THE TORMENT OF BUREAUCRACY
Despite the fear, it’s not really that awful renewing a driver’s licence. When we start seriously rolling out vaccines, can we do even better than this?
There is a simple way to elicit total dread in the average South African, and that is to tell them it’s time to renew their driver’s licence. When it comes to this five-yearly torment, there is good news. If your licence expired during the lockdown last year (March 26 to December 31), you have a grace period that ends on
August 31 2021.
I am not one of them. Mine expired in February, and so, with much fear, I logged onto the eNatis system.
Many people say it’s impossible to get an appointment on this portal. Not true. You may have visions of driving to Vereeniging and howling outside a licensing office, but what you need to do is log on midweek, at night. This is when the slots open up.
Having bagged a booking, I did my eye test at an optometrist, took my passport photos, ID (and a certified copy), and steeled myself for the ordeal. I had an ocean of sanitiser at hand, cash and a card. I arrived an hour early.
But, Randburg licensing department — how had I forgotten? The guys who engulf your car offering to take pics, the passive aggression for a parking spot, the sociopathic lack of signage. It is a vision of ageing 1970s buildings, dust and dull government confusion.
They had changed the entrance to the building since I was there last. I found this out by asking four people, but I should have known when I passed a bedraggled bunch dotted along a lowslung wall in the sun. This is the queue.
For social distancing purposes only 10 people are allowed inside at a time, so everyone just hangs about al fresco.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is nothing like a visit to a government department to bond you and strangers, instantly.
Ten minutes in, our wall-sitting group has a connection entirely based on trepidation over what lies ahead.
Finally we’re ushered into a room but, ominously, there is no sign of anyone seemingly “official”.
This is when the rumour starts to spread. “The machine is down,” someone says. “What machine?” I ask the man next to me. He shrugs.
Another message filters along the line — apparently they’re finding a “new machine”. We wait some more.
And then she appears, as a vision. “Follow me!” our saviour cries. We’re up like a shot, traipsing with jubilance behind our pied piper. From there, it’s mostly smooth sailing — except for the one chap who can’t see the eye test and is swiftly expelled — but we all know that sometimes individuals must be sacrificed for the greater good.
In less than 10 minutes, I’m done. “I wish everyone did their eye tests before they came,” says the lady. “it saves so much time”. My smug glow is blinding.
As I am standing in the next queue to pay, a woman of some seniority appears and rains fire upon people who are not standing far apart enough.
She points at a sticker on the floor, which says: “Stand here and keep your physical distance.” In smaller text underneath, almost as an afterthought, it adds: “We leave nobody behind!”
It dawns on me that I’m in a Christopher Nolan film. When do the evacuation boats arrive? Somehow I seem to have survived Dunkirk.
Ninety minutes after walking into the building, I have my temporary licence, doused in sanitiser.
Six weeks later and I’ve just collected the card, as they promised. I waited for 20 minutes, along with an 86-year-old lady and a middle-aged guy wearing surfer gear and no shoes. It was effortless.
If you can renew your driver’s licence in SA, you can handle anything.
But now onto the next episode — getting a vaccination. Let’s hope our rollout plays out less like a very long war film and more like a Disney flick. Singing teapots included.
Ten minutes in, our wall-sitting group has a connection that is entirely based on trepidation over what lies ahead