Cartagena
- 3 hours ago
- 10 min read
police negotiations
haggling over fines for non-existent crimes and how to break the corruption cycle
„And what about the camera?“ the officer asked, looking at it with glassy and hungry eyes that glowed like honey-colored phosphor in the dimly lit garage.
“I’m not giving you my camera,” I answered, my voice turning into verbal exclamation marks. “It’s worth a lot more than the fine.”
That was a lie. With a mix of amusement and outrage pulling my lips into different directions, I raised my can of beer to them, took another sip, and thought to myself that these police were driving a hard bargain. He persisted along the lines of “if you cannot pay the fine, we’ll have to get your passports, and you'll spend the night in jail, and tomorrow we’ll bring you to Bogotá, and you’ll be deported.” Now he had taken out the big guns.
An hour earlier:
It was Cartagena’s birthday. I don’t remember which one, just that it was an odd number, something like 457, making the all-out celebration in the streets seem a little inadequate. The pretty city had been flirting with me for some days, and I was falling for it: Caribbean ocean front, Colombian joie de vivre, yesterday’s old town, tomorrow’s skyline, arepas—what a flawless place.
That night everybody wanted to go out—Julio, the Germans, that Norwegian couple, and the Brits I'd met in Bogotá. But I got held up in some other plot, a ghost from home on the phone. By the time I hung up, only the Norwegian guy was still around.
We had some beers by the clocktower right outside the old town. The party was in full swing, but our participation most moderate. All was well. Chilled. So chilled, in fact, that my companion suggested to smoke some weed. That’s where it all started, where “chilled” went up in smoke without us ever lighting a joint.
Walking through neighborhoods like Getsemani you’d hear the suggestive whispers aplenty: “Cocaine? Weeeed?"
I told him not to go shopping for weed on the street, where word was that some dealers were undercover cops or informants. It was almost too easy to buy all sorts of drugs in those streets. Walking through neighborhoods like Getsemani you’d hear the suggestive whispers aplenty: “Cocaine? Weeeed?”
We wriggled through the crowds and headed towards the western flank of Parque Del Centenario. “Let’s go back to the hostel; they can hook you up,” I proposed prudently, but my Norwegian companion was set on a snap purchase right then and there. He took off, crossed the street and walked up to a shady group of people that looked promising enough. I stayed back. The park was closed that time of the night, so I sat down on a ledge and leaned against the cooling bars, waiting for him to come back or not. Eventually, he did come back with the puniest "gram" of weed, and, given the price tag, he might as well have bought a bag of emeralds. But before long, my new acquaintance found himself entangled in an even more costly bargain.
He sat down next to me, and for some reason he figured it was reasonable to take out the weed and hold it against the yellow glow of a streetlight for further inspection. Unfortunately, his brilliant idea appeared in an altogether different light the moment two cops on a scooter drove by, gauging the situation and sizing us up without much difficulty. Whether they’d been tipped off or not, the remarkable lack of subtleness my buddy for the night had shown certainly helped their case along. They slowed down immediately and stopped a little down the road. Then they came back.
“Get rid of it, NOW,” I growled, and he hastily flicked the evidence through the thick, jail-like bars. Or, well, that’s what he aimed for. The attempt failed miserably, the little bag landed on the ledge, and when the cops arrived, they simply picked it up: “What’s this?” one of them asked, but his gleeful tone made it sound more like a statement: “now, will you look at this.”
To get busted with drugs in Colombia as a traveler is not uncommon; tourists want to have fun and in Colombia it’s an easy thing to have, but the cops want their share too. Within the few weeks after my arrival, I’d already heard several first-hand accounts of how this usually goes down: the bottom line and end of story was always to hand over whatever amount of cash you had on you. A small bribe to keep the wheels of justice greased. That’s why it was advisable to split your money across different pockets or wallet compartments.
We had a total of 70,000 COP to offer (around $35 USD at the time), which was substantially more than the standard rate (typically something like $5 USD). Unfortunately, another four cops had shown up by then and weren’t too happy with the allocation this came down to. One of them did all the talking in English and said something about “keeping Cartagena clean” and “no corruption.” His righteous cop performance was so intriguing that it was almost believable. Only occasionally did he drop an ambiguous hint at finding an informal solution for this infraction. They kept pretending to follow procedure, which demanded taking us to the nearest “police station” on foot: a dimly lit garage in some even dimmer side street. My pale Scandinavian companion had turned paler. Then the negotiations began.
The gang's leader kept up his stellar act, but ours wasn’t bad either. The whole thing was a farcical theater performance during which they played law-abiding cops and we starred as virtuous civilians, victims of a little mishap, citizens of lands where marihuana was suddenly legal to help along our story of ignorant innocence. They showed us a document with an arbitrary 500,000 COP fine on it (approx. $250 USD) and said we’d have to pay in full or else we’d go to another police station, spend the night in a cell, go to Bogotá the next day, followed by our immediate deportation (other cops had threatened the Brits with the exact opposite scenario—keeping their passports and making them stay in the country for three months).
“Isn’t there anything else we can do, Jefe (chief/boss)?” is a pretty standard line in Latin America to open up the conversation to “alternative solutions” for anything from speeding tickets to much more serious offenses. They ruled out alternatives for about 30 seconds. Then they dropped their act gradually to make room for a bargain.
We claimed that we were short on cash. They frisked us and concurred. Then there was talk of credit cards and ATMs. My Norwegian buddy had been looking increasingly uncomfortable and jittery ever since they had “taken us into custody,” but now he exclaimed full of enthusiasm that he wasn't in possession of his credit card and that he could prove it with a paper issued by the Ecuadorian authorities. He was so genuinely excited about this that there was no one, including myself, doubting his words. That exchange had given me enough time to come up with my own excuse, and, considering that the whole thing was more of a play, credibility didn’t play too big a role. So, my non-existent girlfriend had my credit card. She was traveling with it elsewhere. No, unfortunately I wasn’t sure when she’d come back. What a strange made-up relationship. But hey.
After every round of negotiations, the cops went into a huddle to fine-tune their strategy and asking price, while we reassessed our best offer. My ever more anxious Norwegian partner in crime was willing to pay a whole lot more than I was. I tried to calm him down:
“They don’t really wanna put us in jail. Then they wouldn’t get anything." They were merely investigating how deep our pockets were.
It didn’t help much. He was worried about worrying his girlfriend, who had stayed back at the hostel and was probably sleeping completely worry-free.
But one needed to keep in mind that these were still cops, no matter how corrupt. It felt like our bargaining power matched theirs, but at the end of the day they were in charge and would decide over our fate that night: jail or no jail.
The cops started off the next round of negotiations by putting our names on their little form, implying willingness to go through with the formal procedure of fining and deporting us. In return, my pale pal bid his silver ring—an offer met with hearty laughs. What a great, friendly, and jovial time we had! The guy who did all the talking had such red eyes and such a tranquil demeanor that he was probably the only one of us actually being stoned. Seizing the weed would likely have been a successful bust in and of itself. Unfortunately, their body search had produced my camera, which naturally gave rise to the question:
„And what about the camera?“
But the camera was worth pretty much the same as the fine I wasn’t willing to pay. So, no. They pulled out the good old jail-plus-deportation-card once more. I called their bluff:
“If you follow procedure, you won’t get anything.”
Their leader shook his head and denied it, but he was grinning from ear to ear, and it was obvious that none of us wanted for this matter to leave the sketchy garage. From where I was standing, the whole thing was still somewhat entertaining even though not entirely pleasant. The more we bargained, the less I respected them as officials. But one needed to keep in mind that these were still cops, no matter how corrupt. It felt like our bargaining power matched theirs, but at the end of the day they were in charge and would decide over our fate that night: jail or no jail.
During the next negotiation break I decided on my absolute limit and communicated it to Norway: $50 USD per person. That was less than half the asking price, but a lot of money for such a petty offense.
“If worse comes to worst, I’d rather spend a couple of hours in jail than pay more than 50 dollars,” I said and meant it (not knowing what that actually meant).
It had probably been an hour of haggling and fortunately the officers seemed as tired as we were. After all, it was late at night and they were probably stoned. They agreed to my offer. The idea was to wake the Norwegian’s girlfriend and have her “bail us out” (loosely translating the absurd situation) with some extra cash. The cops kept my camera as collateral, and while we walked back to the hostel, two of them drove down a parallel street on a scooter, monitoring our movements at every cross street. In a way, it felt more like I was monitoring theirs, being pretty sure they’d just drive off with my camera at some point. But they didn’t. They were honest corrupt cops. We picked up the money and met them in an alleyway behind the hostel, where we exchanged cash for camera.
After they were gone, the Norwegian guy thanked me and said he would have paid any amount. Considering his recklessness, that would have been the right amount.
For the officer it is extra money that doesn't seem all that extra when looking at a lousy salary.
Later I learned that possession of weed (and even cocaine) for personal use isn’t actually illegal in Colombia. That year the legal quantity was even upped to twenty grams for marijuana and one gram for cocaine. Meaning, the cops that busted us hadn’t really busted us at all, and not only were they corrupt, but so corrupt that they got a bribe out of people who hadn’t committed an offense. Congratulations. They’d played it well. Real talent.
It wasn’t the first or the last time I came across small-time corruption like this. Corrupt police are so common in many parts of the world that people don’t trust their "guardians," and are downright afraid of them. The job description doesn’t seem to postulate enforcing the law as much as using it to earn a little extra money on the side. To see the police about actual crimes in search of help is pretty hopeless, because crime rates are high, prosecution means are low, and officers have little motivation to enforce the law and put their lives on the line for meager wages.
Citizens lose trust in the police in more ways than one: officers might not investigate a reported crime because they don’t take their responsibility seriously, or because the perpetrator bribes them.
Once corruption happens on such a large scale that it is commonly accepted, it seems almost impossible to combat. Anti-corruption initiatives range from non-existent to lax, so "good” cops have a hard time standing up for what they believe in.
But civilians participate in that corruption as much as cops do. If you get stopped for speeding, you have two choices: hand over your license, go to the police station, and pay a harsh fine, or safe yourself the hassle and get a better deal by handing over a bribe. For the officer it is extra money that doesn't seem all that extra when looking at a lousy salary. Especially in petty situations this seems like a win-win on an individual level. On a societal level, however, it propels a vicious cycle: the loss of tax revenue contributes to the fact that cops aren’t paid well, which means they don’t take their job seriously, which makes them susceptible to corruption. Full circle. And corruption doesn't stop at this lowest institutional level when it is so deeply engrained in the cultural context, societal dynamics, and people's mentality.
If not carrot, then stick?
Raising police wages seems like a logical way out of the cycle. However, statistical evidence does not support this. And corruption is found on many societal levels, all the way up to high-ranking politicians and presidents who earn significantly more than a cop ever will.
If not carrot, then stick? Maybe harsher consequences for corruption could be that stick. But, then again, who among the corrupt would enforce them?
Citizens could try to do their share by not participating in corruption. But that would mean a loss of convenience beyond what people might be willing to give up: bribes can make the consequences of your mistakes go away and even act as get-out-of-jail cards.
A combination of these factors (higher wages, harder punishment, civilian participation) might facilitate an incremental transition into less corrupt structures; but without an overall change in mentality, promoted on a policy level and adopted by individuals, corruption will remain widespread. Only if people truly want to live in a place where the law is respected and enforced, and if they are willing to sacrifice the convenience that comes with bribing your way out of trouble and around obstacles, can the corruption cycle be broken.
Wait, they kept that weed, right? I don't remember.
