Nairobi, Kenya. It was around 1:30 p.m. on a warm, stuffy Saturday afternoon. I was stuck in traffic on Mombasa Highway in my 1999 Toyota Ipsum. The air-conditioning was on blast. My laptop was flipped open on the passenger seat, connected to the web through my internet-infused USB stick. This was so I could occasionally look at Google Maps to try to ensure I wasn’t driving into never-never land, which was no easy chore for two reasons. First, it’s apparent that whoever drew these maps either hasn’t been to Nairobi or is artistically and/or spatially-challenged. Second, the road conditions in Kenya, at least by American standards, are friggin’ atrocious. To give you an idea, here’s how the U.S. State Department describes them:

One of the greatest threats to travelers in Kenya is road safety. . . . [T]raffic circulates on the left side of the road, which can be very disorienting to those not accustomed to it. Excessive speed, unpredictable local driving habits and manners, poor vehicle maintenance, bumpy, potholed and unpaved roads, and the lack of basic safety equipment on many vehicles are daily hazards on Kenyan roads. When there is a heavy traffic jam . . . drivers will drive across the median strip and drive directly toward oncoming traffic.

And so on. I’ll add that there are no stop or yield signs, and exceptionally few traffic signals and police vehicles. In Kenya’s defense, some of the roads aren’t so bad. But others, including ones I took on the trip described herein, fit the above description or are even worse. But, you know, “I’m a Man. I’m 40.” Plus I’m from the New York metropolitan area, and so I wasn’t going to let these conditions scare me.

In any event, let’s get back to the story. My frustration level had been escalating for some time, and a couple of cuss words had uncharacteristically managed to slip out. I had spent the last 3+ hours driving around Nairobi in search of water irrigation system parts—parts that just two days prior I had spent close to six hours searching for. Despite the nine hour search, over which time I probably traveled a hundred miles, visited Kenyan, British, and Israeli-owned irrigation equipment stores, and talked to a dozen or so broken-English speaking representatives, I was entirely empty-handed. Nine hours, no parts. But I wasn’t giving up. I’d find these godforsaken parts if it took me twenty hours. After all, they were to be used to support a garden I had spent forty to fifty hours building in a part of the Kenyan bush about two weeks back. If I didn’t find these parts soon, my work—and, man, it was hard work—could all be for naught. The garden would dry up; the vegetables wouldn’t grow; and the villagers, a number of whom suffer from malnutrition, would continue to hurt for food.

And so I spent the next half-hour trying to find yet a fourth irrigation equipment store, unfortunately without any success, despite receiving detailed in-person directions, along with a hand-drawn map, from a local, as well as (inept) assistance from Google Maps. It was time to head home, go for a dip in the pool, and get some R&R.

Despite being no more than ten to twelve miles from home, I knew the ride back would take at least thirty to forty minutes, and probably more like an hour. The traffic on Mombasa Highway is brutal, primarily because of the ever so prevalent Kenyan roundabouts, where, on this stretch of road, ten to twelve lanes of traffic would converge on each other with a reckless abandon. And, again, there are no traffic signals or signs to facilitate order. Each roundabout contains two or three unarmed, vehicle-less police officers or patrolmen who feebly attempt to direct traffic.

I had been in bumper-to-bumper traffic at the second of four roundabouts for about eight to ten minutes, when the traffic started moving at a frenzied pace. I desperately wanted to make it around this roundabout here and now, as otherwise it could be yet another eight to ten minute wait, and so I was driving fast and loose. As I was entering the roundabout, the other three lanes of traffic to my right abruptly stopped, presumably because a patrolman had given them the word. But I didn’t see any patrolmen, the roundabout lane was wide open, and I was filled with adrenaline and a desire to get in that pool. So, I proceeded.

As I was halfway through the roundabout, a large, well-built patrolman partially stepped out in front of my vehicle, signaling to me to pull over to the side of the road. I momentarily contemplated runnin’ from tha police, as I had been told by other seemingly upstanding people that this was a viable option. But suddenly my conscience came into play, as well as the realization that more heavy traffic laid ahead, and so I reluctantly pulled over.

I was able to suppress the anger, and instead let my harmonious, cool-tempered nature come to the surface. I immediately rolled down the window and began my appeal, speaking slowly, with increased diction, and in a put-on African-accent that I’ve come to use with the locals: “Officer, I apologize. I am not from area. I did not see patrolman.”

The patrolman looked withdrawn, as if maybe he didn’t understand, and he soon flagged a police officer to the scene, who approached me from the passenger side. While this officer was short and somewhat portly, he looked mean and dead-serious. “You violate law. You must go to police station,” he opened with. “You have two options. You pay me $10,000 shillings or I take you to police station.” ($10,000 Kenyan shillings is approximately $120 U.S. dollars).

“Officer, I’m sorry,” I began. “As I was telling your mate over here, I did not see the patrolman. I am not from this area. I have been in Kenya eight weeks working for NGO. We recently built a garden in Samburu [which most of the locals know to be a poor part of Kenya] for the people, and I’ve spent the last four hours trying to find water irrigation equipment to support the garden. I don’t have much money.”

“Where are you from?” the officer countered.

“I am from U.S., America,” I replied.

“You pay $10,000 now, or you open your car, and we drive to police station,” barked the vehicle-less officer who may not have even possessed a driver’s license.

Somewhat flustered, and in the process of losing my understanding of how I should play this, I replied, “I’m not paying $10,000, and I’m not going to police station.”

The officer snarled and sternly said, “Open your door. We go to police station.”

“How about we just talk this over some more? I didn’t see a stop signal given, and I am in this country to help your country. Please, let us just talk.”

“Okay. Open your door. We talk.”

“Fine,” I said, “but I’m not going to police station.”

I opened the front passenger door, and the cop hopped in and immediately told me to drive. “I told you,” I said somewhat snappingly, “I’m not going to the police station. I’ll back the car up, further off the road, and we can talk.”

“No police station. We just go for a little drive,” said the cop in a somewhat friendlier tone.

“Fine, but I have things to do. We go for very short drive. Which way?”

He directed me off the highway and onto a bustling, vehicle and pedestrian-filled street on which I had never been before. As soon as we started driving, his demeanor changed from serious and unrelenting to chummy and carefree. “You know, me and you—we are brothers from another mother,” he told me with a bright-eyed smile on his face. “You are my brother. You are a good man. Me—I am a good man. That is why we must help each other, you see.”

I let out a somewhat bellowing laugh, in one part to let him know I’d be his friend for the next few minutes, in another because of just how amusing the situation had become. “You know,” he continued, “you should find beautiful Kenya girl here for you. I can help.”

“The Kenya girls are pretty attractive,” I replied, “and probably a lot nicer than most American girls.”

“See, I tell you. We find you Kenya girl soon for you to marry.” He then started to shiver or squirm in his seat a bit, despite the fact the temperature was close to eighty degrees and he was wearing a long-sleeve, button down shirt. “You have air conditioning on so high,” he commented. “Please turn it down; I am cold.”

I turned the AC down, and continued to smile and be sociable. Pretty soon he reminded that I had to pay $10,000 shillings, or, alternatively, drive to the police station where I would be given a summons to go to court on Monday where I would be ordered to pay $30,000 shillings (about $360 U.S. dollars). I doubted the veracity of this assertion, but gave him the benefit of my doubt. The idea of going to court, which I had been told is often like an all-day circus, was miserable. “Pull over to side of road right here,” he said. “We make deal.”

I did as I was told, put the car in park, and reminded him I was working for an NGO, this time also telling him that I was a volunteer and not earning any income. “I don’t have much money,” I pleaded.

“My demand is $10,000.” As he said this, he received a call or text on his phone, and was momentarily distracted. I quickly reached into the backseat, grabbed my briefcase, and pulled out three of the twenty-some thousand shillings I was carrying.

“I can pay you $3,000,” I told him. “No more.”

He contemplatively stared at the three one-thousand shilling bills, which were probably equal to about two to three days of his pay. Finally, after a few seconds, he said, “I want you to give me what is in your heart to give.”

Without missing a beat, and probably with an amused grin on my face, I told him, “It is in my heart to pay $3,000.”

“I’ll have to see if okay with my friend,” he replied. He got on his phone or walkie-talkie and started speaking in Swahili, Kenya’s national language, or his tribal tongue. After thirty seconds or so, he told me that we had a deal. He abruptly exited the car, leaving me in a spot several kilometers away from where I had been pulled over. In parting, he asked where I had been headed, and I told him. He then said it would be quicker to turn left at the next intersection rather than retracing our tracks. To make the concluding part of the story short, I took his advice, and it took me close to forty-five minutes to recover geographically from this frolic, despite the fact that my ride with him was no more than a few minutes. But I now had an unforgettable experience and story, and I was only out the equivalent of $36. I was almost a cheerful giver. Almost.

My Uncle John once said, “Money solves eighty-five percent of your problems, and a hundred percent of your money problems.” Ha ha. In Africa, between the corruption and poverty, it would probably suffice it to say that it solves 99% of your problems.