OK not 82 days but it felt like it...Finally off the terrible tarmacless Michelin mapped tarmac road we rolled into Angola’s capital city of Luanda. Again, my imagination of Brazil sprang to mind as we passed the shanty towns built on mud cliffs with the remains of previous ‘homes’ still visible within the mud slides of the past. Overall the place looks pretty grim however there is clearly some money floating around as the odd new huge 4x4 or pickup truck is spotted amongst the heaving lorries and blue and white taxis. Either down to a severe diversion in town or just plain African traffic the journey into and in Luanda during rush hour was about as bad as it gets, the sort where if you have even the slightest amount of sympathy for someone trying to pull out your full fuel tank will be empty before your final destination of 5km away. Thankfully aggressive city riding is a speciality of mine and aboard big Des with Mick in toe we managed to growl and bully our way through the traffic at a decent pace. Maybe a little too decent actually as just after we’d made the road sellers jump from between the lanes whilst trying to sell their wears a concerned Mick gave the old whirly blue light sign above his head and gunned it. A quick check in my mirrors confirmed a very close and fast moving blur of main beam and flashing blue lights and so with a twist of the wrist we were off on a five minute crazy adrenaline fuelled scream through the traffic at quite frankly silly speeds. After turning off from a main road we stopped between two parked cars to ponder our next move which with some help from a helpful local turned out to be camping for the night at a private compound which was exclusively occupied by some very friendly Brazilians who were probably oil or bank workers. The following day’s riding was a total opposite what we’ve had to endure since mid Gabon.
Having had some advice from a couple of weird, no make that just Germans who were on their way up, we rode the open and mostly empty tarmaced Michelin tarmac road southbound and for the first time ever in Africa there was...a nice view! Distant mountains and rolling hills covered in shrubs much like Andulucia in Spain helped pass the hours as we headed towards Lobito.
It was about 20km before there that we stopped to chat with ‘Tom’ an experienced solo rider heading along our route but northbound. After the usual quick story swapping and photo is was agreed that we’d all head back to a nice roadside restaurant that Mick and I had just passed to enquire about the possibility of camping and beers. Permission granted and a great night was spent just being guys and talking about guy things whilst drinking cold beers and even sharing some steak! 
Very good times. Up at 6am and after witnessing the mass slaughter of around sixteen chickens by the kitchen staff right next to where we were packing up we wished each other very well and headed off in different directions. It was both horrifying and fascinating what we’d experienced and we couldn’t help but feel very sorry for the poor creature as it seemed to have an idea of what was about to happen but was pretty helpless with regard to changing the inevitable. Still, like us it was Tom’s decision to do this so on his head be it...Whatever happened to the Christians all of you will not be thinking? Well it seems that divine or childish decisions are of no importance if you get lost and reach the wrong borders on the wrong day. They’ve now overtaken us along a slightly different route but have been riding the same road as us now down to the Namibian border albeit a day ahead of us. Reports of the final 100km of bad roads forever reached us and as we approached we were keen to finally end the nonsense that is off road riding. As expected I made it to tarmac first but not without discovering a four inch nail protruding from my rear tyre.
Bugger. Mick finally arrived and the start to a total disaster over tyres/inner tubes and his compressor began. Without wanting to recount the whole ongoing (and I’m now two days into Namibia) story it was/is a right old mess. 
Somehow though after what was about eight hours of blood, sweat, hunger and pain we limped over the Angolan/Namibian border having rode the final 120km through a head wind away from what we’re told is ‘proper Africa.’ Hallebloodyluiah.
No comments:
Post a Comment