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Corruption as “Campaign Finance”

Posted on Sunday, 6th November 2011 @ 02:30 AM by Text Size A | A | A

How Shakedowns Work in the 3rd World and the 1st

 

 

By Lawrence
Weschler

This article was
originally published at TomDispatch.

A bit over an hour into
the five-hour drive across the ferrous red plateau, heading south toward
Uganda’s capital Kampala, suddenly, there’s the Nile, a boiling, roiling
cataract at this time of year, rain-swollen and ropy and rabid below the bridge
that vaults over it.  If Niagara Falls surged horizontally and a rickety bridge
arced, shudderingly, over the torrent below, it might feel like the Nile at
Karuma.

Naturally, I take out my
iPhone and begin snapping pics.

On the other side of the
bridge, three soldiers standing in wait in the middle of the road, rifles slung
over their shoulders, direct my Kampalan driver Godfrey and me to pull over.

“You were photographing
the bridge,” one of them announces, coming up to my open window.  “We saw
you.”

 

“Taking
photos of the bridge is expressly forbidden,” the second offers by way of
clarification, as the first reaches in and grabs the iPhone out of my hand.
“National security.  Terrorists could use such photos to help in planning to
blow up the bridge.”

 

“Do I look like a
terrorist to you?” I ask.  “And anyway,” I shout as Soldiers One and Two walk
off with their prize, oblivious, “I wasn’t photographing the bridge.  I was
photographing the rapids.  The bridge was precisely the one thing I wasn’t
photographing!”

To no avail.  I open my
car door and begin to get out—but the third soldier pushes me gently back and
then leans into the window, peering amiably. “And besides,” I continue, “there
were no signs forbidding such photographs.  Anyway, if it’s such a big deal just
give me back the phone and I’ll delete the photos.  You can watch.”

I’m beginning to panic.
As with most of us nowadays, pretty much my entire life is couched inside that
bloody little device: contacts, calendars, hotel reservations, all my
appointment coordinates for the coming days.

“Ah no,” Soldier Three
smiles in a silkily practiced manner.  “You are not to worry.  This is not an
affair about you.  This is an affair between Ugandans.  It is your driver who
was at fault.  He is a Ugandan, he should have known about our national security
and how no one should photograph the bridge.  Let them work it out.”

And indeed, when I turn
around Godfrey is no longer behind the steering wheel.  He’s with the other
soldiers, remonstrating away.  “Don’t you worry,” repeats my guy indulgently, a
broad smile spreading across his face as if we are the best of buddies.  “Give
them time.”  And then, as if to pass the time himself, he adds, “So, how do you
like our excellent country?”

Minutes go by with
Godfrey and his two interlocutors on the other side of the road, locked in
fervent colloquy—much hand waving, arm flinging, rifle toying, shouting,
cajoling, and then smiling, even guffawing—until finally, 15 minutes and $20
later, Godfrey comes ambling back to the car, climbs into the driver’s seat, and
hands me the iPhone.

(Memo to would-be
terrorists: If any of you are planning to blow up the Karuma bridge, make sure
to budget an extra $20 photography fee during the planning phase.)

Anyway, Godfrey turns the
key, revs up the car’s engine, and we resume our climb out of the canyon of the
Nile and back onto the flat, red, shrubby plateau.

“Does that kind of thing
happen often?” I ask Godfrey, who in much of the rest of his life is a Kampala
taxi driver.

“All the time,” he
assures me.  Two or three times a week.  He has to figure it into his budget,
and it’s a large item.  Just the other day, he adds, he turned down a one-way
street in the middle of Kampala and found, a couple hundred yards on, that it
was completely flooded.  As he gingerly made his way back to the intersection, a
traffic cop was happily standing in wait to give him a hefty fine for driving
the wrong way on a one-way street—either that or a 10,000 shilling tip (about
$5, which in Kampala might otherwise pay for two good meals) to make the problem
go away.

It’s to be expected,
Godfrey went on.  The soldiers are conscripts, the traffic cop a lowly
underling, and they’re all notoriously underpaid.  Or rather, their superiors
carve out a substantial part of their salaries for themselves, leaving these men
with hardly enough to live on, let alone maintain a family.  The opportunity to
garnish bribes becomes a necessary perk of the job.  The trouble is, he
continued, such corruption riddles the entire country, infesting virtually every
transaction with the state.

We are silent for a few
moments, the scrub brush racing by.  Then Godfrey asks, “Doesn’t this sort of
thing happen in America?”

I don’t even hesitate.
Not really, I tell him: not blatantly like that, and not frequently, certainly
not all the time.

Only, then I get to
thinking, because that answer turns out to be way too glib.  It’s not that the
United States lacks corruption, I go on to say—or even pervasive corruption.
It’s just not of the low-level and petty variety like the kind we just went
through, not most of the time anyway.  In America, corruption is concentrated at
the highest levels of society—and it masquerades, for example, under the name of
“campaign finance.”

Election campaigns have
become so expensive that candidates have to go begging, hat in hand, to anyone
who will finance them.  And the billionaires and millionaires and bankers and
hedge-fund operators and portfolio managers and CEOs and their lobbyists are, in
turn, only too happy to contribute.  They lard the “people’s representatives”
with grotesque “contributions” after which those representatives prove only too
willing to turn around and carve out billions of dollars in specifically
targeted tax breaks and subsidies structured exclusively for them—precious
dollars which then can’t be used to fund schools or clinics or playgrounds or to
further the public good in any way.

And it’s worse than that:
once congressional representatives or their senior staff retire, they almost
invariably get much higher paying lobbying jobs working for the very industries
over which they had once held sway—a further incentive not to upset those monied
interests when still on the public payroll.

So regulations get
gutted, calamities ensue, and guess who gets stuck cleaning up the inevitable
mess, whether financial, environmental, or of any other sort: yup, the
taxpayers.  Tax laws get dictated or often just written by the lobbyists of
those same monied interests, with all sorts of sweet loopholes carved out
especially for them—not infrequently for them individually—so that, in the end,
the richest man in America reports he’s getting off with a lower tax rate than
his secretary.

“You’re kidding,” Godfrey
interjected.

No: even he’s
embarrassed!  Education, meanwhile, is funded according to narrowly local
property taxes—and the rich make sure it stays that way.  The result?  Their
kids get a far better education than those living in poorer neighborhoods.  When
people try to remedy that injustice through affirmative action programs which at
least recognize the unfairness of the competition for access to, for example,
university slots, the rich protest and get judges to overturn such programs as
racist.  They are, however, perfectly happy to take advantage of other programs
that assure the acceptance of the children of alumni, no matter their scholarly
performance, and no one says boo.  It’s all perfectly legal.

In America, as W.E.B. Du
Bois noted toward the end of his life, “We let men take wealth which is not
theirs; if the seizure is ‘legal’ we call it high profits.  And the profiteers
help decide what is legal.”

In Uganda, corruption
often arises out of desperation.  In America, more typically, its wellsprings
are greed, pure and simple.  And it’s hard to decide which is the more
dismaying, the more disfiguring, the more disgusting.

Or actually, no, it’s
not.  It’s not that hard at all.

Lawrence Weschler is
director of the New York Institute for the Humanities at NYU. His newest book is
“Uncanny Valley: Adventures in the Narrative.”

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