Travelling through East and Southern Africa, in the good old days, when everyone was exchanging currency on the black market, made for amusing times at border crossings.
You’d show up at some dusty, sleepy frontier post and the border guards/customs guys would turn out all your stuff onto the ground, and lesiurely go through it. It was all very good natured, with ciagarettes offered, and cups of tea. They knew you had undeclared money, you knew that they knew there was a stash of cash somewhere; the cat-and-mouse game was to find it.
They’d open letters, unfold clothes, poke around the toilet kit, flip through books page by page, scratch their heads, laugh, smoke a cigarette and then have another go. No one was ever in a hurry. You’d patiently sit in the sun, drink chai if it was on offer, and chat with the soldiers. In the end they’d get fed up and begrudgingly let you and you undiscovered cash go.
My trick was to rubber band my cash around the stays of my internal frame back pack. Other people used the crown of their caps, or carefully made incisions in the lumbar pads of their packs and stuffed money there. In the end, I seriously doubt that putting every budget back packer through the same routine was hugely profitable for the border guys. To be sure, they’d have pocketed anything they found, but after a while you realized that the ritual in itself was the only diversion to a very tedious assignment manning a border post in the sun baked middle of no where.
But then again, there were the less convivial times, when 13 year old war- orphan soliders, chewing narcotic twigs, would level kalashnikovs at you, demand your passport, and gaze at the writing upside down, through doped out bloodshot eyes that still held a hint of youthful innocent curiosity. Sometimes you’d get a shy smile as they passed back your papers, other times they’d nick something ridiculous like an old ball point pen, an airmail envelope, or a half used tube of toothpaste. And you’d wonder, always, if you’d get through the shake down, or if you’d get popped - on the spot. There were always stories, of recent vintage, on the travellers grapevine, of gruesome endings to chance encounters with soilders and police.