Rummaging through the Rasta’s suitcase, determined to find something that would warrant the amount of attention they were paying him, one of the custom’s officers pulled out a roach (not the insect). As he held it up to his face, wanting, along with his colleagues, to examine it further, the tall and slim dreadlocked man, wearing a white wrap on his head, seemed to be attempting to explain himself. The officers didn’t appear to be convinced by his words and quickly escorted him off the platform, where many of the other passengers were standing, into a back room.
While the Rasta, and I assume his belongings, were undergoing intense examination in some dingy office, a short and stalky officer pointed at the man that I was conversing with demanding to see his luggage. Forced to obey the officer’s wishes, the two bus drivers with the help of the targeted man, who happened to also have dreads, dug out the large suitcase and placed it down on the platform. After not finding anything incriminating in the man’s possessions, all passengers were ordered back on the bus. Many travellers, me included, did not have our effects inspected.
Border crossing, to me, is often the most frustrating part of any journey. After observing far too many instances of border officers practically bullying travellers and being involved in some of my own border disputes, I’ve developed a slight disdain for not only the notion of borders but the armed men and women who apparently keep them safe (I understand that everybody needs to work, but if you’re job involves tyrannizing people it’s hard for me to respect you).
So when we were finally allowed to drive out of South African territory and enter Namibia, some ten seconds later, I wasn’t in the best of moods. Listening to the seated officers press decent human beings for answers to questions that don’t or shouldn’t determine whether a person has the legal right to enter a country, began to frustrate me (I should mention that it was 2am and I hadn’t eaten since noon).
“How come you don’t have a contact person?” a well groomed officer asked me, his tone undoubtedly accusatory. “Because I don’t know anybody in Namibia,” I answered, swiftly. He clearly understood my response but still asked why I didn’t know anybody in Namibia. Knowing that I would get nowhere by being rude, I calmly explained that I’m just backpacking around Africa.
Looking down at my passport, he decided to inquire about my contacts in Canada. “You mean, you really want me to give you the name and number of someone in Canada?”, I asked, in almost disbelief. Smiling, he said, “Yes, that way if something should happen to you in Namibia we can call them”. (There was something unsettling about his words, but I nonetheless wrote down my mother’s name and telephone number, which I should mention is clearly written in my passport…the same passport that will be on me if anything “should” happen to me.)
A few feet to my left, the Rasta, who I was pleased to see was released from South African customs was being grilled about not having listed an address on his Namibia entry form. “If you don’t have an address you will not be allowed into Namibia,” the female officer declared, angrily.
I happen to be holding a pamphlet for a hostel in Windhoek and wanted to slip it down to him so that he could jot down the address at once. (While being stuck in the middle of nowhere for about three hours, due to mechanical problems, I and him struck up a good conversation about life and the arts so I naturally wanted to help him out). But considering that the officer dealing with me had just stamped my passport, officially allowing me into Namibia, I didn’t think it was wise to show such overt disrespect for a policy that I deem utterly idiotic. I quietly left the room and the Rasta behind.
Ten minutes later, I along with a dozen other passengers were sitting inside Wimpy’s, a fast food chain, eagerly awaiting food. With only one cook in kitchen, the wait was long, but at least we had successfully crossed the Namibian border and closer to our destination: Windhoek. For those of you wondering what happened to the Rasta, he, after much questioning and other forms of scrutiny, that from his description sounded very much like harassment, was allowed into Namibia.