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.
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.
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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!
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| In front of the Chief's house |
At 06h00 on the 26th
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
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| 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.
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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.
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| The children from the village |
