War

I’ve only heard “fun” stories and anecdotes about the three decades of civil war in the country. It seems like, collectively and silently, it has been decided that the atrocities are not something that should be passed on, while fun stories thrive and get told by different people in different versions. One of the stories goes like this: Cuban soldiers (11,000 of them were in the country in 1976) were known to like pork meat very much. As it was quite rare in supply during the war, the Cubans were also known to stop whoever was transporting pigs and seize the animals to have a special dinner. Once, a group of Angolan soldiers got offered (or stole, versions differ…) a pig in a village (it could have been in pretty much any of the provinces: I guess the story is one of those myths that get then appropriated by different groups and populations, as it represents a “universal” for the specific time). As the Angolans had to pass a Cuban camp, they started thinking about a solution that would avoid them to “share” the gift with the Cubans. One soldier suggested to dress the pig in uniform and to put it next to the driver in a “sitting” position. When they got to the Cuban camp, they got stopped and the Cubans searched the car: “Do you have pigs?” “No, no”, was the answer. “And what is this???” said one of the Cubans pointing at the pig in uniform. “It’s our chief!” “The pig is your chief?” “Yes, don’t you see the medals on his jacket, and the hat, and the uniform?” “So, the pig is your chief…” Smiling nods. Eventually the Cubans had to let them off, together with the chief-pig. The Angolans had a big party that night and that’s also when this story started being told and retold to everyone who wants to listen to it.

Rain

I distinctly remember complaining about the lack of water not even that long ago, and getting really worked up because of it and the problems it caused. Now these complaints seem completely unreasonable and out of place. Time has come to complain about too much water: rainy season!
So, I was driving from Ganda to Tchikuma this morning, despite the rain that had started around 2am. Weirdly enough for this time of the year it hadn’t stopped after just a few hours and actually looks like it’s going to keep going until the evening hours.
The holes on the road were all filled with water, but problems really started after around 15 km. There’s an area where the earth is yellow instead of red and turns into mud with the addition of only a few drops of water. The car started “dancing”, slipping, and finally stopped with one wheel half buried in mud. 4-wheel driving didn’t help to get us out and as there where only 2 of us traveling there wasn’t enough “man-force” to push the car. Finally we asked some kids from the nearby village to help and only a few minutes later a group of men on motorbikes came by. (one is rarely as happy to see people as when one is in trouble on an African road…). I actually knew one of the men, which helped cutting short the story-telling about where one is going and coming from, comments about the weather, the status of the road, who you’re working for, why you’re going where you are trying to go. They laughed about my shoes covered in mud (not that much more than the rest of me…) from jumping out of the car and trying to “evaluate” the situation, then they all started telling me the “best” way to get out of the hole. I believe this is a universal: men are intimately convinced that no woman can “really” drive and that it is their “mission” to teach any woman they meet, especially if she’s in trouble on the road. So I accepted my “inferior” position, smiled, said thank you and tried to do whatever they were telling me to do, providing it was doable (you can’t really go backwards and forwards at the same time…). They finally agreed on pushing the car forwards and while I pressed my foot on the accelerator, I closed my eyes, hoping the car wouldn't slip again and end up off the road, in the river. In between more discussions, shouts and “teachings”, the team effort actually seemed to work and the car was finally “freed”. I then listened patiently to each persons opinions about the road ahead and the chances of “making it”. Again I smiled, said thank you, finally got into the car, looked at my fellow traveler and we tacitly decided to drive back to Ganda and to leave it for a less “wet” day…

Zulu

On the beach in Lobito there is bar that has been there forever. It’s called “Zulu”. I remember it from the first time I came to Angola, in 2002, just after the end of the civil war. The only “place” left on a once famous and beautiful beach, the Zulu is somewhat of an institution. Surprisingly fancy, with wooden chairs and tables, when all you can find everywhere else is plastic, waiters in uniforms, all but cheap (but then again, what’s cheap in Angola?). It used to be the gathering spot for aid workers craving a burger or a ceasar salad, a game of beach volley and a chat, after weeks or months in “the bush”. Right now the public is a bit more mixed: from the group of young “daddy’s sons” with their gold chains and baseball caps, to “new rich” families, Portuguese entrepreneurs, Chinese engineers, sometimes a local Angolan celebrity. People sit and work on their laptops, sip fresh drinks, make sure they see and get seen and I can’t help but notice how universal certain human behavioral patterns are.

Money

In Angola’s capital city Luanda the average rent for a (not particularly great) apartment costs somewhere around 5,000 USD per month. Yes, five thousand North-American dollars. For a place that doesn’t necessarily have running water, and where you still need to buy the gasoline for you private generator. Kids begging on the streets ask you for (at least) 200 kwanza, the equivalent of 3 USD. Which stops to be surprising, once you realize that the price for the smallest piece of bread you can buy, has risen from the equivalent of 35 cent last week to 20 cent this week. A bottle of mineral water is more expensive than on Heathrow airport. I once allowed myself the “luxury” of a chocolate bar and paid 5 dollars for it. But maybe one has to consider that imported goods just have to be incredibly dear. However, bananas (a local produce) are often more expensive than at my local corner shop back home. The smallest recharge for a mobile phone costs the equivalent of 11 USD and can last up to 10 days if you don’t make “conversation calls”. I don’t think I have heard people talk about money as much and as often as in this country and I find it quite surprising that a secondary teacher earns more than his colleague in Italy after a couple of years of experience. But if they can fill a concert hall with thousands of people who paid at least 100 USD to listen to some international celebrity singer, than one has to start asking how much money there is in this country and if it will be able to manage it in order to also reach the poorest, the malnourished children, the sick and weak which live in the most remote corners of the country as well as in Luanda’s city outskirts.

Breakfast

Don’t you love the smell of coffee in the morning? Maybe a little melted butter on hot toast, strawberry jam and fresh bread? I certainly do and think it’s one of the best things in life! So imagine my shock getting up one morning and walking towards the breakfast table at a friends house, wondering who had forgotten to take the trash outside after dinner the day before. The strong, unpleasant smell however had nothing to do with dinner, but was the result of a “lush” breakfast my friend had prepared for the whole family. She proudly smiled coming out of the kitchen carrying a huge plate of… well, really, what was it? I had to ask trying not to look too disappointed by the lack of fruit and sugar on the table: “ginguinha”, she replied happily. A very special dish that needs a very long and complicated preparation by expert hands and is made of… goats interiors… My friend put the plate down between another huge dish full of fried fish and another one with the traditional maze flour side dish. All very nice stuff which I eat with pleasure after 1 pm, but which makes me miss almond croissants an plum cakes at early morning hours!

Faith

A few days ago I went to visit Lungu, a village on a mountain, close to the town of Cubal. It’s basically in the middle of nowhere, can only be reached on foot, after a steep 3 hours walk. But why would one want to climb a mountain in the South of Angola, at night, carrying water bottles and food and blankets? In my case it was curiosity, in the case of the people around me a matter of faith. In fact, in Lungu the Holy Mother is said to appear. The water of a little pond near the village is said to cure people, to make the blind see, the deaf hear, the crippled walk again.

I didn’t see the Madonna, whether it was due to me just being curious instead of faithful, or to my red painted fingernails or to the fact that I didn’t take my shoes off just before getting to the “holy spot”, I don’t know… As a matter of fact that day no one saw Holy Mary. We just listened to Cecilia, a young woman born in the village, who first had an apparition a few years ago and now regularly “meets” the Holy Mother, speak about her visions, and watched the mountain top to see if we could spot something, a sign, a star, a light.

These sort of places usually make me smile a little cynically and give me a certain feeling of unease. It is however undeniable that there was “something” in this beautiful tiny village behind the mountain top: a feeling of peace, of being a little closer to heaven, shared with everyone around.

I still don’t believe in miracles (at least not this kind of miracles), but somehow think it was worth every step to get to that far little place behind the mountain top.