October 2009
Because I don’t drive in Bolivia, opting instead for the haphazard public transport system, I’ve never dealt with one of the most corrupt facets of Bolivian society—Transit Cops. But my fiancée just bought his first car, an ’81 bile green Beetle, and ran into trouble his first day driving.
At a stoplight on a steep hill, Mache failed to get the car into first gear, and rolled backwards a few inches right into his first fender-bender. The car’s driver was pleasant, and Mache solved things with him quickly. The transit cop on the corner was not so helpful.
After taking his ID, the cop thought a minute. “I need to give you a ticket.”
“Ok.” Mache’s not one for a fight.
“But you know, we could solve this right here if you wanted.”
“Um, no. I think I’ll pay the ticket.”
“Well, you can go to the Transit Office tonight at 5 pm to pay your ticket. But I’ll have to keep your ID until then.”
Not wanting to pay the requested bribe, Mache showed up at the Transit Office at 5 and asked to see the cop. The secretary looked confused. “But on Friday they leave at 4. There’s no one here. You’ll have to come back on Monday.”
So on Monday, Mache stopped by Transit again, and this time the cop was there. “I’ve sent your ID over to the Police Station,” he said. “I’ll take you there.” But as soon as they stepped out the door, the cop took Mache’s ID out of his pocket. “You know, it would just be so much easier and cheaper if we solve this right here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ok, but the ticket is much more expensive than the 20 bolivianos it would take to get your ID back right now.”
I’m not sure if my fiancée is really really good and holy, or just gets stubborn when transit cops push him around. But he didn’t pay the bribe. Instead he went to the police station, where they told him that since he had waited three days to pay the ticket instead of showing up that same day, he’d have to pay a triple fine. Even when he told them the whole story of the corrupt, flakey cop, they just chuckled and demanded triple the cost of the original ticket.
It’s incredibly frustrating to think you’re going through all the proper, legal steps, and then be penalized for it. As foreigners, we constantly deal with this in the Migration Offices, the bane of our very existence. I also see it in some of my friends on the streets, who are struggling to find jobs outside of prostitution to no avail. Sometimes, there’s nothing to do but cry angrily. Sometimes, all we can do is laugh. And sometimes, eventually, we fall back into the assurance that, in spite of all appearance to the contrary, God is in control.
In Christ,
Cara Strauss