Last words from Karin Brynard
They’re like the gods of Olympus, civil servants, just way more fickle and distant and powerful, Karin Brynard muses.
It’s 6:30 on a Monday morning and I’m in a long queue outside the Department of Home Affairs. I need a temporary passport, like yesterday. The dog ate my existing one just as I was offered a chance-in-a-lifetime job opportunity in a place outside our borders.
It’s winter, still dark. And very cold. A damp, icy wind is cheekily lifting our coat hems, pushing its chilly snout under our clothes. The stoep is bare – no chairs or benches to take a load off – and the frozen cement is steadily gnawing through the soles of our shoes.
Every now and then, a couple of new souls arrive, a mixture of hope, dread and anguish on their faces. They come swaddled in woolly scarves, clutching their papers as if their lives depend on it. Soon, there are more than 60 of us. I’m number 20 from the front – I know because I keep count, afraid some latecomer will jump the queue. The guy at the front must have been standing here since… five o’clock? Poor dear. And the doors only open at nine.
Today is not my first time on this arctic stoep. Yesterday, the queue was cut just in front of me. I was apoplectic with rage. “Come back tomorrow,” the stony-faced official said. “We’re full for the day.” The previous day, “the computer went off-line” just as I reached the front. And the day before that, I landed up in the wrong queue. Stood there for hours. And then “the system died”.
In the many fruitless hours spent standing here, I’ve learnt some hard truths about officialdom. One: an official and his official stamp wield power, enormous power. The Holy Pope of Rome is no match for Miss Dlamini at Counter Two. She’ll eat him for breakfast.
Two: don’t have an attitude. Get off your high horse or you’ll learn pretty damn quickly how to leopard crawl to the door.
Having learnt all these lessons, I meekly stand here and shiver like a good citizen should. Once again. A young mother with a baby strapped to her back is in front of me. The baby gawks at me. I try to make it laugh by pulling a funny face, but the baby lets out a startled shriek. I hastily look away. In front of the mother, a married couple has brought their own camp chairs, cosy knee blankets, the newspaper and a flask of coffee. True veterans, I reckon.
Further along, a whole family stands shaking: stern mother obsessively checking the paperwork; the father absent, hands in his pockets; and two bored schoolboys, their cheeks flushed with cold. The boys are probably here for their first IDs – for the matric exams. “Welcome to the real world, guys,” I think bleakly. According to research, you’ll spend about two years of your precious lives queueing.
I check my watch. Still only seven o’clock. Another two hours before the doors open. The vicious cold has now crept through my thick sneaker soles. I stamp my feet for circulation. Someone asks his neighbour why he is queueing. “Passport,” he answers, chuffed. “I’m taking the wife to Botswana for our anniversary, all booked and paid upfront.”
“Oh hell, old man,” comes the death knell. “It’s mos lockdown, jong. They’re not issuing passports.” I look away. No one should watch a grown man cry.
The only people who love long queues, apparently, are psychologists. They believe that these queues are the perfect laboratory for the careful study of darkish human emotions: anxiety, frustration, jealousy, resentment and malice. Not to mention aggression.
Buddhists, of course, look upon it as a gift – the perfect opportunity to practice mindfulness. As you become present, the jumble of thoughts and emotions will settle like sediment in still water. You come to rest in the reality of what is. And with acceptance comes peace, just like Christ experienced during that awful night in the garden of Gethsemane, praying and waiting for his executioners to arrive.
Suddenly there is movement in the queue. Nine o’clock on the dot and the door has opened. A weighty lady emerges and the queue jumps to attention. She breaks up the snaking line into three. We hustle to claim a new place, all our demons let loose again – anxiety, frustration, aggression, the lot.
Around 10 o’clock, I enter the hallowed space inside. I can sit, praise the Lord. And wait for my name to be called, to approach Counter Two with bended knee. And get my documents. And my stamp. Yay!
Like a gambolling lamb, I skip to the door. World, here I come! Outside, I joyfully pause to kiss my trophy – and then my heart stops. My name! It can’t be! But there it is, black on white – Karin Bruinhard. Stamped and all.