Ambling into Angola

Finally they were through and drove a few metres forward to the Angolan border post. This place smells of unwashed toilets. There were not many vehicles but the people passing on foot were quite something to watch. There again the women sat in the heat of the cars and waited while the men ran from one office to the next: immigration, customs, health, fiscal control etc. At all those they were desperately slow.

It was a bit of a circus, especially because they were travelling with 2 passports each now. The one had to be stamped out of the Congo before it could be stamped into Angola and the immigration office would not hear of it. They were all behaving as if we were the only foreigners they have seen in ages.

After more than 3 hours at the border they started moving, then there was the one barrier and another but eventually they were on the road to Cabinda. There they were told that they had to register at the immigration in Cabinda as well, so they thought they’d find the catholic mission there and sleep there too.

Side road stop to fill radiator

They stopped to make sandwiches for the men who were hungry, thirsty and cranky as well. On the side of the road there came a drunkard who asked for cigarettes – she quickly sent him packing. And they ambled on south. The road was good. They passed a few small towns and the bigger and more picturesque town of Cacongo where they could have stayed at the catholic mission too.

It was getting to sunset when they reached Cabinda. Big town with fair roads, quite well organised but dirty in many places. Well, they found the mission in Cabinda, the padre was not in and no one else could give them the information. From there they moved to find hotels and finally opted for the rather expensive HD hotel that offered them safe parking for the cars.

The hotel was nice, clean and had hot water and a generator. Because as it invariably happens in these oil producing countries, the power went off some time after they checked in. They bought pizza and had that in the room. They both slept fitfully on these comfortable beds.

The next day they had a copious breakfast at the hotel. Then the men hopped into a taxi to the immigration office to ‘get registered’ and enquire about the procedures further. They also bought cell phone sim cards and went to the port to enquire about ferries to the other side.

It was all a rather so-so exercise since the immigration people did not quite know what to make of the passports, nor had they heard from their people at the Nzassi border and were not clued up about other accommodation. The ferry to Soyo only takes people, not vehicles and to get the vehicles to the other side would take the army plane that would cost a bomb.

So, they decided to check out of the hotel and proceed to the DRC border. The procedures on the Angolan side was done quite fast but when they reached the DRC side, the one immigration officer insisted that their visas were not valid because they did not get it in the country of residence. He would only sign them in if he receives orders from his Director General in Kinshasa.

Then began about a six hour wait while they bought a DRC sim card and tried phoning the SA Embassy to see what could be done. Finally one of the immigration people got some information for them and there was more phoning and more waiting. At around 16h30 the Congolese officials started closing the gates of the offices and they were still sitting on the benches inside – small blessing that there was a nice breeze there and the town did not smell!

A while later they were told to drive the cars through the boom and the men should go in to see the immigration officer. The passports were signed and the carnets were done; the sun was rapidly going down.

Dinner at the Mission

It was a sand road through some oil fields. It was graded but traveling was at a maximum of 60km/h. They opted to sleep in Muanda that night. They found the tar road into town and then someone pointed them in the direction of the Catholic Mission of Sacré Coeur. This place is at the end of a sand road on the right hand side, a bit before the tar reaches the beach.

Considering that this was the DRCongo and that the country had been through unrest and war, this mission was remarkably well kept. It was practically on the beach. As things go in the Congo, when they see Mundele prices go up. They negotiated for the Malherbes to sleep in their vehicle and they took a room – cold water shower only mind you!

That evening, the ladies cooked a copious dinner of fish cakes, mixed vegetables and mash. When the men finished ‘setting camp’ they sat for drinks and discussed the road ahead. Levels of stress were high after the drama at the border.

Road from Matadi to Songololo

After a nice cold water shower all retired for sleep with the sound of the waves crashing on shore. The mission gardener was the first to start his activities, which woke them up. They had their usual morning coffee with some cereals and canned fruits and were on the road.

Road side oil pump

USD20 toll road!!

The road out of town was sandy. It went through the other side of town where schools and houses were built within metres of oil pumps. There were quite a few of these pumps around the place. The road became a graded laterite one a bit further out of town. It was not good and they had to pay a toll fee of USD20 for that. Only in the DRC can they rip you off like that. 








This is a country that has gold, diamonds, uranium, oil and much more. The example is set right from the top, by their (mis)leader.

The Boma to Matadi road was not good, they had dug the bad tar and graded it and left the ok tar in – it was a constant hop onto tar and down onto laterite. And in parts it was just dodging and ducking.

Part of Matadi town

Matadi Port

But they made it to Matadi quite early enough to decide to move onto Songololo to see where they can sleep there. They had heard that border crossing at Matadi is hectic and not so pleasant. They decided to cross at Luvo.

Braai at Songololo

At Songololo Coen did not feel like sleeping in the car in front of the police station so they booked into the only guest house there – Guest House Km5. This is ‘establishment’ is managed by a rather slow-to-understand guy who spoke a bit of English. He was very helpful though.

Braai dinner at Songololo

He allowed the Malherbes to park there and they used one of the kiosks under construction as a kitchen, another as a shower and another as a dining room. The only disadvantage is that this place is rather close to the road and there is a constant movement of heavy vehicles.

Dinner that evening was the longed-for braai of excellent meat that Jimmy had given to Stephanus. The guy had bought some charcoal for them and he also offered his stove. 




While the men were grilling the meat and having refreshments, the girls made mash and mushroom sauce. They made a very copious and animated dinner. There is no power is that town, nor running water either. The guest house put their generator on at 18h00 and switched it off at 22h00.

With a good warm shower, they all retired to some kind of sleep or other. They put the fan on and closed the door and windows – there was loud music from some establishment not far off.

And they departed southwards to face the road, the border crossing and whatever else awaited them. On the Congo border, they had the cars’ papers stamped quickly enough but were told to wait a bit since the immigration guys down the road were not on duty yet. They waited an hour and were told they could proceed.

There, they found there were already quite a few people having their procedures under way. They had to queue up at one office to have their passports registered and then another officer took their passports and had to examine it. At this point another more senior officer popped up and said he would look after this.

When Coen asked if they could stamp both sets of passports – the one they were travelling on from the start and the one with the Angolan visa, the guy said he would do it for a fee. There was no getting away from it this time. The Angolans insist on it and it had to be done one way or another.

What he asked, they could not give since they did not have change, so they popped him a packet of cigarettes as well as some small change. He had to be satisfied with it.