shaken, not stirred

Another day, another visit to the nice people who would like to give me permission to work in this country I view as a second home. This time on public transport. Not a bus or a train. A minibus taxi. You know those white minivan 12 seater thingies. It is typically African transport with typically 20 people rammed into it on a good day. Up close and personal with every other passenger despite those instinctive reservations I have regarding the invasion of my very British personal space. Since there aren’t any other options, I have learnt to put up and shut up. With marginally gritted teeth. 

So in I a pile to enjoy a slalom drive dodging cows, goats, sheep, chicken, dogs, small children, large teenagers and even larger potholes. Travel sickness is just not an option since I wouldn’t be able to squeeze myself out in time. After 2 hours of what should be a 1 hour drive I squeeze out and wait for another taxi to take me to the main town feeling rather like a James Bond drink; shaken, not stirred. I miss the polite, stiff upper lipped queuing of the British; this is a free for all to get into the next taxi. Elbows out, head down and bundle!  

After another hair-raising drive I get the dubious pleasure of arriving at my chosen destination. The government office where decisions on life and visas are made. Since this is South Africa and not the UK, each office deals with things differently. So maybe I won’t need another medical certificate, another affidavit, another this, that or the other. Or maybe I will. Hopefully not. Then I can lodge my application, sit back, wait and try not to worry. 

Sadly I am mistaken. This particular office wants it all. All over again. So no. I cannot lodge my application. I must run around a bit more first, trying to sort things out that aren’t easy in the best of places nevermind in a rural village a long way from nowhere. Only then, with all my papers that this particular office desires of me, only then, can I lodge my application.

Another fruitless journey. Another hurdle demanded of me. Oh and the excitement of another hair-raising ride or two in a taxi from hell to look forward to before I get back to my little patch of joy. 

 Oh goody.