The Opportunistic Doctor Savimbi: Notes From Luanda

January 1977

The room was whitewashed, and a pleasant breeze swept through the open window. The heat, which had clung to everything in the last few days had begun to dissipate, though the dust which had plagued them for the last few days remained a minor hazard.

Reaching for a cigarette, Andrew glanced warily around, taking note of the veteran guerrillas and boy soldiers who eyed him uneasily. Johan, the photographer was pacing the room they were in lost in thought muttering to himself.

“Can you stop that mate? It’s tense enough here without you making it worse” Andrew called out to his colleague, stubbing out his cigarette as he did so. Johan didn’t reply but he stopped all the same.

The trip had been long. London to Paris, then to Durban where he had met Johan the agency photographer assigned to him. The building was part of the liberated anti-communist territory now under the control of Jonas Savimbi the man they were here to meet.

They had been preparing for the interview for months, ever since Andrew had had a chance meeting with Antonio da Costa Fernandes in Zambia. Both he and Johan knew that Savimbi’s head was coveted in both Moscow and Havana, hence the security measures. That knowledge didn’t make them sit any easier. The interview was only to be for half an hour to an hour. They didn’t have enough time.

The estate they lay in belonged to one of Savimbi’s many friends. The interview would not be with him alone of course. The leading lights of UNITA, Savimbi’s personal army were there. Chitunda, his representative in the States and da Costa Fernandes stood idly in the reception room.

“It’s time” Johan said, checking his camera had enough film before clicking it shut. “You ready?” He smiled wryly at Andrew who grimaced back.

“Sure.”

They entered the room. Savimbi was seated, dressed in combat fatigues. He seemed relaxed Andrew thought.

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Jonas Savimbi, Leader of UNITA

“Please be seated gentleman. Can I get you anything? Water, something stronger?”

He spoke perfect, slightly accented English. No doubt a product of his time studying in Lausanne.

“Just water, thank you.” Andrew adjusted his collar. Despite the breeze he was sweating furiously.

Savimbi gestured and one of the men brought them two glasses of water.

“Are you ready to begin Mr Savimbi?”

“Certainly.” He smiled, though it didn’t extend much further than his mouth.

Andrew clicked on the tape recorder.

“Mr Savimbi, how would you characterise the conflict in Angola at the moment?”

Savimbi paused, considering the question.

“The situation is delicate. However, despite their help from new troops, troops from Cuba, from the DDR, from Russia we remain firm. Despite all efforts to crush our resistance, our people, our soldiers have endured because they know that history backs them up, no foreign invasion can succeed, whatever the means employed because imperialism, colonialism, are doomed to failure. That’s why we have to resist the communists, and why we are optimistic that this year and the next will bring us success.”

Andrew nodded as he sketched brief notes.

“Is peace possible between yourselves and President Neto?”

Savimbi scowled at the word “president.” He adjusted in his seat slightly before answering.

“There will be no chance for peace until all the imperialists of Russia and Cuba, who are essentially acting as Russia’s guard dog in this war, withdraw. If Neto can accept those terms than yes there is a chance for peace.”

Johan glanced at Andrew with a quizzical expression. Andrew ignored him.

“And what of your relationship with South Africa? There have been rumours of extensive collabo-”

“There is no relationship between UNITA and South Africa. Our troops are trained by us, the South Africans play no role in our movements or indeed in our plans. I can say this however. I have fought for the independence of my country and the dignity of the black man in Angola for the last fifteen years. Like all of my brothers I am opposed to apartheid.”

Andrew continued scribbling, the slight whir of the tape recorder jolting him along. He took a sip of water.

“You have stated many times your opposition to apartheid. However how do you explain reports from the fighting two years that South African troops were captured fighting alongside your men?”

Savimbi glowered.

“These reports have no substance, given that the South Africans were working on their own initiative. I know nothing of their plans or motives, and I can only assure you that they were not captured with my men. And I believe that this ends the interview.”

Andrew glanced at his watch. Half an hour had indeed passed.

“Thank you very much for your time Mr Savimbi.”
*​
Back in his apartment in Lusaka, Andrew sent off the press release. He lit a cigarette and paused to examine the view from his window. He doubted it would be his last trip to Angola.
 
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Checking In At The Hotel Continental
8 May 1977

The return to Luanda was not a welcome one, Andrew mused as he handed his passport to the unsmiling border agent. The arrival’s hall was sparsely populated with the exception of bored soldiers and police officers who milled in the entrance. Glancing at the hastily scrawled hotel address, where he was due to meet both Johan and the fixer known only as Henrique.

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Luanda, 1977

Blinking in the harsh glare of the midday sun, he warily glanced at the soldiers who paraded next to the taxi ranks. If it hadn’t been for the AK-47s the scene could pass for one of high surrealism. Andrew was too tense to smile at the ridiculousness of it. Adjusting his sunglasses, he grabbed the nearest taxi, said the hotel address in broken Portuguese and attempted to relax as the car jolted to a start. The taxi, after twenty minutes of violent driving, honking and shouting arrived at the hotel in the old colonial district. Despite its redolent splendour, the image of solitude and isolation was somewhat dispelled by the doorman carrying an assault rifle.

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Checking in, he headed to the bar where he assumed Johan would be, passing through the small crowd of correspondents, freelancers and nostalgic colonialists who formed the bulk of the hotel’s clientele. He found Johan slumped in a lounge chair, his sunglasses hiding his bloodshot eyes. He briskly shook him awake.

“What the- ah it’s the fucking Uitlander!” He smiled as he said it, cracking Andrew’s ribs in a bear hug. “You want a drink man? They accept Rand here, if you want to use a proper currency!” Andrew smirked as he lit a cigarette. Despite the discomfort of the journey it was good to see the big Afrikaner.

“I’ll have a beer, if you’re buying.”

Johan gestured to the waiter who had been hovering the background, and ordered in surprisingly perfect Portuguese.

“Where did you learn that?” Andrew asked, sitting down at the table.

“Used to work in Mozambique, till they decided to start shooting each other. You assumed because I’m from Stellenbosch I’m an uneducated Boer eh? Fucking typical!” His mocking tone contrasted to the harshness of his words.

“We’ll have to meet Henrique tomorrow” Andrew said, taking a sip from the frothy beer placed in front of him by the silent waiter.

“They tell you anything about him?” Johan asked.

“Nothing. Only gave me an address, a name and some spending money. Still they’re covering our expenses for the month so it’s not all bad.” The beer was tasteless.

Johan took a large gulp of his beer, wiping his mouth as he finished.

“Well then” he said, “we’d best get ready to meet the mystery man, hadn’t we? When’s the meeting taking place?” He’d lit a cigarette in the brief pause, the smoke curling upwards.

“Tomorrow morning as far as I can tell. He’ll send a car for us here. Hopefully a Mercedes and not a Lada.”

“You’re such a bourgeois pig Dodsworth, it’s a miracle they even let you into this socialist paradise!”

Andrew smiled at his friend’s mocking tone. He figured humour might be their strongest asset in a place like Luanda.

BRIEF EDITORIAL NOTE

Andrew Dodsworth is a real person. Born in Kenya to British parents, moved to New Zealand in the 70s and became my mother's first husband. Quite an interesting man hence why he's the protagonist of this particular TL.
 
The Fixer
9 May 1977

They left the hotel to the sound of early morning traffic, as their car passed through the throngs of people heading to the centre. The radio, on full volume, blasted Cuban music as the driver swerved through the streets at full speed. Hungover, and without nicotine since the early evening, both Andrew and Johan grimaced.

Troops, some from the Cuban military which had no official presence in the country, patrolled the streets in loose groups. Despite the weaponry on display there was no tension in the air. The soldiers grinned and exchanged cigarettes.

“You think if we ask them for some they won’t arrest us for bourgeois imperialism? We’re not Americans after all” Johan asked gesturing towards the Cubans stood idly on the street corner.

“Yeah I’m sure an Afrikaner and a British Kenyan will arouse absolutely no suspicion at all. None whatsoever.” Andrew’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Johan grinned. “You shit on everything y’know that Dodsworth?”

The car continued to drive, passing through lanes of traffic, civilians mingling with tanks and jeeps to form an impression of an orderly city. The car, continued for several minutes more, the otherwise mute driver humming to the tinned sounds emanating from the car’s ancient radio.

They arrived on the outskirts of the city, where the cramped high rises and colonial hold overs began to give way to countryside. The car turned off the motorway and began to drive along a dust road, occasionally hitting the odd pothole.

“They’re not paying us enough for this shit man!” Johan shouted over the din as the car revved at full throttle, which by Andrew’s calculations was around 30 miles per hour.

The car shuddered to a halt outside the compound, a Portuguese villa replete with palm trees, armed guards and a bell tower. They were greeted by a hulk of man, who gripped Andrew’s hand in a vice.

“Welcome gentlemen! This house used to belong to a Portuguese gentleman but since he vacated the premises it’s been my home.” He gestured for them to follow him. “I’m Henrique. I’ve arranged for you to meet with Alves”. His English was impeccable, Andrew noted, though the accent was international. He wondered if like Savimbi, Henrique had been educated in the international revolutionary finishing school of Switzerland. “But the meeting will not be until tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, tomorrow Andrew thought. Everything in Angola was tomorrow.
 
An Implicit Threat of Violence
May 10 1977

Alves was a bundle of nervous energy, sitting at the wooden table in a comrade’s kitchen his hands eagerly punctuating the air. He spoke fast and at length. The meeting was off the record, but Andrew noted Henrique’s discomfort as he made notes. Van-Dunem sat off to the side, occasionally checking his watch.

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Nito Alves

“The problem we have here is that there is a strong belief that the revolution we must build can only succeed if it is steered by Neto in the path of his choosing. The government… has not been radical enough to push through what we need.”

It was hard to believe Alves was only 32 Andrew mused as he continued to write extensive notes.

“The wheels of power still have the hands of the old elites upon them”, Alves continued warming to his theme. “What Angola needs, is for the revolution to continue upon its original path, and not merely be steered by those who do not share its goals.”

Andrew paused and glanced at Johan. That sounded suspiciously like an attack on Neto.

“Are you suggesting that there should be a change of leadership?” Andrew asked, his mouth dry. He felt nervous.

“Perhaps.” Alves glanced at Van-Dunem who remained silent. “We have seen the old men of yesterday continue to meddle in the affairs of our country. Those who profited from the Portuguese and continue to profit now. It is an affront to the struggle of the black man for liberation!” His eyes were gleaming with energy.

That cut short the meeting, as Henrique gestured to his watch. Andrew, stood up slightly uneasily and briefly shook the hands of both Alves and Van-Dunem.

As they left he glanced at Johan, before lighting a cigarette.

“Something very nasty is brewing here. I’m not entirely sure we want to be in the middle of it.”

Johan nodded.

They said nothing on the drive back to the hotel, their silence punctuated only by the car’s music.

The threat of violence hung implicit in the air, as the car swerved through the crowded streets. He looked at the tickets in his hand. Lusaka was only an hour or two away.

That thought at least comforted him.
 
Interlude
26 May 1977

Andrew hated Luanda.

Hated it with a feeling that far outstripped his feelings on most things. And yet here he was again in the name of journalistic integrity. Or a pay check. He hadn’t decided which one was a better way to justify the return to himself.

Alves and Van Dunem had been arrested four days ago and that was the new reason for him to be here. So, his fixers had told him. He wasn’t surprised: those two were men possessed of a seriously unnerving energy. The details hadn’t been reported to the foreign press, and he doubted he’d be given credentials to liaise with the local state press. Not that they’d tell him anything unofficially. He was a foreign agent as far as they knew.

He sipped on the tasteless beer that had been planted in front of him by the sour waiter and waited for the temperature to cool so he could head into the centre. It might be a while he mused and that idiot Afrikaner still hadn’t shown his face.

Fuck it he thought and lit a cigarette.

The centre of Luanda was quiet. No traffic, barely any troops present. He felt suspicious of how quiet it was. Bored he headed down to the beach and sat at the bar, contemplating whether they had scotch. Previous experiences in the Warsaw Bloc had proven otherwise (unless you counted that paint stripper they served in Bucharest which he didn’t), but it was either drink to while away the hours or stay in the hotel room with the one official state TV channel for company.

He was here for a month.

He hoped to find a healthier way to while away the time.
 
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