"It could be better."
Today is the eve of my first road trip outside of Zimbabwe since returning earlier this year. No cross-border road trip is complete without a visit to Southerton police station to get cross-border clearance for the car.
As always, this was a somewhat confounding experience. Thankfully there was barely a queue, so the process at the very least was relatively quick.
A friend and I drove up to the inspection bay and wait around for the "inspector" to come and look at the engine and chassis number. He ambles over. Inspects the engine with his bright lamp. Scribbles something on a piece of scrap paper, which he hands us but curiously, nobody ever asks us for. Tells us to go to office 18, which is less than a 50 metre stroll from inspection bay.
As we start to walk across, a stern looking lady tells us to move the car. Because of course there are other people needing inspection. Not!
We do so, and make our way to office 18. A large, bald gentleman is sitting in there alone, behind a desk with a variety of forms in different boxes. After a short discussion about how many international trips I may be taking in the next 6 months, he gives me a form that will allow me to move in and out of Zimbabwe for the next 6 months. Tells me to fill it out and return to the other office. At the inspection bay.
We head back to the inspection bay office. Hand the completed form to the lady sitting behind a computer. She signs it. Tells me to take it to office 20 - 2 doors down from office 18. Did she look up my engine number on the computer to check the car's not stolen? Perhaps, but seems doubtful.
Office 20 - the gentleman here is sitting behind a desk with an enormous pink book. He writes all my and my car details in his big book. And I "sign" the book and my form with a bright pink thumbprint from my right hand.
"Please take the form to office 18 for a date stamp. Office 18 is two doors down from here. Not the next door, but the next one." (complete with hand gestures - just in case I got lost in the 3 metres between office 18 and 20)
I return to office 18. Same large, balding gentleman asks me how I'm doing. I return to greeting, and he says "It could be better." No doubt!
He stamps the form, and I am free to go. Free to leave Zimbabwe with my pink Toyota Vitz for the next 6 months. It could be better. But it could also be worse!
As always, this was a somewhat confounding experience. Thankfully there was barely a queue, so the process at the very least was relatively quick.
A friend and I drove up to the inspection bay and wait around for the "inspector" to come and look at the engine and chassis number. He ambles over. Inspects the engine with his bright lamp. Scribbles something on a piece of scrap paper, which he hands us but curiously, nobody ever asks us for. Tells us to go to office 18, which is less than a 50 metre stroll from inspection bay.
As we start to walk across, a stern looking lady tells us to move the car. Because of course there are other people needing inspection. Not!
We do so, and make our way to office 18. A large, bald gentleman is sitting in there alone, behind a desk with a variety of forms in different boxes. After a short discussion about how many international trips I may be taking in the next 6 months, he gives me a form that will allow me to move in and out of Zimbabwe for the next 6 months. Tells me to fill it out and return to the other office. At the inspection bay.
We head back to the inspection bay office. Hand the completed form to the lady sitting behind a computer. She signs it. Tells me to take it to office 20 - 2 doors down from office 18. Did she look up my engine number on the computer to check the car's not stolen? Perhaps, but seems doubtful.
Office 20 - the gentleman here is sitting behind a desk with an enormous pink book. He writes all my and my car details in his big book. And I "sign" the book and my form with a bright pink thumbprint from my right hand.
"Please take the form to office 18 for a date stamp. Office 18 is two doors down from here. Not the next door, but the next one." (complete with hand gestures - just in case I got lost in the 3 metres between office 18 and 20)
I return to office 18. Same large, balding gentleman asks me how I'm doing. I return to greeting, and he says "It could be better." No doubt!
He stamps the form, and I am free to go. Free to leave Zimbabwe with my pink Toyota Vitz for the next 6 months. It could be better. But it could also be worse!
posted by VN at 8:15 AM
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