After two weeks it was time for us to leave Malawi. We enjoyed our stay in the country, and on the whole, found the people very genuine and friendly. As an example, one taxi driver went to top-up his mobile for us to make a call (no-one ever has credit here) and I gave him a dollar for the top-up. “But I only put 50 cents on” he mused. I told him to keep the extra for his honesty.

It was a different story when we arrived in Zambia, after a long day of travelling. We left Lilongwe in the usual packed minibus and endured the two hour journey to the last town in Malawi before the border, then took the obligatory taxi to the immigration post. After receiving our exit stamp, we asked the immigration office where we could change our Malawi Kwacha for Zambia Kwacha, wanting to do everything ‘properly’.

“There is no forex bureau, only a black market”, he replied, and added “You need to go to the men outside”. “But isn’t that illegal?” I questioned carefully. “Of course, but it is the only way”. Still not convinced that we weren’t going to be arrested and imprisoned, or at least extorted for a bribe, we asked a police officer the same question. After receiving the same answer, we decided there was little choice (we needed the Zambian money to get transport from the other side of the border). Dave wandered over to the twelve money changing men who all offered the same rate (why so many of them and no competition?) and completed the transaction. We then made our way to the Zambian immigration, where they charged us $150 for the priviledge of entering the country.

From the border our plan was to catch a shared taxi to the first town, Chipata, and stay the night. A local lady in the immigration queue behind us asked us to wait, so we could all go together. Unlike most women who wear very traditional clothes, she was dressed in a fluorescent pink cropped jacket, jeans, a funky hat worthy of any fashionista and large hooped earnings. This should have set our alarm bells ringing immediately, but we tend to be less suspicious of the women folk then men here. She politely asked all the usual questions about our trip and told us that she was returning to Zambia after visiting Malawi on business. “Oh, what business?” Dave inquired, always happy to chat to a business person. I was convinced she was a hairdresser, she looked the type. Looking around shiftily she leaned in and whispered “Emeralds”. Neither of us quite caught this muffled exchange and looked at each other, puzzled. “Emeralds” she repeated, which prompted Dave to glance down at her handbag and tease “Not in there I hope!”. “No”, she laughed. “but I don’t tell everyone because it’s risky”.

Feeling slightly uneasy about her keenness for us to go in a taxi with her and her drunk/drugged/psycho? male friend we piled into the cab and kept our hands on the door handles, ready to jump out should it become necessary. After 200m the driver pulled off the main road and drove down a short dirt track. “Why are we stopping?” we protested. “We’re just collecting some things” chirped the lady in pink. “What things?” I asked suspiciously. She turned round from the front seat to explain.

“When we bring goods from Malawi across the border, we have to pay money at customs” she explained. “So what we do is use bikes on the road behind the immigration post so we don’t pay money”. “So the goods are illegal?” I summized. “YES!” she enthused, glad I understood so quickly. Now it made sense why she was desperate to share a taxi with us: several taxi drivers have told us that the police at check points are less likely to search cars carrying white people, as they don’t want to put tourists off visiting the country.

Despite Dave initially ordering me out of the car at this revelation we had to give in and ride out the 25km to Chipata. Taxis were our only option, and all of them seemed to be stopping at this smuggling station.

What a welcome to Zambia, and the illegal shenanigans didn’t stop there…