The air was clear, and the blue skies and happy white clouds made the landscape pop with beauty. The road winds through valleys, skirts mountains and is generally very scenic, passing through a few sparse settlements, but we hardly saw any people. 

The track was in good shape, mostly a rocky two spoor track, but not crossing nearly as many ravines and not requiring the frequent use of low range like we had the previous day. Still, it is not a fast route, and why rush? We bounced along and soaked it in. 

After passing a military barracks at the west end of the village, the road opens into a beautiful valley, with a red sandy track, the valley floor carpeted in golden grass. It is wonderfully scenic. Not far from here is the Mukutu campsite, and judging from the view, it had high potential, but we were focused on trying to reach the river today and wanted to have as much time as possible for any problems, so we pressed on. 

At Marker 31, we turned south and headed for the river. We had not yet paid park fees, but we understood from a friend of ours that as long as you paid on the way out this would satisfy the park authorities. I would have preferred to have the permit in hand, but this route also allowed us to cover more ground in the park. 

The track is flanked with tall green grass, and along the valley floor were the beginnings of dunes, the Namib desert creeping into the hills. The dunes were covered in rare patches of green, evidence of recent rains. As we made our way south, the tracks stayed near the mountains on the east, and the vista opened up and stretched far and wide to the west. Huge sandy plains sat before us. We were at the same longitude as the Marienfluss Valley in Namibia, which lay just south of the border, and while it was similar in one way, this area has its own impressive character. 

We spent two glorious nights here. The river was running high, with a waterfall just downriver from us. We made a few hikes and mostly just lazed around and recovered from multiple long days in the car. Being camped by the river gave us easy access to water for cleaning and showers. 

During our stay, we saw two trains of people arrive on donkeys. About eight donkeys, each with a rider or two, and piled high with supplies. Others walked ahead, so 15 people in each group. Where were they coming from? Where were they going? They stopped to water the animals and bathe. An hour or so later, they packed up and were on their way east. Perhaps joining the huts we’d seen for the season? 

After our rest day by the river, it was time to head off again. This day was to be one of the finest days of driving I’ve ever had. The road back over the Serra Cafema mountains was less intimidating on the return and seemed to pass by easily.

Once leaving the road to Tchinhungua, the track picks its way between the hills and opens up to ever-expanding sand-filled valleys. The rain must have been patchy, as we drove through barren red dunes and over the next crest, the track would be a carpet of flowers, bright yellow, purple and white. The landscape was staggering. The red sandy tracks got deeper, and we crossed huge sandy plains with ridges of dunes that we had to take at pretty good speed to avoid getting bogged down. 

In another area, the sand was very deep, and the cruiser was charging up hill after hill of red sand in low-range second gear, when I saw the temperature gauge hit the red. My heart skipped a beat, and I shut the car off. I’d overheated the engine way out here, perhaps as remote as we’d ever been. 

Well, if you’re going to get stuck, this was certainly a scenic place to do it. At least there wasn’t steam pouring out from the hood, so we hoped we could just take a break and the engine would cool off. We’d had the grass seed net rigged for the track up from the river, and that was no longer needed now that we were in the dunes. Jenny took it off and found that our grass seed net doesn’t work that well; the radiator still had plenty of seeds in it. 

Our goal for the day was the Cunene campsite, on the banks of the river, about 30 kilometers inland from the Foz do Cunene. Much of the day had been in the blank space on the GPS. Here we were navigating by paper map and the park’s marker system, which was working well. Until it didn’t. The track just vanished in a field of dunes. If there are dunes, there is wind. If there is wind, the tracks will not last long before they are covered. After much jiggery pokery, we found our way back to the real track and continued. 

This day of discovery was overwhelming. Deep sand, tall dunes, grand vistas, huge herds of oryx, getting lost. We made the final approach to Cunene camp, which is down a steep dune of gravelly sand. Steep enough that we worried if our somewhat lazy 1HZ engine would get us back up. There were plenty of tire tracks here, so we guessed it was possible, but we also thought that maybe the reason for so many tracks was that it took people a couple of tries to make it. Well, we were committed, so we’d figure it out one way or another.

The approach to camp heads south, down, down, down, the hill with and a tremendous wall of sand looming high on the south bank of the river. Namibia’s Namib dune fields tower over the river, and the effect is very dramatic. What a spot! 

Once arriving at camp, there are plenty of places to choose, just find a piece of level ground that suits you and that’s it. The river was rushing by, with towering dunes and a rocky river canyon, complete with palm trees. It is an oasis scene out of Lawrence of Arabia. 

The Nitty Gritty

Marker 60 to Tchinhungua: Travel time: 2hrs, distance: 24.8 kms

Average speed from Tchinhungua to Cunene campsite was 15km/h, including stops for lunch, photos, etc.

Be prepared to change tire pressures often. Parts of the park have very deep sand and require low tire pressures, other parts are quite rocky and you can damage your tires if they’re too low.

Water is easily accessible from the river at both Tchinhungua and Cunene campsites, but of course, beware of crocodiles.

The pool turned out to be not that deep, but feces from livestock were steeped in fetid water, baking in the sun. Gross. But the Cruiser handled it like a champ, and we were through, one obstacle closer to making the turn inland.

Finally, we arrived at the village of Monte Negro. It sits on a wide, flat plain with a backdrop of hills, and has a handful of old buildings in various states of repair, with an overall shabby charm. Bemused villagers reciprocated our waves; it didn’t seem like travelers often came this way. I was taking photos out the window when I realized the next building was a police station, and I quickly put my camera away. Photos of government buildings are no doubt unwelcome. Just as this happened, we were flagged down by a man in uniform, who directed us to park at the police station. 

It turned out they wanted to register our details in their logbooks. Out came a few chairs for us to sit on their stoop while they rummaged around for their ledgers. I had read that in Angola it is common to need to register at police stations in villages. I suppose this is a holdover from keeping tabs on the populace during the war? 

Handing over photocopies of our passports made them happy; they kept them for their records. All of this communicated through pantomime, Portuguese and bad Spanish. They would speak Portuguese, I’d say, “No hablo portugués, ¿hablas español?” To which they’d respond, “No.” I would barrel ahead in clumsy Spanish, enough words understood to get the job done. 

A few off duty police officers sat under a tree, one giving the others haircuts. These are strapping young men with sidearms at their hips, dressed in fatigues, but engaging in the gentle act of a haircut was charming. 

After our details had been duly recorded, the senior officer came out. He was older and greying, and I could only assume that he had been an officer during the war. What he must have seen. Then they told us that the road ahead was impassable. What would we do now? 

Chatting back and forth a bit, they had their own discussions about our plight, and eventually they agreed that we could go look for ourselves, reiterating that the road was impassable and we’d have to turn around. It would take us two days to backtrack and approach the park from another direction. Thankfully, we had brought enough diesel for this sort of detour, but it was demoralizing. At least we’d take a look. 

The village fades away, from buildings to huts to a few kids staring with big eyes at the brancos in their big Land Cruiser driving by. The road, a simple two spoor dirt track, fades into nothing, swallowed by silt and mud left by receding floodwaters. Now what? Even if we wanted to brave it, it seemed a certain recipe for getting stuck; it wasn’t even clear where the track had been. 

We got out to survey the scene, and as we were coming to terms with turning back, a young man approached us, told us there was another route. He offered to show us the way. Jenny stayed back to watch the Cruiser, and I walked it with our guide first. It was a motorcycle track diving inland, but he was right, at some point, this had been driven by a car. You could tell because at one time the rocks and shrubs had been cleared for the width of a vehicle, even if it hadn’t been driven in a long time. We decided to give it a try. 

With brush screeching down the side of the cruiser, and me walking ahead to spot for Jenny, we crept across the blank space on our GPS. Luca (Lucas?) was an amiable sort and spoke a few words of English, and we got along well. About 300 meters into this exercise we rejoined the road on GPS but encountered our next obstacle, a flooded backwater. We could see the track diving across a clearly impassable pool of mud and water.

Luca assured us there was no problem, there was a route around. Again, we walked ahead on a motorcycle track that flanked the pool. We were committed now, and as we went we rolled stones out of the track, clearing it for Jenny to follow at a snail’s pace. 

Branches scraped and dragged over the tent and solar panels, and perhaps the cruiser was responsible for some clumsy tree trimming. This brought us to an alternate crossing point, which did not look great. I was not optimistic. 

But Luca is a man of confidence, and together we walked across. Here the water had retreated, but it had left moguls of silt and mud. In the middle of this depression was a rise of dry sand and scrub, and then another hundred meters of questionable mud to get to the good track on the other side. A hundred meters of mud is a lot. In the past, we’ve got the car bogged to the axles in one car length. 

With the shovel, I could see that under a thin layer of silt was sand. Wet sand, but sand. The Cruiser does well in sand, so we decided to give it a go. Though alone, with no other vehicle and a decent chance of getting stuck, we reasoned that there was no actual safety risk, just inconvenience. 

We lowered the tire pressure, I went ahead with the shovel to knock the top off a few of the hummocks, and then gave it a go. Since I had scouted the route, I drove, and I got the car stuck about three car lengths into the crossing. Not a good start. 

As happens just about every time, immediately, a group of onlookers materialized out of nowhere. Unlike other places we’ve got stuck, where something of a mob forms to “help” get us unstuck, angling for a tip, in this case the peanut gallery was happy to sit back and see just how these brancos would make out now that they’d stuffed it up. 

Luca started getting branches, but to his confusion, we stopped him. Branches are the universal traction aid worldwide, but then Jenny showed him the Max-trax, and he immediately understood. After a bit of digging to place them, we gave it a try and made it another car length before getting stuck again. 

When you get stuck, the hardest thing to do is not to rush. Take your time, be strategic, don’t hurt yourself. But the skies had darkened, and rain threatened. I started to imagine a flash flood with the car stuck in low ground, so we failed to heed our slow-down mantra. More digging. Max-trax again, unstuck again. This time we made it to the dry rise, more or less halfway there. 

The peanut gallery followed along, riding donkeys, looking skeptical, and demonstrating with silent confidence that donkeys don’t get stuck like your fancy Land Cruiser. 

Another hundred meters of mud lied ahead, and gunning it in low range second gear I charged across the field of mud. It was all working beautifully until it came time to climb out. I turned to drive into the high ground and the Cruiser just sailed along sideways toward a tree at the edge of the bog. 

More digging. Max-trax again. It took about four more tries and we managed to crawl out of the mud, driving through some old dead low hanging scrub for another round of Cruiser based tree trimming. We did it! I gave the onlookers a cheer, and they gave us big smiles, waved back and went on their way. The show was over, back to business.

By the skin of our teeth, we’d made it! We were all pretty pumped. We tipped Luca and another kid who’d helped us out. What luck that he had found us, we certainly would’ve had to turn back. I told him that in a week, our friends would come in two more trucks like ours and would also need to be shown the way. Would he look out for them? He nodded, gave us a smile and a wave, and we parted ways. 

Later, we learned that indeed, a week later, our friends reached the same impasse, and Luca emerged at the right moment and guided them through. Somehow, in Africa, where many simple things seem impossible, this improbable meeting, based on a stranger’s request in a single sentence of bad Spanish, is unsurprising. This is the way it is in Africa.

To our relief, after bumping along a bit more, we reached the turn inland. This meant we wouldn’t have to turn back. 

There is also a smaller track (if that is even possible) that goes to the Angolan side of Epupa Falls, reportedly pretty rough going. We saw this small track and thought we’d follow it for a bit to look for a place to camp. Alas, the floodwaters of the Cunene had swallowed the track, and there’d be no going to Epupa. It’ll be up to a future intrepid traveler to do some trail finding after the floodwaters recede to reestablish this track. 

It is slow going, the track picking it’s way between hills, through gullies and gently climbing. We crossed what seemed like hundreds of dongas (deep washouts formed by erosion), many of them requiring low range 4×4. Jenny dubbed Iona “Low Range National Park,” and without a doubt, by the time we left Iona in a week’s time, we had used low range more than in any of our other travels. This is the driving we love, slowly experiencing the landscape.

The views were stunning. The further along we got, the more incredible it became. Distant mountains jutted upwards from the landscape, dramatic and draped in green from recent rains. We passed the first of the park’s markers, a low cube of cement painted white with a number on it. This corresponds to the excellent park map, which shows roads not on any GPS maps.

The land changed and changed again. We began to see many kobas trees (Cyphostemma currorii), a charismatic sort of mini-baobab looking thing, with papery bark. More dongas. More low range. As the land provided wider valleys, we began to see occasional huts and signs of settlement. Poking onwards, we crept by markers 49, 50 and finally 37. This last marker is where the Monte Negro track joins the other, more commonly used eastern approach road, generously designated the EN 295 on some maps. 

Though inside the park, we were far from any designated campsite. We found a meadow where someone had previously camped and stopped for the night. A tremendous escarpment loomed to the south, but we had no topo maps and I couldn’t tell if they were in Namibia or Angola. There is so much unknown here. My curiosity was piqued, but I had no resources to study. Instead, the hills turned red in the evening, we drank in the views and toasted to this incredible landscape. 

The Nitty Gritty

Police

It is common throughout Angola to be asked to register with the police when passing through a village. Though I don’t think it is a requirement, carrying copies of your passport may ease the way. Don’t be alarmed if you’re asked to register, you’re not in trouble. 

Travel times

Slow. To give you an idea, from our bush camp on the banks of the Cunene River, just where the track turns inland after the village of Monte Negro, to marker 37 at the junction with the EN 295 is 76.6 kilometers. It took us 7h 18m, an average speed of 10 km/h. That does include stopping for lunch, photos, etc., but do not expect to make good time on this route. 

Getting stuck

If you’re going to travel solo, you need to be comfortable getting the vehicle unstuck. We’ve got ourselves stuck enough times that it isn’t as stressful as it used to be, it is more of a chore. Max-trax are extremely helpful. Correct tire pressures are essential. A shovel is indispensable. We don’t have a winch, but in any case we have a habit of getting stuck where there aren’t good trees nearby, so this has never worried us. We do carry a hi-lift jack, which we avoided using this time, but we did get an opportunity to use later in the trip.