Angola In Colour, Captivating Kalandula Falls and Pedras Negras Angola Part 7

Butch’s dad was a keen gardener, and whenever we stopped next to him, busy pruning or tinkering on his lawnmower, he’d lay down his tools and say, “a perfect winter’s day in the Cape is like Champagne!” I agree wholeheartedly.

Today is such a day, there’s not a breath of wind, the sea is like glass, and the old geezer with the grey dreadlocks is selling his once-loved 1960s Arcopal glass cups and saucers, and a ridiculously lime green Thermos flask. He's set up shop across the road where weekenders are browsing second-hand cast-offs.

What is it about us that allows us to adapt to almost everything technical, yet when it comes to our taste in music, we still rock on with the Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, The Who, and Steppenwolf?

Right now we’re under a Purple Haze. Praise be, and before that, Debbie Boone crooned Light Up My Life.

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While the crooners and the hippies go tripping, I will resume my journey in colourful Angola.

Bright, primary colours are dotted and splashed all around. Often, on a door, window frame, a curtain, or a flag, nothing is left to chance, and homeowners deliberately brighten up their homes with a swirl of colour.

Artists can’t help but paint walls with flair. Nowadays, political slogans have been overshadowed by portraiture and a call for citizens to prioritise their health in an uncertain world, where pandemics can erupt and shut down a country within hours.

The landscape continues to surprise. This is Baobab country, and the tall, ancient trees line the roads like sentinels, often dwarfing even the smallest houses. The shade of a tree is the perfect location for an impromptu meeting of the elders who must have important village business to discuss.

Markets are plentiful. This is banana country, and enormous swathes of land are cultivated with golden bananas. We noticed that a green variety was being harvested, and some that were not selected for the export market were sold along the road, along with various other seasonal fruits, such as pawpaw.

The large, bottle-green lollipop umbrella trees we see are either mango or avocado trees. These are in flower now and will produce fruit during the summer.

Angola is the 9th largest banana-producing country in the world (as of 2024) and the second-largest in Africa, after Nigeria. Some of the varietals grown include Red Finger, Robusta, and Dwarf Cavendish.

While laboriously sifting through my photographs, the thought that repeated itself in a never-ending loop was “colour”, look at the colours of the earth, of the sky. The very air sparkled in a surreal golden haze of diffused light. I attribute this to the clouds of clay dust that billow behind passing vehicles on the dirt roads, giving townsfolk all the more reason to brighten up their surroundings.

The trees were my very favourite sights. In my log, I must have stashed away a gazillion pictures of trees. Tall ones, skinny ones, saplings, ancient trunks who could, if they could speak, tell us tales to make the hairs on our necks stand up straight.

In these tropical climates, trees can reach for the sky, and forests are densely populated, each tree vying for space as it goes ever upwards.

Angola’s climate and soil conditions provide suitable habitats for a variety of indigenous trees. Among them, Baobab, Papaya, Cashew and Robusta coffee are the most prolific.

Trees hold great cultural and ecological significance within the region. They contribute to the diverse ecosystem and are often used for their medicinal properties, timber, or as symbols of local traditions. Despite the limited information available, these emblematic trees showcase the rich biodiversity of Angola’s flora.

Bushfires, homefires and agricultural fires are unavoidable in Africa. Often, a necessity and one of the farming methods used to harvest crops like sugarcane, smoke is evident daily. Acrid bush smoke fills the air, and diffused light creates a smoky haze which turns sunsets into a burst of copper. As the sun sets and the light fades, the colours saturate well into the blue hour while village cooking fires add to the spectacle.

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At teatime, we drove into N’dalatando. This would be our overnight stop.

Once again, the city’s walls are covered in vibrant colour, which is captivating. Red, fertile soil is the perfect condition for cultivating fauna and flora, and here we are to enjoy it all.

N’dalatando, formerly Vila Salazar, is a town with a population of 161,584 in the municipality of Cazengo, in the province of Cuanza Norte, and serves as the seat of the Cazengo municipality and the provincial capital.

The city is very close to Kabasa, which was the historic centre of Ndongo, the core kingdom that evolved into the Portuguese colony of Angola.

N’dalatando was named Salazar by the Portuguese colonial authorities in 1936, in honour of the Portuguese dictator António de Oliveira Salazar. This was later modified to Vila Salazar.

On 28 May 1956, the town was elevated to the status of a city (cidade). Following its independence on November 11, 1975, the Angolan government restored the name N’dalatando, effective from July 18, 1976.

The city is bounded to the north by the  Luinha River, and to the east, south, and west by the Lucala River.

A station serves it on the northern railway of the Luanda Railway—the national road No. 230 links N’dalatando to Luanda in the West and Malanje in the East.

For history buffs and architecture enthusiasts alike, Ndalatando boasts several noteworthy buildings, such as the Governor’s Palace (Palácio do Governador), constructed during Portuguese colonial rule in the early 20th century. Other notable structures include the Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady of Victory (Catedral de Nossa Senhora da Vitória) and various historic government buildings.

Located in the capital city of the Kwanza Norte province in Angola, the Ndalatando Cathedral is a prominent historical and religious site that attracts tourists from around the world. Also known as the Our Lady of the Assumption Cathedral, it is one of the top attractions in Ndalatando.

Father Baptista Murua Clemente welcomed us to the Seminary, where we were permitted to stay overnight.

Without much preamble, Father Baptista insisted that I go straight from the Honey Badger into his Fiat Panda for our city tour. Butch opted out of the excursion but FOMO would never allow me to pass up a golden opportunity like this.

I buckled up and we were off in a belch of engine fumes and dust to see the sights. First off was the Botanical Garden.

The city is home to Angola’s La-Bas Botanical Garden. The garden was established as part of a Portuguese agricultural research station and features some impressive specimens of bamboos, rubber trees, podocarps, and fruit trees. The garden also features a large plantation of Tlingera elatior forbs (Porcelain Roses, Rosa de porcelana) for local trade.

One of the most popular flowers in Angola is the porcelain rose, Phaeomeria magnifica, which is believed to be endemic to Angola, where it grows wild, typically near rivers.

The light was fading fast; in the tropics, daylight and nighttime times are precisely equal, and when the light fades, it does so quickly.

My guide was very enthusiastic and eager to show me as much as possible, and couldn’t resist grabbing a handful of vines raining down from a Ficus tree and swinging. This, he assured me, was how Tarzan did it.

Into the night, we went to visit Father Clemente’s parents in the local suburb where he grew up. After a quick picture with his mom, we zipped off to see his sister, brother-in-law, and their brood of littlies—who were not terribly impressed by the visitor interrupting their suppertime and didn't quite understand all the fuss being made of an old lady. I was delighted and enjoyed every minute.

We could not miss the pièce de résistance, of course, and Father Clemente took up the microphone, after introducing me to the in-house DJ,  to do a quick mock broadcast from the Church’s radio station. I have never been in such an impressive studio and listened to his finely elocuted voice, that of a Hollywood broadcaster, in awe.

No matter my protestations, Butch, I knew, would be worried about us. It was late, but I was whisked off to the Cathedral, where I met a few distinguished members of the congregation. I was invited to be included in a photograph with a local Government official with a very auspicious position (I am unable to recall the lady's name).

Father Clemente, who was born and bred in the village and later attended the Seminary here, is a beloved member of the community. Whenever we walked, he would be stopped for a quick chat and asked, "How are you, Father?" He never tired of any enquiry; his eyes sparkled with pleasure every time he was recognised. 

I arrived back at the Honey Badger exhausted! We’d continue our investigation of the seminary in the morning, where we’d meet some of the seminarians, before Father Clemente rushed off to attend to the evening prayers.

The next morning, we were taken on a tour of the seminary, where we met some of the young men who have devoted their lives to serving their communities in the Church. We were told that not everyone who enters the seminary will be able to complete their training, as not all seminarians become priests.

It takes commitment, hard work, discipline, a thorough knowledge of the Bible and the Catholic Church, and a love for Jesus. Lastly, of course, the hardest is not to succumb to temptations, one of the young men told us. He added that only a third of this class will eventually become priests.

With a final tidbit of information Father Clemente informed us that all the land before us, he swept his arm in a large arc, belonged to the Catholic Church, but, the people of the village need the land therefore the Church has allowed people to erect homes on the land, to grow food, and live in safety with their young children. We agreed, nodding our heads in unison, that it was commendable; at last, we found a church in a remote country district that was living in genuine faith, charity, and submission to the Word—a miracle.

While the men went into the halls to study, we set off, our hearts and minds full of new knowledge, overwhelmed by the kindness and hospitality we received in abundance.

With travelling mercies bestowed upon us, we continued our journey to the Kalandula Falls.

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With a lightness in our hearts, we set off at a brisk pace to spend the night at the Kalandula Falls or Calandula Falls (Quedas de Kalandula; formerly known as Duque de Bragança). The Calandula Falls lie in the course of the Lucala River and are one of the highest in Africa, with a drop of 105 m. This well-kept secret is one of many impressive natural wonders in Angola.

A road, no matter its condition, is the artery that feeds Africa with its lifeblood. Anything is possible along the roadside. We saw couples working their crops and a man doing his laundry, while children often gathered on the edges to play or catch up with friends. And, of course, a road leads onwards to the city or town nearby. A great convenience it is too.

There was no campsite at the falls that we were aware of, but we could wild camp in the Pousada Calandula’s parking area at no cost. This sounded too good to be true, and so it was. The entrance fee to the falls and the hotel would amount to more than we’d ever paid for camping. But when in Rome.

In contrast to other well-known African waterfalls, such as Victoria Falls, the Kalandula Falls remain a haven of tranquillity. Far away from mass tourism, we could admire and enjoy this spectacle on our own. 

It was while I hiked to the bottom of the falls with my guide, a local teenager, that the thought occurred to me that I was experiencing “real Africa.”

The views are breathtaking and a photographer’s dream.

My guide, who could only speak a smattering of Portuguese, looked at me askance as we stood at the edge of the abyss. He indicated that I should hand over my camera for his safekeeping while I negotiated my descent on the muddy track into the rainforest.

I mustered my haughtiest look while handing over my camera in the hope that my confidence would put him at ease. Come hell or high water, I would make it down to the base of the falls.

Without another word, the graceful gazelle and the elephant set off. While I slipped and slid, clinging to any available branch, I gingerly made my way down the snaking path. My guide would occasionally double back to check on me and point the way as I brushed droplets of water from my eyes, regained my footing, and gently let go of a handful of foliage, mindful not to lose my balance.

The hike down to the falls was well worth it. We were able to spend a few minutes enjoying the thunderous crash of tons of water that never let up, cascading over the smooth black rocks and then miraculously settling and continuing down river gently.  

I knew I’d be a sight to behold standing on the slippery rocks with the waterfall in the background, but I relented and posed for a picture.

My curly, often frizzy coiffure and mist do me no favours, but today, I smile as I post these pictures. Standing on end like a halo around my noggin, each whisp tells my story. So be it.

João, now in possession of my beloved camera and phone, made the most of this opportunity to snap away, his artistic brilliance coming to the fore. A pity the subject of his portraiture couldn’t reflect his genius.

We turned our backs on the falls and took a winding road back to the hotel. As we walked, I watched the river flowing southwest through forests and fields, hugging the base of the hills on its journey to the ocean.

Our ways parted at the gate. With a fistful of dollars (kwanzas), João scuttled off into the thick foliage without being seen by the gateman. This gave me the distinct feeling that I had been conned or (probably) my guide was a quick-thinking opportunist who, upon hearing I was looking for a guide, had jumped at the prospect to earn a few bob.

With a slower shutter speed at sunset, I was able to capture the falls in an apricot glow and the water as a gossamer, silky sheet with the more prolonged exposure.

Dinner in the hotel’s dining room was a treat. Three courses, soup and rolls, mains and dessert. A treat we’d long forgotten. The generous portions were tasty, well prepared and the piri chicken a treat.

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We fell asleep to the sound of thunderous water crashing over a rocky outcrop for a hundred meters or more,  the sound, blocking all other night sounds soon lulled us to sleep.

In the morning Butch and I set off on foot to view the falls from another angle, this time closer to the ledge, where we were rewarded with a brilliant rainbow as the sunlight caught the droplets of spray, refracting the light.

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We departed from the Kalandula Falls in a haze of mist, surrounded by a tropical rainforest, a river, and a forest of gigantic trees. One hour later, we found ourselves in the Kota area, where rain hadn’t fallen for months, and the heat had dried up every drop of water, and the earth was scorched and dry.

And then at last we were in Pungo-Andongo, and within a few kilometres we could almost touch the magnificent Pedras Negras. The name that falls on my tongue and rolls off so easily, Pedras Negras. The black rocks.

The Black Rocks at Pungo Andongo (Pedras Negras de Pungo Andongo) are a set of extensive monolithic rock formations. Millions of years old, they stand out for their size, nestled in the savanna landscape of the region. 

The area is divided into four subsystems: Western, South, North, and Southeast. The formation is an extension of the Cacuso Plateau.

The Western Rocky Subsystem, the best-known and most visited of all, is located in the municipality of Cacuso, in Malanje Province.

According to tradition, the footprints carved into the rock belong to Ana de Sousa Ginga of Ndongo and Matamba, the great monarch of the Kingdom of Ndongo.

The villages and communities of Pungo-Andongo are located in the centre of the western subsystem of the formation.

In 1671, the Portuguese besieged and captured the city of Ndongo, enslaving many of its inhabitants and obliterating the kingdom. The ruins of the Fortress of Pungo-Andongo, built by the Portuguese after the battle, are located in the modern town.

Nzinga Ana de Sousa was a paramount ruler of the southwest African Ambundu Kingdoms of Ndongo (1624–1663) and Matamba (1631–1663), located in present-day Northern Angola. Born into the ruling family of Ndongo, her grandfather, Ngola Kilombo Kia Kasenda, was the king of Ndongo, and she succeeded him as his ruler.

From her father, Njinga received military and political training as a child, and she demonstrated an aptitude for defusing political crises as an ambassador to the Portuguese Empire. In 1624, she assumed power over Ndongo after the death of her brother Mbandi. She ruled during a period of rapid growth in the African Slave trade and encroachment by the Portuguese Empire in South West Africa.

Njinga allied with the Dutch West India Company, which had captured Luanda from the Portuguese, and was able to reclaim large parts of Ndongo. Alongside the Dutch, she defeated the Portuguese in several battles but was unable to capture the Fortress of Massangano. In 1648, the Portuguese recaptured Luanda, and the Dutch withdrew from Angola. Njinga continued to fight the Portuguese until a peace treaty was signed in 1656.

Njinga was literate, spoke Portuguese, converted to Catholicism, and adopted Catholic rituals; she built numerous churches in the province and corresponded with the Pope.

Interestingly, during this decade, Nzinga adopted more masculine traits, taking on male titles and clothing. She established an all-female bodyguard for herself and ordered that her male concubines wear women’s clothing and address her as king. She also instituted communal sleeping quarters at her court and enforced strict chastity rules for her male councillors and female bodyguards.

She is remembered for her intelligence, her political and diplomatic wisdom, and her military prowess.

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We spent an afternoon soaking up the magic of the Pedras Negras amidst the grasses, dried flowers, and sunlight, where we wild camped.

After tea and cookies, I went for a short walk exploring the landscape, but didn’t venture too far off the beaten track. Smallholdings and tracts of tilled land surrounded us, and I could imagine the farmers here felt protected by the powers of the black rocks.

The sunset in this very spiritual place was peaceful, and we enjoyed the quietness of the day as the sun set and the sky turned from tangerine to scarlet.

Dinner was a braai, and fruit salad was a celebration of local fruit bought along the road. Below the pockmarked skin of the pawpaw was the sweetest, tastiest, unblemished, real organic fruit, with lady’s finger bananas adding flavour and texture.

 At dawn, while the sun coloured the Pedras Negras, we set off hoping to enjoy the cooler temperatures. We agreed this was a wild campsite that rocks.

 

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The tarred road was straight ahead, and we made good time passing through S. Pedro de Kilemba and Munenga, where the megaliths continued and slowly faded into the distance.

Waco Kungo, also known as Uaco Cungo (previously Santa Comba, also referred to as Waco Kungo or Cela), is a large town located in Cela Municipality, Cuanza Sul Province.

Tragically, on August 6, 1975, the civil war between UNITA, FNLA and MPLA forced residents to abandon their homes, resulting in a total collapse of infrastructure that lasted over 30 years while the civil war persisted. Residents of Santa Comba, then known as Waku Kungo, were rescued by the International Red Cross and airlifted to Portugal. It was the site of a 1994 bombing of a school, resulting in the death of 89 children.

The town has revived itself, featuring several historical sights, churches, fresh produce markets, magnificent landscapes to explore, and modern facilities.

Our good fortune was too good to be true. We'd travelled a few hundred kilometres without any tyre problems until we entered Waco Kungo when the tyre pressure monitor alerted us to a deflating wheel.

Fortunately, the unreliable roads have been instrumental in the lucrative tyre repair market in Africa and no sooner had the alarm sounded than we were able to pull off the road and investigate our latest problem.

With the help of two strong and able-bodied youngsters, we were able to replace the wheel with a spare one. They issued a warning that we needed to inspect the wheel first thing in the morning. We set off with the name and directions to a proper tyre shop.

We spent another night in the parking area of a hotel resort, Complexo Hoteleiro Rosa Tchilepa.

These evenings spent in a resort were far too indulgent as the convenience of dining out was a huge temptation and too much to resist after a day’s drive, and this time, the extra stress of a flat tyre.

Butch was determined to be the first client in the queue at the tyre repair shop. We set off soon after sunrise and were quickly served.

I could see Butch’s gestures flailing about as he attempted to stop the workman swinging a pick axe at our tyre. This, the guy assured him, was how one got a truck tyre off the rim. Each swing was like a blow. Butch later confessed, but had to add, that the guy knew his stuff, and it was all done in a matter of seconds. He didn’t dare utter another word of complaint and left the workmen to do their job.

By ten thirty, we were back on the road again, enjoying the scenery. The trees lining the road were amplifying our onward journey back to Lobito.

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These are the halcyon days I’ll remember when I’m too old to travel, when all we have are memories of the Pedras Negras, when the days are too short to accomplish anything. When endless sleepless nights keep me awake in our tiny, tiny house by the sea, and the bright-eyed little children who waved next to the road are all grown up.