Old Legs Tour Angola 2024 – Day 21

800km peg on the railway line to Cuemba and beyond - A monster, a murmuration and mosquitoes

Day 21 started a little early, as a group of Old Legs travellers lay sleeping soundly under the star-studded sky on the side of a railway track in the middle of the bush, deep in rural Angola, dreaming deeply of who knows what…

…When suddenly a monstrous, three-eyed behemoth erupted from the darkness, hurtling in an arc towards our helpless, slumbering Old Legs. Glaring yellow eyes illuminated the camp as the beast unleashed a piercing shriek, a prelude to the terrifying cacophony of its approach. Its iron legs churned and roared, a monstrous squeal of metal on metal that snapped us out of peaceful slumber,  and plunged us into a waking nightmare.

The individual reactions were instant and (only much later) gut-bustingly hilarious.  Jaime woke up screaming, and shot out of bed, arms and legs pumping in full flight as she levitated above her bed in a terrified sprint, going nowhere.

Gus woke up just at the very moment that the train was drawing level with us, and the train driver hooted as Jaime screamed. Poor Gus jumped out of bed in sheer terror. He swears he didn’t wet himself, but we’re not convinced.

Laurie W, Nick, and Dave had a collective “oh crap” moment. When they saw those three headlights bearing down on them, they thought the train had derailed and was about to turn their camping spot into a railway graveyard.

Jono was awake when he saw the three lights heading towards him, and knowing he was sleeping too close to the tracks, thought he was a goner. Had he been wearing a heart monitor, it would have been off the charts and he sweated profusely in shocked reaction for ages well after the event.  He thought about moving his bed further from the track in case another one came…. But he didn’t, and another one did at 2 am.

Alistair, lost in a dream about the Rift Valley, was certain that the rumbling of the railway lines was the Rift Valley splitting apart.  Keegan’s experience was straight out of a horror movie, a terrifying blend of lights, noise, and screams. Adam, Linda, Naison, and Laurie S. heard the train but were far enough away to avoid the full-blown terror. Meanwhile, the ever-vigilant media team of Gary, Troy, and Jess, who were still awake, were very bleak that they were not quick enough to capture it all on video!

Once all the commotion subsided and we knew that the train was still on its tracks and we were not going to face our instant annihilation that night (on the side of the railway tracks, in the middle of nowhere, in the depths of the rural Angolan bush) all that could be heard for a long time afterward was the hysterical laughter of relief, mainly from Jess each time she remembered Jaime’s reaction (the giggling continued at spontaneous moments throughout the day) but also from Jaime, it was a laugh born of sheer terror and relief, a strange cocktail of emotions.

You might have guessed, with a start like this, that day 21 was set to be eventful.  And if this blog gets too long we apologise in advance.  Our morning briefing was like a Groundhog Day skit. “Today our target is Cuemba Falls”. But no one really believed that today we would cover 120 km when the previous two days we had failed to reach even 100 km.

Spontaneous giggles were still popping up around camp, when Anthony grabbed the shovel and loo roll and strode purposefully towards the loo tent, mindful that we were in a heavily mined former war zone and boskak would be unwise. Seconds later the camp erupted into more spontaneous cheek-aching, tummy-bending, side-splitting guffaws as a gust of wind lifted the tent off him like a pop-up book, revealing Bitter Berens’ bottom bared to the by-standing bunch.

Whilst we all fell about laughing, Anthony, ever the trooper, simply turned, flashed a thumbs up, and carried on as if nothing had happened. It was only after he managed to wrestle the tent back to the ground that the cameras started rolling. If this blog gets even half the views Anthony’s impromptu Battle of the Chef video got, we’ll be ecstatic!

We were so desperate to get to Cuemba, now five days behind schedule, that we abandoned the idea of riding for the day, had a cheerful breakfast, reminiscing about the train and Anthony’s antics, broke camp, packed up and hit the road.

Having been through places where tourists have not been seen in over 40 years, we were amazed to find a couple in a bakkie, heading towards us, coming from Cuemba.  A sure sign that the road was at least navigable, we exchanged stories, warned them not to expect to reach Luena today, and drove off into the quicksand that is the road we have been stranded upon for so many days.

The Old Legs bomb squad, now hardened scrummers, made short work of these hazards and our progress was good (in other words, we were managing to travel above 15km per hour).  We flirted with the railway tracks, crossing over several times but the countdown from 800 remained painfully slow and the day wore on.

The landscape transformed from Miambo woodlands to vast grassy plains nestled between hills. Yet, wildlife was conspicuously absent. This land is so vast and the dense bush hints at a hidden world teeming with wildlife, but the reality is, it is devoid of creatures. Even birds are scarce, except for the occasional yellow-billed kite or solitary crow. It is devastatingly sad.

Someone observed the absence of cows, offering a grim explanation. The bush war decimated wildlife, creating a domino effect as food chains collapsed. Even after the war, the lack of beef has forced people to rely on whatever they can harvest from the bush, perpetuating the cycle. We witnessed young boys and men returning from the hunt with small mammals like mice and cane rats, a stark indication of their survival struggle.

We were heartened to encounter a conservation team working in the area. It was clear Angola is committed to reversing environmental damage. We are also aware of a project that is currently relocating 300 elephants to a southern national park. Given the country’s vast, pristine wilderness and sparse population, this could be a game-changer for Angola’s tourism industry. We like to think those are 300 very happy elephants in their new home right now.

Adam had said that the closer we get to Cuemba, the better the road would become.  Haha.  What we found was the direct opposite, because the closer we have been getting to Cuemba, the worse the roads have become, and nothing has changed.

Fifty kilometres out, the still-healing scars of Angola’s past became increasingly apparent. This land of sandy plains and wide, meandering rivers bore the marks of conflict. New bridges stood alongside the skeletal remains of destroyed ones, sometimes with half-submerged armoured vehicles still perched hopelessly, seemingly clawing their way out of the sandy riverbed. While the bridges were new, the roads leading to them remained a formidable challenge for any 4×4 driver.

The road has become our nemesis, determined to prevent us from getting to Cuemba, getting ever more treacherous and uncompromising, even enlisting the trees on either side to close in and grab at the sides of the vehicles, the eroded ruts in the road sometimes rising halfway up the sides of Christopher as if to bury us and hold us there forever.

But Christopher is no sissy, and neither are our trusty black and white Isuzus. We put our newfound off-road skills to the test, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Cuemba materialised. The dusty road surrendered, and Adam’s triumphant cry of “Tar!” echoed through the group. Nobody was excited because nobody believed him until the sweet sound of smooth asphalt beneath our tyres elicited gasps of joy.  We stopped opposite a small market on one side and a bombed-out armoured vehicle on the other, not to look at either of those attractions, but rather to revel in this newfound luxury. Jaime couldn’t resist getting down on her hands and knees and kissing the tarmac.

Cuemba is a surprisingly large town, and it seemed that all its streets were tarred. We drove through the town, and on to the Falls which are not visible from the road.  We crossed a former concrete bridge that had been destroyed, probably during the war, and where the townspeople gather daily to do their washing.  As usual, we were mobbed by the crowds and Naison met someone who said, “We had heard tourists were coming from Zimbabwe and we have been waiting for you for days!  Welcome, enjoy our town.”  It astounds us that people all the way along this very unpopulated, vast, and remote route have not only heard about us, but also seem to be waiting eagerly and enthusiastically for us to pass by.

The Falls themselves are beautiful, and despite the washing going on in the pools above, there is no soapy foam at the bottom, the spray cools the air and the water is clear and unpolluted, like all the Angolan rivers. Back in the day, the Portuguese had built a platform to maximise the view, but beyond that, the area remains untouched by modern development. It is a waterfall straight out of a wilderness explorer’s dream, surrounded solely by rock and bush. We felt a profound sense of privilege to witness such a pristine spectacle before it becomes overrun by tourists. There were no trinket touts or souvenir sellers, just simple, authentic local fare like the delicious donut balls that we bought and ravenously devoured for lunch.

A suitable campsite was nowhere to be found. Buoyed by the smooth tarmac, we decided to push on to Quito and try to make up lost time. But before leaving Cuemba, we felt it important to pay our respects to the officer-in-charge at Cuemba police station. He was delighted to see us, aware of our arrival, and extended a warm welcome to stay the night. However, he understood the challenges we’d faced on the Luao-Cuemba road and fully appreciated our need to push on. We left Cuemba a little sad, we’d been so focused on getting there and had anticipated a memorable night there, and it seemed the locals had shared our expectations.

The road ahead was much better, though the tarmac soon gave way to dirt again. Progress was lightning-fast compared to our earlier ordeal.

We needed water and so had to make the 60km to the Cuiva River which we reached as the sun disappeared behind the haze.  On the way, we lost the two bakkies, and Christopher arrived at the river about 30 minutes before they did.  Having seen so little bird life up till now, we were enchanted by the swallows who nest under this river bridge. As the sun began to set, the sky transformed into a kaleidoscope of motion, as if the very fabric of the air had come alive. Swallows, by the thousands, took to the skies, their wings beating in unison as they performed their evening dance, a mesmerizing spectacle known as a murmuration.  Like a choreographed ballet, the birds twisted and turned, their sleek bodies glinting in the fading light. They swooped and dived, their wings tucked in, then suddenly extended them, catching the wind and soaring upwards, only to repeat the process again and again. The air was filled with the soft rustle of their wings, a soothing background hum that underscored the visual feast unfolding above.  As the murmuration reached its crescendo, the birds began to settle, slowly descending toward their roosting sites, their wings beating in a slow, gentle rhythm. The sky, recently a whirlwind of avian activity, settled into tranquillity. Stars emerged, twinkling like diamonds against the deepening blue canvas. The swallows, their day’s flight concluded, clung to their roosts, dreaming perhaps of endless skies, their earlier murmuration a testament to the beauty and wonder of the natural world.

The swallows serve a vital purpose, feasting on the relentless mosquitoes. As we laboriously filled our trailer shower tanks with river water, bucket by bucket, the mosquitoes found a feast of their own, and many a whelp and slap of the ankles broke the silence above the sound of the rushing water.

We made camp as high up the banks as we could, in the dark.  Camp luxury wasn’t sacrificed, however. We feasted on a delicious meal of pasta con-carne, dressed with locally procured vegetable relish, next to a glorious campfire, lit up against a giant rock face.  30 meters behind us a solitary guard stood sentinel, a long-forgotten ghost of history: a tank, still on guard, half concealed in the shrubbery, its turret pointing at Scorpio, as if saluting us, a symbol of Angola’s transformation.

We have been blown away by the response to our blogs, photos and videos from all over the world – you are all Epic, please keep the comments coming – we read them all!  And until next time,

Have Fun, Do Good, Do Epic!

#OldLegsTour #Angola2024 #EvenMoreEpic #PedallingForPensioners

Get real time updates directly on you device, subscribe now.

You might also like

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Accept

Privacy & Cookies Policy