0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} 0 false 18 pt 18 pt 0 0 false false false /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} I’ve been living and working in West Africa off and on since 2004. Despite rampant stories of corruption I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve been forced to pay a bribe (though I’ve definitely offered in a few cases). Well, there’s a first time for everything.On Tuesday morning I took my normal route out of the city to get to the villages where I’m collecting data. It’s 8am and the road is filled with cars and motos. It’s fairly standard to see motos, and often cars, running through intersections after the light has turned red. I’ve seen far too many accidents to feel so brazen. But today was different. I rolled up to a three-way round point. I’m turning right and as I approach the light it turns yellow. I think I have enough time. The round point is clear. I pass the light just as it turns red. Yes!, I think. I turn off my blinker and look up to see a policeman stepping out onto the road, blowing his whistle, and motioning for me to pull over. No!, I think, how could he even see?After exchanging greetings (I mean, it’s just common courtesy), he tells me I’ve run a red light. I protest. Pardon, I say, but I think the light was yellow. He says, No, the other officer saw you. I look around and begin to see the other policemen. There are two standing in the middle of the round point, their green fatigues blending in with the sculpture. Now that I’m looking for them I begin to see the others. Two more at the other round point lights. Three others standing under some trees across the street. The extent of the operation begins to dawn on me. I’m not going to be able to talk my way out of this.The one who pulled me over rolls my moto across the street to the group of three officers and I follow behind. He parks it in the shade (a kind gesture, I think) and I notice the other motos and the other drivers hanging out in the shade. They all have the same sad, worried look in their eyes that’s a staple West African facial expression. Everyone puts it on when they know they’ve done wrong and can’t get out of the punishment. Hell, I think, I’m definitely not going to be able to talk my way out of this. We are officially in the trap.A higher officer in a khaki uniform asks to see my papers (the receipt for my moto) and tells me I’ll need to pay a fine and directs me to his commanding officer across the street near where I was pulled over. I walk over and hand him my papers. The officer holds a stack of blank tickets in his hand and explains to me the situation: You have two options, he says. You can pay the 6,000F ($12) fine now and be on your way, or you can take the ticket to the police headquarters and pay where they will give you a receipt. You bring the receipt back and then take your moto. I immediately think of a story I was told by a friend who spent a day and a half waiting to pay and receive her moto. I tell him I’d like to pay now knowing full well that this “fine” is entirely under the table.He leads me over to another commanding officer who, I get the sense, is the head honcho, the ring master, the one behind it all. He’s got a face of carved wood, pissed off carved wood. He stands alone under the blazing sun not breaking a sweat. The guy with the tickets introduces me to him by saying I’d like to pay the fine now. They huddle in close around me, closer than is socially acceptable in West Africa. The grand poobah narrows his eyes at me, flickering his gaze between my face and my hands. Is he expecting me to shake his hand, I think, is this even appropriate? I don’t do anything. There’s a moment of awkward silence and the guy with the tickets tells me to wait off to the side while he does something.Hell, I think, that was my cue! They huddled in to block the view of passing traffic. He looked at my hand waiting for the exchange. Now I’m standing on the curb in the sun, exposed. There’s no clever way to rectify this. I turn my back to traffic and pull out 6,000F from my wallet. Commander Poobah sees me, gives a slight nod, and tells me to go back to talk to the other officer (scowling the whole time, of course). I thank him and head back to where the guy is standing by the trapped motos.He sees me coming and unfolds my moto papers, turns his back to traffic, and pretends to examine my moto. I walk up and he begins to ask me questions. I extend my right hand with the 6,000F folded up in my palm. It seamlessly passes to his hand under my moto papers. It’s done before I know what’s happened. I don’t even see him pocket it though it’s no longer in his hand. Damn, I think, these guys are good. He asks why I don’t yet have a license plate after two months. I explain that CFAO—the big auto dealer from whom I bought the bike—is taking their time, that I’ve got every other Saturday morning to see if the plate is ready and they always tell me to come back in two more weeks. Before I’m even done with this excuse (which is true albeit a bit stretched) he hands back the papers and tells me I can go. I’m dismissed with a wave and I almost chuckle. These guys were smooth. There were about 10 in total, and each had their role. I bet they each get a cut. From the 4 others I saw pulled over in the 15min I was held up, I estimate that if they “worked” from 8-10am and everyone paid the bribe, they probably made around $500. It was all bizarrely routine and mundane. There was no conspiratorial winking, no raised voices trying to bully me into paying. I thought, how cool would it be to do a study on police scam operations?!I’ve been telling everyone this story. It’s fun. And I found out that if I had taken the ticket it likely would have been between 8,000F and 10,000F ($16-$20), more than I paid in the bribe! That means that there is internal competition within the police department. If ticket fees are common knowledge, and I suspect they are, then people are likely to choose the bribe, undermining and potentially out competing official ticket protocol with more of the money going to the officers’ pockets rather than inefficient bureaucracy. It’s only when I start speculating why "corruption" is the way it is that things get complicated.
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