Marie Claire UK
August 2003
By Joseph Fiennes

Shakespeare In Love actor Joseph Fiennes travels to Angola, and discovers a country full of courageous and passionate people, in spite of 27 years of civil war and deprivation. Here is his diary of an extraordinary trip.

I have to confess that if, in the past, I have ever thought about oil at all, it was only when filling up my car, and I was only concerned about the cost – to me. Like most of us, I suspect, I thought it was too expensive and that it caused pollution. And that’s about it. Then I was invited by relief agency Christian Aid to go to oil-producing but poverty-stricken Angola to see how, despite the country’s resources, millions are living in poverty. Now I think about oil all the time. I was briefed by a team of experts, some of whom had been working in Angola for ten years and had witnessed first-hand its civil war – which only ended in April 2002 and which had, until now, formed the basis of my knowledge of the country. Surely oil should mean some wealth for the people of Angola?
What I learned before I got there was shocking enough: Angola is an oil-producing country with untold wealth, but whose main population is terribly poor; where oil wealth lines the pockets of the few while two-thirds of the people have no clean water; whose capital, Luanda, is thought to be the second most expensive city in the world, but whose children stand a one in three chance of dying before the age of five.
I need to find out why and, like a script, bring the facts to life. And I’m pleased with the ‘new part’ that I have landed: that of representing a development charity. I find myself unprepared, however, for what I am about to discover.

DAY ONE: SATURDAY, 26 APRIL
4.30am, Luanda
Arrive after nine-hour flight from London with a team from Christian Aid, a BBC film crew and Marie Claire’s photographer, Harriet. Feel quite rested, as I managed to grab a few hours sleep on the British Airways flight. It’s very dark, hot and muggy. In the immigration queue, we pass around mosquito repellent at great speed as the insects dance around our heads and legs. I stand quietly, excited at the prospect of the unknown. When I step outside, a sound cuts me to the core: an Angolan woman is met off the plane by a group of wailing women. She is carrying a heart-shaped wreath made of paper flowers. It’s clear she has arrived for the funeral of a loved one. Perhaps I should not have been so shocked – in Angola, the average life expectancy is only 47 years.
6am We hit the lobby of the hotel. The cool air is like a long-lost friend. I crash out.
10am I go walkabout. Luanda has chaotic traffic and is busy with the hustle of selling. The staple food is cassava (tapioca), but stalls also sell stews of chicken and fish. The smell of rubbish intermingles with delicious aromas of baked bread and fish heads frying in pans by the side of the road.
Noon Lunch at the Hotel Continental, where we’re staying, takes 30 minutes to arrive, and is a typically Angolan mix of meat (presented as ‘cow’) and eggs, with cabbage and rice.
2pm On the streets again. It is immediately apparent that Luanda is a city of contradictions. The centre curls round a beautiful bay; it’s a jumble of faded colonial buildings pressed up against crumbling tower blocks and shanty towns. Smart restaurants are everywhere, but so are men and boys with arms or legs missing – a legacy of the war and landmines that have engulfed the country for a generation.
6pm Evening is spent in the hotel restaurant planning the week ahead. I hear an Angolan joke, which helps to explain what we are about to see: when God was creating Africa, he gave Angola wealth beyond its wildest dreams. When the other African countries asked God why, he said, ‘Wait till you see their leaders.’

DAY TWO: SUNDAY, 27 APRIL
9am We head off to the Miramar district, where the extremely rich work and live. I can only really describe it as a million-dollar-mile: it’s full of embassies, private mansions hiding behind high concrete walls, palm trees and manicured gardens that overlook the impressive port.
1pm I walk across the road and suddenly, I’m looking down over a sea of corrugated roofs nestled in the hillside. The juxtaposition of slums and elegant mansions with armed guards is disconcerting. Harriet is taking pictures of a boy playing with a kite when, suddenly, a policeman appears, yelling a warning not to photograph ‘those shit houses, only the nice ones’.
2pm As we walk around in the searing 40°C heat, I’m constantly impressed by the women’s ability to carry huge baskets of bread, fish and even ice cream on their heads with great skill and elegance. They also manage to carry water in huge plastic containers; a vital skill in Angola, because over two-thirds of the population don’t have access to clean water. Most inhabitants of the shanty towns have to buy it in buckets or bags at great cost from private dealers – something I’m due to witness tomorrow.
3pm On our way to the beach, we see a broken mains pipe that is pumping out water. Young men are using this free supply to wash; it’s the first clean water they’ve seen in months. One of them has a leg missing, another is covered in suppurating wounds. We talk with them about their lives; they have no education, no jobs and not enough food. They know that oil money comes into the country, but it is failing to meet even the fundamental human needs of the people. Angolans such as these are passionate and intelligent, but unless local groups can campaign successfully for change, I see no outlet for their energy.
4pm The beach is hot, dusty, full of family noise, smells of barbecues, music and the buzz of youth. I’m reminded that, because of the 27 years of civil war, almost half of Angola’s population of 13 million is under fifteen.
It’s a Sunday ritual here at the beach, full of community enjoying the sun and sea, just having fun. But, on the horizon, through the heat haze, the oil tankers loom lazily.
8pm Early to bed, with the Christian Aid report on oil and poverty as bedtime reading.

DAY THREE: MONDAY, 28 APRIL
6.30am, Sambizanga, A Shanty Town in Luanda
An early start in the relative cool (about the same as midday on a hot English summer’s day) to meet Doris Campos, who works with Development Workshop, a non-profit organisation funded by Christian Aid. The Workshop has built more than 200 community standpipes to bring water to the overcrowded shanty town we saw yesterday. But the water companies are not supplying enough water through these pipes, and vendors are exploiting this by selling dirty, untreated water from the river in buckets. ‘People are taking profit,’ says Doris, ‘and taking advantage of the shortage of water in this area.’ Meanwhile, the IMF estimates that around £650 million of oil revenue is unaccounted for every year – and presumed to be going to the ruling elite.
11am Doris takes us deep into the slums. We meet 43-yera-old Bella, who has six living children, four who have died, and no husband. She tells us that she had no water for three months, so she is forced to buy untreated water at a higher price from private sellers. Local groups work hard to maintain their communal standpipes, but, often, the supply is cut off by the water company. Bella’s only income comes from cooking brews that help women who have difficulty in giving birth or controlling the number of children they have. I’m intrigued and ask if I might buy some (not that I’m planning a family), but she tells me that my wife must be there. If only she had a line of potions to find me one!
2pm With Jeeps and cameras around, it’s not long before an audience of children gathers. We talk the common language of football and, as I’ve brought my own camera, I give them Polaroids of themselves which, as the picture develops, brings huge excitement and laughter – but not as much as trying to balance a bin of flour on my head. It’s clear that I’m challenged in the neck-muscle department and have crossed the boundaries of work etiquette. (Blokes don’t do this sort of thing, only women carry loads on their heads.)
4pm The spirit and innate courage of the children here will always stay with me. Between the crowded shanty towns and the river, they play barefoot on mass rubbish dumps that smoulder apocalyptically as the adults scavenge for scraps to sell. The rubbish goes straight into the Bengo river, which runs black as oil and is littered with refuse on either bank. The smell is so rank, my body convulses. I watch a group of private tankers picking up water from that same river to sell directly to street vedors. It’s highly likely to be untreated and even to carry dysentery and hepatitis – both of which can be fatal, especially to children and the already weak.
Evening Black clouds cover the skies and a massive storm breaks, reducing the humidity. Droughts in this part of Africa are rare – it’s good to watch clean water pour down from the skies.

DAY FOUR: TUESDAY, 29 APRIL
6am, Waku-Kungo
After a feverish night caused by sunstroke, I set off, drained, to catch a flight from the military base in Luanda to the central highland town of Waku-Kungo. Ernesto Cassinda, of Associação Cristã da Mocidade (the Angolan equivalent of the YMCA), acts as our guide. It’s a 50-minute flight south-east of the city; once we’re looking down on the lush green interior, I realise what a relief it is to leave the chaos of the capital. Touching down, the mountain range is breathtaking.
7am We’re here to visit a compound which, until recently, was home to 1,000 demobilised UNITA soldiers and their families; they are one of the many groups of people stranded after the end of the war. We’re told that the men here could become aggressive, as the government has not yet given them any aid or helped reintegrate them into society. But the mood is far from hostile – they are welcoming and happy to talk. Many children at the compound are suffering from TB and mulnutrition. I talk to 60-year-old Fernando Kotalamba, a father of six and former captain of the UNITA forces, who was at war for 24 years. ‘I’m optimistic,’ he tells me. ‘If not, there is no hope.’ He has named one of his daughters Esperança: ‘Hope’ in Portuguese.
After a lifetime of civil war, most of these families have only ever known conflict. They are now returning to their homes or making their way to Luanda, which has already swollen to eight times its capacity. The government has said it is committed to helping people back to their homes, but the country’s infrastructure has been blown apart by the war – are parts are inaccessible and have no civil administration.
As well as the potential of the people, I’m struck by the potential of the land. Angola is simply God’s garden. As mad as it sounds, it could easily vie for position as a top holiday destination; it’s stunning interior in any other part of the world would be considered a national park. The country has rich, fertile soil and the people possess the right spirit to attract the traveller – once the litter of landmines is cleared. I am reminded that there remains one landmine per member of the population.
2pm On the way back, our Jeep gets stuck in the mud. Harriet, our photographer, turns into a GI Jane, connecting up the towing systems and setting us free. The drivers watch, and I’m not sure if they’re impressed or shocked by a woman taking charge.

DAY FIVE: WEDNESDAY, 30 APRIL
10am, Luanda
This morning, we see a fractured pipe with water gushing from it and people clustered around with buckets. We ask them what they will do with the water, assuming they are collecting it to drink or cook with. Some say they are, but a group of young men tell us they’re collecting it so they can earn money by washing cars – the Mercedes and Land Rovers driven by Luanda’s wealthy few.
2pm Christian Aid invites me to meet Maria; she is 34 and HIV positive. No one can be sure how big the AIDS epidemic will become in Angola; hoards of infected soldiers are returning home every day. What we do know is the AIDS pandemic underpins Africa’s – and Angola’s – problems. Maria’s children found out she was HIV-positive because they heard her talking on the radio; she chooses to speak publicly about her illness to help others and increase awareness of how to avoid HIV. Maria’s eyes sparkle. She wears a white T-shirt with purple sequins spelling ‘vixen’, and speaks eloquently of how she holds back from despair. Her husband died of Aids two years ago; her reason to keep hope is the love of her children. She’s amazingly open about her condition – a brave decision, as so many women with HIV become social outcasts. ‘My strongest support comes from my friends,’ she tells me. ‘Many people have the disease, they are angry, and so pass it on because they don’t want to die alone.’ Her last words as I turn to leave are not to forget her.
5pm, The British Emassy in Luanda
For tea. It’s a protocol visit. The British ambassador and his wife, John and Barbara Thompson, hear we are in Angola and invite us to visit. It’s very polite, very British and a far cry from the world outside the compound gates. We drink Darjeeling poured by an Angolan manservant dressed in a strached jacket trimmed with gold epaulettes.
We talk at length of Angola, by which time we’re ready for something stronger than char. So it’s gin and tonics all round. I warm to John, because he had to translate Shakespeare in Love for a screening at the embassy. But, right now, he has to be excused as he’s off to greet Angolan Prime Minister Fernando Da Piedade Dias dos Santos, who’s back from London, where he’s undergone medical treatment.

DAY SIX: THURSDAY, 1 MAY
9am We meet Ana, a 41-year-old mother of four who has HIV and is weak with malaria. We talk quietly under a mango tree about how she worries for her children; she’s too weak to look after them full-time, so they live with their aunt. Ana is saving what little money she has to buy medicines.
10am We visit the local clinic. It’s small and its pharmacy has next to no stock, so it cannot provide relief to HIV sufferers. Most times they’re sold paracetamol and told it will help. I think of the Angolan prime minister returning from his expensive treatment in London.
Noon At the market, a small youth theatre group is putting on a play to raise awareness of HIV and AIDS. In front of a big audience, they portray with wonderful characterisation typical family members, much to the relish of the audience. As they round off the show, the actors throw condoms into the audience. All dive to get them, some because they’re free, others because they get the impact of the story. But a man beside me throws one back with an expression of contempt on his face that says: ‘There is no such problem.’ The race to educate is going to be hard.
2pm We say our goodbyes and move to the Luanda Sanatorium, which cares for patients with HIV and AIDS. Patients are tested before being admitted; if they are HIV-positive, they’re told they have TB. It is then up to the family to decide whether the patient can handle the truth. Sadly, it’s not uncommon for the family to turn their backs because of the stigma of AIDS.
I meet two patients with full-blown AIDS. Both are women in their twenties, smart and stunningly beautiful. The look in their eyes still haunts me. Nothing has rocked me so far on the trip as much as this. The most frightening thing is that this is the tip of the iceberg.

DAY SEVEN: FRIDAY, 2 MAY
I spend the afternoon at the beach, thinking how full of promise this land is. It’s a real paradox of plenty – a beautiful country with huge potential wealth, but with appalling poverty. The people are fundamentally good and inspiring, but are brutalised and exhausted by years of war and corruption. I’m amazed by the human spirit I’ve found here – the hustle to survive against the odds and the dedication of the aid agency workers. As a friend once said, ‘If you think being small means you can’t make a difference, then you’ve never spent the night with a mosquito.’