Next to a rickety steel bridge over the Longa River the gun barrels of two olive green Russian T-55 tanks are pointing across the river. It seems as if the crew have simply made a quick pitstop so they could stretch their legs. But this is postwar Angola and the tanks have been standing here for years.

Wrecks such as these are a constant reminder of the 27-year civil war that ended in 2002. As are the long line of burnt-out wrecks of a supply convoy between Menongue and Cuito Cuanavale, as well as the three armoured troop carriers that came to a standstill, one behind the other, each shot out with a single shot.

For a generation of South African men too, Angola is only a war memory.
The first experience of this country for many of them was a baptism of fire in the rainy season of 1975/’76 during Operation Savannah when they had to brave mud, downpours and malaria mosquitoes.

I recently drove back on old boot tracks of war to visit the places where the SADF had been involved in heavy fighting: Cassinga, Cuito Cuanavale, Catengue, Ebo, Bridge 14 … names with which a generation of soldiers of 18, 19 years old were intimately familiar.

However, I also went back to experience the country’s natural splendour – and to tackle the notoriously bad roads.
Our convoy entered Angola through the bustling Santa Clara border post and then drove through Ondjiva, Cuvelai, Cassinga, Cubango, Cuchi and Menongue to Cuito Cuanavale.
Next, we travelled northwest through Chitembo and Huambo to Quibala, where we turned southwest and drove along the coast through Sumbe and Lobito to Benguela.
From Benguela we went to Lubango, and from there to the coast between Namibe and Tombua, and returned three weeks later through the much quieter Caluegue border post.

What tourist facilities?

Large parts of Angola are still untouched. It’s a country of contrasts: Landscapes vary from desert dull to subtropical green, from Karoo koppies to blue granite mountains, dense bush country to grassy plains.

You drive through twisty bends on mountain passes, on jeep tracks in the bush, roads with the occasional patch of tar, through rivers and streams and over narrow patched-up bridges, but also on brand spanking new tar roads and over modern bridges.
Tourist facilities are just about non-existent and you can pitch your tent under the stars every night.
Angola requires patience and vasbyt. This is Lesson #1. At the Santa Clara border post we are delayed for almost six hours while officials were nitpicking about imaginary faults with our visas.
When we hit the first of thousands of potholes within a few metres of the border post, I just know: This trip is going to be different. There are potholes everywhere, from tea-tray- to car-sized ones.

Just to stop you from becoming completely discouraged, you occasionally do travel on a good gravel road or even an excellent tar road. Just beyond Ondjiva we turn off on a lovely, broad white gravel road where we encounter the first signs of the civil war – two shot-out Russian T54 tanks.
We’re on our way to Cassinga and later on we turn off on a bush track to Mupa. It’s a bad track with dongas and pools of muddy water. We drive past hovels with round huts made of branches, black-and-red MPLA flags fluttering in front of each one.
Here our average speed is 20 km/h, and I realise what the experienced Angola travellers mean with Lesson #2: You don’t measure distance in kilometres, but in hours.

At Cuvelai I learn the third: Lesson #3: In Angola there are bridges and then there are those that are only rumours of bridges. The road surface on the narrow concrete bridge over the Cuvelai River is so full of holes it’s a miracle it hasn’t collapsed yet. We decide to drive through the knee-deep river instead.

We’re now in the Huila Province, still on a jeep track through the bush. Red-and-white stripes on tree trunks along the road warn us that this is still landmine country.
In between there are signs with a white skull and the message Perigo Minas! (“Danger, mines!”) on a red background.
This is Lesson #4: Never stray off the roads.
No one knows exactly where the mines are, as the legless people limping along on crutches attest to.