Immigration. Customs. Police. Proceed in this order at all border crossings. First your exit visa, then the vehicle carnet then the police who make sure your vehicle matches the registration. Then entry visas, declare the vehicle, pay road tax, and say hello to the police in the next country. Generally speaking there are stations lined in a row and signage letting you know where to go next. Generally speaking. At least we had the presence of mind to pull over and eat something before we arrived at Chirunda, the bustling Zimbabwean/Zambian one-stop border post, where generalities go out the window.

The Zimbabwean exit official is sitting at a small table behind a knee-high barrier. He is playing a game on his phone. We present our passports and car registration. He is unimpressed. What is this? he says of our legal South African registration document. Where is your book? Who is this car owned by? Where is your police certificate? He is belligerent unlike any other border personnel we’ve dealt with.

Book? We have no book. Nor do we have a police certificate which is bad, but we aren’t going back to South Africa for it. Do we need a certificate? The official insists we do. After going round and round it is decided to physically check the VIN numbers against the registration. Officers crawl beneath the truck in their nice clothes and at last the identity of the truck is confirmed. No one asks about the mysterious “book” again.

And on it goes; the Temporary Import Permit (TIP) has expired – it is a $25 per day fine. We tell them we have no dollars. Is a credit card ok? We are sent to a woman who puts down her phone and says “What am I going to do?”  We stand there silent. After a time she officially stamps the TIP, no fine issued. The Zambian customs inspector incorrectly stamps the carnet. The visa official sneezes all over our passports. The Road Tax office is behind a door that says Staff Only – so much for directional signage. Finally, three hours later and with the help of an agent we are in Zambia. There is no brightly painted boom gate to welcome us, only a long line of 18-wheel trucks. We make a plan never to return to Chirunda.