Day 87-90 - Luanda

We touch down in this old Portuguese colonial capital fearing the worst. "It's more expensive than London", "hours stuck in traffic", "they still have the plague you know", "take your own bodybag" they said. With no Rough Guide or Lonely Planet entry, and a nonsensically difficult visa requirement, this is a mysterious city for the casual tourist. But that makes it more interesting, right? And anyway, we've come with a special purpose in mind.


- A part of Luanda from the Fort. Check out the unfinished Soyuz-style mausoleum on the horizon

Our first challenge is getting around. Only the day before we were struggling to confirm a car and driver for the weekend. We are not 100% sure that he'll be there. But he is! And he's a fine chap, trustworthy and cheerful. The car is in one piece too. Chivela, for this is our driver, is NOT an expensive luxury, as we discover a minute into our drive out of 4 Fevreiro airport. For a start, a map of Luanda is nigh-on impossible to procure. For a second, the roads are mostly not named, or incorrectly. Finally, the roads are a battle zone and everybody on them is fighting for that 1-second advantage, net result being a lot of aggro and not much progress. Half the vehicles are spanking 4x4's, many with non touche pas diplomatic plates, the remainder a mixture of European rejectmobiles, complete with their national stickers, and mopeds. Oh the mopeds. Even the police don't dig them, and on Sunday we see scores of them sitting glumly by their machines at one the main roundabouts, arrested on the principle that being on two wheels is a bad thing. Our driver pulls out some truly hair-raising stunts to beat the queues of traffic, taking on potholes, trucks and even the maniacal candongos in head-on contests for priority. A Roman driver would think twice about taking to the wheel here...


- It's not 1917 you know, get over it already. I guess "Communism" is still a great excuse to keep the masses down


- Typical roadside activity - selling stuff

Our first taste of Angolan cuisine is on the Ilha, a 3km long island forming a natural breakwater for the busy harbour. We ignore Wimpy and Bob's burgers, and an array of swanky restaurants on the Atlantic beach, who are owned by President dos Santos' cronies. We head right to the tip of the island and the open-air stalls on the beach. There is much grilling of fish, which we eat with sweet potato, banana, salsa, and fearsome Jindungo. The beer (Cuca) is cold and good. No concession is made to hygiene, so just shut your eyes and accept that it's all damned tasty. This meal costs a mere 600 Kwanzas, about $8. This is a pretty cheap meal by Luandan standards. In one of the resturants it would have three or four times as much, or more.


- Beach on the Ilha, queue of transport ships on the horizon. Most things are imported, hence the ludricrous prices.


- First meal


- The Boavista market. Pricey as Waitrose

The second challenge is accommodation. Finding a hotel is no mean task. Your local travel agent will not be able to do it, and only calling and negotiating in Portuguese will suffice. Even then, we were not convinced that the room we had managed to book was really there. In steps Sergeant Brandon Doyle, thanks to CouchSurfing.com. Brandon works at the embassy and lives in a big house with a slightly neurotic cat and several geckoes. He cooks a mean chicken and is a great host for our four-night stay.

The primary reason for our trip is a nostalgic one. Having been born here, Lucy wants to revisit the places she used to toddle and hasn't seen for many many years. Furnished with some sketchy information from her parents, we point Chivela in the direction of the Bairro da Cazenga to look for the shop of Paulino Bumba. Sr. Bumba was a close friend of the family back in the 60's and 70's before the civil war and a stray bullet forced the family to flee. As we live the city and head North to the Bairro, the roads become rutted and a pall of dust fills the air. The roadsides cram with pedestrians selling all manner of goodies. The architecture is best described as rude, and the public works are non-existent. Kids swim merrily in stagnant water surrounded by burning rubbish, Girls play football hilariously, all g-strings and bouncing boobs. Everyone seems happy in the main, and extremely pleasant and helpful. We stop on the first corner of Cazenga and ask a bloke for directions to the shop. He knows it! We get closer and ask again. This time we hit the jackpot, this guy is Sr. Bumba's son-in-law. It couldn't have been easier.


- Tragically common sight on Luanda's streets


- Lucy with Sr. Bumba outside his little shop.

He takes us in and begins freely to reminisce about the family. Later, he brings out the photo album and Lucy and he have fun spotting who's in fading black and white snaps. Phone calls are made to Portugal to Mum and Dad; one can imagine their reaction! He guides us to the house they used to live in, clearly much changed over the years, and then to an even older one, where the mango tree that Lucy's brother used to get a spanking for climbing still stands. A group of young men are standing nearby and overhear Lucy's "this used to be my house". They don't look very pleased to see us. Their spokesman, hiding behind dark glasses steps up and questions us brusquely: "Why are you here? We've had trouble with your sort before. You come with your papers to reposses the houses you left behind. We live here now". Lucy tells them politely that she used to live here but she doesn't want to move in, that she's just remembering. It's true, everything's changed so much they could never return. Our interrogator thinks about it for a moment, then his frown evaporates, he shakes hands with us all and, as with almost everybody in this city bids us farewell with a smile.


- Sr. and Sra. Bumba on their wedding day. The Godfather-looking fellow on the left is Lucy's uncle, and Sr. Bumba's Godfather!


- Sr. Bumba as some of the family (the 8 kids and 6 grandkids were too many to round up at short notice)


- Lucy's artillery is getting bigger