Moving to Angola: Two Kids and Twenty-Five Bags!
Our adventure kicked off in style aboard the luxurious Houston Express, a double-decker jet providing direct first-class service from Houston to Luanda, Angola. My wife and I, with our two young kids aged eight and eleven, settled into the leather business class seats, our emotions a heady mix of excitement, trepidation, and a longing for the Houston home we’d temporarily left behind. We were on our way!
The Arrival: A Swarm of Challenges
Touching down in Angola, we were immediately inundated by a biblical swarm of mosquitoes assaulting the bus from plane to terminal. The doctor’s grave malaria warnings still rang in my ears as I had gratefully swallowed the psychotropic prevention Larium pills—complete with vivid hallucinations and potential organ damage as side effects. Welcome to Angola!
The terminal itself was a churning sea of humanity—Chinese workers, South Africans, expatriates, locals—all merging into an indistinct mass moving towards the immigration officers. The lines were endless and we were at the back. Thankfully, the ever-hospitable Angolans adore children, and it wasn’t long before we were escorted right to the front of the line! Nice.
Through immigration and we were staring at an ominous small table. I had been dreading this. Behind the table sat an unimposing Angolan man in a white coat. Not scary looking but I had the Jaws music thundering in my head. We each had yellow immunization cards that detailed all of our shots – yellow fever, diphtheria, hepatitis A, tetanus, and others. The vicious expat rumor was that this guy had an old rusty well-used hypodermic needle, ready to jab any unsuspecting traveler who had forgotten even one of these requirements. With only a quick glance at our paperwork, we were waved through! The Jaws music in my head receded.
Baggage Claim Mayhem
Baggage claim was pure pandemonium. The conveyor belts of our carousel held full car tires, appliances, and various other oversized household items. An incredible array of items and duct taped wrapped cardboard boxes with scribbled names on the side. The scene was a stark illustration of how difficult and costly it was to acquire even basic goods in the most expensive expatriate city on Earth at the time.
Then my savior boss Allan arrived, to whisk away my shell-shocked wife and kids while I stood sentry over our staggering 25 pieces of luggage—20 of them massive plastic bins packed with all our worldly belongings to sustain us for the year or more it would take for our shipment to arrive.
Sweating and still in a pretty high state of panic, I began moving the bags out of the airport to our friendly company van driver. It was going well until the customs official asked what was in one of the big plastic bins. In a panic I said “I don’t know”. While true as the twenty looked identical to me, this was the absolute worst thing to say and I quickly was ushered to a back room where multiple bags were opened and searched. I could not understand a Portuguese word he said as everything was taken out on to the table and then put back in the case. Scary. Would they confiscate it?
After four intense hours, I finally emerged, disheveled and frazzled, into the searing Luandan heat and the insistent clamor of frenzied taxi drivers jostling for fares. I was immediately surrounded by people. “Carry your bag mister?” “Taxi, come this way.” “Taxi mister?” “Here let me help you.” These folks were insistent, grabbing my arm of physically pulling on my bag. My eyes went wide with a little shock and then narrowed in determination. I pulled my arm and the bag free and finally spotted the company van, a safe haven in the midst of this chaos.
The Daily Grind Begins
Tomorrow morning the company bus would pick me up at 5:00 AM to start work. The electricity for the house ended up being off, so it was a cold shower, dress and breakfast in the dark.
It had started, four of the most impactful and learning years of my life. We were here. Our new home. Angola.
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