SPECIALS
Heh,
there really was a “policeman” in Oulu, looking like that statue.
Actually, he was not member of the police force, but hired by the city of
Oulu to make sure that the salesmen and their customers behaved themselves
on the market square.phil
Jon Hoff
in Saigon
People queue
Ryann
a
driver in Sierra Leone
JJ
they
wanted $40 in order to let me go
Siegfried
Ten seconds
Copydude My
Tour Of The Fascist Countries: Latvia
Copydude
Umpteenth Nervous Shakedown IN
WHICH I Pick Up The Hotel Ho In
kaliningrad
Copydude
Bordering Insanity
Extra
ExtrA
driving test
An Englishman In
Saudi Arabia Margrave vs The Traffic Police
congogirl
The sound of the police
Jon Hoff
in Saigon
People
queue
London
People queue. British
people are famous for queuing. We queue just to get into
another queue. We queue to ask about where we should
queue. We separate queuing people with ropes and guide
them with signs. We spilt queues when they get too big
and start them again on somewhere else. We zig-zag
queues to accommodate all the queuing people. Personally
I had forgotten about this phenomena. However
frustrating a queue may be, I prefer it to total and
utter disorganization - i.e. Viet Nam. Not to say
Vietnamese are disorganized, it is all for a reason...
Mounting experience with Vietnamese bureaucracy, most
recently the registration of a motorbike, has exposed me
to the systems within it. And the one rule of Vietnamese
bureaucracy is : I don't know if there are any rules
actually. Registering a bike seems like it should be a
formality. It isn't. Arriving on a narrow main road deep
into Binh Thanh District, a shop on one side of the
street is the 'fixer'. Despite being a privately owned
business, ALL bikes being registered must visit this
place first (or one of the shops offering the same
service). I'm sure the following scene is repeated
throughout the city. Around ten young men work in the
shop, along with the older administrative staff. They
take off the front panel on the bike where the serial
number is and prepare some paperwork for the police
station across the road. Of course, no queue here. Just
a 'who can shove to the front and get someone's
attention first'. With roughly three new motorbikes
arriving every minute, it's a lot of fun. Once they have
done their bit and claimed 80,000 for 'insurance' (although
I am not holding out hope of a payout), you can take the
bike across the road to see the police, who read the
number. Again, the 'queue' is just a stressful crush of
bikes attacking a small portal from all angles. After
this it's back across the road to the shop, where they
offer to attach your numberplate to the bike (and make a
killing by overcharging, a local garage will do it
cheaper).
Stress. A queue is stressful, but a non-numbered,
non-queue, non-order system? Which would you prefer?
Some are catching on - Vietnam airways have a numbered
ticket system, but you often see customers unfamiliar
with it. In the government office for registration of
births, deaths and marriages there is a numbered ticket
system. In the office for registration of business
licenses, there is not. What there is : no air
conditioning and a small waiting room crammed full of,
on estimate, about 200 people everyday, all with no
system as to who is next.
Corruption. The guys in the motorbike registration
'shop' pay the police to provide this service. We 'pay
them' as does the garage who sold the bike to us.
Essentially, it is around 20 jobs and a lot of money
changing hands simply so a lot of money changes hands.
The whole registration system could be overhauled,
computerized, not even touched by the consumer. Bikes
should be plated by the time they reach the showroom --
but then who's going to make any money out of that? The
guys in the business registration office -- they are on
(seriously) low salary, so they have to make more money
somehow. How are you going to get served quickly? You
have to know someone. How do you know someone? You get
an agent to help you. They do the paperwork, and as part
of their job, they should have a contact (who obviously
they pay). Problem is, some wily people change the staff
in the office every three months, so you've got to be on
the ball. We had an agent, but after a recent staff
change he was stuck and Chi waited one whole afternoon
and a morning before being served. The staff in the
office have another trick up their sleeve to make money
- they pass on your details to the newspapers. By law, a
new company must make three announcements in a newspaper.
Suddenly, the same day as your application was processed,
newspapers start calling asking for you to place your
announcement in their paper. Says something about your
rights of privacy here as well! So, once again, an
overhaul of the system would mean a lot of people
(office staff, agents, journalists) lose out on a lot of
business. It is not so easy to dismantle the apparatus
of corruption, millions will be affected.
It is only the government who can set an example,
starting first with their administrative offices, and
show the people that they respect them, they are honest
and they are professional. After being talked to (once
again) like a piece of discarded rubbish by a customs
official at the airport, a guy probably younger than me
but feeling extremely powerful in his green uniform, and
after experiencing all of the above, it is clear to see
that Vietnam still has a long way to go. And I'm not
even referring to my own standards, my wife and her
friends discussed the bike registration system last
night, lamenting the fact that it has not changed a
single bit in the last five years - "no improvement"
they murmured sadly. Someone, somewhere, has to be
motivated for change but, stuck in a system of payoffs,
kickbacks and shortcuts, who would risk their livelihood,
no matter how they make it, to battle such an enormous
system that pervades almost every aspect of society?
Jon Hoff
in Saigon
kokoriorio
Old man zhuba
Ryann
a driver in Sierra Leone
As a driver in Sierra
Leone -- or, at least, as a foreign driver -- you
generally don't face the kind of aggressive harassment
you might be led to expect by typical stories of West
Africa. However, police officers do pull you over,
frequently, if you are driving a car without diplomatic
or NGO (non-governmental organization) plates. They
invent moving violations or imperceptible problems with
your vehicle to try to extort a bit of money. (Once,
when I was still new to Sierra Leone, an officer
insisted that my left headlight was a bit dimmer than my
right headlight and threatened to arrest me. It was
false and rather silly but hard to prove.)
I've discovered that the
best approach is to greet them from the outset with
enthusiastic cheer, chattering away in friendly Krio
before they even get a word in edgewise. "Officer, I am
so glad to see you out here on the streets protecting
us. How is your day going? Is the work too difficult? Is
the sun too warm? Thank you so much for your hard work."
Often, this approach preempts even the request for
money, and after a quick and friendly chat, they wave me
on my way.
Occasionally, I still
find an officer who makes noise about this or that
invented offence. My cracked side mirror is a frequent
target, even though my car passed inspection (without a
bribe) with the mirror just as broken as it is today.
The most memorable
interactions, however, are with those officers that
dispatch with the formality of pretending I've broken a
law and simply ask point-blank for money. The first time
this happened, I was driving down Wilkinson Road -- the
main thoroughfare of western Freetown -- with a Nigerian
friend of mine. The officer approached us with a smile
and started chatting in rapid-fire Krio. (I remember
being surprised, as people usually don't expect me to
speak and understand Krio as well as I do.) He told us
that he'd decided not to act like his fellow officers
and threaten to arrest us for some nonsense offense. He
didn't want to bully us, he said. Instead, he would just
ask us nicely to give him a bit of money.
I kept a straight (but
friendly) face, thanked him for his fresh approach, and
politely declined. He looked disappointed but let me
drive away.
The second time was
during a city-wide crackdown on unsafe vehicles and
other offenses. The police department itself was quite
open about the purpose of the crackdown -- to generate
revenue for the department -- and bragged publicly about
the hundreds of drivers arrested in a 72-hour period and
the millions of Leones collected in fines. I've no doubt
that hundreds of others avoided arrest by contributing
directly to the "revenue" of individual officers.
One afternoon during this
crackdown, I was stopped by a cheery, ruddy-faced male
officer with a somewhat grumpier female colleague. I
gave my normal friendly greeting, and he replied with
the following (conversation in Krio, English
translations in parentheses):
Officer: "U no sae wi dae
pa dis check." (You know we're on this "check".)
Me: Innocently. "Oh? Us
kin check dat?" (Oh really? What kind of check?)
Officer: Chuckles. "Na u
finances wi dae check." (We're checking you're
finances.)
Me: "Mi finances?"
Chuckles. "Ow u go
check mi finances? Bank no dae naya." (My finances? How
are you going to check my finances? There isn't a bank
here.)
Officer: Chuckles again.
"Well, na di finances na u pocket, na dat we dae check."
(Well, the finances in your pocket, that's what we're
checking.)
Me: Now genuinely amused,
turn out my empty pockets. "Ah beg, finances no dae na
mi pocket." (I'm sorry, but it looks like there aren't
any finances in my pocket.)
He smiled at me. I smiled
at him. Then I drove away.
No "finances" changed
hands.
Ryann's despatches from sierra leone
JJ
they
wanted $40 in order to let me go
Friday, November 2, 2007
I got pulled over by the cops and they wanted $40 in
order to let me go.
So anyways, I was on Nguyen Du street, which has 2 lanes,
all going in one direction. The outside lane is for
automobiles and the inside lane is for mopeds.
So I was in the outside lane and this cop points at me
and pulls me over. Everyone told me to speak english and
I'll be able to get away.
So he speaks Vietnamese and then I just give the "huh?"
face. Then he says " Your license?". At this point I
remember that I left my driver's license at home. So I
say "Oh, I left it at home. How about I go get it?"
Then he looks at me and says "We take your motorbike. 30
days"
"Crap. Uh, how much for no 30 days?" I asked. Time to
pay my way out of this one.
Then the cop says "600,000 Vietnamese dong"
I say "What? 60,000 dong?"
He says "No. 600,000 Vietnamese dong"
So I reach into my pocket and pull out a 100,000 dong
bill. I hold it up high so that everyone around me can
watch. (This is usually a spectator sport as people tend
to stare when it comes to the cops in action).
He sees the bill and looks away. I guess he wants more.
I reach into my pocket and pull out another 100,000 dong
bill. He looks away again.
I reach into my pocket for the last time. This time I
try to pull out another 100,000 bill but I pulled out a
200,000 bill.
Then he looks over and nods.
I hand over the cash in an overhead motion while waving
the bills around. I figured if I'm going to pay, I might
as well make it a nice show for the spectators.
After paying, I was happily let go.
I just know the cops are enjoying a nice seafood dinner
right now. They didn't even have the courtesy of
inviting me.
Moral of the story? When you eat a seafood dinner,
please invite me.
JJ
Siegfried
Ten seconds
[it is impossible for one to stop at a traffic light in
the New South Africa without having to worry about
hijackings or smash 'n grab thefts. Note how many
motorists are opting for a commute that is thirty
minutes longer in order to avoid this particular
intersection. It is doubtful the corrupt police will do
anything to stop this theft, as the police themselves
are more crooked than the criminals are.]
Ten seconds.
That's all
criminals need
to smash your
window and grab
your valuables
at an
intersection
along notorious
Vanguard Drive.
Fifteen seconds
after your
window shatters
the perpetrator
is gone, says
Epping City
Improvement
District
co-ordinator
Tony Bartram.
Many disappear
between the
shacks into
Langa or over
the nearby
railway line to
Bonteheuwel.
"All of this in
a maximum time
of 15 seconds."
And motorists
are fuming, many
opting for the
alternate, and
longer route
into Epping
Industria by
continuing along
the N2 in peak
traffic, to take
the Jan Smuts
turn-off instead
of Vanguard
Drive, adding up
to 30 minutes to
their journey.
Sue Snaith from
Blaawberg
frequently uses
Vanguard Drive
to get to her
family's race
horse stables in
Philippi and was
hit twice, by
the same
criminal, in one
month.
"The same guy
attacked me in
broad daylight
twice," said
Snaith.
"They attack in
packs of three.
"One smashes the
window and jumps
through to grab
your valuables
while the other
holds on to his
legs outside the
car. The third
person stands
guard.
"They snatch
whatever they
see; handbags,
cell phones,
cash and
whatever is
lying on the
seats."
On Saturday
Snaith told
Weekend Argus
she was
terrified of
using the
stretch of road
as her attackers
loitered there
all the time.
"I still see
them there when
I drive past,"
she said. "I'm a
nervous wreck
when I get to
the Bonteheuwel
and Langa
intersection.
These guys are
really smart and
they'll continue
doing it until
the police
remedy the
problem."
She added the
incidents were
extremely
traumatic.
"It's
frightening -
and when it
happens no one
does anything.
"I was sitting
on my hooter and
no one moved an
inch. I think
it's out of
fear."
Dudley Jacobs of
Southfield, who
uses Vanguard
Drive to and
from work every
day, said
smash-and-grab
incidents had
become common
along Vanguard
Drive in recent
months.
In a letter to
the Cape Argus
late last month,
Jacobs said
there had been a
"definite
increase"
between the N2
and the Epping
turn-off.
"As a
law-abiding
citizen, I would
like to know
what recourse is
there. Even if
we take all the
precautions,
they still have
the audacity to
look into the
vehicles and
will take
anything, at
great risk to
all parties," he
said.
"The main
victims are
women on their
way to and from
work. Their
families are the
ones that
ultimately
suffer
emotionally and
financially."
In a follow-up
letter this
month, Jacobs
commended law
enforcement for
the visible
patrols which
appeared after
his letter was
published, but
asked whether
the visible
policing would
be sustained.
And days later,
smash-and-grab
incidents were
again taking off
with up to five
incidents
occurring a day
as law
enforcement
visibility
decreased.
On a Weekend
Argus visit with
Bartram to the
smash-and-grab "hotspot"
on Thursday, at
the corner of
Vanguard Drive
and Jakkalsvlei
Avenue, Bartram
said curbing the
number of
incidents was a
challenge.
"There is a real
situation here
that needs
urgent
attention," said
Bartram.
"Even the wife
of Community
Safety MEC
Leonard
Ramatlakane was
hit at this very
intersection.
"As the Epping
CID we hired a
security company
to patrol the
area on foot
earlier this
year, but all
three security
guards resigned
after just three
hours.
"It's believed
they were
threatened by
the
smash-and-grab
gang," said
Bartram.
He told Weekend
Argus that,
although it
wasn't the
Epping CID's
mandate to
patrol outside
Epping, the
area's workers
and the general
motorists'
safety was
important.
On Saturday,
Metro Police
spokesperson
Kevin Maxwell
said the area
was being
patrolled
regularly.
"There are
patrols and the
intersections
are being
monitored by
CCTV cameras
along that
stretch of
road," said
Maxwell.
He could not,
however, confirm
how many
vehicles were on
patrol along
Vanguard Drive,
which stretches
from Mitchell's
Plain to
Montague
Gardens.
My Tour Of The Fascist Countries: Latvia
Copydude
Q. What’s butch, bitchy and into camo?
A. A Latvian Border Guardess.
People often ask me: ‘is it safe to cross from Kaliningrad to Mother Russia?
If you are British and barely speak Russian, I’d have thought, ‘a breeze’. But
apparently not.
At the border, a Paramilitary Miss flips the Russian visas in my passport.
‘So. What were you doing in Russia?’
‘Tourism.’
‘But you’ve visited Russia more than once?’
This is really a hilarious answer, given the Russian hospitality industry’s
remote likelihood of ever attracting repeat business. And, yes, fair enough.
How long does it take to see Red Square and the Bolshoi. However, suppressing
a chortle, I say:
‘Umm . . . Russia’s a big country. Eleven time zones, you know.’
‘Eleven time zones? Kaliningrad?’
Witty sarcastic bitch! Kaliningrad is indeed only half the size of Belgium.
I’m really beginning to like this woman, even though she was quite out of
order considering I was crossing from mainland Russia into Latvia at the time.
But clearly the Kaliningrad stamps are bothering her - as they do most
officials. And maybe red cars are in poor taste in Latvia for all I know,
since she unexpectedly asks:
‘Do you have a driving licence?’
I get out my very old-style, GB licence, which is admittedly tatty and torn
having been issued in the Seventies.
‘This is no licence. There’s no photo ID.’
I point out the little groups which show I’m licensed to drive three wheelers,
road rollers, agricultural tractors, mechanised lawn mowers and mopeds as well
as a car, but she isn’t convinced. She goes into her little kiosk and calls up
an adjutant, who also turns out to look quite kinky in boots and epaulettes.
They refuse my request to take their picture and become even more suspicious.
What is it about Eastern Europeans and Uniforms?
I have to park up on the right and eat some pre-boiled eggs while my GB
licence is taken away for authentication. In the meantime, any cars with an LV
sticker are simply waved on through. After a while the LV sticker, in the
roundel, reminds me of the old Luncheon Vouchers logo. Anyone remember
Luncheon Vouchers? At one time, in the City of London, you were given them as
a makeweight for badly paid jobs. It all seems to fit with Latvia and the EU.
Kinky adjutant finally returns with my validated driving licence. The
paramilitary girls salute each other, but don’t click boot-heels. Maybe that
would have been too erotic.
‘You may go to Latvia’.
And I thought I was an EU citizen returning to the EU.
Umpteenth Nervous Shakedown
Copydude
‘And it’s a heartbreak when you find out
That trouble is real
In a faraway city, with a faraway feel’
- Gram Parsons, ‘Hickory Wind’
There’s no chalk mark at the scene of the crime. Just a bankomat print-out
registering the intersection where I was pulled over and shaken down for 400
Euro, one fine afternoon in August, by the Kaliningrad militsi.
To my shock and horror, I discover I have a documentation error. The temporary
admission for my car is a couple of days out of date. Unknown to me, customs
at the border had not followed their usual practice of validating the transit
for the same period as my visa, car insurance and immigration card. I didn’t
think to check the fine print this time. Militsi do.
So, it starts off with the usual piece of theatre. I’m sat in the police car.
They confiscate all my documents. The goon takes out an incident report sheet
- which he has no intention of filling out. Having ascertained that my name is
John, he decides to call me George.
‘George. Money’.
Some militsi are happy with 500 roubles and even wish you a pleasant trip once
you’ve paid up. This guy is the other, ugly kind. He writes down $250 dollars
on a piece of paper and shows it to me.
It’s the start of the bargaining process and I go through the usual, ‘me no
speaky, ne panimayu, ya tourist’ patter. I empty out my bag to show I don’t
have anything like 250 dollars. Jesus, I’m running low on money anyway and
this is the umpteenth nervous shakedown in Kaliningrad. But he’s playing
hardball.
After about an hour, he decides he’s going to impound my car. I’ll have to get
it back from the customs. Now I’m thinking that this is rather inconvenient -
especially since I’m camping and my home is in the car too. Not to mention
that the whole hassle could take longer than the time left on my visa. I offer
$150 dollars. Well, that just puts him in a really bad mood. He slams out of
the car and earwigs a colleague who is busy robbing other traffic.
Between them, they decide that I’ve been drinking. Now this is seriously, very
bad news. Be advised: there are no breathalysers in Russia and there’s no
legal limit. They take your car and your licence and you go to a doctor. You’ll
then need a lawyer to get your stuff back. Even if you haven’t been drinking,
you’ll probably have to pay off the doctor and militsi to say so. Otherwise,
it’s prison.
The goon calls a doctor, gives me the crossed fingers prison sign and starts
filling up a form. By this time, since he’s stopped talking money, my mouth is
starting go dry. I’m worried about being stranded without my stuff. I’m
worrying about residual alcohol from the previous evening. In fact, I’m not
sure my blood isn’t fifty per cent Beaujolais at any old time.
What to do? I try calling an old girlfriend who speaks English and Russian.
Actually, I messed this girl around in the past but, you know, desperate
times, desperate measures. Thankfully, she agrees to come out to the
intersection and to mediate.
Another hour passes and it’s her turn to sit in the police car while I jitter
in the road. When she gets out, I learn that the deal is 400 Euro and they
will escort - almost frog march - me to the bankomat. It really is ‘your money
or your life’ in Kaliningrad, only Dick Turpin’s shooter is missing. Later,
when I sort out the paperwork with the customs, the official straf is 50 Euro.
I drive off with old girlfriend to sink a nerve-deadening bottle of Beaujolais.
Since we’re in the shopping centre, I say I’d like to buy her a small
something for her help. Without hesitation, she picks out a bottle of Chanel
for 4000 roubles. Hmmmm. Now I remember why I dumped this dyev. Talk about
high maintenance.
IN WHICH I Pick Up The Hotel Ho.
Copydude
In kaliningrad
It’s Saturday and I’m in a Saturday
night’s all right for fighting mood. I’m cross with myself for
backhanding the militsi
400 Euro. I should have gone to
Russian prison and had something meaningful to write about. I feel
I’ve let down the whole blogging community.
Anyway. After a couple of red wines,
there she is standing over by the record machine – though hardly the
Chuck Berry vision. She’s in the
Hotel Deima’s pathetic attempt at a
disco – the evening version of its so-called restaurant, with almost
no patrons, one flea-market rotating mirror light and one
Stas Pexa number they play all night long.
I buy her a beer. I buy myself
another red wine. We dance and she shoves my hand up her top. I’m past
caring. I get the tab and suggest we finish drinking upstairs. Which
is where the trouble starts.
It’s often
been my experience that seedy Russian hotels have a strict code. You
can’t take any woman upstairs. Only an official Hotel Ho. Maybe this
girl was official once – after all, she was drinking in the disco -
but I guess she hadn’t paid someone off. We are blockaded at the
souvenir shop by the night watch.
A shouting match ensues - she’s past the
label - and he suddenly gives her a grey-out quality smack round the head.
Well, it gets my attention. I ready the camera for a photo op, but this only
occasions the hotel to panic and call the militsi. We’re bundled smartly out
the door. ‘You make beeg mistake, English’ says the receptionist, just like a
line straight out of Len Deighton. ‘Zis woman ‘ave no papers’. Oh really. They
were quite happy to sell her drinks all evening.
One of the militsi suspects I’m a junkie and pulls all the zips on my bag,
emptying the contents into the long grass in the dark. Wonderful. In
nanoseconds I’ve lost my glasses, keys, immigration card, god knows what.
Another goon checks Hotel Ho’s papers. (Aha, she does have papers.) Strangely
these appear to check out, so they leave me fumbling in the dark and Lada off.
But Deima’s night man is still sore about my taking his mug shot and I’m not
going to be let back in my room. So it’s a taxi to her place.
She gets out some beers – bottles, no glasses – and cuts some sausage. While
she’s in the shower, a dog jumps on the table and slobbers over the sausage.
Cool. Up until now there’s been little to report on Kaliningrad Night Life. Ho
steps naked out of the shower. Unfortunately the light bulb in the apartment
is also glaringly naked. She appears as a bright white corpse with shrivelled
buns. I have this sudden urge to shut my eyes and go to sleep.
‘Er. prastite’, I mutter, ‘ustal’ and make the bye-byes sign language. Well,
it isn’t what she wants to hear and I’m shouted out into the street for the
second time. Pulling on a wrap that hardly covers anything, she starts
flagging down cars to take me away. A couple stop and they get out, each of
them with a bottle in one hand like it’s permanently attached. Hotel Ho is
trying to push me into the car. I stand my ground. The other girl comes up and
holds out her hand to me as one might to a frightened child who is being
abducted. I remember saying something really stupid and English like, ‘I’m
only getting a proper taxi’ – as if there’s anything less than iffy in this
town. But by chance a cab cab does pull up at the all-night liquor store.
In the morning, I get back in the Deima for my stuff. The hotel charges me for
sleeping in my car plus 30 dollars for losing the room key the militsi tipped
into the grass somewhere – never did find that - and for a breakfast the
restaurant doesn’t serve.
I mean to write a full review of the Deima of course, but right now I’m busy
designing their customer satisfaction form. It includes questions such as: How
did you feel about being bundled out of our hotel? Was it (a) Too forceful?
(b) Not forceful enough? (c) Just right!
Copydude
September 14th, 2007 Bordering
Insanity
Dawn over the Kaliningrad-Polish border. In the night, we moved four car
lengths.
Just when you are ready to run screaming out of Kaliningrad, you find you
can’t.
I spent 40 hours in the queue at the Kaliningrad-Polish border at Mamonovo.
Here they practice a kind of ethnic cleansing by lanes. There’s one lane for
Russians and one for Poles and foreigners. Foreigners may get into the ‘less
slow lane’ by shelling out backhanders - a facility that isn’t offered to
anyone with Polish plates. But by the time I got back to the border, I’d had
enough of handing out Euros to Kaliningrad’s corrupt.
The Mamonovo crossing is bordering insanitary, too. There’s just one toilet
for a line of cars stretching as far as you can see. No one uses it, because
it might be just the one time in two hours that the line moves, and no one
wants to risk losing a place.
The Russian version is that the Polish customs works too slowly. Not true. On
the Russian side, the ‘Polish’ lane only ever moves at the whim of the Russian
border controller. The Polish version is that all the Poles must be
contrabandistes and their cars disassembled. Not entirely valid either.
There’s so much unemployment in Poland now that crossing the border to buy
even the allowance of cheap petrol, vodka and cigarettes is the only way to
make ends meet.
Passing the time somehow. Some Polish guys panel beat the dents out of my
tailgate. Actually, great job.
My friend Marek (62) is one of many Poles who has converted his rusting old
Polski Fiat to LPG. He drives across the border and fills up the redundant
tank with Russian petrol, then sells it in Poland. Not smuggling. He re-sells
the petrol a little under the pump price in Poland and makes a miniscule
profit. Since crossing at Mamonovo now takes nearly two days, he hopes to do
about ten miserable trips a month in order to make a living.
Most of the Polish guys in the queue are counting pennies too. But even the
street legal wouldn’t dream of handing in their passports at the Russian
border without a few dollars tucked inside. Otherwise you don’t pass go ever.
It wasn’t always like this. The EU’s ‘reverse engineering’ of the iron curtain
around Kaliningrad, and the inevitable Russian reaction to it, has only
created an exercise in persecuting the poor. Is there any real customs work on
this border? Over the past two years I’ve never seen anything on this route
remotely resembling commercial traffic or road haulage. (Witness pic.)
The persecution generates a kind of wartime spirit among beleaguered motorists.
People take it in turns to sleep and wake each other up when the line moves,
to share coffee and rations, to play chess and pass the time somehow.
D R
Congo, August 21st, 2007
Extra
Extra
driving test
Q:
Which of these two cars should be overtaking the lorry?
A: Neither. All three vehicles are approaching a blind corner, and a similar
circus could be coming the other way… Everybody made it this time, though.
Bonus question: How do you get a Congolese driving license?
A: You produce the cash after negotiating a fair price.
.......at
least the religious police is the most popular security system in the Kingdom
and their mistakes are very very rare and those who commit mistakes end up
being punished and fired from job, they are unarmed (only few have sticks),
they fought and stopped lots of crimes , they are highly capable in detecting
Al Qaeda traitors and they saved many people, why none of these stupid
anti-Islamic propagating media resources speak anything about the
worst-popular security system in the Kingdom (THE TRAFFIC POLICE) whom always
give Saudis tickets claiming that you were driving 150 km/h while your speed
didn't even reach 110 km/h and at the end make you pay lots of bills for
nothing ?
7 August 2007
An
Englishman In Saudi Arabia
Margrave vs The Traffic Police
If you drive on Riyadh's ring road at night you see a large number of cars
stopped by unmarked traffic police cars. You don't see a Mercedes or a Porsche
stopped. The majority of the cars are pick-up trucks or less expensive cars.
Sadly I'm driving the latter kind of car rather than the former.
So it had to happen eventually, didn't it?
Late at night I'm driving home after a very long day at work. I'm doing 115
km/h on the highway where the speed limit is 120 km/h when I notice the car
ahead being forced to brake by a weaver. I change lanes to avoid the danger
and suddenly a silver car pulls right up behind me, tailgating me with barely
a yard's gap. I decide to move back into my original lane to avoid him but he
follows me. Suddenly police lights start flashing and I realise he's an
unmarked police car. I move into the slow lane to allow him to pass but he
follows me! I finally realise that I'm being stopped by the police! Outrage
and indignation arrive but are quickly beaten into submission by fear and
resignation.
"What on Earth can he be pulling me over for?" I wonder to myself.
I pull the car onto the verge by the side of the highway and he pulls in
behind me.
I should explain at this point that in the countries where I've lived if you
are stopped by the traffic police you never get out of your car (unless you
want to be shouted at). You wait in your car for them to come to you.
It slips my mind that Saudi is different.
I sit in my car.
The policeman sits in his car.
Time passes.
I frown at him through my rear view mirror.
I notice he's fidgeting a bit and I wonder when the hell he's going to come
and see me.
He stares at me.
He's probably wondering when the hell I am going to go and see him.
Time passes.
He blasts his police siren.
Realisation dawns and I get out of my car and walk over to him. He winds down
his window and I shake his hand.
Me: Salaam!
PO: Salaam!
Me: Err, is there a mushkilla officer? (I apologise to all Arabic speakers for
my casual butchering of their language)
PO: Istemarah!
Me: Oh… right… umm…
I walk back to my car, retrieve what I assume is my Istemarah and my driver's
license and walk back to the police car. The lights are still flashing.
They're almost blinding.
Me: Here you are.
PO: (pointing at my car) Car!
Me: Yes, err, it’s a car. I assume he wants my help to check his English
vocabulary.
PO: Car! Car!
Me: Yes, it's my car. Well, it’s a rental actually.
PO: CAR! CAR!!
We look at each other.
Me: Ohhhh! You want me to go back to my car! Right… well… goodbye then.
I walk back to my car with hunched shoulders and sit down. I call my wife to
let her know I might be a bit (or perhaps a day) late and squirm impatiently.
I make sure the policeman can see I'm using my mobile. A tiny bit of hope
suggests he might get worried about who I'm calling.
Perhaps he's sitting in his car wondering if I have powerful wastah.
I sit in my car looking at my phone, wondering if I have powerful wastah.
Damn.
I wonder what the arrest sheet will say.
"Margrave. Pompous git. Arrested for driving a cheap car under the speed limit.
Given extra time for bad hair."
Time passes.
More time passes. Note to self: keep a book in the car for just such
emergencies.
I look in my rear view mirror. The policeman is chatting on his mobile phone!
I wonder who he's talking to. Is he calling his mum to find out when dinner's
going to be ready or is he arranging to have a whitey-hating psychopathic
prisoner moved to my jail cell?
Time passes. The moon orbits the Earth. Or maybe it's the other way around.
Normal laws no longer seem to apply.
Next to me on the highway tailgaters, weavers, swervers, sliders and crazies
speed on their merry way.
More time passes. I slowly realise that my chances of waiting this long only
to be told that I can go free are very slim indeed. I wonder whether I should
have behaved differently. Perhaps deference was a bad decision. Belligerence
might have worked. Or it might have put me straight into the back of his car
in a pair of shiny new handcuffs.
I look back at him again. My mouth hangs open. He's lighting a cigarette! This
is unbelievable! He's sitting there without a care in the world! Is this a
post-coital cigarette after royally screwing me? Was it good for him? It
wasn't good for me! I wonder whether he'd notice if I just drove home.
I get out of my car and walked back to him.
Me: So... is there a mushkilla, mate?
PO: Car, car! …one minute.
Me: Ohh… only one more minute? Ok...
I walk back to my car once again and drift away. I imagine I'm a Muslim chap
in England with a long beard. I've been stopped by the traffic police and I'm
sure it’s because I'm a Muslim chap in England with a long beard. The real me
commiserates the imaginary me. The imaginary me grins and tells me to get
lost.
I fret about what the conditions in the traffic police jail will be like. I
realise to my horror that I need the toilet. I need a number two! My
imagination starts to conjure up images of the worst police toilets in the
world. The sights! The sounds! Oh god, the smells! I think of my "Family
Section" photo and beg forgiveness. I cross my legs.
Suddenly behind me he blasts his siren.
I look in my rear view mirror and he looks at me. His lights are blinding. I'm
not sure whether he's trying to make contact or just having a laugh.
I get back to worrying about the toilet.
He blasts his siren again.
I try to look at him through the rear view mirror but by now his lights have
killed my vision. I open my door and lean out to see if I can see him. I
can't.
I wonder if the toilet will have a lock on the door. Will there be toilet
paper? Why didn't I learn how to use that hose?
He blasts his siren again.
Finally I get out of my car to see if he is trying to get my attention. He is.
He’s now gesticulating angrily. I'm obviously the most stupid person he's ever
stopped. At least now he'll have a story to tell at dinner parties.
I walk back to his car and he hands me a small piece of paper. I look at it
dubiously.
PO: Ok!
My driver's license is nowhere to be seen.
The red mist begins its inevitable descent.
Angrily I open the piece of paper. It's my Istemarah. The policeman has
carefully and neatly folded it around my driver's license. It strikes me as
the most considerate and sweet thing anyone has ever done and engenders
immediate feelings of warmth towards him.
The feelings don't last long.
He has a yellow piece of paper in his hand. It's a traffic violation!
He looks up at me, yanks his seat belt and says "Seat belt!"
I wouldn't even sit in my car in Riyadh without my seat belt on! I value my
life too much! I can't believe he is going to fine me for something I
blatantly didn't do and something he blatantly could not have seen from behind
me anyway!
Me (outraged): Of course I was wearing my seat belt!
PO (sarcastically): Ohh… "of course"!
Me: Yes, of course!
PO: Ok. Bye bye!
He puts the yellow traffic violation back on his seat and waves me off.
In a daze I walk back to my car, put my seat belt on in the most theatrical
manner possible, turn on the engine, indicate and slowly crawl away.
I think it's time to get a nicer car.
Margrave.
An Englishman In
Saudi Arabia
Margrave vs The Traffic Police
pt2
Unfortunately there has not been a happy ending to this story.
As I understand it, there is a telephone number you can call in Saudi to query
your traffic fines but it's an Arabic language service and not many expats are
aware of it.
Therefore in the past the only way an expat would find out whether he had any
traffic violations would be when he tried to leave the country. This is
because your traffic violations are checked at the airport / border on exit
and if you have any outstanding fines you are not allowed to leave. This
results in a mad dash to pay the fines before you miss your flight and you
have no time to complain if you feel the fine is unjust.
This is no longer the case. You can now query your Saudi traffic violations
online.
I suspect the policeman that stopped me either did not know about this or did
not care. This explains why the traffic violation that he never handed to me
(for not wearing a seatbelt even though I was) was still processed and I now
have a 100 SAR fine.
This of course is thoroughly unfair.
Therefore I've decided to complain. Perhaps nothing will come of it, perhaps
something will.
Either way, I will let you know.
Margrave.
An Englishman In
Saudi Arabia
Aug. 11th,
congogirl
The sound of the police
My first encounter with the Congolese police went something like this.
I was driving home from dinner with two friends, looking for a spot to turn
and take me back to Blvd 30 Juin. Before I found that turn, I saw out of the
corner of my eye a small Do Not Enter sign (red with the white bar), so just
past it, I began a three-point turn.
Then I noticed that the sign was right next to a police station - made from an
old shipping container - and like magic, seven uniformed men appeared. A
couple of them had been sitting in the dark and started making noise when I
passed the sign, but this is normal. People are only too happy to yell at you
when you go the wrong way.
Before I could shift back into drive, the car was surrounded. The police were
yelling at us, which was not like the time that I accidentally drove up near
one of Kabila's residences and was merely pointed in the other direction.
No, they saw mundeles and they wanted money.
One of the nicer ones asked for money for un cafe, so I handed over 500FC. No,
he said, I need enough for ALL OF US. He handed the bill back through the
window.
They began asking for my license, and I have a DR Congo license, but it had
evaporated from my purse, so I could not produce it. I said I'd left it at the
house (true). They indicated that I would have to come into the station. I
kept the doors locked and asked my colleague to call one of our Congolese
colleagues. But one of the men told her not to use the phone.
None of them truly bothered me except the chef, who was mean looking and
wielded a big stick as it were. Who knows if those guns are loaded, but I
wasn't taking a chance. The guy on my side of the car asked how much money I
could give (I had said I had none) and he said, even $10 or $20. So the
negotiation was on. This is Africa - We Bargain.
And we know they aren't paid or at least not well, and my colleague said that
the chef looked as though he could use a couple hamburgers. Finally I proposed
3000FC (about $6) and they accepted the offer. I handed over $5 + 1000FC (a
bit extra) and stepped on it as soon as the chef moved away from the hood of
the car.
Note to self: Telling them "I left the license at home" was probably a VERY
good idea, because who knows how long I would have been detained if I had
stepped out of the car... I don't really ever want to see the inside of that
shipping container. congogirl
