Welcome to the red-tape reality of public service
Occasionally, just occasionally, it’s good to burst your privilege bubble to understand one of the main reasons South Africa finds itself in an economic time warp.
If you are a privileged South African with access to great telecommunications, medical aid and a free Wi-Fi network, you are among the rare few who seldom, if ever, need to interact with public service in any serious way.
Buy a car from a dealer, they will register the vehicle for you. Need to renew the licence? You can pay someone to do it and duck the queue. Need an ID or a passport? In Johannesburg you can go to a bank branch and get it done, by appointment, with charming home affairs staff in minutes.
I figured it was time to experience the real world, even if just for a day. So, one day at 5am, I pulled into the parking garage at the mall where my closest home affairs is. “Strange,” I thought smugly as I set down my camping chair outside the front door, “no one else is here yet.” I’d been warned to get there early. Ten minutes later, a second customer arrived. We smiled at each other with the kind of smile that said: “We’re winning.” Our spouses and children who required passports were still asleep at home with instructions to arrive at 8am.
At 5.20am, a guard popped his head around the corner: “The queue’s outside.” Our self-satisfied smirks evaporated.
The queue snaked around the corner and along the pavement. The first person in it had arrived at 3.58am. He bore a smug grin as we did the walk of shame to the rear.
At 7am, a man in a lumo-vest handed out numbers. No 60. “You’ll be done by 10.30,” he assured me. Not too bad. “You don’t stand a chance,” said No 61. “I gave up at lunchtime yesterday after getting into the queue at six.”
“Before I let you in,” said Lumo-Vest Man at about
7.30, we need to check the system to make sure it’s working.”
There were groans. It’s not uncommon, apparently, for the “system to be down”.
I scrunched the piece of paper with No 60 in my hand. But, at 8am, we were shepherded through the open door. So near. Yet so far.
First, a stop at the inquiries desk, where a new number was issued. No 128. Then the payments queue. Done by 9.15. Then the queue for pictures. Done by 10.15. It was pretty clear by now that No 61 might be right. It was going to be a long day.
Occasionally, an electronically generated voice barked out a number — it was 10.30 and No 81 was being served. “How long could it possibly take?” I mused.
“No 82,” came the voice. It was 10.39. By 11.30, they were in the early 90s.
At 1.08pm came the magical sound:
“No 128.”
The woman at the desk was charm personified. She ignored the proffered forms. “We’re automated now,” she said. “We don’t need those. Just your ID, the mother’s ID and the unabridged birth certificate.” We were done in seven minutes and will receive the passport next week.
At 1.21pm, we left. Eight hours and 21 minutes to complete three simple steps of a bureaucratic process that half the world does online today.
The brutal reality of life in South Africa for those dependent on the state is that they have come to expect no better. It’s one reason South Africa ranks poorly in global competitiveness. Surely there’s a better way.