A Jaunt to Jail

• Sweet2thlh's Profile
• About this blog
• Entry from Banjul

  Banjul, Gambia
Tuesday, November 6, 2007

A recurring fear I had about coming to this country was that I would somehow screw up and find myself rotting in a West African jail. In a whole year of living here, I've thus far managed to evade incarceration, in fact I've managed to avoid going anywhere near the police. Until now. Last week my camera was stolen and my insurance company require a police report within 24 hours. Not overly hopeful on this point, being long accustomed to the speed at which things happen in The Gambia, off I trundled to my local police station for what turned out to be among the most entertaining few hours of my life.

So I wander into the station and learn that in The Gambia, they have saved space and bricks by combining the police office and the holding cell into one room. Prisoners are held in an enormous metal cage in the middle of the room, whilst the policeman

are squashed to the side, their desks propped up against the cage. It's clearly been a productive (or not?) day for pickpocketing because about 15 young lads are currently banged up in the cage.

I got given a Gambian name "Isatu Jobarteh" when I first arrived in-country and that's mostly what I use now. It started as a useful way of fending off unwanted attention, developed into a way of helping me blend in and differentiate myself from tourists, and now I feel it's an established part of my identity. So much so in fact sometimes I fear I've developed a kind of cultural schizophrenia. Isatu is a friendly chatty neighbour who sings greetings at all she meets whilst walking down the street. Louise is still a stroppy wench who is best not crossed early in the morning.

So I start filling out paperwork and automatically use the name Isatu, before I realize that my insurance company are unlikely to be impressed with this, and have to ask for a new form. The sergeant is himself distinctly unamused and highly suspicious of my explanation that I "filled the wrong name". Eyeing me up and down trying to decide whether I am a terrorist, fraudster, or just genuinely stupid, he makes me repeat my English name over and over in an attempt to catch me out. By the time he is satisfied that this is indeed my name, everyone in the room, inmates included, can pronounce and spell my name perfectly.

Whilst I'm filling out the paperwork a passionate quarrel breaks out between a policeman and an inmate which soon turns into a free-for-all as everyone in the room joins in. My Wolof not being up to the challenge, I feel rather left out and am delighted when they notice and thoughtfully switch their argument to English for my benefit. Gambian police could clearly give English police a lesson or two on inclusiveness and inherent racism.

Eventually I finish the paperwork and am informed that I must now head to another police station on the other side of town to sign an affidavit. "I can't do that here?" I meekly request. "Of course not!" they respond in astonishment.

So off I go. On the back streets of Serrekunda I find the police station and am pleasantly surprised by the relatively party-like atmostphere. A senior policeman takes my details and goes off to type them up. This takes almost an hour and in the meantime I sit in the police courtyard in the sunshine, drinking Attaya, shooing away chickens and chatting with various policemen who all individually take the time to commiserate that People are Very Bad to Steal. I point out that it is such crime that is keeping them in a job and after considering this at length, we agree that Stealing is Fine So Long as You Get Caught.

Eventually the senior policeman comes back with a piece of paper that looks like it was created by a ten year old with his "My First Stencilling Kit". Just so it looks completely official, he proudly plonks a big red sticker on the top. So do I get my report now? I ask, already relatively confident in the answer. Of course not - back I go to the first police station.

I arrive in the station to the dubious honour of being enthusiastically welcomed back by the cellmates who launch a rousing chorus of "Louise, Louise, we missed you". Thrilled to now be on first-name terms with the criminal underworld of the country, I optimistically produce my affidavit and request my police report.

"Oh but police reports, they are not easy" I am told "Sometimes they can take many months".

"Surely not?" I reply wide eyed "Why, my good friend the Inspector General told me it could be done in a day..."

This causes some discomfort and I am told to return in the evening. Which I do. And am now informed the typist only comes in at night. I must pay for two things - once for the report (paper doesn't grow on trees you know), and once for the coffee needed by the typist in order that he can stay awake to be able to produce my report. The policeman that relays this last bit of information does so with an utterly straight and solemn face which amuses me so much I willingly hand over the bribe.

The next morning I return - no police report. That afternoon- same story. The following morning: ditto. This amusing little game goes on all week until I eventually lose my temper, get into a virulent loud argument with the station commander and end up snatching my paperwork out of his hands. Trembling with fear realising the stupidity of such behaviour, I decide in for a penny, in for a pound and loudly demand my bribe back. There's a tense moment where the pair of us are both waiting to see if he is going to have me beaten and shot, but then a wave of resignation appears to override him and to my palpable relief and surprise, he shrugs his shoulders and hands over the cash.

I never did get my report...