It is time to unburden my soul and divulge that until last week I had been driving illegally here. For two years.
It started innocently enough. Upon arrival in Oman two years ago, I heard the rumor that it was okay to drive on an American driver's license for two months before getting one's Omani license. However, if one were unfortunate enough to hold an Indian license or an Armenian license, or a license from any one of countless and seemingly arbitrary countries, one would not be able to drive on one's home country's license. But being American does have its advantages and so away I drove.
Two months passed, and it just seemed so inconvenient to go down the road and obtain that Omani driver's license. And so the months dribbled by and before I knew it, a whole year had passed. Then in our second year, the ROP went through a stage where it was pulling people over and checking for licenses. Friends of mine got pulled over while still holding their British or Canadian licenses and the cops simply waved them on, reminding them very kindly to go down and get their Omani licenses.
I heard these stories and very quickly rationalized that if the only punishment I would receive was a kind smile and a badly constructed, grammatically incorrect reminder to get my Omani license, then I would just continue to drive illegally.
But then my husband started to hound me and so, in a moment of absolute obsequiousness, I agreed to be dragged down to the licensing center for the grand event, along with three whining children, two passport photos, one crabby husband, and a slew of documents, photos, and payment options. This promised to be an event.
At first blush, the office itself rivaled any Department of Motor Vehicles in the US. It was populated by disgruntled workers dressed in uncomfortable-looking clothing who were being stared down by a room full of individuals whose behinds looked like they had become fused to the seats upon which they had been sitting for quite possibly three to four hours. And of course there was the universal "PING" of numbers changing to call up the next individual.
And right smack in the middle of the entrance way, positioned in such a way that there was no way to skirt around it, was the Number Desk, run by the Number Desk Dude. His job was to scrutinize anyone who walked through the door and then thrust a number at them. He took his job very seriously, scrutinizing everyone carefully before blessing them with a number. And I should know, because he scrutinized me four times while I was there, beginning with the moment we walked through the door.
The Number Dude did not speak. He simply arched an eyebrow as if wondering why I had walked into the licensing issuing center. So I did not speak either. I simply thrust my American license at him. He scrutinized and then thrust a number at me and waved me toward the Ladies Only seating area. Because I am a lady. Shocking, I know.
My number came up almost immediately which was disconcerting because my support crew (i.e. Tony) had stepped out to take the leaky Churtle to the toilet and I was left to forge this first interaction alone, armed with nothing but two photocopies of my license, my residency card, and the original of my American license. I dragged my heals over to window 2. "Lessons?" murmured the Licensing Lady.
"Yes." I had had lessons in driving long ago. Yes seemed the right answer to this.
"No. Lessons?"
"Um..." Where was Tony? "American license?"
"Yes!" She smiled and took my license. Duh. License, not lessons. Next question. "Coffee?"
"Yes?" Wow. Omani DMVs offer coffee? Sweet!
"Yes." And with that she grabbed the two photocopies from my hand. Copy, not coffee. 0 for 2.
The Licensing Lady then requested money: "200 baisa."
200 baisa. That's 50 cents US, or therebouts. Hmmm...what could this be for? I sat and pondered a bit too long because she again demanded 200 baisa. Was this a low-level bribe? A coffee fee? Copy fee? I lamely started, "My husband took my daughter to the toilet and he has all the money so..." She glared and then made her request, "200 baisa," and then shooed me away.
When Tony returned from the toilet he tucked 200 baisa in my hand, which I handed over to the License Lady in exchange for a blue and white form in Arabic. "Great. Arabic?" She nodded. My bureaucratic Arabic is about as fluent as my Sanskrit. She waved me off again to negotiate a translation from an unsuspecting bystander, which Tony managed to do within two and a half minutes.
Form filled in, I took it for another scrutinization from the Number Desk Dude. The Arabic must have been arresting because the Number Desk Dude smiled slightly as he punched up another number for me and waved me again toward the Ladies Seating. Once again, my number pinged up quickly and it was back to the Licensing Lady.
She read the form with great interest until her friend Licensing Man came through the side door. He had a quick chat with her, which sent her into gales of laughter and caused her to lose her place on my application so she had to start all over again reading all the intimate details that the nice Bystander had written. When she flipped the application over, though, she grimaced, pointed at a flimsy door, and said, "Go."
So I went. Inside the door were two ROP cadets clad in tan and sitting at a heavy, metal, government-issue desk with hands crossed, staring at the door through which I had just walked. As I walked in, one clapped and jumped to his feet. He handed me an eye cover and went over to an eye chart, pointing eagerly with his pen. He pointed. I read. He pointed again. I misread. He pointed again. I misread again. I must be getting old, but that's okay because he must be getting deaf; he made a note on my chart indicating that my eyesight is perfect...a seven out of seven!
Now back for another number from the Number Desk Dude. At this point we were getting to be quite good friends and he hardly needed to scrutinize at all as I was a known quantity. He simply slid yet another number toward me after only a cursory glance at my application.
What luck, I got to visit with a different bureaucrat this time--Licensing Lady's friend Licensing Man! He took my photos, perused all of the information on my form once again, looked carefully at my American license, asked, "Coffee?" to which I responded, "Yes" without expecting a cup of joe this time, and swiped the credit card.
"Okay," he said, returning my credit card. "Sit." So I sat, but only after consulting Number Desk Dude once more. After a mere 45 minutes I was holding my brand new Omani license, still warm from the laminater, and with an expiration date exactly 12 years in the future.
While it did not come with coffee, and no lessons were required, acquisition of my license did force a new appreciation in me for being a member of the fairer sex. While I breezed through the process in just under an hour, the legion of men who were there when I came in were still there when I walked out. Perhaps they were just there to observe the amazing efficiency with which Number Desk Dude and his associates were working. Or perhaps they were there to catch a couple episodes of HGTV as it was being shown on the overhead screens. Whatever their reasons for their extended stay at the Licensing Department, I breezed by them very happily on the way out, excited to finally be legal.
It started innocently enough. Upon arrival in Oman two years ago, I heard the rumor that it was okay to drive on an American driver's license for two months before getting one's Omani license. However, if one were unfortunate enough to hold an Indian license or an Armenian license, or a license from any one of countless and seemingly arbitrary countries, one would not be able to drive on one's home country's license. But being American does have its advantages and so away I drove.
Two months passed, and it just seemed so inconvenient to go down the road and obtain that Omani driver's license. And so the months dribbled by and before I knew it, a whole year had passed. Then in our second year, the ROP went through a stage where it was pulling people over and checking for licenses. Friends of mine got pulled over while still holding their British or Canadian licenses and the cops simply waved them on, reminding them very kindly to go down and get their Omani licenses.
I heard these stories and very quickly rationalized that if the only punishment I would receive was a kind smile and a badly constructed, grammatically incorrect reminder to get my Omani license, then I would just continue to drive illegally.
But then my husband started to hound me and so, in a moment of absolute obsequiousness, I agreed to be dragged down to the licensing center for the grand event, along with three whining children, two passport photos, one crabby husband, and a slew of documents, photos, and payment options. This promised to be an event.
At first blush, the office itself rivaled any Department of Motor Vehicles in the US. It was populated by disgruntled workers dressed in uncomfortable-looking clothing who were being stared down by a room full of individuals whose behinds looked like they had become fused to the seats upon which they had been sitting for quite possibly three to four hours. And of course there was the universal "PING" of numbers changing to call up the next individual.
And right smack in the middle of the entrance way, positioned in such a way that there was no way to skirt around it, was the Number Desk, run by the Number Desk Dude. His job was to scrutinize anyone who walked through the door and then thrust a number at them. He took his job very seriously, scrutinizing everyone carefully before blessing them with a number. And I should know, because he scrutinized me four times while I was there, beginning with the moment we walked through the door.
The Number Dude did not speak. He simply arched an eyebrow as if wondering why I had walked into the licensing issuing center. So I did not speak either. I simply thrust my American license at him. He scrutinized and then thrust a number at me and waved me toward the Ladies Only seating area. Because I am a lady. Shocking, I know.
My number came up almost immediately which was disconcerting because my support crew (i.e. Tony) had stepped out to take the leaky Churtle to the toilet and I was left to forge this first interaction alone, armed with nothing but two photocopies of my license, my residency card, and the original of my American license. I dragged my heals over to window 2. "Lessons?" murmured the Licensing Lady.
"Yes." I had had lessons in driving long ago. Yes seemed the right answer to this.
"No. Lessons?"
"Um..." Where was Tony? "American license?"
"Yes!" She smiled and took my license. Duh. License, not lessons. Next question. "Coffee?"
"Yes?" Wow. Omani DMVs offer coffee? Sweet!
"Yes." And with that she grabbed the two photocopies from my hand. Copy, not coffee. 0 for 2.
The Licensing Lady then requested money: "200 baisa."
200 baisa. That's 50 cents US, or therebouts. Hmmm...what could this be for? I sat and pondered a bit too long because she again demanded 200 baisa. Was this a low-level bribe? A coffee fee? Copy fee? I lamely started, "My husband took my daughter to the toilet and he has all the money so..." She glared and then made her request, "200 baisa," and then shooed me away.
When Tony returned from the toilet he tucked 200 baisa in my hand, which I handed over to the License Lady in exchange for a blue and white form in Arabic. "Great. Arabic?" She nodded. My bureaucratic Arabic is about as fluent as my Sanskrit. She waved me off again to negotiate a translation from an unsuspecting bystander, which Tony managed to do within two and a half minutes.
Form filled in, I took it for another scrutinization from the Number Desk Dude. The Arabic must have been arresting because the Number Desk Dude smiled slightly as he punched up another number for me and waved me again toward the Ladies Seating. Once again, my number pinged up quickly and it was back to the Licensing Lady.
She read the form with great interest until her friend Licensing Man came through the side door. He had a quick chat with her, which sent her into gales of laughter and caused her to lose her place on my application so she had to start all over again reading all the intimate details that the nice Bystander had written. When she flipped the application over, though, she grimaced, pointed at a flimsy door, and said, "Go."
So I went. Inside the door were two ROP cadets clad in tan and sitting at a heavy, metal, government-issue desk with hands crossed, staring at the door through which I had just walked. As I walked in, one clapped and jumped to his feet. He handed me an eye cover and went over to an eye chart, pointing eagerly with his pen. He pointed. I read. He pointed again. I misread. He pointed again. I misread again. I must be getting old, but that's okay because he must be getting deaf; he made a note on my chart indicating that my eyesight is perfect...a seven out of seven!
Now back for another number from the Number Desk Dude. At this point we were getting to be quite good friends and he hardly needed to scrutinize at all as I was a known quantity. He simply slid yet another number toward me after only a cursory glance at my application.
What luck, I got to visit with a different bureaucrat this time--Licensing Lady's friend Licensing Man! He took my photos, perused all of the information on my form once again, looked carefully at my American license, asked, "Coffee?" to which I responded, "Yes" without expecting a cup of joe this time, and swiped the credit card.
"Okay," he said, returning my credit card. "Sit." So I sat, but only after consulting Number Desk Dude once more. After a mere 45 minutes I was holding my brand new Omani license, still warm from the laminater, and with an expiration date exactly 12 years in the future.
While it did not come with coffee, and no lessons were required, acquisition of my license did force a new appreciation in me for being a member of the fairer sex. While I breezed through the process in just under an hour, the legion of men who were there when I came in were still there when I walked out. Perhaps they were just there to observe the amazing efficiency with which Number Desk Dude and his associates were working. Or perhaps they were there to catch a couple episodes of HGTV as it was being shown on the overhead screens. Whatever their reasons for their extended stay at the Licensing Department, I breezed by them very happily on the way out, excited to finally be legal.
You so funny!!! Hope you not there in 12 years. Come here. We get you nice PA driver's license. Then we will make you show it when you vote to make sure your vote counts. Because your right to vote is protected by your ID. I think I read that in a brochure recently.
ReplyDeleteYes, I have heard that about the driver's license, too. I don't know, though. Will I be allowed a driver's license there? I kind of look like a Democrat and I hear they don't like giving driver's licenses to Dems.
ReplyDelete