I returned to Class Auto in Pietermaritzburg on Wednesday afternoon for another test to determine whether my partner’s Land Rover deserved a designation of roadworthy. Our Land Rover specialist, Steve, had repaired each of 10 defects inspectors flagged in January.
This was a second run at roadworthy. The Land Rover had earned it in November, but my partner and I squandered the status – a requirement for registering a vehicle in South Africa – by failing to register the Land Rover within 60 days. When I returned to Class Auto in January with the vehicle, its roadworthy status hinged, in the view of the inspector on duty that day, on our making the 10 repairs. Steve agreed to do the work and I resolved not to let the certification, if we were able to earn it anew, lapse again.
Now back at Class Auto, I forked over the fee of about $30 (the third time we would pay for testing). The Indian man behind the counter asked for my keys and offered me a seat on a vinyl sofa that lines one wall of the office. Within about five minutes, an inspector entered the room, retrieved the keys and headed out to the Land Rover, which he proceeded to drive into a shed where he and his colleagues would poke at the vehicle until satisfied.
While I waited, I read something about Beyoncé in a stale copy of People and glanced up occasionally to check on the Land Rover. At one interval I saw its tail lights illuminate, first the right one then the left, as the inspectors worked their way around the vehicle and down their checklist. I wanted to photograph the scene but I didn’t dare for fear the man in the office think me an undercover inspector and withhold a roadworthy designation for a second time.
Instead I fiddled with my iPhone and waited for what felt like 20 minutes. A Zulu guy joined me on the sofa while inspectors scoured his four-wheel-drive vehicle. Then the inspector who had tested the Land Rover returned to the office, plopped the keys on the counter and handed a green form to his colleague, a woman who stood on the other side of the shelf.
“Who’s Land Rover?” she called to the two of us without looking up. “That’s mine,” I answered. “It’s passed,” she said. “Just give us five minutes for the paperwork.”
Passed. My face felt flush as relief coursed through me. As promised, the woman handed me a form that proclaimed the Land Rover to be roadworthy. I headed out into the sunshine and texted Steve. “Passed,” I typed. “Thanks, Steve!” “Brilliant!” came the reply a moment later.
I also emailed my partner. “Whose Land Rover?” read the subject line of the message, which recounted the moment the woman told me the Land Rover had passed. “Did you see my message,” I asked my partner excitedly when she arrived home that evening. She hadn’t seen it, which gave me license to deliver the news to her anew. “We’ll need to go together in the morning to register the vehicle,” I added.
That demanded speed. My partner and I were scheduled to fly to New York the following day. I would not be returning to South Africa for six months. My partner would be back in 14 days but said she would be too busy to register the vehicle then. That left Thursday morning before we headed to the airport.
The next day at about 7:30 a.m. we headed to One-Stop Licensing, a business in Pietermaritzburg that, for a fee of about $8, handles paperwork one needs for registration. With my partner beside me in the Land Rover, I pulled out of our street and drove to the N3, the highway that connects Johannesburg and Durban, for the roughly seven-mile trip to One-Stop.
Trouble loomed as soon as we entered the highway. All three lanes were jammed and traffic had slowed to a speed of about 5 mph. About 1,000 feet ahead a police car had parked at a 45-degree angle in the center lane, forcing traffic to move left or right and intensifying the congestion. As we rolled, my partner, who had worked all night and had yet to pack, began to fret. “I can’t do this,” she said, covering her eyes with her hand. “I have two presentations and a meeting in Boston and I haven’t even packed yet. I can’t do that in an hour.”
My partner’s misgivings and the tie-up on the N3 left me wondering if my determination to register the Land Rover had exceeded the bounds of common sense. Then we received what in retrospect seems to have been a sign from a higher power. A pickup stuck in the jam about four vehicles ahead of us turned right onto the grass that separates the eastbound and westbound lanes and pulled back onto the highway heading in the opposite direction. The remedy was one that drivers who are stuck in traffic resort to sometimes after determining that the benefits of freeing themselves outweigh the costs of an illegal move.
We resolved to do the same. That’s when a Land Rover, with its clearance, comes in handy. I rolled the vehicle onto the median as my partner talked me through the maneuver. “All clear,” she said as she looked toward the westbound lanes. I shifted into second, heaved the vehicle up onto the roadway and accelerated.
We had escaped the jam but still had an unregistered vehicle. “Take Old Howick,” said my partner, referring to a route that would allow us to avoid the highway. “Are you sure,” I asked, fearful of encountering more traffic at what by then become had rush hour between Hilton and Pietermaritzburg. “Just go,” she said.
Off we went, down Old Howick, which descends a mountain from Hilton into Pietermaritzburg. Happily for us the traffic moved and we arrived at One-Stop around 8:45 a.m.
We headed into the whitewashed building that serves as One-Stop’s offices, where we encountered no queue at the counter. “I’m back,” I said eagerly to the woman who manages the shop. “I obtained the roadworthy just as you advised.”
I’m not sure the woman remembered me but she smiled as I spread the forms for registration on the counter. “My partner is here and she has her passport and two photos,” I added proudly, as if I might get extra credit for doing something required.
For her part, my partner stepped to the counter and laid her passport and photos beside the forms. At last, I thought. We’re here and this is happening.
My partner had brought the two photos because One-Stop had told me she would need them to apply for a traffic registration number, an identifier the South African government issues to drivers. “How long will this take,” my partner asked. “We are flying today.”
“Today,” asked the woman. “This takes about two hours. But there’s no queue at the registration office, which is in the building behind us. You can go over there and handle this directly. Otherwise, we’ll walk your application over there but that could take two hours until we drop the application off and pick it up.”
The woman’s colleague, a nice young Zulu woman, offered to escort us to the licensing office, which is housed in a temporary structure about 100 yards behind One-Stop. “OK,” I said. “Please walk over with us so we don’t get lost.” Though we would have to have closed our eyes to miss the destination, I feared anything that might derail our effort.
Together with the woman, my partner and I headed out of One-Stop, into the sunshine, out the gate and up the road one stop to the licensing bureau. “If are able to register this vehicle I will hug you,” I said to the woman, who smiled. “This has been a journey.”
Once inside the woman approached one of the clerks, who sit behind glass that resembles a bank. “First you’ll get the traffic identification number, then if you’d like, you can register the vehicle,” our guide told us. “May I find you if there’s a problem,” I asked her, not wanting her to abandon us. “Yes, that’s OK, but you should be fine,” she said.
After about five minutes my partner got to the window, where the clerk, a Zulu woman who wore reading glasses, examined my partner’s passport. “This is expired,” the clerk said. “Expired,” asked my partner as we each gasped. “No, not expired,” said my partner, pointing to a page. “See here.”
The clerk looked at the page then smiled. “I’m here for 14 years but I go back and forth to the states because that’s where the funders are who let me do work in South Africa,” said my partner.
“Better there,” said the woman.
“No, not better,” said my partner. “Cold. Better here.”
“How great is this,” I said to my partner while the woman sifted through varied forms, occasionally entering information into a computer. “I love places like this. This is where the business of the country happens.”
“I would give anything not to have to do this,” my partner replied.
The woman smiled and continued to stamp the paperwork, which included her cutting a piece of clear tape and using it to fasten the two photos to the form. “You don’t see that in the states,” my partner said to me. “A scissor and two sheets of tape for an application.”
While we waited for the woman to process the papers, we noted a sign advising the public that the system that processes credit card payment had malfunctioned. Cash only, we learned. “This will be 1,100 rand,” the woman said through the window. I checked my wallet, which held 600 rand. My partner had no cash on her.
“Where’s an ATM,” my partner asked the clerk. “Out the road and turn left, and you’ll seen an ABSA on your right,” the clerk said. “He’ll go get cash and I’ll wait here,” my partner told her.
With that the clerk nodded and I trotted out of the building and toward the Land Rover, which remained parked in front of One-Stop. As I ran I tugged on my shorts, which seemed to falling down and tried to be careful not to trip in my flip-flops.
I drove out of the parking lot and toward the bank, where I swung the Land Rover into the first space I could find, jumped out and jogged to a row of ATMs. I withdrew 2000 rand, made sure I had my wallet in hand, then turned and ran back to the Land Rover and returned to One-Stop, then trotted back over to the licensing office.
I passed my partner the cash. She counted out 1,100 rand and slid the notes through the slot beneath the window to the clerk. The clerk counted the money then turned slightly to type into a machine, before picking up the forms and returning them to us.
Then the clerk produced a form I had not seen. It was a registration document, which, at the bottom, included the disc – akin to an inspection decal in the states – that we sought.
I stared at the document, half expecting the paper to vanish before our eyes or the clerk to pull it back to her side of the glass. But the disc remained on our side.
My partner and I smiled, thanked the clerk and wished her “Shala gashle,” which is Zulu for “stay in peace.” Though we had the disc but we still needed license plates that would tie to the registration. The ones on the Land Rover had expired.
By then it was about 9:30 a.m. My partner had yet to pack but we resolved to finish the registration. We jogged back to One-Stop, where we paid another 170 rand for plates, which a clerk produced by hand in the rear of the shop. The plates numbered three in all: identical rectangular placards for the front and rear bumpers and a square one for the rear panel.
“We’re in a hurry,” my partner reminded the manager, who turned to the man making the plates and relayed the news that we had a plane to catch. Within a minute or two the man emerged from behind his workbench. He had three plates in hand as he headed toward the parking lot with my partner and me trailing. I ran ahead to start the Land Rover, which the man motioned me to pull to one side of the driveway.
I jumped out of the Land Rover while the man removed the old plates, wiped the new ones with a cloth, then mounted them by peeling away adhesive that revealed an adhesive strip that ran along the perimeter of each one and allowed the plates to be affixed to the vehicle.
While the man worked, my partner dropped the disc into a plastic holder affixed to the inside of the windshield on the passenger’s side. When the man finished we thanked him, tipped him 10 rand and drove away.
“I can’t believe it. We have a registered vehicle,” I said to my partner. “Thank you for getting all you did today to help finish what we started. Now we can drive to Durban or anywhere we’d like without having to worry what might happen if the police pull us over. We’re legal!”
My partner agreed. “You’ve been working on this since October,” she said. “I wanted you to be able to leave South Africa with it finished.”
