Angola (2)

	The mountain passes were steep and rocky, as bad as anything we had seen so far, in fact it was so bad in places Jools got out and walked as now her passenger is getting a bit big for the rougher stuff. At one point we questioned if we had left the main track and by some chance had taken a wrong turn, but after marking a bearing and distance on the map it looked unlikely.


		The sides of the mountain passes were littered with huge trailers and trucks tipped over the edge but I found it hard to understand how they had got so far in the first place (we were later to learn that it was the safest transport route during some of the war years). We stopped at the side of the road on a small hill (starter motor playing up) for the night just passed the turning for Santa Maria and as night fell the temperature followed.



					In the morning we both had the shits but still with the risk of land mines we couldn’t risk going far and so we lined up five ‘pats’ that would make a fine mess of someone’s wheels on passing.


	Although the driving was hard going, the scenery was beautiful and I felt as if we had come full circle and were back to Morocco again. After Lucira the road was fantastic tarmac again across beautiful plateau’s and amazing boulder formations that reminded us of Joshua Tree, without the Trees.

We passed through another Jemba’s depot at Namibe before heading farther south to search out ‘Arco’ famed for its turquoise lakes and sandstone arches [S15˚44.483’ E012˚02.263’].

Jools showed me an article about it in a magazine and it sounded like a veritable Eden. I guess I had high hopes, but the lack of rains had left the lakes more on the browner side of turquoise and the sandstone arches didn’t float my boat. Jools skipped around (in a heavy pregnant way) looking on the brighter side, whilst I sulked and moaned excessively, however the journalist did redeem herself by leading us then to Flamingo Lodge [directions - 45km south of Namibe. Junction: S15˚ 35.808’ E012˚ 12.271’, Lodge: S15˚ 34.213’ E012˚ 01.189’].


	The signpost just pointed down a dry desert river of soft sand and proclaimed ‘twenty kilometres’. We pulled off the pristine tarmac and explored our way along the multitude of tracks, all heading in the same general direction but each searching out the less softer sand. After 5km of thrashing the engine mercilessly we realised that there was no letup and so we dropped the tire pressures and cruised on. We reached the beach and most of the tracks seemed to tend right, so being as there were no signs we continued hopefully. As we rounded the dunes the lodge came into view and we ploughed through the ever-softening terrain and managed to find some firm ground on a slope to park up (still no starter motor).

	Ursula the manager was away from the lodge with guests so we made ourselves comfortable and were looked after by the staff while we awaited there return. It was the look on Ursula’s face when she arrived that gave me some inkling that all was not well (a kind of who are you and why are you here look). It turned out that Flamingo Lodge was a booking in advance, reservation, don’t just turn up on the doorstep when were fully booked kind of place. However Ursula was so understanding and wonderful that we soon got chatting and managed to sweet talk our way into staying in the truck and joining the guests for dinner [email: flamingo@aasafaris.com, or telephone: 00 244 (0)923 905522 / 923 494992 to make camping or lodge reservations…highly recommended. Campsite fee-$40, meals-$30 each].

The Angolan coastline has some of the best fishing in Africa and we soon worked out that this was the sole reason the Lodge exists. Photos and certificates of world record catches adorn the walls of the simple dining room with its fantastic view over the beach.

In the evening we meet some of the guests and strike up a great friendship almost immediately with a Namibian guide called Dakkie. We swap stories of our recent adventures for some of his from years in and out of Angola, and he gives us loads of advice for good routes through Namibia.

In the morning before we leave I am determined not to miss the chance to properly christen my fishing rod (a present from Julie’s dad, Jim). Dakkie provides me with some hooks that dwarf my collection and some twine to tie on the bait. After a little coaching from a South African fishing champion, I wander down to the beach and almost immediately I’m reeling in a monster.

The rod was bending like it was made of rubber and the line sang as it was stretched to its limit, I slip the clutch down a notch and as the quarry runs the smoke starts to billow from the reel. I battle for what seems like hours, the endless game of who will tire first, man or fish. But just when I’ve sweated my last ounce of strength I feel it weakening and wrestle it to the beach. It kind of happened like that, but more like each time I reeled-in to check if the bait was still on the hook, there happened to be a fish there instead.

I caught four in twenty minutes and kept the two bigger ones for the pot. As is our lot we sped away from such a fabulous place desperate to stay longer but having a due date meant we must continue onwards.

The road to Lubango is certainly the best in Angola, pure unadulterated tarmac, like a runway. We savoured the smooth running and lapped up the twisting hairpins as we climbed the escarpment to the high plateau, stopping at the Statue Christo overlooking the city [road turnoff: S14˚ 57.414’ E013˚ 28.345’, statue: S14˚ 56.418’ E013˚ 30.711’]. Lunch, then dipping briefly into the town to pick up the dirt track that leads to the Tundavala [S14˚ 55.700’ E013˚ 28.261’]. Ursula had enthused about Tundavala and the sheer drop from its dizzy heights as you look into the huge cleft in the mountain face.

That evening we had meant to head out of town to one of the Jembas ranches but after meeting Rachel, a local manager at Jembas, we spent the evening at her parent’s house. Rachel’s father Steven is a GP/Surgeon/Radiographer/Gyno/you name it he’s doing it at the CEMH Mission Hospital, and an ATV nut to boot. We seemed to really hit it off, but that wasn’t too difficult when they were such lovely people.

The next day at the ranch we met ‘Freeky’ and ‘Rubber’, two of the Jembas ranch hands. I’m not sure if it was just an inflection of the Africans accent but these are the names we were given. The ranch is developing a milking herd and cheese factory but the land looked as far from the Cheshire plains as it could possibly be. Freeky assured me he would make it work and his confidence soon convinced me.

					Whilst on the farm I did get an opportunity to reacquaint myself with equine practice. One of the horses on the ranch had a wound on its leg. I fashioned a twitch from a stick and some rope for restraint that allowed me a closer look. I picked the leg up and after initial cleaning I could see it was full of maggots, so Freeky passed me a solution to spray on the wound to kill them. I asked him what it was, he didn’t know in English but they also used it to paint the fences, creosote!

	After a good two nights rest we hardened ourselves for the final stretch of bad roads out of Angola. Jools is now seven and a half months pregnant and feeling it on the bumpy stretches. Our last night in Angola was spent just like the first, parked in the middle of the main road.