Discovering Angola

The customer is always right

2009-06-19T05:58:00.000-07:00

The most common moan here in Luanda is regarding customer service. Or rather lack of. Whilst it is true that a country crippled by a brutal civil war under a decade ago cannot be compared to the bright lights of the US, it is not rare for both expats and locals to find themselves laughing or crying at the level of service here.

Take a recent trip to a bar on the Ihla, a beautiful strip of land by the beach with several restaurants and bars. My friend, an admittedly rather pushy and demanding latino type ordered a salami pizza. I am no Carlo Carlucci but I know what a pizza looks like and therefore assumed that the gooey mess that arrived was actually a bowl of cheese sauce. My friend then began to dissect her dish, spooning her way through the slop to find her beloved salami.

Me, a typical Brit, I probably would have pushed the dish aside, smiled meekly at the waiter, said it was fine and ordered a take away later. My friend, on the other hand called the waiter immediately. She began to list the defects of the dish- its viscosity, its overwhelming proportion of cheese and above all the lack of salami. The waiter, nervous and understanding neither her technical language nor her strong Spanish accent, took the dish to his colleague, who passed the dish on to his colleague and so forth. Soon a large circle of staff developed, rapidly handing the dish along as if passing buckets of water to extinguish a great fire.

Eventually the manager came over, asking us what the nature of our ‘situation’ was. My friend affirmed, remarkably politely and calmly as one would not expect of a fiery latino girl that there was no ‘situation’ but that she ordered a salami pizza, and in turn expected it to contain salami. The manager, now acting as mediator in what had rapidly adopted near judicial proportions, then turned to our waiter. The waiter, pointing to exhibit A, the disputed pizza which had now completed a full round of pass the parcel and was now back with him, confirmed that my friend ordered a salami pizza and he had presented her with one. The coup de grace then came, however, with him adding ‘…oh yes, but the chef ran out of salami and so substituted it for mushrooms and sweetcorn’. It was in his words ‘a salami pizza… just without the salami’. Without so much as a giggle, grimace or the faintest recognition of the irony of our ‘situation’, the manager looked to the sky, perhaps in desperation, perhaps in disbelief. I, on the other hand, spurted with laughter, trying desperately not to spill my cocktail, before checking it was indeed a cocktail and had not also been swapped for something else.

I know my friend’s experience is not a phenomenon confined to expats. Going for dinner with Angolan friends, I noted that they, no doubt through several comparable experiences to my friend’s, had resorted to very strong language with the waiters after four incorrect desserts had been presented to one single diner on our table.

The service might be a tad comical at times, but in general the food is of the highest quality here. The freshness of the gambas and lobsters here would make even Michael Winner’s mouth water. And hey, in any case, who cares? I don’t like salami.

Just friends

2009-06-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

‘I don’t have real friends. Never have done… But it’s fine, I know loads of people here’. The sad but honest admission from B, a Portuguese expat living in Angola. Perhaps his admission was but an exaggeration after a ‘particularly awful day’ or perhaps it was one total honesty fuelled by the whiskeys and beers he was downing to drown out these sorrows. On the face of it, this guy was a perfectly fun, happy and interesting person to chat with. If it were not for my red raw mosquito bites, I would have chatted longer. Nevertheless, underneath his seeming indifference to true friendship, I recognized an unwelcome void that I have sensed in plenty of expat partygoers.

Expats are in Luanda to make money or for a challenge, but rarely do they find themselves choosing to settle here for ties of friendship. 'B', as I will call him, is no doubt not the only businessman in Luanda who finds ‘trust’ a bitter pill to swallow, both in terms of business as well as friendship.

My first piece of advice from an expat oil worker on the plane arriving into Angola was as follows: ‘Trust no-one. If someone comes to your house, check who sent them. When served at a bar, make sure nothing extra is going into your drink that shouldn’t be… Watch your back’. Armed with this sense of suspicion I was hardly in the mood to make friends. Add this skepticism to those doing business in an extremely competitive environment and I understand B’s situation. Nevertheless, and apologies for sounding corny, but friendship and love are the essentials here- even over water and electricity.

Another business man I met explained how he did not like to socialize with the other guys from work, not only because he was keen to avoid talking shop too much, but also because he felt out of place as someone who missed his wife more than beer. This man was lucky in so much that his beautiful and overwhelming friendly wife was in town to be with him every month.

Whilst a peek into Angola’s bars and nightclubs might give the opposite impression, deep down, the majority of expats out here on their own are not happy- either craving for friends and families if they exist back home, or supplementing friendship for work, sex or drink. Indeed work, sex or drinking for many expats is like a tranquilizer, numbing the effects of home sickness or loneliness. Soon this tranquilizer, often coupled with an overriding sense of distrust takes over and makes one immune to true friendship.

With my other half chained to his office computer seemingly 24 hours a day, I have found it hard to get on in Luanda. I was also, perhaps unduly, reticent to engage with expat males who might mistake me for their next tranquilizer. In spite of this I cannot stress the amount of comfort I get in knowing that I have true friends and a loving family back home, genuinely good people that I can trust here and above all, my other half who hopefully also loves me just as much, if not more than his beer.

Jack Daniels and Jim

2009-06-09T00:47:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since my last blog, as I recently left for the UK to renew my visa. The flight back was the usual mix of business hot shots and expat families in first class, oil guys and charity workers in economy.

Although initially cautious to engage with guys seemingly twice my size (both horizontally and vertically), in my experience all the oil guys I have met have been at the best helpful, kind and considerate, and at the worst a tad sleazy. Obviously it is unfair to prejudge a whole professional group, but you can imagine my dismay when a guy who had collapsed in a heap from drinking at the airport, was given yet more Jack Daniels by his ‘friends’ (‘This’ll sort you out mate. Get it down yer! Down it! Down it!’) before rolling into the plane and onto the seat next to mine.

I have to at least congratulate BA for their sense of humour, for whilst they did let him board the plane, the air stewardess proceeded to taunt him with offers of a cooked evening meal until his face turned the colour of the peas on my plate. She winked at me each time and only stopped when I gestured that it might not be such a good idea- I was wearing a white shirt and had no other clothes on me to change into.

After a few more hours of him shuffling around in his sleep, and me doing my best to prop him back up with tiny airplane sized pillows, he eventually calmed down. As the same stewardess came round with breakfast, this time more gingerly, sensing my unease, he accepted the offer of a juice and greeted me with a timid but cheery ‘hello dear’. He immediately apologised for any misdemeanors, which he had no recollection of, but a ‘very guilty conscience’ about and the conversation soon drifted to his grandchildren, his beloved wife and how excited he was to get back to see them. After introducing himself as ‘Jim’ and helping me with my hand luggage, we wished each other all the best and headed our separate ways.

Whilst this did restore my faith in human beings, and whilst it did teach me not to prejudge, on my next flight from Luanda, I will be sure to have a change of shirt ready, just in case.

Luanda at night

2009-04-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

Just plain business sense

2009-04-23T16:52:00.000-07:00

When I submitted my first visa application, a very charming man on the embassy reception apologised for the amount of bureaucracy required, adding with a wink, 'us Angolans, we like our bureaucracy'.

Although I picked up my first visa from Mr Charming hassle free the first time round, I was to be less fortunate on my second application.

After spending a thoroughly enjoyable, but not in the least bit necessary bank holiday at a friend's residence waiting for the next working day to submit my application, and after over three hours queueing in the embassy itself, I would be told my application could not be accepted as it needed to be on plain, non letter headed paper. In fairness I also required a bank statement, which in my haste I had forgotten to bring along. My offer to race to the nearest bank around the corner and supply the said statement in five minutes was flatly refused. Besides, no plain paper, vo visa I was warned. It was no use arguing.

I am informed from non native British residents it is equally hard to do business or indeed leisure in the UK. It seems Britons are so paranoid with system cheats that we close the net in on those we should be welcoming opened armed. Anyway I digress...

Dambisa Moyo's 'Dead Aid- Why aid is not working and why there is another way for Africa' also complains about the levels of bureaucracy in African business. She claims that whilst in the USA an average of 40 days and 19 procedures are required to arrange a business license, compared with a woeful 119 days and 12 procedures in Angola.

This does seem a shame in a country which is can boast such powerful resources- the Angola is the largest supplier of oil to China, even knocking Saudi Arabia off the top spot.

It is also true that some of the blame lies in Europe, not Africa. One friend recently pointed out that visas are mutual understandings between countries and if countries like the UK are going to restrict Africans from entering, it is more than understandable that Angolans protect their resources from resource hungry expats. Whilst I wouldn't classify myself as an oil tycoon, I will be relieved to greeted by Mr charming on the embassy reception again.

When it rains, it pours.

2009-03-27T03:10:00.000-07:00

Cutting the Pope SOME slack

2009-03-22T06:00:00.001-07:00

Perhaps I was too quick to judge his Holiness. Having just seen him trudge past in his famous ‘popemobile’, I witnessed an amazing sense of awe and excitement from the crowds. Children clapped in rhythm, adults cheered and his Rayban clad security entourage only added to the general hype and adulation that in most countries would be reserved for pop stars or football celebrities.

The young security guard I chatted to whilst waiting for Benedict XVI was genuinely star struck and like a giggling school girl queuing up for a David Beckham autograph, gabbled how he was Roman Catholic and was ‘very happy’ to see the Pope today. He left, like many others, beaming with satisfaction.

Whilst I do maintain that his remark in Cameroon about the ineffectiveness of condoms was a fatal and utterly foolish blunder, I am pleased he has spoken out against beliefs in witchcraft and sorcery. Many human rights organizations here are underlining how children accused of witchcraft suffer abuses such as how one US State report put it ‘the denial of food and water, or ritualistic cuttings and the placing of various caustic oils or peppers on their eyes or ears’. Earlier on his trip, the Pope also launched a hard hitting attack on corruption.

I support freedom of religion as long as it remains just that, as long as the general public can openly question and criticize, instead of offering a carte blanche to whoever is at the top, protecting him (and it always seems to be a him) under the pretext that his word is holy and final. On the other hand, if the Pope instills a sense of hope in a country struggling to repair itself after years of civil war, if he does speak sense on some important issues and if he is able to convince masses to share these warnings, then perhaps I should cut him some slack.

The Pope's comments- foolish or immoral?

2009-03-20T04:17:00.000-07:00

The Pope arrives in Angola today. Whilst I was initially tempted to join in the hype and stock up on hilariously kitsch ‘Welcome Pope!’ T-shirts, his most recent comments have made me think otherwise.

His remark in Cameroon, that AIDS "cannot be overcome through the distribution of condoms, which even aggravates the problems" is more than out of touch. In sub-Saharan Africa, a region where two-thirds - 67% - of the world's 32.9 million people with HIV live, his comments are appalling.

I have several friends who subscribe to strict religious doctrines, including Catholicism, and I am sure that their faith gives them strength and moral guidance. Whilst I respect their views, we must all understand that, a public figure who holds particular influence in a predominantly Catholic region must be more careful in his choice of words. This single sentence was at its best foolish, at its worse immoral. It is not an understatement to say that this single sentence will cost many people their lives.

I used to join my partner at a Catholic mass, not out of personal moral conviction, but in order to support him. Witnessing the effects of the AIDS epidemic here in Angola, I am now seriously questioning my conscience as to whether I should attend.

For more on the Pope’s comments click here

Aerobics in Angola

2009-03-20T03:33:00.000-07:00

Staying fit in Angola is no easy task. Walking is too dangerous in the dark in most places and even in the day time you need to watch out for pot holes, random waist high puddles and scooters who aim at pedestrians like ten pins at a bowling alley.

With this in mind I decided to join a gym. At one gym I was welcomed by being casually saluted by a muscular man with gold teeth in military attire, his chair reclined back and his huge army boots on the desk in front of me. Making my way up to the gym itself, past an equally muscular man, again in military attire doing lunges up the stairs, I wondered if I had accidentally stumbled on a military training camp.

Looking around at the body builders, each at lest twice the size of me, I chuckled at the thought of a skinny but very out of shape white girl chatting to hulks of men, tattooed muscles bursting out of their wife beater style vests. As friendly as the men all turned out to be, I could help but think I did not really fit in.

The next gym I visited had an equally high number of no nonsense body builder cum street combat types, but was also dotted with the odd flabby expat. After a brief wander around the exercise cum torture equipment I went to stretch out, yoga style. Again I chuckled away, doing my sun salutations beside giants lifting weights of equally immense proportions. It seemed I would need more than protein shake to ever reach even half of their muscle ratio.

About to relax from a final stretch, I found I could not get up. It turned out it was because one of the instructors was on top of me and decided a sports massage was just what I needed. Hearing my bones cracking away, I lifted my head as much as possible to se if sports massages were the norm here. In any case I was not going to argue with a man double my size and strength, and besides in a body lock, I could not move.

Whilst I admit that my body felt incredibly light after this retuning, seeing that sports massages were the norm and were being offered, or rather enforced, on other clients was a greater relief.

The next day I opted for the aerobics class, and kept enough energy to make a very swift exit before anyone could sit on me.

The honeymoon is over

2009-03-20T03:32:00.000-07:00

The electricity cuts and water shortages were all part of the adventure when I first arrived. The honeymoon, if one can classify time spent in Angola as a holiday, is now over.

Today is a public holiday due to the Pope’s visit and we have no water. Flies are amassing around the dirty dishes are stacked high. I long for a shower. The floor needs mopping.

As much as I console myself that the situation is much harder for the poor here, and my longing for a wash in no way compares to the horrors of Afghanistan or Iraq. But I still feel dirty and I dream about showering.

Trip to the clinic

2009-03-03T12:33:00.000-08:00

I am not a stomach bug virgin. In part it is my own fault, a desire to taste every variety of street food, no matter how many flies may have sampled it beforehand. After my food adventures come stomach bugs, and as my various travel partners will acknowledge, this is generally accompanied by acute hypochondria.

Nevertheless, last weekend when I was suffering from fever, stomach cramps, breathing difficulties, dizziness and other bodily complaints that I will not go into in case the reader may be eating at the time of reading this, I decided I would ignore potential accusations of hypochondria and get to a clinic. Wanting to stay in Angola long term, and with the negative side effects of malaria medication outweighing the positives, I had not been taking any preventative medicine and so malaria was my primary concern.

I went to one of the best clinic in town. When I asked to see a doctor, they asked me which company I was with. In hindsight I should have just quoted an oil firm and barged through. My dizziness mounting and my head pounding, I was given a business card and told to ring one of the given numbers after the weekend. We joked, wondering if my leg had fallen off whether I would also be given a business card and told to phone back later. My boyfriend then slapped his hands down on the reception desk and told them to treat me now and we would pay immediately afterwards.

The reception staff then asked me what kind of doctor I wanted. I said I did not mind and explained my symptoms. The concept of a GP was not understood here, so after five laps of the clinic I was indeed grateful my leg had not fallen off and I think it was a pediatrician I finally saw. Our joke did seem in rather bad taste after all, as I noticed a man with his full leg in plaster apart from one hole to let air to what seemed to be a gun shot wound, who was also touring the clinic in an attempt to find a doctor.

The doctor we saw was very helpful, and spoke good English. Sadly the communication between reception, doctor, nurse and laboratory was not nearly as efficient. After nearly two hours waiting for blood test results, we bypassed the reception and asked at the laboratory ourselves, who, it turned out had my results and those of many other patients, but just hadn’t brought them downstairs to reception.

I know it sounds wrong, but after four hours of waiting I admit I was slightly disappointed that the results were negative. Walking towards the exit, it obviously appeared as if we were not going to pay, as the receptionist who had told us to wait ‘just a minute’ every half an hour suddenly sprang into life, bolted towards the door and snatched my credit card.

At least now I know what to do in a real emergency- say I’m from BP, head straight to the operating theatre and refuse any business cards distributed along the way.

Electricity, glorious electricity.

2009-03-02T00:13:00.001-08:00

The electricity cuts and water shortages are loosing their novelty now. The first day without electricity I planned to go out- in fact I ended up with a fever that confined me to an early night and the next day spent waiting in a clinic for malaria test results. But the clinic visit is another story which will have to wait for another time.

The following day we had another electricity cut. The good news is we have a generator. The bad news is it doesn’t work. The even worse news is that water supply is dependent on electricity. Today I took my first glorious shower at a friend’s house after three hot sticky days and nights. It’s true that I shouldn’t sulk when many here don’t have running water, let alone showers. But that is little consolation when mosquitoes are sticking to your skin, lying back after chomping away on all you can eat feasts on my flesh.

Air conditioning is meant to deter or kill mosquitoes, so when I do have electricity, the flat transforms itself to an ice palace within minutes. It is true that at least you appreciate the small things here- I now get less excited by the amazing shellfish in the restaurants than when the electricity comes on after a long cut. And on that note I am going to celebrate, by staying in, with all electrical appliances on and the air conditioning on turbo charge. Bliss.

If the electricity cuts, head to a bar

2009-02-27T12:02:00.000-08:00

‘Luxury apartment available for rent- water and electricity 24 hours’. I was surprised to see that electrical generators and water tanks topped the list of criteria for so-called luxury residences before I moved here. Now, straining to type on my laptop, I understand why. Our electricity has cut out, the light is fading and with 33 minutes of battery on my laptop left, I will have to be brief.

So far, the longest we have gone without running water is two days. Electricity cuts have sometimes lasted a little longer. One friend of mine here went without electricity for over a week. Nevertheless, our grievances do not compare to others nearby- our apartment block looks over onto what can only be described as a swamp of stagnant residue water that serves as the washing machines, taps and showers of those with no alternative.

People here seem remarkably accustomed to and relaxed with the situation. I remember in Lebanon and Syria power cuts and water supplies were often blamed on the Israeli enemy. Here, in Angola, most can only compare hard times today with even harder times before during the war.

There are an abundance of designer electrical shops in Luanda, but when I went to the one of the largest supermarkets last week both candles and matches had sold out. Looking for apartments in Luanda, I am clearly not alone in prioritizing the essentials- one estate agent bypassed showing off the flat screen TV with surround sound to point out the ‘never fail’ generator and ‘super large’ water tank.

Our current generator is certainly not of the ‘never fail’ variety and until I manage to stock up on candles I will just have to adopt a bit of Angolan attitude. Only 8 minutes left on my laptop, which is also serving as my lamp gives me just enough time to doll myself up for a drink out… hopefully in a bar with electricity.

Bad luck comes in threes, or fours, or fives...

2009-02-24T14:59:00.000-08:00

They say bad luck comes in threes. I think we had more than three this weekend. After having my mobile stolen, and as I forgot to add in my previous blog, the heels on my shoes breaking, we returned home to find the gate to our house bolted from the inside. After breaking several hairpins in failed attempts to slide the latch back, we at least knew that future thieves would have met their match here. Only when my hair was completely loose did the neighbours’ dog come to our rescue by waking its master up, who I am sure wouldn’t have cared if we were thieves as long as the dog shut up.

The next day, the toilet broke, the electricity cut out and I was house bound due to communication problems from no mobile phone and very unreliable internet supplies. To make up for this, the following day I suggested a trip to the paradise beaches nearby. Waiting to pick a friend up in the car, the battery cut out. My boyfriend tried in vain to push start the car (I’m sure you can’t push start automatic cars though right? Answers on a postcard… hang on… email better) but soon had to admit defeat and phone a friend. My afternoon was at least spent in a rather over air conditioned local café, ordering several different coffees trying to explain the concept of a cappuccino. After a bica, a café and a galoa, the car was back in action.

However, after a desperate attempt to drive to a bar for a consolatory beer, the battery cut out again and we were forced to make another SOS call to the same, if slightly more stressed friend.

Some days you just wish you had stayed in bed. I just hope I don’t have bed bugs.

Safe and sound, but quite stupid.

2009-02-24T14:58:00.000-08:00

When things go wrong it’s so easy to think in hindsight how you should have acted. This was the case after a night out in the main expatriate night club in town. Having parked the car round the corner as spaces were limited, my boyfriend went to pay the man watching over the car, as is custom here. A few guys then huddled around, arguing they deserved the money instead. Instead of paying some money to one guy and letting them fight it out themselves, my boyfriend endeavoured to play the diplomatic game, working out to whom the money should be paid. The argument got heated and sitting in our locked car, I saw my boyfriend now kneeling on the ground outside, shouting, with five guys crowding round. Now this is when I was stupid. Believing my boyfriend was in danger, I instinctively got out to help him, handbag of goodies under my arm. I then realized that my partner was not being assaulted as such, but was searching on the ground for a beloved keepsake which was lost in the general scuffle. One guy noticed I had got out and pushed me back, demanding money. I of course gave him everything. He had not dropped lucky though- my Nokia really belonged in a museum and I had absolutely no dollars on me. Whilst my instinct was to help my loved one first and foremost, I do remember feeling grateful that he was only interested in cash. He actually gave me back the credit card and left me my prized hand bag. I remember thinking is this guy stupid or does he just not have good taste in handbags?

It is true that I should have never got out of the car. No one was hurt, and in a very dark way, it was rather amusing that I, rather petite in stature should even think of facing those guys. ‘What are you thinking you were going to do?!’ shouted my boyfriend afterwards. ‘Tell them off? Wag your finger and ask them kindly to stop?’ Now I can appreciate the irony or rather stupidity, and I now have an emergency phone a friend contact and strict instructions to remain inside the locked car if things ever should go wrong. At the end of the day, as guilty as I might feel, I would only serve as extra bait in any attack. Equally my boyfriend has promised to get out of any awkward situations before any attacks might happen. Petty arguments soon escalate into violent attacks in any country. It is better to be safe and sound than sorry and stupid.

The price is not right

2009-02-21T13:58:00.000-08:00

Most people equate Africa with low costs of living. In Angola they would be wrong. Three bags of meager groceries set us back over $100 and since then we have had to shop wisely and prudently. In fact grocery shopping is a rite of passage for expatriates here. One Venezuelan friend recounted how when the supermarket cashier asked her for $1000 on her first shopping trip and she argued that there must have been a mistake, before embarrassingly reducing her trolley to the bare essentials.

A bottle of Nivea body cream from the supermarket came in at about $25, a pineapple in the street at about $5 and meals out in admittedly chic restaurants are enough to induce cold sweats. The capital, Luanda is particularly pricey and was ranked the most-expensive city in the world for expatriates this year. A modest two to three bedroom apartment in the centre will set you back at least $5,000 per month, one year’s rental must normally be paid in advance and yet the flats are full. In the same way, flights to Luanda are equally extortionate, but rarely are there seats to spare.

I asked a friend why Angola was so expensive and he replied that it was due to a combination of its war past, a significantly high proportion of high earning expatriates pushing up prices, and the fact that few products are manufactured within Angola but are imported from abroad. Other oil rich countries such as Nigeria and Iraq are not so pricey however. I am no economic expert but the figures do not add up.

Although neither my boyfriend nor I are oil tycoons, we can survive. However I do wonder how the 68 percent of the population living below the poverty line of $1.70 per day, and the 28 percent of those in extreme poverty on less than $0.70 per day can.

Some foreigners are here to make big bucks, some are here to try to help Angola develop itself, many come here for work that they could not find in the West and others just for the challenge of living in a developing country.

A typically optimistic Angolan friend said to me, ‘look on the bright side, with the cost of living this high, at least you have a clear conscious that you are not here to make money’. Whilst we may have to reduce the frequency we eat out from before in Brussels, I know we will not go hungry. And even if pineapples are a tad pricey, my friend’s remarks do at least provide some consolation.

The Lives of Others

2009-02-20T10:01:00.000-08:00

Despite living in Belgium for a few years, I am not accustomed to the expat lifestyle. Mind you, the expat lifestyle in Belgium is somewhat different to that in Angola. Apart from one rather adventurous explorer type working in the diamond industry, the expats I know here rarely leave their 4x4s when they venture out into the streets. Indeed it would be foolish to do so at night or in certain areas. Muggings are an every day occurrence. Even a very relaxed Angolan friend advised against walking alone in many areas. A keen walker and explorer, I have found this very difficult to cope with.

Nevertheless I have now a better sense of where is off limits and have realized that I can get about on foot in the day in most areas. A friend is keen to make me more Angolan streetwise and offers useful advice- ‘hold your bag like this… cross the street after withdrawing cash… watch out for those potholes… look like you know where you are going even if you don’t…’ These snippets are useful, and although no-one can guarantee you will never get robbed, it is extremely rare you will come to any harm, especially during the day. In fact I have had only positive reports from fellow expats. I even heard of one mugging where the robber took the phone, but was ‘decent’ enough to give the victim the SIM card so he would at least not loose his contacts.

Most expats also have drivers too. I initially felt very embarrassed to have to cruise around Paris Hilton style and it felt just plain wrong that our driver escorted me around the supermarket. I wrestled to get the trolley off him, and only later realized he was just trying to help. Our driver is not only courteous, but essential- I am not a confident driver at the best of times and navigating extreme traffic, potholes, wandering pedestrians all to the tune of incessant car horns is currently beyond my reach.

People are incredibly polite here- bread, beer and salutations are the life essentials here. Nevertheless, the driver of a friend considered it comical that I thanked him as much as I did. Or maybe it was just my accent… An Angolan friend was impressed that my boyfriend and I went to a local church and that I was on first name terms with the ladies who sell fruit outside my house, arguing it was not the norm for expats.

Perhaps it is an affected false attempt on my behalf to act humbly, whilst I will obviously never fit in with the very poorest locals here. However for the time being I will push my own shopping trolley.

Dancing queens

2009-02-19T03:45:00.000-08:00

A friend told me the girls here learn to ‘shake their asses’ before they walk. Judging by his girlfriend’s gyrating hips, he was right. He argues that with 14 females to every male here, the girls have to fight hard for their man.

People must eat rhythm for breakfast here; either that or they have more practice because there is music wherever you go. My neighbour was grinding a vegetable yesterday and the children even managed to rap and dance along to the beat. In the same way, a fellow student appears to have an earphone surgically attached to his left ear and he often replies to the teacher’s questions in song.

Rap music is big here, with US ghetto superstars and local born heroes dominating the charts. Arriving for the first time in Angola at 5am, the hip hop next door had not faded and would not for some time.

Women seem particularly sensitive to music here, their bodies, and in particular their behinds, taking on a life on their own. Angolan meringue and semba (very much like Brazilian samba) make them vibrate faster than the household electrical generators. You can tell who is new here by the mixture of expressions- surprise, embarrassment, or in the case of many expat males, delight. Comparing traditional music and dance from the UK with that here, morris dancing has a lot to live up to.

Angola- a whole new game.

2009-02-19T03:07:00.000-08:00

I recently met the director of a large mobile phone distribution company. Having studied for a Masters in political economy in the UK, he had now returned home to seek his fortune. Fortune and Angola perhaps seem a contradiction in terms considering 68 percent of the population live below the poverty line of $1.70 per day, and 28 percent of those in extreme poverty on less than $0.70 per day. And for those who cannot relate to figures, it’s enough to see people rummaging in dustbins for food, without shoes, and torn clothes on every corner, other than within the sleek gated communities.

Whilst poverty is a huge problem here, it is also true that parts of Angola are reconstructing themselves after the war and there are big bucks to be made. Chinese companies are not afraid to take the big leap and an agreement guaranteeing 70 percent of tenders for public works go to Chinese firms also helps.

Luanda is a home to just under 5 million people but the city itself feels quite small. Both locals and expatriates I have met here have said that we would meet again in the near future and bumping into them in the street, in bars and cafes, they have proven to be correct. Networking (I hate the term, but it is pertinent here) is much easier. Whilst there are many expats here, social hang outs are limited. If you have the right background, or the money, it is also easier to get meetings with VIPs. A friend who has just returned after completing a PhD in the UK talked of meetings with the British ambassador and high level ruling party officials. He explained to me that the system here is different and that he did not receive the same welcome in the UK. I imagine him arriving at the door of Number 10 for a welcome cup of tea, only to be turned away by a burly security guard.

This friend also lamented the fact that so many foreigners arrive here, make their money and then leave, with no interest in improving the long term situation of Angola. Whilst this is certainly in part true, it is also true that Angola would struggle without foreign investment.

A week ago, we accidentally walked in on a private beach party (the music was good… we thought it was a bar) and we soon got talking to the very friendly party goers. They all reiterated what I had learnt so far about networking, but also stressed that the work system in Angola cannot be compared to Europe, especially as regards corruption.

You cannot live your life in fear or feeling guilty. Whether you want to change the Angola for the better, or just make money, you just have to get on with it. If life here could be described as a game, there are certainly no rules. I left with a sense of hope that having learnt Portuguese, there were opportunities for me here, but I would have to change my game plan.

Lobster cooking for dummies

2009-02-17T10:00:00.000-08:00

We ate lobster yesterday. A treat from my boyfriend, who admittedly has also bought me lovely handbags, but as they are not so readily available in Angola, lobsters come a close second. He got them from a contact at work, but like most things in Angola, lobsters are also sold at the roadside. The road to the beach area of Luanda is dotted with these merchants, who dangle the creatures from their hands and to the untrained eye it might appear that the lobsters were trying to hitch a ride.

In typical 1950s household fashion my boyfriend assumed I knew the ins and outs of lobster preparation and cooking. After five minutes and a few expletives on my part, the kitchen looked like a crustacean war zone. He then realized I was a modern day woman. With our internet connection down, even the mighty Jamie Oliver could not help.

Nevertheless after borrowing a pan which would actually accommodate these beasts and a bit of trial and error we were soon munching away.

Fingers crossed no dodgy stomachs tomorrow.