You Are Under Arrest

Normally, I drive around in a car that states, on the side, that it is a vehicle of "Kanisa La Mungu la Tanzania" (The Church of God of Tanzania). This in itself is usually enough to divert police officers from pulling me over. Here cops have no vehicles, and their only means of enforcing the law (or getting bribes) is to stand in the middle of the road and stop a car as it passes. They do this at their own discretion throughout the day, and the police carry a general reputation as corrupt, enforcing the law only as a way of soliciting bribes.

On this particular day my car was sans the usual “Kanisa la Mungu” label. The car had been in an accident about a month prior, rolling twice in a remote part of the country. We had it repaired, but were still waiting to replace the label on the door. So, this was perhaps the reason I was stopped one afternoon in the middle of Arusha town. As I was driving through the center of the city alone, I made eye contact with the police officer on the side of the road and he subsequently waffled into my path, his right arm standing straight up in what can only be described as an unfortunately Hitler-esq ue arm gesture. I pulled to the side of the road.

Before greeting me, which is the polite and customary thing to do, he began walking around the car. This in itself is a bad sign, as it typically means he is looking for something for which he can fine me. He checks my tires, my lights, and my license plates before moving on to the insurance and registration stickers usually plastered to the front window of all vehicles here in Tanzania. And this, unfortunately, is where he finds my “offence.” Every year you have to take your vehicle to the police station for a safety inspection. After passing they give you a “road safety” sticker that you must affix to your front window with the other information.  I have never actually taken my car to the police station to do this. Instead, I just go to the regional officer, tell him how many stickers I need, and he hands me one for each of our vehicles. Usually it’s 5 in total, as we are responsible for 2 cars and 3 motorcycles. These stickers cost the equivalent of $1.50 US.

So, even though I don’t take my vehicle to have this done, I almost always have these stickers attached to our cars. But, as I mentioned before, this car was in an accident. Another of the consequences of this accident was that the front window of the vehicle was destroyed, along with my safety sticker. While I had reattached insurance and registration, I had not yet gotten another road safety sticker.

He asked me to roll down my window. I did so, stretching across the car and rolling down the glass on the passenger’s side. I greeted the middle-aged man in Swahili, gave him my respect, and continued the early parts of the conversation in his native tongue. He had yet to respond to my greetings, only returning my words with a sharp glare.  

Eventually, he spoke. “You are under arrest,” simple, straightforward, no explanation offered.

I inquired to the reason for this and he began explaining my lack of safety sticker, only speaking in Swahili.

Because I did not have this $1.50 sticker, I was going to jail, where I would stay and be processed until I would be allowed to pay the fine, buy a new sticker, and be on my way. What he was really doing was trying to intimidate me into offering him a bribe.

At this point I stopped using Swahili. I do it with the police because it’s the respectful thing to do, even though they are required to know English. But, as he was attempting to solicit a bride, I decided the time for respectful conversation was drawing to a close.

So I start explaining in English, “I had the sticker, I had the vehicle inspected, the car was in an accident and the sticker was ruined, I haven’t had time to replace it yet,” on and on and on.

He asks for the accident report from the police. I pulled a copy from the glove compartment and gave it to him; showed him that I was not lying and that the accident had really happened.

 He responded in broken English “No matters, no matters, you don’t have sticker, you go to jail, now.”  

I decided to try a plan that had worked on previous occasions when I had found myself threatened with fines. I refused to give and offer the bribe I knew he wanted. I told him my plan.

“We can call the police chief in Babati, he knows me, we’re good friends. He’ll confirm that I have purchased the sticker, just call him and he’ll explain the whole situation.”

The officer looked at my face for several seconds in silence before responding, “Ok, so call him.”

That was not the reaction I had expected.  I thought the initial suggestion that I was a friend of the police chief and that I had the ability to call him would be enough to get me on my way. The fact is, my statement was a bit of a stretch. Even though I have met the police chief, we are not friends, and I do not have his phone number. I explained to the officer that I don’t currently possess the chief’s number and I can’t call at the moment.

“Fine, again, you arrested,” He repeated.

I moved on to plan two.

At this point he is leaning inside the passenger window. He speaks in Swahili again, “Sawa, tutaenda polici pamoja sasa hivi” (Ok, we will go to the police station right now together.

I responded in English, “I don’t know those words, I am only beginning with Swahili, you will have to explain in English, I don’t understand.

Seeing his awkwardness with English, Plan two was to make him use it to explain everything. I had hoped that eventually he would feel uncomfortable and inadequate with his language skills, frustrating him to the point of letting me go. If I am to be arrested then he must be able to explain why in English.

“You are arrested, you take me to police station now,” He continues to demand behind the locked door of the Land Cruiser.

I reiterate, again in English, “Arrested? What is arrested? You say I have no sticker. Now you say I have no arrested? What is arrested? Do I need to buy an arrested too?”

He is getting more and more frustrated, “No, you arrested. No sticker, you arrested.”

I respond again, “I can buy an arrested, but I don’t know what that is. Is it an English word or Swahili word? Where can I buy this arrested so I can go home?”

This basic pattern of conversation continued for nearly five minutes. His demand to go to the police station was always followed by my bewildered questions and he was becoming increasingly flustered. Over and over again he kept trying to revert to Swahili to explain. I keep insisted that I did not understand.

Eventually out of exhaustion and frustration, he stopped talking and stared at me. He reached in through the open window and pointed his finger at my face. “Will you be careful?”

I responded, “Absolutely, of course officer.”

“Then you go! Now!”

I could have just driven away. Plan two had been a rousing success. I was free. But in our conversation the officer began to fascinate me. And to be quite honest some part of me enjoyed patronizing him. He wasn’t doing his job. Sure, he could have fined me for the sticker and that would have been perfectly legal. I would have gladly paid. But to threaten arrest, to try and coerce me into a bribe? That’s not acceptable. I wanted to understand him, to see if it was all an act, to see if he really was just some corrupt officer looking for money.

I asked him his name; I asked him where he was from. He was Omar, a Muslim from Zanzibar. He had been working here in Arusha for almost seven years. He had moved to the city for work and now didn’t know if he could ever go back. But he dreamed of it. He fantasized of someday being able to return to his extended family and friends. But Arusha is where the money is, so that is where he is.

I asked more and more questions and listened to his story, tried to get past the corrupt police officer and to the person underneath. The more we talked the more his demeanor changed. The scolding, sneering police officer I had first encountered was now laughing, smiling, and investing in our conversation. After almost ten minutes he wrote down his contact information for me and asked that I call him. We joked that someday we would visit Zanzibar together.

As I pulled away, he stopped me one last time. He reached over to shake my hand and told me that if anyone else pulled me over, ever, to call him. He would help me; he would make sure I didn’t have any more problems like this.  I smiled, thanked him, and waved one last time as I left my new friend.