He's in the (Tanzanian) Jailhouse now
As an expat, it is unavoidable that at some time you will visit a police station. For the most part, I’ve been lucky about this. There have always been sources I could turn to: people who could facilitate and sometimes help me avoid a visit altogether.
Last week, I finally visit one. I've lost some personal property item and will need a lost or stolen police report from the nearest police station for the insurance company. All right, then. After the workweek ends, I finally take that grudging drive to the Kinondoni police station.
The atmosphere around the police station is understandably tense. Only a few weeks ago, a police station outside of Dar was raided for weapons, resulting in numerous police officers being killed. The perpetrators are supposedly part of a militia group who are seeking an easy source for the procurement of small arms. Allegedly, the suspects have been caught. As far as I know, the death penalty is still in effect in Tanzania. That means that, if found guilty, a date with the hangman beckons.
Outside of the police station, there is a single merchant offering his carwash services. As I approach the station, I come across a loaded pickup truck with armed soldiers. Crouching beneath them are about a half dozen youths who are about to be booked for some unnamed offense. A lot of heads turn to check out the mzungu in their midst. You can tell visits by the likes of me to the station here are rare.
In and outside, the police station looks like you would expect in the third world. There’s a foul stench emanating from the inside—a busted drainpipe, I’m guessing—and the walls of the single story building need a new paintjob in the worst way. Inside, there are cheap plywood desks and plastic lawn chairs you would probably pick up from a scrap heap in the west. Separating the visitors from the police officers are long wooden counters. In one corner, President Kikwete is grinning at the visitors from a portrait behind a glassed frame, in another corner is the portrait of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere, or the founding father of Tanzania in its current form.
The activities inside the police station are of controlled chaos. Four youths no older than 15 are ushered toward the jailhouse behind the counter, their tee shirt tails tied together. This is the police’s answer to chains, I suppose. There are two single room jail houses, one for each sex, and today they happen to be full. There is no room inside the room for the youths so they are told to sit on the tiled floor. Their offense? Smoking marijuana, as I find out.
I tell the desk officer that I need a police report, and my statement is taken down—by hand, of course. I don’t even see a typewriter anywhere. Pen and paper, plus carbon copies. Despite the simplicity of it all, I have the report within 15 minutes. I pay a nominal fee for the certification, and it’s done. I’m guessing that this wasn’t the desk officer’s busiest day, despite the overfilled jail rooms.
Before leaving, another half dozen youths are herded inside. Now the area behind the counter is getting crowded. Very soon it’s going to be standing room only. I have no idea what the offense is.
I finally pull out of the parking area and am saluted on my way out by a police officer in uniform. Something about the guy looks familiar, maybe I know him from a random stop at some time.
In the rearview mirror, there’s another truck load of youths coming, again their shirttails tied together. Soldiers are now flanking each side of the entrance as if they’d just received intel about a fresh threat. Just outside the police station on Old Bagamoyo Road there’s a police stop, and the guys manning it in their all white uniforms are busy.
A visit to the police station is usually as easy as getting a police ticket, although I’ll gladly take that over other offenses that will land you in the jailhouse here. Best not to get in trouble at all in this country, I am thinking, mzungu or not.
0 comments