Passport," says the cop, tear gas canisters and grenades hanging off his
bulletproof vest like medals of honor. We hand over the passports, along with press
passes and other papers attesting that we are nothing more exciting than a vanload
of Canadian documentary filmmakers.
The riot cop takes the documents wordlessly, motioning to our translator to get
out of the car. He then whispers at length to a colleague whose eyes remain fixed
on the enormous biceps bulging from his own crossed arms. Another cop joins the
huddle, then another. The last one pulls out a phone and painstakingly reads the
names and numbers on each document to whoever is on the other end, occasionally
shooting a question to our translator. More uniformed men mill nearby. I count
eleven in total. It's getting dark, the dirt road on which we have been apprehended
is a mess and drops off sharply on one side. There are no streetlights.
I have the strong impression we are being deliberately screwed with — that the
whole point of this lengthy document check is to force us to drive this rough road
in the dark. But we all know the rules: look pleasant; don't make eye contact; don't