“Boy soldiers in Angola”

Sleep was impossible-the fear of the unknown too strong, the heat too stifling, the laughing and singing from the boy soldiers too loud. I’d insisted we leave the windows up, as if bullets couldn’t shoot through the glass. But soon I’d had enough. I lowered the pane, and as the car cooled, the buzzing, malaria-spreading mosquitoes swarmed. Eventually I dozed off with my pillow resting on the car’s centre console, my back arched uncomfortably against the seat, feet dangling out the window.

I woke hourly to a soldier ringing a weak bell. The other soldiers slept on the ground under thatch roofs held high on wooden stilts. At 3am I woke up cold, the temperature down ten degrees. After I closed the window, mosquitoes buzzed around my head. I swatted and clapped, aiming to kill, instead hitting only myself as they sang loudly into my ears. When I couldn’t hold my bladder a moment longer, I squatted directly outside the car, not worrying that I would step in my own urine when I rose later.

Being shot or stepping in pee. Easy choice.

I got out of the car at 5.50, ran my fingers through my slick, oily hair, brushed my teeth and washed my face, a handful of boy soldiers watching my every move. As the official appeared ahead, he looked towards our car, his hands cupped over his eyes to shield the already strong rising sun. I prayed to anyone listening that we would be allowed to leave.

When I turned to see Jim aiming our Polaroid camera at the military leader, I shouted, “Don’t! Not without permission!”

Cameras were a rarity here. In those days, an instant photograph could make instant friends-and even quicker enemies. My shout was too late; the photograph spewed out of the small contraption. Jim approached the officer with his offering.

Slowly, the corners of the officer’s mouth turned upward. “Good shot,” he said, patting Jim’s back.

When he stood more upright, chin protruding, chest expanded, preening for another, Jim obliged and then the official ordered his boy soldiers onto the hill. They paraded ammunition, machine guns, rifles, machetes and rocket launchers-reminding me of children showing off prized toys. The excited boys, maybe 15 of them-blindly committed to a man’s war over diamonds and oil-posed gladly, laughing, throwing legs in the air. I stood at a distance, behind the car, wondering how many would live to see the end of the fighting. How long would it take for this country to be whole again?

Angola today has boomed because of reduced military spending, natural resources and oil reserves. The vast tourist potential Jim and I had witnessed has not been developed, so an adventurous young woman who is keen should travel there to examine, explore and exploit the untold opportunities.

But back then, I’m sure these soldiers couldn’t imagine a life without war. An officer, wearing only one plastic flip-flop, approached from the direction of the bridge and saluted the general. I looked at the gangly group, not all that threatening by the light of day, save for their ammunition.

Jim’s large black Polaroid continued to produce gifts. Many photos later, the general, in a military truck, led us around land mines to his superior’s house, where Jim took more Polaroids.

“You may go to Benguela,” the general spoke, his English far better today than the night before.

“Sir, why did you force us to stay here last night?” I asked.

“Each night we mine the bridge to keep UNITA away. If I had allowed you to pass, then you would be dead, blown to bits and pieces.”