Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

I have got so much on my mind to tell you about, but since school re-opened last Monday, I have been otherwise ensconsed in French lessons, school trips and the news.  What with OP’s murder trial and a missing Boeing 777, my newspaper browser has never been so active, well at least not since last December when Tata passed away anyway.

 

The one story I have drafted on my WordPress is a dedication to my Alex this month, as she has just turned 6.  But after an afternoon of self indulgent schmaltz, I had to do a school trip, so my letter to Alex has been sidelined for now.

 

What I do need to talk about, to whinge about more specifically, is bureaucratic red tape.

 

Last July, the very last bit of post we collected from our Highveld Park post box was a “eNatis” letter.  You know which ones I’m referring to.  If it’s orange, it’s generally a reminder to renew your car licence, which is easy peasy at the Post Office.  The other type of letter from them is mostly unwanted: it is either a speeding fine (which is fortunately easy enough to sort out via online payment, despite the irritation of getting a fine); or the other is a drivers licence renewal.  AAAAAGGGGGHHHH.  Mine was that- it was due to expire a month after we left SA.

 

Immediately my toes curled- if there is a government institution I despise back home, it is the motor vehicle licence department, and I decided immediately that I would NOT bother myself with those boring, seemingly interminable queues.  The last time I had queued for a drivers licence was when Alex was 5 months old, and although I did manage to skip 30 odd other people in the queue, I did have a huge pram, car chair, blankets and I even suspect I had to breast feed while there as well.  It was not fun, and I still have those memories in my bank.

 

With 3 short days left in Centurion, I decided not to bother heading to renew my drivers licence.  Besides which, I was under the impression that once we were in France, we could merely convert our licences to French ones.  That is what Anton had done the previous time he had come to live here, 10 years ago.  And that is what we would do again.

 

Well, I was wrong.

 

So much of our relocation has hinged upon a rental contract, and a fixed address.  We could not apply for residents cards, state medical cards or converted drivers licences without having a rental contract and permanent address. And since it took 4 months for our furniture to arrive, we waited.  And waited.

 

Once we applied for a residents cards in October, I looked into converting our drivers licences, only to be informed that new legislation meant we would have to have our SA licences translated before converting them.  (EVERYTHING has to be translated these days.  I have origonals and copies of all our unabridged birth certificates, our marriage certificate and I suspect even our passports in South African English/Afrikaans, as well as in French)

The cost of translating our current licences was going to cost 50€ each, which we didn’t have at the time, and decided that we would be able to wait it out until we were a little more flush, so long as it was before our years’ arrival anniversary date.  

 

As time has marched on quite rapidly, and we are 8 months into our first year, we decided this week that now is as good a time as ever to sort these licences out.  

 

A colleague of Antons’ converted his Swedish drivers licence this month, and has been a great help to Anton while he sorts ours out.  As well as needing our SA ones translated, it turns out that our SA licences are coded as EB, which means we can drive a car with a trailer (caravan etc).  For the conversion to the French Equivalent-BE, I think- we have to have a doctor give us a once over for the purpose of safety, I guess. (Cue a sardonic eyebrow raise here- if you intend on running a race, cycling a race, or doing any form of competitve sport, you have to have a certificate from a sports doctor, and should the girls do any sport activities- swimming lessons, tennis lessons etc, they have to do the same.  SHEESH).

 

So, translated licences done, our next stop was to have a health check, which can only be done at an approved doctor, for which Anton realised he had misplaced the list, and needed me to pop in at The Prefecture and pick one up.

 

I think I have spoken about the Prefecture before.  It’s Home Affairs and the motor vehicle licence department under one roof. It has 20 counters, and runs off a very efficient ticket system.  (So many official places like  these use the ticketing system- even the office of the citys’ transport system).

And it is a French building- you simply cannot expect to be able to do your business in English- it’s not a prerequisite of their staff for them to speak anything other than French.

During the 15 minutes I was on the tram to get there, I practised my request in my limited French-over and over again.  I am sure the passengers thought me quite mad- a strange looking woman repeating a sentence to herself in a broken French accent.

I walked in at 14h15, cringed at the number of people waiting to do business, took a breath, took a ticket that said I had 25 minutes to wait, and waited.

 

Let me tell you, the surliness, impatience and lackadaisical attitude of the SA Home Affairs department has NOTHING on their French counterparts. I watched a woman dawdle back to her desk after her lunch break.  The same woman chased away a guy because she had not called his ticket.

 

Eventually it was my turn, and I apologised for my lack of french, because I was South African,but could I please have the list of the doctors for the licence conversion.

 

She seemed quite confused, why did I want the list?  So I took my own licence out, and showed her my EB code.

She took my licence over to a supervisor, who returned with the lady I was dealing with.  The supervisor seemed to have a better knowledge of English, and I then realised what some of the confusion was about: why was a South African wanting a list of doctors for a drivers licence?  

I proffered my residents card, to give clarity.

The supervisor then examined my licence again, and with great relish, pointed out that my licence had expired in August.  And that they would not help me.

 

All of a sudden, the situation got very muddled, and the supervisor got quite aggresive with me in her determination to get me to understand that I would have to return to SA to renew my licence before I could have it converted.

I tried desperately to tell her that I couldn’t just go and have it renewed, and my heart was sinking below my feet, but she simply continued to talk over me.

 

Eventually I realised they would not help, so I said “je comprehends”.  (I understand).  But as Anton still needed the list of doctors, I continued asking them for him.

The ‘sub’ asked me if Anton’s licence was valid, and I said yes, but the supervisor stated  very explicitly, in French by this time, that they would not give me the list, and that Anton would have to collect it himself.

 

In fear of bursting into tears in front of these two French women, I turned on my heels, and walked out, without saying thank you and goodbye.

I mean, what could have I said?  My voice was trembling at being spoken to like a bloody foreigner, and the idea of not actually having a drivers licence was mortifying.

 

I walked the 800 meters home, continuing to vent to myself, and brush tears from my eyes.  

I felt embarresed and ridiculed, and I couldn’t shake the similarities to the wonderful officials we have at home.  It just goes to show that no culture is exempt from shitty bureaucratic office attitudes.  It is significantly difficult though, to express yourself if you don’t understand eachother.  Maybe this is why people complain so much about SA Home Affairs? With 11 official languages and as many nuances with each culture its easy for requests and body language to get lost in translation

 

By the time I got home, my tears were in full flood.  I know, its a petty reason to cry. After all, my tears were not going to magically transform my drivers licence into being valid.

But my heart was full of homesickness.  Like I need an excuse to be able to feel it.

The thing is occasionally I just feel like I have no control over situations here.  It has taken 4 months for our registration for state medical aid, and I cannot hurry it up, because I can’t talk the language, nor do I actually understand what must be done.

Nor do I know what to do about enrolling the girls for school again-why?  Have I not done it yet?

The other reason for my tears was that I will not be able to drive a car for another 12 plus months.  While I don’t particulary relish the idea of driving here, the simple fact that I can’t takes alot away from my soul.

And lastly, the money spent on translating the licences was a waste.  I can think of a million things I would rather do with 50 euros.

 

I spent the rest of Tuesday very distraught and miserable, but I have come to accept my fate and move on.  I won’t have to be a designated driver for some time, and instead of staring at the car, wishing for motivation to try and drive à Francais, I have a reason not to.

 

Ç’est la vie.