Smells Like Happy

Cape-bound

We’re off to Cape Town for a week of real vacation, which we could both use. Every person I know who’s been to Cape Town –- and down here, that’s a lot of people –- says it’s one of their favorite cities in the world. When I mention that we’re going, the most common reaction is a big sigh and fluttery eyelids. You know that reaction? It’s the one that I imagine all women have when they take off their bras at the end of the day, and don’t even act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

I’m absolutely giddy about this trip, or I will be after I finish writing the 2,500-word article I’m currently churning out, edit the 500-word article that’s waiting in the wings, and find time to throw clothes into a suitcase.

In photos, Cape Town looks very much like San Francisco, which is one of my favorite cities. It has a similar-looking coast, with rocky cliffs and beautiful beaches. It has mountains, including the very spectacular Table Mountain that overlooks the city. It has –- hold me -– wine country. Because Cape Town was settled by the Dutch and later colonized by the British, the city seems to look very European in layout and architecture. There’s shopping and bookstores and restaurants of every kind. And aside from the shopping and eating and book buying –- oh, the exciting things we have lined up.

The best way I can explain my feelings about this trip can be explained this way: The other day, a woman I met down here said that she loves Cape Town but finds the area “much too orderly and organized” for her taste. I had to fight to keep from sighing and doing the fluttery eye thing.

Quick, somebody call the local tourism agency. “A week in Cape Town: It’s like a whole week of taking off your bra at the end of the day, continually!”

Untitled

Last week, on a windy, overcast day when the sea was rough, a child drowned in the bay.

Does it happen here often? We never hear about it, but that doesn’t say much. Most days, children crowd certain stretches of the beach. On weekends, the sea is densely packed for miles.

This time, M. is the one who looked for her, found her, carried her from the water, and tried to resuscitate her. She’d been in the water far too long.

We don’t know what to make of the circumstances surrounding what happened. It seems she was playing with other children, and then she wasn’t. A boy was rescued. She wasn’t.

The people who rescued the boy -– they left.

The children with whom she had apparently been playing –- they left.

They all left. And nobody came.

Such a luxury, a publicly funded system of first-responders. Such a privilege, the peace of mind that rapid help is just three touch tones away, no matter who you are.

There’s no such system here.

But there are humans. There are friends and mothers and fathers and siblings. Who were the people who rescued one child and not another? Why didn’t they stay?

Did they know something M. didn’t know? He showed up after the commotion began, perhaps missing a crucial part of the events.

We don’t know. We want to believe there’s some acceptable explanation for what happened. There has to be, I keep saying, even though there doesn’t.

Our house manager tells us that in emergencies or accidents, people sometimes stand back instead of help. They’re afraid the police will accuse them of being involved instead of being innocent bystanders.

Does that really happen?

Yes, she says, the police may arrive and begin to… she weaves her hand side to side, like a snake slithering in the air… complicate things.

And still I want to ask why, as if I might get a satisfying explanation.

Next time, she says, call the TV station. The police might not come, but the TV station will come fast.

I wish I had been there. The memory of pulling a dead child from the sea is not one that I want him to bear by himself.

He guesses she was about 6.

How it came to be

He got the job offer.

I wasn’t at all surprised that he got the offer; I was surprised that suddenly we found ourselves considering packing up and moving to southeastern Africa. A week before, we had been contemplating… what? Extending our lease? Buying a condo? Traveling to Thailand? I don’t remember.

For the next several days, we discussed it only a little. Mostly, we let the idea roll around in our heads, figuring that eventually we’d open our mouths and the answer would spill out.

About a week later, we went to one of my favorite spots near our apartment: the atrium of the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery. We sat in the late afternoon spring light and made a list of reasons to stay and reasons to go. Both lists were compelling.

So then we took a vote. A secret ballot vote. Because our nation of two is a democracy.

Obviously, it was only a way to share our honest opinions without swaying each other. I knew that if we did the whole “Say ‘D.C.’ or ‘Moz’ on three!” thing, we’d both hold our tongues.

We set forth the ground rules. We were allowed to assign percentages to our choices.

We tossed our votes onto the table.

We mixed them up. (You know, to maintain anonymity.)

  

Then he opened the first ballot.

And he read it.

And he held it up for the camera.

What you can’t see here says, “DC 4o%, Moz 60%.”

Oh my. This is already a close vote.

And then he picked up the other ballot. And opened it. And smiled.

Smiled, as it turns out, at his own cleverness.

And here we sit in our apartment on Mao Tse Tung Avenue, in the sweltering heat of a Moz spring.

We’re about to hop into our car and drive down the left side of the road to our favorite sushi restaurant in the city, for dinner with a friend we met four months ago but feel like we’ve known forever. I’ll order in Portuguese, a language I’d never spoken until four months ago. (And still don’t speak very well, mind you.) Then we’ll come home, climb under the mosquito net, and hope for a cool ocean breeze.

I sure couldn’t have predicted any of it.

What that was

It's spring here, which means alternating periods of coolness and heat, and occasional days of clouds and sprinkles. I type this from the air conditioned living room, the only room with an AC unit that doesn't sound like a jet engine. Nights are becoming stickier. The mosquitoes are multiplying. The club in our building is opening more frequently, which means more nights when drunk people stumble onto the street below our window and shout, laugh, sing, clap, rev their engines. They usually wrap it up and go home by 6 a.m.

***

First impressions are often wrong and always incomplete. And that's one of the things about bloggging: If you blog as things happen instead of waiting for the whole story to play out, you're going to get some things wrong.

I said, in the beginning, that people here are warm and friendly. After four months, it's time to restate. The locals I've met through mutual connections are warm and friendly, and I already consider some of these people to be friends. But the people who don't know me from any other foreigner are not warm. They're usually not even friendly. In fact, they often come across as aloof. Reserved. Sometimes if I make the first gesture, they respond in a friendly way. Other times, they don't. But when language and culture are the barriers, it's hard to know whether our standards for politeness simply come from two different worlds.

I do know from working with refugees in the States that they think it's weird that Americans smile at each other so much. The last time I was on the country roads of Central Illinois near the remote area where my parents lived for several years, I engaged in the common practice of waving at fellow drivers whenever I passed them on the road. They all waved back. But I suppose it's time to accept that in most of the failed connections I attempt here, I am -- by cultural default -- the weirdo in the situation.

***

While we're on the subject of things I got wrong, here's one: I said that nobody begs.

Some children, some elderly people (a rarity here, given the short life expectancy), and some people with disabilities -- they beg. I suppose they must. They can't work, not in a city where even many able-bodied people can't get work.

Others find ways to make money. For example, there's an informal but accepted system in Maputo when it comes to parked cars: Boys and men hang out in places where people park their cars -- around restaurants, in particular -- and when you park your car and exit, they make eye contact with you. There's usually a shared nod or a word to indicate the agreement that they will keep an eye on your car while you eat and help you back out of the spot when you leave, and you will pay them somewhere around 5 or 10 meticais, which is between 17 and 35 cents.

In this city, sideview mirrors are stolen constantly, so sometimes it's nice to have a pair of eyes on your car while you're away from it. But sometimes you pull into a lot that nobody's watching and find somebody expecting to be paid when you leave an hour later.

I sometimes give money to the kids on the street. But there are always more kids, always at the window of the car at certain red lights, always rubbing their bellies, always with their hands out and the corners of their mouths turned down. Most of them will live their entire lives in poverty.

***

Last week we were running some errands around town. We were driving in a crowded area along the beach -- the weather was hot that day, and the beach was packed -- so I was driving very carefully. Suddenly, a guy stepped in front of our car, and I hit the brakes. He paused for a moment, and our car screeched to a halt. As I was stopped there on the street, he remained still. I motioned for him to go ahead, since we were already stopped and there was a long line of cars behind us. Instead, he positioned himself right in front of the car, right in the middle, and locked eyes with me. I knew something weird was happening.

He slammed his hand onto the hood of the car, and I was instantly transported, in my mind, to a grocery store parking lot in Northern California in 2004, when some guy on foot had decided to play chicken with my car. He hadn't been having fun; he had been angry. Unpredictable. I never knew why he had done it, but I felt as though it were either a display of power over me or an act of stupidity by somebody too high to think straight. Both possibilities were unnerving, and the experience had rattled me.

This time in Maputo. I shouted, "Move!" in a useless, frustrated English.

He stared. I honked. He stared.

I turned the wheel to the right and he repositioned himself to block my way. I turned the wheel to the left and inched forward, and he repositioned himself and hit the hood again.

Trapped. The pupils of his eyes were far too dilated for the sunny afternoon. People around us began to watch.

All the while, M was telling me to drive. "He'll move," he said. But every time I put my foot on the gas, the man hit the hood of my car and motioned for me to continue. Go ahead, he seemed to say. I dare you.

A minibus full of people pulled up alongside our car and the driver got out. I couldn't understand what he said, but his expression and hand gestures seemed to say, Come on, man, don't do this, don't be like this, let these people go. He gently pushed the man away from our car, but no sooner was the driver out of our path than the other guy was back in it.

I was livid. He was high or drunk, and the way he had intentionally stepped in front of our moving car had made me feel instantly ill. I was furious to think that he had some kind of death wish and would attempt to make innocent people conspire in it. I was furious at his threatening behavior, unsteady though he was. And I was furious that he had managed -- him on foot and me the one behind the wheel of the truck -- to make me feel terrorized while I simply tried not to injure him.

I put my foot on the gas. When the front of the car gently pressed against him and didn't stop, he attempted to stand his ground but then stepped to our left. A moment later, I had yanked the wheel to the right and managed to get him to the side of the car. I pushed the gas pedal further as he tried to keep up with the car and hit it with the palm of his hand until we were out of reach.

"What the fuck? What the fuck?" I'd been saying it all along, and I kept saying it as we continued down the road, my body tight. "What was that?"

"He wanted money," M said.

"Money? How do you know that? How do you even know that?"

"His hand," he said. "He was rubbing his belly."

Rubbing his belly. It's what the kids at the traffic lights do.

I hadn't even noticed.

***

Hello, neighbor

Across the street from our apartment is what may be the most beautiful hotel in all of this city. Unfortunately, it's undergoing a massive renovation that won't finish until January 2010 if you believe the web site, or October 2010 if you believe the word on the street according to one of my cab drivers.

 

I hope it's finished before we leave because I'm aching to see it from the ocean side. Here's a photo from the hotel's web site showing what the back looked like before renovations began:

I've heard that people who aren't staying at the hotel can pay a few dollars a day to use the pool area. I don't think I'd mind waking up on a Friday morning, grabbing a towel and a book, and walking across the street to spend the day here.

No, I don't think I'd mind that at all.

Thursday Morning over the Indian Ocean

Macaneta

When we awoke Sunday morning, the countdown was on: only 24 more hours remaining with a set of wheels in our possession. We'd grown fond of the big SUV that M.'s boss had left with us while he was out of the country. In fact, we might have become overly attached. On more than one occasion, I'd be riding in the passenger seat and realize that I had been absentmindedly running my hands along the arm rest, patting the dash, and smiling at the car as one might respond to a cooperative, loyal horse. I couldn't have been more than a day short of turning to my husband and saying, in all seriousness, "you know, I think maybe she wants to stay with us."

We set out on a day trip while we had the chance, heading to a place called Macaneta. A native friend said the water and beach there would be clean and pretty. An expat friend said of Macaneta, "the journey is more interesting than the destination." I assumed that merely meant we would see some pretty scenery along the way.

We left in late morning and took the EN-1 highway. The roads here are never uninteresting. Here's a typical sight:

It's not uncommon to see a truck loaded up like this, with the small addition of a person sitting on top, like a cherry atop a junk sundae. In fact, that day we passed such a configuration with a person and a dog on top. When you have to get somewhere, you have to get somewhere.

At this point, we were looking for a sign that would point us to the turnoff to Macaneta. Everyone who told us to about the place certainly didn't say there isn't a sign, and surely they would have warned us if there were no sign.

It was yet another instance in which we found our old way of making assumptions a bit... counterproductive.

There was no sign. Our map wasn't detailed enough to provide any help. We drove along the EN-1, then turned around and drove back the other way, then turned around again. We finally pulled over in the shadow of a massive stadium mid-construction, and called Ali. Ali has lived here for a few years and knows her way around. These were her instructions:

First you have to go all the way to Marracuene. There's no sign for Marracuene, but it's after you go around a big curve. And if I remember correctly, there are several white concrete blockades, like the blocks they use to keep cars from going over a cliff. After those, you turn right. Then go all the way to the river, then go along the river and the cliff until you find a road that goes down to the river. Then you might see a line of cars for the ferry. It'll all seem wrong, even when you're going the right way.

Her directions were perfect. We pulled into the line for the ferry about 20 minutes later.

As we waited, we regarded the ferry skeptically. It isn't very large -- carries five vehicle at a time -- and certainly isn't new. It groaned and strained each time a car drove aboard. I don't know what ferries are made of, but they're heavy enough without the addition of five four-wheel-drive vehicles.

But the Titanic was enormous, and it floated, I told myself.

Self, I said, if reassurance is your goal, you might choose another example .

How about airplanes? You still can't figure out how they fly, no matter how many times you Google "how do airplanes fly?" But they do.

Still, I might have attempted to estimate the depth of the river and speed of the current, made a guess as to whether the water might contain Zambezi sharks, and decided which belongings I'd hold onto and which I'd let sink if necessary. Luck favors the prepared.

We were first in line for our group. We drove aboard and get out of the car to watch the ferry's crew direct the cars into their tight spaces, all just barely fitting. The fifth was a tractor pulling a trailer, which contained a coffin.

For all of the vehicles to fit, one car had to drive up to -- nearly on, really -- the ramp that was held up by thin cables like a drawbridge. I don't think it would be a good thing if one of those cables were to break.

When we reached the other side, we headed down the only road available in the only direction available. Did you know that the word "road" is actually a relative term? Here the definition starts with "path without vegetation." The definition deteriorates from there.

You can't tell from that photo, but those puddles conceal holes that are a good 8 inches deep.

Several people had climbed into the back of the tractor trailer when it pulled off the ferry. I can only assume they were family members coming to receive the coffin.

Eventually, the tractor driver motioned for us to pass. After that, we continued very slowly, reassessing, every few feet, which path would be the least jarring. Along the way, several children approached us and held out their hands. "Estou a pedir, patrão, estou a pedir." I'm begging you, sir, I'm begging you. They tried to look pathetic. They mostly grinned.

When we eventually reached a crossroads, we turned left to follow the only signs. They promised us "resorts," and that sounded like a decent option.

But this decision took us along a sand road, up and down little sand hills. No more bumps. But no traction, either. Momentum was our best tactic.

We drove until it became clear that there was nothing to see, then returned to the road that had brought us in. We knew we had set ourselves right when we saw the kids.

 

They dance for tourists and then estou a pedir, patrão, for a few coins.

At the end of the road, we found an outdoor restaurant, the only establishment in the area. We sat near a large group of filthy, burly men decked out in strange sporting clothes. They looked a bit like car drivers with the addition of armor. As it turns out, they were four-wheeling through the area, which explains why they needed such complicated protective gear. They wore endless items layered one on top of the other, forming an exoskeleton that would protect their bodies in the event of an accident. The scowling man at the head of the table swigged a bottle of Laurentina beer and swore at the waiter. The DJ played Bobby Brown's "Don't Be Cruel" and Beyonce's "If I Were a Boy," frequently changing the speed of the music to make Bobby sound like Alvin the Chipmunk and Beyonce sound like a demon moaning at the gates of hell. Two tan toddlers danced in front of the DJ's table, their diapers peeking out from their swimming suits. Mosquitoes aggressively dive bombed everyone but landed with such grace that nobody knew the mosquitoes had been there until they were long gone.

The restaurant sits on the bank of an estuary. We had expected ocean. But then we saw concrete squares marking a path up a small hill to the side of the dining area. That's how we found the reason we had come:

We stayed a short while, but didn't want to risk missing the ferry. I found myself looking forward to the return trip for no good reason. It's bumpy to the point of being painful. Kids ask for money every hundred meters. Cows block random sections. But all the reasons to dislike it are all the reasons I loved it. It's symbolic of everything that seems to happen to us here: unfamiliar, full of stories and consequences that had never, until now, been our own.

On the way, we passed a truck with a group of people who somehow managed to survive the road's holes and hills like this:

After I snapped the photo, they cheered and waved.

Kids were waiting for us 100 meters down the road. The young boys hopped up and down and swung their arms. Two teenage girls put their hands by their ears and swayed their hips. A few little boys approached the car, no doubt to ask for money.

But instead, they did this:

On that road, I couldn't even hold the camera steady. I have no idea how they hung on for a solid 2 km before being chased away, giggling madly, by a disapproving adult who saw their antics while walking down the road.

A long while later, we boarded the ferry for the return trip.

Only this time, we were the ones in the precarious spot with our front tires on the suspended ramp. This is what it looked like from inside the car:

 

(And here's another photo of M. on the ferry, because I know his mother will appreciate it as much as I do.)

Eventually, we reached the EN-1 highway and headed back to Maputo. Suddenly, I saw it in a way I hadn't before: as a modern engineering marvel. But also a bit boring.

Straight, freshly painted lines. Wide lanes.

Smooth, even, and orderly. All the way back to the city.

What I love

I've complained about the disco on the ground floor of our building, the rooster who begins his all-day crowing at 3:30 a.m., the corrupt police, and the oddly gritty things I find in the food here.

But in the last two weeks, I've stopped feeling the culture shock of my first eight weeks. Living here now feels like the treat I knew it would be when we decided to come.

Today when I look around, I see the things I enjoy about this place long before I see the annoyances. Here's what I love:

1. Waking up on a cool morning, heading into my office, and feeling the sun on my face as it rises over the Indian Ocean

2. Eating lunch on the beach once or twice a week

3. The friendliness and approachability of the Mozambican people

4. The color of the Indian Ocean in late afternoon

5. Trying to understand what Helena, our house manager, is saying

6. The new friends we've met here

7. Heading to the track with my husband in the late afternoon

8. Watching bats dart through the air at dusk (the more mosquitoes they eat, the better)

9. The sound of children at a nearby school playing games from 10 to 11 a.m. every weekday

10. Bakers Choc-kits cookies, imported from South Africa

11. Our ability to drive less than an hour and see landscapes we've never before seen

12. The way the little birds, who nest outside our window, softly warble and trill at night, as though singing themselves to sleep

Is it just me?

Ever pick up a book that has hundreds of five-star reviews on Amazon and comes highly recommended by several friends, only to find that you hate it? And you can't find anyone else who hates it? I'm perplexed when this happens. There's always a moment when I second guess myself and think, "did I just misunderstand something fundamental about this book?"

This happened to me recently with The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I knew, from the first page, that I didn't like the writing style. I don't know whether it's the author or the translator or both, but I found nearly every sentence flat and boring. The analogies were painfully forced and melodramatic. Nothing felt natural, nothing felt real. The characters -- at least the characters I arrived at before I gave up -- were one-dimensional and cliched. I didn't care what happened to them. I had heard that this book is a feast for book lovers; if that means a bunch of cheap, throw-away literary references that serve no deeper purpose, then a feast it is.

I guess we're just not meant for each other as a writer-reader couple, Zafon and I.

Did you have a similar reaction to this book? What books did you find unbearable despite the adoration of millions?

The way it works

How much do you hate getting pulled over by a cop?

You really hate it, don't you? You were speeding, and you got caught. You swear, you sigh, you can hand over your license and registration. But if you're in America and many other countries, you know this much: When you get stopped, it's most likely -- I repeat: most likely -- because you did something wrong. Usually, the cop is just doing his job.

Things work differently in Maputo. You will get stopped, despite having done nothing wrong. The officer who stopped you will say you broke the law, and that you must pay a fine. Just a small fine.

For what?

For... turning left, over there.

But everybody's turning left. That car is turning left, that car is turning left... Five cars just turned left. From the LEFT TURNING LANE.

No, it is illegal, and all I ask is a small apology, that is all.

The officer will adjust the AK-47 slung over his shoulder and say, unless, of course, you would like to go to jail?

***

There's a lot of poverty in Mozambique, and it's difficult for many people to get by. But beggars are one thing; beggars with guns are a different thing entirely.

In this country, it's illegal to solicit, offer, or accept bribes. All three happen every day. People get stopped while driving. Stopped while walking down the street. According to our house manager -- yes, we still insist on calling the maid the "house manager" -- police like to go after people who are outside exercising and likely left their passports at home. If you cannot produce your passport, the officer will threaten to haul you off to jail. He expects you'll be so terrified that you'll reach deep into your pocket and come up with a small way to "apologize" for your alleged infraction.

It's otherwordly to be stopped by a gun-toting authority when you've done nothing illegal, and to be told that the only way to stay out of trouble is to do something illegal.

The police don't even work hard for the money. They set up checkpoints, often at the same places in the city, and flag down oncoming cars.

Friends here are accustomed to the dance. Most avoid paying bribes by asking the officer to write a ticket (legitimate fines are paid at a station, not to the issuing officer), pretending to place a call to their respective embassies, or running out the clock with friendliness and patience. Those with diplomatic IDs produce them alongside passports. Such IDs would be of no help if the holders actually break the law, but they do help ward off corrupt police officers.

I hear that corruption in Maputo used to be much worse than it is today. Just four years ago, I hear, it was common to be approached almost daily, starting with the customs officers upon arrival at the airport. A recent anti-corruption government initiative seems to have lessened the frequency of bribe attempts on expats and tourists in the last couple of years. In fact, it took two whole months for us to be approached by an officer. Progress?

***

When my husband's boss left town for the week, he kindly lent us his car. Having a car -- maybe this sounds ridiculous -- has dramatically changed my state of mind. I don't feel trapped. I feel free, even if I haven't actually taken the car anywhere myself. I could.

One night, we were driving home from dinner and were stopped at a road block near our home for no apparent reason. We had our diplomatic IDs in hand, just in case, before we'd even come to a complete stop. The officer saw what we were holding, smiled weakly, and said, "Tudo bem." Everything's fine. We drove off.

The whole thing was over before it had even started.

Last night, we were stopped at a different spot. We had a Portuguese-speaking friend in the car, and he promptly engaged with the officer, asking what was wrong. He and the officer began verbally sparring in a way that was mostly friendly but made me feel a little uncomfortable. I think our inability to speak the language -- even our ability to believably claim that we don't speak it -- may work in our favor. If you can't speak the language, you can't spar. Your role is to smile and play dumb while the officer recites his lines and eventually decides that you're a useless target. If you haven't done anything wrong, the interaction is harmless. He won't haul you away. (That's my untested theory, anyway.)

My husband handed over his diplomatic ID, which annoyed the officer. Apparently, he had asked for the car's documentation, which we didn't realize. He asked again, our friend translated, and we handed over the registration. He asked for a passport. My husband pulled out a photocopy of his passport. The officer then asked for passports of everyone in the car, and our friend -- I swear, he could charm the stripes off a zebra -- intervened.

All the while, I was rolling my eyes, glaring, sighing audibly, and advising myself to stop doing those things immediately. But cops bring out my inner 13-year-old, who is highly suspicious of authority. She's also completely guileless and artless when it comes to handling the police.

The officer gave up on his request for the rest of the passports and began to complain to our friend.

"I asked for the registration, and he gave me this diplomatic ID," he sneered. "I didn't ask for this diplomatic ID, I asked for the registration. So why is he giving me this diplomatic ID? I asked for your passports, and I get this."

He waved us off. I couldn't tell whether he was angry that he couldn't bribe us, angry that we incorrectly assumed he was going to bribe us in the first place, or feigning anger that we assumed, correctly, that he was going to bribe us.

Regardless, we showed our cards before he had a chance to ask for a dime, if that was ever his intention.

I asked our house manager whether average Mozambican citizens are bribed by the police. She said, "No, they look at you and see that you're white. So they want your money. They ask for your passport and see that you're a foreigner, and they think they can get money from you. It's not right. Don't give them anything," she wagged her finger. "Unacceptable."

***

Administrative and bureaucratic corruption are almost always practical impediments to development. They inhibit competition; the contract goes not to the company that offers the best proposal but to the company that pays the highest bribe. They undermine economic investment; foreign and multinational corporations are less likely to set up shop in a country where they can't profitably do business based on clearly defined laws. They inhibit growth of the tourism industry; people warned of corruption and bribery may prefer to vacation where they won't be hassled.

Such corruption is indicative of a society's inability to hold its own government and public servants accountable. When there's not enough transparency or oversight, corruption thrives and makes it difficult for fledgling democracies like this one to get stronger as quickly as they otherwise would.

But it's hard to fight. How do you convince corrupt officials that it's in their interest to stop lining their pockets with extra cash? How do you crack down on such a low-risk, high-reward activity in police officers who collect meager salaries? How do you find, install, and properly support the people who will ensure that anti-corruption campaigns are more than lip service and posters?

People say it's getting much better. Maybe it'll take another generation for policy to successfully combat corruption here, and for the public to more broadly adopt an ethical norm that considers corruption unacceptable. In the meantime, I'm sure I'll get accustomed to the dance. I'll develop enough discipline to perform my steps with a bit more art and lot less indignation. I'll learn to keep my inner 13-year-old in the past where she belongs, having stomped to her bedroom and slammed the door forever.

But let me tell you: When you're driving down the road, feeling once again exhilarated by the freedom of movement and self-direction that you feel behind the wheel of a car in your home country, getting hassled by an AK-47-toting police officer sure is a buzzkill.