The tracks  for this ride diary abruptly end where my GPS met its maker under what were probably wheels 1-9 of several 18-wheelers, but the commentary (as usual) continues on and on and on…

The ride from Windhoek to the Namibian border is a long, boring, and dry, boring, plain, (did I mention boring?) trip.

I was forced to split up the ride and stay longer in Tsumeb than planned due to some necessary bike body and personal body repair.

After my previously mentioned experience at the Namiba/Angola border, I made it around nightfall to Ondjiva, the first semi-major town in southern Angola.  The ride along the way was surreal, with fresh evidence from 30 years of war that ended only 6 years ago scattered along the roadside, from bombed out tanks, firebombed jeeps, and landmine removal notification posters.

After fruitlessly searching for a place to camp or stay that wasn’t outrageously priced (with zero middle class, an impoverished bottom class, zero tourism, burgeoning oil wealth that goes to a select elite, and little business competition, prices in Angola for rooms that you would pay tops $50 in the states go for $120 and up), the manager of one of the hotels took pity on me and with a promise to host her in the US when she “goes on vacation” there, I camped for free out back.

The climate, only 30k north of Namibia, was quite a change due to both the decrease in elevation and increased latitude.  The humidity and slightly warmer night was a welcome relief from the high desert dryness and freezing nighttime temperatures of Namibia that had my lips chapped and me shivering at night.

The next morning I broke camp later than I would have liked and didn’t get on the road until 10AM in part due to hunting for gas - the gas station in town that was operational was empty, and the rest were abandoned, so I decided to push on until the next gas stop.

20ks outside of Ondjiva, the perfect tar road suddenly ended and I was faced with what I was warned about:  the remnants of a tar road that was so completely bombed-out and potholed that without a constant dodging, weaving and occasional severe breaking a snapped front wheel was inevitable.

Where there wasn’t potholes, there was massive road construction, with giant earth-movers and graders everywhere ripping out the old tar and preparing the earth.   The upside is that eventually there will be roads.  The downside is that in the meantime, the only method of travel are dirt, gravel, and sand side-paths with hairpin turns, massive amount of trucks squeezing along, and random sand pits.

I fell in the sand at least a half-dozen times; I got trapped under the bike one time, and was freed by a handful of construction workers.  I managed to right myself two times, and the others, passers-by helped, including a crew of Chinese road workers (the Chinese government is repairing the roads as a quid pro quo for cheap oil from Angola.)

It was a tough day overall, with the massive blinding road dust turning to mud as I sweated through my motorcycle gear.

When I finally arrived at the chaos that is Lubango (all of the main roads are seemingly randomly dug up and all traffic is diverted to pothold dirt side roads), I arrived at a hotel where I had information that I could camp.

No such luck.

After being directed to one hotel after another (”sure you can camp there!  They let people camp there; it’s just down the street!”) and riding around for hours in the dark, I finally called it quits and choked up the $120 for a crappy hotel room at Villa Verde lodge (no it’s not green, and no, it’s not much of a villa either).  The day took a serious mental toll on me, from misplacing my jerry can, to almost running out of fuel, to falling constantly, to not being able to find a stupid hotel that even though was seemingly empty, would not let me camp, to forking out the kind of cash that was going to blow a hole in my budget.

The next day would prove to be much better with one exception.  The road was a fun dirt and gravel track with an enjoyable descent towards the coast as the terrain turned greener and the humidity picked up.

There was still extensive road construction as the terrain flattened out nearer to the coast, but with the change in climate and type of dirt, it had stayed relatively compacted and could be taken at relatively high speed without any major concerns.

As I was cruising along, I noticed my GPS was no longer in it’s holder.  After a fruitless search back along the road for an hour, a group of kids near where I dropped out ran out the bush holding it.  My happiness was quickly dashed when I realized it so broken, so I sucked it up and continued to head north to Benguela.

In Benguela I finally used the mostly worthless Lonely Planet Africa guide (any “authoritative guide” for the “independent traveller” that openly admits it didn’t do on the ground research in half of the countries in Africa due to “safety issues” is a crock) I had been lugging around since I arrived in SA to find the number of a great English school and hospedaria run by an awesome woman, Nancy, an American expat who originally came to Angola with an NGO and ended up staying.  With free camping on the roof deck, two other Americans to finally speak English with, and the donation of a plastic jug to replace my gone-missing jerry can, I coudn’t have been happier.

The next morning, after the requisite pictures with the other guests at the Hospedaria (an American, as all Americans obviously never come to Africa and are scared of life outside the United States, riding a motorcycle across Africa is a serious tourist attraction), I took off around 10AM for my best stretch of road yet - 100% complete, brand-new tar all the way to Luanda, with some parts having been just completed by the Chinese only weeks before.

Getting in Luanda was a nightmare.

I knew the general layout of the city center, but all sense of direction was shot when I was met with kilometer after kilometer of crushing traffic in every direction fighting for space on the dirt paths that served again as alternatives to roads under construction, but this time surrounded on all sides by layer after layer of squatter shacks.

The only comparison I can think of is to Bombay - where people are born, live, and die on the sidewalk where they have built out row after row of shacks pushing out into what would be termed if a 4-lane freeway if it wasn’t crammed with cars, minibuses, and three-wheeled taxis 12-across.

After at least an hour and a half fighting through the traffic, daylight disappearing, having no friggin idea where I was, and being alternatively harassed or helped by locals who all wanted to know who the hell I was and what on earth I was doing in Luanda southern slum traffic; I took a random left and somehow ended up right on the Marginal, the main road along the waterfront that shapes the harbor and truly dazzling nighttime skyline.

With the help of some friendly guys driving a beer truck, I was pointed in the right direction of the Luanda Yacht Club, where I had found out online that I could camp in the back of.

After driving back and forth down a 10K strip for an hour trying to find it, I finally realized it was where I had originally thought, just not well lit and behind a gate.  (The boats in the harbor should have been my first clue.)

I wandered out back in full motorcycle regalia, caked in mud and  sweat, to the steely surprise of about fifty guys from age 28 to 70, scattered across, black, Portuguese, and mixed descent, all sipping whisky and beers and playing pool.

Our faceoff ended when one guy, Marco, who spoke very good English, called me over, and helped me find a spot to camp.  I barely had time to change when Marco and his friend, Mario, grabbed me and forced me to come out for pizza and beers at a classy outdoor sports bar that would be at home anywhere in LA, Vegas, or New York, let alone Angola.

It was not a bad way to cap off a hard week of riding, and only the beginning of the ups and downs of Luanda.