Early on, I bypassed some
bureaucracy by dropping my quest to get a Malawian driver’s license and
choosing to drive on an AAA approved International one. I figured I had
successfully escaped having to spend time at the Road Traffic Authority (aka,
the DMV). Alas, I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Turns out, the bureaucracy gods
are a fickle bunch. As of June 1, anyone wanting to conduct business regarding
their vehicle first must get a Traffic Registration card. As I am leaving June
30th, I wanted to sell my car. Luckily, the purchaser clued me into
this little debacle, and readily prepped me: Five lines, three hours. She even
helpfully got the application form for me, taking care of line #1.
I arrived at Road Traffic early (though
not as early as I wanted because - guess what? - There are two road traffic
offices. *facepalm*). From that moment on, it was as if the universe swallowed
me up and I was required to spend all the time I would’ve spent at the DMV over the past two years in the course of
two days. Arg.
The first line, Biometrics, took
me 2.5 hours. Not so bad; I finished my book. The clinical label turned out to
be nothing more than a glamour shot and a finger print session. This was important,
as they took your fingerprint at every other subsequent queue. I heard that one devout 85 year old Muslim man
was convinced the finger print machine didn’t work on him because he’d spent
his whole life washing his hands before and after prayers five times a
day. Turns out, the system was just
down.
The next line, Enrollment, was
another hour. By this time, I was
noticing a curious event. Prints were scanned, but only at the window. Those of us waiting in line were just that:
waiters. Many of these patient folks next to me were just place holders for the
more affluent! (and better prepared) who were called in at the last minute to
take their place in line and swipe their prints. How naïve I was, waiting in
line for my own self! I had failed the most basic line-hack.
Finally stepping to the window, I
watched in agony as the registrar glanced out at me and then turned to help two MP’s who were next to her behind the
glass. When she was finished, she stepped away into the back room, only to
return 10 minutes later.
Gah.
Too far in to abandon my quest, I
moved to the third line: Payment. By this point, I was a little batty. After two
years in Malawi, I thought I’d finally learned to stop asking why, but at this point I was near
hollering: WHY COULDN’T WE HAVE DONE
THIS ALL IN ONE LINE? Credit card kiosks are still new here, so cash payments
had to be made at the approved government bank teller window…around the corner.
Then you had to take the evidence of payment to the final line to collect your
card.
After a little over four hours
total, I had received a receipt stating I had paid. Unfortunately, having
little fortitude to handle any more lines or human contact, I conceded defeat.
I vowed to return the next day for the fourth and final queue: pick up.
Day two was the absolute worst.
The queue itself didn’t seem so long. However, I failed to discount cultural differences
in personal space. Meaning, the distance of the line is not necessarily directly
correlated with the amount of people. Place said line in a 10x15 foot room with
no air conditioning with only two of the five windows processing cards and you
have my idea of hell. I had thought of sending someone to stand in my place,
but by this time I figured I might as well have the whole horrible experience. It’s
a wonder I never learn.
I stood in line behind a nice
lady with a red dress (Martha) and a young man (Marcus). The process was going
like this: one had to show their receipt at the window, get your prints
verified, and then go wait outside while they printed your card. When it was
ready, they yelled out your name and handed it back through the queue,
effectively negating the point of taking your finger prints. Hilarious.
Two hours later, when there was
twenty-five people ahead of me, the system went down. Then they ran out of
cards. After a while it was tough to
know what exactly the problem was, as everything being shouted was in
Chichewa. The one thing I did know was I
was hungry, thirsty and had to go to the bathroom all at once. My tongue began
to feel thick and my head ached.
Around hour three, a savior
emerged. A new window opened right in front of me, Martha and Marcus. Upon a few
words from Martha, he quietly processed our fingerprints and we shoved our way
back out the door to the sidewalk. Triumphant, exhausted, dehydrated, we split
some tangerines from a roadside vendor and waited for our names to be called. Two
days, 6.5 hours later, I had my card.
I’m still not sure if I
accomplished anything, but as it turns out, there is a direct correlation between the degree of difficulty and
feeling pride. Many people decry African bureaucracy and claim that standing in
line is a Malawian past-time. But Malawians aren’t any different than Americans
when it comes to queueing and let’s face it, DMV’s are suck holes anywhere on
earth. Some people were angry, some were patient. Some cheated the system,
others waited for their appointed turn. In the end, I think it ws a fitting way
to leave Malawi: on its own terms. I sold my car, transferred the title, and feel
like I have paid my bureaucratic dues.
Time to go home.
