Various

Alieu. Chief of Station. Albreda Police. North Bank Division, The Gambia.

Alieu rests under the tree beside the road. The evening sun casts a long cool tree shadow, but the red laterite road still radiates heat from the day. There hasn’t been a criminal matter to investigate for many weeks. Not since the Kuyateh brothers had a fight about a goat. But a policeman’s job is always busy. Just that morning he had to travel to an important meeting at Police Headquarters. 

He sits in his customary place with a couple of neighbours drinking tea, sometimes chatting, but mostly silent. He waves cheerily as a truck passes, delivering materials for the new road. As the dust settles another vehicle comes into view. A 4×4 with luggage on the roof, slowing, looking. Alieu jumps to his feet and runs out into the road waving. The car passes, then stops and backs up. 
“You must stop for the Police,” he introduces himself.
“Sorry, we didn’t know. You are not in uniform,” the driver counters.
Tourists, foreign tourists, looking for a place to stay. The village needs more tourists. There is no work, no money, since the tourists stopped coming.
“I will accompany you, right, show you the village and take you to the campement,” the policeman offers helpfully. “You are very welcome in Albreda.”
When they are settled in their accommodation he takes his leave. “My name is Alieu. This is my number. If you need anything, call me. I will visit you tomorrow.”

The following day they do call. A problem with the car. They need some spare parts. 
“Of course we can solve that, fine, right. I will take you on my bike to Barra. There in the town we will find all the parts necessary,” Alieu offers. 
Alieu is on a mission. His motorbike hurtles down roads and narrow paths, slick with mud and flooded from the overnight rain. The tourist woman fearfully clings on behind him as the bike slips and slides through the dirt. Alieu, with a wide grin, skill and blind optimism, navigates the treacherous puddles and accelerates down the clear stretches. On reaching the market town, Alieu’s instructions are clear. “No stopping, no talking. We are on a mission. Find what we need, then leave. No time to waste.”

Within a few hours they have returned to the village with the spare parts. The visitors are fixing their car. Alieu is pleased. The tourists offer him some money for his help, but he rejects it with a broad smile. “No, no. I am the policeman. Helping people is my duty.”

———————————————

Lieutenant Aspirant Ahmadou Diallo of the Gendarmerie, Département of Kilda, Senegal.

It is a dark and stormy night, like in one of those American detective novels. I am Lieutenant Aspirant Ahmadou Diallo. On duty in the hut where the Ziguinchor road approaches Kolda, I smoke a Marlboro, waiting. Headlights approach through the sheets of rain. I extinguish my cigarette, pull up my facemask to cover my chin and step out into the weather.
I blow my whistle, in the regulation manner, and gesture the vehicle to stop. A foreign car. Foreigners are always difficult. White people. They don’t understand how anything works in Africa. I walk around inspecting the vehicle. The driver winds down the window and greets respectfully. “Bonsoir, ça va?”
“Your number plate light is not working. Without the correct light it is dangerous. Can I see your carte grise vehicle registration?”
I study it intently by torchlight in the rain. It is not written in normal writing. I ask, “What country is this from?”
“Bulgaria,” the driver replies. 
“Driving license,” I demand. Then, “Insurance.”

Each document I examine in detail. I am determined to find some inconsistency. But the papers are unfamiliar.
“Where is your Bulgaria insurance?”
The driver looks surprised, and unsure, “Um, we don’t have Bulgarian insurance. For driving in Senegal we have Senegalese insurance.”

I know I am onto something now, “When you drive in your country, don’t you have insurance? Where is it? It is the law. It is necessary to carry all the correct paperwork. Foreign car must have foreign insurance.”
“We had insurance in Bulgaria,” the driver tries to explain, “but when we left it was no longer valid. If we have an accident here, they don’t care. That is why we have Senegalese insurance.”
“Get out of the car. Follow me.” I lead the way through the torrential rain. Lightning arcs across the sky reflecting off the shiny metal of a tin roof shack and highlighting an approaching cargo tuktuk. Duty takes over. I blow my whistle at the tuktuk, which stops. It is overloaded, with a man and a goat in the back. Many people do not respect the law.

“Take this goat out,” I tell the driver, “You cannot carry goat in a tuktuk. The law says it is dangerous.” The local people understand the law. The goat is removed. The owner hoists it onto his shoulders, then climbs onto the back of a motorbike and drives off into the night. The driver of the tuktuk gives me 2000 francs out of kindness, because he sees me out in the rain doing my duty. So I decide it is not a serious offence, and tell him to be more careful with his load in future. Quickly and efficiently dealt with. Applying the law. Making the roads safe.

The white man is very wet by now. I don’t notice the rain when I am doing my job. Africans can endure anything. We are very resistant.
I lead him into the hut. And I try to explain again. I don’t know how to make him understand.
“It is very important to have your Bulgarian insurance here. It is the law, and you must always respect the law.”

But he just makes excuses. He says what I ask is impossible. I light another Marlboro. The smoke writhes like snakes in the beam of my torch. The rain drums on the roof. I think of the Marlboro man from the adverts, with his horse and cowboy hat. I could be a sheriff in the wild west. It’s so easy to spot the bad guys, then you bring them in, dead or alive. It would be a much simpler life.

The foreigner doesn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation. And he doesn’t offer me a simple solution, so I take him back out into the storm and back to his car. 
“Move the car,” I instruct him, “Park correctly. Your car will be arrested. You will have to take your baggage to a hotel. Tomorrow is Saturday, then it is Sunday. Perhaps on Monday we can arrange your papers properly and we can return your car.”
I don’t want to do it. I am a good man, and it would make a lot of work for me. But I can’t let these people come to our country and not respect our laws. Colonisation is finished.

Then the woman, the passenger in the car, speaks, “Is this what you want?” She points to a small green sticker on the windscreen. I take my torch and peer at it though the rivers of water. It is written in the strange letters I don’t understand, but it looks official and important.
“Yes! Yes!” I cry out. “That is it. That is the most important document. You must not travel in Senegal without it.” I am so relieved we have solved this very complicated situation. They are also very happy.

“Of course,” I add, “there is the matter of faulty light. I will give you an attestation for that infraction. You must now go to the Commissariat and pay the fine and bring me the receipt. Then I can return your documents and you can continue your journey.”
I don’t know why the white people make things so complicated. So much time has been wasted, and I am very wet.

—————————————————

Deputy Gendarme Sow. Poste de Sinthiang Coundara. Tambacounda Road. Senegal

We are driving later at night than we have done before. The road is good, there is no other traffic. Police road blocks are not unusual. You see the glint of a traffic cone, or a hi-viz jacket. You immediately slow up, pull your face mask up and scan for a policeman in the road, or smoking in the shade of a tree. Often there is no one, sometimes they wave you on with a friendly greeting and sometimes they stop you. We are used to it. It can be entertaining, or annoying, or expensive. But it is normal life for all drivers in Senegal. 

Tonight though, it is late. The road is quiet. I slow down as soon as I see something in the road but come to a complete stop when I see it is completely blocked by cones. There is no sign of life, apart from a man preparing a cooking fire by the roadside. I sit and wait. Usually a policeman will come and talk. Some come just for a chat and some come to find some minor or spurious misdemeanour: a faulty light, a missing document or luggage on the back seat. (It is not a van, it is a car. Luggage must go in the back or on the roof.) But tonight, nothing.

I get out and approach the man. “Why is the road closed?” I ask.
“It has gone 22 o’clock. The roads are closed at 22 hours,” he replies without taking his attention off the fire.
“I have driven all over Senegal, but I’ve never heard of this. Is it all the roads?” I enquire. 
“All the roads in Senegal,” he says, “it is for safety.”

I’m pretty sure everything he says is untrue but I’m struggling to make sense of it and unsure how to proceed. Telling a policeman he is lying is not a good idea, especially when he is.
“We have to get to Tambacounda to find a hotel. There is nowhere to sleep here.”

He is unmoved by my plea. His fire is burning well now and he is preparing his pans. 
“You can speak to the Chef de Poste, he might help you.”
I notice the simple hut, painted white, with flowers rambling over a trellis. In the darkness and firelight it looked as pretty as an English cottage. A man standing in the door beckoned me over. 
“Good evening sir. How are you?” Greetings are very important. I go on to explain our predicament and ask if we might be able to continue our journey.
“Personally I don’t have a problem if you proceed,” he announces after due consideration, “But Deputy Gendarme Sow is the one who has to guard the road all night. If you can make some arrangement with him, he may let you pass.”

Okay, I have the shape of the situation now. Back to Deputy Sow. “If I made you some compensation for your trouble, could you open the barrier for us. The Chef says no problem. What would be a suitable amount?” I ask, but he is not giving me any clues.

Luckily, as I go back to the car to fetch some money, a lorry stops and I see the driver coming over with a blue note scrunched in his hand. 2000 francs. I have all the pieces now, I know the system. I hand Deputy Gendarme Sow the money and he starts clearing a way for us to pass. The Chef de Poste shouts out to his deputy, “How much did the white man give you?” Then breaks into peals of laughter. He was hoping the stupid foreigner would pay over the odds.