Procedures That Drive One Crazy

Things have come to a pretty pass when a frustrated traffic policeman says, “For goodness sake, write about this; it’s a mess.” We had to agree.

IBM, the apocryphal acronym for the three stages of dealing with government departments, is well founded. It is a testimony to the mangled hopes of a well-disposed citizen wishing to comply with the law and his eventual frustration at the combination of confusion and obfuscation that surrounds the simplest of official paperwork. IBM — Inshallah (God willing); bukra (tomorrow); maalesh (Sorry or take it easy)!

Renewing a driver’s license should be the simplest of tasks. Pop the old license into the post with the appropriate form and fee; wait for the new license. In the interests of road safety and payment to compensate victims of accidents from mandatory insurance, surely any government department would make it as easy as possible to “get legal”.

Not quite; that presupposes both a postal system that does not take five weeks to deliver (if at all) a bank statement 600 meters from the post office to a customer and a licensing authority that is set up to handle post — or even people.

Lesson one; make no assumptions.

The paperwork assembled, we approached the cavernous office of the Traffic Department Licensing Office brimming with confidence. Buying insurance for the license (quite reasonably, current insurance documents have to be shown before an application is accepted) could not have been easier. Outside the office, small tables and several vans sold perfectly valid insurance documents. Indeed, several of the more eager salesmen needed their own life insurance, so keen were they to hurl themselves in front of moving cars in order to make a sale.

Next, to the amusingly named “Information” kiosk. There a batrachian official with a stick of glue and a mournful expression solemnly smeared adhesive over the appropriate form and attached the applicant’s photograph. Asked what the procedure was after this stage, the answer came with an unconcerned shrug and a croaked, “Stand in the queue and ask the officer.”

Medical Examination was next on the list. Papers produced, checked and stamped. Was I breathing? Perhaps — well, good enough.

On to the eye test, where another official produced an enormous stick, pointed at a couple of symbols on the test strip, confirmed the correctness of the answer and stamped the documents. All good so far. Only two hours into the game and running well.

Then off to the “Unpaid Fines” window where a very polite notice advised us to check here first “to save your precious time.” We tried; really, we tried. At precisely 12.10, the two policemen eyeing us as we approached disappeared into the backroom. There they stayed, emerging 16 minutes later to slam the window in our faces. “Prayer time,” said a rather over-helpful security guard.

Forty-five minutes later, back at the fines window, the policemen simply suggested we go to the Traffic Police, four kilometers away, and complete the process. How long would that have taken to tell us? Not 16 minutes.

The officers at the Traffic Police could not have been more helpful. With a flourish and a smile, they pointed out that the computer shuts at 12 noon. “Have a nice day,” one said.

Judging by the numbers waiting for service in the room, this piece of knowledge was jealously guarded by the authorities and only handed out to supplicants when the time was past for them to do anything.

Day two of the process was sure to be better, as we knew that the initial paperwork was complete and the only thing to do was complete the final formalities with the smiling Traffic Policeman. He was even more helpful. “The paperwork is all wrong,” he said. “The license cannot be renewed, only reissued.”

We pointed out that it had been signed off by an army of officials at the Traffic Department; there came the unconcerned shrug again. “The computer says no,” he said.

One of the licenses had expired and had not been renewed for two years. The owner explained, producing passport and documentation to explain that he had been away, studying abroad and therefore could not renew. The shrug was becoming a feature of this procedure. “It’s the law. What can I do?” SR200 fine plus SR75 for the new license.

Ah! 12 noon; the computer says no.

As for the license with the “wrong” paperwork? It now needed a passport, chamber of commerce stamp on the passport copy, chamber of commerce on the sponsor’s letter of permission, and a phalanx of other niggling signatures. All this for a license that already exists on the computer.

Why had all the other officials who looked at the paperwork passed and stamped it? Why does the procedure vary from day to day, office to office and as far as we could judge, from official to official?

If the system of license issuing and renewal were simpler and consistent, drivers would have far less reluctance to apply and be officially sanctioned to drive.

The non-achievement of the license in this case has cost many hundreds of riyals in lost company time and in lost output from two employees. Multiply that by the thousands each day who gather in crowds outside government departments and the cost to the economy is certainly prodigious.