Add one to the list of places I have cried in Angola

Sunset in Zambia. I did not cry here.

-My office

-My house

-The beach volleyball court

-In the car after getting stopped by the immigration cops

NEW!- Luanda domestic airport

My family will tell you I am a crybaby. During high school I was a mess and would cry at the drop of a hat. I mellowed out in college and later in life, but it seems to have all gone away in Angola. I don’t know if it’s the stress of living in Angola, but I seem to cry easily here and often in situations that don’t deserve the emotional effort required by shedding a tear. Sometimes they work to my advantage, especially in this macho society.

Angola is hard to fly in and out of. My training in Zambia ended on Friday and I left for Johannesburg early Saturday morning (got up at 4:45 am). My priorities in Jo’burg were shopping at the Eastgate Mall and seeing my SIPA friend Karena, who is working in Jo’burg. The mall was oh-so-nice, so I didn’t get a chance to take a nap before meeting Karena at her house before dinner. Dinner was a restaurant that had a floor for salsa dancing, so we stayed until around midnight dancing. I was quite pleased. However, this meant very little time for sleep, as I had to repack my suitcase with my new purchases AND get up at 5 am to catch my flight. I only had about 8 hours sleep in two nights before catching my flight to Luanda.

Why is this important? I was completely exhausted when I got to Luanda. I had been up since 5 am (on less than 3 hours of sleep), had a layover in Windhoek, Namibia, and all I could think of was getting home. I knew there was a good chance of me getting to Lobito in one day, so I was very excited about sleeping in my own bed and playing with my cat, Willie.

My bags were literally the last ones to be put on the luggage conveyor belt. I didn’t get out of the international airport until 2:20 pm. I thought the last flight left at 5 pm, but our frantic driver, Firmino, informed me that the flight was supposed to leave at 3 pm! Banking on the fact that every single one of the flights (international and domestic) I have taken in this country has left at least ½ hour late, I held hope that I would make it.

Getting into the ticketing area, there was no one at the check-in counter. We went to the migration check-point and the immigration guy waved us on, telling us that the Sonair check-in guy was in the passenger waiting room. Firmino went into the room to ask the check-in guy if there was still a possibility that I could get on the flight. Sonair Guy said that I could still check in, but that I had to hurry as the little busses that take passengers to the airplanes. Firmino rushes to get my bags from the hallway and bring them in. The guy in charge of the waiting room suddenly stops him and says, “You can’t bring those in here.” Firmino, whose job it is to make sure I get on the plane, hurriedly tries to explain that I have to get on the plane and tries to push pass. Waiting Room Guy gets an attitude and starts yelling in Firmino’s face. I try to intervene, because Firmino is getting angry and I sense trouble. I try the humble approach, “Oh sir, I’m so sorry, I just got in and my colleague here is just trying to help,” etc. etc. Waiting Room Guy wouldn’t even look at me, and continued to yell at Firmino. I notice another couple from the same flight I was on come in the waiting room, and Waiting Room Guy waves them on. Seeing this, Firmino tried to push past the guy, but Waiting Room Guy PUSHED Firmino away.

This is where I lost it. I had just been in Zambia, where people were so friendly and polite and here is this guy on an ego trip, preventing me from going home. He had no reason to get violent with my coworker; he just wanted to feel important. My desire to get home coupled with my exhaustion pushed me over the edge. The tear started rolling and didn’t stop. The embarrassing thing is that the room was full of people already staring at me thanks to the pushing.

However, this roomful of people jumped to my defense, restoring my faith in Angolans. “What SHAME!” shouted one woman. “Why are you making this poor woman cry? What are you gaining from this?!” Then, a well-dressed man walked up to Waiting Room Guy. He must have been an important chefe (big boss) because all he did was walk up to him and say, “You will let this woman and her bags get on the plane.” Waiting Room Guy suddenly got shy and said, “Sim, senhor.”

I got through and managed to get my bags and body to the tarmac in front of the buses taking passengers to the plane. The other people in my same position and I were just waiting in front of the buses- we were not being allowed on, but the buses (full of passengers) weren’t moving. After about 20 minutes we finally are allowed on the bus. A woman starts yelling, “This is disrespectful! You are holding us up for a foreigner! Passengers have rights!” This, of course, only started my tears again, which had only just stopped. Other people hushed the woman, but it still hurt. Ach. Made it on the plane and got some quality time with Willie before crashing at 8:30 pm.

Welcome home!

Zambian kids are cute

Back from Zambia and have been quite busy. Here are some pictures of adorable kids we found while walking around the lodge where our training was held. You can see who really loved having their picture taken! They followed us for the rest of our walk, singing behind us. I tried to get a movie of them singing without them knowing it, but they were too clever.

Off to Zambia

I'm leaving today for Luanda and to Zambia on Friday. I'll be at a regional training in Lusaka. As usual, I'm ridiculously excited to be leaving the confusão of Angola.

Looking back over the past year, I've had the fortune of traveling to 2 other African countries (Cape Verde and South Africa- 3 if you crossing the border into Namibia for 4 hours). Like my trip to South Africa, this one is work-related, but thanks to the difficulties of getting in/out of Angola, I get a weekend in Zambia to do whatever. The consumer in me wants to shop at the mall, but hopefully I can also get out and see other things. (Really, I'll probably just shop!) Someday I hope to actually be able to visit these countries for pleasure.

Plane crash survivor

When I found out I was coming to Angola, everyone at my grad school told me to get in tough with Nate. He graduated from SIPA a semester before I did and was working in Mbanza Congo (northern Angola) on a malaria project. I did, and he gave me excellent advice on living and working in Angola. We've kept in touch via email but have yet to meet face-to-face.

When I first heard about the crash (see previous posts), I immediately contacted him to see if he was okay. He wrote this in response:

"Actually, I was on the plane. It was pretty crazy, but I'm fine."

He keeps a blog and has this post about the experience and the aftermath.

Then we hit. All hope for a normal landing was out the door in a split second. We hit hard. The whole plane shook and the oxygen masks fell down. People started screaming. The landing gear must have broken at this point and we shot off down the runway with no brakes and out of control. Then I heard something hit the plane. I put my head down and covered it with my hands, with a vague feeling of waiting for something to hit me. I don’t remember anything after that until I felt the plane stop. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and looked up. The front of the plane was gone. I looked to my right and saw part of the plane blocking the aisle and the people on the other side unconscious with blood running down their faces.

It's terrifying. It shows the absolute worst of Angola. I've read it about three time s and still can't believe it.

MY complaints about the trouble this crash has caused me in trying to go home on vacation seem really insignificant after reading his post. Now, I hope this trouble is gone quickly just so Nate can get home. He deserves it.

Reciprocity

I’m discovering that reciprocity is a big deal in Angolan culture. When the Portuguese banned Angolan drivers licenses because Angola is one of the few countries in the world that is not a party to the worldwide convention that standardizes traffic rules, did the Angolan government discuss ratifying this treaty, like the rest of the world? No! The solution, of course, was to ban Portuguese driver’s licenses, which resulted in a huge, country-wide crackdown on Portuguese drivers. (This crackdown was the cause of my near-“arrest” a few months ago. Driving while white, I guess.)

To some extent, I can understand the need for retaliation in this particular instance, given the colonial history and the fact that since independence Portugal had accepted Angolan licenses. Why the ban, all of a sudden? (For the record,I disagree with this because Angolan drivers are absolutely, incontrovertibly bad drivers.) But the latest attempt for reciprocity with Europe just seems hot-headed and stubborn.

A few posts ago, I spoke of the biggest news this year, the big TAAG crash in Mbanza Congo. As if it weren’t bad enough that the crash killed 6, including the administrator (mayor) of Mbanza Congo and an Italian priest, the crash happened on the very day that the European Union banned all TAAG flights on the grounds of maintenance and safety violations. Bad timing, to say the least. TAAG maintains that there is nothing wrong with their planes and that the EU’s ban is baseless. (Again, HOURS LATER a TAAG plane crashed, killing 6 people.)

Now comes word that the Angolan government, in an act of reciprocity (!!), has decided to ban all flights from European carriers! I am truly dumbfounded by this. Sure enough, the Angolan Civil Aviation Authority took away British Airway’s license to fly into Angola. (Not Air France’s or TAP, the Portuguese airline, for some reason.) Apparently, the president, José Eduardo dos Santos, is the voice of reason and has reversed this reciprocal ban, but it’s not clear what will happen, as BA still says it's not allowed into Angola. There is no reason for this except for vanity. Eye for an eye, indeed.

This ban is causing havoc in the Angolan airline industry. I happen to be TRYING (trying is the operative word here, folks) to arrange for my home leave in September. At this point, I need- forget want- to leave Angola for my health, both mental and physical, and go home. The first flight option I got was perfect- it fit directly into my leave dates and was on TAAG on the way out, returning on British Airways. D’OH! British Airways is the best option for me, since there is a direct Houston-London flight, and would have to spend less precious vacation days actually flying (2 days each way, opposed to 3 each way with the other options). With those flights out of the picture, it looks like I will have to spend up to 6 days traveling (total for both legs) and overnight in either Lisbon or Johannesburg. What a mess.

Of course, the remaining airlines are smart. They are not offering more flights to the EU and making a fortune in the process. The cost of those 3 day trips to get back home? Over $3000!

Just my luck that all of this is occurring when I am trying to get out of the place!

Big show in Lobito

Most of my weekends in Lobito involve watching TV, going to the supermarkets, and cooking. That’s about it, unfortunately. This weekend was slightly more eventful, thankfully. At ShopRite I saw a poster advertising a show by Yola Semedo at a local restaurant at the tip of the peninsula. Yola Semedo is a big kizomba artist and happens to be from Benguela, so the event looked promising. I made plans with Juan, my boss and big kizomba fan, to go.

We had three options for tickets:

1. US$130 for a table for 4 people, including a bottle of whiskey
   
2. US$90 for just a table for 4 people
3. Regular entry, at Kz. 1000 ($13) for the ladies and Kz. 1500 ($20) for gents. (Sorry, boys!)

We, of course, chose the cheaper option.

According to the restaurant, the show was to begin at 11 pm. We took this to mean midnight. We show up around 11:30, and the place is completely deserted and quiet- no music, no lights, nothing. At first we thought we had the wrong place. Finally, around midnight the DJ starts playing some music. The restaurant itself is very small, but had turned the surrounding beach area into a makeshift concert area. The perimeter was marked by a not-very-strong straw fence. Juan and I looked at the stage and suddenly realized that there is no band equipment, no mic set-up, so it looks like the show will be starting much later.

Around 1 am the crew from Alto Nível, a music/youth show on TPA. Now, I happened to just be watching Alto Nível before leaving for the concert, and was not impressed. On this particular episode, the host, a middle-aged man with Tom Sellec-esque mustache (pictured here) was interviewing Tito Jackson. Yes, Tito Jackson, Michael’s brother!! For the first question, the host had the temerity to ask Tito - in horrible English- if he was rich. Tito was confused and asked him to repeat the question. The host said, “You! Michael Jackson! Many money! You many money like Michael!” Surprisingly, the interview ended there. Obviously this guy has not been following MJ’s finances these days. So when I saw the host at the show, I threw him dirty looks. Nobody disrespects Tito like that- nobody!!

Soon, we hear a lot of confusão and see fighting at the entrance. The “security” is overwhelmed by people trying to get in. They are surprised that the straw fence has not held in the throngs of Yola fans.

Finally, around 2 am, Yola shows up. And starts singing along to recorded music. Geez. Angolans don’t seem to mind when they get cheated with canned, recorded music instead of live music. At least she was actually singing, which is more than what usually happens. Immediately, many of the regular ticket holders bum-rush the stage and seated table area, pissing off all the rich people who spent $130 on over-priced whisky. Juan and I congratulate ourselves on our wise decision to be cheap. In the middle of her second song, a fan- young guy with a macho swagger and hip-hop gear- gets up and greets Yola with two kisses on the cheek- while she is singing. She handles it well. Security is lax, to say the least.

After the third song at 2:30 am we leave. As with many things here, at least I can say I got a good story out of it.

Umbundu Lesson of the Day

Okasi logo panga nwe? Okasi loco sucula!

Umbundu is the language of Benguela and Huambo provinces, among others. I would love to learn it but I haven't had the opportunity. I try to pick up as much as I can from colleagues. I can say the basics, like "Thank you," "How are you" and "I'm just doing the wash" (see caption of picture above!). Today I learned the following:

Sikaleta- Bicycle (play on Portuguese word for bicycle, bicleta)
Jamba- first born twin
Ngueve- Second born twin

I learned these because we were paying project salaries and these words were all people's last names. As in, Pedro Bicycle. Julia First-Born-Twin. Awesome!

Last names here are very interesting to me. There seem to be three major classifications of last names: Portuguese, first names, and traditional.

Portuguese: A lot of Angolans with traditional Portugues names (Esteves, Semedo, Oliveira, etc.) have some familial tie outside of Angola. Some might have Portuguese mixed blood or might be from Sao Tome or Cape Verde, where the majority of last names are Portuguese.

Traditional: Several Angolans (the majority?) have traditional last names, like Ngueve, Kasisa, Catumbela and Tumbulo. They are descriptive of the places they were born (Catumbela is a town) or of birth order (aforementioned Ngueve). There are lots of other meanings, but I unfortunately don't know enough Umbundu to know what they mean.

First names: For a long time, this confused me. A lot of people have first names as last names, like Manuel Jose (Jose being the last name) and Isabel Maria (Maria being the last name). I asked my boss, Francisco Eduardo (FE), why this was and he told me the following story.

FE was a smart student, so his father decided to send him to the best school that he could. Before he did, his father said, "There's no way that you will be successful with that Umbundu last name. Aquilo não da!" So his father, Eduardo, gave him his own first name as Francisco's last name for official documents. Apparently this was rapant during colonial times, when being seen as from the "interior" (i.e., not the city, not Westernize) was a very bad thing indeed.

One less Angolan airline to make me late

Photo of the accident from AngolaPress (ANGOP).

I doubt we'll be flying much TAAG again....

M'BANZA CONGO, Angola (Reuters) -- A Boeing 737 belonging to Angola's state TAAG airline has crashed in the northern city of M'banza Congo, killing at least six people and badly injuring others, Angola's ANGOP news agency reports.

Full English article here.

Portuguese articles here and here.

I wonder if the plane was one of the new ones that TAAG bought this year. They still haven't determined the cause of the accident, but apparently it happened as the plane was trying to land.

UPDATE: I hadn't even noticd, but I was scheduled on a TAAG flight from Luanda to London in September! No longer! Cross your fingers for my colleague Sandra, who still has to fly TAAG to Ondjiva on Sunday.

Sierra Leone's Refugee All-Stars

Sierra Leone's Refugee All-Stars. Photo from SodaSoap Productions, from New York Times article

There is a nice write-up in the New York Times about the documentary about the Sierra Leone's Refugee All-Stars. I saw them for free in Central Park right before I left for Angola. Their story is incredibly moving and inspirational. The band played first and then they presented the documentary. There were several Sierra Leoneans in the audience, and their excitement and emotion was catching. Their music is great- a mix of traditional music, reggae and other styles.

The documentary the talk about will be shown on PBS's P.O.V, but sadly I think it has already passed. It's available on Netflix, though!

Later in Angola, I heard similar stories. It's hard to imagine living in a war-torn country, much less one where you are forced to literally leave everything behind in order to survive. I was overwhelmed when, talking to people who had been internally displaced (fleeing within their country, as opposed to refugees who cross borders), I heard about women having to grab their children and run- in the middle of cooking lunch for example. Makes my complaints about not having fresh broccoli seem quite superficial.

Catumbela barragem

Anne with son Weni (age 5, left) and daughter Kadja (age 3, right)

You can barely make out women going down to the river to fill up tubs of water...

The weather in Lobito has finally cooled down a bit. In the morning and at night, it’s cool enough to where I use a jacket or long-sleeves. Of course, according to Angolans, it is absolutely freezing outside, although at its coldest I would say it is in the low 60s. I get a kick out of one of the guards that wears a down coat at night.

It makes for perfect outdoor weather, so on Saturday my French friend (former coworker) Anne and I went with her two kids to the Catumbela barragem, which was about an hour away from Lobito. It’s not much more than a dam, but it’s surrounded by some pretty mountains. It was a nice afternoon away from Lobito.

Great example: the guy in the middle is rocking a Veggie Tales t-shirt. He also gave us a chicken, which David from CDA is holding.

I’ve posted before about the used clothing trade here in Angola. Nothing much is manufactured in Angola, let alone clothes, so most Angolans buy their clothing from the used clothing stalls in the market. I did this a lot in Honduras when I was in the Peace Corps. The clothes were cheap and of decent quality, and I began to understand the Honduran rumor that American bought their clothes and would throw them away after they got dirty. (How else could such good quality used clothing be explained? Most Hondurans wear their clothes until they fall off their body because they can’t afford much else. Logically, Americans have SO much money that they can just throw clothes away, no need to wash them!)

I was a little disappointed by the used clothing options in the market here in Lobito. Maybe I just don’t have the patience to go through them like I did in Honduras. They were also more expensive- or least more expensive for me, the obviously rich foreigner- up to US$6 for a tank top. I’ll save my money and get a new tank top at Old Navy when I go home.

I love seeing ironic English-language t-shirts on people. I keep a list of the good ones. I’d love to take pictures, but I would feel awkward about that.

Here are some of my favorites:

I Survived Legislative Fitness Day (on a fat boy)

I Love Singapore

Front: STATE SUX! Back: TOP 10 REASONS WHY STATE SUX! (This was funny because it never specified what school it was for and which state they were talking about.)

It’s My Perogative! (On an elderly woman)

If I Throw a Stick Will You Runaway? (On a sweet, village elder near Cubal)

Aaron Cohen’s 1999 Bar Mitzvah: THE MILLENIUM!

I Don’t Need Therapy, I Need $MONEY$!

"How to Write About Africa"

Here is an excellent piece from Granta on how people tend to write about Africa.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

I wish I could say I'm completely immune to the suggestions in the piece, but I'm not.

UPDATE/CLARIFICATION: The Granta piece is a satire. Several people have written me asking if I agree with the points. Being here now and reading that article, I understand perfectly what the author is talking about. I don't agree with everything, but I think the author is trying to make the point that Africa- the continent- is so diverse but many people approach it as if it were homogeneous and/or hopelessly tragic. The worst tends to come out of Africa in the media, but there are plenty of good things- things that us Westerners can identify with- you never hear about. Before coming to Angola, I was sure that I was stepping into a country full of land mines, war and Ebola, because that's all I could find about it before I arrived. Yes, those things are/have been problems, but there is much more that you never hear about. I think that's the point of the piece.

My New Best Friend

A little over two weeks ago, I arrived at work and found a big commotion. Three baby kittens had somehow gotten inside the office and were meowing their heads off. They were adorable and I asked one of the custodial staff what he was going to do with them. He said, "Oh, leave them alone. They'll probably die." My bleeding heart couldn't bear it, so I offered to take one.

As fate had it, that was the day I came down with typhoid, so taking little Kitty home with me wasn't really an option. When I got back to work the next week, the kitties had indeed died. I felt guilty, but mostly sad because I was really looking forward to having a cat, someone to keep my company.

I shared my woes with a friend, and last Friday he knocked at my door with this beautiful black kitten that had been hanging around his backyard. He caught his dog snapping at it, so he brought it over to me. Isn't she cute?!

Her name is Willie, after one of my favorite Willie Nelson songs ("Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain") because she has blue eyes and cries a lot. Her favorite toy is my stove/oven, because she can play with her reflection. Her favorite sleeping spot is inside the back of the fridge, because the motor is nice and warm. This makes me nervous but so far she has outsmarted all my attempts to keep her out of there.

I was nervous about getting a pet because I will have to leave it behind when I leave. However, a friend has already offered to take her when I leave, so I know she'll have a good home. In the meantime, she's made being at home so often a much more enjoyable experience.

She also likes sleeping on my neck.

Home Sweet Home

A view of the sunset from from my kitchen window.

My parents asked me to post pictures of my apartment so they could see where I live. The link is here. The apartment is the size of a small one story house, definitely a nice change from the tiny New York apartments I lived in for four years. It's very bare bones. Few decorations, apart from the bronze plaque from the former Soviet Consulate to Angola.

The most amazing thing about the apartment is the building that it is in. Apart from being across from The Most Dangerous Block in Lobito, the building is located in a prime spot. We locked in the lease for the apartment during the war, so it was dirt cheap. We are good tenants who pay all their bills on time, so it’s a good gig for the landlord. Which is why it was surprising a months ago when we received a letter letting us know that an offer had been made on the building and that if one of us tenants wanted to buy the building at the same price or higher, as residents we had that right. The buyer’s offer? $1.8 MILLION DOLLARS! Yes, American dollars! Just another sign of how elevated prices are in this country. No word yet on if the sale has been finalized and if I’ll have to move yet again.

Nothing a little Ciprofloxacin can't cure...

The scene of the crime

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the dozens of water bottles I use to store boiled, filtered drinking water were full every single say, no matter how much water was in the filter and no matter how much I had drunk the day before. I had left it up to Juliana, my maid, to boil and filter the water. When she started working for me around 8 months ago, I made it abundantly clear that this one thing she had to be very careful with. I gave her instructions, showed her hot to do it and she assured me that she knew how to do it. And she did do it, for several months. When I moved into my new apartment, I inherited sever 1.5 L water bottles. I told Juliana to continue to do the same thing for the water.

When I first noticed that the water bottles were strangely full all the time, I asked her if she had continued to boil and filter the water she was putting in them. She said she was, and she continued to leave a pot full of boiled water ready to put in the filter every day, so I had little reason to doubt her. Little reason, until two weeks ago when I noticed the brown bits of gunk accumulating at the bottom of the bottles. And then I noticed that the water tasted rather dirty. So I asked her again. “Oh no, mana, that’s water from the tap.”

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! My worst nightmare! Upon investigating, I found out she had been putting tap water straight in there for quite some time, at least a month and a half. When I asked why she had stopped, she claimed I never told her to boil and filter water. What?

Four days later, I came down with typhoid. AGAIN. This time was much worse, and I was forced to take 3 days off of work. Feeling better but not 100%.

Wild Wild Lobito, Pt. 4: The Most Dangerous Block in Restinga

I think it’s official. The triangulo, the little island in front of my house with the mini-mart and rolote, is the most dangerous spot in Lobito. Or at least Restinga.

Friday, around 7 pm, I was in the kitchen. I had the veranda doors open as usual, and suddenly heard a horrible screeching noise, followed by what sounded like a huge explosion. In reality, there was no explosion, just a four-car pile up. A car had come around the slight curve in front of the triangulo and hadn’t anticipated that there might be other cars on the road. (Other cars on one of the city's busiest roads? Imagine that!) It was coming in at around 50 mph and in the wrong lane. Miraculously, no one was injured- and no one tried to flee the scene so no gun shots were fired! The guilty party really couldn’t flee the scene though- mainly because his car was totaled, but also because within 5 seconds of the accident, approximately 200 people flooded into the street and surrounded the car.

Just another exciting night in Lobito!

Ondjiva

Typical house in Ondjiva

My trip to Kunene, one of Angola’s southernmost provinces, was a bit mixed. I was really excited to get out of Benguela and see a different part of the country. I went with my Angolan colleagues Sandra, who coordinates the HIV projects we run, and Humberto, our accountant.

We went to visit a new project we are starting with Caritas Kunene. They are a much smaller operation- they only have five employees, none of which are full-time. They don’t have much experience, although they have been in the province for over a decade. Sandra and I were to held with programming issues, such as setting an implementation calendar, and Humberto was to provide support to their accountant.

Ondjiva is the provincial capital of Kunene province. It is only 45 minutes or so from the Namibian border. It’s a small town- maybe around 75,000 people. Because of its proximity to South Africa and Namibia, South African mercenaries, which both sides used in the war, had a strong presence in the province. (Some info on this in a BBC article here and Human Rights Watch report here.) It was absolutely destroyed during the war. This is why everything in Ondjiva looks new. As it happens, Humberto was in the Angolan army and had been stationed in Ondjiva and surrounding areas for a little over a year. He could only recognize two buildings from the time of war: the church and the former “dance hall” which is now only half of a dance hall, but still standing. Everything else is new: the buildings are in good condition and the roads- the roads are BEAUTIFUL. Paved, well-maintained roads. Unbelievable. I was remarking on the difference between Lobito, a much larger, more important city (in terms of commerce, industry and politics) and Humberto said, “Well, Lobito wasn’t bombed into nothing.” True.

A kuimbo, traditional housing compound in rural Kunene

The Namibian influence can also be seen. I was surprised to see clear, visible road signs everywhere. The food products are all from Namibia, and most things are written in English. People cross the border to do their shopping in Oshikango, where things are much cheaper (including good school and medical services).

We got to work right away and realized that this project, an HIV/AIDS prevention and education project, would required a lot of hand-holding on our part. As an organization, they really have nothing: no phone, no generator to power the one computer they have. The staff, who are all wonderful people who appear to be dedicated to the organization, are “political appointees.” The head of programming is the Bishop’s nephew. The accountant is an adorable retired teacher who is wonderful, but has never turned on a computer in her life, so it will be a bit difficult for her to do the excel spreadsheets we require. (She will do them on paper and a colleague will transfer the info into electronic form.)

It was a bit disappointing to see how much work we need to do in terms of capacity building, mainly because we had a lot of high hopes for this province in terms of future projects. As the HIV prevalence rate in Kunene is so much higher than the rest of the country (15% as opposed to 6%), we had hoped to start with this pilot project and then move into more programmatic and financially intensive projects. This won’t happen any time soon. It’s understandable: the region was truly hit hard during the war. This, along with its physical isolation and lack of oil, means that it doesn’t get a lot of attention.

We had hoped to do a bit of research on an AIDS orphanage that Caritas told us existed. Orphans and vulnerable children are an institutional priority for us, so we wanted to explore project possibilities. Back in Lobito, we were assured over the phone that there was indeed an orphanage and that Caritas would arrange a visit for us. When we arrived, we found out that, in fact, there is no AIDS orphanage, but there were so many orphans that a Catholic mission has received funding from the World Bank and UNICEF to begin one. We arranged a visit to the mission, which was a long 3 hours away by car.

The mission church. This mission was one of the few that was operational during the war. It was still bombarded during combat. Bullet holes are visible inside and outside the church.

We arrived at the mission, which includes a small school and hospital. The sisters who were there looked at us in utter confusion when we asked about the orphanage they were building. Turns out they have only loose plans to build one, and not with help from UNICEF or the World Bank. But they assured us that AIDS orphans were a major problem in the area, so perhaps we would help them. I explained again that we couldn’t offer any help right away and that we were just making an “exploratory” visit, but the smart sister kept asking for money from the white lady. It turns out that there are approximately 10- only 10- AIDS orphans that they have been asked to take in. Their current “project” to help them consists of the distribution of a box of tuna fish cans they once got from the government. Even then, they just gave the tuna to the sobas, so who knows if the orphans even go the food.

Building where the mission priests live.

So the visit was a bit of a bust in terms of work. But thanks to a cancellation, Sandra and I were able to cross into Oshikango, Namibia for a few hours of shopping. I hadn’t planned on going but luckily had my passport. I exchanged $50 and set off.

Even though we were just at the border, both Sandra and I could tell the extreme difference between Namibia and Angola. There was the obvious infrastructure- as in, they have infrastructure, like sidewalks and public trash cans. But we also noticed the stares we were getting. Men were constantly cat-calling us, something that has never happened to me in Angola, and the aforementioned hair-pulling incidents. We were pleased by how far our money went in Oshikango. Granted, most of it was cheap Chinese junk, but even cheap Chinese junk is expensive in Angola! So many Angolans go to Oshikango to do their shopping that Portuguese is more common than English. Even the Chinese shopkeepers speak Portuguese. I drop $50 easily just picking up a few things at the ShopRite in Lobito. In Oshikango, I was buying just anything at the end of the trip to get rid of the Rand that I had left over. I didn’t buy anything terribly exciting: a couple of shirts, some kitchen supplies (fresh ginger included!), and grapefruit juice.

Wild Wild Lobito, Pt. 3: The Most Dangerous Block in Restinga

Nice neighborhood establishment with fun for the whole family? Or TRIANGLE OF VIOLENCE!!
The rolote is the little hut to the right. This is the view from my apartment veranda.

Yesterday I ran into a friend who asked if I had heard about the confusão at the rolote (or “sin shack” as my friend Lisa L callsthem- a great description) in front of my house. This is the same rolote whose guard shot at the car that attempted a hit and run a few months ago. This is on the same street where I heard gunfire at 5 am a few weeks ago.

The latest incident to occur in this little nexus of violence involves some drunk expat oil company employees. You see, for some reason, the vast majority of the expat oil workers love the rolote in front of my house. Most of them are skilled laborers (electricians, metalurgists) from Scotland, Ireland, Norway, Denmark, and a handful of other European countries. They come here for 3 months at a time and then leave. Why do they love this rolote so much? The service there, like every other place, is atrocious. Unlike other rolotes this one is far from the beach and any nice ocean breeze. It’s next to a playground, so there are kids running around at all hours of the day and night. My theory is that they feel at home there because there is a constant stream of horrible eurotrash techno music- the same song over and over and over and over again. These ex-pats are constantly there drinking. I see them in the morning eating breakfast, at noon eating lunch, and of course at night drinking and eating.

So on Sunday, there was a big match in the Portuguese soccer league. Porto, one of the more popular teams, won, so Angolans were going crazy. This rolote has a projection screen TV that shows most European league games. (Now that I think about it, the games, as opposed to the techno music, are the draws.)

A group of Angolans were getting a bit rowdy in front of the table of ex-pats. One Angolan guy and one English guy exchanged words, and the Angolan “challenged” the English guy to hit him. Rather than hit him, he apparently got out his Leatherman and slashed the guy’s stomach open, injuring some internal organs.

Ouch.

Apparently the English guy is in jail and awaiting trial. Not the best way for an oil company to win over the locals. The Angolan guy was in surgery for 5 hours but in the end is apparently okay.

What is it about my block? It is calm and generally safe… really! I live in what is considered the best neighborhood in Lobito. It certainly is the most expensive, and one where the majority of expats live. To me, it's perplexing that these things have happened here. Perhaps I'm just naive.

Irresistible? Or freakish?

What about this says, "Pull me!"?

Time spent in Oshikango, Namibia: 4 hours (including at border posts)
Number of times hair pulled by curious Namibian women: 4
Times I found it funny: 1
Times they found it funny: 4

And I'm not even blonde!

How Things Work Around Here: Angolan Airline Edition

Benguela Airport

This morning I got up at 5 am to get ready for my trip to Ondjiva. Check-in was at 7, but we had to pick up my colleagues and the airport is an hour away. We get to the airport at 7:15 and start to wait for the Gemini Airlines rep to come so we can begin check-in.

Around 8, the rep finally shows up. The following events took place:

Rep: I announce that as of today, the Luanda-Benguela-Ondjiva flight has been moved from 8 am to 1 pm. Come back at 11 for check-in.
Manuel Jose (my favorite driver): Why didn't you advise us of this change?!
Rep: Hey, you should have called the office to confirm the flight. That was irresponsible of you.
Manuel Jose: I DID call and confirm the flight, at 5 pm yesterday.
Rep: Oh. Um.
Manuel Jose: And you take down every passenger's name and phone number in case there are any changes, so you can call them and inform them of the changes.
Rep: That's just a formality.
Manuel Jose: This is very unprofessional.
Rep: Well, we weren't informed of these changes until 6 pm yesterday!
Manuel Jose: So you had plenty of time to call every one.
Rep: Yes.
Manuel Jose: But you didn't.
Rep: No. Of course not. You had to call and confirm the flight.

And so it goes....

Disappearing for a while...

I'm heading out into the field to visit a new project in Ondjiva, Cunene. Cunene is Angola's southernmost province, bordering Namibia. Cunene is quite different from Benguela both culturally and geographically, so it should be interesting. It's cold there! (Although I'm still not sure what Angolans mean by "cold" so we'll see if it gives me any relief from the heat and humidity of Benguela.)

The project I'll be visiting is an HIV/AIDS prevention project. This is quite new for us, because unlike Benguela province, where prevalence rates are at 5% or so, the prevalence rate in Cunene is estimated at 30% or higher. This is largely due to its proximity to Namibia, which has an official prevalence rate of 20% but is more likely to have 40%.

One "benefit" of the war in Angola was that the borders and transportation routes were effectively shut down, so while the rest of southern Africa was dealing with a horrible AIDS crisis, Angola was not. However, once the borders opened after the end of the war, all that changed. Because there is so much movement in Cunene, HIV spread rapidly there.

This will be an interesting trip.

Love your neighbor? UPDATE

This morning Francisco, our Head of Programming, comes into my office and says, "Leslie. Tell me about your Portuguese neighbors." I was obviously curious, so I asked why he wanted to know about my neighbors. He had just received a phone call from the university where they teach, requesting that we hook them up to our generator and water supply permanently. Did they offer any money? Compensation? No- they asked under the guise of being good neighbors and helping out the poor professors.

I told him the story, and then Sergey, my coworker and upstairs neighbor came in with tales of more abuse. His wife, Stella, is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met, so it didn't surprise me to hear Sergey say that she would lend the maid sugar upon occasion. But when it started happening every day, Stella stopped lending, realizing that she was being taken advantage of. The crazy maid, of course, reacted by calling Stella selfish and rude.

After hearing the stories, Francisco called the university and told them that because of un-neighborly behavior on their part, we would not provide any services to them and that they should pay for services themselves. What a novel concept!

Love your neighbor?

Quotidian life in Angola can be difficult. My living conditions have improved significantly since moving out of the huge apartment building, but I still face some challenges. I still live off a generation 75% of the time and have a slight trickle of water to shower with 9 times out of 10. But a perk of ex-pat living is that I have a support staff that takes care of these things. I don’t really know how Jesús, our handyman, does things. He just moves a few wires and suddenly I have power again. Fine by me!

We have a monster generator for the two apartments we rent in our six-unit building. If I were a neighbor, I might be a bit resentful of us- it does make noise and given the quality of Lobito’s power supply, it’s on a lot. For a while, I’ve suspected that Jesús has hooked up the other apartments in the building to the generator. (My employer has leases on the two apartments for several years, so Jesús has gotten to know the neighbors and helps them out when he can.) I, for one, am not one to begrudge someone electricity. Most of the neighbors are quietly thankful, never complaining about not turning the generator on quickly enough, respecting the “only Leslie, Stella or Sergey has authorization to turn on the generator” rule. (After all, we do pay for it, albeit down the line.)

Not my next door neighbors. I live next to two Portuguese university professors. (Yes, Lobito has a university!) I’ve only seen them a handful of times, and they seem nice. Their empregada (maid), however, is a terror. Lately I’ve been noticing that someone has been telling the guards to turn on the generator, even though we have general power and water. After several days of this, I asked Doutor, the awesome young guard, who was telling him to do this. He pointed at my neighbors and said, “Rosa.” I explained to him that only the three of us can tell him to turn on the generator, and that if there were any problems to tell me. Sure enough, the next day (Saturday), I hear a ruckus downstairs. Seconds later, I hear a pounding on my door; it was Rosa, the maid from next door. She immediately starts yelling at me, telling me that I have no right to instruct the guards to ignore her requests to turn on the generator, because without the generator, they have no electricity or water, and the women next door are professors with degrees, so how dare I disrespect them!

At first I was confused- was she really angry at me for not allowing her to steal from us? And then I was even more confused because I had city-supplied electricity and water, so why didn’t she? I explained this all to her, but she was adamant. “Call that boy Jesús!” (Jesús is in his late 30s- hardly a boy- but he has polio and walked with a profound limp, so people tend to treat him differently.) I got Jesús on the phone and passed it to her. She yelled some more, then gave it back to me. Jesús’ judgment of the situation was that “essa senhora está maluca,” or “that woman is crazy.” Agreeing with him and fearing any more confrontations, I told the guard to turn on the generator.

Later we found out that their handyman had uninstalled their apartment’s pump and connected it directly to our generator. As a result, they only had water when our generator was on. We had to do a clean sweep of all other connections, and Jesús disconnected all other apartments’ connections to our generator. I personally was scared that the quietly appreciative neighbors would be angry, but they weren’t. As one of them said to Jesús as he was disconnecting her line to our generator, “Não pensam, só falam.” (They don’t think, just talk.) That neighbor is actually quite nice, and I think Jesús reconnected her to the generator a few days later. I’m all for sharing. In the meantime Rosa continues to give me dirty looks.

Laugh of the Day

In Angola, when you temporarily forget someone’s name or don’t know their name, you say, “o coiso” or “a coisa” – “the thing” with the appropriate gender article.

My name here is very difficult to say. The most common pronunciations are “Leez-lee” or “Lazy.” (Yes, Lazy.) As a result, most people simply don't learn my name or forget it very easily. (In fact, the woman who has cleaned ny house for the last 7 months still doesn't know my name, in spite of me telling her several times and casually saying things like, "The other day some one told me, 'LESLIE. It's hot, isn't it LESLIE?'")

There are three guards that watch over our apartment building. Yesterday as I was coming home from work, the guard started calling out after me, “Dona Coisa! Dona Coisa!”

Which, loosely translated, means “Ms. Thang.” Awesome.

Wild Wild Lobito, Pt. 2

Pic from US State Dept. Confiscated guns waiting to be destroyed in Luanda. www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/pix/b/71805.htm

Early Saturday morning, around 5:30 am, I awoke to the sounds of gunfire. I heard two gunshots, then lots of shouting. I went back to bed.

I left to pick up my friend Anne’s kids, as I was babysitting for her that morning. On my way out, I asked the guard what all the commotion was. Apparently, burglars attempted to break into the house catty-corner to my apartment building. The guard encountered them and started shooting. No one was hurt. But no one was caught, either.

On the one hand, I feel very safe in this city, especially on Restinga, the peninsula where I live that is like a small, sleepy town. On the other hand, I this is the second shooting tht has happened within a block of my apartment! This makes me feel better about being in bed by 10 most nights, so I'm not on the street with all the bandidos.

Awesome Structures in Angola Series: Part 3

Following the spirit of Part 2 in the series is this house. My friends Mark and Domingas live across the street from it. It is “abandoned” in the sense that the owners of the house- whoever they may be- don’t live there or do any sort of maintenance on the house. The house, however, is occupied by squatters, although they’ve been there long enough for the term to be misleading. The house is located on the bay side of Restinga, a few blocks past my old apartment. Like so many houses in this city, you can tell it was once a beautiful, elegant home, probably left during independence. I like this house because it reminds me of the banana company houses in Tela, on north coast of Honduras. (I tried finding images on Google Image, but surprisingly couldn't find any pictures of the Chiquita buildings.)

Sign in the picture says, "Careful: Monkey bites". Notice that our little friend is running free, outside the cage.

Yesterday was a holiday here in Angola- Labor Day. I went with my French friend Anne and her two adorable kids, Weni and Kadja, to Catumbela, a nearby town. Catumbela has a restaurant with the only decent ice cream I've encountered in Angola. They even had peanut ice cream, which was excellent. It's no Blue Bell ice cream, but then again, nothing but Blue Bell is...

We also stopped by the "zoo" in Catumbela. I've heard about this "zoo" before, but was dubious because when I asked what animals they had, people would say "oh just some monkeys and crocodiles." Hmm. I didn't have high hopes to begin with, but it turned out to be worse than I expected!

The fences that once sealed off the small park were torn down due to road constuction work close by. The place looks like it was just abandoned, leaving the animals there to fend for themselves. There was no sign of the crocs. Plenty of monkeys, however. Two of them somehow got out of the giant cage and were running lose. Surprisingly, they behaved themselves and kept their distance from us, except when they hopped into the bed of the truck we were driving. Still in the cage were about 5 other monkeys. The monkeys outside the cage were rummaging around the trash heaps for food. Not sure what the ones inside the cage do. Coitados.

Angolan Author Wins Prize

Saw this article on the BBC News website today. there's no bookstore in Lobito, so I haven't seen this book. Nice to see that an Angolan author gets recognition, though.

The Book of Chameleons by Angolan journalist and author Jose Eduardo Agualusa has won this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.

...Boyd Tonkin, judge and literary editor of The Independent, called it "a delightful, moving and revealing novel about modern Africa".

For the kids

A while ago I posted about kuduro, the Angolan rap-esque music (can't really describe it) that is hugely popular. One of the best things about kuduru is the dancing- it reminds me of early 80s break dancing, and everyone gets into it. This video on YouTube shows that. (Mom and Dad, you can skip it, not your style!) This video shows everyone one from school kids (in the white lab cost-looking smocks) to people with physical disabilities.

One of the many things I like about Angola.

Peace in Angola

April 4th was the fifth anniversary of the advent of peace in Angola. I was on my way out of the country, so I missed a lot of the activities. My mother sent me this BBC article on the anniversary. I think it presents a just-average overall picture of the reality in Angola: the abrupt change from fear of stepping into the street to being able to move about freely, oil riches that the masses don't see, the presence of foreigners (as described by a local rapper)- but strangely doesn't mention corruption or the Chinese. (An article about Angola without mentioning the Chinese? What?)

They do mention Angola's first shopping mall, Belas Shopping. Goodness gracious, this mall is being promoted like it's a sign that Angola is truly evolving. Never mind that not even a tenth of the general population can afford to pay the transportation costs to be able to shop there. To me it just seems like a slap in the face of most Angolans who struggle to make ends meet. I realize that bringing commercial enterprises to Angola is important, but I think it is more important to promote micro, small and medium enterprises owned by Angolans and reform the Angolan laws to make them more business-friendly.

Most Angolans' shopping mall

Cabo Verde

One of the many perks of my job is that working in Angola is considered a hardship, and as such I get a week of vacation (R&R) every 6 months or so. After a hectic end of March, I was very please to take a short break to Cabo Verde (Cape Verde), meeting Angela, my good friend from SIPA who works in Liberia and also gets R&R.

Before I describe my trip, let me just say it was all worth it to hang out with a good friend. It can get very lonely here in Lobito, and although I feel like I am making friends here, I have yet to really connect with someone on that “good friend” level. So seeing Angela was a breath of fresh air, reminding me what it’s like to just sit with someone and not have to say anything, or talk about the most pressing issue in my personal life and have someone listen.

Also, it was handy to have a friend along to marvel at the WEIRDNESS that is Cabo Verde! Perhaps I should qualify that description… I had high hopes for Cabo Verde. The majority of music in Angola is caboverdeana and wonderful. For a place with no public university, Cabo Verde has managed to produce one of the finest literary traditions in the Portuguese-speaking world. I had no guidebook to rely on before arrival, so I was limited to the internet in terms of research. Little did I know that Sal, the island we planned our trip on, is the touristiest of them all!

The beached on Sal were quite nice, but unfortunately most of the island is a desert, covered with new hotel and apartment construction. I awoke every morning to the sound of construction workers- this island is definitely booming, but I can’t say if it’s a good thing or not. My main complaint about Santa Maria is that it was devoid of any local flavor- the buildings popping up are generic and designed for foreigners.

Our hotel was less than spectacular and did not offer the ocean views advertised. The owner was a French woman who could not be bothered to help us, not even to change a light bulb that sat burnt out the entire time we were there. We happened to pick the busiest week to travel there- Easter week- and daily tours and excursions were packed. When I asked of other activities- nice walks, buses to the other islands, she just shrugged and said, “You did poor planning. You picked the busiest week to come.” And left it at that. Well.

After Easter Sunday things died down and Angela and I were able to get on a tour of the island. The tour ageny told us to be outside waiting at 8:45 and our English-speaking guide would pick us up. We were outside waiting and at 9 am this truck with "EXCURSION- Tour of the Island" pulls up and says, "Okay, ready for the tour?" We say sure, and since the agency told us the guide would speak English, and he had begun in English. We quickly discovered, however, that English is, in fact, not one of the languages that he speaks. Just to double check, I said IN PORTUGUESE, "You're from Morabitur Agency, right?" "Oh yes, yes I am." Me: "And it's just us two?" Guy: "Oh yes, just you two." Okay, fine. We get going, and quickly discover that this guy is quite possibly the WORST tour agency on the planet. His creepiness knew no boundaries, telling us through the huge gap in his front teeth, "It's nice babies!" meaning he found us attractive. Ugh. He tried to get us to meet him for drinks later that night. He took us to this random apartment complex- which was NOT nice- as part of the tour. He would stop every so often and say, “Oh, I just need to go see this friend,” and disappear for 20 mintues. Extremely unprofessional, and Angela and I began to count down the time he had left with this clown.

We suffered through on to lunch, which was supposed to be included in the price of the tour. Suddenly, he was said, "Oh no, you pay for it then take the receipt to the tour agency." which made absolutely no sense to me, and considering the place he wanted us to eat was a dump, we said no, just take us back. We finally got back, got out of the car and were like, "okay, bye" and he says, "Uh, you need to pay me." I showed him the receipt and said that we had already paid, and he says, "I have nothing to do with the tour agency. I'm a private operator." I start freaking out, yelling at him in the middle of the street, and of course he's denying that I ever said anything about a tour agency. So Angela and I walk to the tour agency, explain everything, and the dude comes in yelling saying that we never said we were with another tour agency and that we had agreed to the price (80 Euros!!!) before getting in the car! What a mess. Luckily the tour agency took care of it all, and we just left. We were pretty much dumbfounded- how did this yahoo con two people who have traveled all over the world!! So our impressions of CV were a bit soured after that.

It’s a shame, really, because apparently the other islands of Cape Verde are wonderful and would have given us everything that we were expecting to receive. There are pictures here.