These Are the Stake-Holders

‘You know, in the villages there is a town crier who tells everyone the news. The people go out to fields in the morning and, when they come back to the village, the town crier goes around to tell them the news. Maybe the chief’s daughter has taken ill or a government engineer came to inspect the borehole – things like that. Even maybe you will be in your hut resting and he will speak loudly to the people on the street so that you will also hear the news from inside your home.

‘So you will come to the village during the day to mobilize the community for a meeting or an assessment or something. Most of the people will be out in the fields. So you will tell this town crier that you want the village stakeholders to assemble for a meeting in the church tomorrow. In the evening he will go around to spread the news of the meeting in the church. The next day you will come to the church and you will be surprised to find that there are only old people. You will ask the town crier why he has assembled the old people and he will tell you that these are the stake-holders.’

Recent Things Said

On preparation: ‘I don’t want to come until I’m ready to go.’

On moderation: ‘It feels greedy. It’s like we’re the fat people of happiness.’

On change: ‘If we want things to stay the way they are, then we have to change.’

On honesty: ‘Don’t play me.’

On repetition: ‘We keep doing the same thing because we think we can break the world to fit us.’

On existence: ‘Let’s enjoy being here until we are here no longer.’

On aid work: ‘I built a shiny new hut where the old hut was but there’s still a river of shit running out front of it.’

It Has To Be With Your Whole Heart

Jess practices starting on an incline

She gives a little throttle and the engine begins to liven. Then, as she begins to release the clutch, she lets off the throttle. The motorcycle jerks forward and the engine cuts off. Jess looks at me, waiting for the rebuke.

            ‘Now do it your way again,’ I say.

It is a warm afternoon and the tarmac is dry after it rained heavily earlier in the morning. In the waning weeks of the wet season, the rains become more ferocious as they become less frequent. Now when they finish, the sky opens up and there are few or no clouds and the sunshine is strong as you would expect it to be always.

She frowns when I say it and she turns back to her controls. She is stopped on an incline and she knows that this is testing her command of the motorcycle’s controls – foot break, throttle and clutch lever. She does it the same way as before. She thinks she does not. She thinks she will make it work this time and, it working, she will show me that she does not need a crutch to make it work for her. So she does it again her way and, not controlling how her mind controls her hand at the throttle, she lets off as she disengages the clutch so that the motorcycle jerks forward and the engine shuts off. She looks at me again.

            ‘Now do it my way,’ I say. ‘That means you say – aloud – “gas, gas, gas” over and over and you believe the words and you use them as a command to your hand to continue to the accelerate as you disengage the clutch.’

            ‘OK,’ she says.

            She returns to her controls and she begins to mumble the words under her breath.

            ‘Gas, gas, gas,’ she says.

            She stops saying the words as she begins to disengage the clutch and, releasing the throttle, she jerks into a stall.

            ‘See, it doesn’t work,’ she says.

            ‘Two things,’ I say. ‘First, you stopped saying it before you actually started to disengage the clutch. Second, you can’t mumble the words. The words are not magic. You have to say them aloud and like you mean it. You have to focus on your throttle hand and use them to command your hand to obey you.’

            ‘It feels stupid,’ she says.

            ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I imagine it’s no more stupid than stalling over and over because you refuse to try it.’

            ‘Fine,’ she says.

She turns back to the controls. She says the words with meaning this time, if not with conviction, but it is enough. She lets back slightly on the throttle as she disengages the clutch but she has enough control over her throttle hand not to let off completely and the motorcycle lurches slightly but survives the transition from the stop into the ride.

Once she realizes she is riding, she gains confidence and she accelerates up the incline. She changes into second gear at the leveling before the second rise. At the top of the second rise, she u-turns, descends, u-turns again, and returns to the starting position. Stopped now, she waits for me to approach and for the ‘I told you so’ that she knows she deserves.

‘Do it your way,’ I say.

She frowns and she turns her focus to the controls. She does it her way, thinking she does not because she feels the words come out of her mouth. But I can see that she does not believe them and so they do not command her throttle hand. She adds throttle, begins to disengage the clutch, releases the throttle, lurches forward, and stalls the engine. She looks at me again.

 ‘Good. Do it your way again,’ I say.

She frowns because she is too smart to not know when she is being played with but she is still much too stubborn to get it right. She does it her way again, saying the words, not the command, and she lurches and stalls again. She looks at me again and again I say, ‘Do it your way.’

            She lurches and stalls again. Now she is tired of failing and I think it is getting the better of her stubbornness.

            ‘Now do it my way,’ I say.

            She sighs and turns back to her controls. She says the words – as a command this time – and she continues to accelerate with her throttle hand as she disengages the clutch and she moves forward smoothly into the ride. When she comes back she is smiling sheepishly. I shrug as if to say, ‘It’s just that easy.’

            ‘Your afraid of the engine,’ I say. ‘You think the bike is going to buck you. That’s why you’re hesitant to accelerate. So you try to give just enough to get into a ride and then, when you’re comfortable that you’re riding, you start to accelerate again.’

            ‘Yeah,’ she says.

            ‘The starting needs to be part of the riding, not a separate activity. You need to want to fire the engine and accelerate.’

I think about this because I think that maybe I have hit on something for her and me both.

‘You have to do this wholeheartedly – that’s what I love so much about it. If you give it anything less she’ll buck you as sure as anything. And that’s when it isn’t safe to do it. Every time you ride it has to be with your whole heart and your whole head. You have to be there completely and there can be nothing else while you’re doing it.’

I say this and I know that she knows what it means because it is what she was taught when she was young and what she values now and what she looks for in everything she does; it is what scares her more than anything else and what makes her happier too.

This Chip On Your Shoulder

You have this chip on your shoulder, you know that? I think to myself.

            I know it, myself thinks back to me.

            Do you know why? I ask myself.

            No.

It’s because you worked so hard to get here and waited so long, I think.

Maybe.

You spent the majority of your twenties in university to ‘prepare’ for this, didn’t you? I think.

Yes I did.

And now that you’re here, it’s not exactly what you expected it would be, is it?

No, it’s most certainly not.

And why do you think that is? I think to myself.

I don’t know.

It’s because you’re so much fucking smarter than all the rest of them, aren’t you? I think.

No. That’s a terrible thing to think.

But you think it just the same. And most of those other expats didn’t work as hard as you did to get here.

No.

It doesn’t seem fair, does it? I think.

No.

They should be working for you, shouldn’t they?

Some of them yes.

So you have this chip on your shoulder, I think to myself.

Yes, myself thinks back to me, I do.

Yes, I think in reply.

But why do I get so very upset at some of them? myself thinks to ask me. Like the ones who stole from the last place I worked.

That’s a good question, I think. You want to know why you take it personally, like as if they stole from you?

Yes, that’s it.

That’s because it is, I think in reply.

I’m sorry?

For you it is personal.

I don’t understand.

This was the dream and the dream has turned out to be so much less that you expected, I think, and you don’t accept things without understanding why.

No, I suppose I don’t.

So someone has to be the cause of it – to blame for it, right?

I guess so.

Sure they do, I think.

So it’s the ones who stole’s fault then?

It’s their fault and the fault of the incompetents and of the apathetics, and it’s the fault of the ones who let them all into their positions and the ones who let them continue in their positions still.

So that’s it then, myself thinks.

No it’s not, I think back.

It’s not?

It’s not their fault or the fault of the ones who let them do it.

So is it my fault then for blaming them for it?

Yes, partly it’s your fault for making them the face of your dream’s ruin, I think. But mostly it’s just the way the world works and no one’s to blame.

Then what can I do about it? myself thinks to me.

About the world?

Yes.

You can try to change it – in all the small ways you can, I think. Always and forever you try to change it. But mostly it’s about what you can do about yourself.

What can I do about myself? Learn to accept it?

Not accept it, I think. The true world-shakers are the ones who, being out of tune with the world, bring the world in tune with them. But to do that you must be in tune with yourself.

That last bit sounds a bit la-ti-da doesn’t it? myself thinks.

No it doesn’t, I think back. It’s about attitude. It’s about being open to the world and its possibilities. It’s about making an effort and living for the way things should be and then being flexible that they’re not there yet.

            It still sounds fu-fu.

Yeah, maybe it is a little bit.

You Must Learn to Speak Correct

Pem-pems (motorcycle taxis) will carry anything.

It is Saturday afternoon and we are riding on Randall St up past Benson where it becomes one way. The traffic is very bad here so we are glad we are on our motorbike because we can ride the narrow opening between the parked cars and the cars that idle as they wait in the traffic.

I slow as we approach the intersection and I see there are two police who are directing the traffic. You see this in many busy intersections where there are no traffic lights and the signage, if there ever was any, has been destroyed or is ignored. In these places you might expect that one police to direct traffic is enough but this is rarely the way. More often you will see three or four police in a busy intersection and, although they will be directing traffic together, they will seldom conduct in unison. This time there are two and they are working smartly together so that, while one directs traffic, the other seeks out offenders.

Stopped now at the intersection, we wait as traffic moves in the other direction ahead of us. Then I see the ‘seeker’ police approach and look us over. His expression is menacing as though what is about to happen is entirely personal. His eyes look to the front where there might have been a license plate below the headlight. Then he sidesteps, takes a stride, and turns to check the rear below the brake light. When he comes back around to the front he’s expression is triumphant.

‘Where is your plate?’ he says.

Before I can respond, he reaches down, turns the ignition off, and pockets the key.

I smile because it is my first formal interaction with the police in this country and somehow it is just the behavior I expected. Also, I smile because I am remembering the discussion that Jess and I had before we left the hotel.

‘Do you want to put the license plate on before we go out?’ she had said.

The license plate was in our hotel room one floor up with the bike’s registration documents. I had received them the day before from one of the drivers where I work who had acted as a fixer. I paid him USD 35 instead of the official USD 15 because it was supposed to save me from having to make multiple trips to the Ministry of Transportation, which it had, and to complete the process in just a few days, which it had not. Now, finally, we had the registration and the license plate but it was up there and we were down here and now we had our helmets on and the guard was opening the gate.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We have been driving for six weeks without it. What’s one more day?’

            It is USD 50 as it turns out.

            ‘Bring the bike over here,’ the police says aggressively. ‘Over here.’

            I shift into neutral and slowly walk the bike the few meters to where the police has pointed. There are many other motorbike clustered there on a protrusion of the sidewalk and many young men loiter around them. When I have parked the bike, I stay seated a moment longer to take off my helmet and wipe the sweat from my forehead. It is the first truly warm day since we are here, which means the rainy season is finally coming to an end.

            ‘Good afternoon, officer,’ I say.

            ‘You have no license plate,’ he says. ‘Where is your registration?’

            ‘My registration is at the Ministry of Transportation,’ I say. ‘I paid the 15 dollars and now I am waiting for them to issue the plate. I have gone there several times to get it but they say it is not ready yet.’

            His expression shows that he does not like this response, I think because I have demonstrated knowledge of the cost and he knows of the great slowness of the procedure.

            ‘You go talk to him,’ he says, pointing to the other police.

            I look back and see that Jess is standing next to the bike watching my helmet. She is surrounded by a swarm of young motorcycle taxi drivers. They are very excited by her and she is smiling, which I think is partly genuine and partly a defense to all the unwanted attention. She is experienced and I am not worried about her.

            The police who was ‘seeking’ steps into the intersection to direct traffic and the other police, who is apparently his supervisor, approaches me.

            ‘You don’t have a license plate or registration,’ the second police says. ‘That is a 50 dollar fine.’

            I repeat the thing about the cost and the delay by the Ministry of Transportation.

            ‘We are not the Ministry of Transportation,’ he says. ‘We are the police and we must make sure that you have the license plate and registration.’

            ‘I understand,’ I say, ‘but the Ministry has taken my documents while they process the license plate.’

            I smile for a moment thinking how this could be a scene from a Kafka novel.

            The second police decides not to quibble with me over the procedural details. Instead he says, ‘You are wearing a helmet. That is good. But you have no registration or license plate. That is a 50 dollar fine.’

            I smile again seeing how he has won. Since he will not engage me on the procedural details and I cannot deny the fact that I am not in possession of the registration or license plate, my only recourse left is to quibble over the price. This, of course, concedes the fact of the infraction.

            ‘Officer, it seems that 50 dollars is very much money when I am trying correctly to obtain a license plate as I have explained to you. Maybe there is a smaller ticket for this particular situation?’

            ‘You see these people?’ he says, gesturing to the parked motorbikes and then realizing that their owners have all abandoned them to swarm around Jessica. ‘They all will pay the fine or the pem pem will be impounded.’

We go back and forth like this until I have put up enough of a protest to satisfy myself. I have the USD 50 and I know that I do not want the bike to be impounded because that will involve much more time and additional bribes. I know that a payment will need to be made as soon as the first police took my key and I know it is the cost of ‘doing business’ here but I also know that I cannot make it too easy because, somehow, ironically, that would be to condone it.

            ‘I think it will be best if I pay the ticket now,’ I say.

            ‘You want the bike to be impounded then?’ the police asks.

‘No, I want to pay the ticket,’ I say.

‘Then you must learn to speak correct,’ the police says.

I should smile at this, as I have smiled earlier at the situation, but now I am hot and sweating in the bright sunshine and I am ready for this to be concluded.

            ‘How is the correct way to speak?’ I ask.

‘If you want to pay the ticket, then I must impound the bike,’ he says. ‘If you will pay the fine now, then I do not have to impound the bike.’

‘I will pay the fine now,’ I say.

‘Come this way,’ he says.

He leads me off to one side and I thrust a crumpled banknote into his hand open palm. He checks that the amount is correct and then he begins to return to the intersection.

‘You may go,’ he says. ‘Make sure you get a license plate.’

‘You’re colleague has my key,’ I say.

He calls the first police who is directing traffic in the intersection.

‘Give him his key,’ the second police says.

The first police complies and I return with the key to the bike.

‘What is going on?’ Jess says.

‘We can go,’ I say.

‘Did you pay the ticket?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I paid the fine.’