A strange land.

It was past 21h00 when I landed. Taking out the initial shock and the tiredness from the trip I didn't felt that bad. I felt lost in a land where the rules and behaviors with which I was raised aren't the norm, where good manners are a rare thing and patience completely alien.
After a few bumps to reach my luggage I finally managed to leave the airport.

Waiting for me was F.F. man of the north with a strong accent, joyful and demanding in the art of proper welcoming’s. As I entered the car I noticed that the windshield was broken, at the time I thought it was bad luck but in time I realized that out of the ordinary is to have it in one piece.

As soon as I reached my new home dinner was already waiting for me, octopus in a size I had never seen and a cold beer to wash it down, afterwards I went to my room, and although F.F. assured me it had been clean thoroughly by the maid, fell short of my expectations, luckily I came prepared and before I went to sleep I gave it a quick fix to make me feel more relaxed.

Cabinda is a strange land, you can easily see traces of wealth and poverty as far as the eye can reach, but it’s a strange poverty, like someone told me here “they prefer to have a top of the line car or an iPhone than a bathroom”.
In the days that followed I had the chance to of doing a bit of sightseeing. I seen houses that multiplied like mice, accommodating people that travelled here to try and earn a bit to eat. I seen new buildings that belong to the government or to governmental institutions, people bathing in rivers with more garbage than water and luxury hotels where the clientele has a lighter shade of skin.

Speaking with the locals is a real challenge, being for what goes in their head or from the slang they use but so far I can’t complain, I feel well received although I know I’ll always be a foreigner to them.
The supermarkets still have a few things, I seen some Nespresso machine, Plasma Tv and lcds as well as tablets. All very expensive I must had but nothing shocked me more than the price of the internet, 200 dollars for what I find acceptable, I guess I have to reevaluate my priorities.

The weather is hot, even now that we’re in the beginning of winter, but the beach isn’t that tempting. We just have to look into the horizon to see the rigs that extract the black gold, leaving some of it spread in the waters that bathe the coast.

I must say the experience is being pleasant but there are things that hurt the soul.

On my first day here they told me the story of a coworker that runed over a little girl that end up dying do to the lack of medical attention, they told me how lucky he is to be alive because in a situation like that if you stop you risk being killed by the surrounding crowd.

I also heard one of the construction managers tell that some of his local workers were taking advantage of a little girl that shouldn’t be more than 13 and the only thing he told them was to “at least clean it with the hose”.
I felt the hair in the back of my neck rise, my fist clenching the fork and I saw myself forced to bury deep down the urge to punch him, bury it down in a black corner of my being.

To live here a part of us has to fall asleep, become numb to the misery and despair that haunts this people, to me Is to leave my mind behind, trying to convince myself that I’m in a movie and nothing of this is real. It’s either that or become crushed by the weight of my own remorse and conscience.