Benguela and Brazil

Paradox is in London, feeling saudades for luminescent Lisbon.

Some Africans lament the Angolan propensity to gaze west rather than settle east. However there are reasons...

The remains of the quay that queued the chained forefathers of Pele, Ronaldo and Ronaldinho as they baked in anticipation of the passage into the setting sun. How many died waiting?


The bureacratic administration block where lives were signed away.


The church where the chainers prayed prior to plying their homo sapien merchandise westwards. Praying for forgiveness from Jesus?


The one and only Praia Morena (celebrated in song by Cessaria Evora, Chico Buarque, Paulo Flores et al) where the liberated descendents of homo sapien merchandise preyed upon the descendents of the chainers of the forefathers of Pele and Ronaldinho: The happy crucible of conception of countless mulattos.


Why the transformation from chained product to carnal partner...

Was it all a misunderstanding?

Or is it all down to the selfish gene?

A luz lisboeta

Escrevo banhado pela luz macia do Rossio madrugal.


I write bathed in the soft dawn light of Lisbon (in Rossio square)

(when I work out how to do it I shall post the Benguela pics)

Misunderstanding

Paradox is back!

Logging in the lobby of oil, diamonds and gold (watches).

The ruminations and cud chewing did not pause but cyberspace vaguaries in deepest nirvana delayed the divulgation of paradoxi.

The bus ride below (did you read it, dear readers?) is about a misunderstanding. How much of life is misunderstanding? All of it? Or most of it?

What about the baby born of one, the misconceived conception from the burst latex glove. A misunderstanding.

And what about the death bourne on one, the mistaken judgement from the nervous soldier, the tired driver or the zealous jury. A misunderstanding.

What if the life created through misunderstanding is also ended through misunderstanding?

How much do you really know?

All we know for certain is that we are likely to be wrong.

Dear reader, how dare you be so presumptious as to pre-judge anything. Prejudice is to prejudge.

Remember... we never know.

Next up on Paradox, the Paulo Flores peregrination continues... in Benguela, and with pictures.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

To close, do you know the expression - to chew the cud? Have you ever wandered where it comes from? Digest two examples...

Which sentiment being a pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a paradox, we shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end of the chapter.

The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Fielding, Henry

Read more of this quote...

During the long summer day, as his sheep cropped the good grass which the gods had made to grow for them, or lay with their forelegs doubled under their breasts and chewed the cud, Haita, reclining in the shadow of a tree, or sitting upon a rock, played so sweet music upon his reed pipe that sometimes from the corner of his eye he got accidental glimpses of the minor sylvan deities, leaning forward out of the copse to hear; but if he looked at them directly they vanished.

Can Such Things Be? by Bierce, Ambrose

read more of this quote...

Benguela

Paradox is in Benguela, where the web connection is atrocious.

The bus ride

Dear Reader, you were promised a post on iraq, here it is.

I invite you to read the following:

bus ride

The selfish gene speaks

You read it here first! As soon as Paradox posted yesterday's post, the BBC decided to investigate. Look what they found.... can you spot the mention of the selfish gene?

Dear reader, I invite you to read the story below, read the post below that, and smile. Then check back later, because the next post on Paradox is about Iraq.

STORY FROM THE BBC

Catching sight of a pretty woman really is enough to throw a man's decision-making skills into disarray, a study has found.

The more testosterone he has, the vaguer he will be, according to work by Belgian researchers.

Men about to play a financial game were shown images of sexy women or lingerie.

The Proceedings of the Royal Society B study found they performed worse than men who had not been exposed to the alluring images.

The suggestion is that the sexual cues distract the men's thoughts, preventing them from focusing on their task - particularly among those with high natural testosterone levels.

The University of Leuven researchers gave 176 heterosexual male student volunteers aged 18 to 28 financial games to test their fair play.

But first, half of the men were shown sexual cues of some kind.

One group of 44 men were given pictures to rate; some were shown landscapes while the rest were shown attractive women.

Another group, of 37 men, were either asked to assess the quality, texture and colour of a bra or a t-shirt.

And a third group of 95 were shown either pictures of elderly women or young models.

Each group was then paired up to play a game where the men had $10, a proposer had to suggest a split, and the other man accepted or rejected the offer.

If the second man accepted the offer, the money was distributed in agreement with the offer. If he rejected it, neither partner got anything.

The game is designed as a lab model of hunting or food sharing situations.

'Vulnerable'

The men's performance in the tests showed those who had been exposed to the "sexual cues" were more likely to accept an unfair offer than those who were not.

The men's testosterone levels were also tested - by comparing the length of the men's index finger compared to their ring finger.

If the ring finger is longest, it indicates a high testosterone level.

The researchers found that men in the study who had the highest levels performed worst in the test, and suggest that is because they are particularly sensitive to sexual images.

Dr Siegfried DeWitte, one of the researchers who worked on the study, said: "We like to think we are all rational beings, but our research suggests ... that people with high testosterone levels are very vulnerable to sexual cues.

"If there are no cues around, they behave normally.

"But if they see sexual images they become impulsive."

He added: "It's a tendency, but these people are not powerless to fight it.

"Hormone levels are one thing, but we can learn to deal with it."

The researchers are conducting similar tests with women. But so far, they have failed to find a visual stimulus which will affect their behaviour."

Dr George Fieldman, principal lecturer in psychology at Buckinghamshire Chilterns University College, told the BBC News website: "The fact men are distracted by sexual cues fits in to evolutionary experience. It's what they are expected to do.

"They are looking for opportunities to pass on their genes."

He said the study confirmed what had been suspected by many.

"If a man is being asked to choose between something being presented by an attractive woman and an ugly men, they might not as able as they might be to be dispassionate."

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/health/4921690.stm

Published: 2006/04/19 11:14:22 GMT

© BBC MMVI

Infertility

So much of life is about reproduction. ‘The Selfish Gene’ suggests that the whole of life is essentially a programme through which we facilitate the passage of our genes from one generation to the next. According to this thesis, the ‘selfish gene’ subconsciously influences every decision we make. In our choice of partner, of home, of career, of what to do this afternoon, the selfish gene makes sure that we are swayed in its direction. Are you attracted to that man / woman you see every day in the shop? The selfish gene is fooling you, after all what has he / she done for you apart from smile? Linking up with that individual might be the worse decision you ever make.

But the selfish gene is eyeing up that smile, those clear eyes, that nice body. Hmmm it thinks, that looks healthy, I could do with teaming up with the DNA in that. The gene is truly selfish, it doesn't care about your marital status, it just wants to use you to link up with as much DNA as it can.

So much of everyday chat is about reproduction and its consequences. Families, children and grandchildren. Whenever relatives want to strike up a conversation it is often the first thing they turn to. So, how are you doing Paradox? What they are really asking is - How goes it in the great game of reproduction?

After a while it gets you down. You don’t really have an answer. You are not really part of it all. You are not playing the game but you are watching from the sidelines. Once a player has been red carded, the selfish gene within realises that it is not going to be transported after all. Angry and frustrated it turns upon its host and consumes him / her from within. Just what is the point? There is none if you are not a player in the game.

Careers, holidays, obsessions, hobbies, ambitions, principles and beliefs. These are things that attempt to supplant the selfish gene. They try to get in its way, offering an alternative. Try us, they say, and you will see that there is more to life than serving the selfish gene. You do try to jump aboard – you apply all sorts of techniques to convince yourself that your presence on the planet amounts to more than a simple vehicle to allow the selfish gene another generational passage. Surely your presence is more than a back over which the selfish gene can leapfrog.

But is it? Careers, holidays, obsessions, hobbies, ambitions, principles and beliefs. Players of the game also follow these. Indeed players can argue that in a small way they are doing their bit to make life easier for their assorted progeny. Whether right or left, socialist or capitalist, Christian or Islamic, poet or mathematician, they all love their kids and believe that they are ‘doing good’. The smiles of the little ones to convince them that they are ‘right’ and fortify them in their daily battles. The intergenerational transporters of the gene feel good because they are doing their duty to pass it on. That’s all there is to life! The rest is just a vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’s and to cover up the emptiness they feel once their job is done and their offspring have departed, taking the gene with them for safe passage. Of course, it comes back again in the form of grandchildren, making the player feel that he or she really has done their duty.

But spare a thought for the childless. We don’t play in this game. What is our role?

We don’t have one. And we know it...

Its all a matter of perspective.

Jesus, the last word

We will be leaving this topic today and departing for pastures new. If I have stirred your interest I suggest you explore the following links:

1. A lot of stuff on the historical Jesus, showing the different schools of thought.

2. A very interesting site, for some reason not included above, but one that has the most logical explanation that I have found so far.

It is also the most logical explanation I am likely to find, because the train is leaving the station. Dear Reader, will you join me on the ride to blisdom?

(Blisdom - a word introduced to the English language by Paradox, meaning synthesis of bliss and blog wisdom)

Jesus, still

As promised, on Easter Sunday (for the western churches at least), we have the Jesus quest. Today, millions of people will celebrate the resurrection of Jesus.

Did this happen? And was Jesus crucified?

The search for the 'historical Jesus' was a hot topic around the turn of the 19th Century. It picked up again recently. There are some big problems with Jesus.

1. The Romans kept records. Civil Registry, births, marriages and deaths. Many people are known to have existed around Jesus' time. Including John theBaptist, King Herod, Pontius Pilate etc. But there are no records of Jesus. There are no records of the order from king Herod that led the family to leave Nazareth for Bethlehem, there are no records of the trial of Jesus and no records of his crucifixion.

2. Temporal inconsistencies. These characters (John the Baptist, King Herod, Pontius Pilate and the contempories) lived at different times. It appears that it would have been very difficult for Jesus to have led the life he is supposed to have led because the dates don't fit.

3. Geographical inconsistencies. We know a lot about the geography of the ancient middle east. The Romans had maps. Some of the places in the bible don't seem to have existed then, others are so far apart (and in different countries) that it would have been impossible for Jesus to have travelled between them during the time it was supposed to have taken him.

4. Anecdotal inconsistencies. The stories about Jesus (Paul, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John) do not add up. They do not agree with each other and were written a long time after Jesus' death. The writings of Paul are the earliest. He was in Jerusalem a few years after Jesus' death and met Jesus' brother. He does not talk about the life of Jesus per se, but refers to a 'Christ crucified'. Mark is the next one, written around 30 years after Jesus died. Who Mark is we don't know. Then follow Matthew (who some think wrote before Mark) and Luke (who some think was a woman). We have no idea who these people are (or even if they existed as individual 'people'; any one of the Gospels could have been written by a group of people joining their ideas together. Mark, Matthew and Luke tell more or less the same Jesus story and are known as the synoptic Gospels. Finally John's gospel is totally different, was written a lot later, and adds lots of new material. There were other gospels, but only these four were included by the leaders of the early church. It is unlikely that any of these writers actually met Jesus. Paul arrived after his death, and the others would have been extremely old men, (even over 100) if they were adults when Jesus was alive and then kept their memories for between 20 - 100 years before writing them down. Therefore is likely that the Gospel writers, (but not Paul), were writing down stories they had heard, and not giving eye-witness accounts.

What are the responses to this?

1. So what? Some accept these points but say that it does not matter, the very fact of the church today and the millions of believers means that something pretty big did happen.

2. Minimal Jesus. Others have constructed a minimal life of Jesus, and argue that actually people like John the Baptist were the bigger stars of the time. It may be that Jesus was crucified but without a full trial. He was a symbol of a wider movement and set of beliefs, and he became an icon. However his personal importance (and that of Mary etc) was embellished later as the church grew and developed its story.

3. No Jesus. There was not a person called Jesus who did the things he was supposed to have done. Instead there were a number of things going on, and there was a messianic movement of that time. John the Baptist was an important leader. The early Christians grew out of this period and the idea of 'Christ crucified' was meant to be symbolic and not literal. Only later on did the church gradually develop this idea into the life of a real Jesus. (remember the first bibles appeared well over a hundred years after the death of Jesus).

[It is interesting to note that the Koran, written around 500 years after the death of Jesus, is different. The Koran involves a real historical figure - the Prophet Mohamed - and there is no historical doubt surrounding his existence. However it also includes stories about Jesus as one of the earlier prophets, as well as giving an interpretation of the whole bible story, from Adam and Eve to Moses, Abraham etc.]

I am not a religious person, however I find it interesting that Christians are divided on these issues. For some it doesn't really matter if Jesus did this or that, or even if he lived at all, what is important are the morals behind the message. However others will defend to the death the literal truth of every miracle and word.

What do you think?

Happy Easter

Jesus, again

But did Jesus exist? In Christian countries we need Him even if we don't believe in Him. We need to feel that this nice, kind, smiling, forgiving soul was around. This person who turned the other cheek and who loved his neighbour as himself. We like to think that with our dying breath we will acknowledge Him in his infinite forgiveness. Whatever we have done, he will understand. And we will fade away smiling, looking forward to meeting his outstretched arms on the other side.

But what if he never existed? I mean what if he never existed as an historical fact. What if there never was a Jesus of Nazereth?

Unfortunately, this might be the case. Looking for the meaning of Easter I have come across some extra-ordinary information and suddenly the world is different. My conclusion can only be this...

Either Jesus never existed, or he was a lesser figure than we imagine, and he was built up into a symbolic icon by the early Christians. Some thinking Christians are happy with this, they see Jesus as a symbol, just as Adam and Eve are symbols. They do not really need to believe that there ever was a Jesus person who ate, slept and went to the toilet.

When I get time I will briefly post more on this. But I don't want this blog to get sidetracked into a religious one.

One thing is true though. Just think of the implications of Jesus never having existed. What does that mean for Islam, for Christianity?

Jesus

Muslims, Christians and Jews believe that Jesus once walked this earth.

Muslims, Christians and Jews believe that Jesus believed in God. Though they dispute the nature of his belief.

Jesus was someone with a specific message directly linked to God: Now we begin to differ, Jews do not agree, but Muslims and Christians are still together.

Jesus was the son of God and is part of an inseparable holy trinity, he died on the cross so that our sins may be forgiven: Here Muslims diverge leaving only Christians.

Jesus laid his hand on Peter, proclaiming - "On this rock I build my church". Since then each Pope has had a direct link with Jesus: Now Christians divide. Catholics stand alone, other Christians walk away.

But can the church transmit forgiveness through confession? Christians don't know. Yes! say the Catholic church and the Orthodox churches. No! say others.

Who is right?

As God's children, (if that is what we are), we still can't agree.

How many people have died as a direct result of these disagreements?

Or do God's children habitually use these disputes to excuse violent conflict, when their real motivations are elsewhere?

Happy Easter

Friends

Who is your friend? Do you really have any?

The more you ponder the less you have. In Disclosure, Michael Douglas asks Jacqueline Kim "Are you a friend?" It turns out that she is not, though nor is she an enemy. She is a benign aquaintance.

How many of your family are friends? How many of your neighbours are friends? And are you a friend to anyone? "Keep your friends close but your enemies closer", was Sun tzu's advice. Are you following it? Unwittingly?

A reasonable definition: A friend authentically cares for your well being. A friend will occasionally inconvenience themselves for you (though lets not exaggerate). A friend will not betray your confidence. A friend has no expectations from you, nor transmits expectations onto you. Why does a friend do these things? Because a friend actually likes you.

Taken seriously, the above definition rules out family. It excludes lovers and partners and work colleagues. It probably excludes most people you know. There can be no substantive competition between you and your friend. Divided loyalties cannot exist. You cannot and must not love your friend. Jealousy is not there. Your friend must light up your life, without eliciting habit or dependence.

Why are friends so rare? The answer is quite simple:

Seek not friends but question if you are a friend.

Death, not quite

I nearly died once. Its true, I really nearly died.

I suppose we all nearly die every time a car passes - one slip and.... But me, I came closer than this.

Taken ill, my condition withered. Within half an hour I shed my load of liquid, from every pore, orifice and gland. On the toilet, water haemorrhaged from my arse like a miscarriage. Glistening, my skin expelled wetness. Revolting, my stomach discharged puky slime. Crying, my eyes squeezed crocodile tears. As grape to raisin, I will be dry!

Like a disgraced sex offender, a draped blanket averted the sun's burning stare during the short steps from home to car.

The off duty doctor was up the stairs. I could not climb; he refused to descend. Impasse, empate. Wife and colleague carried me up.

In the waiting room I was tipped off my wheelchair onto a bed. By now quite dry. My heart struggled with porridgy blood. Could a heart pump powder? I wandered.

"The doctor will be here in half an hour."

Turning to wife and colleague, I uttered (what I truly believed to be) my last words.

"I have not got half an hour, I would give my self around twenty minutes."

That was it, cold quotidian calculation, the banal truth. No last wish, just a valedictory flexing of the synapses. My companions left. Glancing round I saw women squatting on the floor eating, I smelt their stew spiced with hospital antiseptic. Outside the tropical sun emanated that magnifying 4pm light. End of another day, end of my life.

Panic? Despair? Pain? All long gone. I was ready to go too. Eyes resting closed, I heard my parent's voices - "Paradox is alright." I saw my young parents smiling down at me in the cot. Mother's golden hair and father's ginger beard. A recording archived for decades now played again. It’s true; they looked so unfamiliar it took me a while to realise who they were.

I knew I was dying - dead even, and it was ok.

An angel with a plastic bottle touched my arm. Immobile and inert, I observed with detachment the periodic administering of bottle top to lips.

I awoke at dawn to see a white butterfly on the ceiling. Outside Macuas made their way to work, in Lowry like droves. So normal. Just another day.

Later, back home, they told me how I very nearly died from malaria and dehydration. It took a whole 1.5 litre bottle of mineral water, administered drop-by-drop to my lips, before I even moved. It took another before I spoke. Apparently, I didn't even swallow the first - the water was like raindrops on dry sand.

I told you I nearly died. My wife's presence of mind saved my life.

Dappled

This bright stifling heat/light is a piercing overdose of clarity. The search for shade brought to mind Gerard Manly Hopkins and his celebration of fudge and mudge:

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manly Hopkins (1844 - 1889)

Glory be to God for dappled things -
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Messing around, I came up with...

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour; Multiple tinge.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled, mildly deranged.

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He makes this melanged beauty: Praise him.

In any case, this worship of the assymetric is an apt rebellion amid today's cosmetic surgeons and their clientelle.

Paulo Flores

Angola's riches are not just diamonds and oil...

Whatever happened to all the Paulo Flores albums? Here in his hometown I am searching in vain for his early work. The old crooner managed to get a nomination for a local award, but apart from that there is no sign of him. I was hoping to post the lyrics to "Minha Velha" and I am dammed if I can remember them.

Why the lyrics? The poem in the previous post is about moving on before the world catches up with you. "Minha Velha" is about standing still whilst the world leaves you behind. One the son's perogative the other the mother's fate?

Does anybody out there know where to get this early Flores album? I can't remember the name (re-encontros I think). Around 1993. Includes the numbers "Bailarinha", "Sarrabulho" and "Minha Velha".

Does anyone want to swap it for my Neil Diamond collection? [irony]

A Google search provokes no replies; the early nineties are pre-www and pre-digital music.

Migration

In conversation today we talked of Central America and how regional integration has produced a world of migration and labour market interdependence unimaginable in the recent past. The notion of migration produces powerful images and brought to mind the following verses.

Caminante no hay camino, por Antonio Machado

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.

Nunca persequí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse...

Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar...

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.

Iraqi blogs

It was Iraq that got me into reading blogs. I liked the idea that someone from Baghdad could sit there watching TV to see what time the bombers were leaving their UK bases, calculate the flight time, batten down the hatches and then log on to tell us that another bout of shock and awe was on its way. This is exactly what Salam Pax did in those early days of the Iraq War. Somehow it brought a compelling human touch to the wanton destruction. As well as Rageh Omar telling us what was going to happen from the top of an office building, we had unknown Iraqi bloggers, cowering in their homes, but logging on and sharing it all with us.

What was even more interesting was the spread of opinion, ranging from outrage to encouragement. There were Iraqis back in those days that actually did feel a form of sado-masochistic liberation with every devastating explosion. Don't believe me? Read on...

Yet it was all to end in tears. As George Washington would have predicted, and every teenager knows, sovereignty and self-determination require power, and power is never handed over on a silver platter and received with a grateful and obsequious bow. Instead it has to be snatched from a clasped hand by one with a purposeful grimace. We now know that the faces wearing such a countenance bear the names of Sadr and Jafaari.

However, on the other hand we have been blessed by the presence of an excellent cast of Iraqi bloggers. But catch them quick! They are becoming noticed and are steadily leaving for greener (and less dangerous) pastures. Their contribution: To have reminded us all of the immense human cost of the Iraq folly and to have humbled us in their demonstration of high cultural values. Just compare their (generally) thoughtful writing with the patronising profanities of the armchair warriors or, for that matter, with the hopeless handwringing of Blair and his guilty conscience. For those with time on their hands, try browsing through the back issues for an authentic Iraqi take on things.

So here is their curtain call. I am not going to label them as Sunni or Shia and their eclectic views may surprise you. Despite the best attempts of their respondents in the comments sections they cannot (and should not) be boxed into neat and rigid packages.

Faiza. Now living in Jordan, Faiza is the heroic mother of three sons who finally left Baghdad after she was robbed at gunpoint and later a bomb exploded outside her house. Some of her posts are poetic; others are simply stunning in their observations and analysis.

Raed. Faiza's oldest son, now living in California. Organised a collection of medicine for Fallujah to help those hurt in the siege. Raed previously worked on a needs assessment survey in the initial aftermath of the war. His name is the subject of "Dear Raed", Salam's first blog.

Khalid. Faiza's middle son, now living in Jordan.

Majid. Faiza's youngest son, now living in Canada.

Zeyad. An Iraqi dentist in Baghdad. His initial optimism about post war Iraq was tempered somewhat when US troops killed his cousin (for which they were later prosecuted). However his educational and pedagogic posts are an example to all. May shortly leave Iraq.

Riverbend. All we know is that she is female, young, opinionated and has been nominated for a host of blog awards. Her sense of humour and powers of dry observation add to the power of her blog. Her recounting of a US/Iraqi army raid on her house is as dramatic as it is terrifying.

Mohammed. A very optimistic person who initially believed in the US / UK discourse of a free, secular and democratic Iraq. Fully in favour of the invasion. His interesting blog represents an excruciating slide into despair and straw clutching.

Sam. Another enthusiastic supporter of the invasion who has gradually polarised his position into one of support for a particular faction. The metamorphosis towards his current opinions is a fascinating study of objective conditions and subjective thoughts.

Salam Pax. The grand daddy of them all. The original Salam makes a return in a new blog. His humanity is what springs out at you from his analyses and comments. His short films are well worth a viewing.

Luanda

Luanda is normally dusty, hot and dry. Nevertheless on Tuesday night it experienced a torrential downpour which killed at least three people and blew open the limited storm drainage system. This then caused a traffic gridlock worthy of the one Ben Elton describes in his book of the same name. My work mate took 3 hours to complete the 8 kilometres to his house. An average speed of less than 3 km per hour. Fortunately, I was able to admire the forked lightning over Luanda bay from a dry, lofty and safe veranda.

This episode highlights one of the key issues in Luanda today, traffic. As the oil driven economy grows the number of cars is increasing exponentially. As yet there is no widespread private taxi system, though there are some minibuses plying popular routes and competing racing each other to the bus stops. However the roads are clogged with luxury 4x4s, Mercedes saloons and Citi golfs. Luanda has few grand avenues like neighbouring capitals. It does not really have a ring road, and grew slowly outward over 500 years from a city centre of tight narrow streets. To make matters worse, the oil boom is recycling resources into construction, and new towers are sprouting up in the midst of the city - attracting further traffic to the crowded centre.