Dear Editor,
I was told that I had to apply in person for the renewal of my drivers’ licence this year, so on Friday 10th I made what I thought was an early start, arriving at the licensing office at 7.55 am armed with my application form. I was a bit alarmed to see that the queue extended from the back of the compound almost to the front entrance where I had to join. The guard said the office would start working at 8 am, so I calmed myself with the expectation that the queue would advance briskly once the office was open.
At 9 am the queue had crept forward enough so that I was at the side of the front building. Not long after that a member of staff moved along the queue distributing numbers. I was given number 30, and I recognised that I had been overly optimistic with thoughts of moving briskly, but I felt I should experience all the pain of the process, so I surrendered all thought of meeting my 10.15am appointment.
The queue moved forward incrementally, and I listened to the conversations of fellow ‘queuers’ about their several trips to the office in search of the application form. For some, Friday was their third trip, having failed to get the form on the previous attempts. I arrived at the bottom of the stairs of the target building at 9.55, and decided to time the processing period – from entry to exit. Number 11, who had joined the line at 7am, entered the building as I arrived at the stairs. At 10.30 I made it onto the stairs, and like all victims of Stockholm syndrome, I felt grateful and hopeful and happy that maybe, I’d get some attention from those holding me prisoner in the queue.
The office hours 8-11.30am and 1-3pm are posted on the window of the building, and as the minutes ticked away I began to feel anxious about making it inside before the midday break. At 11, number 11 emerged, suggesting that one has to spend an hour inside for a licence application to be processed. At 11.07 the guard flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign in the window to ‘CLOSED,‘ and my hopes of getting the licence that morning were dashed. Along with a few others, I decided to stay in line, hoping that we’d get some information about the next step. Some people left in despair. A staff member emerged at 11.25 and she collected the documents from the hopefuls still on the stairs. “Come back at 1pm,” she said. I asked about the numbers and whether I’d be starting over in another queue at 1pm, or whether I’d get my licence without wasting more hours. “I’ll do my best,” she said.
I returned at 2.25pm, thinking that I could avoid another long queue, and found about five persons outside the door, so I knocked and was told by the guard that my name had “been called,” and I should ask at the counter. I was first told that the cashier had closed off, but I should check. The woman who appeared to have a pivotal role in whether I got my licence said she had to go out in five minutes. I pointed out that the notice says the office is open till 3.00pm and she glared at me. I tried to pay the cashier for the licence, but she told me that I needed a chit so I returned to the counter. I recognised one of the sufferers from the morning – he must have been number 25, and he was also trying to get a chit, so I asked the officer if she had mine. Joy! My chit was there, she was willing to give it to me, I paid the cashier, received my licence and left the premises at 2.45 pm emotionally drained and physically exhausted – wondering if I will have a repeat of this torture in another three years.
Whoever devised this system of hostage taking has clearly never been a victim of it. There can be no possible justification for condemning people to waste as many hours as we did on Friday. I strongly recommend that Mr Sattaur, who presides over that office, members of parliament and cabinet who are drivers, surrender their connections and privileges and join the queue to renew their licences. I’m sure their experiences will result in a system more respectful of people’s time and energy.
Yours faithfully,
Karen de Souza
