Angolan Border at Santa Clara
June 18, 2024
“Do not go outside the bus” said the driver sternly, adding “not until it is full light outside at 8 am”. It was only 5 am and pitch dark. The reason for his warning was apparent in the shifting shapes of men skulking around, half seen in the faint light from a far-away lamp post. Like hyenas they circled the bus, peering in windows checking out potential victims. The gun-toting guard who patrolled the area underscored the necessity of remaining inside as all the warnings I had heard about Angola whispered through my mind.
I was at the land border between Namibia and Angola. I had chosen the Macon bus since it drove right up to the border without the hassle of getting there from Oshikango, another unsavory town on the Namibian side. At 7 pm last night I and what seemed mostly Angolan passengers had left Windhoek. Unlike every other passenger who had had the foresight to bring blankets, I had none. The temperature dipped as the night grew long and there was no sleep to be had. And now we had to wait another three hours before crossing despite the border being open.
I made use of the time talking to other passengers trying to find others who were headed to Lubango. Safety in numbers is the motto here. A man across the aisle from me was heading to Namibe and Lubango was enroute. A bare few words of English did he speak but courteously offered to walk me through immigration, shielding me from the milling touts. I needed no second urging. We got stamped out and stamped in and even the immigration officer urged me to stick with Joao. We wandered out to the junction of the road to Ondjiva.
Santa Clara is more than a little ragged around the edges. Yet this scruffy place felt more real to me than the spruced-up-to-the-nines-for-tourists Namibia. It felt unvarnished and authentic and I felt that familiar tingle of anticipation.
Having run the gauntlet on the Namibian side of would-be thieves, we were now running the gauntlet of money changers in Santa Clara, on the Angolan side. It was with Joao’s help that I changed money without getting cheated as is the norm here. It was then that I found out that he wasn’t taking a bus but had his own car parked in Ondjiva. He insisted that I ride with him and would brook no arguments. It is more than five hours! Is this kindness typical of Angolan peoples? I suppose I will find out soon enough. We shared a taxi to Odjiva; a taxi that has seen better times. I had a sudden flashback to the jeep at Wadi Rum in Jordan. With similar skills honed over years, the driver opened and closed doors without handles, started the car and we jolted off.
But Joao’s car is no rattle trap. It is an SUV with all the bells and whistles. He smiled at the shock on my face and we left, heading west after a small drama of fixing a deflated tire. Some of the Portuguese learned in Brazil came back, frustratingly slowly. Instead I simply stuttered in Spanish as Joao nodded comprehendingly.
ITCHY FEET TRAVELS 