Terror on the roads

I'm back in Kenya after about a month in the U.S., spent visiting the home office in Washington and recovering from a brief reporting stint in Iraq. It's good to be home, despite the mountains of bills to pay and e-mail to sort through. Then, today, I had a very typical, eye-rolling, jaw-clenching Nairobi experience.

 

I was on the road home from a meeting at the Sudanese embassy. It was lunchtime, and at the wheel was Thomas, our office driver. We were negotiating a busy roundabout in the Kilimani section of town, just south of the city center. As Thomas slowed to exit the roundabout, a police officer held out his baton and waved us to the side of the road. Here we go, I thought.

 

The officer said that we were driving with an obscured license plate. The jack that's bolted to the front of my ancient, beastly Toyota LandCruiser was blocking part of the plate, he said. Naturally, this isn't the case. Thomas got out of the car to check and pointed out that all of the letters and numbers were clearly visible.

 

"Not from far away," the officer said.

 

Basically, Thomas was about to receive a ticket due to the officer's blurred vision. Crazy as it sounds, there's no arguing with these guys. Perhaps even crazier, since most Kenyan road cops don't have their own vehicles, the officer climbed into the back seat of my car. Thomas was driving himself to the local police precinct to be booked on a road violation.

 

Police officers in Kenya, as in most developing countries, are very badly paid, and a small bribe usually resolves these situations. (The lack of pay is also, of course, the prime reason these situations arise in the first place.) But as we moved along the road toward the station, the cop wasn't taking. Had we found the only cop in Kenya who wouldn't be bribed?

 

I pleaded with the guy. "Is there any way we can avoid this?" I said. It wasn't the driver's fault -- it's my car and I had the jack installed. "Then you can pay his cash bail," the cop responded. As we got within a few blocks of the station, sweat was quickly pooling at the base of Thomas's neck.

 

We slowed to a stop behind a line of trucks next to a busy market. Thomas's hands were frozen on the wheel. Finally, the officer tapped my shoulder. "It's OK," he said. That was the signal. I pulled out a 200-shilling note -- about $3 -- and Thomas handed it to him. The officer jumped out of the car and went right up to a kiosk that was selling cold sodas and samosas. We had bought the guy's lunch, and given him a ride.

 

As we got back on the road home, Thomas muttered angrily under his breath about the idiots in blue. This sort of thing happens all the time, which is why Kenyans don't trust their police officers at all. One of the first pieces of road advice I received when I moved here was that if I was stopped at a police checkpoint at night, I should keep driving.

 

It made me think of the first time I had to bribe an officer. I was headed to the airport to pick up a friend when I was stopped and asked to show my license. The airport road is notorious for police checkpoints and, stupidly, I'd left my wallet at home. Worse, I had in my pocket only a 1,000-shilling note -- about $15, way too much for a bribe. "I don't have any small money," I said sheepishly.

 

"It's OK," he said. That ubiquitious Kenyan phrase. "How much do you want to give?" He pulled out a small wad of bills. (It had no doubt been a lucrative afternoon at the checkpoint.) He was making change. If you ask a store clerk in the U.S. to change a $20, you get the death stare. But this officer dutifully counted out 800 shillings in change, and I was on my way. I have to admire a system like that.