Good rides

Oh, Internet ! How beautiful thou arst !
I miss you so much when you’re not around.
And I sleep so much more when I don’t have to check the computer every 10 minutes to see if the 1h30m uploading process is actually progressing… and not just…no…no… aborted! Arghgh!

Anyway.

Benguela (and nearby Lobito) are very nice cities. As you arrive, you feel your edgy Luanda self cool down and transform into the “I wanna drink a beer by the beach” self. But helas, I must edit some stuff. My new room is under some sort of tin roof where cats and dogs like to play cats and dogs, thus making a roar/thunder noise that seriously damages many of my recording attempts.

I’ve had great transportation experiences here. I took the train, a charming old train that rides 18 km of what used to be a 1100 km railway connecting the coast to the Congolese boarder. A lot of copper travelled this line during the 20th century. War asphyxiated the trade. Rails are no more.
It was a slow 45 minute ride. Sunset poured through the open widows. Happy cacophony. I interview a “regressado”, one of these Angolans who lived many years in Congo and came back with a strong French accent. He sells body milk and wigs in the train. A natural born entertainer. Everybody bursts into laughter as he speaks. Women tell me they are coming home after a day spent cleaning, washing or ironing in Lobito. At the terminal, a man introduces me to a bunch of women that await him. Sisters? Cousins? My question seems to make very little sense to him. “Family, that’s all”.

As he and his family left, I realized Weza was there waiting for me. He’s my second transportation experience. Taxi driver slash student. My chauffeur in Benguela. He was holding two canes, fulfilling the promise made in the morning – he would get me one of those canes women sell by the road, “not sugar canes, just canes”. And there he was holding them with a smile. You don’t know him, otherwise you would understand why it made me feel like crying. He’s the guy who says that Angola was blessed by God eight times. The one who was born in the jungle because his family was on the run. The one who grew up on fruit, the occasional fish caught in the river, and quiabos with no salt because trying to get some in a nearby village could cost your life.

His tender voice melts in your ears like candy. As sweet as the cane he had me taste.

Before going to sleep (the election marathon starts in a few hours) I must share another moment with you. Yesterday, I was stuck in traffic for about two hours trying to get to the Kwanzas Market to check out the electronic information stands installed by the electoral commission. Dust, smoke from those old Toyota Hiace that crowd the roads, more dust, and a mounting need to pee. How to proceed when you’re jammed at the heart of the musseque? There isn’t even a bush where you can crouch. Antonio, the driver, stopped the car and asked a young woman if I could use her toilet. She looked at me and said it was broken. I said I was desperate. She allowed me in. There were no real windows, so it was very dark. Hens everywhere. A very bad smell. She took a big bucket from a corner and placed it where there was some light. Just piss there, she said, and I knew her embarrassment was much bigger than mine. And so I pissed, while two little kids stumbled around me in awe. I offered her some money, but she didn’t accept it.

Tomorrow is Election Day and I pray the Election God to give Angola a strong opposition. An opposition occupying more than half the seats in Parliament. That would be nice.