BikeFeature/Kilkenny to CapeTownSetting out for the Namibian border along the roads of Angola, Hugh Bergindetails a bike journey of hard work and staggering scenery
'The stretch from Benguela to Lubango is one of the most dangerous in Angola, one of the richest in tales of bloodshed . . . Normally no one travels after sunset. In wartime, it's a guerillas' paradise. In the bizarre Angolan peace, it's territory for the 'armed bands'. Truck drivers from Benguela head for Huila armed and in convoys, usually with escorts. The trip is long and painful . . . the road is awful."
This was written in 1999 by Pedro Rosa Mendes in Bay of Tigers, his impressions from Angola after the war.
I had been given assurances it was safe, though if the first warning is now redundant, the second observation is still accurate - the roads in Angola were the worst I'd encountered on my journey down the west coast of Africa.
In 27 years of civil war, the country's infrastructure had been destroyed. Columns of Russian-supplied tanks had scored the road surfaces so badly; the weather and truck traffic did the rest.
The word "pothole" sounds so innocuous, an image of a neglected Irish road. On these roads about 30 per cent of the tarmac remained - in patches, blots and random strips, the dirt between them scoured out into a series of water-filled holes, some metres wide and deep. It was first and second gear for hours on end, body pulled up standing on the pegs. This was hard work. But with a bike more able to navigate around the holes, it was easier than four wheels.
Angola had been a colony of Portugal and after a 14-year guerrilla war of independence, and the overthrow of Portugal's fascist government by a military coup, Angola's nationalist parties began to negotiate for independence in January 1975. Almost immediately, a civil war broke out between the liberation movements MPLA, UNITA and FNLA, with support from the Soviet Union, Cuba, the US and South Africa.
"Ombulus", or white South Africans, are not the most popular of nationalities in the southern part of the country, I was told by Padre Luis. There were acknowledged atrocities by their forces in the war and I was told grizzly tales - of the walls of the Kafima Catholic Mission daubed by their troops with slogans "We kill here SWAPO", written in the blood of priests and civilians killed in aerial bombing.
Even though there were still thousands of miles to Cape Town, I understood crossing the border to Namibia meant leaving the terrible roads, the colour, animation, the daily demands: in other words Africa, behind me. Setting out for the Namibian border, on the the last lap, small experiences were magnified in my mind; I drank in the scenery, all with a sense of parting. Knowing it was the final few hundred kilometres of potholes I nearly savoured them. But not quite. Angola left me with many impressions, and it would take some time for them to settle. The most challenging of the countries through which I travelled, the obvious difficulties were the road conditions, and of course my inability in conversing in Portuguese.
Also, it was the lack of an established infrastructure, or even local economies, that give it a disorganised, nearly temporary feel. And it occurred to me that 40 years of war will choke any charm from a society. I was left with a feeling of sadness at the destruction of the country, and little apparent progress in rebuilding, despite huge wealth in natural resources. I can only imagine the effect on the families of the tens of thousands killed.
Crossing at the border post from Angola to Namibia was truly a culture shock - Third to First World. Though only separated by a few metres the contrast was pronounced - perfect, well-marked roads and large South African chain stores advertising furniture, steak burgers or electrical goods.
Over the following few weeks in Namibia I was to ride through scenery that was staggering - magnificent, awe-inspiring, and in the limpid light found in this part of the world, often other worldly.
I revelled in it, often getting off the bike to feel more a part of the baking hot desert I was riding through, snapping away on my camera knowing I couldn't hope to replicate the majesty of what I was seeing.
With the clock on the bike showing 19,700 kilometres, the approaching view of Table Mountain heralded the end of this journey. I was greeted at the civic centre by, among others, the mayor of Cape Town and was able to proudly present a letter from Mayor Brett of Kilkenny. I was sorry it had to end.
More details and photos of Hugh Bergin's journey can be found on his website kilkennytocapetown.com. He is raising awareness of and funds for the charity Self Help (selfhelp.ie).