I thought going to the DMV to register our car in DC was an
ordeal. Well, we did have to wait for
hours in freezing temperatures, but at least it was one stop. Not so here in Zambia. Last month, I spent time making sure we
followed driving laws by registering one of our cars.
The car registration was supposed to take three hours on a
Monday morning. We get spoiled at the
embassy by having local staff members accompanying us and doing all of our
paperwork while we do such bureaucratic errands. It would take unimaginable hours and
frustration if I had to do these things on my own. Painless, right? I’m sure it would have been if I hadn’t
agreed to do it a few days before Independence Day, driving right through the
parade route. Or if they hadn’t been
practicing for the parade and closing half of the roads downtown. I picked up one of our Zambian colleagues at
the embassy first thing that morning and he directed me to our first stop: car
inspection.
Did I mention that I
was driving the car we just bought that has the steering wheel on the
right? It was my first time driving that
car and first time sitting on the right side of the car as a driver. All sorts of firsts! I think I scared my passenger a bit when I
kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of turning on my turn
signal. At least I warned him that might
happen. Anyway, I followed his directions
about two miles before we get stopped in gridlock. Lusaka is not a huge city and traffic usually
moves at a decent pace. But we were
stuck. I felt the road rage rising in my
stomach every time I would let one person in and another one or two cars tried
to tuck in as well. Did they not realize
that we should take turns? They didn’t,
so I reminded them with my horn and some aggressive driving skills I picked up
in DC. It took us 45 minutes to go
another mile before we were able to escape to an alternate route.
We eventually made it outside the city, having circumvented
the parade practice that was causing our traffic woes and headed south on Kafue
Road. I sailed down the main road at a
nice clip until we reached a police checkpoint.
Luckily, with diplomatic plates we often get waved right through so we
didn’t have a slow down there. The
potholes took care of that. The car I
was driving is a Toyota Corolla which doesn’t have the best clearance. It felt like I was in a driving video game as
I swerved to avoid foot deep holes every few dozen yards. Again, I think my passenger questioned my
driving abilities. We drove past Lilayi, the lovely lodge and game reserve
where we saw all of the animals I wrote about in my “saying yes” post. The car inspection center was way out past
the giraffes and baby elephants. I would
have much rather gone to visit them instead.
We turned off the pot-holed highway onto a dirt road that
was covered in rocks large enough to do real damage to low sitting cars. I slowed to a crawl in an attempt to minimize
damage to the undercarriage of the car.
It took us a few more minutes to reach the inspection facility which was
a well-maintained large parking lot with shaded benches for car owners to wait. My escort from the embassy took care of
everything. He showed the inspector our
VIN number on the engine and we were on our way. Back down the dirt road and then north on the
pot-holed highway. Three hours after we
left the embassy, we reached our second stop: license plate installation.
The Zambian government issues license plate numbers but
leaves the printing and installation to private businesses. So we headed to Phil’s License Plates to have
our new number affixed to the car. I
think I might be the only white woman to ever visit Phil’s. At least that’s what it felt like. All of the men standing around the shop
immediately stopped talking and stared at me.
I am very used to that after two years in India so it was not a
problem. It was just a bit odd because I
rarely get noticed in Lusaka; people here do not generally stare. Well, I stared right back at all of them
because each and every one of those grown men was drinking a child-sized juice
box from a tiny straw. At Phil’s you get
a free juice box with every installation.
With our new plates we made our final stop at the district
police station. I am not quite sure why
we needed to go there because I got to stay in the car. In fact, I don’t think I really needed to go
along on the journey at all except to do the driving. I didn’t have to sign anything or show any
proof of identity. They just needed me
for my windshield-wiping, right hand driving skills.
We made it back to the embassy five hours after we started
and I think both of us were ready for a nap.
Or a beer. I went for the nap as
it was only 2pm.
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