It was true what they say about roads in Angola - don't believe what your map is trying to tell you! The fat red line that is supposed to something of major importance may well be just a series of potholes connected by a little bit of tarmac, or a dusty track.
The main road in Angola. Yes, really!
On the way to Lubango.
You can't race on those roads.
Loads of decent baobab trees around.
South-Angolan landscape.
Baobab trees.
But the benefit of the bad road is that you go slow and you have time to notice things, and we were lucky to spot a chameleon - a very cool looking reptile.
Chameleon - currently changing colour to match my gloves.
Now the same colour as my gloves.
Set the fellow loose into more safe grounds than the road - started to change its colours again.
Considering a somewhat dodgy reputation that Angola has, it was interesting that we spent our first night there bushcamping. We did not have much choice actually, as the distances between sizeable villages are quite big (or it just takes a whole lot of time to get from one to another due to bad road conditions), so as the sun was setting behind the huge baobab trees aside the road, its red blaze amplified by the fine dust floating around, we just turned off the road and pitched our tent. Later on it became clear that it wasn't more than some 50 meters from someone's house, but no one came to bother us. I guess they were simply too afraid. In the morning though, as we started the engine, the whole family ran out of their compound to wave.
That day we arrived in Lubango, a town of 100 000 inhabitants, although looking at it from above one would say there are a lot more people, most of them living in slums.
Lubango below.
Panorama of Lubango from above (click to enlarge)
This is the view that you get from the statue of Cristo Rei, supposedly a smaller copy of Cristo Redentor situated on Corcovado in Rio de Janeiro. If you look closer, the Christ's face and body bear some "scars" from the 27-year war.
Cristo Rei.
It's massive.
See also the people above, on the viewing platform where I took the Lubango panorama.
Lubango folk on the site.
Boy at the Christ statue, enjoying heavenly views of the city.
In Lubango we looked up a man called José also known from Metaljockey's ride report. He organised us a room in one wing of his pub, Los Falcoes (The Falcons), which is currently under renovation. Actually a room with a bathroom, although during the two days that we spent in Lubango, there was only running water for two hours. The thing is, that in Lubango water is given only twice a week, so everybody fills up their tanks, but to get the water out of the tank, you need to run a pump, but electricity is also quite elusive, so it is quite tricky. No complaints really - we were thoroughly grateful for a secure place to stay, and for free - according to guidebooks, anything below 100 USD a night in Angola is total crap.
José also took us to see some local bikers, gave us food and drink and helped us through some police checkpoints on the way out of Lubango - he's trained a fair share of local military, and has a black belt in karate. A really nice guy.
José.
At his Falcons biker's pub - currently under renovation.
Since we were in Lubango, we went to see one of the more famous sights in Angola - the Leba pass. Considering the sad road conditions in Angola, this one is a true masterpiece, and quite spectacular as well.
Panorama of Serra Leba - it's a complete contrast to average horrible Angolan roads - it's piece of art, precision and quality! (click to enlarge)
Panorama of the mountains behind Serra Leba (click to enlarge)
But one thing took us absolutely breatheless, and quite literally so. We'd seen a photo of the volcanic fissure of Tunda-Vala near Lubango, but once we got there, we were simply stunned. There are no rails or warning signs, but just some twenty meters off the road there is a deep canyon - and I mean really deep - around thousand meters, on the edge of which it is absolutely strange to stand as it is just unconceivable, and green lowlands stretch to the far end of the horizon. No photo can describe it really. It has a ghostly feel to it.
Road to Tunda-Vala.
Talking about ghosts - there was a time when criminals were executed here, sometimes just shot, but sometimes blindfolded and told to walk across the edge. Makes you feel hollow, especially with the sounds of birds echoing in the darkness of the canyon.
...::: LISTEN :::...
Arriving to Tunda-Vala.
On the edge of Tunda-Vala fissure - the ground is around 1200 meters (4000 ft) below, an almost straight drop!
Tunda-Vala volcanic fissure - the picture simply doesn't reflect it's awe-inspiring massiveness.
Fissure, with ground dragged into two parts.
The view from Tunda-Vala.
Panoramic view from Tunda-Vala (click to enlarge)
Although Angola is one of the fastest growing countries in the world, having lots of oil, diamonds and gold, the uneven distribution of wealth is striking. It is strange to see children attending open-air schools installed in and around old Portuguese buildings, not even having a chair to sit on. But the Portuguese buildings are majestic, and obviously the most developed buildings around - after the "white guys" left, nothing much has been built, except for the good old mudbrick houses, or some Soviet architecture.
Panorama of an Angolan village (click to enlarge)
Women washing clothes and themselves in the village-side river.
School inside and outside the church - they even don't have chairs or tables in schools, they have to sit on the ground and write on their knees.
We left Lubango behind, and after hours on bumpy roads we made it to the coastal town of Benguela - it bears the same name as the cold current that runs along the west coast of Africa and that makes the latter look dry and barren, substantially different from the sultry tropics of the east coast. It is also where one of the greatest projects of last century - the Benguela Railway - got its name from. Its construction began in 1904, and it was only completed almost thirty years later.
On Angolan roads.
The Benguela Railway that was built to link the copper mines in the Belgian Congo (today's DRC) and Zambia with the port town of Lobito close to Benguela, was by the end of the sixties the biggest employer of Angola, employing some 14 000 people. Today, however, it is mostly ruins that we can see of this once grand enterprise - during the war, many of the railway bridges and stations were blown up and trains derailed.
In Lobito we happened to see some age-old machinery, looking like tough mining equipment from the times long gone, rusting by the road. No doubt they all deserve a place in museum, but for now they just stand there in a sad fashion.
Old equipment from 1930s left rusting on the streets of Lobito.
Amazing steam-based equipment that used wood instead of coal for fuel.
Some smaller one.
Just as other Angolan towns, Lobito too has a strange atmosphere. At first sight it looks like nothing more than a big mudbrick village, or almost a slum, but when you look closer, it reveals its old grandeur, even stylishness. The remnants of colonial buildings and palm fringed sidewalks make you wonder how it must have been in the good old times when the mining business was bringing in a lot of cash and Angola was snobbier than Portugal itself. But as the story goes, the war took its toll and today all that's left of the former glory is a sad nostalgy.
Angolan village just outside Lobito.
Panorama from Lobito's peninsula.
On the way to Luanda, the capital, we could see more Africa in its raw state - after the high levels of development in South Africa and Namibia it was refreshing to see African-style markets and women doing laundry and bathing in the rivers, the way it has always been. But it was also a little bit strange - when we stopped by some roadside stall to buy some fruit, people would not become excited, but instead the silence would come, interrupted by shy whispers. After a while the strangeness would dissolve, but it is a long time since we'd have that experience.
Market day in Angola.
Want some banana?
Fuel for your motorcycle?
A washing day.
Clothes and bodies get cleaned in the rivers.
Mouth of Cubali, old destroyed bridge also visible.
Central-Angolan landscape.
Binga falls.
Fishermen blelow one of the Binga falls.
Panorama from above the Binga falls (click to enlarge)
It got dark before we could even get close to Luanda, so we had once again to find a place to pitch our tent. The problem with Angola is not a high population density or huge amounts of potentially dangerous animals (many of them were killed by the army during the war so there is not much wildlife left), but thousands of mines that still litter the ground, so one has to be really careful when wandering off the road. It took us quite a while to track down a place that had obvious animal tracks that we could erect our tent on, afraid to deviate too much from the well-trodden paths even when going for a pee. Also there are lots of wildfires, one of which we saw on the horizon, so one really has to be careful.
When we arrived in Angola's capital, Luanda, we first headed to the Yacht Club that offers free camping space for overlanders - the prices of accomodation in Angola are ridiculously high, and in Luanda even more so (according to some recent statistics, Luanda is the most expensive city to live in the whole world!). But late in the evening, Lilio, president of the local motorcycle club Amigos de Picada ("picada" standing for bad roads, of course), whom we had contacted before over e-mail to ask a few questions, came and looked us up. And as we explained that because we are not huge fans of big cities our plan was to head out the next day and visit a place that is called the Shipwreck Bay just north of Luanda, he kindly suggested that we go and see the shipwrecks in his boat instead - to get a different perspective.
Surely, the next morning we found out that the "boat" was actually a decent 600hp speedboat that took us first through the huge port of Luanda, buzzing with activity.
Panorama of Luanda - looks modern from the distance, but once you're in the center it's Africa, dirt streets with meter deep holes (click to enlarge).
Panorama from the tip of Luanda's Ilha - busy cargo liners on the bay, Chinese on the left (China buys most of Angolan oil) and locals on the right chilling out during the weekend. (click to enlarge)
Our camping at the Luanda's yacht club.
Other part of Luanda - the real Africa (see all the rubbish)
Wavebreaker on the shore in Luanda.
But to the shipwrecks. A "shipwreck bay" may sound romantic, painting a picture in your mind about a ship caught in fog and stormy weather, running ashore, but in fact the more than fifty (!) ships there have all been basically towed there and left to rust, because there are no scrapyards in Angola yet. Like a ships' graveyard, if you like. But the ships (or sometimes just their sceletons) themselves are amazing, and some of them really big, making the waves resonate in their broken hulls like thunder. It feels like a true Buddhist realm, where everything is only temporary - the ships have been consecrated, they've served their duty, been used till the old age, and now their molecules slowly dissipate into the ocean.
Seagulls motion in the Luanda's bay.
With Lilios boat zig-zagging around cargo ships to leave Luanda to shipwreck bay.
Shipwreck bay - all the ships are abandoned here, just left to die at the hands of Mother Nature...
Some are still in very good condition.
Wave hits over the rusted hull...
A huge ship "N'Gola" waiting its end...
Dying N'Gola.
A massive cargo ship with a completely rusted hull.
A massive wave hits over the complete ship.
Dying together...
Sunken tow-boat.
Almost cracking in half (and those fleeing are one of the biggest birds I've ever seen! Pelicans?)
Gigantic cargo ship completely washed ashore - it's incredible how much force the ocean has.
Panorama of the shipwreck bay in Angola - start counting the wrecks from the left and note even more were hidden behind the corner in another bay - we counted 56 wrecks there together (click to enlarge the panoramas)
Fleeing seagulls...
Stillness of the old, motion of the life around it.
Two boats completely on their sides. Lilio often goes diving there since there's a lot of underwater life around those wrecks.
With Lilio on the way back to Luanda, steady 30 knots.
A floating dry dock in Luanda.
Chinese have their own floating dock in Luanda (to avoild Angolan port charges?)
Fishing ships waiting in row - massive industrialized fishing is now banned, so all they can do is wait and rust. It's a positive sight in Africa, the fact that they don't violate the international fishing regulations, that's probably now the only hope for saving the alarmingly low fish reserves in the oceans.
After the fun ride, Lilio invited us to his home where his wife had prepared a feast, including delicious crabs. Eating the crabs is a lot of work, to get all the good stuff out of the hard shell, but rewarding indeed.
Bacalhau.
Crabs - yummy.
With Lilio and his wife in Luanda - we had a great time!
After hours spent at the dining table it was time to go to a party ( "because weekend is party time"), and with the red sun setting above the city and the countless cranes in the process of constructing new fancy buildings, our timing could not have been better. It was one of those moments that stay with you - the sun setting just to rise again to a new day, and in case of Luanda, I believe it will be a better day. A lot better. With so much money being pumped into developing the city (on the outskirts, thousands of palm trees imported from Miami are being grown to be replanted in the city, and new apartment blocks are bung built outside to relocate the slums), Luanda has great potential of becoming the Rio de Janeiro of Africa.
Cargo ship in distance and a small fishing boat during Luanda's sunset.
Sunset in Luanda.
And the party in Luanda… They do love to party here, with music louder than you could ever imagine.
We were the only whites in the whole club and we had a very decent clubbing experience in Africa! 
From Luanda we headed north, towards the border of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (or DRC as it is commonly known). The ride started off well on the brand new tarmac, but soon it was the good old dusty stuff again, and we were barely moving forwards. Although we had hoped to arrive to a reportedly friendly catholic mission in N'Zeto, we had no choice but to spend the night camping in front of a police station in the village of Musserra instead. It would have been some fifty kilometers of hard pushing more, but the sun had already set, so we decided to settle.
After the tent had been pitched, a quick inspection of the bike revealed that another suspension bolt had gone its way. Well, it was still there, but as in our case, usual - it had broken in two. Not exactly smooth these roads, I'm telling you. And we are talking about the new, original BMW bolt that we'd installed just before entering Angola.
As we were cooking some pasta in the pitch black, a military convoy that we'd passed on our way to Musserra, also rolled up in front of the police station. It actually took us around an hour to overtake some ten trucks loaded with tanks and heavy artillery that it consisted of - it is just unimaginable how much dust they are able to kick up as they go, so overtaking them is a true Russian roulette, like driving blindfolded. No wonder our suspension bolt had given up, as in that horrible dust one just cannot see anything, bumping through knee-deep holes that just appear out of the red powder floating around.
As the convoy rolled up in front of the police station and was doing manoeuvres, a rocket launcher stationed on top of one truck got stuck in power lines on the side of the road, pulling down one pole (on the right). But nobody cared as there was no electricity anyway. In the morning we observed head officer of the military convoy give two military-type packs of food to the local police chief with smile (although police chief wasn't so happy) and everything was "OK" for them again to continue without reparing the electric lines for the village - that's African style of corruption.
After the early morning line-up, the convoy slowly dragged off, and we gladly gave them a good head start not to get stuck behind them again. But of course, we had greatly overestimated their speed, so we had to do the Russian-roulette thing all over again. Soon it was N'Zeto though, and from there, nice asphalt was the order of the day. It lasted till some 70 kms from the border.
On the Angolan side, everything went smooth - we got stamped out in no time. But as we arrived to the Congolese side, the immigration guy manning the barrier took our passports, contemplated our visas, shook his head and went off, only to come back in five minutes and tell us to go back to Angola. "You cannot enter DRC, your visa is not valid. You have to go back and get your visa in you home country". Ours had been issued by the DRC embassy in Windhoek. Well, we could not go back as we had already been stamped out of Angola, and ours were single-entry visas only. Basically, we were stuck between two countries - Angola and DRC - not exactly a dream combination, I'd say.
As the immigration guy was absolutely firm about not letting us pass even though we don't even have a DRC embassy in our home country where we should have gotten our visas from, we decided not to waste time arguing, and called the French embassy in Kinshasa - in European Union (to which Estonia belongs) there is a law according to which, if you do not have a representation in a certain country, you can turn to any other member state's representation for help. The French seemed like a logical choice as they speak the same language as the Congolese bastards, so we thought it would go smooth - it appears that we were not the first ones to get stuck on the border due to some recent change in legislation, and the French embassy already had experience with a French and a Portuguese guy a few weeks before. It'd taken them two nights at the border to get through, so we hoped for the same, or faster.
The border officials on the Angolan side were kind enough to let us pitch our tent back on the Angolan territory while we wait, although it still being not much than a border post, it meant that the "toilet" was in the pile of rubbish just behind the dilapidated shack where locals would go to have a polaroid photo taken of them, and the shower… What shower? There was no running water whatsoever, except for the nearby river. Luckily we had some food with us which would last us through a few days, so we were not in despair.
…meaning "mines". The area just behind our "toilet" had been taped off. Well, make that two type of mines then when you step on - one type that'll make your legs slip and smelly, the other that will probably kill you or if you're lucky you only lose a leg or two.
We waited for a day, for two… hoping that the approval would arrive any hour. The embassy assured us that we would get through and that we only had to wait for the information to move between the institutions. But nothing came, days just passing. Then it was the Independence Day, and then was the week-end, and then… a message was sent to us that we were prohibited from entering the DRC! It had taken the Congolese one whole week to come to such a conclusion. We were not happy - after a week without a shower, a half-decent toilet, and ultimately, with not much to eat, it was unacceptable.
The French explained that it was due to the Congolese not understanding why it was that the French embassy dealing with a problem of couple Estonians. We contacted our own ministry of foreign affairs in Estonia, and a note verbale was sent to the ministry of foreign affairs in Kinshasa, explaining how things work in the European Union and demanding that we be let through. The minister of foreign affairs of the DRC was involved and tried to fix the problem, and all the foreign representations in Kinshasa informed of the situation, as the days kept passing and the French insisting that the DRC had no other choice now but to let us pass - otherwise "it would make them look like imbeciles in the eyes of the EU". An international scandal, nothing less! But we started to feel, increasingly, that with all the goings-on, we had been forgotten about altogether. We really started to feel hopeless.
Although we avoid bribes at all cost, we were ready to had out some cash to finish this dreadful existance. Somehow we even got through to the top guys of the border post hierarchy, but our proposal did not seem to excite them at all. Which is totally strange, having seen how corrupt they actually are. For example, every local that crosses the border, has to pay. People arrive, with documents in one, and money in the other hand, which goes straight into the black plastic bag hanging off a branch of a tree. Without any ceremony. If you show up without money, the guys in blue shirts ask you without any hesitation for "cinq dollars" (or five dollars, which seems to be the standard "charge"), and you pay. Nobody protests or asks any questions. So it is very strange that a white person is refused, even if he/she comes offering money himself/herself. And not only is it strange, but totally hopeless.
A curious young bordercrosser.
Learning how to ride a bike.
Market day across the border. We could buy some foodstuff from those returning.
Taking their produce and wares to the market.
The local staple - funje - basically the same stuff they eat all over subsaharan Africa.
Up close - smells like vomit and tastes bland.
Doppel Munich - good strong Congolese beer smuggled across the border eased our suffering a little.
After ten nights on the border we decided that it must end - otherwise we would end up being mental and physical ruins. We went to the immigration chief of the Angolan side and asked if there was a way we could re-enter the country, regardless of our exit stamps. There was a lot of discussion, and some phone calls were made before he announced us that it was no problem since we still had some time left on our visas.
So we packed our stuff, immediately feeling relieved over at least some kind of development in our situation - we could move again, albeit not in the direction we had so much hoped for. But we were free to go, and our destiny was at last in our own hands, not in the hands of some officials in Kinshasa. We got on the bike and started rolling down the dusty road… only to stop a few kilometers later to check a funny noise from the rear wheel. Crunchhh….. crunchhhh…. It was the final drive bearing.
The nearest town some 70 kilometers away down the same dusty and bumpy road, we decided to head back to the border, pitch the tent and fix the problem. Unlucky? You bet!
The road to the border.
The border crew looked at us rolling back in deep confusion, but what can you do. We must have looked absolutely miserable, as the wife of the border post chief sent us some hot soup, which in all its simplicity tasted absolutely divine and helped us regain our strength. You'd be surprised what a difference can a good meal make when you're down.
Good thing the engineers did it in the way that you can remove it while bevel box is still attached on the swingarm.
A familiar sight - grinded bearing.
We only got 2 times proper food during our 11 days of suffering on the border. The wife of the borderpost brought us some soup - after days of eating bananas, damn, it tasted soooooo soo good!
Working on the bike at the border post.
Abandoned bus - inside I found a hammer and a cone - critical tools for removing and installing the FD bearing. Thank you goes to who ever left it there at the border!
I gave the old bearing as a toy to the local kids - they liked rolling it and it makes a nice musical shaker too.
With the help of the few tools I could find, I replaced the bearing (luckily we were carrying a spare), fighting the malarial mosquitoes as the work extended well into the night, so we could head off the next day - without much sleep, stinky, feverous and nervous - right into the great unknown.
To end the post on a positive note, and to conclude our experience with the DRC - here's a great cartoon, illustrating so well the crew in charge of the country
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Heading away from the border, back the way we had come, mixed feelings were the order of the day. We were free to go, but where to? We had to get around the DRC somehow. One option would have been to ride to Soyo in the north-western tip of Angola, and try to find transport to the Angolan enclave of Cabinda (bordered by both the DRC and Congo-Brazzaville) from there. Other option would have been to ride all the way back to Luanda and try to ship from there. Or… to ride around the DRC in a huge circle, meaning going long way back north via the African east coast.
The last option did not have much appeal, the second one would have been relatively fool proof as Luanda is a big port and we would have found a ship to load the bike onto for sure, but it would definitely have been expensive. As to the first option, we had no clue as to whether there is some service from Soyo to Cabinda, but it was the option requiring the least effort, so we decided to give it a try - if not, our only risk would have been just a few hundred extra kilometers of bad road.
But before we set out to try our luck, we stayed for a few days in the ancient capital of Kingdom of the Congo, called M'banza Congo. Not that there is much left of it nowadays though, neither is there any indication that it is in fact the capital of such an oil-rich province. The streets are choking with the red dust and petrol is only available from a barrel…
...::: Listen local "Radio Zaire" in M'Banza Congo :::...
Searching for fuel in M'banza Congo, that's one of the main streets.
Curiosity is big from the Congo people in Zaire region, although they're very shy, some still stop and stare.
Smile.
Mister, bananas?
Reflections - the people here are utterly pervy about fancy sunglasses.
Feeding our iron horse, African style.
Streets of M'banza Congo - this is a fuel station, and on the right side - children have to carry the chairs to school and back home every day - there just aren't any chairs and tables at school. It's a strange sight to see all the children walking with chairs in the city.
A local biker guy we met named Wilson - one of the very few in M'Banza who knows some English.
We were hosted by Vincent, a priest in the local Catholic mission, who kindly allowed us to pitch our tent in the church yard, fed us fresh papayas and bananas baked on coals, so that in a few days we were ready to hit the road again.
Delicious bananas baked on coals.
Our departure coincided with the Sunday morning Mass at the church, which was filled with song, dance and loads of colours - we were in Africa afterall! It really brightened up the misty morning and got us into the right mood.
...::: LISTEN the sunday's service in M'Banza Congo's Catholic church :::...
The church was full to the brim - some had to sit outside.
Everybody was at the Mass, even a village dog.
And we rode. Just as we had expected, around half of the road to Soyo was in bad condition - just about the worst we had seen so far in Angola. There were rocks, bumps, and in the end some deep sand.
Red sand...
…giving way to white sand.
But we made it there, and as Soyo finds itself at the mouth of the great river Congo, the first thing for us to do was to go and get a look at it. There were loads of people on the shore of what in all its immensity looked more like sea, not a river. Everybody was having fun, with loud music pouring out of cars with opened doors, and the air filled with smoke rising from the street-side barbeques.
"Praia" or the beach.
We made a call to Lilio for that he didn't worry about us, and before we knew we were already on the phone with a guy called Basilio, also a member of the biker club. He works in Soyo and he was to come and fetch us. With a broad smile, he did - a security manager at an international natural gas company being built in Soyo. He took us to his home, which is located in a high-security compound specifically built for oil and gas sector employees - a normal practice here. "This here is your bedroom, here is the bathroom, the kitchen… there is some food in the fridge if you like, beer is over here.. what else?… this is the password for the wifi, and you can use the phone." An unexpected luxury for us. I'd even say, totally unnecessary, but at the same time so welcome. The last time we slept in a bed was in Cape Town. We were quite speechless, but not for too long as Basilio invited us to join the barbeque he and his friends were having.
With our new found friends - Basilio is the one holding a bottle of Smirnoff.
After some beer and wine, some fine cigars straight from Cuba were introduced, so that by the time the discussion slipped to the issues regarding our onward journey - firstly, the exit stamps in our passports, and secondly, the transport to Cabinda, we were already quite relaxed. Basilio promised to help us with both, and somehow we were confident we were in good hands.
Cohiba dicectly from Cuba, and some fine port wine directly from Porgugal - both of them historically big amigos for the Angolans.
During the next few days we had some more good wine, beer and food - including some wonderful grilled lobster for the first time in our life - but most importantly, with help from Basilio, we got through to the immigration boss of Soyo and eventually had our exit stamps cancelled. Basically it meant putting another stamp on top of them, saying "ANULADO". Very basic, but official.
They do love their stamps here in Africa - what a relief it was to finally have the Angolan side sorted - we weren't illegals anymore.
Then all we had to do was to try and find a way to ship from Soyo. After some inquiries and running around we had tickets for a "ferry" that was supposed to take motorcycles, but not cars. Now that is a point of caution, because very often people just don't imagine how big a motorcycle can be and that squeezing it through some door might not be possible - most often, if you say "motorcycle", they think of a 250cc. But anyways, we paid 45 USD per person, and the same for the bike, and were ready to go.
We were told to be at the port at 6:30 in the morning as the ferry was to leave at 8:00. When we got there at 6:45, there were only a couple of people waiting, but slowly the crowd gathered, and after a few hours, when tickets and documents were checked and the crowd was loaded into a bus, we rode through the port area to the docks. A moment of truth - the "ferry" was nothing like we had imagined it to be - a small vessel that had to be boarded uning a narrow ramp, and that went also for our bike, of course! Even with panniers and everything else possible taken off, it was quite a job to get it onto the covered passenger deck, but somehow we managed.
Loading the bike through a stupidly small door - all hands at work.
Barely enough space to squeeze it through.
Loaded. Waiting for departure.
Leaving Soyo, we could once more have a glance at the huge gas cisterns under construction, and later on, as we were on the open sea, many rigs dotting the waters. It was like looking at Angolan future, if only they manage those resources wisely. Angola, one of the largest exporters of coffee and bananas before the war, now mainly depends on oil and diamonds which make up almost hundred per cent of the country's income.
Leaving Soyo - future under construction.
Doors to the underwater riches.
After a couple of hours on the open sea, the land re-appeared as we were about to reach Cabinda, Angolan enclave that has been cut off its "mother land" by a narrow strip of land belonging to the DRC. Due to its abundant il reserves, Cabinda is often referred to as the Kuwait of Africa. But it is those same oil reserves that have made way to independence movements ever since the Portuguese said goodbye, which are actually quite substantiated, considering that before those same Portuguese, Cabinda had absolutely nothing to do with Angola, and was only tied to it through the same colonial power.
The ferry stopped right in the middle of a bay, with Cabinda in the distance, some few hundred meters away. We were about to be unloaded in the middle of the sea - from the "ferry" into a wooden boat that was to take us to the shore. Now that is not that difficult when it comes to people and their few pieces of luggage, but we had a heavy bike (even with all the luggage removed), and that was going to be difficult, if not very risky - without any cranes, it had to be carefully lowered to the boat some two meters below, wambling on the waves. The water underneath was said to be some fife meters deep…
But through some miracle, after some headscratching and sweating, the bike was in the boat and we could make our way to the shore. There it meant some more excercise, but it was a lot easier (and not as risky as in the middle of the bay), and soon we could say we'd made it. From there on we could hit the road again.
Our GS loaded into small boat in the middle of the bay.
Going to the shore.
Almost there...
Unloading on the beach.
Since it took us a whole day to get around the DRC, we had to spend the night in Cabinda (the capital of the enclave bearing the same name). Once again we headed to a Catholic mission, and it was a good thing to do, since later we could enjoy the sound of a local choir practice just meters from our tent.
The Mission we stayed at.
Women going to a choir practice.
Cabinda's choir.
...::: LISTEN Cabinda's choir at the same moment :::...
.
It was interesting to hear that the religious songs were accompanied by the same instruments, and using even the same rhythms, as in kuduro - a very popular musical style that is purely Angolan. It does not have much melody, but the rhythms are quite aggressive, making it especially popular amongst the youth.
Quite contrary to our expectations based on the fact that Cabinda has so much oil, it does not really look like it has a lot of money - the city scape is just the same as in other Angolan bigger cities, and in the countryside, people still stick to the traditional ways of life, fishing and letting the time flow.
Much of Cabinda's shore is a wet mangrove.
Many houses are built by the Cubans, cuban style of course.
At the beach of a fising village in Cabinda.
Panorama from the fishing village (click to enlarge)
Cabinda's fishermen sorting out, repairing and reordering their nets for the coming day.
Cabinda's beach during dusk.
Cabinda - "Kuwait of Africa".
Margus & Kariina
The main road in Angola. Yes, really!
On the way to Lubango.
You can't race on those roads.
Loads of decent baobab trees around.
South-Angolan landscape.
Baobab trees.
But the benefit of the bad road is that you go slow and you have time to notice things, and we were lucky to spot a chameleon - a very cool looking reptile.
Chameleon - currently changing colour to match my gloves.
Now the same colour as my gloves.
Set the fellow loose into more safe grounds than the road - started to change its colours again.
Considering a somewhat dodgy reputation that Angola has, it was interesting that we spent our first night there bushcamping. We did not have much choice actually, as the distances between sizeable villages are quite big (or it just takes a whole lot of time to get from one to another due to bad road conditions), so as the sun was setting behind the huge baobab trees aside the road, its red blaze amplified by the fine dust floating around, we just turned off the road and pitched our tent. Later on it became clear that it wasn't more than some 50 meters from someone's house, but no one came to bother us. I guess they were simply too afraid. In the morning though, as we started the engine, the whole family ran out of their compound to wave.
That day we arrived in Lubango, a town of 100 000 inhabitants, although looking at it from above one would say there are a lot more people, most of them living in slums.
Lubango below.
Panorama of Lubango from above (click to enlarge)
This is the view that you get from the statue of Cristo Rei, supposedly a smaller copy of Cristo Redentor situated on Corcovado in Rio de Janeiro. If you look closer, the Christ's face and body bear some "scars" from the 27-year war.
Cristo Rei.
It's massive.
See also the people above, on the viewing platform where I took the Lubango panorama.
Lubango folk on the site.
Boy at the Christ statue, enjoying heavenly views of the city.
In Lubango we looked up a man called José also known from Metaljockey's ride report. He organised us a room in one wing of his pub, Los Falcoes (The Falcons), which is currently under renovation. Actually a room with a bathroom, although during the two days that we spent in Lubango, there was only running water for two hours. The thing is, that in Lubango water is given only twice a week, so everybody fills up their tanks, but to get the water out of the tank, you need to run a pump, but electricity is also quite elusive, so it is quite tricky. No complaints really - we were thoroughly grateful for a secure place to stay, and for free - according to guidebooks, anything below 100 USD a night in Angola is total crap.
José also took us to see some local bikers, gave us food and drink and helped us through some police checkpoints on the way out of Lubango - he's trained a fair share of local military, and has a black belt in karate. A really nice guy.
José.
At his Falcons biker's pub - currently under renovation.
Since we were in Lubango, we went to see one of the more famous sights in Angola - the Leba pass. Considering the sad road conditions in Angola, this one is a true masterpiece, and quite spectacular as well.
Panorama of Serra Leba - it's a complete contrast to average horrible Angolan roads - it's piece of art, precision and quality! (click to enlarge)
Panorama of the mountains behind Serra Leba (click to enlarge)
But one thing took us absolutely breatheless, and quite literally so. We'd seen a photo of the volcanic fissure of Tunda-Vala near Lubango, but once we got there, we were simply stunned. There are no rails or warning signs, but just some twenty meters off the road there is a deep canyon - and I mean really deep - around thousand meters, on the edge of which it is absolutely strange to stand as it is just unconceivable, and green lowlands stretch to the far end of the horizon. No photo can describe it really. It has a ghostly feel to it.
Road to Tunda-Vala.
Talking about ghosts - there was a time when criminals were executed here, sometimes just shot, but sometimes blindfolded and told to walk across the edge. Makes you feel hollow, especially with the sounds of birds echoing in the darkness of the canyon.
...::: LISTEN :::...
Arriving to Tunda-Vala.
On the edge of Tunda-Vala fissure - the ground is around 1200 meters (4000 ft) below, an almost straight drop!
Tunda-Vala volcanic fissure - the picture simply doesn't reflect it's awe-inspiring massiveness.
Fissure, with ground dragged into two parts.
The view from Tunda-Vala.
Panoramic view from Tunda-Vala (click to enlarge)
Although Angola is one of the fastest growing countries in the world, having lots of oil, diamonds and gold, the uneven distribution of wealth is striking. It is strange to see children attending open-air schools installed in and around old Portuguese buildings, not even having a chair to sit on. But the Portuguese buildings are majestic, and obviously the most developed buildings around - after the "white guys" left, nothing much has been built, except for the good old mudbrick houses, or some Soviet architecture.
Panorama of an Angolan village (click to enlarge)
Women washing clothes and themselves in the village-side river.
School inside and outside the church - they even don't have chairs or tables in schools, they have to sit on the ground and write on their knees.
We left Lubango behind, and after hours on bumpy roads we made it to the coastal town of Benguela - it bears the same name as the cold current that runs along the west coast of Africa and that makes the latter look dry and barren, substantially different from the sultry tropics of the east coast. It is also where one of the greatest projects of last century - the Benguela Railway - got its name from. Its construction began in 1904, and it was only completed almost thirty years later.
On Angolan roads.
The Benguela Railway that was built to link the copper mines in the Belgian Congo (today's DRC) and Zambia with the port town of Lobito close to Benguela, was by the end of the sixties the biggest employer of Angola, employing some 14 000 people. Today, however, it is mostly ruins that we can see of this once grand enterprise - during the war, many of the railway bridges and stations were blown up and trains derailed.
In Lobito we happened to see some age-old machinery, looking like tough mining equipment from the times long gone, rusting by the road. No doubt they all deserve a place in museum, but for now they just stand there in a sad fashion.
Old equipment from 1930s left rusting on the streets of Lobito.
Amazing steam-based equipment that used wood instead of coal for fuel.
Some smaller one.
Just as other Angolan towns, Lobito too has a strange atmosphere. At first sight it looks like nothing more than a big mudbrick village, or almost a slum, but when you look closer, it reveals its old grandeur, even stylishness. The remnants of colonial buildings and palm fringed sidewalks make you wonder how it must have been in the good old times when the mining business was bringing in a lot of cash and Angola was snobbier than Portugal itself. But as the story goes, the war took its toll and today all that's left of the former glory is a sad nostalgy.
Angolan village just outside Lobito.
Panorama from Lobito's peninsula.
On the way to Luanda, the capital, we could see more Africa in its raw state - after the high levels of development in South Africa and Namibia it was refreshing to see African-style markets and women doing laundry and bathing in the rivers, the way it has always been. But it was also a little bit strange - when we stopped by some roadside stall to buy some fruit, people would not become excited, but instead the silence would come, interrupted by shy whispers. After a while the strangeness would dissolve, but it is a long time since we'd have that experience.
Market day in Angola.
Want some banana?
Fuel for your motorcycle?
A washing day.
Clothes and bodies get cleaned in the rivers.
Mouth of Cubali, old destroyed bridge also visible.
Central-Angolan landscape.
Binga falls.
Fishermen blelow one of the Binga falls.
Panorama from above the Binga falls (click to enlarge)
It got dark before we could even get close to Luanda, so we had once again to find a place to pitch our tent. The problem with Angola is not a high population density or huge amounts of potentially dangerous animals (many of them were killed by the army during the war so there is not much wildlife left), but thousands of mines that still litter the ground, so one has to be really careful when wandering off the road. It took us quite a while to track down a place that had obvious animal tracks that we could erect our tent on, afraid to deviate too much from the well-trodden paths even when going for a pee. Also there are lots of wildfires, one of which we saw on the horizon, so one really has to be careful.
When we arrived in Angola's capital, Luanda, we first headed to the Yacht Club that offers free camping space for overlanders - the prices of accomodation in Angola are ridiculously high, and in Luanda even more so (according to some recent statistics, Luanda is the most expensive city to live in the whole world!). But late in the evening, Lilio, president of the local motorcycle club Amigos de Picada ("picada" standing for bad roads, of course), whom we had contacted before over e-mail to ask a few questions, came and looked us up. And as we explained that because we are not huge fans of big cities our plan was to head out the next day and visit a place that is called the Shipwreck Bay just north of Luanda, he kindly suggested that we go and see the shipwrecks in his boat instead - to get a different perspective.
Surely, the next morning we found out that the "boat" was actually a decent 600hp speedboat that took us first through the huge port of Luanda, buzzing with activity.
Panorama of Luanda - looks modern from the distance, but once you're in the center it's Africa, dirt streets with meter deep holes (click to enlarge).
Panorama from the tip of Luanda's Ilha - busy cargo liners on the bay, Chinese on the left (China buys most of Angolan oil) and locals on the right chilling out during the weekend. (click to enlarge)
Our camping at the Luanda's yacht club.
Other part of Luanda - the real Africa (see all the rubbish)
Wavebreaker on the shore in Luanda.
But to the shipwrecks. A "shipwreck bay" may sound romantic, painting a picture in your mind about a ship caught in fog and stormy weather, running ashore, but in fact the more than fifty (!) ships there have all been basically towed there and left to rust, because there are no scrapyards in Angola yet. Like a ships' graveyard, if you like. But the ships (or sometimes just their sceletons) themselves are amazing, and some of them really big, making the waves resonate in their broken hulls like thunder. It feels like a true Buddhist realm, where everything is only temporary - the ships have been consecrated, they've served their duty, been used till the old age, and now their molecules slowly dissipate into the ocean.
Seagulls motion in the Luanda's bay.
With Lilios boat zig-zagging around cargo ships to leave Luanda to shipwreck bay.
Shipwreck bay - all the ships are abandoned here, just left to die at the hands of Mother Nature...
Some are still in very good condition.
Wave hits over the rusted hull...
A huge ship "N'Gola" waiting its end...
Dying N'Gola.
A massive cargo ship with a completely rusted hull.
A massive wave hits over the complete ship.
Dying together...
Sunken tow-boat.
Almost cracking in half (and those fleeing are one of the biggest birds I've ever seen! Pelicans?)
Gigantic cargo ship completely washed ashore - it's incredible how much force the ocean has.
Panorama of the shipwreck bay in Angola - start counting the wrecks from the left and note even more were hidden behind the corner in another bay - we counted 56 wrecks there together (click to enlarge the panoramas)
Fleeing seagulls...
Stillness of the old, motion of the life around it.
Two boats completely on their sides. Lilio often goes diving there since there's a lot of underwater life around those wrecks.
With Lilio on the way back to Luanda, steady 30 knots.
A floating dry dock in Luanda.
Chinese have their own floating dock in Luanda (to avoild Angolan port charges?)
Fishing ships waiting in row - massive industrialized fishing is now banned, so all they can do is wait and rust. It's a positive sight in Africa, the fact that they don't violate the international fishing regulations, that's probably now the only hope for saving the alarmingly low fish reserves in the oceans.
After the fun ride, Lilio invited us to his home where his wife had prepared a feast, including delicious crabs. Eating the crabs is a lot of work, to get all the good stuff out of the hard shell, but rewarding indeed.
Bacalhau.
Crabs - yummy.
With Lilio and his wife in Luanda - we had a great time!
After hours spent at the dining table it was time to go to a party ( "because weekend is party time"), and with the red sun setting above the city and the countless cranes in the process of constructing new fancy buildings, our timing could not have been better. It was one of those moments that stay with you - the sun setting just to rise again to a new day, and in case of Luanda, I believe it will be a better day. A lot better. With so much money being pumped into developing the city (on the outskirts, thousands of palm trees imported from Miami are being grown to be replanted in the city, and new apartment blocks are bung built outside to relocate the slums), Luanda has great potential of becoming the Rio de Janeiro of Africa.
Cargo ship in distance and a small fishing boat during Luanda's sunset.
Sunset in Luanda.
And the party in Luanda… They do love to party here, with music louder than you could ever imagine.
We were the only whites in the whole club and we had a very decent clubbing experience in Africa! <iframe width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NyqVTdDOE8Q" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
From Luanda we headed north, towards the border of the Democratic Republic of the Congo (or DRC as it is commonly known). The ride started off well on the brand new tarmac, but soon it was the good old dusty stuff again, and we were barely moving forwards. Although we had hoped to arrive to a reportedly friendly catholic mission in N'Zeto, we had no choice but to spend the night camping in front of a police station in the village of Musserra instead. It would have been some fifty kilometers of hard pushing more, but the sun had already set, so we decided to settle.
After the tent had been pitched, a quick inspection of the bike revealed that another suspension bolt had gone its way. Well, it was still there, but as in our case, usual - it had broken in two. Not exactly smooth these roads, I'm telling you. And we are talking about the new, original BMW bolt that we'd installed just before entering Angola.
As we were cooking some pasta in the pitch black, a military convoy that we'd passed on our way to Musserra, also rolled up in front of the police station. It actually took us around an hour to overtake some ten trucks loaded with tanks and heavy artillery that it consisted of - it is just unimaginable how much dust they are able to kick up as they go, so overtaking them is a true Russian roulette, like driving blindfolded. No wonder our suspension bolt had given up, as in that horrible dust one just cannot see anything, bumping through knee-deep holes that just appear out of the red powder floating around.
As the convoy rolled up in front of the police station and was doing manoeuvres, a rocket launcher stationed on top of one truck got stuck in power lines on the side of the road, pulling down one pole (on the right). But nobody cared as there was no electricity anyway. In the morning we observed head officer of the military convoy give two military-type packs of food to the local police chief with smile (although police chief wasn't so happy) and everything was "OK" for them again to continue without reparing the electric lines for the village - that's African style of corruption.
After the early morning line-up, the convoy slowly dragged off, and we gladly gave them a good head start not to get stuck behind them again. But of course, we had greatly overestimated their speed, so we had to do the Russian-roulette thing all over again. Soon it was N'Zeto though, and from there, nice asphalt was the order of the day. It lasted till some 70 kms from the border.
On the Angolan side, everything went smooth - we got stamped out in no time. But as we arrived to the Congolese side, the immigration guy manning the barrier took our passports, contemplated our visas, shook his head and went off, only to come back in five minutes and tell us to go back to Angola. "You cannot enter DRC, your visa is not valid. You have to go back and get your visa in you home country". Ours had been issued by the DRC embassy in Windhoek. Well, we could not go back as we had already been stamped out of Angola, and ours were single-entry visas only. Basically, we were stuck between two countries - Angola and DRC - not exactly a dream combination, I'd say.
As the immigration guy was absolutely firm about not letting us pass even though we don't even have a DRC embassy in our home country where we should have gotten our visas from, we decided not to waste time arguing, and called the French embassy in Kinshasa - in European Union (to which Estonia belongs) there is a law according to which, if you do not have a representation in a certain country, you can turn to any other member state's representation for help. The French seemed like a logical choice as they speak the same language as the Congolese bastards, so we thought it would go smooth - it appears that we were not the first ones to get stuck on the border due to some recent change in legislation, and the French embassy already had experience with a French and a Portuguese guy a few weeks before. It'd taken them two nights at the border to get through, so we hoped for the same, or faster.
The border officials on the Angolan side were kind enough to let us pitch our tent back on the Angolan territory while we wait, although it still being not much than a border post, it meant that the "toilet" was in the pile of rubbish just behind the dilapidated shack where locals would go to have a polaroid photo taken of them, and the shower… What shower? There was no running water whatsoever, except for the nearby river. Luckily we had some food with us which would last us through a few days, so we were not in despair.
…meaning "mines". The area just behind our "toilet" had been taped off. Well, make that two type of mines then when you step on - one type that'll make your legs slip and smelly, the other that will probably kill you or if you're lucky you only lose a leg or two.
We waited for a day, for two… hoping that the approval would arrive any hour. The embassy assured us that we would get through and that we only had to wait for the information to move between the institutions. But nothing came, days just passing. Then it was the Independence Day, and then was the week-end, and then… a message was sent to us that we were prohibited from entering the DRC! It had taken the Congolese one whole week to come to such a conclusion. We were not happy - after a week without a shower, a half-decent toilet, and ultimately, with not much to eat, it was unacceptable.
The French explained that it was due to the Congolese not understanding why it was that the French embassy dealing with a problem of couple Estonians. We contacted our own ministry of foreign affairs in Estonia, and a note verbale was sent to the ministry of foreign affairs in Kinshasa, explaining how things work in the European Union and demanding that we be let through. The minister of foreign affairs of the DRC was involved and tried to fix the problem, and all the foreign representations in Kinshasa informed of the situation, as the days kept passing and the French insisting that the DRC had no other choice now but to let us pass - otherwise "it would make them look like imbeciles in the eyes of the EU". An international scandal, nothing less! But we started to feel, increasingly, that with all the goings-on, we had been forgotten about altogether. We really started to feel hopeless.
Although we avoid bribes at all cost, we were ready to had out some cash to finish this dreadful existance. Somehow we even got through to the top guys of the border post hierarchy, but our proposal did not seem to excite them at all. Which is totally strange, having seen how corrupt they actually are. For example, every local that crosses the border, has to pay. People arrive, with documents in one, and money in the other hand, which goes straight into the black plastic bag hanging off a branch of a tree. Without any ceremony. If you show up without money, the guys in blue shirts ask you without any hesitation for "cinq dollars" (or five dollars, which seems to be the standard "charge"), and you pay. Nobody protests or asks any questions. So it is very strange that a white person is refused, even if he/she comes offering money himself/herself. And not only is it strange, but totally hopeless.
A curious young bordercrosser.
Learning how to ride a bike.
Market day across the border. We could buy some foodstuff from those returning.
Taking their produce and wares to the market.
The local staple - funje - basically the same stuff they eat all over subsaharan Africa.
Up close - smells like vomit and tastes bland.
Doppel Munich - good strong Congolese beer smuggled across the border eased our suffering a little.
After ten nights on the border we decided that it must end - otherwise we would end up being mental and physical ruins. We went to the immigration chief of the Angolan side and asked if there was a way we could re-enter the country, regardless of our exit stamps. There was a lot of discussion, and some phone calls were made before he announced us that it was no problem since we still had some time left on our visas.
So we packed our stuff, immediately feeling relieved over at least some kind of development in our situation - we could move again, albeit not in the direction we had so much hoped for. But we were free to go, and our destiny was at last in our own hands, not in the hands of some officials in Kinshasa. We got on the bike and started rolling down the dusty road… only to stop a few kilometers later to check a funny noise from the rear wheel. Crunchhh….. crunchhhh…. It was the final drive bearing.
The nearest town some 70 kilometers away down the same dusty and bumpy road, we decided to head back to the border, pitch the tent and fix the problem. Unlucky? You bet!
The road to the border.
The border crew looked at us rolling back in deep confusion, but what can you do. We must have looked absolutely miserable, as the wife of the border post chief sent us some hot soup, which in all its simplicity tasted absolutely divine and helped us regain our strength. You'd be surprised what a difference can a good meal make when you're down.
Good thing the engineers did it in the way that you can remove it while bevel box is still attached on the swingarm.
A familiar sight - grinded bearing.
We only got 2 times proper food during our 11 days of suffering on the border. The wife of the borderpost brought us some soup - after days of eating bananas, damn, it tasted soooooo soo good!
Working on the bike at the border post.
Abandoned bus - inside I found a hammer and a cone - critical tools for removing and installing the FD bearing. Thank you goes to who ever left it there at the border!
I gave the old bearing as a toy to the local kids - they liked rolling it and it makes a nice musical shaker too.
With the help of the few tools I could find, I replaced the bearing (luckily we were carrying a spare), fighting the malarial mosquitoes as the work extended well into the night, so we could head off the next day - without much sleep, stinky, feverous and nervous - right into the great unknown.
To end the post on a positive note, and to conclude our experience with the DRC - here's a great cartoon, illustrating so well the crew in charge of the country
<iframe width="640" height="510" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BtvSR7x5HZw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Heading away from the border, back the way we had come, mixed feelings were the order of the day. We were free to go, but where to? We had to get around the DRC somehow. One option would have been to ride to Soyo in the north-western tip of Angola, and try to find transport to the Angolan enclave of Cabinda (bordered by both the DRC and Congo-Brazzaville) from there. Other option would have been to ride all the way back to Luanda and try to ship from there. Or… to ride around the DRC in a huge circle, meaning going long way back north via the African east coast.
The last option did not have much appeal, the second one would have been relatively fool proof as Luanda is a big port and we would have found a ship to load the bike onto for sure, but it would definitely have been expensive. As to the first option, we had no clue as to whether there is some service from Soyo to Cabinda, but it was the option requiring the least effort, so we decided to give it a try - if not, our only risk would have been just a few hundred extra kilometers of bad road.
But before we set out to try our luck, we stayed for a few days in the ancient capital of Kingdom of the Congo, called M'banza Congo. Not that there is much left of it nowadays though, neither is there any indication that it is in fact the capital of such an oil-rich province. The streets are choking with the red dust and petrol is only available from a barrel…
...::: Listen local "Radio Zaire" in M'Banza Congo :::...
Searching for fuel in M'banza Congo, that's one of the main streets.
Curiosity is big from the Congo people in Zaire region, although they're very shy, some still stop and stare.
Smile.
Mister, bananas?
Reflections - the people here are utterly pervy about fancy sunglasses.
Feeding our iron horse, African style.
Streets of M'banza Congo - this is a fuel station, and on the right side - children have to carry the chairs to school and back home every day - there just aren't any chairs and tables at school. It's a strange sight to see all the children walking with chairs in the city.
A local biker guy we met named Wilson - one of the very few in M'Banza who knows some English.
We were hosted by Vincent, a priest in the local Catholic mission, who kindly allowed us to pitch our tent in the church yard, fed us fresh papayas and bananas baked on coals, so that in a few days we were ready to hit the road again.
Delicious bananas baked on coals.
Our departure coincided with the Sunday morning Mass at the church, which was filled with song, dance and loads of colours - we were in Africa afterall! It really brightened up the misty morning and got us into the right mood.
...::: LISTEN the sunday's service in M'Banza Congo's Catholic church :::...
The church was full to the brim - some had to sit outside.
Everybody was at the Mass, even a village dog.
And we rode. Just as we had expected, around half of the road to Soyo was in bad condition - just about the worst we had seen so far in Angola. There were rocks, bumps, and in the end some deep sand.
Red sand...
…giving way to white sand.
But we made it there, and as Soyo finds itself at the mouth of the great river Congo, the first thing for us to do was to go and get a look at it. There were loads of people on the shore of what in all its immensity looked more like sea, not a river. Everybody was having fun, with loud music pouring out of cars with opened doors, and the air filled with smoke rising from the street-side barbeques.
"Praia" or the beach.
We made a call to Lilio for that he didn't worry about us, and before we knew we were already on the phone with a guy called Basilio, also a member of the biker club. He works in Soyo and he was to come and fetch us. With a broad smile, he did - a security manager at an international natural gas company being built in Soyo. He took us to his home, which is located in a high-security compound specifically built for oil and gas sector employees - a normal practice here. "This here is your bedroom, here is the bathroom, the kitchen… there is some food in the fridge if you like, beer is over here.. what else?… this is the password for the wifi, and you can use the phone." An unexpected luxury for us. I'd even say, totally unnecessary, but at the same time so welcome. The last time we slept in a bed was in Cape Town. We were quite speechless, but not for too long as Basilio invited us to join the barbeque he and his friends were having.
With our new found friends - Basilio is the one holding a bottle of Smirnoff.
After some beer and wine, some fine cigars straight from Cuba were introduced, so that by the time the discussion slipped to the issues regarding our onward journey - firstly, the exit stamps in our passports, and secondly, the transport to Cabinda, we were already quite relaxed. Basilio promised to help us with both, and somehow we were confident we were in good hands.
Cohiba dicectly from Cuba, and some fine port wine directly from Porgugal - both of them historically big amigos for the Angolans.
During the next few days we had some more good wine, beer and food - including some wonderful grilled lobster for the first time in our life - but most importantly, with help from Basilio, we got through to the immigration boss of Soyo and eventually had our exit stamps cancelled. Basically it meant putting another stamp on top of them, saying "ANULADO". Very basic, but official.
They do love their stamps here in Africa - what a relief it was to finally have the Angolan side sorted - we weren't illegals anymore.
Then all we had to do was to try and find a way to ship from Soyo. After some inquiries and running around we had tickets for a "ferry" that was supposed to take motorcycles, but not cars. Now that is a point of caution, because very often people just don't imagine how big a motorcycle can be and that squeezing it through some door might not be possible - most often, if you say "motorcycle", they think of a 250cc. But anyways, we paid 45 USD per person, and the same for the bike, and were ready to go.
We were told to be at the port at 6:30 in the morning as the ferry was to leave at 8:00. When we got there at 6:45, there were only a couple of people waiting, but slowly the crowd gathered, and after a few hours, when tickets and documents were checked and the crowd was loaded into a bus, we rode through the port area to the docks. A moment of truth - the "ferry" was nothing like we had imagined it to be - a small vessel that had to be boarded uning a narrow ramp, and that went also for our bike, of course! Even with panniers and everything else possible taken off, it was quite a job to get it onto the covered passenger deck, but somehow we managed.
Loading the bike through a stupidly small door - all hands at work.
Barely enough space to squeeze it through.
Loaded. Waiting for departure.
Leaving Soyo, we could once more have a glance at the huge gas cisterns under construction, and later on, as we were on the open sea, many rigs dotting the waters. It was like looking at Angolan future, if only they manage those resources wisely. Angola, one of the largest exporters of coffee and bananas before the war, now mainly depends on oil and diamonds which make up almost hundred per cent of the country's income.
Leaving Soyo - future under construction.
Doors to the underwater riches.
After a couple of hours on the open sea, the land re-appeared as we were about to reach Cabinda, Angolan enclave that has been cut off its "mother land" by a narrow strip of land belonging to the DRC. Due to its abundant il reserves, Cabinda is often referred to as the Kuwait of Africa. But it is those same oil reserves that have made way to independence movements ever since the Portuguese said goodbye, which are actually quite substantiated, considering that before those same Portuguese, Cabinda had absolutely nothing to do with Angola, and was only tied to it through the same colonial power.
The ferry stopped right in the middle of a bay, with Cabinda in the distance, some few hundred meters away. We were about to be unloaded in the middle of the sea - from the "ferry" into a wooden boat that was to take us to the shore. Now that is not that difficult when it comes to people and their few pieces of luggage, but we had a heavy bike (even with all the luggage removed), and that was going to be difficult, if not very risky - without any cranes, it had to be carefully lowered to the boat some two meters below, wambling on the waves. The water underneath was said to be some fife meters deep…
But through some miracle, after some headscratching and sweating, the bike was in the boat and we could make our way to the shore. There it meant some more excercise, but it was a lot easier (and not as risky as in the middle of the bay), and soon we could say we'd made it. From there on we could hit the road again.
Our GS loaded into small boat in the middle of the bay.
Going to the shore.
Almost there...
Unloading on the beach.
Since it took us a whole day to get around the DRC, we had to spend the night in Cabinda (the capital of the enclave bearing the same name). Once again we headed to a Catholic mission, and it was a good thing to do, since later we could enjoy the sound of a local choir practice just meters from our tent.
The Mission we stayed at.
Women going to a choir practice.
Cabinda's choir.
...::: LISTEN Cabinda's choir at the same moment :::...
It was interesting to hear that the religious songs were accompanied by the same instruments, and using even the same rhythms, as in kuduro - a very popular musical style that is purely Angolan. It does not have much melody, but the rhythms are quite aggressive, making it especially popular amongst the youth.
Quite contrary to our expectations based on the fact that Cabinda has so much oil, it does not really look like it has a lot of money - the city scape is just the same as in other Angolan bigger cities, and in the countryside, people still stick to the traditional ways of life, fishing and letting the time flow.
Much of Cabinda's shore is a wet mangrove.
Many houses are built by the Cubans, cuban style of course.
At the beach of a fising village in Cabinda.
Panorama from the fishing village (click to enlarge)
Cabinda's fishermen sorting out, repairing and reordering their nets for the coming day.
Cabinda's beach during dusk.
Cabinda - "Kuwait of Africa".
Margus & Kariina
