Mission Accomplished - Sad Soyo And A Confusing Congo River - Angola Part 5

Mission Accomplished. This week we’re on course to Soyo, our most western destination in Central Africa, and the mouth of the Congo River, before finally heading south.

Just being able to start this adventure was a major bucket list tick, and another wild idea, daydream, and roll-your-eyes mission impossible achieved. We couldn’t help but pat ourselves on the back and think we’re flippin’ fabulous! This journey certainly has shown us how much we’ve grown and what we’re capable of. 

The road north from Luanda was a breeze, with smooth, tarmacked roads leading us through small villages and towns. Colourful beach umbrellas dotted the roadside, where local vendors sold fresh, seasonal fruit and vegetables.

We were in a tropical paradise, with rising temperatures, and I could pull out my strappy tops and shorts. As we passed Caxito, we realised we were making good time, with only 352km left to reach Soyo.

Rolling hills, tall grasses, and huge Baobabs kept my camera shutter busy, each frame capturing the breathtaking beauty of this vast country. The uncultivated landscape, left in its natural state, was a remarkable sight. Dense forests and green foliage stretched as far as the eye could see, an indication of the richness of Angola’s natural beauty, with its diverse flora and fauna.

Villages were becoming more remote, and the small hamlets we passed were sparsely populated. The goods sold were meagre piles of dried Cassava, a telling tale of the poor economy in these parts.

We were happy to turn off to Praia Kissamba, where we would spend the night. The thought of a peaceful night by the beach was eagerly anticipated.

What would we find there, we wondered as we tackled a gnarled two-track.

Three hours later, we parked on the beach at Praia Kissamba Resort. We were the only visitors around, the staff said, but we’d have the use of the ablutions. Unfortunately, the kitchen was closed, he added.

As the sun dipped into the ocean and the sky turned from amethyst to blood orange, we sat down for supper under a palm tree.

Butch had popped a frozen rump steak into the air fryer for supper after Googling “How to cook a frozen steak in the air fryer.”  The answer was simple: “Proceed as you would with a steak at room temperature, double your cooking time”. The steak, grilled at 200°C, was perfect, medium-rare, just as I like it. You see, you can teach old dogs new tricks. This we’ve proved over and over again.

The next morning, we sat down with our coffees, admiring our surroundings while a huge sea rushed to shore, rolled, crashed, and glided gently onto pristine white sand. We sipped our coffees and planned our drive to Soyo.

The next leg of the journey was a short one, taking us down lesser roads. We crossed large rivers, passed through dense forests with bigger Baobabs and by lunchtime, we cruised into Soyo, nibbling on deliciously salty cashew nuts we’d bought along the way.

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Soyo

Soyo, formerly known as Santo António do Zaire, is a municipality with a vibrant population. Nestled in the northern Zaire province at the mouth of the Zaire River, it carries a rich historical legacy.

Historically, Soyo played a significant part in conflicts between the Kingdom of Kongo, Portuguese Angola, and the Dutch West India Company. It was a strategic location and a key player in the power struggles of the time. Soyo became an independent state in the 17th century and had significant political influence in Kongo during the Kongo Civil War.

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Early history

Soyo (spelt “Sonho” and pronounced Sonyo) was a province of the Kingdom of Kongo, which stretched south from the mouth of the Congo River to the River Loze and east for about one hundred kilometres.

The city was an administrative hub, with the mwene Soyo, or “lord of Soyo,” as its ruler when the Portuguese arrived in 1482. The ruler was the first Kongolese lord to be baptised when Christian missionaries arrived in the kingdom of Kongo in 1491.

In the sixteenth century, Soyo was ruled by a member of Kongo’s royal family, appointed by the king, and served for a limited term. The ruler at the time of the Portuguese was baptised Manuel and was said to be the uncle of the ruling king, and was permitted to expand and conquer other regions under his sovereignty.

Soyo’s port of Mpinda, located near the mouth of the Congo River, became an important port in trade with Kongo. A community of Portuguese settlers traded in enslaved people, ivory, and copper from the port. A Kongo royal inquest of 1548 revealed that as many as 4,000 enslaved people passed through Mpinda en route to the island colony of São Tomé and then to Brazil every year.

During the 1580s, Alvaro, king of Kongo, blocked people working with the Portuguese government from coming through Mpinda.

In the early 1590s, Miguel was titled a Count when Kongo’s king, Álvaro II, introduced European-style titles of nobility. He was, however, not entirely supportive of Álvaro’s ambitions, creating considerable tension between Kongo and Soyo.

Subsequent kings, however, reversed this and continued to place their appointees in Soyo. In 1620, Antonio da Silva, the Duke of Soyo, died. The king of Kongo invaded the area, killed da Silva’s son, and installed Pedro Afonso Nkanga, a Mvika who had previously been the Marquis of Wenbo, as Duke of Soyo.

Paulo, placed in Soyo by King Pedro II, served from 1626 to 1641. Paulo was often involved in the complex civil wars that plagued Kongo in the 1620s and 1630s.

Independence

In 1641, Daniel da Silva replaced Paulo and was immediately opposed by the newly enthroned King Garcoa II of Kongo, who sought to replace him. Count Daniel resisted, claiming that the counts of Soyo had a right to be selected through the election of their noble subordinates. Garcoa attempted to regain control of Soyo through wars, but his efforts consistently failed, often resulting in heavy losses. This was because the royal armies could not attack the fortified, wooded area of Soyo called Nfinda Ngula, located near the capital.

In 1670, the Portuguese governor sought to conquer Kongo, which was then embroiled in a civil war and invaded Soyo. The Portuguese forces were defeated. The day of this victory, October 18, 1670, and St. Luke’s Day, is considered an important holiday.

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Today, Soyo stands as a testament to progress, boasting an airport and a seaport. It plays a pivotal role in Angola’s oil production, a fact underscored by its proximity to offshore oil extraction and exploration activities. Soyo has emerged as the largest oil-producing region in Angola, with an estimated production of more than 1,200,000 barrels per day. Soyo is the gateway to Kabinda province, north of the Congo River. 

By all accounts, Soyo certainly is a bustling, vibrant city, but since 2019, things have changed here. Hotels are run-down and in need of a lot of TLC. Hotel restaurants have closed, and dining rooms no longer require damask tablecloths and polished silverware. There’s a pervasive sense of tiredness, boredom, and neglect. The shiny tiara has tarnished and slipped askew.

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My book suggests that “Soyo is a vibrant city located on the mouth of the Congo River in Angola, which offers a unique blend of history, culture, and breathtaking natural beauty.

When it comes to tourism in Soyo and its surrounding areas, there are several must-visit attractions. One of the top highlights is the Mbanza Kongo, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This ancient capital of the Kingdom of Kongo showcases impressive architectural ruins, museums, and the iconic Nkulumbimbi statue. We were en route there.

In recent years, Soyo has experienced a surge of growth and development, marked by new infrastructure projects and urban expansion. Before the onset of COVID-19, this growth created a dynamic atmosphere, making Soyo an exciting place for both residents, oil rig workers and tourists. The city’s coastal location also offers beautiful landscapes and opportunities for maritime activities, adding to its charm.”

This region experiences a tropical savanna climate characterised by distinct wet and dry seasons. The city experiences a warm climate throughout the year, with temperatures remaining constant.

The very first stop we made was what we thought was the river's edge. It turns out to be one huge estuary with dozens of islands and waterways. It was hot and humid, and our throats were parched. The pub beckoned, and there on the banks of the Rio Congo, we sat down to enjoy an ice-cold Coke from a glass bottle. Nothing could be better than that.  The liquid burned my throat, and bubbles tickled my nose just as I like it.

Our host informed us that the residents’ engagement also influences the political climate in Soyo in civic activities. There is a growing movement among the youth and civil society organisations to hold the new government accountable and push for transparency and anti-corruption measures. This has led to increased political activism and a demand for more participatory governance.

Butch and I criss-crossed Soyo on our bikes, and in the Honey Badger, we walked for miles to explore the waterfront and the fishing harbour. We visited some of the watering holes, restaurants, and bistros.

We bought fresh fruit for next to nothing from housewives selling produce from their gardens, and we purchased delicious bread and confectionery from a local bakery.

The recommendation we got from iOverlander to camp was at the Kinwica resort. Few tourists venture this far up the coast, and the border post for travellers coming from the north is further east; therefore, there are no campsites in Soyo, and our recommendation to visit Kinwica resort was spot on.

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Kinwica Resort Hotel – Paraiso de Angola

Kinwica in Kikongo means “water” or “paradise.” The Kinwica was borne out of a need for quality accommodation in a prime location, the owner told us.   The Kinwica was built in an exceptional spot on the banks of one of the many tributaries of the Zaire River. Therefore, it has its dock for mooring boats, offering an unparalleled view of the mangroves growing on the riverbank and the many islands of this gently flowing river.

The resort boasts thirty-seven wooden bungalows, each a home away from home, fully equipped with all the necessary conveniences for long-term guests who often are ex-pats working in the nearby oil fields and/or refineries, Kinwica guarantees not just a comfortable stay but also privacy and independence, ensuring guests can genuinely make the most of their time here.

We agreed that we’d like to dine in the restaurant from time to time, which we did, and we thoroughly enjoyed all our meals there. The restaurant offers an eclectic selection of local and international dishes, expertly prepared by skilled chefs and cooks, ensuring a delightful dining experience. While we relaxed there, we had the opportunity to meet some of the guests, which allowed us to gain an informed and insightful perspective on Soyo.

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One morning, while I was writing, we had a bird’s-eye view of the negotiations as one of the guests perused an old, dusty Land Rover, last used many moons ago. After a good shove, the engine spluttered, coughed, and then, with a bang, blew a plume of black smoke from the exhaust before roaring to life. That was a good sign, and the owner and the buyer went for a spin around the baobab tree. A deal was immediately struck. Both parties smiled broadly as the keys were handed over.

Despite our best efforts, we were unable to find a passenger or tourist boat to take us on a sightseeing trip upriver. Due to COVID-19, all these excursions have yet to resume. The owner of our lodge told us he’d recently sold his boat due to a lack of interest from his guests, who were oilfield workers on break, and sightseeing wasn’t on their agenda.

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As our weekend in Soyo drew to a close, we packed up our table and chairs under the baobab tree; I folded our Mozambique tablecloth and stowed loose objects. We greeted the men we’d met who were getting ready to catch the ferry to Cabinda to resume their work there.

The drive out of Soyo at dawn, when the villagers were getting up and ready to resume their daily routines, left me with an overwhelming feeling of moroseness.

Soyo was not a happy town. It had the air of a burnt-out, exotic (pole) dancer, where many dreams hadn’t materialised, where promises weren’t kept, and expectations were dashed.

We’ve seen this on a few occasions, once at the airport in Inhambane, Mozambique, where a beautiful young woman tearfully said goodbye to her boyfriend, a man with a distinct Scandinavian accent. His promise to be back by “next summer,” while wiping the tears from her puffy cheeks. But when the first call came over the tinny loudspeaker asking passengers to board, he was off like a shot, running to the gate.

Later, in Kenya, we heard of the hope and expectation in the voices of young Maasai men on the beach in Diani, who troll the beachfront, ready to be picked up by gorgeous corporate girls in high heels fresh off the plane from London, Paris, Stockholm, or Berlin. The hope is a passport out of there. 

Our dear friend, a guide in Tanzania, is frantically looking for a girl from Singapore to whisk him off to a better life. I was even made to promise to look for a “rich girl” for the young doctor who treated me while I recuperated from Malaria in Uganda.

I bet it happens here in Soyo, too. Hundreds of expatriates, merchants, engineers, divers, and equipment drivers arrive from all corners of the world every month to take on stints in various positions on the rigs and refineries. It’s a lonely stay, far from home, where men are housed in hostels after long shifts, sleeping on uncomfortable single beds in large dormitories and institutional meals are served in a mess hall. There’s no life in that.

When there’s a day off, the bars and clubs are a natural drawcard. Young men and women are all looking for a good time, and many locals believe this could be their ticket out of Soyo to a better life with a smooth-talking man loaded with Dollars.

Impulsive or spontaneous promises are made in the heat of the moment. In the afterglow, pillow talk is taken seriously by a naïve girl who believes rumours and his every word must be gospel.

On our drive out I saw; Disappointment pick up a wheelbarrow just like last month, Anxiety nurses a baby and knows the unblemished, white, meringue wedding dress will never be hers, Despair sells pineapples on a rickety stand, Fear hangs washing on a line, Hopelessness shoos another toddler out the door, Anger shouts at her neighbour who’s probably right, Disillusionment registers another fitter and turner at reception, and Regret sits forlornly waiting at the airstrip for a plane that never lands.

Hope does it again and again. Trust shares her “husband” with another family in Brazil, and Determined promises himself he’ll never go down this rocky road as his bloodshot eyes glide hungrily up and down the sweetest, longest legs straddling a motorbike.

Failure wipes his nose on a filthy napkin and signals the bartender for another triple shot of Redemption. Relieved has a plane to catch at noon.

HIV, VD, and Herpes are swirling around in a vein, waiting for a moment to latch on, while their hosts zip up their flies, shrug on overalls, and settle a hard hat on their heads before placing a few dollars on an overturned oil tin next to a pile of old blankets.

Pain plunges a syringe between his toes…. Poverty looks on and shakes her head; she’s seen it all, and lifts her load, placing it carefully on her proud head before strutting home, gazelle-like. She’s Iman.

Here, for many, their aspirations for a better life crash like rotten scaffolding.

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Trucks, bikes, and motorcars were lined up to fill their tanks with fuel, but all the service stations in Soyo had orange cones, indicating no service. There was no fuel. Extraordinary, considering there were refineries that produced 1.5 million gallons of fuel daily.

The Honey Badger still had enough to get us to the next town, Butch said, and so we pressed on. At N’zeto, we decided to join the growing queue and wait like everyone else. We couldn’t take a chance, Butch said at 10h33

A kind trucker allowed us to skip the queue; he had nowhere to go, he said, and it would be fine. It could take anything from four hours to a whole day before the bowsers opened again.

This was as good a time as any to catch up on some typing. Butch opened his Kindle, and I set to work.

At 13h00, we enjoyed a BLT lunch and a cold pineapple for dessert.

The buzz of a motorbike engine fired up next to us at 14h25, and a swarm of them mobbed the attendants. A nozzle was unwound and fitted into tanks, which filled quickly.

Butch noticed that there had not been a fuel tanker and surmised that the fuel is piped from a central refinery. Technology right here in the bundus.

At 15:45, we entered the village of N’zeto. It would be wise to stop for the night, we decided, uncertain about the distances to the next town for accommodation.

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Nzeto N’zeto is a fishing village, and the air about the place is a lot more comfortable as locals go about their business, having done so for a hundred years.

Streets in town are clean and welcoming, and we soon found our spot for the night at the Bonina restaurant’s parking lot. This time we had to rely on our facilities, which was no problem at all.

We dined in the restaurant that evening. My steak was delicious, and our garden salad was crispy, just as I like it. Butch enthusiastically tucked into his Mixed Grill and fried egg! When was the last time you saw that offering on a menu? 

To stretch our legs, we walked down to the boats where many had just landed on the beach.

The atmosphere was charged with fishermen and fishmongers vying for the best price for the day’s catch.

To get in our required steps, we ambled down the length of the beachfront, where we got better views of fishing boats going out for the night’s fishing. We sat on a rock with our water bottles and enjoyed the waves rolling in, the voices of the happy crowds, and the very enthusiastic women (could they be fishwives? Probably not, they were too friendly but spirited).

On our way back to our spot for the night, we passed groups of women sorting the different species of fish caught and spreading out the smaller silver fish for drying, a popular process used to cure fish.

We were told that N’zeto was an exceedingly popular holiday destination for the Portuguese back in the day, and I could see why. The scene is very relaxed, hospitable and welcoming, and I’m sure when the band strikes up, the beach party will continue until sunrise.

This time, we didn’t go home with a fish; we were dining out.

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 We didn’t hang around the next morning, and as soon as we were up, we set off, enjoying the quiet roads and giant Baobab trees.

We passed through villages named Kinzau and Tomboco. 

We passed several converted motorbikes used to transport workers to large farms, which we noticed along the road. Millions of motorbikes have been imported and sold in East and Central Africa, in fact, from Mozambique to Angola, they buzz around all day and all night. Cheap as chips they’re sold for, converted, and their uses are endless. We reckon that the majority are manufactured in China and India. Like the cellphone,  or the Land Rover or as some say, the Land Cruiser, they've opened up Africa, and for millions of people, they ensure their livelihood.

Mixed crop farming is used in these areas. Animal husbandry is a common practice, and in these tropical climates, bananas, mangoes, pineapples, avocados, cashew nuts, sugarcane, and cassava are generally planted. Most of these crops, e.g. vegetables, are labour-intensive, and staff are transported from the village to the farms.

It must have been the clutch of little girls next to the side of the road who captured my attention; they were operating a “stall” selling pineapples and citrus. Who can resist a golden pineapple? Well, not us.

Butch pulled over and I went off with the idea of purchasing one large pineapple. The girls couldn’t understand a word I said, and even my rudimentary Portuguese didn’t impress them. I soon realised it was going to be near impossible to impress these chicks.

I gave up and pointed at a pineapple. Using her index finger, the eldest wrote 500 in the sand. I gave her a thumbs up, presented my money, and proceeded to pick up my one pineapple.

This produced a chorus of disgruntled voices, fingers pointed and heads shaking. Não! Was the short answer. I had to take seven pineapples and not one less. There was no change, and the price was for seven pineapples, which was non-negotiable. The littlest one’s hazel eyes burned a hole into mine. Her body language spoke volumes.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t prevent them from loading my pile of pineapples into the truck. What on earth were we going to do with all these pineapples? Freeze them Butch said. We did it in 5 extra-large Ziploc bags.

For days, our truck was infused by the tantalising perfume of pineapple. Those madams knew how to drive a hard bargain. 500K = R9.74

We set off and passed the sleepy village of Quiximba. By all accounts, this village is so remote that it has been recorded to have vanished and was abandoned at some point.  

My shutter loved the colourful brick dwellings with the cloth curtain shading the front door, a clever measure used to prevent mosquitoes from entering the abode. What’s more, a slight breeze makes the fabric dance and billow, giving the impression that someone lives there.

In this tropical heat, cicadas beat their wings, and the tin roofs groan and creak as the sheets expand and settle. The rhythm of pregnant raindrops must lull everyone in the house to sleep when the tropical rains beat down on this land.

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I realised my ignorance of African history, geography, and cultures is abysmal, and my witlessness is highlighted as I blissfully drive up to what we suppose is the Congo River. In Soyo, I noticed that the name commonly used is the Zaire River.

The Congo River is the second-longest river in Africa, after the Nile, spanning over 4,700 kilometres and passing through nine countries. It is also the world’s deepest river, with depths reaching over 220 meters, and it plays a significant role in Africa’s ecology, economy, and culture, providing water, transportation, and sustenance for millions of people.

The river mouth, where the Congo River empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is home to a diverse array of wildlife, supports vital ecological processes, and has significant economic implications.

Its drainage basin, covering an area of 3,457,000 square kilometres, encompasses almost the entire territory of the DRC, as well as most of the Republic of the Congo, the Central African Republic, eastern Zambia, northern Angola, and parts of Cameroon and Tanzania.

Europeans at the end of the 15th century referred to it as the Zaire, a corruption of a word that is given as nzari, nzali, njali, nzaddi, and niadi, meaning “river” in local African languages. It was only in the early 18th century that the river was first referred to as the “Rio Congo,” a name derived from the kingdom of Kongo, which was situated along the lower course of the river.

During the period (1971–97) when the Democratic Republic of the Congo was called Zaire, the government also renamed the river the Zaire. During that time, however, the river continued to be known worldwide as the Congo. The Congo’s estuary begins at Matadi, downstream from the rapids that close off the interior Congo; 134 km in length, it forms the border between Angola (hence our mission) and the DRC. At first, the estuary is narrow, with a width of less than half a mile to about a mile and a half, and a central channel that is 20 to 24 metres deep. However, it widens downstream at Boma. There, the river, obstructed by islands, divides into several arms, and in some places the depth does not exceed 6 to 7.5 metres, which makes dredging necessary to allow oceangoing vessels to reach Matadi. Beyond the estuary’s mouth, the course of the Congo continues offshore as a deep underwater canyon that extends approximately 200 km.

More than 230 species of fish inhabit the waters of the Congo River. The riverine swamps, which often dry up during low water, are inhabited by lungfish, which survive the dry periods by burying themselves and encysting themselves in cocoons of mucus. We saw some grotesque amphibious fish flapping about on the muddy banks when we went exploring. I think these could’ve been lungfish.

In the wooded marshlands, where the water is the colour of black tea, the black catfish blend in with their surroundings. The wildlife in the marshes and the little parallel streams do not mix with the wildlife of the river itself.

The waters of the Congo harbour various species of reptiles, with the crocodile being the most notable species. Semiaquatic tortoises can also be found alongside several species of water snakes.

This morning, during my daily coastal walk, I stopped at the memorial plaque of a man who, “while living his dreams, was taken from his kayak by a crocodile on the Lukuga channel during an expedition in the DRC” on 7th December 2010, he was 35 years old.

I found this tribute very emotive, perhaps because I’ve stood on the banks of this lazy python in Central Africa, I’ve witnessed the landscape, the brown, sluggish water that seems immovable, the mangroves that camouflage danger so well and a crocodile floating alongside an island of water hyacinth is often mistaken for the log a child swimming in the shallows clings to.

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M'Banza Kongo

 

After much poring over maps, our journey from Soyo took us on a meandering detour; local intel indicated that a bridge had washed away on the more direct route, and this was the only way forward. Our next stop was the historic city and World Heritage Site of M’banza Kongo.

Mbanza Congo is a city in northwestern Angola. It is situated on a low plateau about 160 km southeast of Nóqui, which is the nearest point on the Congo River. Known initially as Mbanza Kongo, it was the capital of the Kongo Kingdom from 1390 until 1914, when the kingdom was broken up and absorbed into the Portuguese colony of Angola. Most Kongo-speaking people regard the city as their spiritual capital.

The Kongo kingdom was converted to Christianity in the 15th century, and Mbanza Kongo was renamed São Salvador in the mid-to-late 16th century, following the construction of a church there earlier.

The sporadic rebellion of the Kongo peoples, driven by forced labour and land eviction, led to Portuguese reprisals and a mass migration of the Kongo from 1961 to 1974 to neighbouring Zaire (now the DRC).

The city was renamed M’banza Congo after Angola attained its independence from Portugal in 1975. M’banza Congo is now a market centre for corn, peanuts, almonds, sesame, and cassava grown in the surrounding area, and it has become a key centre for oil production.

The city is home to the Kongo Kingdom Museum, which we visited.

On our exploratory walks, we discovered the airport, which is seldom used by planes and more often serves as a thoroughfare for pedestrian traffic moving from one side of town to the other, only making way when absolutely necessary, we were told.

There was no official campsite in M’banza, but a suitable spot was suggested. At sunset, we could stop in the parking area of the town square, where we would be safe. We did just that, and while I prepared our supper, I had the opportunity to watch locals enjoy the golden hour in the park. Some relaxed couples sat on the lawn, seeking privacy away from home, while the more energetic played soccer. A small boy and his mom came down to feed the pigeons. The Honey Badger was an instant attraction, and a troop of small boys came to find their location on our big Africa map. We sent them on their way with a soccer ball, which was a hit.

Impressive administrative buildings surrounded our spot on the square, and many passersby had exited the buildings after work, while others had lingered in the park, taking in the fresh air, beauty, and serenity before heading home.

We’re always on the lookout for a good African coffee, and we discovered an excellent brew on one of the main streets near the Museum. The pastries both looked and tasted divine, offering a fine selection of Portuguese treats, and my French-inspired Millefeuille was utterly delectable. No one makes a better traditional baked custard than a Portuguese chef, I told Butch, smacking my lips.

Just before our departure, we noticed the Museum had opened for the day, and we slipped in before the curator slammed the door, as he’d done the previous afternoon.

The displays were interesting and well preserved. Of course, we didn’t understand any of the notices on display, but we could get the gist of the story from the knowledge we’d gained from our books.

I wonder how much coercion was involved in the transformation that traditional kings and leaders underwent to present themselves in European costume. What were they thinking? It seems absurd that the Portuguese got away with it.

The town was enveloped in a thick mist as we drove out of town, and the valley below was shrouded in a blanket and hidden from view.

Our journey continued through the villages and districts of Luvo and Nóqui, where the road became rutted and a large bridge under construction had been abandoned. Now, all we could see were the skeletal remains of a good idea.

Red earth covered every plant, hedgerow, tree or house along the way. At times, the road was semi-passable; at others, we shook our heads in disbelief. However, this area, although used by large trucks, was truly remote and, until the bridge was repaired, only a detour was available.

The landscape was magnificent with rolling hills, deep valleys, extensive forests, high ancient trees, and small adobe homes built on the edge of the “new” road. We lumbered along happily. 

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Nóqui - Matadi

Our final destination was in sight. Nóqui is a border town situated on one of the numerous estuaries of the Congo River, serving as the last stop before entering the Democratic Republic of Congo, en route to Matadi.

And, at last, there it was. The fat python is slithering its way sluggishly to the ocean. 

Although I tried to persuade my beloved to venture into the DRC, he refused to do so. However, as a South African, I required a visa, and despite my efforts, I was unable to obtain one. At any rate, our passports were somewhere in the system in Luanda for an extension to our visit.

Pointe Noir was my aspiration, of course, and the “best peanut butter in the world”, which was sold on the road there, would’ve been a bonus. But all my plans were thwarted. Sometimes it is best not to tempt fate.

We wandered down to the river, where we were treated to the antics of a team of boys who came down to play soccer on the beach, swim, or chill out and enjoy the refreshing water in the afterglow of a very humid day.

The area, it seems, is also popular for daily baths, and no sooner had we set ourselves up to enjoy the sunset than Butch stripped and plunged into the river, taking his cue from the locals.

After questions posed by friends on Social Media, who have experience in the oil fields, I decided to investigate Matadi to find the answers.

Matadi is a major seaport in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) and the capital of Kongo Central Province, situated near the Angolan border. Located on the left bank of the Congo River, it is 148 km from the river’s mouth and 8 km from the final navigable point before the rapids upriver.

The port of Matadi serves as a central hub for import and export activities throughout the DRC. Chief exports are coffee and timber. The state fishing company “Pemarza” uses the port to supply fish to Kinshasa. 

The Matadi Bridge, a 722 m-long suspension bridge with a main span of 520 m, was constructed in 1983 and spans the river just south of Matadi, carrying the main road linking Kinshasa to the coast.

After passing through Matadi and crossing the bridge, the road continues to Boma, Muanda, and Banana. Although built as a mixed rail and road bridge, no rail line is now operating over the bridge.

The maximum draft of the port is 8.2m. The DRC Navy maintains one operational command at the port.

Currently, larger ships are required to transfer cargo to smaller vessels in the Republic of Congo’s Pointe-Noire port. For this reason, the development of a deep-sea port at Port Banana began in 2022.

Our drive through Nóqui showed us a bustling, active town, a stark contrast to the serene riverside experience we enjoyed. The CBD is alive with the clamour of commerce, and people bustling about

Winding streets climb the hillsides, lined with colourful markets where traders sell everything from fresh produce to handcrafted goods.

One cannot help but notice the vibrancy of these river people, whose resilience and friendliness shine through in every interaction.

From the bustling markets to the quiet neighbourhoods overlooking the river, Nóqui reflects a blend of a productive spirit and cultural richness—a true gateway to the dynamic heart of the DRC.

Children’s conversations in local dialects echoed, and we could also catch snippets of French and Portuguese, a testament to the area’s linguistic and cultural diversity.

Our neighbours for the night were three enormous trucks conveying massive earth-moving equipment that may have been transporting these heavy machines between the countries.

While we were having supper, we noticed a massive bush fire across the river. Seeing the damage left in its wake and the heat the red-hot flames caused was a confirmation of the haziness we often experienced on our African travels, where bushfires are a common occurrence and the red skies at night a result thereof. Destruction has been normalised over the centuries.

As dusk begins to settle, the river shimmers under the fading light, casting a golden hue over the landscape. The quiet rhythm of life along its banks provides a serene contrast to the day’s discoveries. As one watches the fishing boats, children, and domesticity along the shore, one can almost feel the pulse of the region. Here, history, culture, and future aspirations converge in harmony. We were accommodated and felt safe, but ultimately, we are the interlopers.

As we ventured south the next morning, the natural beauty surrounding Matadi and Nóqui became increasingly evident. The Congo River, winding its way through the landscape, offered a stunning contrast to the industrious activity around the port and town. The relationship between human activity and untouched wilderness served as a nostalgic reminder of the profound connection between industrialisation and nature in these regions.

The hills surrounding Nóqui form a protective barrier, their slopes adorned with small villages. Each village tells its own story, creating a patchwork of traditions and livelihoods sustained by the mighty river.

P.S. Instead of wearing a school uniform, we noticed learners wearing white lab coats for uniformity; sometimes, their school’s logo was printed on the back and front. I'm sure this is a relief to parents who, in all likelihood, would struggle with the cost of a school uniform. I'm also inclined to think that the school would supply the white lab coat, thus encouraging all children to attend school instead of staying away due to a lack of a uniform.

P.P.S I am going to be unapologetic about the length of my blogs and the number of photos. You see, I do not want to rob you, dear reader, of the whole experience as you travel with us. 

Onwards and upwards we go as we return to Luanda to pick up our passports.

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