For many years, South Africa was persona non grata across most of the African continent. As a result, South African Airways had to fly around the bulge of north Africa to reach its European destinations. Because the length of flights around the bulge of Africa were so long, we used to fly from Johannesburg to Luanda, where the crew would hand over to a fresh team to take the plane on to Europe. We would then overnight in a hotel and be ready to pick up the next evening’s flight.
On one of my first trips as a sky marshal on one of SAA’s jumbo 747s, we were met off the plane in Luanda by members of the local Portuguese Security Police, who took great pleasure in hosting their South African counterparts whenever possible. En route to the hotel we approached a large circle in the road into which multiple roads converged from every direction.
In the middle was a round wooden platform not three metres in diameter and half a metre off the ground, while in the centre of this, standing under a large umbrella, was a traffic officer dressed in a white safari suit and a pith helmet. The man reminded me a little of Doctor Livingstone.
It was extremely hot, and the thick humidity was so intense and suffocating that the cool air-conditioning in the minibus created condensation to the extent that it caused water droplets to slide down the inside of the windows.
Off the converging roads sped hundreds of cars, trucks, buses, motorbikes, bicycles, and donkey carts, all at different speeds and without much concern for the faded traffic lanes, let alone the traffic warden.
In the midst of this bustling and noisy pandemonium we watched as the traffic officer slowly and rhythmically gestured to no one in particular to proceed or stop. If the drivers were adhering to his signals, it was not at all evident to the casual observer. It looked to me as if everyone was on a mission of their own and weren’t taking a blind bit of notice of him.
The bus we were travelling in swung into the traffic, randomly circled the platform, then accelerated out of the traffic on the opposite side without missing a beat and without as much as a sideways glance at the warden. I never witnessed such comical and scary chaos until many, many years later when let loose in Cairo. In Egypt, the drivers are on a mission to take you out at the highest speed possible.
On that evening, our police hosts took us out to a downtown nightclub for a never-to-be forgotten affair. The club was on the edge of the dockland. We stepped into a dimly lit and smoky room with a bar that stretched the full length of the back wall. Way forward was a stage and in between it long tables were arranged across the room from left to right. The place was heaving, and the music deafening. Men and women, large and small, of every race, culture, and creed, were drinking, talking, singing, and shouting.
In the midst of this turmoil, our hosts volunteered to fetch us a whisky. Although I don’t drink Scotch, I had been cautioned not to decline such an invitation, as it was customary for our Angolan hosts to provide what they believed should be the very finest, as a mark of respect for their guests. Bottom line: it wouldn’t have sat well to decline.
To make matters worse, I discovered to my horror that what they meant as Scotch wasn’t a shot on ice in a glass, with or without water. What they meant was that they would buy the two of us a whole bottle of scotch for the evening and supply an empty glass in which to pour it!
Oh, good heavens, how am I going to make it through the night? I thought, horrified. But there was simply no way out other than of course, to drink it very slowly!
As the evening progressed, four rather large Angolan lady singers appeared on the stage. In the dim lights and smoky atmosphere, I remember thinking that they looked so much like the four Beagle boys from the Donald Duck comics.
Beyond that, my memory fails me.