Delighted of Al Ain
Today was the day for grabbing the vehicle reregistration by the throat and getting it done. It's a short story of three chapters, mercifully. It could have been oh so much longer.
Chapter 1 - insurance. I've learned through bitter and sweaty experience that arriving on a Saturday morning is a waste of time as the office is shut. Therefore I have to leave work, preferably before lunchtime when the combination of maximum heat and no parking can be disastrous to body and mind, to trudge up a flight of dusty stairs and into the long, narrow, beige office with a row of desks, each manned by a swarthy Turk. I do have to brace myself for this, as they all do the same thing as I walk in. They look over because they scent a female, they look me up and down and then their upper lip curls scornfully as they slink further back in their chairs in preparation for ignoring me completely. Honest, it's true. Fortunately one of them takes pity on me and decides to give me another year's insurance. I even manage to haggle the price down by Dh50. Stage 1 is a complete success.
Chapter 2 - other documents. I was all set to take the car to the registration centre on Sunday morning at 7.30 am (a friend recommended the time as being quicker and cooler). It wasn't until late on Saturday night that I slapped my hand to my forehead and remembered where I was living. You can't just take an insurance document, your licence and the registration card to get your vehicle reregistered. You also need a copy of your passport, a copy of your licence and a letter from your employer. Curses. So I slept in on Sunday morning and went along to Human Resources to get my Traffic Letter prepared. I was hoping it would be ready on the same day, but it didn't materialise. However, yesterday the letter was ready and so I was all set for the last and most worrying stage.
Chapter 3 - the vehicle test. Up early with a small knot of worry in the pit of my stomach. My car is ten years old and limping along. Will it make it through another test? I decided to take another friend's tip and NOT put on the air conditioning for the fifteen minute drive to the centre in order to have a better chance of passing the emissions test. With both windows open at the front there is a pleasant breeze which cooled the sweat on my brow (we have temperatures of about 34 C in the early morning), but things started to become uncomfortable when stationary at the traffic lights. Finally I arrived at the test centre, ignored the No Entry signs and pulled up in a very short queue of one ready for the inspection pit. I raced into the administration section and only had to go to two counters before paying my Dh60 to have the test done. As I left the building, clutching a piece of white paper, one of the Nepalese inspectors called over. There were a couple of Egyptian men behind me, so I wasn't sure who he wanted. "Me?" I queried, checking with the men behind me. Apparently yes. One of the rare times that being a woman is useful in this area. So I drove round to the empty inspection area ahead of the others who had arrived before me, but were mere men. I hovered momentarily around the inspection area, wringing my hands as the inspector checked various bits. Then sense took over and I walked into the air-conditioned administration building to watch proceedings through the thoughtfully provided glass windows all along the wall dividing administration from the inspection area. The inspection didn't take long and then I collected the car and a different piece of white paper. "OK?" I asked anxiously, not understanding what was written on the paper about a retest. "OK." grinned the inspector who would have looked more at home in Khatmandu. I've no idea why Nepalese men are chosen to do all the car-related things around here, such as vehicle inspection and pumping petrol. Just one of the many mysteries of life in the Emirates. I walked to the man at the end of the administration area who took my test certificate and then told me to go to any one of the desks, this time manned by Emirati women. I paid another Dh105, handed over the old registration card and the new insurance certificate, signed a form and was told to wait for a few minutes. I've waited more than half an hour in the past, so I was completely amazed when my name was called about two minutes later to pick up my new registration card, handed to me by a smiling traffic policeman.
All over. Successful. I don't have to do this again for another year! Wooo Hooo! And they didn't even take the letter from my employer and my passport copies. Ah well. And no speeding fines!!! I'd been worrying about that too, as you don't know that you've been caught until you come to registration. Fifteen minutes from start to finish. Amazing. I just love living here. Well, for another year anyway. I drove out of the car park with the air conditioning on full, grinning from ear to ear.