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.