Renewing my passport

At the beginning of the year I realised my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
"Don't be silly," said Mrs White Ou, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
I couldn't argue on either of those points.
"In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.
I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.

Building true unity

It is claimed that the World Cup will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the whole affair put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and banded behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering, induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
"How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
"It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
"This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!

Can't take them out of the building

"I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.
"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
"But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
He was not joking.
"There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
"But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
"They'll have to come in," he sighed.
"But they work and can't take time off."
"We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
But I was not easily swayed.
"This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
"Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
"That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
Earlier this week, while watching television, Mrs White Ou suddenly turned to me.
"Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
I thought for a moment.
"I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

Police dealings

Around three weeks ago my small pick-up truck -- the vehicle I use to earn my living -- was stolen.
It was parked behind a pallisade fence with a locked gate that can only be opened with a remote gate-opener. In addition a gear-lock was attached, as was an AA-approved steering lock.
That apparently meant jack-shit to the sleazeballs who stole it. They were obviously pros. It was as though the car had never been there. There was no sign of glass from a broken window, no marks on the gate...nothing!
Welcome to South Africa! I became just another crime statistic.
The theft was reported to the police but the fact is, in this country, you do not make a statement to the cops to give them details they need to investigate and recover your stolen property, you do it so they can give you a case number to fill in on the insurance claim-form.
The only way my bakkie will ever be found is if it miraculously gets pulled over in a random roadblock.
The detective has not yet visited the crime scene, but I hardly expected him to, if past police performance is anything to go by. Seven years ago, a friend was shot in the face, neck and arms, in what appeared to be a carjacking attempt. He spent over a month in hospital and is still waiting for a detective to take his statement.
But we haven't yet given up hope. The wheels of justice turn slowly in South Africa and I am confident, as soon as they have taken his statement, they'll turn their attention to recovering my car.

Being unfair

Perhaps I'm being unfair. In the nightmare that is getting all the documentation needed by the insurance company and having the stolen car removed from the provincial vehicle-register, I had to obtain a copy of the police statement.
I first accompanied an officer to the docket-storage room, where, together, we searched through the files of crimes listed during the month of May. My case was reported at around 08h30 on 1 May and was logged as "case number 16 of May 2010".
Now to put this in perspective, it was 10 days later that I was at the police station searching for my case docket and I was then already sifting through May cases numbered in the 600s. We had no luck finding the docket there, so next step was to see the detective assigned to the case. He was out -- hopefully investigating -- but we rifled through around 20 piles of dockets, each containing about 20 files that were piled on his desk as well as on the floor.
A quick mental calculation showed the man is investigating at least 400 cases!
Maybe the cops at the coal-face aren't completely inept. Perhaps the reason so few crimes are solved in South Africa is the investigators are drowning under a tidal-wave of crime and an avalanche of dockets.
And the situation is never going to improve, no matter what the smarmy Minister of Police and his equally slippery cronies say, or how vigourously they massage the crime figures they issue once a year.

Gravy Train

There appears to be no support from the upper levels of the police food-chain. The Gravy Train has left the station and the workers behind!
A case in point (that is absolutely true) is an incident where a friend, a few months ago, went to report a case of theft at a police station on the West Rand.
"The officers in the charge office were actually quite helpful and sympathetic," he says. "But they told me they were unable to take my statement, as nobody had a pen.
"There are no pens in the charge office at all? How do you take a statement then?"
"We borrow the complainant's pen -- if he has one."
"I couldn't believe what I heard," my friend says.
"In the end I went to a nearby stationary shop and bought a box of pens that I donated to the charge office. It was the only way I could get them to take my statement."
To some, that may appear a drastic course of action but in the scheme of things, the effort was worth it. He got his case number, listed it on the claim form and the insurance paid out.
So what that spiralling crime is causing insurance premiums to sky-rocket? That's the way it works in this fucked up country. Thinking about it will just make our heads hurt and cause our eyeballs to pop out. Much better we should continue to jam our heads up our butts and pretend the Soccer World Cup will benefit anyone other than the cronies and the chumwallies!
I won't be attending any World Cup games. I will be home, waiting for a call from the detective. I have it on good authority he's working on case 289 of June 2003 and plans to call me soon.