and back and forths until we settle on what is considered by all to be “fair” – we’re off, exit stamps in place, and at 15,000 CFA for less in the end than the true cost of a 7 day visa. Score! And actually – in the end, as we’re allowed to leave, I’m not in jail nor being flogged out back for insubordination and my wallet’s not nearly as empty as it could have been - quite a fun interaction overall ...
More grinding through the thick dust and road-less roads leading north until suddenly – like a mirage – a clean strip of tarmac magically appears out of the scrub and with a gentle bump then a happily-surprising smoothness after so many hours of crazed driving we’re up and into Gabon ...
DRC- Congo, Heart of Darkness
DRC
Right, so it’s now 03 Sept and we’re halfway across Nigeria and I’m trying to write journal entries by ever-fading memory and sparse notes so I think it best I make these entries a heck of a lot more succinct ... Maybe I’ll fill in the blanks later, but as I’m now 4.5 countries down and finding it annoyingly difficult to get free time to write after the long days we’re putting in you’ll have to forgive me for the Cole’s Notes versions that’ll have to suffice from here-on in ...
Into the Heart of Darkness we go; ground zero for Ebola and AIDS; site of Goma in the 90’s, the largest refugee camp ever required and one Dante could not have designed any more Hell’ish; the still-roaming bands of Intrahamwe, of Rwandan genocide infamy; of leopard-skin hatted (now ex) President Mobuto in the 70’s who lead a dictatorship so corrupt it coined the term “kleptocracy” and that, since his overthrow, has descended rapidly and without hesitation into a country almost mythical in being so incredibly ‘effed up’ and that has seen so little peace in the past 30 years it has gone back in time, one without roads, rails or rules. This will not be a transit to be treated lightly ...
The first thing we note on crossing is the border guards, who all look like they’ve been styled as the baddies for a Hollywood movie: tight pressed fatigues, berets at very cocky angles, mirrored sunglasses (despite it being 0800 on a cloudy morning ...) and a whole lot of att-i-tude. But it’s all for show it seems as they are all exceedingly friendly and the Immigration process and Duane stamping a breeze. But within 30 minutes we are at our first roadblock where 1) money; then 2) beer; then, finally (exacerbated by our refusals and crap French) cigarettes are demanded. We fear this will be the norm for the rest of the way across to Kinshasa but – while it is – we find none are ever anything more than just give-it-a-go’s and by the time we cross over the Congo to Brazzaville the dozens we have passed through have required nothing more in total than 4 stale ‘bought for just such a purpose’ cheapy cigarettes that have sat in the dash since SA. But, man, they are persistent ...
Another 30 minutes down the road from the border and we see our first dead body. Well, I do: Clare remains blissfully unaware though it’s a fairly obvious sight on the side of the road, gone rigid and halfway through the smashed windshield of a car that obviously lost a contest against something far larger going the other way. A stark reminder of just how insane driving these roads are, body-less crash sites having previously become so commonplace now they have barely raised a seconds’ glance on passing ...
The roads though are good, winding up through endless rounds of rolling hills and offering vistas across miles and miles of stunning, dense green. Kinshasa, however, arrives like a bomb’s gone off: a sudden descent into utter chaos, dirt and mayhem. Inching our way through the crazy gridlocked traffic we – quite by sheer blood luck/chance – find our destination, Residence Mutchimba, which has been reco’d on the blog of a couple who’ve passed through a few month’s previously (how the hell they ever found it originally defies understanding ...). Bit of a budget blower at $80 US per night but a nice break (hot water!!) and, also, certainly safe for the truck, closed-in behind high walls and a vigilant guard. Given high marks on the blog we meet a bit of an unexpected – and truly piss-me-off’ish issue after a days’ hard drive – issue with our anticipated service levels on arrival: the Manager seeming to not quite understand the difference between ‘having’ a restaurant (“Yes sir, we have a restaurant, it opens at 7 for dinner”) and having an ‘open’ restaurant (on seating at the required time for dinner after whiling/wasting away a few hours in our room, happy to have not had to sort out leaving: “No sir, this restaurant is not open, it has no food.”) but soon overcome - after a fairly strong response of “WTF!!??” by me and my rudimentary French - by the Manager back-stepping rapidly and – realizing he’d likely pressed his aloofness a step or 12 too far – quickly sorting us a taxi and escorting us there and back to a local resto which serves us fine ‘family resto’ food with terrific friendly service (so enjoyable, in fact, that though the menu is limited we return each of the 3 nights we’re in town and, in the end, have the “verrrrry Frayyynch” Maitre D’ insist we exchange email addy’s as “we must stay in touch” if we are not to return back to Kinshasa soon ...).
The Manager also organizes a great, non-touristy city tour for us for the next morning which – though hindered somewhat by both he and the driver speaking only French and us both still staggering unfamiliarly along with high school skills and tin ear only – offers us a great insight into the city, including Mobuto’s former house (never since lived in yet still heavily guarded to – I would guess - avoid it becoming any sort of memorial for a President whose legacy internally seems to remain somewhat confused still ... To the Manager and driver during the tour: “Are there any monuments to President Mobuto in the city here?” “No, no, no for Mobuto, no.” “Why does nobody live in his house?” “In his house there? No, no, nobody must live in his house, no.”) and the riverfront, where we set up for a beer in a restaurant straight out of a Scarface-style 80’s, all mermaid fountains and pastel colours with stupid-priced cocktails only the local Big Men would not balk at, overlooking a stunning vista of the second set of cataracts below Stanley Pools (and a large gathering of poor below, breaking rocks on the shoreline who, when I take a photo of the river, react angrily would they be included in it and quickly has a local heavy at my side, intimidating me to delete my file card as “this is not a good thing here and people do not like it.” Fair enough, but – for whatever reason there be for their toil - there are piles of broken rocks being sold street side all over the city so surely the locals do know where they come from, how and by whom ... And I am in no position, and have no interest, in passing any judgement one way or the other ...).
They also take us past the ferry terminal – “The Beach” – for a pre-departure recce which proves very beneficial the next day when we rock up to head over to Brazzaville as everyone, from security guard to police to Customs & Immigration, recall us from the day before and are all smiles and welcomes. It also prepares us for the utter chaos that is the terminal area.
So on arrival next day I am told at the ticket wicket there is no “big boat” today, and that I must speak to “The Chief.” Up to Chief of Police I am escorted to introduce myself, then to Chief of Customs, then Chief of Immigration (“I am Chief of The Beach”); apparently the word is correct: the big boat is broken and is not available today. We must return tomorrow at 1000 and I must present myself to The Chief at that time. So, somewhat dejectedly, we head back for another night in Kinshasa, choosing though to pinch pennies for the night and stay at the Baptist Mission close by The Beach. A convenient choice, and one with a fascinating story as they run a series of hospitals for Aids orphans and are very pleased to give us a tour of their HQ and, later, the medical clinic – all a very impressive operation and run by a very dedicated team who seem quite overwhelmed that we have taken such an interest in their activities. The site, however, as a place to camp for the night, really is a complete shit-pit with cows, goats and chickens wandering about and shared toilets in a house on the grounds a local family are living in that truly defy imagination and are beyond anything I have ever tried to use before (though for Clare, apparently still nowhere near as bad as her ‘Hell Toilets Of India With Midget Attendant’ she will be happy to expand upon given anyone’s further interest in the tale ...).
Back the next morning and I sit for 90 minutes awaiting The Chief’s arrival, still not sure what the purpose of our meeting will be. When he finally rocks up at the office on spotting me he sets his arm around my shoulders and we are off together to get the boarding requirements sorted. The Duane is duly stamped for 100 USD, quickly pocketed by the sweaty Agent-in-Charge, but we are then directed by The Chief – still my closest personal friend for no apparent reason (and for no associated ‘fee’ either) - to seat ourselves in the VIP trailer and wait out the Big Boat. At noon we are directed back to the truck, at 2:00 we are still there, first in line for a boat that has yet to dock (though it does still keep arriving, look at The Beach, and then depart out of sight on the river, only to return again an hour later to repeat the same odd game ...). At 3:00 The Chief comes over to announce, quite apologetically, that the Big Boat is broken and will not be operating; and when it may be is very much an unknown.
Shhyit!! We have nowhere else to go, no possible alternate route north, and this is NOT good news. The driver next to us is very unimpressed and begins to press his case en Francaise. Seems he is the Namibian Ambassador to DRC’s driver, and he must be in Brazzaville for the next day to pick up said Ambassador, who will be in country for the 50th Anniversary of the Independence celebrations. Much deliberation (argument/arm-waving/bowing to the Big Man) ensues amongst all required Chiefs. Finally – and for whatever reason – it is decided that, yes, there will be a Big Boat today, at 5:00, but no others for the foreseeable future.
It docks – finally not just sniffing at the port as it has all the day so far – and all of 2 trucks, ours and the Namibian Ambassador’s, along with 4 walk-on passengers who I think have simply nothing better to do and are along for the ride only, load a boat designed for 400 pers and 22 vehicles and we’re off – finally - across the mighty Congo River.
Right, so it’s now 03 Sept and we’re halfway across Nigeria and I’m trying to write journal entries by ever-fading memory and sparse notes so I think it best I make these entries a heck of a lot more succinct ... Maybe I’ll fill in the blanks later, but as I’m now 4.5 countries down and finding it annoyingly difficult to get free time to write after the long days we’re putting in you’ll have to forgive me for the Cole’s Notes versions that’ll have to suffice from here-on in ...
Into the Heart of Darkness we go; ground zero for Ebola and AIDS; site of Goma in the 90’s, the largest refugee camp ever required and one Dante could not have designed any more Hell’ish; the still-roaming bands of Intrahamwe, of Rwandan genocide infamy; of leopard-skin hatted (now ex) President Mobuto in the 70’s who lead a dictatorship so corrupt it coined the term “kleptocracy” and that, since his overthrow, has descended rapidly and without hesitation into a country almost mythical in being so incredibly ‘effed up’ and that has seen so little peace in the past 30 years it has gone back in time, one without roads, rails or rules. This will not be a transit to be treated lightly ...
The first thing we note on crossing is the border guards, who all look like they’ve been styled as the baddies for a Hollywood movie: tight pressed fatigues, berets at very cocky angles, mirrored sunglasses (despite it being 0800 on a cloudy morning ...) and a whole lot of att-i-tude. But it’s all for show it seems as they are all exceedingly friendly and the Immigration process and Duane stamping a breeze. But within 30 minutes we are at our first roadblock where 1) money; then 2) beer; then, finally (exacerbated by our refusals and crap French) cigarettes are demanded. We fear this will be the norm for the rest of the way across to Kinshasa but – while it is – we find none are ever anything more than just give-it-a-go’s and by the time we cross over the Congo to Brazzaville the dozens we have passed through have required nothing more in total than 4 stale ‘bought for just such a purpose’ cheapy cigarettes that have sat in the dash since SA. But, man, they are persistent ...
Another 30 minutes down the road from the border and we see our first dead body. Well, I do: Clare remains blissfully unaware though it’s a fairly obvious sight on the side of the road, gone rigid and halfway through the smashed windshield of a car that obviously lost a contest against something far larger going the other way. A stark reminder of just how insane driving these roads are, body-less crash sites having previously become so commonplace now they have barely raised a seconds’ glance on passing ...
The roads though are good, winding up through endless rounds of rolling hills and offering vistas across miles and miles of stunning, dense green. Kinshasa, however, arrives like a bomb’s gone off: a sudden descent into utter chaos, dirt and mayhem. Inching our way through the crazy gridlocked traffic we – quite by sheer blood luck/chance – find our destination, Residence Mutchimba, which has been reco’d on the blog of a couple who’ve passed through a few month’s previously (how the hell they ever found it originally defies understanding ...). Bit of a budget blower at $80 US per night but a nice break (hot water!!) and, also, certainly safe for the truck, closed-in behind high walls and a vigilant guard. Given high marks on the blog we meet a bit of an unexpected – and truly piss-me-off’ish issue after a days’ hard drive – issue with our anticipated service levels on arrival: the Manager seeming to not quite understand the difference between ‘having’ a restaurant (“Yes sir, we have a restaurant, it opens at 7 for dinner”) and having an ‘open’ restaurant (on seating at the required time for dinner after whiling/wasting away a few hours in our room, happy to have not had to sort out leaving: “No sir, this restaurant is not open, it has no food.”) but soon overcome - after a fairly strong response of “WTF!!??” by me and my rudimentary French - by the Manager back-stepping rapidly and – realizing he’d likely pressed his aloofness a step or 12 too far – quickly sorting us a taxi and escorting us there and back to a local resto which serves us fine ‘family resto’ food with terrific friendly service (so enjoyable, in fact, that though the menu is limited we return each of the 3 nights we’re in town and, in the end, have the “verrrrry Frayyynch” Maitre D’ insist we exchange email addy’s as “we must stay in touch” if we are not to return back to Kinshasa soon ...).
The Manager also organizes a great, non-touristy city tour for us for the next morning which – though hindered somewhat by both he and the driver speaking only French and us both still staggering unfamiliarly along with high school skills and tin ear only – offers us a great insight into the city, including Mobuto’s former house (never since lived in yet still heavily guarded to – I would guess - avoid it becoming any sort of memorial for a President whose legacy internally seems to remain somewhat confused still ... To the Manager and driver during the tour: “Are there any monuments to President Mobuto in the city here?” “No, no, no for Mobuto, no.” “Why does nobody live in his house?” “In his house there? No, no, nobody must live in his house, no.”) and the riverfront, where we set up for a beer in a restaurant straight out of a Scarface-style 80’s, all mermaid fountains and pastel colours with stupid-priced cocktails only the local Big Men would not balk at, overlooking a stunning vista of the second set of cataracts below Stanley Pools (and a large gathering of poor below, breaking rocks on the shoreline who, when I take a photo of the river, react angrily would they be included in it and quickly has a local heavy at my side, intimidating me to delete my file card as “this is not a good thing here and people do not like it.” Fair enough, but – for whatever reason there be for their toil - there are piles of broken rocks being sold street side all over the city so surely the locals do know where they come from, how and by whom ... And I am in no position, and have no interest, in passing any judgement one way or the other ...).
They also take us past the ferry terminal – “The Beach” – for a pre-departure recce which proves very beneficial the next day when we rock up to head over to Brazzaville as everyone, from security guard to police to Customs & Immigration, recall us from the day before and are all smiles and welcomes. It also prepares us for the utter chaos that is the terminal area.
So on arrival next day I am told at the ticket wicket there is no “big boat” today, and that I must speak to “The Chief.” Up to Chief of Police I am escorted to introduce myself, then to Chief of Customs, then Chief of Immigration (“I am Chief of The Beach”); apparently the word is correct: the big boat is broken and is not available today. We must return tomorrow at 1000 and I must present myself to The Chief at that time. So, somewhat dejectedly, we head back for another night in Kinshasa, choosing though to pinch pennies for the night and stay at the Baptist Mission close by The Beach. A convenient choice, and one with a fascinating story as they run a series of hospitals for Aids orphans and are very pleased to give us a tour of their HQ and, later, the medical clinic – all a very impressive operation and run by a very dedicated team who seem quite overwhelmed that we have taken such an interest in their activities. The site, however, as a place to camp for the night, really is a complete shit-pit with cows, goats and chickens wandering about and shared toilets in a house on the grounds a local family are living in that truly defy imagination and are beyond anything I have ever tried to use before (though for Clare, apparently still nowhere near as bad as her ‘Hell Toilets Of India With Midget Attendant’ she will be happy to expand upon given anyone’s further interest in the tale ...).
Back the next morning and I sit for 90 minutes awaiting The Chief’s arrival, still not sure what the purpose of our meeting will be. When he finally rocks up at the office on spotting me he sets his arm around my shoulders and we are off together to get the boarding requirements sorted. The Duane is duly stamped for 100 USD, quickly pocketed by the sweaty Agent-in-Charge, but we are then directed by The Chief – still my closest personal friend for no apparent reason (and for no associated ‘fee’ either) - to seat ourselves in the VIP trailer and wait out the Big Boat. At noon we are directed back to the truck, at 2:00 we are still there, first in line for a boat that has yet to dock (though it does still keep arriving, look at The Beach, and then depart out of sight on the river, only to return again an hour later to repeat the same odd game ...). At 3:00 The Chief comes over to announce, quite apologetically, that the Big Boat is broken and will not be operating; and when it may be is very much an unknown.
Shhyit!! We have nowhere else to go, no possible alternate route north, and this is NOT good news. The driver next to us is very unimpressed and begins to press his case en Francaise. Seems he is the Namibian Ambassador to DRC’s driver, and he must be in Brazzaville for the next day to pick up said Ambassador, who will be in country for the 50th Anniversary of the Independence celebrations. Much deliberation (argument/arm-waving/bowing to the Big Man) ensues amongst all required Chiefs. Finally – and for whatever reason – it is decided that, yes, there will be a Big Boat today, at 5:00, but no others for the foreseeable future.
It docks – finally not just sniffing at the port as it has all the day so far – and all of 2 trucks, ours and the Namibian Ambassador’s, along with 4 walk-on passengers who I think have simply nothing better to do and are along for the ride only, load a boat designed for 400 pers and 22 vehicles and we’re off – finally - across the mighty Congo River.
Angola: Mines and Potholes
ANGOLA
Armed with our Letter of Permission from the Ambassador at the Angola Embassy in Harare (issued in place of a proper visa sticker for our passports as none were in stock there despite it having taken them over 3 weeks to process us ...) and a certain degree of trepidation about approaching a notoriously stringent border armed with only an 8.5 x 11 typed page of ‘please’ to get by with, we checked out of Namibia on the Oshikango side (the town bordering the station a “complete shithole” in Clare’s usually very clean-mouthed opinion; a town where, despite it being only just past 0900 on arrival, was teaming with street-side activity, most looking to involve sales of things until just recently secured on a truck trying to work through the chaos unscathed, and where, when she went to fill the gas canisters, I had to quickly jump out to stand guard outside the truck, casually leaning on my 4 foot ebony walking stick and affecting a nonplussed expression which, thankfully, moves on the circling gangs of street kids and Tsotsi sniffing about, all eager for a quick score to start the day by and makes for a zone of relative calm around the truck...).
That done we enter the border area itself and, on parking at Immigration, I fend off various offers of assistance for the subsequent Angola side by the usual gangs of eager-to-be-helpful-for-a-very-reasonable-fee and bilingual if needs be entrepreneurs found at every border crossing, and go in to process our departure. On coming back out 10 minutes later I am greeted by the sight of Clare staring wide-eyed out the windscreen as the most keen/persistent of the potential admin assistants is being beaten vigorously with a baton by a highly-aggrieved – and huge - border policeman at our front bumper for, apparently, having the temerity to tell said officer that it was no problem as he was my “friend” and not, as suspected and of far greater likelihood to the group of officers now joining in the fun with boot and baton, scoping out the truck for a snatch and grab or in any way just being an Unwanted Pain To Tourists.
Over to Angola, where peace reigns in the parking lot - apparently this is not the place to try anything (which is good). And, on presentation of our all-very-official, stamped with a red seal and signed by the appropriate Authority letter, it is a very big, very unmoved by all subsequent argument and appeals reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeejection!!
No, way – absolutely no way – are they accepting the Letter. They are at least apologetic, explaining that the Embassy knows they cannot provide visas at the border (helpfully translated from halting English into even more halting English by numerous, competing Assistants who’ve suddenly materialized when a business opportunity has been smelled on the breeze) – they too do not have the stickers here, but in their case to ensure they are not coerced or otherwise persuaded to issue one against government decree. We must go back into Namibia to the town of Oshakati, 45 mins down the highway, and process one at the Consulate there. Truly, Angola has become our Nemesis.
But this is easier said than done, as we – and, more importantly, the truck - are stamped out of Namibia. To his credit the Head of Immigration walks me back across to the Namibia side to explain the situation to his counterparts there (which is greeted in much the same manner as a troublesome little brother rather meekly trying to explain an issue to his older, disinterested and frankly far-too-above-it-all-to-show-a-care sibling – a very interesting and unexpected dynamic between these supposed Comradely countries). But they finally let him off the hook with a curt dismissal and duly cancel the exit stamp - but then want to retain the vehicle docs as collateral. I refuse. We discuss. I hold fast. Much further discussion (fair enough, as the vehicle is now duly stamped out yet I am asking that it be allowed back in that territory without record of it actually, officially, being there – and so easily then available to sell well below the radar - whilst I sort out an issue originating from the Angolan side). There is much derogatory banter aimed across the border. I wear my ‘trust me’ face and finally win the day – sort of: I can have 24 hours.
Straight to the Consulate we head, and tell our tale of woe and betrayal to a – positive sign – surprisingly sympathetic Section Head. We must return first thing tomorrow (a Weds) and hand in the Letter along with passports, photos, etc – basically the whole shebang from the first time – and she will process post haste.
We do; she doesn’t.
By first thing Friday morning, after repeated and ineffectual drop-in visits during the prior two days, I take up residence in the Consulate and plant myself in the small waiting area watching Angolan a-bit-of-entertainment-for-the-grannies-and-stay-at-home-mums morning television programming (as bad in Portuguese as in any language and from any country ...); then every National Geographic special past it’s copyright date: 6.5 hours later I am still there, and still being studiously ignored by the Section Head as she passes by repeatedly exiting on various Friday errands – new shoes are apparently a Priority Item, as are two large takeaway lunches taken an hour apart. But not our visas.
I begin watching the seconds tick by from 1400 forward, knowing both that they close at 1500 and that the weekend looms large (as does the well-past-due 24 hour curfew from the Namibian authorities that blew past on Weds ...). At 1440, now desperate lunges at various counter staff who materialize from behind the Big Door getting me nowhere, my attention is suddenly drawn to a commotion at the front door: 4 heavily-armed Emergency Response Police have pushed in and are questioning the front desk clerk – probably not a normal situation on another countries sovereign territory ... And I am being pointed at.
On admitting – under some duress given the circumstances – that I am indeed the owner of the “foreign car” and “without wife or other passenger at this time” (fink of a front desk clerk I am thinking) I am most sternly informed that it is payday and the criminal element of this, and every surrounding area, are in town today looking to score and my truck is attracting a lot of unwelcomed attention – the bank security guard where I have parked has called in the situation and I must move immediately. With authority well-sanctioned by the bearing of heavy weaponry they stop all traffic and direct me to u-turn and park directly in front of the Consulate, where they have posted a local policewoman and are browbeating her into submission with the weight of importance they are placing on her for the safety and security of my truck whilst I am back inside the Consulate along with all the Consulate staff, who are lined up outside now being well-entertained by probably the most interesting thing to happen there in a long while.
Then they too start to chastise me for leaving my vehicle on the street on a “dangerous day like today” and I, in fairly clear terms, explain that I did not expect to be required to have it parked there for so long today. Message across clearly, and the Other Head of Section Something Never Clearly Defined - who greets me warmly every day on my arrival but accomplishes nothing else on my behalf – announces he will speak to “those women” and “get them working.” A flurry of activity suddenly erupts like a bee hive broken open, multiple staff flitting about and bumping into each other, competing at the copier and to grab Necessary Stamps and I am out – finally – 45 minutes later (or, as Section Head Who Shops Not Works notes icily, “30 minutes into (her) weekend.”).
Ah, Angola: you had better be goooooooooooooooooood ...
It’s worth noting before leaving this Oshakati thread here that there is only one place to stay in town there (the other, a ‘b&b’ in name only being currently under renovation and apparently having, even when back at 100%, no interest in installing Internet at anytime). So we are staying at the Oshakati Country Lodge. A nice place, in fact a very nice place, though one that is also full of German package tour guests sporting floppy hats with chin straps tied tight, beige nylon ¾ length trousers, ankle socks and supports sandals stalking about the place all night, barking at the staff. That kind of place. But also one with wireless and hot water so we leave fully recharged.
Back up to the border – Namibia, luckily, without issue – and over again to Angola again where, with the same Agents behind their desks as yesterday, we – in the end – finally get though without much fuss at all (a fairly loose interpretation given that overall it’s taken 3.5 weeks of daily visits to the Embassy in Harare; one Letter from the British Embassy in support of our plans – at 74 GBP thank you very much; one border rejection; 3 days of sit-in at the Oshakati Consulate; a few hundred USD and a return through the mean streets of Oshakango to get through to this - again) but much to the chagrin of the hovering Admins who wait, vulture-like, for a sign of weakness in which to quickly exploit we are cleared through and gone this time in under 10 minutes total. Now, apparently, comes the hard part (jayyyyyyyyyyyzuz – after all that only NOW comes the hard part ...???) ...
On up to Xangongo via Ondjiva, the road all fairly clear save for the occasional stop for pics posing heroically atop rusted tanks, tracks blown off, sat at the side of the road mid-firing manoeuvre, charge or tactical withdrawal from any number of wars gone by; and unexpected potholes that jumped out without warning and only after having been lulled into a false sense of ‘no issues on this road’ness, and we’re in Xangongo to find an Auberge of the night. A truck stops aside me while Clare’s off investigating and asks if I’m looking for a place to stay; as we are he says they are starting a campsite down the road some ways and though there’s nothing there as yet we are welcome to stay with him and his wife for the night if we don’t mind roughing it. One look at the Auberge we had aimed for and a bush camp of unknowns seemed a far more appealing option and the offer is gratefully accepted.
What a site it will be once up and running (within months if all may go according to plan versus Africa’s Endless Ability to Confound Any Plan – which the couple, Henne (older, grizzled white SA) and Angela (vibrant, younger, born-in-Angola-left to-be-an-expat-now-back-for-good Portuguese/Angolan ) - who met while working with the Bushman/San in Botswana to make the whole story just that more pan-African (plus new, tri-lingual, bub to add still further to the dynamic) - confirm while relating the story of their having previously bought an hotel in Mozambique and, after a few months of weekly supervision of an increasingly and confusingly ragged re-build where the priorities of the workers seemed to continually shift from as they had directed to not at all, discovered that the owner had sold the property to 3 separate people/groups simultaneously, each of which was then directing the re-fit to their own, conflicting, spec and who had then, in the end whilst deftly evading the wrath of 3 groups of irate ‘owners’, fessed up from afar that he was not in fact the owner at all of said property and had no legal right to have ‘sold’ it to any of them in the first place. But he did have the right – in his own mind - to abscond swiftly with all of their investments ...).
It, their new soon-to-be Angolan campsite, will be set on a rise offering stunning views, a river full of sport fish and the occasional herd of docile cows a’wandering by, bells a’clanging (though there are also still mines on the other side of the access road: despite 8 years of peace and 8 years of concerted de-mining, one had gone off in Dec just across from where their access road meets the main road so we were warned to not drive about anywhere we should please, but that where we were set to camp had been meticulously screened by a German NGO working to make the area safe and had been signed off as habitable now ... So: to trust German efficiency here, or no ...?
Yes; and so glad we did as it was a wonderful evening of stories ‘round the campfire and a night’s sleep in utter silence under a stunning canopy of stars – this site will be a real destination location once up and running for sure ... And, save for the small, opaque scorpion that had lodged itself into my camp chair bag overnight and gave me a bit of a start while packing up as it came out of nowhere with tail a’lashing at being disturbed so early, a wonderfully relaxing place to have spent the night and we were sorry to have to leave so soon. But our 7 Day Transit Visa (negotiated at Oshakati via Hard Luck/Sob Story up from the standard 5 Day) loomed large over our Angola travels like Damocles Sword and we needed to press on sharp’ish if we were to get to the northern border without incurring the 150 USD per day overdue fine they are apparently more than happy to slap on any dawdling or otherwise delayed touristas (of which we were very keen not to be able to confirm).
After Xangongo we headed to Lubango.... The journey started off great, nice tar road for 20km until Humbe, then it deteriorated into rough, destroyed shreds of tarmac and potholes. This lasted for about 90km, with diversions on the way. As always we arrived in the sprawling town of Lubango as the sun was setting. Reading other blogs, we had heard that there was a campsite in town called Caspers Lodge.... Clare managed to navigate there, and got out to strike a deal. She returned with a perplexed expression ... Her Portuguese is not good, but she thought that they wanted $100 US for camping! $25 per person and $50 to park the Land Rover!!!!!! I went out to clarify things, but Clare’s interpretation was correct... $100 for camping ... No Way!
So off we went in search of alternative accommodation.
First we stopped off at the huge Cristo Rei statue (a facsimile of the one overlooking Rio), which stands on a stunning overwatch position above the city and offers a stunning view for miles out (across smog and shanty ...). Worth the stop though – although on the way up you have to contend with bands of young extortionists who string rope across the road and demand payment to lower it. One would be fine, but I could see at least 6 strung out up the road and I’m not playing that game. Angry demands get the ropes lowered at each stop, but not without a stream of angry Portuguese expletives thrown our way each time.
At the bottom of the turn off to Cristo Rei, Clare spotted the Fleur de Lis Guest House. Chancing her luck, she went off to investigate, and found the owner’s son munching on popcorn, watching the football, sinking a few beers. Obviously he was not used to blonde English gals asking for accommodation... Well, the red carpet was rolled out, and a huge discount offered (rooms normally $120 – Angola is expensive!). So, I drive up, park the truck and settle in to our room, and sink a beer or two, whilst making friends with the house Boerboel (a South African Bull Mastif). Then we hear a lively discussion coming from the house, apparently the owners have returned, and are not happy with the son’s pricing structure. Through some delicate negotiating I manage to wangle a deal to let us camp, to avoid paying $$$ for the room (which we didn’t even want in the first place). We slipped off early in the morning ...
Next to Benguela, the road a fair trial with plenty of construction necessitating side roads rough cut against the rolling hills and plenty of sand and dust to contend with; but the scenery is stunning, with masses of baobab trees Clare quickly becomes fairly enamoured of, pointing out yet another prime example minutes after the last. What is interesting is the lack of a rural imprint – miles go by before a small settlement of square hard structures lined up facing the road comes into view, then again miles of nothingness to drive through. Where are all the people? Africa is usually teeming with a vibrant life in the countryside; the cliché being – one all too often proven to be true - that stop for a minute anywhere, no matter how seemingly remote, and somebody will pop up out of (seemingly) nowhere to see what you are up to. But not here: has the capital Luanda, having grown something crazy like from 50,000 to 7 million, drawn them all in with a siren’s call of wealth and opportunity; or were they all just out of sight, years of wars and rolling-through armies developing a hard-earned need to steer clear of obvious routes in favour of security out of the sight lines? Or is Angola just so large it swallows it’s population with ease ...? Don’t know, but it makes for wonderful driving – road quality notwithstanding – through miles of unspoilt scenery without cow, goat or small wayward child running pell mell about the road to contend with ...
Rolling steeply down out of the hills we can smell the sea well before seeing it, a wonderful fresh scent it takes a moment for our brains to process as we’ve not enjoyed it since Mozambique, some months, many thousands of miles and right the other side of the continent now behind us. Benguela proves a bit of an enigma at first, as it welcomes you with little more fanfare than industrial lands of cement factories and road construction equipment followed by a fairly rough-around-the-edges end of town before opening up into a piece of Europe dropped down into Africa, all wide boulevards, beautiful ocean-front with promenade and cafes set facing the sun setting on a wide strip of bright white sand, sharp cars and even sharper dressers (Clare soon give Angolans a ‘Best Dressed’ accolade, the youths all a’swagger with low slung jeans, mirror shades, bling and attitude, adults in bright-coloured suits with contrasting shirt and tie combos Oswald Boateng would be hard-pressed to match, all with shoes shined so bright they gleeeeeeeam in the sun). And a mass of ‘white folk’ – we are told later that a few years back 263 Portuguese applied to return but last year, with Angola’s economy booming and Portugal’s in the doldrums, over 26,000 arrived.
We stayed at Nancy’s English School & Guest House; run by a New Yorker who’s been in Benguela for over 16 years - it’s a wonderful b&b and highly recommended. In exchange for agreeing to speak to a class we are set up in a lovely room in celebration of our being on honeymoon, and that night and the next we thoroughly enjoy first presenting a 15 minute overview of our trip so far to her Intermediate class, and on the next a one hour Q&A with her Advanced class. The Angolan government has bowed to external pressure from the multitude of global companies now setting up in Angola and who are insisting on English-speaking employees and so introduced English into the schools there but there remains a high degree of resistance we are told so private schools fill a vital niche for university students, police and government employees who are seeking to advance their careers, or career future opportunities, out of the binds of being Portuguese-speaking only (as one senior student described it, Angola has a “big wall built around the country” by being Portuguese-speaking while surrounded by either French or English-speaking neighbours).
Heading north again after two days in a total relaxed state enjoying pastries, excellent coffee and a wonderful seafood and pizza dinner that scored the highest marks of the trip so far, we aim to be south of Luanda by nightfall. The road is not bad, lots of rolling hills that do require unfailing concentration (emphasized by the incredible number of destroyed trailer trucks and minicabs that have fired themselves off the verges) and some potholing but good time can be made on this stretch.
Spent the night at Cabo Ledo at Pescaria Querios Lodge, a bit of an odd campsite situated on a stunning stretch of beach shared with the local fishing community (you have to drive right through their village to reach the campsite, one of those arrivals where you keep thinking ‘is this right??’ as you progress on the GPS’s terse instruction, passing within a hand-span of someone’s shanty, the children all stopping play to point and stare). It’s a great site, but family run and with the feel that it really might be for that family only – open, but not welcoming. But the site is lovely and with various, and highly appealing, seafood specials advertised for the resto we look forward to a bit of a beach-break and a dinner of what should be the freshest seafood available anywhere. However, on enquiry we are informed that a plate of 3 prawns would be 50 USD! Clare double-checks: could this be an error in translation? No: 50 USD per plate, sides extra, and we are basically ignored after that. We retreat back to the truck and fire up the gas cooker for some more realistic fare, closely overseen by the family’s pet pig that strolls about snuffling for scraps tableside, competing with various mangy beach dogs who circle about outside the shadows thrown by the truck, and a rooster that does not stop crowing to draw breath once in 12 hours. All a bit of an oddness overall, but lovely setting ...
Skipping Luanda completely – and thankfully - via the new ring road (not well-signposted, blink and you’ll miss the obscured side-route to access it, requiring a very bumpy and very competitive side-trip along a dirt track filled with construction trucks wider than the road itself). Also – and also thankfully – a chance to finally fill up on the famously cheap diesel: cheap it may be in Angola, but readily-available on our route up it has not been.
We were heading to N’Zeto, as we heard of a good beach to camp on..However, we found ourselves on the worse stretch of road of our trip so far, 200 km of ‘an absolute fu@ker of a road’ (quoted from Glen driving on said road), there was no pattern to it; broken tarmac, car eating potholes, no side shoulder, which we just had to weave our way through. After 16:00 we were still over 100km from our desired stop, and at the rate we were going (less than 25km/h) no way were we going to make it before dark, so a decision had to be made to detour off our route to a small village called Ambriz, which Dave the satnav informed us had a Hotel. Having no idea what this place was like, but knowing that we had to drive a further 25 km off our route to get there, there was no turning back.
The village (former town) was eerily beautiful. It looked like a film set with building facades, wide empty boulevards, and empty bombed out buildings. We found the hotel, not difficult being the only one, and we were greeted in French, a blessed relief after trying to communicate in Portuguese. I cannot express how welcome we were made to feel in this town. Moments like this make you forget days like that. We had a wonderful evening with the guys in town discussing our route. We camped in the hotel carpark, but made sure that we paid the price of the cheapest room (it seems a rarity that people come through this town). Our security guard (“en vigilance pour la nuit pour vous Monsieur!”), was an older gentleman who was relocated by the Red Cross to Ambriz from the DRC during the conflict, hence the French. There are a few times in life when you meet a true, genuine gentleman, and he was one. We were so lucky to stumble upon this town, it was an unforgettable experience, just what we needed before the day ahead of us.
After a morning brew, we reluctantly departed Ambriz, and had to push to the Luvo border. We knew we were in for another 125 km of BAD road, follow by some ok, followed by some more badness. The first section of the road was marginally better than the day before, followed by a better road from N’Zeto to Tombocco. Then it got not so good, and by the time we had to turn off to M’banza Congo, it was a narrow sand track. Oh well, 15:00 and 60km’s to go, no problem? Ha! So, it was sandy and slow, very sandy, and very slow. At 16:45 we met a minibus taxi stuck. I jumped out and was immediately amazed by the red sand... It was like baby powder, only red. Glen’s face (which is significantly hairier than when we left the UK) had turned a ginger colour, with his beard trapping the sand. As I wondered down to the taxi, now total covered in sand, Glen reversed the Landy, preparing for our first recovery. I grabbed the tow rope, and attached to our and their bumped, and as Glen slipped the White Rhino into gear, she easily pulled the taxi out of trouble.
We were feeling rather pleased with ourselves at our rescue, when we realised the time, 17:00...Oh no! The taxi guys assured us that the border will most defiantly NOT be open now, we hoped that they were wrong.on we went, the never ending road. Passing through lots of small villages, where we got the most amazing reactions, kids, mammas, papas, and grandparents all clapping and cheering us as if we were on the Dakar Ralley. Brilliant, but still not getting us to the border.
After another 20 mins or so, we were getting quite nervous, light was fading, and the border didn’t seem any closer. As we drove, I spotted a sign that said something something..Frontier, well, I knew that frontier meant border in various languages, so we thought we better check it out..Well, it turned out to be the Army’s border patrol unit. Crap! Not the border. I did the best ‘We’re lost, please help’ routine, and low and behold did the unit get their motor cycles out, and escort us to the border not 10 minutes away. Yeah, we were there! Boo, the border was most definitely closed! Luckily though we got through the first set of gates before 18:00, which meant we could camp within the border enclosure (with about 50 truckers).
I managed to find a toilet we could use in the police station, but only whilst it was open (another 5 mins!). So, we did what was needed, and then tucked in for the night. We slept in front of the station, and their generator that went on allllll night. Hardly sleeping as we were both aware that there was a lot of truckers around, and they had all been drinking. However, we needn’t have worried, as I made breakfast, and Glen checked the fluids of the truck, we were surrounded by the nicest group of blokes. All very interested in our trip and all offering to help Glen fix the airpump, which had come lose (I also had a marriage proposal, and when he realised Glen was my husband, immediately asked if I had a sister).
At 08:00 the border opened, and we were first in to get processed. All new border, all new scanners to quicken the process, but the one finger typing, and the discussion between the 2 immigration officers elongated the process, eventually we got through, and headed towards DRC.
At the border gate to DRC, I spotted another overlander. We hadn’t seen anyone since leaving the Caprivi Strip, so, i ran over to introduce myself, and try and gather some intel for our next few weeks travel. They were a Kiwi couple, who were doing London to Cape Town, the reverse of our route. I managed to give them as much info about the roads in Angola, they informed us that the roads in Cameroon were the worse that they had had so far, it was great seeing some other overlanders, but they were on the dreaded 5 day transit visa for Angola and were in need to move on, and we were getting honked at, so, we had to move on. Unfortunately we never got their names.
So, onwards to DRC..We made our way to the border.
Armed with our Letter of Permission from the Ambassador at the Angola Embassy in Harare (issued in place of a proper visa sticker for our passports as none were in stock there despite it having taken them over 3 weeks to process us ...) and a certain degree of trepidation about approaching a notoriously stringent border armed with only an 8.5 x 11 typed page of ‘please’ to get by with, we checked out of Namibia on the Oshikango side (the town bordering the station a “complete shithole” in Clare’s usually very clean-mouthed opinion; a town where, despite it being only just past 0900 on arrival, was teaming with street-side activity, most looking to involve sales of things until just recently secured on a truck trying to work through the chaos unscathed, and where, when she went to fill the gas canisters, I had to quickly jump out to stand guard outside the truck, casually leaning on my 4 foot ebony walking stick and affecting a nonplussed expression which, thankfully, moves on the circling gangs of street kids and Tsotsi sniffing about, all eager for a quick score to start the day by and makes for a zone of relative calm around the truck...).
That done we enter the border area itself and, on parking at Immigration, I fend off various offers of assistance for the subsequent Angola side by the usual gangs of eager-to-be-helpful-for-a-very-reasonable-fee and bilingual if needs be entrepreneurs found at every border crossing, and go in to process our departure. On coming back out 10 minutes later I am greeted by the sight of Clare staring wide-eyed out the windscreen as the most keen/persistent of the potential admin assistants is being beaten vigorously with a baton by a highly-aggrieved – and huge - border policeman at our front bumper for, apparently, having the temerity to tell said officer that it was no problem as he was my “friend” and not, as suspected and of far greater likelihood to the group of officers now joining in the fun with boot and baton, scoping out the truck for a snatch and grab or in any way just being an Unwanted Pain To Tourists.
Over to Angola, where peace reigns in the parking lot - apparently this is not the place to try anything (which is good). And, on presentation of our all-very-official, stamped with a red seal and signed by the appropriate Authority letter, it is a very big, very unmoved by all subsequent argument and appeals reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeejection!!
No, way – absolutely no way – are they accepting the Letter. They are at least apologetic, explaining that the Embassy knows they cannot provide visas at the border (helpfully translated from halting English into even more halting English by numerous, competing Assistants who’ve suddenly materialized when a business opportunity has been smelled on the breeze) – they too do not have the stickers here, but in their case to ensure they are not coerced or otherwise persuaded to issue one against government decree. We must go back into Namibia to the town of Oshakati, 45 mins down the highway, and process one at the Consulate there. Truly, Angola has become our Nemesis.
But this is easier said than done, as we – and, more importantly, the truck - are stamped out of Namibia. To his credit the Head of Immigration walks me back across to the Namibia side to explain the situation to his counterparts there (which is greeted in much the same manner as a troublesome little brother rather meekly trying to explain an issue to his older, disinterested and frankly far-too-above-it-all-to-show-a-care sibling – a very interesting and unexpected dynamic between these supposed Comradely countries). But they finally let him off the hook with a curt dismissal and duly cancel the exit stamp - but then want to retain the vehicle docs as collateral. I refuse. We discuss. I hold fast. Much further discussion (fair enough, as the vehicle is now duly stamped out yet I am asking that it be allowed back in that territory without record of it actually, officially, being there – and so easily then available to sell well below the radar - whilst I sort out an issue originating from the Angolan side). There is much derogatory banter aimed across the border. I wear my ‘trust me’ face and finally win the day – sort of: I can have 24 hours.
Straight to the Consulate we head, and tell our tale of woe and betrayal to a – positive sign – surprisingly sympathetic Section Head. We must return first thing tomorrow (a Weds) and hand in the Letter along with passports, photos, etc – basically the whole shebang from the first time – and she will process post haste.
We do; she doesn’t.
By first thing Friday morning, after repeated and ineffectual drop-in visits during the prior two days, I take up residence in the Consulate and plant myself in the small waiting area watching Angolan a-bit-of-entertainment-for-the-grannies-and-stay-at-home-mums morning television programming (as bad in Portuguese as in any language and from any country ...); then every National Geographic special past it’s copyright date: 6.5 hours later I am still there, and still being studiously ignored by the Section Head as she passes by repeatedly exiting on various Friday errands – new shoes are apparently a Priority Item, as are two large takeaway lunches taken an hour apart. But not our visas.
I begin watching the seconds tick by from 1400 forward, knowing both that they close at 1500 and that the weekend looms large (as does the well-past-due 24 hour curfew from the Namibian authorities that blew past on Weds ...). At 1440, now desperate lunges at various counter staff who materialize from behind the Big Door getting me nowhere, my attention is suddenly drawn to a commotion at the front door: 4 heavily-armed Emergency Response Police have pushed in and are questioning the front desk clerk – probably not a normal situation on another countries sovereign territory ... And I am being pointed at.
On admitting – under some duress given the circumstances – that I am indeed the owner of the “foreign car” and “without wife or other passenger at this time” (fink of a front desk clerk I am thinking) I am most sternly informed that it is payday and the criminal element of this, and every surrounding area, are in town today looking to score and my truck is attracting a lot of unwelcomed attention – the bank security guard where I have parked has called in the situation and I must move immediately. With authority well-sanctioned by the bearing of heavy weaponry they stop all traffic and direct me to u-turn and park directly in front of the Consulate, where they have posted a local policewoman and are browbeating her into submission with the weight of importance they are placing on her for the safety and security of my truck whilst I am back inside the Consulate along with all the Consulate staff, who are lined up outside now being well-entertained by probably the most interesting thing to happen there in a long while.
Then they too start to chastise me for leaving my vehicle on the street on a “dangerous day like today” and I, in fairly clear terms, explain that I did not expect to be required to have it parked there for so long today. Message across clearly, and the Other Head of Section Something Never Clearly Defined - who greets me warmly every day on my arrival but accomplishes nothing else on my behalf – announces he will speak to “those women” and “get them working.” A flurry of activity suddenly erupts like a bee hive broken open, multiple staff flitting about and bumping into each other, competing at the copier and to grab Necessary Stamps and I am out – finally – 45 minutes later (or, as Section Head Who Shops Not Works notes icily, “30 minutes into (her) weekend.”).
Ah, Angola: you had better be goooooooooooooooooood ...
It’s worth noting before leaving this Oshakati thread here that there is only one place to stay in town there (the other, a ‘b&b’ in name only being currently under renovation and apparently having, even when back at 100%, no interest in installing Internet at anytime). So we are staying at the Oshakati Country Lodge. A nice place, in fact a very nice place, though one that is also full of German package tour guests sporting floppy hats with chin straps tied tight, beige nylon ¾ length trousers, ankle socks and supports sandals stalking about the place all night, barking at the staff. That kind of place. But also one with wireless and hot water so we leave fully recharged.
Back up to the border – Namibia, luckily, without issue – and over again to Angola again where, with the same Agents behind their desks as yesterday, we – in the end – finally get though without much fuss at all (a fairly loose interpretation given that overall it’s taken 3.5 weeks of daily visits to the Embassy in Harare; one Letter from the British Embassy in support of our plans – at 74 GBP thank you very much; one border rejection; 3 days of sit-in at the Oshakati Consulate; a few hundred USD and a return through the mean streets of Oshakango to get through to this - again) but much to the chagrin of the hovering Admins who wait, vulture-like, for a sign of weakness in which to quickly exploit we are cleared through and gone this time in under 10 minutes total. Now, apparently, comes the hard part (jayyyyyyyyyyyzuz – after all that only NOW comes the hard part ...???) ...
On up to Xangongo via Ondjiva, the road all fairly clear save for the occasional stop for pics posing heroically atop rusted tanks, tracks blown off, sat at the side of the road mid-firing manoeuvre, charge or tactical withdrawal from any number of wars gone by; and unexpected potholes that jumped out without warning and only after having been lulled into a false sense of ‘no issues on this road’ness, and we’re in Xangongo to find an Auberge of the night. A truck stops aside me while Clare’s off investigating and asks if I’m looking for a place to stay; as we are he says they are starting a campsite down the road some ways and though there’s nothing there as yet we are welcome to stay with him and his wife for the night if we don’t mind roughing it. One look at the Auberge we had aimed for and a bush camp of unknowns seemed a far more appealing option and the offer is gratefully accepted.
What a site it will be once up and running (within months if all may go according to plan versus Africa’s Endless Ability to Confound Any Plan – which the couple, Henne (older, grizzled white SA) and Angela (vibrant, younger, born-in-Angola-left to-be-an-expat-now-back-for-good Portuguese/Angolan ) - who met while working with the Bushman/San in Botswana to make the whole story just that more pan-African (plus new, tri-lingual, bub to add still further to the dynamic) - confirm while relating the story of their having previously bought an hotel in Mozambique and, after a few months of weekly supervision of an increasingly and confusingly ragged re-build where the priorities of the workers seemed to continually shift from as they had directed to not at all, discovered that the owner had sold the property to 3 separate people/groups simultaneously, each of which was then directing the re-fit to their own, conflicting, spec and who had then, in the end whilst deftly evading the wrath of 3 groups of irate ‘owners’, fessed up from afar that he was not in fact the owner at all of said property and had no legal right to have ‘sold’ it to any of them in the first place. But he did have the right – in his own mind - to abscond swiftly with all of their investments ...).
It, their new soon-to-be Angolan campsite, will be set on a rise offering stunning views, a river full of sport fish and the occasional herd of docile cows a’wandering by, bells a’clanging (though there are also still mines on the other side of the access road: despite 8 years of peace and 8 years of concerted de-mining, one had gone off in Dec just across from where their access road meets the main road so we were warned to not drive about anywhere we should please, but that where we were set to camp had been meticulously screened by a German NGO working to make the area safe and had been signed off as habitable now ... So: to trust German efficiency here, or no ...?
Yes; and so glad we did as it was a wonderful evening of stories ‘round the campfire and a night’s sleep in utter silence under a stunning canopy of stars – this site will be a real destination location once up and running for sure ... And, save for the small, opaque scorpion that had lodged itself into my camp chair bag overnight and gave me a bit of a start while packing up as it came out of nowhere with tail a’lashing at being disturbed so early, a wonderfully relaxing place to have spent the night and we were sorry to have to leave so soon. But our 7 Day Transit Visa (negotiated at Oshakati via Hard Luck/Sob Story up from the standard 5 Day) loomed large over our Angola travels like Damocles Sword and we needed to press on sharp’ish if we were to get to the northern border without incurring the 150 USD per day overdue fine they are apparently more than happy to slap on any dawdling or otherwise delayed touristas (of which we were very keen not to be able to confirm).
After Xangongo we headed to Lubango.... The journey started off great, nice tar road for 20km until Humbe, then it deteriorated into rough, destroyed shreds of tarmac and potholes. This lasted for about 90km, with diversions on the way. As always we arrived in the sprawling town of Lubango as the sun was setting. Reading other blogs, we had heard that there was a campsite in town called Caspers Lodge.... Clare managed to navigate there, and got out to strike a deal. She returned with a perplexed expression ... Her Portuguese is not good, but she thought that they wanted $100 US for camping! $25 per person and $50 to park the Land Rover!!!!!! I went out to clarify things, but Clare’s interpretation was correct... $100 for camping ... No Way!
So off we went in search of alternative accommodation.
First we stopped off at the huge Cristo Rei statue (a facsimile of the one overlooking Rio), which stands on a stunning overwatch position above the city and offers a stunning view for miles out (across smog and shanty ...). Worth the stop though – although on the way up you have to contend with bands of young extortionists who string rope across the road and demand payment to lower it. One would be fine, but I could see at least 6 strung out up the road and I’m not playing that game. Angry demands get the ropes lowered at each stop, but not without a stream of angry Portuguese expletives thrown our way each time.
At the bottom of the turn off to Cristo Rei, Clare spotted the Fleur de Lis Guest House. Chancing her luck, she went off to investigate, and found the owner’s son munching on popcorn, watching the football, sinking a few beers. Obviously he was not used to blonde English gals asking for accommodation... Well, the red carpet was rolled out, and a huge discount offered (rooms normally $120 – Angola is expensive!). So, I drive up, park the truck and settle in to our room, and sink a beer or two, whilst making friends with the house Boerboel (a South African Bull Mastif). Then we hear a lively discussion coming from the house, apparently the owners have returned, and are not happy with the son’s pricing structure. Through some delicate negotiating I manage to wangle a deal to let us camp, to avoid paying $$$ for the room (which we didn’t even want in the first place). We slipped off early in the morning ...
Next to Benguela, the road a fair trial with plenty of construction necessitating side roads rough cut against the rolling hills and plenty of sand and dust to contend with; but the scenery is stunning, with masses of baobab trees Clare quickly becomes fairly enamoured of, pointing out yet another prime example minutes after the last. What is interesting is the lack of a rural imprint – miles go by before a small settlement of square hard structures lined up facing the road comes into view, then again miles of nothingness to drive through. Where are all the people? Africa is usually teeming with a vibrant life in the countryside; the cliché being – one all too often proven to be true - that stop for a minute anywhere, no matter how seemingly remote, and somebody will pop up out of (seemingly) nowhere to see what you are up to. But not here: has the capital Luanda, having grown something crazy like from 50,000 to 7 million, drawn them all in with a siren’s call of wealth and opportunity; or were they all just out of sight, years of wars and rolling-through armies developing a hard-earned need to steer clear of obvious routes in favour of security out of the sight lines? Or is Angola just so large it swallows it’s population with ease ...? Don’t know, but it makes for wonderful driving – road quality notwithstanding – through miles of unspoilt scenery without cow, goat or small wayward child running pell mell about the road to contend with ...
Rolling steeply down out of the hills we can smell the sea well before seeing it, a wonderful fresh scent it takes a moment for our brains to process as we’ve not enjoyed it since Mozambique, some months, many thousands of miles and right the other side of the continent now behind us. Benguela proves a bit of an enigma at first, as it welcomes you with little more fanfare than industrial lands of cement factories and road construction equipment followed by a fairly rough-around-the-edges end of town before opening up into a piece of Europe dropped down into Africa, all wide boulevards, beautiful ocean-front with promenade and cafes set facing the sun setting on a wide strip of bright white sand, sharp cars and even sharper dressers (Clare soon give Angolans a ‘Best Dressed’ accolade, the youths all a’swagger with low slung jeans, mirror shades, bling and attitude, adults in bright-coloured suits with contrasting shirt and tie combos Oswald Boateng would be hard-pressed to match, all with shoes shined so bright they gleeeeeeeam in the sun). And a mass of ‘white folk’ – we are told later that a few years back 263 Portuguese applied to return but last year, with Angola’s economy booming and Portugal’s in the doldrums, over 26,000 arrived.
We stayed at Nancy’s English School & Guest House; run by a New Yorker who’s been in Benguela for over 16 years - it’s a wonderful b&b and highly recommended. In exchange for agreeing to speak to a class we are set up in a lovely room in celebration of our being on honeymoon, and that night and the next we thoroughly enjoy first presenting a 15 minute overview of our trip so far to her Intermediate class, and on the next a one hour Q&A with her Advanced class. The Angolan government has bowed to external pressure from the multitude of global companies now setting up in Angola and who are insisting on English-speaking employees and so introduced English into the schools there but there remains a high degree of resistance we are told so private schools fill a vital niche for university students, police and government employees who are seeking to advance their careers, or career future opportunities, out of the binds of being Portuguese-speaking only (as one senior student described it, Angola has a “big wall built around the country” by being Portuguese-speaking while surrounded by either French or English-speaking neighbours).
Heading north again after two days in a total relaxed state enjoying pastries, excellent coffee and a wonderful seafood and pizza dinner that scored the highest marks of the trip so far, we aim to be south of Luanda by nightfall. The road is not bad, lots of rolling hills that do require unfailing concentration (emphasized by the incredible number of destroyed trailer trucks and minicabs that have fired themselves off the verges) and some potholing but good time can be made on this stretch.
Spent the night at Cabo Ledo at Pescaria Querios Lodge, a bit of an odd campsite situated on a stunning stretch of beach shared with the local fishing community (you have to drive right through their village to reach the campsite, one of those arrivals where you keep thinking ‘is this right??’ as you progress on the GPS’s terse instruction, passing within a hand-span of someone’s shanty, the children all stopping play to point and stare). It’s a great site, but family run and with the feel that it really might be for that family only – open, but not welcoming. But the site is lovely and with various, and highly appealing, seafood specials advertised for the resto we look forward to a bit of a beach-break and a dinner of what should be the freshest seafood available anywhere. However, on enquiry we are informed that a plate of 3 prawns would be 50 USD! Clare double-checks: could this be an error in translation? No: 50 USD per plate, sides extra, and we are basically ignored after that. We retreat back to the truck and fire up the gas cooker for some more realistic fare, closely overseen by the family’s pet pig that strolls about snuffling for scraps tableside, competing with various mangy beach dogs who circle about outside the shadows thrown by the truck, and a rooster that does not stop crowing to draw breath once in 12 hours. All a bit of an oddness overall, but lovely setting ...
Skipping Luanda completely – and thankfully - via the new ring road (not well-signposted, blink and you’ll miss the obscured side-route to access it, requiring a very bumpy and very competitive side-trip along a dirt track filled with construction trucks wider than the road itself). Also – and also thankfully – a chance to finally fill up on the famously cheap diesel: cheap it may be in Angola, but readily-available on our route up it has not been.
We were heading to N’Zeto, as we heard of a good beach to camp on..However, we found ourselves on the worse stretch of road of our trip so far, 200 km of ‘an absolute fu@ker of a road’ (quoted from Glen driving on said road), there was no pattern to it; broken tarmac, car eating potholes, no side shoulder, which we just had to weave our way through. After 16:00 we were still over 100km from our desired stop, and at the rate we were going (less than 25km/h) no way were we going to make it before dark, so a decision had to be made to detour off our route to a small village called Ambriz, which Dave the satnav informed us had a Hotel. Having no idea what this place was like, but knowing that we had to drive a further 25 km off our route to get there, there was no turning back.
The village (former town) was eerily beautiful. It looked like a film set with building facades, wide empty boulevards, and empty bombed out buildings. We found the hotel, not difficult being the only one, and we were greeted in French, a blessed relief after trying to communicate in Portuguese. I cannot express how welcome we were made to feel in this town. Moments like this make you forget days like that. We had a wonderful evening with the guys in town discussing our route. We camped in the hotel carpark, but made sure that we paid the price of the cheapest room (it seems a rarity that people come through this town). Our security guard (“en vigilance pour la nuit pour vous Monsieur!”), was an older gentleman who was relocated by the Red Cross to Ambriz from the DRC during the conflict, hence the French. There are a few times in life when you meet a true, genuine gentleman, and he was one. We were so lucky to stumble upon this town, it was an unforgettable experience, just what we needed before the day ahead of us.
After a morning brew, we reluctantly departed Ambriz, and had to push to the Luvo border. We knew we were in for another 125 km of BAD road, follow by some ok, followed by some more badness. The first section of the road was marginally better than the day before, followed by a better road from N’Zeto to Tombocco. Then it got not so good, and by the time we had to turn off to M’banza Congo, it was a narrow sand track. Oh well, 15:00 and 60km’s to go, no problem? Ha! So, it was sandy and slow, very sandy, and very slow. At 16:45 we met a minibus taxi stuck. I jumped out and was immediately amazed by the red sand... It was like baby powder, only red. Glen’s face (which is significantly hairier than when we left the UK) had turned a ginger colour, with his beard trapping the sand. As I wondered down to the taxi, now total covered in sand, Glen reversed the Landy, preparing for our first recovery. I grabbed the tow rope, and attached to our and their bumped, and as Glen slipped the White Rhino into gear, she easily pulled the taxi out of trouble.
We were feeling rather pleased with ourselves at our rescue, when we realised the time, 17:00...Oh no! The taxi guys assured us that the border will most defiantly NOT be open now, we hoped that they were wrong.on we went, the never ending road. Passing through lots of small villages, where we got the most amazing reactions, kids, mammas, papas, and grandparents all clapping and cheering us as if we were on the Dakar Ralley. Brilliant, but still not getting us to the border.
After another 20 mins or so, we were getting quite nervous, light was fading, and the border didn’t seem any closer. As we drove, I spotted a sign that said something something..Frontier, well, I knew that frontier meant border in various languages, so we thought we better check it out..Well, it turned out to be the Army’s border patrol unit. Crap! Not the border. I did the best ‘We’re lost, please help’ routine, and low and behold did the unit get their motor cycles out, and escort us to the border not 10 minutes away. Yeah, we were there! Boo, the border was most definitely closed! Luckily though we got through the first set of gates before 18:00, which meant we could camp within the border enclosure (with about 50 truckers).
I managed to find a toilet we could use in the police station, but only whilst it was open (another 5 mins!). So, we did what was needed, and then tucked in for the night. We slept in front of the station, and their generator that went on allllll night. Hardly sleeping as we were both aware that there was a lot of truckers around, and they had all been drinking. However, we needn’t have worried, as I made breakfast, and Glen checked the fluids of the truck, we were surrounded by the nicest group of blokes. All very interested in our trip and all offering to help Glen fix the airpump, which had come lose (I also had a marriage proposal, and when he realised Glen was my husband, immediately asked if I had a sister).
At 08:00 the border opened, and we were first in to get processed. All new border, all new scanners to quicken the process, but the one finger typing, and the discussion between the 2 immigration officers elongated the process, eventually we got through, and headed towards DRC.
At the border gate to DRC, I spotted another overlander. We hadn’t seen anyone since leaving the Caprivi Strip, so, i ran over to introduce myself, and try and gather some intel for our next few weeks travel. They were a Kiwi couple, who were doing London to Cape Town, the reverse of our route. I managed to give them as much info about the roads in Angola, they informed us that the roads in Cameroon were the worse that they had had so far, it was great seeing some other overlanders, but they were on the dreaded 5 day transit visa for Angola and were in need to move on, and we were getting honked at, so, we had to move on. Unfortunately we never got their names.
So, onwards to DRC..We made our way to the border.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Zambia - Take 2
ZAMBIA
Right; on leaving Kariba and Clare’s overviews of our travels there it’s back over to me ... At the Zim side of the border; or, alternately, at the Zim side of the Kariba Dam (which forms the border with Zambia) we are quickly through the required admin with a minimum of fuss – only a few trailers comprise this side and I don’t think much in the way of traffic passes by with any regularity so it’s about the sleepiest outpost we’ve passed through so far. Unexpectedly met up with Clive and Taniya there as well so a good catch-up. What we both meet there for the first time, however, is Interpol. The Inspector must check our VIN and chassis numbers and verify the vehicles are not comprised of stolen parts. Fair enough – except I’ve no idea where the chassis number he’s requiring is located. I offer many options; all are rejected (and with some measure of disdain as well ...). Finally he demands a rag and, on hands and knee, cleans a spot on the frame past behind the wheel. There is found the mythical chassis number (and is verified to his – fairly ‘jobsworthy’ - satisfaction). I promptly review every manual page and document I hold on the vehicle and none give this location so am left not feeling quite as amateur-owner as for the first few minutes but still, Interpol is left unimpressed with his interaction with me and moves on to Clive, who has been watching proceedings with a mix of amusement and ‘wtf?’ness ...”
Across the magnificent Dam and we’re quickly (back again) into Zambia, where border proceedings, which are far more ‘developed’ than on the other side, take over two hours of one-fingered computer peckings and ‘go to building X over there and speak to so-and-so’s’ to get through the various requirements (Interpol, Carnet, Visa, third-party insurance, road tax and, finally, municipal/regional tax). I apparently catch the ‘B Team’ on all this and Clive and Taniya are well on their way by an hour or more before we’re through, but all painless in the end ...
On to the capital city, Luanda, to apply for our visa for le Republique Democratique de Congo (RDC; or, the ex ‘Zaire’ of Mobuto and, for those of you of enough age or sporting interest, the 1970’s (‘76/’78?) Ali-Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” fame) and take on some much-needed fresh stores. We check into the Chachacha backpackers, packed full of young overlanders from various companies, squatting on the grass by their two-man tents, a smattering of Europeans families on holidays, aid workers on break and too many young-and-just-oh-so-earnest church group do-gooders on chummies spending their home-town’s tithes for a few weeks at local development projects and the chance to wear the t-shirt ...
Time is tight as we want to get our application into the Embassy today before their close-of-business-at-3-and-not-a-second-later rule (which all embassies apparently strictly adhere to) kicks in: do they know where the RDC Embassy is? No. But they will get us a taxi driver who does. Great. Fifteen minutes later we’re in and on the go ... around the corner. The RDC Embassy is all of 300 metres from Chachacha. Our driver finds this all perfectly reasonable, and we’re out of the car – and 5 USD – in under 3 minutes ... However, we are too late (cue start of next 5 months of drawing out mime, interpretive dance and completely-ignored-at-the-time high school French classes thankfully since improved upon the hard way working with a Paris-based client for six months last year - and the associated surly waiters, taxi drivers and Eurostar staff required of the weekly journeys there ...) – we must returnee a demain. Pas de problem; we do, and are subsequently done the next day in under 4 hours total turnaround.
Time for a slightly less giggly and “oh-my-god”’y change of travellers so we set out for the Eureka campground just outside of town, where we are incredibly lucky to meet Marius, a farmer from just outside of Livingstone who, over the course of about 4 more beers than originally planned, invites us to stay at his the next night, which we do. One of the kindest, nicest people we’ve met yet on the road yet. Gave a tour of his fantastic property, cows and tobacco fields (how can you not like a guy who announces “grab a drink and we’ll go for a drive around the place”), made us dinner, shared plenty of wine and stories of growing up in Zambia, and let us fuss over his manic dogs and stay in one of his son’s rooms (who was away at school in SA) affording us a wonderful hot shower for the first time in far too long. Terrific all ‘round.
On his reco we stopped into Foley’s Africa in Livingstone (expat Brit and owner Nick is the non-Foley half of the original pair that now sees a Foleys in both Zambia and the UK); it’s an excellent garage, though one where I went in to have my windshield wiper lever re-connected (apparently requiring nothing more advanced than 2 minutes and a tube of super glue) and left, some 6.5 hours later, with a new expansion tank, vacuum pump, bearings, belts, fluids and assorted tightenings spotted by both he and his lead mechanic (who, on my hearing an unfamiliar hissing noise in the engine, replied to my query of concern without a hint of totally-appropriate rebuke: “That’s your vacuum pump. You’d not have heard that sound before because now it works and before it didn’t.” Got it ...). And a glued-on wiper arm too.
Happily back together again, quite by chance, with Clive and Taniya at the Waterfront campsite (where we had stayed at the very end of our initial overlanding with the group back seemingly years ago now in April) and a great evening of wine and laughs at each other’s expense ensues (well, late afternoon really as we only got in at 4 and Chief Instigator Clive is to ground by 6 from a far-too-energetic start to it all after apparently little more than breakfast having been cleared away ...). Always such great company. We also learn (and I hope I’ve got this right if you’re reading this Taniya ...) that Taniya was (before retiring early for a life of leisure on the road) the first female helicopter pilot in the British Army Air Corps, head of her Squadron, and Operations Officer (G2? G3?) to Canadian General Hillier during the conflict in Bosnia – which all goes a (very) long way towards explaining the extraordinarily-detailed and colour-coordinated Excel spreadsheets of GPS coordinates plus map-tacked-and-route-marked hard-copy maps she has kindly shared with us. (All very impressive really.)
Time to get some distance covered and we head off - early(ish) and clear-focused(ish) - next morning for the Caprivi Strip, a long finger of land that points itself straight east out of the top north-east corner of Namibia and in between Zambia, Angola and Botswana, providing us a clear corridor over to the border crossing with Angola at Santa Clara without the requirement of further visas. Having touristed the area on the first trip through we don’t delay and after a long but decent day’s driving we’re in place and ready to turn north again.
With only a few exceptions it’s all been fun and games and English speaking previously; it’s time now to face down Angola in all its Portuguese, don’t stray off the road mine warnings and famously dire roads glory.
The real drive begins ...
Right; on leaving Kariba and Clare’s overviews of our travels there it’s back over to me ... At the Zim side of the border; or, alternately, at the Zim side of the Kariba Dam (which forms the border with Zambia) we are quickly through the required admin with a minimum of fuss – only a few trailers comprise this side and I don’t think much in the way of traffic passes by with any regularity so it’s about the sleepiest outpost we’ve passed through so far. Unexpectedly met up with Clive and Taniya there as well so a good catch-up. What we both meet there for the first time, however, is Interpol. The Inspector must check our VIN and chassis numbers and verify the vehicles are not comprised of stolen parts. Fair enough – except I’ve no idea where the chassis number he’s requiring is located. I offer many options; all are rejected (and with some measure of disdain as well ...). Finally he demands a rag and, on hands and knee, cleans a spot on the frame past behind the wheel. There is found the mythical chassis number (and is verified to his – fairly ‘jobsworthy’ - satisfaction). I promptly review every manual page and document I hold on the vehicle and none give this location so am left not feeling quite as amateur-owner as for the first few minutes but still, Interpol is left unimpressed with his interaction with me and moves on to Clive, who has been watching proceedings with a mix of amusement and ‘wtf?’ness ...”
Across the magnificent Dam and we’re quickly (back again) into Zambia, where border proceedings, which are far more ‘developed’ than on the other side, take over two hours of one-fingered computer peckings and ‘go to building X over there and speak to so-and-so’s’ to get through the various requirements (Interpol, Carnet, Visa, third-party insurance, road tax and, finally, municipal/regional tax). I apparently catch the ‘B Team’ on all this and Clive and Taniya are well on their way by an hour or more before we’re through, but all painless in the end ...
On to the capital city, Luanda, to apply for our visa for le Republique Democratique de Congo (RDC; or, the ex ‘Zaire’ of Mobuto and, for those of you of enough age or sporting interest, the 1970’s (‘76/’78?) Ali-Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” fame) and take on some much-needed fresh stores. We check into the Chachacha backpackers, packed full of young overlanders from various companies, squatting on the grass by their two-man tents, a smattering of Europeans families on holidays, aid workers on break and too many young-and-just-oh-so-earnest church group do-gooders on chummies spending their home-town’s tithes for a few weeks at local development projects and the chance to wear the t-shirt ...
Time is tight as we want to get our application into the Embassy today before their close-of-business-at-3-and-not-a-second-later rule (which all embassies apparently strictly adhere to) kicks in: do they know where the RDC Embassy is? No. But they will get us a taxi driver who does. Great. Fifteen minutes later we’re in and on the go ... around the corner. The RDC Embassy is all of 300 metres from Chachacha. Our driver finds this all perfectly reasonable, and we’re out of the car – and 5 USD – in under 3 minutes ... However, we are too late (cue start of next 5 months of drawing out mime, interpretive dance and completely-ignored-at-the-time high school French classes thankfully since improved upon the hard way working with a Paris-based client for six months last year - and the associated surly waiters, taxi drivers and Eurostar staff required of the weekly journeys there ...) – we must returnee a demain. Pas de problem; we do, and are subsequently done the next day in under 4 hours total turnaround.
Time for a slightly less giggly and “oh-my-god”’y change of travellers so we set out for the Eureka campground just outside of town, where we are incredibly lucky to meet Marius, a farmer from just outside of Livingstone who, over the course of about 4 more beers than originally planned, invites us to stay at his the next night, which we do. One of the kindest, nicest people we’ve met yet on the road yet. Gave a tour of his fantastic property, cows and tobacco fields (how can you not like a guy who announces “grab a drink and we’ll go for a drive around the place”), made us dinner, shared plenty of wine and stories of growing up in Zambia, and let us fuss over his manic dogs and stay in one of his son’s rooms (who was away at school in SA) affording us a wonderful hot shower for the first time in far too long. Terrific all ‘round.
On his reco we stopped into Foley’s Africa in Livingstone (expat Brit and owner Nick is the non-Foley half of the original pair that now sees a Foleys in both Zambia and the UK); it’s an excellent garage, though one where I went in to have my windshield wiper lever re-connected (apparently requiring nothing more advanced than 2 minutes and a tube of super glue) and left, some 6.5 hours later, with a new expansion tank, vacuum pump, bearings, belts, fluids and assorted tightenings spotted by both he and his lead mechanic (who, on my hearing an unfamiliar hissing noise in the engine, replied to my query of concern without a hint of totally-appropriate rebuke: “That’s your vacuum pump. You’d not have heard that sound before because now it works and before it didn’t.” Got it ...). And a glued-on wiper arm too.
Happily back together again, quite by chance, with Clive and Taniya at the Waterfront campsite (where we had stayed at the very end of our initial overlanding with the group back seemingly years ago now in April) and a great evening of wine and laughs at each other’s expense ensues (well, late afternoon really as we only got in at 4 and Chief Instigator Clive is to ground by 6 from a far-too-energetic start to it all after apparently little more than breakfast having been cleared away ...). Always such great company. We also learn (and I hope I’ve got this right if you’re reading this Taniya ...) that Taniya was (before retiring early for a life of leisure on the road) the first female helicopter pilot in the British Army Air Corps, head of her Squadron, and Operations Officer (G2? G3?) to Canadian General Hillier during the conflict in Bosnia – which all goes a (very) long way towards explaining the extraordinarily-detailed and colour-coordinated Excel spreadsheets of GPS coordinates plus map-tacked-and-route-marked hard-copy maps she has kindly shared with us. (All very impressive really.)
Time to get some distance covered and we head off - early(ish) and clear-focused(ish) - next morning for the Caprivi Strip, a long finger of land that points itself straight east out of the top north-east corner of Namibia and in between Zambia, Angola and Botswana, providing us a clear corridor over to the border crossing with Angola at Santa Clara without the requirement of further visas. Having touristed the area on the first trip through we don’t delay and after a long but decent day’s driving we’re in place and ready to turn north again.
With only a few exceptions it’s all been fun and games and English speaking previously; it’s time now to face down Angola in all its Portuguese, don’t stray off the road mine warnings and famously dire roads glory.
The real drive begins ...
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