You Can Thank Me Later, Jason Jacobs

The Spanish word for bribery is “coima.” If I were anywhere else in the world at any other time in my life, I’d probably be disgusted by acts of bribery. When I was in Egypt and got snuck in the back way to see the pyramids, for example, our guides paid the guards coima (in Egypt, backsheesh) for us to get through. Although they saw it as a way of polishing the dancefloor of bureaucracy to make it easier for us and them to dance, I saw it as corruption and dishonesty, and I was angry.


Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.


At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”


Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.


I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.


I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.