We decided to try out Gautrain this go around. After all, it is conveniently close to our house. When I went to go buy my Gautrain Gold card, however, it took me about 14 tries with my Visa. Credit or Cheque? Budget or Straight? 6 months? 1 year? 2 years? I don’t think I need financing on $11.00, but thank you. Enter PIN. I don’t HAVE a PIN, it’s a credit card! Declined. Canceling Transaction. I gave up and just paid the 241 ZAR with three 100 ZAR notes. Change given only in coins flashed up, before a barrage of gold flurried down into the change dish. I scooped two overflowing handfuls of coins as Anjarae shook her head at me. Mid-shake, a guard taps her on the shoulder and threatens to fine her 700 ZAR for consuming chewing gum. Priorities, Joburg. Priorities.

Once we’re on, it’s smooth sailing and 15 minutes later, we’re checking in to our flight. Anjarae and I celebrate when we earn Baobab Lounge access. The one thing the thousands of dollars spent on my US Airways Mastercard were good for. Shrinkwrapped muffins.

We go through security, where the guard compliments Anj on her “nice tan.” I felt left out. Passing through immigration, I chat it up, fishing for compliments myself. “Helloooo! Yes, from the USA, but I’ve been here in SA for a while! Practically a local!” As he raises his eyebrows fingering through passport pages in search of my visa, I backpedal, “Well not a while, I mean, less than 90 days, a while!” For the record, immigration officers aren’t the ones to brag to about being “practically a local!” Doesn’t go over well.

We get our anti-mozi Tabard and our Light Feel Nivea and we’re ready for the bugs and burns. We can just wait to get cash when we get into Zimbabwe. They’ll have an ATM. They won’t have a Baobab Lounge…

Four poppyseed muffins, two coffees, and a pile of plastic wrap later, it’s flying time. As the waiter comes by to grab our rubbish, I feel a little judged and feel like defending myself, but he’s already gone. We board, and a short flight later we land in Zim to palm trees and WELCOME TO VICTORIA FALLS. It feels more like Vegas than Africa.

Except for the fact that there are way more ATMs in Vegas. In line for a double entry visa (since we’ll be doing Zim-Bots-Zim) we realize that single entry visas cost 300 ZAR and double entry visas costs 450 ZAR. Luckily, I fish around my purse and come up with a 200, two 100s, and… 63 ZAR in coins from this morning’s Gautrain change. For once, Anjarae the J (MBTI language for organized, prepared, perfect travel buddy) doesn’t have much of anything. And turns out there aren’t any ATMs – anywhere – in the airport. “What are our next steps?” she asks. “I’m a beggar.”

We try to whine loud enough to muster someone’s compassion (for the two Americans… good luck) but we’re in line with a bunch of statues over here. Finally the stodgy woman behind us can’t play deaf anymore. Her gold star necklace gleams as the only put-together piece of her – disheveled gray hair and wrinkled yellow shirt indicate that this woman’s been flying for a long time. “Are you guys short on cash?”

Relief. “Thank you! Is there any way we can borrow 100 ZAR?” We weren’t going to get away that easy. “The one thing my travel agent told me was to have enough cash for Zimbabwe visas,” she snorts. “That’s the ONE thing.” We got it, lady. Last time we got the “the one thing…” was in Namibia when we were supposed to take air out of our tires at Sossusvlei but didn’t because we assumed there would be an air station with gauges if we really had to do it.  You can imagine how that ended up…

This was looking like we were headed for two for two. But she thumbed through her wad and handed over a 100 begrudgingly. With her name and address. “I’m staying at Ilala Lodge. You can bring the money there. It’s on the Zambia side. In Livingstone.” Convenient. We were going to cross this border, go into Zambia for $50US and then back into Zim for $30 to give her back the 100ZAR (That’s about $10 for you Americans out there). Too relieved at having enough money to be annoyed, I slide my three towers of power towards the guard, 20 ZAR per stack and look up at him shaking his head. “We take no coins.” You gotta be kidding me. This country without its own currency is going to tell me they won’t even take my frickin coins?? Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

A young man behind us hands over his Korean passport. He looks prepared. I beg him to trade us his soggiest 100 ZAR note for a crisp 20 ZAR note and 93 ZAR in metal. Shiny new! He apologizes. No extra, sorry. Anjarae begins begging, going one by one down the line as I’m stalling with the guards. As I hear Anj sweet talking behind me, my line buddy opens his wallet to a fold – no, a BULGING fold FULL of ZAR. “Wait, I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “but is there any way we could please trade you?” He looks at me blankly. Shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t want coins.”

And here we are, one foot in Zim and stuck at the border. It’s almost at the point of one boob or two when Anjarae returns with the most valuable 100 ZAR note ever to exist.

We make a bathroom stop so we don’t wet our pants laughing in the taxi to the hotel. I can’t believe that the ultimate J took a break and that somehow I, the P (MBTI language for unprepared, spontaneous, and worst packer ever), sort-of-saved the day with some cash. (I decided to wait until later to point out that had I pressed the correct credit card button this morning at Gautrain, we would have entered with a spare 100 ZAR note to wipe our noses with…) I squeeze into the tiny bathroom stall with my pack on my back,still laughing to Anjarae. As I try to unjam the door to get out, I say to her, “I just love how my P-ness is rubbing off on you.”

The absolute horror on the face of the next woman in line as I finally burst out of the stall was replaced with pure relief when I came out alone.