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Post by onlyMark on Sept 14, 2019 16:16:36 GMT
Thanks for the comments. I'm just glad I do have time to sort these things out. How on earth people with a proper job do it, I've no idea.
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Post by onlyMark on Sept 14, 2019 16:18:32 GMT
Another thing to read with a cup of coffee. It'll be the last before it gets to be a boring theme.
Interpol clearance - This a piece of paper needed for a vehicle to be taken temporarily out of the country. As I was intending to take mine on a bit of a trip, possibly Botswana, Namibia and South Africa, I had to get it.
This is the second time, I needed the same thing as it only last three months, when I drove to and around Zimbabwe. It was less traumatic this time, less complicated, and yet still had its moments. So I thought I’d tell you a little story of the first time.
The only place in Lusaka is a Police Station way to the south of the city. And I am in the north east. The section of the station where you apply is only open 9am to 12 noon, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So I drive to Chilanga Police station cutting through back streets until I hit the main road south, called Kafue Road. The government has discovered that it can get extra money from speed cameras. So they go all out and fit them everywhere. Unfortunately the speed limit signs are mostly missing, so you have to guess.
I eventually reach a bungalow type building with dirt car park out front. The front being doors into offices, not marked as to what they are for and no signs outside as though they don’t want to advertise who they are either. I go in the first and ask about Interpol clearance. Told to go around the side to the back, and first door you come to. See queue of about twenty people lining up outside. Scuffing the dirt yard.
There are small wooden double doors into the building, each door being only just big enough to squeeze through. I have to turn sideways. A sign on the right hand one says ‘push to enter’. After a while the door opens and lets someone out but I can’t see inside as it is too dark. Each time the door opens with a small complaining squeak. I stand in queue and notice several people have bits of paper - forms - I don’t have. After about 15 mins and three people going in and out I ask a man behind me what forms do I need.
He tells me I have to obtain an “application for Interpol vehicle clearance’ form. But from Mimosa. My heart skips a beat. Mimosa. If there is a by word for inefficiency it is a place called Mimosa. A place supposedly where vehicles are tested each year for their road worthiness certificate. The exam takes less than a minute. The paperwork and labyrinthine system, and the queues, can take most of the day. It is a place of which many exist, whereby the name is pleasant, but once through the doors and hidden behind the innocuous and pretty name is where Dante obtained his source material. Scientists and theoreticians have studies chaos theory there. I think all of that is true.
When I need mine doing, I make no bones about paying someone to do it.
I leave the queue, get in the car, drive to Mimosa about fifteen minutes away. I see several long queues of cars I assume are having the mechanical check. Imagine waiting for a cross channel ferry, if you’ve ever had the pleasure. I park on dirt and go into a nearby portkabin type building. I ask the first official looking person I see about Interpol clearance. He points me back outside to a man in blue overalls sitting on an old wooden bench on a patch of dirt in the shade under a tree. I approach him. He tells me first I need a “release of information application form” - to be obtained down the hill, to the right, into the compound, into the big yellow industrial unit type building. I go there.
Inside there are two windows and only one person behind. One queue, fifteen people. Teller gets up after five minutes and disappears for five minutes. We all wait. Notice a beep beep sound. Look around for the cause. It seems to be coming from an air conditioning machine inside the roof of the industrial unit. I can now only hear that. Gets annoying. Doesn’t seem to bother anyone else.
The teller comes back. Starts serving. Shuffle forward. Notice to the side there are a couple of offices with people also queuing. Ask queue member if I am in the right place. Told affirmative. Another teller comes to fill the second window. Person at front of queue moves over. Problem - do we all now split or what? The answer given by first teller getting up again and putting his coat on. We all move over. I still notice the beep beep and gets louder depending where you are standing.
Eventually I get to front and as for the “release of information application form”. I’m given it and ask what next? It is a common theme that you are not directed as to what to do. It is assumed you’ve done it before and know. I’m told to go back to the man under the tree. I notice I have to fill out some details on the form, and do so.
I go to the man under tree, after a small queue. He notices the form has not been authorised with a stamp. I tell him, sorry, didn’t know and the woman told me to come out and see you, I’ll go back and queue again. He says nothing but completes his section after looking at the registration document of the car, then gets out another form, the “Application for Interpol Clearance” form and fills that out. I know he is supposed to physically check the engine and chassis number on the white book (the registration document) correspond to what is on the car. But he doesn’t and just completes the form.
I ask if that is it, can I go back to the police station now? Yes. Drive back to Chilanga. Park up on dirt in the same spot. Walk round back of station. Still a queue. Shuffle forward, getting hot in the sun. Dust kicked up. Try and time each person going in and coming out. Variable. Three to six minutes. Time is getting on. Office closes at twelve noon.
I get to front, still can’t see inside when door opens. Still squeaks. Person who was in front of me goes in and soon comes out and I climb two small concrete steps to door - push right hand one open as per instructions. Squeaks loudly. I step inside and about fall over two old wooden desks end on to me and about one step inside the room which butt up to each other. One man is sitting at each, both looking at me. The desks block off the front of the room and behind, in the gloom, I can make out four more desks, but this time they are not sideways but two rows, front to front, I can see the backs of two men sitting down and the fronts of the two facing them.
Around the room are bookcases with neat piles of paper on each shelf. All shelves look full and I wonder where the new stuff goes. There is not enough room for the two men directly in front of me to go to the back of the room because of the other desks. It seems they have go out the door I came in, walk around the side of the building and enter a door that is on the front, or maybe what I can see, there is a side door to the room. I discover later, this just goes to more cramped offices.
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Post by onlyMark on Sept 14, 2019 16:19:57 GMT
I greet both men and say to the man on the right desk ‘interpol clearance?’ he nods and holds his hand out. I give him my paperwork. He flicks through it. Looks up at me. Flicks through it again. Without a word, slides it over both desks to the man opposite him. He now flicks though it. Asks me for passport. I give it to him and tell him there is a copy in the paperwork. He looks and sees it then compares details. He checks the copy of the white book is the same as the original. He gives me the paperwork back, plus a bank deposit form. Tells me to go to the Indo-Zambian bank to pay first.
He asks if I know where it is. I say no. He tells me to turn left out the station onto the dual carriageway. Down to the roundabout, straight on, at side of Puma petrol station is the bank. I go in the car. Bank is again a bungalow type building in a patch of dirt. I enter and see three windows, only one with a teller, one with a woman inside counting money and one empty. Long queue. Am holding deposit slip in hand.
One man looks at it from behind me and tells me I have to fill it out. The slip has four copies of different colours. I balance it on my folder of paperwork and start to write. I realise it is not self-carbonating/copying. Look around. See numerous discarded carbon papers. Lean over to a counter and grab three. Place in between slips. Start to fill it out. Realise I don’t know how much to pay. Wasn’t told and not on the form. Stop and look to heavens as I realise I need to go back to police station to ask. Same man asks me if problem. Tell him. Asks what payment for. Say ‘interpol’. He says probably 168 kwacha.
Another man further behind me says yes, 168 kwacha. A third man to the front a few people turns and also says that is right. I thank them all and write in the amount. In numbers and letters.
The teller gets up and goes to back of office through a door. We wait. Another person/teller comes out and goes to the vacant window. He fusses around for a minute with his computer and screen and looks up. The front man shuffles across, like before and we all then shuffle across again like before. Eventually get to front. Hand in payment slip and two 100K notes. He gives me back the slip and says I have to fill in exactly what size notes I am giving him. I realise I’ve took the carbons out and placed them on a nearby desk for others to use - nearby at the time but now at the back of the queue.
I quickly try and fill in each form with the type/size of notes. I notice now the slips also need the serial numbers of the notes. Decide to risk it not filling out and give the slip back to the teller. He takes the slips, rips off two, throws them between his legs, maybe on the floor, maybe in a bin, no idea where they went. One he gives back to me, one goes in a tray, gives me back my change. Then looks to the man behind me.
I start to move away thinking that is it, and he tells me to stop. I stop. He rips off a piece of paper from a printer, two copies. Hands them to me and tells me to sign the top one. As I take it and do so he serves the man behind me. I give him the slips back. He gives me one back and the man who was behind me, then at the side and at the window, moves away. The teller looks to the next in the queue. I start again to move away. Again told to stop. I stop.
He starts to serve the next man, then reaches to the printer again and hands me another piece of paper. Another payment receipt it seems. I take it and he looks at me. I ask, is that all now? He affirms that and I say thank you and good bye. The woman teller is still counting money, by hand, all in her own world. I return to my car.
I realise I cannot get back to the police station along the dual carriageway without going all the way to the next roundabout, turning around, going back up to another roundabout, turning again so I am back on the right side and driving all the way back to the station. Distance between the bank and station is about 400m but need to drive about 8 km to do this, to return. Notice time is now after noon. Give up and go for coffee and cake vowing to return after the weekend to continue.
Upon return on the Monday, passed the speed cameras again and trying to match my speed to everyone else’s who may really know what the limit is, returned to Police station, parked my car in exactly the same empty spot again, now I’m getting paranoid that this is a special one for some good or bad reason, but I walk round the back to the Interpol door. Luckily see nobody is waiting so ease the small door open. Same set up as before and the man in the right hand desk looked up at me, told him I think I have all the paperwork to apply for the Clearance. He holds his hand out and I pass it all to him.
He flipes through the forms and hands them back to me telling me to go to the first office around the corner and inside the building. This is through the doorway I saw on my first visit. I squeeze behind the desks and approached an office with two more desks crammed into it. The door was open. A man sits behind the right hand one and a woman behind the left hand one.
I greet them (“Muli bwanji”) and mention about the Interpol clearance. I believe these are now the supervisors who have the power to grant or deny my request. Thus I am as polite as possible without being obsequious. The man holds out his hand for the paperwork I’d accumulated. He looks through it, comparing details and passes it across the desk to the woman.
She reads the top sheet and puts it all to one side. She retrieves a receipt book from the desk drawer, fills out some details and ripps the sheet out, hands it to me and tells me to come back on Wednesday. I thanked them and exited back to my car.
Wednesday came and I return yet again. Bugger me, but still the same parking spot is free. Now I am suspicious but never find out why this particular one is always free or just when I turn up.
This time there is a queue outside the door. I hesitate but felt as I needed to see someone else inside more than they did, I’d push my luck and eased past them. I greet one or two inside and make my way around the corner to the same office as before. To the same woman I hand my receipt and politely ask if my clearance certificate was ready. She checks the details in a large folder and rifles through a pile of forms.
Eventually after going back to the beginning of the pile a couple of times I realise they are in date order and not alphabetical order, so I mention the application date. She looks up at me as though irritated I’d not said first. Mind you, she could have asked. She finds mine but struggles to open the file clasp. I stand and wait wondering if I should offer. I decide not to. With a loud snap and a look at her fingernails, she removes my certificate and places it on the desk in front of her whilst she tries to re-clasp the file folder. I begin to reach for it but she looks up at me and says one word, “Wait.” I do. And I would for as long as she wanted.
She places the now successfully closed file at the side of her and scans through the details on my certificate. Without a word more she offers it to me. I thank her, and the man in the opposite desk, and make my escape clutching the official piece of paper.
Job done.
A postscript – a few weeks later I read a report in the local newspaper about the same man and woman. How on earth they’d managed to circumvent the system I have no idea, but for the last couple of years they had managed to pocket at least 90% of the fees paid for the clearance and probably other paperwork. The reports mentioned the amounts of what had been paid as opposed to what amount stayed in the proper system. In fact 90% is an underestimate. They had been arrested for corruption and awaiting court time.
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Post by kerouac2 on Sept 14, 2019 17:38:30 GMT
Mimosa is a very nice name. You live in a beautiful country.
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Post by questa on Sept 15, 2019 4:16:58 GMT
What a wonderful piece of writing, Mark. I can almost hear your teeth grinding and a suppressed growl in your throat.
Indonesian Public service is like this but the concept of a queue has never caught on. To pay a simple electricity bill takes 3-4 hours.
I enter a stuffy room filled with men smoking and comparing bills with each other. An officer at the door checks my bill and counts the money to make sure it is enough.
Then I am waved to a bank of 5 tellers.I thread my way through the crowd to the teller with the smallest crowd and realise the air con doesn't work in this corner.
I wriggle my way to the counter and present my bill and money. Those behind me push forward waving their papers beside my head and shoulders at the teller, calling out for attention.
Jammed against the counter I started to feel a bit dizzy "Saya merasa sakit...I feel sick" The men moved back and the teller quickly processed my payment. Other men held my hand and escorted me outside to fresh air. It is amazing how the prospect of a person vomiting near them can expedite matters.
I told my Lombok friends and next bill I asked the door officer if there was a special tax to pay to get processed quickly. When he counted my notes he told me I was Rp 5000 ( 50c ) short, I added that and he disappeared for 5 minutes to come back with my bill paid. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
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Post by htmb on Sept 15, 2019 14:15:15 GMT
I was caught in the middle of a "girl fight" on a hot, packed bus this afternoon. I had managed to work my way back near the exit and had just one more stop to ride. I’d moved to the side to let a woman off the bus - I’m guessing she was in her late seventies to early eighties and was quite petite. I’d noticed her earlier because she had a big scowl on her face, even though she was sitting in her single seat while the majority of the bus riders were squished together, standing in the aisle, and doing our best to remain upright as the bus lurched down the boulevard.
As the back bus doors opened, a much younger woman popped in the exit door and to the side. The older lady, whose path was in no way blocked, purposely threw out her right arm and shoved the younger woman into the side of the entry and halfway down to the floor. Without missing a beat, she was out the door and down the sidewalk, on her grumpy way.
People gasped. Then there was some pushing, shoving, and grumbling behind me as the younger woman was helped to her feet. Some guy was pulling on my shoulder. I haven’t a clue why. Since the bus driver was pleading with everyone to move to the back and to be polite, I figured it was worth it to walk the extra blocks, so I jumped out before he could shut the doors.
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Post by kerouac2 on Sept 18, 2019 9:30:04 GMT
I bought some feta at the supermarket this morning and when I got home, it wasn't in the bag. I must have left it somewhere while I was bagging my stuff; it's a very small item after all. I wasn't going to go all the way back and ask, but I was curious as to how much money I had just wasted. So I looked at my receipt and there is no feta on it. So my petty personal trauma is that I am losing my mind.
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 18, 2019 17:43:33 GMT
I've had that happen to me twice in the recent enough past that I distinctly remember my confused dismay when I arrived home without the items. One I particularly remember, as it was something I promised to pick up for a friend. Both times the items did not appear on the receipt. Particularly in the case of my friend's item, a special kind of chicken broth not kept in an obvious place, I concluded that some other shopper saw it in my cart and decided to take it for herself.
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Post by Kimby on Sept 19, 2019 3:55:43 GMT
I’ve had items get pushed to the side of the moving belt and not get rung up by the cashier. But more often it will be rung up and roll out of sight of the bagger so I paid for it but didn’t arrive home with it.
The worst mishap though was at a supermarket that had a drive up service: you selected your groceries and paid as usual, and the cashier wrote your cart number on the receipt. Then you walked out to get your car while they pushed your cart to the curb and loaded the shopping bags into the car. Very nice service.
Except for the time I drove all the way home (about 10 miles) before realizing I’d forgotten to go to the driveup for my groceries first! By the time I got back to the store they’d already put the cold items back, so it took a while to reassemble my purchases. Didn’t make THAT mistake again!
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Post by whatagain on Sept 19, 2019 8:45:29 GMT
The nicest mishap at a supermarket was a day we were shopping with friends. We were the four of us and everybody was throwing stuff in the caddie. (You say caddie ?) 🛒 When we got home somebody asked why we bought 2 trouts and not 4. And where was thus and that. Appeared we had at some point exchanged our caddie with another shopper. Who went back biting his trouts.
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Post by questa on Sept 19, 2019 10:13:09 GMT
Three trips to Australia and I've never seen a roo. If you come in winter/spring when we have had normal (?) rainfall there are many far flung places the 'roos disperse to and it is relatively hard to see them in the bush. Prolonged dry spells mean the food is running out and they gather near whatever water sources they can find. This can mean that they (and emus) move into the outer fringes of the towns and cities, go swimming in people's back yard pools, drink the water from the family dogs' bowls and graze on the lawns and parks. They are often found moving into golf courses and deciding to stay there. The course in Canberra has so many resident 'roos they have to cull every few years. The VIPs who play there love to have their photos taken golfing with the wildlife. An interesting fact is that Mrs Roo can mate while she already has a young joey in her pouch. She can arrest the development of the fetus until the conditions are right to continue it's growth. By the time the baby is ready for birth, the older joey is climbing in and out of mum's pouch, still suckling, and grazing. The newborn is about the size of a peanut and still very undeveloped. It has to crawl from the birth canal along mum's fur to plop into her pouch. She won't help it other than licking her fur to make a trail to guide it. It attaches to a nipple and remains there until it has matured. The bit that gets me is Mum is making 2 separate milk recipes to cover what each joey needs. Amazing animals...A prize-winning doco was made some years ago called "Faces in the mob". The author lived with a mob of 'roos for 2 years and got to know them individually. I don't know if it is still around.
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 20, 2019 23:43:40 GMT
Okay, this is a little thing that really means almost nothing, but ... Today, after 22 years in this country, I finally met someone with my same first name. We were both astounded, as even though it's a known name, it is simply hardly ever bestowed on anyone. She was extremely nice, too, no surprise.
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Post by Kimby on Sept 21, 2019 1:06:57 GMT
I know of at least TWO (bixas)...
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Post by questa on Sept 21, 2019 7:24:21 GMT
Mary-Jane???
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Post by mickthecactus on Sept 21, 2019 8:47:10 GMT
Desdemona.
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Post by lagatta on Sept 21, 2019 13:19:03 GMT
The English or the Spanish version of that name?
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 21, 2019 13:34:48 GMT
Well, I have the English version and she has the Spanish version. At the event I attended yesterday, raffle tickets were given out with purchases. One vendor filled mine out for me and knew how to spell my name. That reminded me yet again that the English version seems better known here than the Spanish equivalent because of the famous 1939 movie. Every once in a while I get a blank look when offering the Spanish version of my name, whereupon I usually say, "You know -- like Pancho Villa." In common with Mexicans, people reading that here may or may not get it.
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Post by cheerypeabrain on Sept 21, 2019 17:56:05 GMT
My husband has said that I can have jewellery for my birthday, I have some beautiful black opal chips that I want to have made into a pendant but I didn't like any of the settings various goldsmiths have suggested so that's on the back burner for now. I took in my own design but the prices quoted for that were horrendous.
Anyway...until I decide to get the pendant made OH suggested a bangle. I adore bangles but I've been unable to wear my inexpensive metal ones for years as they bring me out in a rash. I can wear plastic or beads...just no metal other than gold now. Just want a plain, round, thin, solid bangle...I have chubby arms tho so standard ladylike ones are too small...We've been trawling all the jewellery stores and the pawn shops looking today. There is a big Asian population so there's lots of 14 carat and 22 carat stuff but that wouldn't stand daily wear and is way out of my Price range, all too small anyway. The city jewellers had some delicate pretty bracelets but I didnt like any of them. Don't know where this lust for gold has come from....
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 21, 2019 18:15:04 GMT
Creating Cleopatra has opened up a Pandora's box of jooolry greed!
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Post by questa on Sept 22, 2019 2:19:09 GMT
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 22, 2019 4:25:58 GMT
Me? No! I've always had jewelry greed -- I just take it for granted like the color of my eyes or something.
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Post by bjd on Sept 22, 2019 11:13:11 GMT
For years my husband offered to buy me jewellery for various occasions but I really don't wear much and always refused. I prefer to buy my own stuff anyway on the spur of the moment, even though I usually don't wear it afterwards.
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Post by cheerypeabrain on Sept 22, 2019 20:24:46 GMT
I'm getting a bangle made...you only live once.
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Post by lagatta on Sept 23, 2019 0:40:40 GMT
I'll have to look up the exact meaning of a bangle. I've heard it in songs, but never have seen it in a product description, either in French, English or any other language.
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Post by Kimby on Sept 23, 2019 2:57:55 GMT
If you picture a really large hoop earring that’s really a bracelet, it’s a bangle. They are often worn in groups, and slide up and down your arm, jangling as you wear them.
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Post by bixaorellana on Sept 23, 2019 4:14:03 GMT
Ignore Kimby, LaGatta -- she doesn't know what she's talking about. This is what bangles are. I guess Cheery can only afford one for now ~
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Post by Kimby on Sept 23, 2019 4:42:48 GMT
Those are pasties, bixa. Not bangles.
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Post by kerouac2 on Sept 23, 2019 5:00:55 GMT
I think I was more familiar with the term "hoop bracelets" than bangles.
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Post by questa on Sept 23, 2019 5:48:30 GMT
I have a gut feeling that it is an Indian word...the women there wear many bangles of gold and precious stones, up to 10 on their arms at a time. A family's wealth may be invested in the women's jewelry and gold as it is portable, and more secure than banks and money markets and easy to raise cash with. This is the custom all over Asia.
I wonder if the onomatopoeic words jingle and jangle also come from this source.
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Post by bjd on Sept 23, 2019 8:39:11 GMT
You're right, questa. It comes from the Hindi word for a glass bracelet.
I have heard the word often enough but somehow didn't associate it with bracelets in particular -- just flashy jewellery.
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