Purgatory Adjacent
Since my mom is reading this (and likely only my mom), I’ll start with the lead - as you read this I’m on a plane back to England, or soon will be. Which beats an african jail, where we nearly ended up. I wish that I could say I'm not speaking literally.
The rest. My old research assistant and I have been trying to find our way over to Angola for a while now. His group and my Tjimba guys speak of it in glowing terms but actually getting there is difficult, primarily just crossing the border. Angola is legendarily corrupt, and unless you know somebody, you’re looking to get shaken down by the cops in every town you come to. So, first order of business: find somebody to know.
Which we did, with surprising ease. Turns out one of my old friends here has a neighbor, John, who does business in Angola, indeed just the very obscure part of Angola we want to see. The north is full of Americans (oil guys mostly) and is the most expensive place on earth right now to tour. I’m not making this up - in the capital city, a shitty hotel room with no shower will run you 1500 bucks a night. American. Worse than London, way worse than Tokyo or Moscow. And you’ll have to be driven everywhere with armed guards. No way to live, that, but the south is supposed to be beautiful, cheap, and easy to traverse - if you know somebody.
Turns out John knows everyone, and over beer at his place, he give us chapter and verse on how to cross the border, get places, and whom to talk to when we get there. He set us up with contacts who are always looking for new friends, and who know everybody who is anybody. We couldn’t have been luckier in this - it’s a golden ticket to just the region we wanted to poke around.
We have one caveat - the police are pretty autonomous there, and get in dutch with them, John warns us, and even he and his friends might have trouble getting us out. This is usually easy enough to deal with as the police will be wary of shaking you down if your papers are in order and, most importantly, you have a local with you. Other than that, expect trouble. No problem for us - John sets us up to meet a friend of his at the border.
I should point out that I should have been more suspicious at this point as things were going altogether too well up till now. Not that we hadn’t had our setbacks. My passport was held up at the Angolan embassy in Washington until the day before I was supposed to leave. But it arrived, right in the nick of time and off I went. After we got the truck from the farm where I store it (with friends), we were driving around when my transmission fluid started pissing onto the ground. But we were only a few short miles from my mechanic and it turned out to be nothing - a hose came off. Danie put it back on, refilled the fluid and we’re back in business. Same thing happened a week later with the power steering system - little hose, easily fixed. I should have known it wouldn't all be this easy.
So we headed up to the border feeling confident. We have a choice of 3 border posts but the one we want is the least developed - it’s not on the way any big cities, it’s quiet, and John knows guys there in immigration. Our contact won’t be at the border to meet us but he’ll be waiting at his farm, to which we have directions.
Things go pear-shaped right from the beginning. We roll up the Namibian border and there is a building with the usual guards lounging out front, and a drop down barrier that isn’t dropped down. I stop the car. The guards decline to venture out of the shade and wave us though. I … throw up my hands to ask, really? They wave more emphatically. I and my companions decide that this can’t be the actual border - this must be some sort of outbuilding, maybe for commercial vehicles. So we roll on, and we’re presented with two alternatives. The road ahead looks like an access road, probably leading nowhere. The one to the right has a sign that says Angola and goes through a nice gate. We’re going to Angola so we turn right. Into Angola.
Right away everyone is up in arms, some quite literally. Apparently our arrival sparks a fierce debate although at this point we have no idea why. It does become apparent that a crazy guy with a gold tooth in civilian clothes is yelling at us to go back, now. An Angolan police man looks tentative, but tells us to drive up the road and park. The argument roils but Joe, our interpreter figures out enough of what’s going on to tell me to ignore everything and drive back, now. I didn’t know until later but the Angolan police guy is telling his immigration people to shut up and his colleagues to lower the boom and trap us on the Angolan side. Before they can decide whether to go along with this, I putter back across the border into Namibia.
Good thing. Gold Tooth has followed us back, and is still yelling, as much at us as the Angolan cop, who is also here and suggesting we go back to Angola to straighten this out. Uh, no thanks. I only start to catch on what happened when the Namibian guards who waved us on immediately start to insist, loudly and repeatedly, that they asked us where we were going and we told them ‘to the falls’, which is utterly untrue. But there it is - the road that looks like an utility road actually goes to an overlook, which you don’t need to clear the Namibian border to go visit. The guards insist that we said we were going there and then turned into Angola without getting cleared from Namibia. This is serious shit - we were never cleared to leave Namibia, a necessary condition for entering Angola.
The Namibians are a bit miffed but Gold Tooth is highly animated, and it dawns on me that he just saved our necks. The quiet Angolan cop who seemed like he was trying to be helpful was actually trying to strand us. Apparently his suggestion was that we leave the car on the Angolan side, walk back and get our papers stamped, then walk back. After it becomes apparent that we are certainly not going back over, he walks back through the gate. The Namibian border guys assure us that, had we gone back, we would most certainly have been detained. We decide to call it a day, camp on this side, and call John for advice.
As I describe what happened, he whistles through his teeth. He says we very narrowly missed certain arrest, and a ‘huge fucking bribe’ that would have had to change hands, eventually, for our release. Turns out that our biggest problem was the sheer ambiguity of the situation. Whether or not we were allowed into Angola is the provenance of Angolan immigration, who are only empowered to tell us to leave Angola, and did. The cops, on the other hand, have no position here except for the fact that we were (by little or no fault of our own - we did what we were told) actually in Angola illegally. Christmas for bastards in uniform, who would likely have demanded far more than the grand or so of American money I have secreted about my person to clear up the matter. We’d have spent the intervening time in a cell not unlike the one our interpreter’s uncle occupied for a few weeks, a narrow dank passage with a hole in one end for a toilet. We’d have little recourse, as there was no way the Namibian border guards would ever admit that the whole thing happened because they were too goddamn lazy to get up out of the shade. The fact that it was all a misunderstanding would have availed us not at all, and John goes to some length to explain the potential gravity of the situation.
We make arrangements to smooth things over, in this case meaning that John will contact a friend who is the chief of police for the region, who can hopefully tell the border guys that we are not folks to be fucked with. But that’s for the future. As I write this, I’m back in Windhoek, soon to head off to England for a week of good beer and bad weather. Narrow miss, this one, but the good guys got away, again, and I’m gonna push my luck again, not right away. As any good dominatrix would tell you, you should know when you are beaten. My old research assistant passed the border at another crossing, with the usual hassle but without further incident. By the time he crosses again at our first border post, everything should be in order and all should be well. But when I get home, pretty sure the Bood will follow through on her threat to make me learn one phrase perfect in Portuguese: “My wife will not pay the ransom”.
Oh, and this story has already had a knock-on effect. I was buying jewelry this afternoon and talking to the wife on the phone, having woken her up if truth be told. I mentioned that this was a far better use of money than ‘bailing me out of an Angolan prison’ when the sales folk froze, instantly regretting having set riches before me on a velvet cloth.
“Almost happened - didn’t”, I assured them. A look of relief failed to cross either of their faces.
Oh, and good things also happened on this trip. I’ll post pictures when I can.
The rest. My old research assistant and I have been trying to find our way over to Angola for a while now. His group and my Tjimba guys speak of it in glowing terms but actually getting there is difficult, primarily just crossing the border. Angola is legendarily corrupt, and unless you know somebody, you’re looking to get shaken down by the cops in every town you come to. So, first order of business: find somebody to know.
Which we did, with surprising ease. Turns out one of my old friends here has a neighbor, John, who does business in Angola, indeed just the very obscure part of Angola we want to see. The north is full of Americans (oil guys mostly) and is the most expensive place on earth right now to tour. I’m not making this up - in the capital city, a shitty hotel room with no shower will run you 1500 bucks a night. American. Worse than London, way worse than Tokyo or Moscow. And you’ll have to be driven everywhere with armed guards. No way to live, that, but the south is supposed to be beautiful, cheap, and easy to traverse - if you know somebody.
Turns out John knows everyone, and over beer at his place, he give us chapter and verse on how to cross the border, get places, and whom to talk to when we get there. He set us up with contacts who are always looking for new friends, and who know everybody who is anybody. We couldn’t have been luckier in this - it’s a golden ticket to just the region we wanted to poke around.
We have one caveat - the police are pretty autonomous there, and get in dutch with them, John warns us, and even he and his friends might have trouble getting us out. This is usually easy enough to deal with as the police will be wary of shaking you down if your papers are in order and, most importantly, you have a local with you. Other than that, expect trouble. No problem for us - John sets us up to meet a friend of his at the border.
I should point out that I should have been more suspicious at this point as things were going altogether too well up till now. Not that we hadn’t had our setbacks. My passport was held up at the Angolan embassy in Washington until the day before I was supposed to leave. But it arrived, right in the nick of time and off I went. After we got the truck from the farm where I store it (with friends), we were driving around when my transmission fluid started pissing onto the ground. But we were only a few short miles from my mechanic and it turned out to be nothing - a hose came off. Danie put it back on, refilled the fluid and we’re back in business. Same thing happened a week later with the power steering system - little hose, easily fixed. I should have known it wouldn't all be this easy.
So we headed up to the border feeling confident. We have a choice of 3 border posts but the one we want is the least developed - it’s not on the way any big cities, it’s quiet, and John knows guys there in immigration. Our contact won’t be at the border to meet us but he’ll be waiting at his farm, to which we have directions.
Things go pear-shaped right from the beginning. We roll up the Namibian border and there is a building with the usual guards lounging out front, and a drop down barrier that isn’t dropped down. I stop the car. The guards decline to venture out of the shade and wave us though. I … throw up my hands to ask, really? They wave more emphatically. I and my companions decide that this can’t be the actual border - this must be some sort of outbuilding, maybe for commercial vehicles. So we roll on, and we’re presented with two alternatives. The road ahead looks like an access road, probably leading nowhere. The one to the right has a sign that says Angola and goes through a nice gate. We’re going to Angola so we turn right. Into Angola.
Right away everyone is up in arms, some quite literally. Apparently our arrival sparks a fierce debate although at this point we have no idea why. It does become apparent that a crazy guy with a gold tooth in civilian clothes is yelling at us to go back, now. An Angolan police man looks tentative, but tells us to drive up the road and park. The argument roils but Joe, our interpreter figures out enough of what’s going on to tell me to ignore everything and drive back, now. I didn’t know until later but the Angolan police guy is telling his immigration people to shut up and his colleagues to lower the boom and trap us on the Angolan side. Before they can decide whether to go along with this, I putter back across the border into Namibia.
Good thing. Gold Tooth has followed us back, and is still yelling, as much at us as the Angolan cop, who is also here and suggesting we go back to Angola to straighten this out. Uh, no thanks. I only start to catch on what happened when the Namibian guards who waved us on immediately start to insist, loudly and repeatedly, that they asked us where we were going and we told them ‘to the falls’, which is utterly untrue. But there it is - the road that looks like an utility road actually goes to an overlook, which you don’t need to clear the Namibian border to go visit. The guards insist that we said we were going there and then turned into Angola without getting cleared from Namibia. This is serious shit - we were never cleared to leave Namibia, a necessary condition for entering Angola.
The Namibians are a bit miffed but Gold Tooth is highly animated, and it dawns on me that he just saved our necks. The quiet Angolan cop who seemed like he was trying to be helpful was actually trying to strand us. Apparently his suggestion was that we leave the car on the Angolan side, walk back and get our papers stamped, then walk back. After it becomes apparent that we are certainly not going back over, he walks back through the gate. The Namibian border guys assure us that, had we gone back, we would most certainly have been detained. We decide to call it a day, camp on this side, and call John for advice.
As I describe what happened, he whistles through his teeth. He says we very narrowly missed certain arrest, and a ‘huge fucking bribe’ that would have had to change hands, eventually, for our release. Turns out that our biggest problem was the sheer ambiguity of the situation. Whether or not we were allowed into Angola is the provenance of Angolan immigration, who are only empowered to tell us to leave Angola, and did. The cops, on the other hand, have no position here except for the fact that we were (by little or no fault of our own - we did what we were told) actually in Angola illegally. Christmas for bastards in uniform, who would likely have demanded far more than the grand or so of American money I have secreted about my person to clear up the matter. We’d have spent the intervening time in a cell not unlike the one our interpreter’s uncle occupied for a few weeks, a narrow dank passage with a hole in one end for a toilet. We’d have little recourse, as there was no way the Namibian border guards would ever admit that the whole thing happened because they were too goddamn lazy to get up out of the shade. The fact that it was all a misunderstanding would have availed us not at all, and John goes to some length to explain the potential gravity of the situation.
We make arrangements to smooth things over, in this case meaning that John will contact a friend who is the chief of police for the region, who can hopefully tell the border guys that we are not folks to be fucked with. But that’s for the future. As I write this, I’m back in Windhoek, soon to head off to England for a week of good beer and bad weather. Narrow miss, this one, but the good guys got away, again, and I’m gonna push my luck again, not right away. As any good dominatrix would tell you, you should know when you are beaten. My old research assistant passed the border at another crossing, with the usual hassle but without further incident. By the time he crosses again at our first border post, everything should be in order and all should be well. But when I get home, pretty sure the Bood will follow through on her threat to make me learn one phrase perfect in Portuguese: “My wife will not pay the ransom”.
Oh, and this story has already had a knock-on effect. I was buying jewelry this afternoon and talking to the wife on the phone, having woken her up if truth be told. I mentioned that this was a far better use of money than ‘bailing me out of an Angolan prison’ when the sales folk froze, instantly regretting having set riches before me on a velvet cloth.
“Almost happened - didn’t”, I assured them. A look of relief failed to cross either of their faces.
Oh, and good things also happened on this trip. I’ll post pictures when I can.