The road north of Binga bay towards Benguela
Almost like the Komas Hochland road
That’s how you fix a cracked screen
The odd 12 km’s back to the En100 took several more casualties – most notably Glen dropped his Tenere on the left that send his pannier scattering in pieces. It seems the pannier is not made of one solid construction, but rather different panels held together by pop rivets. We tied the pannier to his bike using extra tie downs and the kept his belongings at bay as we set our sails for Benguela. The road north was barren desert area only turning to a luscious oasis where the big rivers would mouth into the sea. The village of Dombe Grande was particularly nice and we stopped at a local shop in town where we bought water, coke, some tinned food, a bottle of Nederburg Cabernet and a bottle of Richelieu. From here we visited several villages along the way - Baia Azul being the only one worth mentioning. The rest might just as well have been rubbish dumps.
Baia Azul – also a very nice spot
We had no particular business in Benguela apart from refuelling so we drove through town, visited the beach and then set our target on Lobito. On the double lane road linking Benguela and Lobito a truck burst it left front wheel just as I passed it, which caused the truck to hit the centre barrier and jack-knife, behind me but in front of Excalibur. I had the mother of all frights as I was sure my mates had ridden into the truck, but what a relief when I saw the guys appearing unhurt from behind the truck. This could have been a nasty one.
In Benguela the beach was rakes by the local town council
In Lobito we rode the end of the 6 km long peninsula, hoping to find a camping spot but none was to be found. I stopped at some policemen and asked where we could camp – Akie (here) were their response. It was a nice spot, but security and the lack of ablution facilities made us wonder. In the end we decided to have a cold beer at the Zulu Rest restaurant, the very last one on this peninsula, and revisit our situation. Our predicament soon became known to all and soon the restaurant owner, Louis insisted we camp right on the edge of his restaurant. He would put his staff toilet and shower at our disposal, no charge, as long as we ate in his restaurant. Now that was fine hospitality. A quick inspection revealed two thatched roofs with cemented floors and lots of space around, so we took him up on his offer. We had found a piece of heaven right there on the beach.
Sunrise in Lobito
The next day we had a rest day and we set about washing our clothes, fixing our bikes and just relaxing. Glen managed to sow his pannier together using a hot screwdriver to drill holes through the plastic and stitching it together with cable ties – 19 cable ties later and some duck tape to keep out the dust left him with one mighty fine repair job.
The beaches of Sumbe
After our rest day we moved further north – Sumbe being our next destination. The rubbish dump of Sumbe did not really interest us, so after a chips and olive lunch, swallowed down with some Cuca beer we moved out the filthy spot. From here our road went inland towards Cabela, and area I wanted to visit as my brother who was killed in 1975 was buried somewhere in the region and I wanted to try and find the grave. The road inland was in reasonable condition and took us past the spectacular Cacheoira waterfall before we stopped in Cabela. No camping so we decided to travel south towards Ebo and sleep at the first available nice spot. Late afternoon we passed a ploughed land next to a massive big rock and we agreed that any landmines would have been unearthed so we set up camp.
The Cacheoira waterfall
The entire region is earmarked by these massive rocks protruding from the earth and could easily be mistaken for Swaziland. That night Excalibur outdid once again outdone himself in the cooking department and we sat on the massive rock enjoying the splendour of the area while sipping on some B&C.
The Ebo province
Camping on a worked land in Ebo province
Senor Glen reading in the early morning
The next morning we had some 15 km’s to go before we got to the GPS location I was given as my brother’s grave, but unfortunately the lack of communication between us and the locals as well as the absence of any clear indications of a grave prevented us from locating the exact spot. We did however cross the bridge on which his armoured car was destroyed and someone had built a memorial with the remains of the armoured car still neatly intact.
On this bridge my brothers armoured car was stuck
Although I had failed in my quest to locate his grave I was more at peace in my heart and will definitely return to collect his remains once the SA and Angolan governments has given their stamp of approval. This process has been ongoing since 2007 when we were told about the location of the grave - the guy who made the discovery would accompany us and he is able to pin point the spot. We spend a few hours here before setting our GPS to Huambo where we wanted to spend the night. The road from Ebo to Waku Kongo was nothing but a rural footpath but the main road going south to Huambo was in reasonable condition, so by 4pm we were in Huambo and refuelling, buying coke and water before moving out of town. We definitely didn’t want to spend the night in town, as it seemed like a very chaotic city. About 5 km’s out of town we pulled off into a thick bush area only to find a Chinese construction site located beyond that. We promptly pulled into the construction site and convinced the guards that we had to sleep inside on of the unfinished structures. Amazing what Abraham Lincoln can accomplish. Excalibur cooking, us drinking B&C while the Ipod was blaring away had the guards staring at us in total disbelief. That nigh we slept like babies while the guard with Ak47 intact took care of our security. We did give him some Pilchards and bread.
In this armoured car my brother died on 23 Nov 75
Tricky bridge crossings sometimes took it’s toll
Nice roads
This man helped us lift the bike, so we gave him a brand new Portuguese bible to replace his tattered one – check the one in his left hand
The “road” to Waku Kungu
More bibles being handed to youngsters
Huambo
Our “camp site” outside Huambo
Woer Woer scooters queuing to fill up and buy petrol to sell at double the price on the black market – still a bargain
As we hit the main road the next morning the onboard temp meter indicated a freezing 5 degrees, but we wanted to get to Lubango by nightfall, Africa was not for sissies, so we got on with the job. Well the tar road soon gave way to a potholed monster, which after many km’s and lots of praying turned into a completely gravel road which allowed for speedier travelling, but soon this turned into a potholed gravel track with sand traps.
Bad roads south of Huambo
More bad roads
More praying and lotsa perspiration saw the appearance of a new tar road at a town called Cusse. I have ridden bad roads in my life, but this was certainly the cherry on the cake. Late afternoon we pulled into Lubango and decided to stay at Caspers Lodge as we didn’t want to inconvenience Joze and his restoration / revamping work. We had his cell number and informed him about our plan, but he was not a happy chap. He drove to Casper’s Lodge to express his dismay at our plans, but by that time our tents were up, we had bought some meat, coke, ice and all else needed and was planning and going for gold that night. He brought along a Spanish couple who were cycling around the world – they have done 28500 km’s since their start 2.5 years ago. I tried explaining the advantages of having a motor connected to the two wheels, but they were unfazed.
The road south of Huambo suddenly disappeared at this river – no bridge so we had to follow the cattle route. Wonder what the vehicles do
this youngster could “Falu do English” so we gave him a bible
Caspers Lodge – the second time we stayed in an acknowledged camping site
Lubongo from the Jesus statue
Basil at the replica statue
The next day we left Lubango and headed for Cahama, situated on the main road to Santa Clara, but first we visited the Jesus statue, replica of the one in Rio (Brazil). A miscommunication led to people ending up all over the city, but a few SMS’s later we were all heading for Cahama and making good distance. During the trip south Antonie hit a step-up in the road with such a force that the bottom shock mounting bolt sheared. A local welder managed to weld a piece of metal to piece stuck in the swing arm and managed to remove the bits so a longer bold could be fitted. What was the odds of finding a welder out there in the sticks – lady luck was smiling upon us.
Camping at the granite site
Antoine’s bike in the workshop
In the meantime Glen and I were waiting for all to arrive in Cahama when a fellow South African gave us the message that our mates were stuck about 65km’s before Cahama. We stocked up on water and bread and headed back along the road to meet with the rest of the guys, but not before Glen had a major off in the thick sand of main street Cahama. This left bread and water scattered all over city centre and a bent handlebar, much to the amusement of all pedestrians in town at that moment. We eventually met up with the guys and decided to camp right there in the middle of nowhere. A near by granite mine provided some protection and we squatted in their campsite amongst a pig sty that smelled absolutely awful.
The Chinese bold that saved Antonies trip
The next morning we hit the road early, filled up at Cahama and after a brief discussion with a fellow SA about the bad road south we decided to go off the main road and head towards Tichepa. After about 10 km’s the GPS instructed us to turn off and continue on a road marked as “other road”. We passed one small little village and although the GPS pointed us in one direction, the locals suggested another as the main road was (according to them) too sandy. The alternate route was also indicated on the GPS so we happily obliged. Several woer woer tracks later we realised we were going too far away from the main “other road” so I decided to return to the original road. We passed the “supposed” road, only there was nothing, so we bundu bashed some more. This was going to be the trend for the next few hours. Left around this bush, right around that bush, till you run into a wall of bushes, select the one with the thinnest stem, point the bike, drop the clutch and hang on for dear life, while trying to ignore that feeling in your heart and soul when you hear the branches scratching your beloved bike. The sapped the energy as we plodded on. Every 20 meters or so we had to stop, ensure all was still with us as one could not see beyond 20 metres and loosing someone there would certainly spell trouble.
This is how you duck tape a matres pump to a ST to keep it cool
Roads were nowhere to be found
Camping somewhere in the bush on the way to Ruacana
On one occasion Shaun dropped his 1150 in a hole and required assistance to get it out. As Glen returned to his ST, the side stand had pushed into the sand and the bike fell over. He lifted it up and followed me, not long before the condensation tank on the radiator popped its cap. The bike was overheating. For some or other reason the fan was not kicking in. On inspection we noticed that the fan got slammed into the core of the radiator when the bike fell over, so we straightened the flimsy bars that kept the fan n place and covered it all up. Not long after the ST overheated again – the fan was still not kicking in. We connected the fan straight to the battery, no joy so presumably the fan motor got cooked. The radiator needed air through it, so our solution was to duck tape a mattress pump to the air inlet to blow air through the radiator. This worked temporarily and we managed to continue. By 4pm after about 8 hours of this sh!t I decided we turn back to where we last saw a road. All was against it, but I persisted and eventually all agreed. We had an overheating bike and another two bikes with clutches that were not sounding too well. We returned to the little village we visited that morning, stocked up on cold ones and looked for a place to camp. The village people were so friendly, we got offered the one daughter as an escort for the night – we had been away from home for long, but apparently not long enough as we all declined, much to the dismay of the mother and father who were obviously trying to make a quick buck. Shame the poor girl was absolutely petrified at the possibility that one of us would say yes, and she had put on her cleanest dirty dress for the occasion.
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