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.
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Many thanks for reading.
G and C