A blog about Angola would not be complete nor would it make any sense if I didn’t mention my childhood or teenage years, if I didn’t say anything about the time prior to the independence.
Geographically speaking, Luanda was a paradise. It was a paradise with problems, due to the big social differences. I’m proud to say that my parents always tried to help people who were victims of those differences and thanks to their attitude, they made friends for life – friends who welcomed them in Luanda with open arms, when they went there on holiday in 2006.

What can I say about those special and unforgettable years? Where to start?
I have wonderful memories of the first 17 years of my life. Precious souvenirs I keep under lock and key in my mind......just in case one day senility decides to creep in and do a monkey in a china shop! I had a more carefree childhood and adolescence than my daughters. And even though they find it very hard to believe, I was happy without TV, mobile phones, computers and internet. Without designer clothes and ipods.
I played in the streets with my friends, cycled and roller skated in the street too. These memories are precious as I am and always have been totally hopeless in sport: I played basketball but I was never good at it; my coordination – or lack of it – between my eye and my hand (left) is appalling, so I was never any good at tennis or badminton; I can swim, but not in a competitive way and my daughters think that watching me skiing is one of the funniest things in this world….well, I’m sure you get the gist! However, I was very good at roller skating, better than most! And I loved it! Unfortunately, roller skating was not in my mother’s list of appropriate sports for a girl, so she enrolled me in ballet, where I always felt like a hippo out of the water! We were 3: I was the middle one, my little sister was 3 ½ years younger than me, and my big sister, 7 years older. To tell the truth, she was not really my sister, but my cousin, but I cannot remember myself without her and she always felt like a big sister to me. My mother was very strict and a disciplinarian and she did not let us enjoy any freedom. We had to go to bed at 6PM and she would make sure we got up at 3 or 4AM to study. My mother had a theory that we would learn better that way, after a good long night sleep. It might have been true if I had gone to sleep at 6, but as I couldn’t, I would read in the dark until much, much later. We weren’t allowed to invite friends over or go to their houses, which never stopped me, really, I would go anyway, I just made sure she didn’t find out. Parties were a definitive no, no. There were boys (OH!) there! In my mother’s handbook “How to bring up my daughters” boys were to be avoided like the plague! Thanks to that I grew up feeling quite inadequate and terribly shy around them....and unable to understand them, although I have a feeling I cannot really blame my mother for that.
We were rebels but quiet ones! I still laugh whenever I think about how my big sister would go out at night and my mother would not give her a key to check what time she would return. Except that my mother would fall asleep and when my sister came back she knocked on my window and I would go and open the door.
Despite the lack of freedom, I had a happy time. I remember and I miss the endless summers, my friends, my high school colleagues, the Sundays spent on the beach….
I remember the first time I fell in love, at first sight (of course!), a “coup de foudre” when I was 10 and I remember being sure it would be forever! And it was!………Almost!

Kalandula

In the period following the independence Luanda was a real oasis. Of course we had a curfew, which, truth be told, we conveniently “forgot” everytime we wanted to go to night clubs or parties, and I don’t know anyone who regrets not to comply. To venture out of the capital was quite a bit more dangerous. My friends and I went every Sunday to Santiago beach – a few kms North of Luanda. Unfortunately today it’s a ship graveyard. It was a beautiful beach and completely deserted – like having our own private beach (some of the images in the slideshow are from Santiago). Sometimes we went to Palmeirinhas, South of Luanda and we went a couple of times to Cabo Ledo to have some barbequed lobsters – it was possible to get them if we went at the right time and knew the fishermen. I was working for Schlumberger at the time. The Angolan staff talked a lot about Kalandula and all the foreigners wanted to go there, but the situation was terribly dangerous and the fact that we would have to go by car made the trip impossible! The road to Malange was partially destroyed (as much as we knew, as no one dared to go there by car) and there was the real danger of ambushes and even worse, land mines. However, the engineers pestered us so much, doubting the beauty of the waterfall, in fact we were probably afraid they would start comparing it unfavourably to more beautiful waterfalls in Africa and the rest of the world, with the result that we, IDIOTS, decided to prove them wrong. And we went! We left Luanda at 4 AM on a lovely day in 83 and we went to Kalandula. There were 2 cars, full of petrol cans as there was absolutely no gas station in the way, 2 british, 1 Nigerian, 1 Portuguese, 1 French and 2 dumb Angolans! I remember clearly the way there: the French guy smoking calmly in the back seat saying that it was perhaps a bad idea to smoke inside a car full of petrol cans, but………. Otherwise, without a problem. Once there, we took plenty of photos – as we had to prove we had been there! - and as quickly as possible we got on the road again. By then we knew for sure the roads were barely passable and the trip would be long. Thanks to 2 flat tires and the fact that the return trip was mostly done at night time, it took even longer to get back. We arrived at 3AM the next day, nearly 24 hours after we had left. My parents were in a panic - although I had not told them where I was going, they had heard it from a “friend” of mine. Even my father who is normally a very calm person was frantic, as a friend of his had been murdered just outside of Luanda for his car. I have daughters today and can understand my parents’ worry, but at the time it was just a great adventure! The only problem resulting from that trip is the fact that Mike (my husband) wanted to go there too, but he was on holiday at the time – he has not yet forgiven me that we didn’t wait for his return.

It's not possible "to pass through" Angola

I’ve “passed through” and even “stayed” in many countries, many towns. Today I live in England, a place my husband and daughters consider “home”. What about me? For 17 years I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’ll get used to it - and I have, no doubt. However, I can’t really call it “home”.
I love going to Portugal to visit my parents. I prefer the milder climate of Lisbon to the cold weather I get here. However, I can’t call Portugal “home” either – no surprises there, I never really lived in the country.
Sometimes I wonder whether I would feel “at home” if I went back to Luanda. The town has changed a lot since I left in 84 and it will go on changing thanks to the amazing economical growth it’s going through. If I went back, would Luanda be a stranger to me? Or would my heart recognize it as one would recognize a first love after many years despite the age and the wrinkles? After all, it was not the political regime I loved, or the buildings and monuments, but the land, the people. The land is terribly scarred by all the spilt blood but it’s still the same land. What about the people? Has all the suffering changed them?
I didn’t “pass through” Angola. And when I had to leave, a piece of me remained behind, and I brought a piece of her in my heart. It’s not enough, but it helps to keep me sane.

There was a general lack of doctors, specialists and surgeons in Luanda for a couple of years after the independence. At least, until the Cuban doctors turned up……but that is another story.
I’ve always been very healthy (fingers crossed, touch wood) so my problem was just trying to find a dentist. My ex-mother in law suggested someone who had taken over the dental surgery where she used to go before 75. My sister and I booked an appointment.
The “doctor” gave me a local anesthetic before starting the treatment – I think it was very strong, as I felt totally numb not only in my teeth, but also in my whole face and neck. In order to allow you to understand what followed, I have to explain that the “dentist” had a handicap in one eye, he had a glass eye. So as I’m sure you can understand, it was very uncomfortable, embarrassing and even scary to keep looking at him – so I closed my eyes. However, after a while feeling absolutely nothing, I decided to check what he was doing. He was definitely NOT treating my tooth, the *@#&* was kissing my nose!!!! Today I laugh, but at the time I was furious! Needless to say, I never went back. I discovered later, to my horror, that before 75 he was only a helper at the dentist, and I suppose I should consider myself a very lucky person as he did not kill me with that anesthetic.

I never thought I would say this one day, but I miss the queues, and “what are they selling?” Some people would prefer “What are they giving today?” but in reality, no one “gave” anything there. When they had sugar, they had no rice, when there was rice there was no oil,………..I never really understood why they only ever sold a product at a time! I suppose because the containers arriving in the ships only had loads of the same product, duplicated many times! I was always amazed at how everybody respected the stones. People would leave a stone to mark their place and then go home to sleep or eat or go to the loo…….. I never heard anyone trying to claim a stone that didn’t belong to them, even if it was closer to the supermarket door! Nobody took anybody else’s place. There was a lot of respect for each other, something I sometimes don’t see in Europe!
The beer was served in the bars in Bulgarian jam containers – there were no glasses on sale, so once we ate the jam, we would use the containers! Recycling is not at all a “modern thing”. We recycled everything in Luanda, after 75.
Food was very important at that time – there wasn’t much around! We enjoyed the tinned Spam and had great pleasure tasting the tinned chicken – it was so soft, you could eat everything, even the bones! We would put the tin in the oven 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 hours and the result was always the same! I personally, never had a problem to eat them: a few cuba libres to wash them down and everything would go: skin, chicken and bones! Especially after a few weeks eating fried sword fish everyday!
No running water or electricity was another problem we had to face on a daily basis. We quickly got used to block the plugholes in the sinks, washing basins and baths as soon as we saw a trickle of dirty brown liquid coming out of the taps, allowing them to fill up slowly. Some people would leave their taps open all the time and the plugholes blocked, in case the water started to run suddenly – so it was common to see floods in a town where usually there was no water at all! We soon learnt to have “cup baths or showers” – something which required lots of expertise, trying to get clean with a minimum of water! And I cannot count the number of times the water stopped running while I was washing my hair and I had to go to the beach to get rid of the rest of the shampoo with sea water! Today I see the English women paying lots of money to get that “beach babe look” which we achieved with no problem whatsoever, for free!

I was born in the most fantastic continent, in a truly magical place, Africa! In the most beautiful city in the world, Luanda.
Better than my memory, my senses do not forget Angola. What I remember best are the smells. The perfume of ripe mangoes, maboques and palm fruit. The smell of low tide, of wet soil after the rains. The coffee and the dried fish in the Praia do Bispo.
Next come the colours. The blood red of the acacias in full bloom, the golden red of the sunset, the bright red of the soil, the perfect blue in the sky with no clouds, the silver green in the sea, the multicoloured cloths of the kitandeiras, the women selling foodstuffs from door to door.
In this never ending trip happening only in my memory, I can still hear the noises. The calemas in the sea during bad weather, the rain falling on a tin roof, the deafening thunderstorms. The cries in the market, the merengues, batucadas and kizombas in the night.
Then come the tastes. The sour and tangy cashew fruit, the velvety sweetness of the mangoes and pawpaws, the sharpness of the mucuas. The hot spicy chilies and the sweet lightness of kifufutila.
Last, but not least, I can still feel the fine sand in the beach escaping through my fingers, my feet running at the edge of the sea, licked by the waves, the lovely breeze of a warm evening in the ilha, the light kiss of the sun on my skin.
I miss Luanda loads. I miss the serene calm life I never found anywhere else. I miss all the friends I lost when they left in 75 and the ones I lost again when it was my turn to leave in 84. I miss Bairro Pop, Vila Alice, Ingombotas, Mutamba and especially, Mussulo. I miss the palm and coconut trees, the beach, the Avis, Miramar and Imperio. I miss the barrocas and marginal, Palmeirinhas, Santiago and Cabo Ledo. I miss the rains which left me completely soaking wet in a couple of minutes but never lasted longer that a couple of hours. I miss mainly a place I can call home and I can identify with. I didn’t just lose the place I lived in; I lost my roots, my cultural background, my sense of belonging.
I miss Africa. Terribly. And just like Alda Lara, I want one day to say: “I’ve come back”.

L'amitie

Ca fleurit comme une herbe sauvage
N'importe où, en prison, à l'école,
Tu la prends comme on prend la rougeole
Tu la prends comme on prend un virage
C'est plus fort que les liens de famille
Et c'est moins complique que l'amour
Et c'est là quand t'es rond comme une bille
Et c'est là quand tu cries au secours
C'est le seul carburant qu'on connaisse
Qui augmente à mesure qu'on l'emploie
Le vieillard y retrouve sa jeunesse
Et les jeunes en ont fait une loi.
C'est la banque de toutes les tendresses
C'est une arme pour tous les combats
Ca réchauffe et ca donne du courage
Et ça n'a qu'un slogan " on partage"
Au clair de l'amitiéLe ciel est si beau
Viens boire à l'amitié
Mon ami Pierrot
L'amitié c'est un autre langage
Un regard et tu as tout compris
Et c'est comme S.O.S. dépannage
Tu peux téléphoner jour et nuit.
L'amtitié c'est le faux témoignage
Qui te sauve dans un tribunal
C'est le gars qui te tourne les pages
Quand tu es seul dans un lit d'hopital
C'est la banque de toutes les tendresses
C'est une arme pour tous les combats
Ca rechauffe et ca donne du courage
Et ca n'a qu'un slogan : "on partage"

Herbert Pagani