A sneak Angola peak

Mosulu Peninsula at dawn

Yours truly and a little King fish

Sunrise on the beach - fishing again!

Beach debris

The view from my bedroom - sunrise over the sea in Luanda!

Creepy

Last night I had the most exciting tickling sensation between my toes. I am tired of slapping myself silly every time it feels as if a mosquito is investigating a potential snack site. Instead I move my foot and feel proud of the way that I have mastered my self control.

The tickling continues...

I move my foot again and carry on eating my dinner. A third round of tickling and I lose my cool. When I look under the table I am greeted by a large red armoured insect, the nasty cockroach!

It did not enjoy what happened next!

At Sea

I am invited on a deep sea fishing trip by the MD of the company I am consulting to. As a consultant, I cannot say no. So I say yes! I am not a fisherman at all, and I certainly have never been out to sea to catch fish, normally I skate over them all on my surfboard.

I gingerly take a motion sickness prevention tablet the night before the trip, just as the instruction packet tells me to do. Our rendezvous at a fishing lodge on the Kwanza River, some distance away requires me to get up with the birds in the darkness, again. One normally gets up this early to join everyone else dodging traffic, so as to all be late at work together. I take another tablet and hope for the best. I do not want to spend the day at sea, puking over the side of our craft.

The fishing lodge is very rustic and beautifully nestled on the banks of this river. I pack in a good breakfast of jam sandwiches and avocado toast, as one does before setting off to sea! I am not worried about the fish; instead I am very worried about my ability to ride the waves.

Our craft is an oversized motorboat with two 150HP motors on the back. It bristles with fishing rods and tackle. I am no closer to understanding how I will fare. I need to suck it up!

We cruise up the river and then make a run through the waves attacking the shore. They are bigger than I thought, perhaps I could do some surfing in this country. The skipper mistimes a big swell and the boat is launched into the air off its top. We are weightless until we crash down behind the wave. That was fun, I can enjoy this!

Five minutes later and we are out at sea. A clear brown swathe marks the edge of the river outflow with the rest of the sea. This is where we will be fishing. Lines are tossed over the side and some bait fish are caught practically instantaneously. These are then hooked and cast out on special lines for the fish that we are hunting this morning, the mighty Tarpin! A couple of minutes later, one of the rods starts a high pitched whine as fishing line unravels at a mighty speed. Boyce grabs the rod and hangs on for life. After a good 20 minute fight, the fish lies on the water alongside the boat. It is absolutely exhausted, as is Boyce!

We take a picture of Boyce in the water with his fish. This is not a fish you find anywhere and certainly a proud fishing moment. If you are a fisherman of course! The hook is removed and the fish gladly swims off, probably keen for a sleep with its eyes open , safely locked away in its house.

Through the day another Tarpin is caught as well as plenty of King fish and two little Barracudas. Somehow I manage to bring in the Barracudas and some King fish. We release them all back into their watery home and I feel pretty thrilled about having taken part in this game of fish and hook.

Late in the afternoon we make our way back to shore. I am exhausted but excited that both breakfast and lunch stayed down the hatch! My sons will be most proud of me!

Still in Traffic

I am fascinated by the world that unfolds daily outside of the car window. At home when stuck in traffic, there is little to keep ones attention bar the senseless chatter on the radio and the cramp in your right leg.

60% of the population here is under the age of 18 years old. Kids are everywhere, playing in the dirt and rubbish, carrying loads for their parents, and standing around outside their schools. Most babies can be seen strapped to their mothers backs, contentedly dreaming away the day. One just does not see old people; it is as if they have all vanished.

We drive down a road that is filled with graffiti, finger painted in the dust that cakes the abandoned cars. At its end we pass a free clinic. At least 100 woman and their babies stand around waiting for it to open. They are clothed in bright colours and even though there is a sense of desperation, there is also this joyous sense of hope.

I miss my own children. I feel as if I have abandoned them, swapped them out for a piece of Africa and 15 hour work days. I miss my wife, my other half, and hope that this trip, this small sacrifice of each other for a short time, is the right thing to do.

Night Driving

Traffic in Luanda gives one plenty of time to stare out of the windows and to think. I have even fallen asleep, so hard was I staring and thinking! As a South African who avoids traffic at all costs, this kind of waste makes me want to cry. Most people spend four hours a day stuck or at least barely crawling along the streets.

Tonight is the first time that I have been driven when the world is dark. It does not seem to be too much different to the day. The dust hangs thickly in the air, people crowd the streets, abandoned cars laze around as if waiting to die, not knowing that they are already long dead. Lines of tail lights stretch lazily in all directions and frustrated drivers hoot at other frustrated drivers, especially if there is a metre or two of unused road space.

Our cocoon of air conditioned comfort completely cuts us off from the smells, dirt and squalor that is Africa at both its best and worst. Yet Africa is alive out there and we are pretty much asleep in here!

Reflections on another world

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...