Angola – The rush of the unknown (part 1)

Our adventure had already started a couple of days prior to the actual trip. For us South Africans, visiting the Cape Town based Angolan consulate, it had been a terribly difficult and frustrating ordeal to apply for an Angolan VISA.

We exercised our last bit of patience with the embassy officials, but needless to say, we were eventually awarded our Angolan VISA’s and were psyched for the adventure that lay ahead. I am still not entirely sure why they make the process so hard, do they not want us to visit their country, are they trying to hide something..?

With knots in my stomach we approached the border post between Namibia and Angola. What lies beyond… will we be allowed entry into this foreign land? The stories of old, about border war and scattered landmines, African rebels and corrupt police officials haunted my thoughts the previous night in the safety of Namibia, but having already completed the best part of 3000 km, there was no turning back now…

At the border we met up with some of our fellow rush of blue seekers. It was nice to see one or two familiar faces and also to meet some new ones.

While we trying to get all our documentation in order and acquire the necessary stamps, the border post officials had everyone in a slight state of confusion. The lack of understandable communication and any sort of acceptable service delivery was taking its toll. You are completely at their mercy. Thankfully most of the group had already been allowed entry and was waiting for us on the Angolan side. With dusk looming and still needing to travel far enough into the bush to safely set up camp, a couple of “incentives” had to be exchanged…

 

Finally all our vehicles were cleared, all our passports stamped and we were allowed to enter. It is always a good idea to double check that you have received all the necessary stamps while crossing a border. The last thing you want is to travel hundreds of kilometers into the country only to be told you need to now pay a BIG fine and also turn back. Satisfied that we had everything we were off.

Without looking back we disappeared into the bush in a cloud of dust. With which can only be described as a full on dirt rally, the 14 vehicles snaked its way through the trees. First gear, second gear, third gear, handbrake! “Anybody see where the side-mirror went?” The bush road is extremely narrow and lined with threes on each side. A slight misjudgment could lead to some serious bodywork requirements or at least a new side mirror which was the case with one of our vehicles. As they say, duck-tape can fix anything and soon we were on our way again. The dry forest was truly beautiful, a sort of orange-brown mirage of endless trees and left you with a feeling of absolute desolation and awe.

Bar a stop or two when nature called, we covered a good amount of distance before the sun started playing hide and seek behind the trees. 100 kilometres in 3 hours, does not sound like much, but anyone who has traveled that bush road will agree that the drivers did a stellar job. We pulled off the sandy road, drove a couple of meters into an opening in the bush and the party ensued to set up camp for the night. In all honesty, I had my fears and doubts, I mean this is just a random place in the middle of nowhere and we were going to spend the night there, out in the open!

 

The first night turned out to be quite the experience. We were all sitting around a large camp fire when I saw a couple of dark shadows approaching us from the bushes.

A cold chill ran down my spine. I could make out the silhouette of four men and immediately my heart began racing. Oh no I thought, not trouble on the first night in Angola already. Each of the men was carrying a large “panga” (or machete). In South Africa this “panga” is generally used as a weapon so you can understand my distress. They proceeded to walk right up to us and took a stand just outside the circle we had formed around the fire. Our guide (Uncle Frans) told us to ignore them and that they will soon get bored and be on their way. During the next few minutes I kept a steady eye on them, expecting some sort of reaction, but true to Uncle Frans’s words they soon turned around and disappeared into the bush again. Perhaps they were just inquisitive, surely it is not every day they see a group of 14 vehicles and 30 people parked off on their land.

My imagination was running wild, perhaps it was the feeling of being at the mercy of this foreign land, but I needed get to grips with the situation and start enjoying myself, this is after all a once or if you are fortunate enough a twice in your lifetime experience.

The ambiance of the crackling fire and the night-time bush noises soon had the adventures, especially myself at ease again; or was it the effect of a couple of “cold-ones?” Never-the-less, everyone was having a great time after a pretty stressful yet eventful day. That night many of the adventurers slept under the stars, with only a ground sheet to keep them off the dirt, they said it reminded them of their days in the war. Others opted for the safety of their tents to keep the night time creepy crawlies away. There were no two thoughts about it for me… and I was soon dreaming away in the comfort of my tent.

The first morning in Angola we were up and awake before birds fart or “mossie poep” as the Namibians would say. The urge of getting to the fruitful angling waters had us scoffing down our rusks and coffee, which was so graciously prepared by the designated cook and co. Camp, was broken down and all remnants of man removed before we started on the winding sandy road again. We had another 60 km to cover until we would reach the first little village and finally some tarred road. Travelling in a generally Eastward direction, the first hour of the rising sun together with the dust created by all the vehicles made it very difficult for the drivers to follow the road. A safe following distance needed to be maintained, but this then created the possibility for the following vehicles to take wrong turn-offs.

Two hours later, and thankfully all the vehicles still in one piece, we arrived at the first village. This was the first real sign of civilization since we had crossed the border. What a surprise when we were greeted by a police road block. ”Surely they were expecting us; why else would they be waiting there at 8 am on a Sunday morning?” Our very competent guide managed to “negotiate” our rite of passage through the blockade. He has been in operation in Angola for quite some time and is familiar with the culture as well as being able to speak fluent Portuguese. This is essential if you are hoping to achieve any form of communication with the local inhabitants. We were instructed to switch on the vehicles headlights, wear our safety belts and to remember to drive on the right hand side of the road as opposed to the left hand side in Namibia and South Africa. There were a couple of nerve wrecking moments when we saw the oncoming vehicles driving on the “wrong” side of the road, only to realize again that they were in fact right being on the right, right..?

The lack of wild- and bird-life near the towns was very noticeable and it soon became apparent that the locals hunt and eat/sell everything. Every so many kilometers you would find some people selling “freshly” killed and skinned animals along the roadside. A disturbing sight, but a means of trade I suppose. Their living conditions also seemed quite appalling, broken down buildings, rubble and rubbish lying everywhere. Perhaps they do not know any better or have just accepted the conditions they find themselves in. A sad sight because there is so much potential. These parts of the country were definitely not in any way or form a sightseeing tourist attraction. I was glad when were able to pass through quickly.

For quite some time the main attractions were the big old baobab trees on the side of the hills. These giants with their milky white bark stood out like a sore thumb amongst the dull, rocky background and had the adventurers reaching for their cameras.

After passing through another village or two, we encountered our second police road block, this time all our passports were confiscated. It was as if everyone wanted a piece of the “incentives” or to be part of the “negotiations”. The building that they were operating out of had no electricity, half a roof and almost all windows were broken and boarded shut. Welcome to Africa time, where the phrase, “hurry up and wait” is all too well known by its residents. Luckily we were entertained by a couple of the travelers demonstrating their favourite knots and giving some valuable fishing tips. After a waiting period of about an hour, a gentleman appeared from the building and handed back our passports. It seemed that they could not find any fault, or perhaps the “negotiations” were to their liking. Inside we found a hand drawn copy of a stamp approving the control check. No wonder they took so long, hand drawing 35 stamps is no quick task.

We were happy to be on the road again and knowing that every kilometer driven brought us closer to our destination kept our spirits up. Our next obstacle came at the hands of a town called Lubango. We planned to pass through the town on a Sunday morning in order to avert the convoy from the usual traffic craze of the week. With less than half the vehicles equipped with GPS navigation devices we had to stick very close together. We twisted and turned our way through the town like an unstoppable train. I was told to take as many photos as possible so that the drivers could actually see what Lubango looks like. The only thing the drivers saw was the bumper of the vehicle they were following. It took some seriously skillful driving to avoid the crazed local taxi drivers but we managed to get through pretty good without incident. It was interesting to note the tiny shacks, piles of ruble and giant mansions all in the same street. You would find a simple little broken down house with an expensive sports car or some 4×4 SUV parked outside. How do they afford those vehicles, or are their living conditions just not important to them? What a great experience and a real eye opener!

We made a quick stop at the giant Christ statue on the outskirts of the town (similar to the one in Rio). What an amazing view from there! Everyone enjoyed the opportunity to stretch their legs and take some photos.

The guide informed us that the worst was now behind us and the rest of the drive should be smooth sailing; music to the driver’s ears. They were able to relaxed a little more and also enjoy the increasingly more beautiful landscape. Once everyone had their fill of the endless views, we continued towards Leba pass. The “tarred” road became progressively worse and the potholes were so big that you needed cross through them at a snail’s pace. Every now and then you would not see the pothole and have the vehicle occupants banging their heads against the roof as they bounced their way through; thank goodness for 17 inch wheels. Leba pass is a well-known man made phenomenon and a worthwhile stop on route. We pulled off to a tourist stop above the pass to take some photos. What an amazing sight! The road literally snakes its way down a terrifying drop in altitude, with some hairpin bends that would leave any driver with sweaty palms. Once again our drivers negotiated this without too much trouble. While descending down the pass we noticed huge gashes in the tar left by massive blocks of marble that had fallen off trucks and apparently it would be too much trouble to try and recover these blocks, so they are just left there by the roadside; kitchen tops anyone?

The landscape changed drastically as we got closer to the coast. Riverbeds were being used as makeshift farmlands and the shallow underground water tables made these very fruitful areas. All along the road the locals were selling fresh fruit and vegetables and we passed by a couple of big market areas. We purchased some bags of charcoal in order to make fire over the next two weeks, apparently wood is hard to come by in the dessert… (And driftwood from the sea just burns out and makes no coals)

 

The last town we passed through on our journey there was the harbour town of Namibe. It is a glorified fishing village, but big enough to purchase the necessary supplies and to refuel the vehicles. We struggled our way through a couple of hilarious “communication” efforts with some of the locals; mental note, learn some Portuguese before the next trip to Angola. Fuel is ridiculously cheap in Angola and I believe we paid on average less that 4 rand per litre for diesel while there. Although before we left RSA and Namibia people had warned us that the fuel in some areas of Angola was pretty dirty we never had any trouble with the VW Amarok. Fuel consumption remained impressive and performance still pretty good, enough so that we might have converted the odd Toyota and Jeep lover to consider upgrading 😉 One last check of all the vehicles and a count of the supplies and we were off again.

Upon exit of the town we caught the first glimpse of the Angolan ocean. I am sure a little tingle developed in the stomachs of each of the avid anglers. We were so close… It seemed a lot flatter than expected and resembled a large lake, perhaps this was just due to the large surrounding cliffs and adjacent harbour breaking all wave action. The vision of smashing Garrick breaking the surface after my popper popped into my head and the idea of fishing flat water just became all the more inviting.

 

We turned off the main road and entered into the desert. Each vehicle deflated its tyres to about 1.2 bars in order to make the driving on the sand a little easier. The softer tyres increases your tread on the sand and you are better able to negotiate the very soft areas. Vast expanses of sand lay in front of us, as far as the eye could see. Once again I was in awe of the unique beauty. We were informed that another 70km of dessert/sand road laid ahead and then another 50 km of driving along the beach. Speeds of over 100 km per hour were attained on some of the harder sandy stretches and had the adrenaline junkies smiling from ear to ear. The vehicles slipped skidded along the softer parts and fuel consumption went through the roof, but this was merely a forgotten thought as the kilometers ticked away.

We stopped on a HUGE flat area where we took some impressive photos of the vehicles in full flight. Some of the drivers mistook the photo shoot for a race and had engines singing in order to beat the vehicles next to it.

After a good couple of laughs everyone was back inside and playing follow the leader. Uncle Frans has driven this area many times before and safely guided us along the best route. In no time we descended onto the beach and I noticed the change in the ocean immediately. Big waves and beautiful holes were present as far as the eye could see. The thoughts of targeting garrick were very quickly extinguished and replaced by my favourite specie and angling technique; kob on artificial lures!

 

The drive along the beach was beautiful to say the least. The unspoiled expanses of sea and sand and the hidden bounty that the ocean might yield was a sight to behold.  Already potential angling spots were being marked on the GPS  or for the vehicles not as equipped, a makeshift marker was placed along the beach using some drift wood or any unique form of marking. Unfortunately there would be no angling today as camp still needed to be set up and dusk was looming; a dagger in the heart of every angler there, but the thought of setting up camp in the dark in unknown territory amongst scorpions and giant spiders quickly had me persuaded.

With the calculated distance covered, we cut back inland and had a couple of big dunes to traverse. The drivers had a point to prove as no one wanted to be the first one to get stuck or not make it up one of the dunes; the ridicule that would follow from such an event would be carried for the whole trip and would sure as heck affect a fine or two at the first fines meeting. With vehicle engines moaning from the high revs we all made it to the top of the final dune. Before us lay a large patch of greenery nestled amongst a few large dunes. What at first resembled a mirage after staring into sand dunes for the past 2 hours, I was overjoyed to be informed that this oasis would be our home for the next two weeks.

 

The prevailing wind for the next couple of days was predicted to be a South Easter and we proceeded accordingly to set up our tents against the South Eastern dune to receive as much shelter as possible. Our camp consisted of 15 or so sleeping tents, a large mess hall tent, two toilets and three showers connected to a water tank that was being filled with water syphoned from a meter or two below it; 5 star living in comparison to what I was expecting.

Darkness soon fell and we were treated to a lovely meal prepared by the cook and his team. The night played out with laughter and great fellowship in the mess hall. It was quickly established who are the trouble makers to look out for and the jokers who would keep everyone entertained over the coming nights. The mess hall was the rendezvous point for the planning sessions each morning and reports each evening. We were each handed a small notebook and pencil which we would use to record the details of every fish caught. This would enable us to keep track of the amount of fish caught, per specie as well as get a relatively accurate estimate of the total weight of fish caught during the trip; a great initiative and this soon developed into a mini competition amongst the more competitive anglers.

In the coming days we would fish the stretch of coastline between the entrance to the “Doodsakker” in the south and the Vanessa Seafood shipwreck in the North. Each day saw us exploring a new stretch of beach within this area. We were nursed and teethed the first few days, but then set free to explore the area by ourselves. We opted for the expertise of Uncle Frans and followed him around for a couple of days. Having first seen him guide the Angolan trips of the television program “Hier gaan ons alweer” it was a great privilege to be guided by him. His knowledge of the area is extensive and his stories had us hanging on his every word.

The first day saw the convoy head straight for the shipwreck “The Consortium”. We were allowed to fish from there all the way back to the campsite. This arrangement would give the organizers and tour guide the opportunity to keep an eye on everyone and if anyone got into some sort of trouble they would easily be assisted. The 20 km drive there had our mouths watering at the prospects of fishing some of the amazing holes we passed.

The spot at The Consortium did not produce and after a quick beach breakfast the vehicles started to scatter in search of better holes they had spotted earlier. One or two vehicles remained behind at the wreck and persisted there through the day. We moved along the coast from spot to spot without much success.

 

With the tide being high, the water had completely changed as opposed to the morning, holes were harder to spot and the big waves made throwing artificial lures all but impossible. Throwing larger bait in search of a lost kob I suddenly got flattened! The line peeled off my reel for a couple of seconds and then nothing, broken off. I reeled in the sinker and noticed my hook was gone. Oh well, rig up again, 0.8 mm fluorocarbon on my hook race, I am after all only looking for kob. I baited up with a sardine and sent it flying into the deep blue. While my thoughts were still reeling on what just happened I get flattened again. My line gets stripped at the rate of knots. Just as I tighten up on the drag I feel the fish come off. Oh no, not twice in a row. I reel in and find my hook missing again. I am not even nearly rigged for these kinds of fish.

On the way to the vehicle I shout to my dad that I was bitten off again. My words were not even cold when I notice my dad lean into a good fish. The fish screams off and as with mine comes off; another hook bitten off. He has had enough and adds a short bite trace just above the hook. True to form, not long and fish on. With a little more confidence in the setup, my dad pulls the fish hard. A decent tug of war ensues and after 20 minutes or so we notice the brown/copper fin of a shark in the water, our suspicions realized, a bronze whaler. After doing a bit of the bronzy dance I finally get my hands around its tail. I seriously underestimated the power of this fish and with one or two trashes of its tail it rips free of my grip and in so doing manages to pull the hooks free as well. A tired and somewhat disappointed farther sticks his rod into the rod holder and opens a cold beer. What are we going to do to avoid the bronzies and get the bait in the water long enough for a kob to find it? I have no confidence in fishing with a bite trace as I believe the unnatural looking wire above your hook negates your chances of catching an edible fish. I decide to throw some spoon and my dad rigs up new bait again. The sun started setting and we needed to head back to the camp site. My dad got another pull, this time it looked more like a familiar type fish. The noticeable head-shakes of a kob were there, but yet my dad was fishing with a bite trace, so how could this be, it must have been the low light conditions. Not long and he grabbed a beautiful kob by the tail.

My dad landed two more in quick succession while I played gillie. A couple of snaps later and we were on our way back to the camp.

After the first day of fishing it was evident that the bronze whalers were going to be a pest in our efforts to catch edible fish. A pretty disappointing day on the fishing front but who could be disappointed while enjoying the beautiful surroundings in the middle of nowhere. That night in the mess tent, stories of the day were exchanged and rumors of a 19 kg kob landed by the guys that remained at The Consortium quickly spread between the guys. They released the kob to fight another day, but somehow the photos of the fish were lost. The biggest news to my surprise was about the bronzies that my dad and I had hooked into during the day. Apparently there were more shark fishermen that edible fishermen among us. They picked our brains on the spots and the technique used for the bite; just lob a piece of sardinello into the water and hold tight. I was glad to share the info with them, because while they kept the sharks busy I could target the kob. After a hearty supper I was off to bed.

The festive noises from the mess hall drowned into the background as I slipped into dreamland in search of those big fish.

 

read Angola – The rush of the unknown (part 2)