'Indecent Exposure.'
- Colette Kirk
- Apr 10, 2020
- 3 min read
If you have ever encountered Zimbabwean traffic police, you know they can be some of the friendliest, funniest, most annoying or most hostile people on earth. Ever since I can remember, police roadblocks have been a regular part of Zimbabwean life. They can stop you and hassle you for anything – once I was driving into town, and a police officer pulled me over at the regular point, just after the tollgate and before the big Bocca tobacco sales floors.
“Mangwanani,” I greeted her, in Shona – “Good morning.’”As a white person in Zimbabwe, speaking the local language can dictate the direction your situation takes. “Mamuka sei?” she responded; her face friendly – “How did you sleep?” I responded accordingly and she started looking around my car, checking for a number of things that she might be able to fine me for, or, more likely, get a bribe out of me for. Brake lights, number plate, radio license stickers, insurance stickers, reflector stickers. They were always changing the rules so they could catch you unawares. Having found nothing on the outside of my car, she approached my window again.
“Can I please see your fire extinguisher, reflective vests and triangles.” I got out and produced all three. These were their favourite things to catch people on. What’s funny is that despite these regular roadblocks and laws, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an accident in Zimbabwe where people use the reflective triangles. It’s always a piece of cardboard propped up by a rock, or a branch torn from a tree, or simply a person standing and waving their arms wildly at oncoming traffic.
I got back into my car and prepared to drive off again. Whilst I had been stopped there, several vehicles had gone past us with smashed lights, their boots half open, 10 people crammed into a car made for four, pumping pollution out of their exhausts – you name it, there was something wrong with the vehicle, but the police in Zimbabwe don’t actually care about enforcing the law – they care about trying to make as much money from motorists as they can.
“Wait!” she said, and peered through the window at me again, eyes looking everywhere for something to find. “Your skirt is very short,” she commented eventually. “I think it’s indecent exposure.” Indecent exposure is actually something you can get fined for in Zimbabwe, but it doesn’t apply if you are in your vehicle or in a private home. I don’t even know if it’s a proper law anywhere in the country or just something that stems from ladies in Shona culture traditionally having to wear long skirts.
I looked at the policewoman in disbelief. “Are you serious, Amai?” She didn’t know what to say. “I’m not paying anything for that.” I put my car into gear.
“Ok,” she agreed, “but don’t you just want to give me your juice card?” By this she meant the cell phone top-up card I had sitting on my passenger seat – in Zimbabwe most people don’t have regular cellular data plans – we buy airtime cards from vendors at the side of the road and input the money that we need at the time by entering a code.
I glanced at the ‘juice card’ and back at her, unsure how I felt about the whole thing – on the one hand it was sad, because a lot of the time the police do this because they don’t get paid enough. On the other hand, it was incredibly pathetic and annoying, because I had not done anything wrong and was now late for the appointment I was heading to, and the policewoman had basically become a beggar. On the third hand (I think there are always three hands in these situations) it was funny, because even though I had been experiencing this type of ridiculous behaviour most of my life, it was the first time someone had tried to fine me for wearing a short skirt, and they weren’t even embarrassed to admit that they had just tried to make up a law to get a bribe out of me. In the end, I decided to laugh about it as I drove off, because, honestly, in the Zimbabwean environment since the year 2000, if you don’t laugh, you will never stop crying.
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