War Stories

Early in my time here I took a trip to Huambo. It was my first visit to a part of the country that witnessed much of the fighting during the country’s 27 year-long civil war. It was also my first introduction to the kind of war stories that many people in Angola carry with them. The story of Africa has proven that natural resources are as much a curse as they are a blessing, and Angola was cursed twice, with wealth in both oil and diamonds. Angola’s civil war lasted so long in part because one rival faction (the MPLA) controlled the oil wealth while another (UNITA) controlled the diamond wealth, the fortunes of each side roughly following the relative value of oil versus diamonds. As the buffer zone between the diamond area and the oil area, the central provinces (like Huambo and Bié) suffered.

The story was emphasized recently when a driver working for my NGO was recounting his life story. Wilson was from Huambo, and was a young boy when the fighting broke out anew in 1992 after UNITA disputed results of an election that handed victory to the MPLA. His parents were active politically, and he recalls being forced to watch as his grandmother was handcuffed and forced to jump off of a dam to her death. He told me how after that incident he fled with his mom and siblings on foot towards the relative safety of Benguela. “On foot” in his case meant barefoot, and he told me the trip took two weeks. He was young and his family didn’t have many ways to support themselves, and tears came to his eyes as he talked about working as a car wash boy before earning enough money to get a driver’s license. Car wash boys are everywhere, and washing cars is one of the principal ways unskilled young men can make some money. Shining shoes is another way (the dusty environment make this a necessary service – the same could be said for washing cars), followed by selling snacks on the side of the road as people sit in traffic. Wilson must have been a great car washer, and a diligent saver, because those kids don’t make much. He worked his way up to become a driver (a good one, at that), and has dreams of returning to Huambo someday. He’s married, has a child, and loves music. He’s 26 years old. I didn’t know what to do when he started crying in the car while recounting this story, but I offered what seemed like an insufficient “I’m sorry” and didn’t say anything else.

After a moment Wilson continued by recalling memories of semi-trailers full of mangled bodies being driven around town – who can say whether to intimidate people or to simply dispose of victims of the violence. Wilson was of the opinion that Savimbi (the UNITA leader) was so ruthless because he felt it that dos Santos (the leader of the MPLA to this day) was a kind of imposter. As I understood his reasoning, the controversy was due to the claim that dos Santos wasn’t Angolan, with the rumor being that his family was from São Tomé. Since he wasn’t Angolan, so went the argument, he shouldn’t be president. Hardly a reason to murder of course, but so goes the logic. In many people’s minds there is still a dos Santos credibility question – perhaps most telling in the mind of the president himself, since he has still not set a date yet for a presidential election (the first since 1992) due this year. That is not exactly the action of a man confident of his legitimacy, but what do I know…

Rest in Peace

This year, the estimated life expectancy rate in Angola is 38 years (37 for men, 39 for women). In other words, a baby being born in Angola today can expect to live, on average, to age 38. In fact, of 191 countries in the world, Angola ranks 190th in terms of life expectancy – only tiny Swaziland is worse (due to the country’s AIDS crisis). To give you some perspective the US ranks 30th in the world with an average life expectancy of 78 years (75 for men and 81 for women).

When I read that statistic before coming to Angola I thought surely it was a relic of the war years, and that the data needed to be updated to reflect the reality of peace that arrived in 2002. After ten months here, I’m no longer surprised. Death is all around, and not a week goes by without news of someone’s cousin or aunt or parent or child passing away. The war may be over, but the battle to survive still isn’t easy. There are car and motorcycle crashes too numerous to mention. Colleagues forward gruesome photos of crash victims by email and somehow manage to look at them without wincing (I couldn’t). Every week someone is coming down with malaria (called paludismo here) and there are plenty of other illnesses to worry about. A rabies outbreak in Luanda killed something like 80 people one weekend earlier this year. This is especially worrying since there is a worldwide shortage of the rabies vaccine and I was told I couldn’t get one before coming here. I was told I had to contract the disease first, and then I could be treated, which isn’t the most comforting thought. It’s also not comforting to know that the streets of Benguela are full of stray dogs – some aggressive – and since I don’t have any transportation here I’m walking amongst them daily. I have to check my usual appreciation for my canine friends and usually cross the street to walk on the other side if I see suspicious-looking animals. I’m digressing, but you get the idea.

At least several times a week when making client visits or bumming rides with friends on the weekend, we will pass a funeral procession. This usually involves a lead truck with the grieving parent or partner or next of kin surrounded by dozens of others in the truck bed with the coffin, followed by a trail of cars and motorcycles, and sometimes other trucks full of friends and extended family of the deceased, all heading to the cemetery. After someone dies, the funeral is usually held the following day, although it could be delayed by a few days to give relatives in other parts of the country time to travel.

Following the funeral, there is a period known as the “óbito” or what westerners might consider a wake, except that it happens after the deceased has been interred. The period for the óbito varies depending on the age of the deceased and ranges from a few days to up to a week according to my colleague who explained all this to me. During this time friends and relatives visit the family of the deceased and offer condolences and specially-prepared food. In the event of a woman who has lost her husband, traditional cermonies are sometimes performed to make her “marriable” again. A month after the death occurred, another event is held, this time usually more of a party or picnic to commemorate the deceased. Yet another event is held a year following the death. Understanding these traditions helped make sense of the frequent absences from work with “óbito” as the stated reason.

It’s a sobering fact of life here, but as someone that’s no stranger to death (there are no living relatives on the matrilineal side of my family) I thought the traditions were interesting.

Rest In Peace:


A common sight - black cross on door means closed for funeral/óbito:

Berlin

Truth be told this wasn’t the first time I’d been in Berlin. But the previous time involved a midnight stop at the train station when I was traveling with my friend Slacky from Sweden to Prague during college, and I just don’t think that counts. Within thirty minutes of landing at Tegel airport I had taken a bus and a subway and checked into the hotel near the Gedächtniskirche – German efficiency was a welcome change.

After sorting out room keys and hotel policies my first order of business was to scope out the local Thai food options – I left the reception desk with addresses for the three nearest choices and it wasn’t another half an hour before I was sitting down trying to savor (instead of inhale, which is what I really wanted to do) my curry lunch special. I was in heaven.

I met my Tbird friend later that afternoon and for the next five days managed to keep a pace that I never would have thought possible. We made good use of the train system getting around – Berlin covers a huge expanse – and I felt we did a fair job mixing tourist duties, nightlife, and oddball stuff. There were a few sleeping hours in there somewhere, but not many.

Here’s a countdown of nine things I’ll remember:

(9) BURRITOS
There’s a place that makes them fairly true to the form I was used to in San Francisco. It was unexpected but welcome – next to Thai food probably the cuisine I miss the most from home.

Missing The Mission:


(8) THAI FOOD
I promise I’ll move away from food-related highlights soon, but I had a total of 5 meals at Thai restaurants over the course of a five day visit. Mmmmmmm.

(7) BAUHAUS
Good design puts me in a good mood – the Bauhaus exhibit was small but well organized and the guy at the front desk that took my money was really friendly (probably from being surrounded by inspiring design).



(6) UNPLANNED DAYTIME ADULT BOUNCY-CASTLE FUN
Or Jupiter Jump, or whatever you want to call it. It was inside the exhibit hall that the United States donated to West Berlin in the 1950’s. Hassan and I first thought the building was closed but then walked around to discover that it was in fact open, and that there was an industrial strength bouncy castle just waiting for us to enjoy (the exhibit security people encouraged us). It was cool for about 5 minutes, until we realized that we were actually exercising, at which point we promptly stopped.

(5) CITY BOAT TOURS INVOLVING FLAGRANT BEER CONSUMPTION
I don’t think I really need to elaborate on this one, but the warm sunny spring weather made this kind of outing somewhat obligatory.



(4) THAI FOOD
Okay, I lied. But this will be the last time I mention food. Promise. Man I miss Thai food…

(3) CLIMBING REICHSTAG DOME AT NIGHT
Two earlier attempts to climb had been thwarted by the long line permanently stretching into the lawn area in front of the building. Being the long Easter holiday weekend I think many out-of-towners had the same idea we did. We finally suceeded one night, and the experience was worth the wait. The design idea is that the public can access the dome for free – once in the dome there are mirrors that reflect downward into the floor of the legislature, so that the elected officials can look up at any time for a reminder of who put them there. Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea…



(2) MEMORIAL FOR MURDERED GAYS
The holocaust is well known – and rightly so – for the murder of Jews. Six million of them. What is lesser known is that the Nazis targeted other groups, including homosexuals and Roma (Gypsies). Across the street from the Memorial for Murdered Jews is a Memorial for Murdered Homosexuals. I did not expect to see this. Inside the memorial is a video showing two men caressing and kissing. Again, something I didn’t expect. After so long in homophobic Angola (where being gay is against the law) it was refreshing to see a monument denouncing the very intolerance I’ve felt the pressure of since moving to Africa.



A few weeks later, a colleague sharing a ride with me home from the Luanda office asked to see my photos from the Berlin trip. Seeing as how we were in a 4-hour traffic jam (to go all of 3 miles, but that’s another story), I didn’t think anything of the request, until she got stuck on the photos from the Memorial for Murdered Homosexuals. She asked about it, and I explained everything in a somewhat clinical (but honest) fashion, and did so while being careful not to come out. It was uncomfortable. I have no idea what must have been going through her head then, or even now. I’ll pretend she’s gay herself until further notice. It helps me sleep better…

Explain This To Your Angolan Colleagues:


(1) BEATING DRAG QUEENS AT PING PONG
We set out to find a dingy warehouse-y bar called Dr. Pong, where communal ping pong is played. The idea is that everyone brings their bats (I didn’t know this was the techincal term for a ping pong paddle until this trip) and forms a big circle – everyone gets one volley and keeps moving around in a circle. When someone misses a return that person sits out, reducing the size of the circle. Eventually two players are left, who then play an actual game. When the game is over everyone is back in the circle and the cycle starts over. We found Dr. Pong. But then we found something way, way better.

It turns out there was a gay version of communal ping pong happening at another bar in the same neighborhood, so after a group conference lasting about a picosecond we were on our way to venue #2. Hassan and I were kindly given bats and we didn’t waste much time jumping into the circle. Now, to be fair, not everyone in the circle was a drag queen. Some people were just drunk, and others clearly had no business playing ping pong. These factors go a long way towards explaining how I was able to win a round. It was random. It was exhilarating. It was my favorite moment of the trip.

Berlin - Just in the Nick of Time

When I first got to Angola, one of the volunteers I was replacing had some parting advice: plan trips at least every three months, because after that amount of time this place will drive you crazy. I heeded that advice, and so far time has proven the sagacity of those words.

The week before I went to Berlin was easily the lowpoint of my time in Angola, and I’m not sure it was a coincidence that the magic three months had passed since I had last been out of the country. No electricity and a busted generator meant no relief from the 90+ degree weather (I had to flee to a local guesthouse to get any work done). Hot, humid nights had me trading sweating for sleeping. We didn’t have any running water for 4 days, and when it came back it was so full of filth it was unusable for another whole day.

Hmmmm, suddenly I don't feel that dirty:


I had planned to spend the weekend in Luanda before flying out to Berlin on the weekly Monday night flight (Lufthansa flies to Angola a grand total of once per week). I was happy to escape the horrible conditions in Benguela but the feeling of relief ended rudely when I arrived in Luanda to a car service that had decided to flaunt its incompetence in grand fashion. Instead of being picked up at the airport when I arrived (and after arguing for an hour on the phone with a dispatch guy just as flummoxed as I was about why there was no car at the airport to pick me up), I decided to make the 30 minute walk with my luggage, carrying my suitcase on my head because the road was too muddy to roll it.

Try rolling your bag through this (the intersection nearest the Luanda apt):


All of our Angola training suggested this was a horrible idea – that I basically made myself a walking target. Unfortunately my temper had reached a boiling point and I must have really looked crazy, because everyone I passed quickly got out of my way. I arrived to the Luanda apartment setting a new personal sweat record, but was grateful that at least there was power and I could take a quick shower before going to a pub quiz being hosted by the British Embassy (I was running late, which was the motivation for my defiant walk). Little did I know at the time, that would be the last of the power in Luanda before my trip 3 days later. Another three days of bucket showers and uncomfortable nights (not only does the AC make it possible to sleep, it keeps the mosquitos under control) awaited me. You would think our organization could organize a working generator given the frequency of power outages, but you would be wrong.

I did receive some good news the Monday I was to leave though – I had scheduled a consultation with a recommended local dentist to see about a couple of fillings my dentist back home said I needed. After pulling new x-rays the local dentist didn’t see anything wrong (and was more than happy to let me see for myself), so I left relieved not to have to worry about getting dental work done in Angola (especially since one of those fillings had previously been determined to be a possible root canal). More good news game when I made it to the airport to check in. I was given a pass to the VIP lounge without asking (I hadn’t shaved in almost a week by this point due to the lack of water…I must have looked like I needed a break), and I quickly established myself next to a large air conditioning unit blasting 17 degrees C. Relief at last. I was finally smiling.

I entertained myself by downing the slightly-stale white bread sandwiches filled with questionable meat-like product, washing them down with a tonic water. I asked to take a look at the suggestion book I had noticed when I had entered, and was rewarded with entry after side-splitting entry. My favorites were an entry that included a drawing of a crying traveler (apparently the conditions of the lounge weren’t always as adequate as the day I was there) and another entry by a man claiming to have broken a bottle of Johnny Walker (and offering to replace it by leaving his number in a script that suggested he had enjoyed most of its contents anyway).

There, there...at least you were on your way out:


Are you this honest when you're sober?


I was in a better mood already, and slept like a baby on the redeye to Germany...

Lubango & Namib

The one thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to stay in Benguela for the long weekend. I had heard a lot about Lubango, which is the major Angolan city in the south of the country, about 7 hours by car south from Benguela. Earlier efforts to find a place to stay there didn’t work out (Angola is a bit short on lodging options and even the simplest accommodations are rediculously expensive), and the morning of the day I was to travel I still had no idea where I would sleep. In a last-ditch move I called a friend from the gym who had friends in Lubango and asked for help. In twenty minutes I had an invitation to stay with a friend of his, and two hours later I was on the road, catching a ride with some coworkers that were heading there to visit family.

As is the case for any roadtrip, the journey really is half the story. The road to Lubango is about 340km or so. It rises from sea level at Benguela to about 5,500 feet at Lubango, and about half of the total distance is paved. That means the half that’s not paved takes the most time, or about 5 hours of the total 7 it takes to make the trip. Cows and goats have free reign in the countryside, and the rainy weather sometimes makes for trouble on the dirt tracks. There are only a few towns along the way and very few options for roadside snacks or gas (and you don’t know where some of those homemade snacks have been, as a week-long sickness reminded me on an earlier roadtrip to Huambo), so pre-trip planning is definitely more important than it would be back home. The road inclines through baobab forests and keeps climbing through rich farmland until reaching Lubango, which is like a breath of fresh air.

Lubango is green, organized, and did not suffer as much as other towns during the war. I not only had the best pizza I’ve ever had in Africa there, but the best toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich too (imagine!) To top things off the local beer – N’Gola – is by far the best I’ve had in Angola. I don’t know if it’s the cooler climate (I found myself wishing I had brought my jacket even though it was the height of summer), the green surroundings, or the good cheap beer, but Lubango won me over in an instant.

I met the stranger that would play host to me upon arrival - Tony invited me into his tin-roof one-room abode and quickly made me feel welcome. The next-door bathroom was interesting and involved a spigot coming out of the wall about four feet up from the floor, so I got through the weekend washing my face but never endeavored to take a shower (cold water showers in the hot Benguela climate are one thing…but cold water bucket showers in a cold climate required a level of filth that I did not manage to achieve during my stay). I met his friends and we watched some cheesy Brazilian soap opera called “Negócio da China” before heading to the “mall” for dinner at an Italian restaurant. The mall was a scaled-way-down replica of the Shops at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, complete with a crude and ultimately unconvincing attempt to paint clouds on a blue ceiling.

The highlights of Lubango included the following:

Serra da Leba (pictured above)
A series of switchbacks signals the transition from the high plateau to the plain below that leads to the coast some 140km to the west. The scene is depicted on the 5 Kwanza note (with a value of about 7 cents it’s the bill everyone hates to accumulate).

Cristo Rei
There’s no danger of confusing this replica for the one on Corcovado, but it does occupy a commanding position overlooking the city. It’s worth a trip for the views, and to see the cows grazing on the steep cliffs.



Tundavala
You could be forgiving for thinking you were in Switzerland, at least if the fog lifts long enough to see the green valley what must be several thousand feet below the rocky outcropping you’re standing on. I had to catch my breath when the fog lifted – partly because it was so beautiful but mostly because I was trying to calm my fear of heights. The fog closed as quickly as it opened and I ran back from the edge.



Planalto Café
The best coffee shop I’ve been to in Angola and home to the aforementioned toasted ham and cheese, of which I think I ate 3 during the weekend. The quindim was delicious too.

Huila Café
Home of the best pizza just about anywhere!

On Saturday I convinced Tony to drive to Namib on the coast, and against all protocol I took the reigns of the rental car and enjoyed the leisurely two-hour drive to the coast immensely. The terrain changed from verdant to desert in that span and it was fun to watch the transition. It just so happened that we arrived at the same time as some of Tony’s friends from Lubango and our united group took advantage of the “Festival of the Sea” which involved live music on the beachfront promenade. There may have been a beer or two invovled, and our planned return to Lubango was pushed back by several hours on account of us having crap-tons of fun. The redbull at the brand-spanking-new 24h service station on the way out of town was a lifesaver, and we arrived back in Lubango without any trouble.

Namib Beach Promenade:


No, I don't want to date your cousin:


Making friends quickly in Namib:


I wasn’t able to join my colleagues for the ride back to Benguela, so I bought a bus ticket for the journey instead. It was pretty uneventful, although we did have to take a detour around a muddy section of the highway where some semis had gotten stuck. I remember some sections being pretty dusty, but didn’t account for how this would affect the luggage I had stored in the back until I got to Benguela and my black bag had turned brown. I discovered that whacking the hell out of the bag with a broom and using compressed air in the crevices will clean things up in a jiffy. Add that to the list of things that Angola has taught me…

The local 7-11 comes to you:


A sticky situation (this is the main national north-south highway):