June 22 1999
We spent the night in a hotel in Lilongwe, Malawi.My boss, my wife, and myself, were operating a motorcycle tour with clients consisting of rich Americans, and Germans. The 14 day tour had started in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. So far we had gone through Zimbabwe, Mozambique, and Malawi. Tomorrow the tour would continue on to Zambia, Victoria Falls, then back to Bulawayo. We owned 16 BMW motorcycles. This tour was one of many different motorcycle tours we did yearly throughout Africa.
My main job was as mechanic/tour guide, and I would usually ride the lead bike. My wife drove behind everyone in an SUV towing a trailer with all the baggage, spare parts, and a spare motorcycle. No client was allowed to pass the lead bike, and my wife never drove past any client. So they were theoretically always between the two of us. On this tour we had 14 clients. Normally one lead bike can handle about 10 clients, so for this tour my boss was also riding a motorcycle.
The day before us, was to be a long one. Almost 600 miles of riding, from Lilongwe, Malawi to Lusaka, Zambia on a very bad road. We had had problems before on previous tours with the border post that is located between Mchinji in Malawi and Chipata in Zambia. So we decided that I would leave the hotel very early in the morning with all the motorcycle and car papers. I would try to be first in line at the border post and start the customs and immigration procedures. The tour would arrive at the border post much later, after a big, leisurely breakfast at the hotel. I should already have all the paperwork done by the time they arrive.
We spent lots of time trying to figure out how to break up this long riding day into to two shorter days. There is a run down “hotel” in a small town called Katchicola about halfway between Lusaka and Lilongwe. It rents rooms by the hour for truck drivers and must be one of the major spreaders of HIV/AIDs in Africa. We looked into buying the “hotel” and fixing it up with the main use being for our motorcycles tours to spend the night.
It turned out we couldn't buy the hotel because it was supposed to become a Zambian National Monument or something like that. Apparently when Livingston was “discovering” Africa back in the 1860s, he had stayed at the Katchicola Hotel. The Portuguese had settled that area almost a hundred years before the English decided to discover it. This meant the number of people we would have to bribe to get this done would be much more than we had expected. I love Africa with it's bribery and corruption. If a man is dishonest or corrupt, I can always make a plan to get something done. The worst people to deal with are the honest, stupid ones.
So we ended up with a long day of riding, trying to get the tour to Lusaka before it got dark.
It was early morning, and still dark when I left the hotel, astride a BMW 1100GS headed for the border post. I arrived there just at day break, and was confronted with a long line of cars already waiting. I rode down the line of vehicles. Near the front was a cute lady sitting on the hood of her car.
She said she had arrived yesterday morning, and had slept in her car. The Malawian Immigration Officer would not clear anyone until they had cleared Customs, and the Customs guy had stamped their gate pass. But, there was no Malawian Customs Officer present. He had been missing for 2 days.
I went in to talk to the Immigration guy. He seemed to be enjoying the holiday with no people to check because of the lack of Customs Officer to stamp the gate passes. I asked him if there was any way I could make things happen quickly. He said “Yes. Find the Customs Officer”.
When ever I have a problem in rural Africa, I look for a small child. They are often better educated, and speak English better than adults. The Immigration man’s 8 year old son was playing outside. I started talking to him and found out that he knew where the Customs guy lived. He started to explain it to me and I quickly got confused. I then asked the Immigration guy if I could borrow his son to show me where the Customs guy lived. The Immigration guy agreed.
I put the kid on the BMW gas tank, and told him to direct me and hang on tight.
We started off going down a small goat path toward some huts. I think we went that way just so he could show his friends he was on a motorcycle. Then we went down a steep hill and across a small river. Then up a hill, and through some gates. After about 5 kilometers of hills, rivers, and gates, I was totally lost. We eventually came to a small hut in the middle of nowhere, with a lady standing outside. This was the hut where the Customs Officer lived.
The boy asked the lady where her husband was. She started yelling and ranting. The kid translated. The man hadn’t been home for 2 nights. She had no idea where he might be, but wanted to kill him, because he had been paid a few days earlier, and she had seen nothing of the money.
Now I was out of ideas, but the kid smiled and pointed forward.
We started off again, going through fields and streams, mostly following foot paths. I was thankful I was on an on/off road BMW. We cut through a herd of cows, and about 15 minutes later we stopped at a hut. Out comes a very old man. This man is the father of the Customs Officer. He talked to the kid for a bit. The kid says that the old man’s teenage daughter knows where the Customs Officer is right now. So the kid gets off the bike, and the girl gets on. She is to big to fit on the gas tank, so she sits behind me, and hangs on tight.
We power through a rough corn field and then go bouncing along a foot path for about 10 minutes, then onto a goat path that by now felt like a freeway. Finally we come to a small hut with half a roof. She goes inside, and comes back out with a naked guy, and two partly dressed women. She says that this man is her brother, the Customs Officer.
The girl explains that I am trying to clear Customs so I can continue my journey. In English, he says “Hand me your gate pass, and I will sign it right here”. I told him there were many people waiting at the border post. He grumbled and tells me to tell them, that he will be there as soon as he can.
I suggested that he ride with me as it will be faster. He says he was not wanting to leave the women, and not happy to ride on a motorcycle. He seemed nervous, and I felt he was making excuses. After much discussion, it turns out that his Official Customs rubber stamp and his Uniform are at his house with his wife, and he did not want to go there. He still had some money left over from his pay. We now had to figure out a way to get him and his rubber stamp to the Border post, to start clearing all those people.
We came up with a plan.
He would give some money to his Sister. I would then drop her off at her Father's place, and pick up the kid. Then the kid and I would go to the Custom guy's wife and tell her that the money was at her Father in Law's house. While she was walking to her Father in Law's house to get the money, the kid and I would go back to the half roofless shack, and get the Customs guy. We would altogether ride back to his house, get his Official Rubber Stamp and his uniform. We would then go to the border post.
That plan was a good one, and about an hour later I arrived at the border post with the kid on the gas tank and the Customs guy in his uniform behind me clutching his rubber stamp. Both were hanging on very tight.
The cute lady was there and suggested that since she and I were used to the Customs and Immigration forms, we should start doing them for all the people that had been waiting for so long.
We set up an assembly line, and as people came through the door, they would give me their Customs papers, and I would fill them out, and get the Customs guy to stamp them. They would them go to the cute lady and she would fill out the Immigration forms, and get them stamped by the Immigration Officer. Then they would drive away across the border to do Zambian Custom and Immigration.
With writers cramp in my hand, we finally did the last person in the line, and the only car left was the cute lady’s. We did her papers, and as we started doing all of my motorcycle papers, the kid brought us some coffee. We walked outside and I started to sip my coffee.
Then along came my boss and all the tour bikes, followed by my wife. They all park and my boss and my wife walk up to me. My wife asks if I am all done with the motorcycle papers. I tell her I haven’t started yet.
They tell me how useless I am and how they have been busy with clients all morning, and here I sit drinking coffee with a cute lady, and haven’t even started the forms. The cute lady smiles, and walks away. My wife then picks up all the papers saying she will have to do everything herself because I can’t do anything right.
I sigh, and like a good husband say “Yes Dear”.
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