Mail & Guardian journalist Nicole Johnston and photographer Oupa Nkosi get taken for a ride by corrupt cops in Maputo
As we pulled out of the guest house in Komatipoort, heading for Maputo, our hosts warned us to be wary of the Mozambican police once we crossed the border.
The previous day, one of their guests had been stopped at a roadblock by some cops eager to pad out their Christmas pay packets. He was informed that he had broken the law by driving with his headlights on during daylight hours. They detained him at the roadside for a long conversation about the need to come to some sort of ”arrangement” to resolve the matter.
For an hour or two they simply refused to let him leave. Desperate to get back to South Africa to meet a deadline, he finally snapped and snatched the keys from the ignition of the police car, threw them into the bush and drove like hell. How we laughed.
Less than an hour later we got our first taste of official Mozambican corruption when a tout at the Ressano Garcia border post took R100 off us to pay a police officer who stood impassively by our car. If we didn’t pay, the tout explained, we might find ourselves in the no-man’s-land between the countries for ”maybe six, maybe eight hours; maybe you don’t leave at all”.
I huffed and puffed about being a Southern African Development Community citizen and how I didn’t approve of bribery, until a charming woman from Jo’burg leaned out of a nearby 4×4 to tell me that ”no” wasn’t an actual option.
The police officer then decided he was thirsty, and we were relieved of some Coke and beer that we had in our car. We hit the N4 to Maputo, where our happiness at escaping grasping officialdom was short-lived.
Having done as much work as possible on our assignment, we checked into our hotel and decided to get a few shots of Maputo nightlife for a travel feature. We cruised down to the beach at sunset, to photograph children splashing around in the shallows, and then went on to the restaurants lining Avenida da Marginal that draw the crowds with the city’s legendary prawns.
We wound our way up Julius Nyerere Avenue and down Frederich Engels Avenue, checking out the pastelarias and chatting up the vendors who work the city’s nighttime streets selling airtime, cigarettes, batik prints and roses.
A big mistake
At about 10pm we decided to call it a night. We got back into the car and turned a corner into a street we thought would take us to our hotel. A young police officer stepped out of the shadows and motioned us to pull over. He advised us that we had made a ”very big mistake” by crossing a white line and making an illegal right turn.
We gestured back to the unlit street, which had no visible surface marking or signs prohibiting us from turning, and apologised for any mistake we may have made. He was having none of it and informed us that we would have to accompany him to the police station to pay a fine of three million meticais (about R770 000).
Pretty sure he was trying it on, we said: ”OK, let’s go.” He jumped into the back seat. Another cop materialised out of the gloom, and sat behind me. As they ”directed” us to the station in ever-widening circles, down dark side streets and up fetid alleys, we started get increasingly uneasy. I hissed at Oupa in Afrikaans that if he felt we were going too far from town he should just put his foot down and try to get us back to a busier street.
After a very long, circuitous drive they had us pull over in a murky parking lot and graciously offered us a ”50% discount”. I laughed and told him that even if I had R400 000, which is about what my house cost, I was unlikely to be driving around with it in my purse.
They said if we couldn’t pay our ”fine”, they would arrange for us to be put in a cell for two or three days, where very bad things might happen to us. They extracted about R200 from Oupa, while I told them all my cash was with my passport in the hotel safe (keeping a firm grip on my bag, which contained all our money for the trip). They then decided that we were ”lost” and they would escort us back to our hotel.
Two blocks down the street they neatly delivered us to a jeep full of cops in uniforms, armed with black assault rifles. ”That’s our boss,” said the first one, opened his door and was gone. The new bunch poured out of their jeep and on to us with great zeal and not a little belligerence.
Oupa stepped out the car to show them his driver’s licence while I sat tight, holding on to my bag, hoping they would believe that we believed this was a routine traffic stop. ”Out, out, out!” screamed a man in fatigues as he thrust his rifle through my window into my face.
I got out while they body-searched Oupa, asking if he had any ”funny stuff”, and we ran through the whole routine again: yes, here are our driver’s licences; no, our passports are in the hotel; yes, here is my press card; no, I don’t have any more cash on me.
The Boss
After about 15 minutes of this I demanded to know who the commanding officer was, and the Boss — a little cock-bantam of man looking exactly like a coup leader straight from central casting — strutted over and started screaming like a parade-ground sergeant major.
”It is illegal for foreigners to leave their hotels without their passports! The hotel lied to you by telling you to put them in the safe, and now you are in big trouble! Why do you care about your money? Why do you care about your passport? Your life is what you should care about, not money, your life!” he shrieked.
I insisted that I knew of no such law but that we would be very happy for them to accompany us to the hotel so we could produce our passports. A shouting match ensued among the officers as they debated this idea.
Haranguing duty had been taken over by a tall young man who spoke good English and had been deployed literally to play good cop. He told us about the importance of following the rules when visiting another country, and how terrible it would be if something bad happened to us, as no one knew where we were or were to find us.
I looked around and my mouth went very dry — we were in a narrow street, the only light coming from the headlamps of the jeep, and not a passer-by or another vehicle in sight. I cursed myself for leaving my cellphone to charge in the hotel, unable to let anyone know we were essentially being abducted by gun-toting bandits with badges.
We both realised our only hope of getting out of this was to get back into a well-lit public space, somewhere with witnesses. Again we insisted we go back to our hotel where this could all be ”cleared up”.
Suddenly the Boss reappeared and demanded to know if we had given the first two officers any money, obviously concerned that the little fish had been nibbling in his pond. Without even glancing at each other Oupa and I both said: ”Of course not,” convinced that in this Kafkaesque farce we would be accused of bribery if we admitted they had taken his money.
Another ride
Abruptly we were ordered back into the car, with Good Cop and a crony in the backseat, and we were taken on another ride through the backstreets of Maputo. The Good Cop kept up the verbal pressure: Were we sure we hadn’t paid the other cops anything? Why did we care more about money and passports than our lives? If something happened to us, how would anyone know who we were? And on. And on.
I asked where we were going and he said they were taking us to our hotel. We appeared to be driving in circles again, under strict instructions to follow the jeep in front. I kept asking how far the hotel was, as we seemed to be going in the wrong direction.
Eventually the street names started looking familiar: Albert Luthuli, Karl Marx, Ho Chi Minh, Lenin. We stopped in a very dark side street a block from the hotel and I was told to go in and come back with our passports. Oupa was to stay with them until I got back.
I asked why they didn’t just drive into the hotel parking lot, and got a snarl in reply. I tried to convince them that Oupa had his own safe and the hotel wouldn’t let me take his passport.
”No. You go and come back. Then he goes and comes back. Be quick,” ordered the Boss. By now it was clear to both of us that if I handed over our passports they would confiscate them as a way to extort cash from us. I went into the hotel, asked to see the manager and explained the situation to him.
He summoned his security team, and armed with passports, registration papers, insurance documents and any other pieces of paper the officers might conceivably demand, we marched down the street (I was suddenly feeling a lot braver).
At the sight of these reinforcements, the Boss’s tune suddenly changed. They had been protecting us from suspicious-looking characters, he said. The safety of tourists was a priority, he said. And then they vanished within 30 seconds. I looked at my watch — it was just after 11.40pm. I felt like we had been in that car for three days.