The big Trip:
Day 1 was a disaster as it actually didn’t happen. All the trip was supposed organised by a US based (or could be London, that’s how confused and confusing they are) contractor. Because of Angolan labour laws, you are actually hired by them and, through them, contracted out to the people who need the work done. From the very start they have been useless, giving conflicting instructions, not following up on things like visas, booking 70 hour trips etc. In this case, I had sent an email on the Friday (was supposedly leaving the Saturday), to ask yet again about the visa. Kate had gracefully offered to drive me to Newcastle to catch the train to Sydney, and we had planned on her picking me up at 8 am. At 7am I got an email, telling me that while the visa had been issued, it couldn’t be used for 3 days from date of issue so the whole trip had been put back a day. Only good thing was I rang the bus shuttle company and was able to get a bus to the airport in Sydney and they pick you up at your front door. Terrific service and only $105. I was actually the only one on the bus so had a quite pleasant trip down.
Martin came out to the airport to see me off so had a few beers and bit of a catch up with him before leaving about 5:30 Sunday night.
First plane was to Singapore and was uneventful. Bit of a mad rush at Changi airport just because of size of Terminals but no real issues. Bought my first digital camera at airport. Bit dearer than I expected but I think its because it has many more features than I expected so will need to study manual (which is bigger than the camera) extensively. In meantime, I can point and shoot so will get at least some shots. Got my anti-mosquito spray confiscated at airport in Singapore as it was over 100 ml in size (missed at Sydney airport). My fault but still annoying given the paranoia with malaria in Angola. I did ask for the official’s home address and explained that I needed it so that if I died of malaria, I could come back and haunt him. As you can well imagine, we both laughed uproarishly at this wonderful repartee – and once the police removed my handcuffs, I got on the next plane about 2 am our time
Anyway, longish flight (10 hrs) to Johannesburg (or for us sophisticated travellers who don’t spell well, Joburg (they actually called it that in the official announcements at the airport so I’m in good company ).
Didnt have the camera going but the views of the area coming in to land reminded me a lot of the country around Wagga, very rural even close in. More water than us and weird huge (like over a km in diameter) round paddocks scattered amount normal looking ones. Haven’t tracked down why yet.
Was only at airport for about an hour and despite my ticket showing economy, was in Business Class as I was supposed to be. First flight with South African Airlines and it was quite good.
Got to Luanda about 1pm (don’t ask me whose 1 pm, at this point I didn’t even know what day it was, let alone what time back home). First problem was that for some reason they no longer allow the airlines to have and distribute the medical forms that you need to prove you have had your yellow fever shots. When we were walking across the tarmac, I thought some of the expats were surprisingly pleased to be there as they raced towards the terminal, knocking small children and goats out of their way in their desire to be first in the terminal door. Turned out they were just more experienced and were trying to beat the queue to get the form from the one employee who had to check your health card and if your yellow fever shots were up to date, give you another form to go to immigration – sort of defeated the idea of having 4 immigration guys to speed up that part of the process.
The bugger actually read each book as he had trouble identifying my inoculation details but I finally got on to the next queue after about half an hour. This was both slow and odd. Three queues: UN/Government passports, Angolans and Others (as in me). What was odd, apart from the sheer number of UN passport holders, most of whom were Indian, was that the Angolan passport holder’s line was almost exclusively Chinese. Apparently, either during the civil war or just after it, western powers (US etc) refused to help the potential, and eventually actual , winner of the conflict. The void in a country ravaged by war for 30 years was filled by China and India, both happy to give either aid or loans with the quid pro quo being access to Angola’s oil and work for a multitude of Indians and Chinese
Finally got to immigration desk and after presenting what I thought was a visa and all appropriate paperwork with my passport and getting back just a tear off section from the immigration form, I politely asked for my passport back so I could move on to get my bags. It almost got a bit interesting as I’m telling the official I want my passport back and he is pointing increasingly belligerently to a roped off section off to the side. One thing knowledge of the frequent use and abuse of AK47s by officials does is to focus one’s mind, so I docilely trundled off to the indicated area which was filled with other expats. Turns out the visa I had waited so valiantly for was just permission to apply for a visa once I got to Angola. Luckily it was only about 30 degrees so that fact we were in an uninsulated, unairconditioned shed with no seats or water wasn’t too bad but I imagine it could be fun in the middle of summer. Waited patiently for about 3 hours (turned out Angola was playing in an important soccer match just when my papers were presented so an already slow process ground to a halt while the game was on).
Finally about 4 pm Angolan time, I was re-united with my bag, found the driver and the other expat who was on the same flight .
Traffic in Luanda is horrific (and you will probably get sick of me saying that but it really is so bad that a lot of the determination of where you live and what you do is based on traffic more than anything else). Anyway an hour (and about 7 kms) later, our driver (we were in the equivalent of a Tarago) who spoke no English, dropped us at the front gate of a compound with half a dozen buildings. We had no idea why we were there and it took us half an hour to find an English speaker. Turns out it is a guesthouse. Accommodation is so short that we couldn’t get hotel accommodation so they were putting us up in a guest house till we went to Lisbon. Fine, no problem, we were just in time for tea, served in a central dining room as part of the compound. You find a table, then line up at a buffet sort of arrangement which has whatever that days hot meat is (usually choice of 3 or 4) then grab whatever vegetables or salad you want. Soft drinks available but alcohol both difficult to find and at your own cost. Meals were OK but I imagine it could get very repetitive.
Being forward planners that we are, and having no idea of what was going on, after the meal we grabbed the driver and got him to take us to a local expat supermarket so Mike could get some Coke, me some beer and both of us some wine and water. Supermarket wasn’t bad with reasonable range of items and while expensive, not as bad as I had expected. Even had some Australian wine (which was dear) but managed to buy a couple of bottles of Portuguese wine for 850 Kwanzas each, which is about 10 dollars. I struck my first major language barrier here (everything is in Portuguese because Angola used to be a Portuguese colony). I found some beer that had the word Zero on it. Logical interpretation, this was the equivalent of Cold or Ice ie beer that should be served very cold. Wrong Steve. Yes, you guessed, zero alcohol. We shall never speak of this ignominy again and I hope whoever finds it at the guesthouse enjoys it.
Out of the supermarket and back to the van/driver and off we head, back to the guesthouse. Or so we thought. It felt a little odd when we got out of the bus as the gate, while clearly made of the same material, seemed wider. I put it down to jet lag but it turned out we were at a different guesthouse, operated by the same people and modelled on the same lines. The process is that Mike and I sleep at one guesthouse (quite acceptable separate rooms with fairly big ensuite and cable TV) and get the bus back to the main guesthouse for dinner each night. Breakfast is at our guesthouse and things are a little overwhelming for the staff there. They know that the scrambled eggs go on one tray in the bay marie (sp?) and the sausages in the other but no one seems to have explained that electricity is involved in the process so they have never turned it on. I’m pretty sure it was the same eggs and sausages in the thing at the end of the week as at the beginning.
I’ll post this as my typing speed means it takes a while and rejoin you with more of Big Dog’s adventures overseas later
