It's a bay! It's a toilet! It's the Luanda Marginal...

Like many things in Angola, the Baía de Luanda has enormous potential. Unfortunately, it’s currently running for the title of world’s largest toilet.

I’ve been lucky enough to get a six-week house sitting gig at an apartment located on the Marginal, the main thoroughfare in Luanda that happens to border the bay. My duties include walking my friend’s Rhodesian Ridgeback twice a day along the wide Marginal sidewalk. I’m also able to walk along the same sidewalk to work, which has been a welcome respite from Luanda’s traffic. Normally the flat 20-minute walk would be a great way to get to work. It’s winter now afterall, so the temperatures in the morning and evening are comfortable low-mid 60’s and perfect for a stroll.

Despite the potential, my experiences on the Marginal have been less than savory. Not a day goes by where I don’t see someone walk right up to the edge of the Marginal in broad daylight, unzip, and relieve themselves right into the bay. Public urination is a competitive sport here, so that’s nothing all that unusual. I’ve also seen kids crawl down to “go potty” directly into the bay, and then proceed to wipe their bare bottoms by dragging them on the concrete edge of the sidewalk that drops down into the bay afterwards. All in broad daylight.

As if that’s not enough, the city’s sewers dump directly into the bay and anyone walking along the Marginal sidewalk doesn’t have to guess too hard about where the exit points are. The smell has been particularly ripe lately, to the point where I’ve caught myself gasping in disbelief as if I were trapped in an elevator next to someone with a horrible gas problem. The water usually has a slightly glowing greenish hue along with the permanent mess of floating refuse, which on several occasions has included dumped refrigerators and other large appliances. I’ve also witnessed people on at least two occasions walk up the edge and dump garbage bags right into the bay. Rats and cockroaches rule the sidewalk at night, a fact the dog reminds me of when she decides it’s time to give chase to either.

The bold disrespect for what should be a point of civic pride is depressing. Someone pointed out to be earlier in my stay here that “African priorities aren’t always the same as Western priorities.” Perhaps, but one would think that the government would feel a little more responsible for doing something to clean things up. Apparently people just don’t care (at least not the ones dumping their human and household waste in broad daylight).

And yet, it’s hard not to imagine a clean Marginal with parks and water taxis taking passengers to and from the clubs and beaches on the Ilha on the opposite side. It could be charming, and there are redevelopment plans posted on billboards along the sidewalk. Nothing has happened in the year that I’ve been here, and these are the kinds of experiences that make people cynical about the future while they book the first possible flight out of here after their contract duties have been fulfilled. Weak civil service organizations, a totally unfree press, and a lack of political will make it too easy to maintain the status quo. Unfortunately none of these factors seem to be changing anytime soon, so I’ll keep holding my breath on my walk to work…

Tomorrow: Plans for a greener, cleaner Marginal:


Today: Not so clean, not so green:

The Age of Jesus

I turned 34 recently, and for once I was looking forward to turning older. Until this month, whenever someone in Angola would ask my age, the unanimous remark was that I was “the age of Jesus.” This always led to an awkward moment – what do you say when someone has just compared you to someone who was crucified at your exact age? Turning 34 was a relief in that sense – turns out I’m not the savior of mankind either (its own separate relief). On the other hand, my country’s constitution still considers me too young to be president, so I figure I have at least another year to consider myself too young for serious responsibility. After that it’s pretty much downhill until the AARP benefits kick in, so I hope to enjoy it while I can.

I’ve never been one to make a fuss over my birthday – being a summer day I never celebrated it in grade school and my family always seemed to be on vacation when I was a kid. I never got in the habit of having parties, and even a short blog entry seems a bit indulgent. In any event, it was nice surprise when a group of friends invited me out to dinner and drinks this year. The pepper steak at Fortaleza Restaurant was tasty and the house party afterwards festive. Too bad I had to get up for a 6a.m. flight to Soyo the next day. More on that later - for now a big thank you to my Luanda friends for making

It's not a party until you rearrange the refrigerator magnets:


A promising sign for the evening:


Thank you!

Luanda League Futebol

One of the newly arrived MBAs and I have taken an interest in the local soccer league, and have managed to see a couple of games so far. There’s a stadium two blocks from our office, so on several lunchtime outings we passed by to ask the security guards hanging out at the stadium what time the next game would be. The answers varied, but after three such trips we ended up with 2 votes for 4pm and 1 vote for 3pm. We tried to look in the newspaper to verify the time, but that effort (and a related attempt to find start times on the internet) didn’t prove fruitful. We put our faith in our research and planned for the 4pm start, only to arrive halfway through the first period (the game actually started at 3:30pm).

Ticket prices varied widely – from 500 Akz to 4000 Akz (the latter with access to a buffet lunch). Jeff and I opted for the 500 Akz seats, and found ourselves sitting next to a rag-tag band featuring trumpets, trombones, drums, and the plastic blowhorns that are the scourge of African soccer games (get ready to hear about this during next year’s World Cup). The stadium seemed to be designed to hold as few spectators as possible and featured no concessions the day we were there. Although the stands were hardly full, there were enough fans to teach me some new choice curse words. Turns out the team owned by the president’s son defeated the team owned by the president (2-1). Judging by the small crowd at the game, most people in Luanda could have cared less. There are other much more popular teams though, and we’re hoping to catch one of them next time…

Estádio dos Coqueiros - somebody stole the seats:


Police-to-fan ratio approaches 1:1


Just happened to catch the aftermath of the game's first goal:

Gasosa!

It finally happened. Taking the photo to the left landed me in my first incident with the Angolan police, and my first out-and-out request for a bribe (or gasosa in the local Portuguese slang, which is also the word for a soda). I’m proud to say I managed to maintain my dignity. I was snapping away from the car as we drove by the airport to drop off a colleague, and my decision to take a photo of the airport sign turned out to be controversial. Maybe they were embarrassed that the word “internacional” was missing the final L? There were three uniformed police officers standing nearby, and one motioned for us to pull over. The same officer then started questioning me regarding the photo, asking me if I had a tourist visa. I said that I actually did have a tourist visa, which is true, but I didn’t have my passport with me at the time to prove it. He asked to see the photo, taking my camera and showing it to the other officers. One went so far as to say “that is proof” in a tone that indicated he thought he was pretty clever. I got a chuckle out of that comment – there were general mumblings of my crime and that I would need to pay a fine, etc. I was taught in grad school to call the bluff in this situation and demand the officer write a ticket, which is what I did. I was curious to see what the suggested remedies to this situation might be however.

Throughout the whole ordeal I was polite, saying I was sorry but reiterating the fact that I did have a tourist visa (apparently this gives you the right – or privilege - to take photos of airport signs in Angola) and I also pointed out politely that there was no sign stating that photography was not permitted in the area. By this time I was out of the car (I don’t take well to strangers handling my camera), and an Angolan colleague that was in the car with us had also gotten out to try to help me. First they wanted three phone credit (which is sold via a system of prepaid cards with scratch-off codes), then cash, and after refusing and reclaiming my camera we just walked away. It was kind of weird how they just let me go, but I think they knew I wasn’t going to be worth their time. Wasn’t there an airport to protect anyway? Keep up the good work fellas…

Subas: the original hangmen?

I'll get off the macabre topics eventually, but after confirming a peculiar cultural practice related to death at the Anthropology Museum recently I thought this one was worth sharing.

A "suba" (I'm probably not spelling this correctly) is a village elder that is respected and relied on for advice when important decisions are being made. This person wears a special hat that signals his significance. So far, so good. The odd part comes after this person dies, at which point the dead body is hung in a public place by a noose around the neck. The body hangs there as long as it takes for the head to detach itself from the body, at which point the head is preserved in a special hut where the heads of previous subas are kept (I have no idea what happens to the body). The hut then serves as a sort of inspiration center for future generations of community leaders when seeking guidance.

I first heard about this practice from an Angolan colleague in Benguela, but the practice was confirmed this past week by the curator of the Anthropology Museum in Luanda. The curator noted this kind of thing doesn't really happen much anymore, but that doesn't take away the fascination value for me.

I remember seeing the nooses used to hang famous outlaws that are part of the exhibit at the gun museum in my hometown (J.M. Davis Arms and Historical Museum :: www.thegunmuseum.com), but using something similar to hang someone as a sign of utmost respect is a visual that just doesn't go away easily.

Bye Bye, Benguela

My last few days in Benguela were quiet and spent mostly by myself. I’ll miss the privacy and the wireless internet, but mostly I’ll miss the relaxing weekend days I’ve become accustomed to. On what was my next-to-last Saturday in Benguela I took advantage of the fact that the weather is finally cooling off to going for a walk around town, which is pretty much my only entertainment since I don’t have transportation. The goal was to check out a recommendation for ice cream at a place called “Sete” or “seven” in Portuguese. Seven flavors? Seven hundred kwanzas per scoop? These were things I was thinking about as I made my way through town. I arrived and ordered the baunilha and maracujá, otherwise known as vanilla and passion fruit. As advertised it was good ice cream, and I struck up a conversation with the friendly scoop ladies while enjoying it. I asked which flavor was most popular, and they proceeded to give me their entire inventory list (so much for my attempt to conduct flavor research). I left and promised to return the following day, when they said they would have pistachio. That’s a flavor worth returning for, after all…



I continued my walk by the Kalunga, the outdoor cinema that’s across the street from the Chinese restaurant, and shuffled on towards the Praia Morena beach. I sat on the beach wall reading for a bit, enjoying the breeze until I realized my legs had fallen asleep and I would be better off on a park bench instead. I stumbled my way to the park as my leg muscles woke up and finished the book there (“Mother Tongue” by Bill Bryson…an entertaining history of the English language for anyone that’s interested in that sort of thing). Afterwards I just continued home, content with my day’s activity and relegating myself to an evening of watching the rest of the episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race that I had downloaded onto my iTunes in Germany.

Just as I entered the house I got a call from my friend MCM, who has a weekly hip hop radio show in Benguela. He wanted to know if I wanted to come do the show with him and before I could respond with my standard “is a fat baby heavy?” reply he was outside my door to pick me up. I had no clue what to expect, but it turned out to be a blast. I was laughing in the studio when he introduced me as a “cool brother” and the show’s guest for the evening and was impressed with the smooth way he handled the portion of the show when he takes calls from listeners. The upside is that I got introduced to some great lusophone hip hop music.



Afterwards I spent some time driving around town with MCM, and after telling him about my ice cream adventure earlier in the day he insisted we try a different place. I was scolded when I reached in my pocket to pay for my cone – in Angola whoever comes up with an idea like this also expects to pay – and I enjoyed helping #2 as we discussed politics on the dirt sidewalk near the ice cream stand. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was lactose intolerant and hadn’t planned ahead to bring enough lactaid pills with me, but I decided to accept the kind gesture and brace myself for the consequences later. It was worth it in the end – not such a bad way to wrap up my time in Benguela…

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…