Angola - Monte Mocco

ANGOLA

The first time I tried to get to Monte Mocca, was in 2006. The roads were bad, I couldn’t find anyone to travel with me, I couldn’t speak Portuguese and the accommodation and aeroplane tickets were disgustingly expensive.

It’s June 2012

• The flight prices dropped to below half
• Through friends, accommodation was now available at less than a quarter of the price
• There was no need to get all the necessary permission to go the mountain
• I found someone willing to go with me
• I was told I had to take 5 days leave at work

It was a definite sign.

• The trip was planned to the T.
• I would pack the day before and get up early, eager as a beaver
• I would walk to the Gautrain station, take the train to the Airport, have a nice relaxing cup of coffee (or two) and buy some tax exempted gadgets before flying to Luanda
• I would then fly to Huambo, drive to the mountain, climb the mountain, drive back to Huambo before flying back to Luanda
• I would then spend a relaxing day in Luanda on the beach before returning to sunny South Africa

Due to a power failure, I was unable to pack the evening before and this was just the start of it.

23 June2012:

 

07h00: We were sitting on the Gautrain

 

07h15: The train was not going anywhere due to a power failure.  I phoned my son: “Ethaaaaaan! Please come and pick me up”

 

07h45: There was still no sign of my son.  With 30 minutes left to get to the airport, we grabbed the rest of the nervous foreigners that needed to catch a plane and jumped into a taxi. “GO!!!! We all shouted in different languages

 

07h55: We got stopped at a roadblock. I opened my window and shouted “No Gautrain, Late for flight! Please give us an escort!” The metro police shook their heads and off we sped.

 

This was my lucky day. We could have gotten stuck with the Gautrain between two stations. We made it just in time. Coffee had to wait.

Once we were airborne, I took out my earphones, looking forward to watching a movie, just to discover that my earphone connection was not working. Fortunately for me, “The Artist”, a silent movie was also on the playing list.

Once in Luanda, we were informed that we had to check our luggage in the evening before so our designated driver took us back to the airport to “quickly” check in our luggage.  Three hours later we found ourselves sitting on our backpacks, still in the queue and seriously dehydrated.  Using gestures to try and found out what was happening, turned out to be futile.

I am used to the luggage being bubble wrapped for protection in sunny South Africa, but in Angola, packaging tape are used and as soon as we set foot in the airport, we were exposed to the deafening sound of cooler boxes (filled with fish) and other luggage being wrapped for the entire period we were sitting clueless in the queue.

Trying to buy bottled water turned out to be quite a challenge since our driver couldn’t speak English, but after numerous attempts, he stopped at a shop and I downed a whole liter of water.

The next morning, despite the fact that I didn’t have one drop of alcohol, I woke up with one hell of a hangover and immediately downed another liter of water, before heading for the airport to catch the flight to Huambo.

Once on the aeroplane, whilst trying to figure out why we had to show or passport and yellow fever card at all 6 check points, I noticed that duct tape was used to hold several parts together in the cabin.

Safely in Huambo, I had new admiration for the duct tape.  Notwithstanding the power failure, using the Portuguese phrase book and gestures, I think we were welcomed by the Immigration Officer.

After arriving at Carlos’s house, I fell asleep and slept the whole day – suspecting some sort of jet lag. It was only the next morning that I was told that it couldn’t have been jetlag since we only travelled for two hours and that I have taken some sleeping tablets instead of my malaria tablets.
 

After walking around for 8 hours looking for
 a 4X4 to rent, Stuart had to carry
Flanders, Nunu's dog

I also realised that the neighbour’s party which started at 15h00 the previous day, stopped at 05h00 the next morning, but I have slept through most of the blaring music.

The next morning, we visited every vehicle rental place in Huambo on foot and after 8 hours, we gave up and Nunu, Carlos’ son, started phoning all his friends asking them if they could take us to the mountain.  We struck luck at 20h00, when Frank said he’ll take us for only $300.

At 21h00, music started blaring again – and once again, it stopped at 05h00 the next morning. I was awfully impressed with the Angolan’s party spirit! 

In front of the Chief's house

At 06h00 on the 26^th of June 2012, we found ourselves driving down Huambo’s streets, finally on our way to Monte Mocca. There was hardly a building not riddled with bullet holes.  A bumpy two hour drive followed and after stopping several times for directions, we finally arrived in Canjonde.  The chief was attending a funeral, and Nunu suggested a stroll up the mountain.

The “stroll” turned into a serious 4 hour hike where I discovered that

• My fitness level was below average
• You shouldn’t hike with jeans
• I carried 5 litters of water and a kg of apples to the top

Picking up litter after our "short" hike

Pitching the tent turned into huge entertainment for the village children, and after an hour, Nunu realised that he packed it up upside down after his last camping weekend.

After sunset, the guys had supper and loads of beers with the chief, whilst I snuggled into my sleeping bag, just to be woken by Nunu’s blaring music – which just happened to drown out the music that was playing two houses away.

The next morning, I woke up with my mouth filled with sand, and realised that I have accidentally left open the zip of my tent. I felt extremely proud of myself for not being fazed by all the snoring/farting and other noises made by the guys and village dogs/goats/geese and pigs.  By 06h20, we were following the guide (appointed by the Chief) and his two hunting dogs to Angola’s highest peak.

A loud shout led us to a beautiful 2 meter African Rock Python, and it took some convincing before they decided that it was unnecessary to kill it.

Once on top, everyone, the dogs included, admired the view.  And then it was time to face the slippery steep downhill. 

After five years, I finally got the opportunity
to summit Monte mocca

The shy village children welcomed us and then it was time to be entertained by Nunu’s great sense of humour.  I could not stop thinking that we would have had a terrible time trying to communicate with the villagers using the only Portuguese words I knew, namely,  Obrigado, Por favor and Monte Mocca.

Shortly afterwards, Frank arrived with his bakkie loaded with corrugated iron sheets, and the chief’s wife got extremely excited.   It was only driving back that we were informed that the chief has conned him into stopping for the potatoes and that he couldn’t get it over his heart to load the corrugated iron as well.

Another bumpy drive followed before we were welcomed by yet another party in Huambo!

The next morning, we were entertained by Nunu and a friend, who decided to try their hand at carpentry, and especially a table. After 5 hours, they have made one table, unfit for anything except fire wood. They decided to try their hand at building – but after their attempt to put up cornices failed after 3 hours, they decided that it was time to join a party, that once again, started at 17h00.

Once again, the music stopped the following morning at 05h00 – and shortly afterwards we left for the airport.  Once in Luanda, the 10 km drive to the beach took 3 hours. I could not help but notice that 99,9% of the vehicles in Luanda had dents in them, and 99,9% of the vehicles had no rear view mirrors. Apparently there are only 3 robots in the city with more than 40 million residents.

The following morning, it was time to show our passports and yellow fever card 5 times, before I was shown to a small room, where a lady with a glove on, waited.  I didn’t have a clue what she wanted, but very nervous about the glove, I reluctantly showed her my secret belt with all my dollars. I was adamant to cling onto my dollars, but could foresee problems being in jail with my limited Portuguese words. A search through my hand luggage followed and then the clearly unhappy lady shooed me away.  (I was later informed that it is illegal to take out the local currency)

My knees were still shaking when Stuart was called aside, and escorted to some unknown place.  Halfway through my panic attack, I realised I could get on the plane, or stay behind and try and find out what was happening. Considering my ability to converse in Portuguese, I was about to walk to the plane when Stuart arrived, and hissed that he has accidentally booked my backpack on his name. 

It was only once on the plane that I was told that all my rocks I have picked up on Monte Mocco were confiscated. Once again, I have not thought that the rocks I picked up innocently on Monte Mocca (I got a bit carried away and ended up carrying 13 big ones down the mountain) would raise the suspicion of being a prospector. I made a mental note to choose only a small rock to take from every mountain I visit in future.  I was then told about the surprised look on the suspicions officials face when they discovered panties and bras in “Stuart’s” backpack.

The children from the village