I grew up in Canada with the firm belief that borders were sacrosanct. You couldn’t treat them lightly. Then I moved to Africa… Namibia, specifically. My teaching post was about 10 kilometres south of the Angolan border.
The first friday that I was there, I got taken out drinking by my co-workers. We went to a shebeen (bar) in the middle of a forest, about halfway between our school and the Angolan border. There we met up with a larger group, including one very friendly giant of a man (I’ve lost his name now, sorry). On his arm was a scar from a recent cut of some kind, a very long and thin cut, as if from a knife.
He offered to smuggle me into Angola to see where his friend had been killed by Angolan police -- right then. The border between Angola and Namibia isn't open at night, and even if it was, my passport was safely locked away somewhere else.
He wasn't going to listen to my objections, telling me not to worry. READ ON