This country is nothing like I imagined it to be and yet it is Africa at its heart. Angola was a place that most young South African men would get to see down the barrel of a rifle, as they were conscripted to fight against the supposed terrorists of the South African apartheid government here in the early nineties. I was lucky enough to miss getting asked to make the trip, yet many men I know were not. One friend laughingly asked me to apologise for all the things he did up here. It was meant as a joke but I do think he was deadly serious!
I am picked up at the airport by a tall Angolan in a red cap. He was easy to spot in the crowds of people thronging the exit. Improvised hand gestures allow his Portuguese and my English to coexist in a fragile understanding of each other. I follow him; it seems the right thing to do.
I discover that in Angola one drives on the right hand side of the road. Slowly, but furiously! I had heard about Angolan traffic but its immensity and intensity did not seem to phase my red capped Angolan in the least. His route to wherever we were going twisted and turned randomly as he threaded his way along back roads through densely packed suburbs.
Little girls walk hand in hand with their mothers, their hair braided prettily with pink and white shells. School children bustle along in their sparkling white shirts over their clothes, Angolan style school uniforms. Babies heads loll in sleep on their mothers backs as mothers go about their business. Everyone looks so young. I am told that 60% of the population here is under the age of 18; old people are just not seen.
Endless rabbit warrens of dirt potholed roads wind between grey concrete block houses, a decaying low slung concrete jungle that teems with life. These are not roads, just spaces between houses and yet here I am, peeking into those houses, a part of the general menace trying to avoid traffic. We really should not be here!
Litter abounds. It is everywhere and seems as if it has been lying outside forever. It shocks me how people can live with so much rubbish heaped in mounds on the road, next to houses, and in the open drains. Paper, plastic bottles, old appliances, and thousands of old cars! The cars are the worst! I wonder if people just leave them where they break down, calmly walk home, and forget about them. Is this a city where nobody has any pride?
We happen upon a car wash. Perhaps 50 cars lined up under the attention of furiously scrubbing attendants. The ground is a greasy black marsh and unused hosepipes belch water pumped by pumps lined up on a nearby river bank. It seems a pathetic attempt to defy the elements, as it probably will not take more than a 100 metre drive to cake on the dust just as thickly as before.
We continue our dance with endless cars, pedestrians, and potholes. I stare out of my window, fascinated. The rhythm is frenetic and relentless. I have to continually remember to hang on to solid bits of the car or suffer the agony of my head trying to leave the vehicle but being stopped by the window glass, again!
Every now and then we pass an open doorway, an invitation to peer into somebody’s life. The scene does not change much, a tiny courtyard filled with junk. White plastic chairs try to look useful, but reveal little about the inhabitants.
We suddenly wheel spin aggressively onto a highway. Eight lanes of traffic jammed into a three lane road. Now we sit and wait. My red capped Angolan is very annoyed with himself; I assume he has many more back roads up his sleeve. After an eternity of Portuguese English silence, and a short stretch of highway, we are off into the obscurity of another Luanda suburb.
I hang on for dear life and wonder what a lifetime of this must feel like. I seriously wonder if I can survive for just a couple of weeks here...
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