Queue on Cue

 I feel like everyone who has lived in a developing country has a story about queueing.  I mean, it's old news.  But I have to tell my story, mainly because it illustrates an aspect of the experience of being a cultural outsider.  I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble had I known a small yet important bit of information ... something that one can only learn through the experience of living here.  This post brought to you with extreme gratitude to Matthew and Natasha Dukes!

I had to renew our vehicle registration in March, so about the middle of the month I started asking around to see what I needed to do in order to do that.  I learned that I needed to go to the Revenue Office with my vehicle registration document (what they call here in Swaziland a "blue book") and E120, or about 15 US dollars.  No problem.  Some things came up that week and I wasn't able to get to there to complete it, so I had to go the following week, which was right before Easter.  I went to the Revenue Office on Thursday of that week, which was when our house-helper came so that I didn't have to take William with me on this errand.  I had heard that the queue was always long at the Revenue Office, so along with my money and documentation, I also took William of St. Thierry's "On the Nature and Dignity of Love."  I'm a geek ... yes, I know.

I wasn't sure exactly when the office opened, but I figured it was either 8am or 8:30.  I arrived at 8:10, and already the queue was all the way across the parking lot.  The office didn't open until 8:30.  Thankful that I had brought a book along, I got in line and started reading.  From the appearance of things, I think that almost everyone was there for the same reason I was.  Almost immediately I noticed other people in line talking and laughing in small groups, usually two or three people, genuinely looking like they were having a wonderful time waiting in line.  I thought to myself, "Wow, Americans really have something to learn."  You never would have known if these people were angry or frustrated or miserable.  The time came for the doors to open, and the line started moving slowly -- very slowly in fact -- but moving none-the-less.

Now I started to notice something else, too.  I began to notice others (not many) come around from the street, usually well-dressed folks also carrying money and a blue-book, but they did not get in line.  They would mill around for a bit, talking with others either in line or just hanging around, then walk off in the direction of the building.  Ten minutes later I would see them again, seeming to walk away as if they were done with their business.  You can guess what was going on -- just like I guessed what was going on -- and you are probably right.  Swaziland, like most developing countries as well as the under-belly of many developed countries, works on relationship instead of rules.  This didn't really bother me too much in this case, although it did a little, and I definitely took notice of it. [In the course of my working career, I myself have done my share of rule-bending for the sake of professional relationships.  Plus, being a white person in Swaziland, I get far more benefit from this relationship-not-rules paradigm than cost, and I certainly get far more benefit than most Swazis, I'm sure.  So I really can't complain about it.]  The general point here is that this experience of queueing was vastly different than anything I would have experienced in the US.  But the line was moving a few feet every few minutes or so, and I was reading a book that I vastly enjoy.  I thought about trying to engage in conversation with others, but no one around me looked like they wanted to chat.  I'm not proficient enough in siSwati to converse in it, and I didn't want to embarrass someone by talking to them in English if they didn't know enough English to be comfortable.  So I kept on reading. 

Things progressed just like this for an hour, by which time I was now halfway across the parking lot and wishing that I had not worn sandals.  My legs, knees and feet were all starting to get very sore from standing and keeping my balance on uneven concrete.  I had been in line 90 minutes, and it was starting to look like I might be there all morning, if not all day.  I also noticed at this time that the line stopped moving entirely.  I have no idea what was happening inside, but at 9:30am the line did not move for another 30 minutes.  At 10:00am, I gave up and went home.  I had texted Allison about the situation, and one of her research assistants told her that the office was busy because many workplaces were closed for holiday (Maundy Thursday -- and everything is closed here on Good Friday) so many were getting personal business done.  Next week would be better, so I left.

The following Tuesday I was prepared, again armed with William of St. Thierry and hiking boots, hoping to arrive before 8:00am.  I left home at about 7:40, but there was a lot of traffic on the road going into town.  Again, I didn't arrive until ten after 8, only to find that the queue was just as long as the week before.  I promptly got back in my car and drove home, unwilling to have the same experience again.  I returned again on Thursday morning, arriving at 7:30am (with great pride and anticipation!) and was relieved to see the end of the queue only halfway across the parking lot.  I got in line, but this time the gentleman ahead of me began talking to me (in English) almost immediately.  Stanley and I had a remarkably pleasant conversation.  I learned that he had grown up around Mbabane, graduated from high school, had aspirations of becoming an electrician and was taking classes toward that end.  In fact, he was in the queue not to pay his vehicle registration, but to pay the fees for his next term.  Like many Swazis, he was currently looking for a full-time job and asked me if I had a job for him.  Of course I apologized and said, "No, I'm afraid I don't," but I did write down his phone number and told him I would call him if I came across anything.  On more of a downer note, he also told me that he had been there in line the day before and had waited until noon before they came out saying that the computer system was down.  They had sent everyone away, telling them to come back tomorrow.  So Stanley was back, and he assured me, "I have a feeling that everything is going to be OK today."  This wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring, especially since the office doors hadn't opened yet.  But I agreed with him cheerfully, thankful to have someone to talk to.  We talked for an hour, and the time really did go by quickly.

The office opened at 8:30am, right on schedule, and by 8:40 a very pleasant and official-looking gentleman was walking down the rows of people, saying, "Bonkhosi [i.e. friends], our computer system is down.  The technicians are coming, but we do not know whether it will be repaired today."  There were no arguments, frustrations, or even angry words spoken by anyone, that I could hear anyway.  You could tell from the looks on faces that people were not pleased, but I was amazed at the reception of this news.  [I still don't know if this is really a good thing or a bad thing, but I noticed it.]  Everyone just turned and walked away, many of them still talking with each other, although not quite as jovially as ten minutes earlier.  I clapped Stanley on the shoulder as I said farewell, reaffirming that I would call him if I came across any work that he could do.

It turns out that the reason why the computer systems were down is because the organization or company that provides the IT services for all the government computers was striking in demand of better pay.  But rather than just not showing up for work, they were actually shutting down all the government computers across the country for several hours every day.  I have no idea how all this got resolved, I only heard about the situation from a well-connected friend of mine.  But I was in quite a fix, since I was already a week late getting the vehicle registered and not knowing how long it might take me to get it done.  Enter, from stage right, my friend Matthew Dukes.

Matthew called me that Saturday to come over to his house and help him install the wiring for the lights on his house-gate.  Allison was tired and napping that day, so I took William with me and went over to his house after lunch.  His wife Natasha played with William while Matthew and I worked out in the sun, installing circuit breakers and grounding cables.  After we were done working and I was getting ready to go home, I mentioned my queueing woes of the previous week.  Matthew says to me, "You know, there's another revenue office in downtown Mbabane.  They only have a few cashiers there, but no one knows about it so the queue is always short."  Then his wife piped up, "Yes, of course, you must go there!  I went there to register my car and was in and out in 7 minutes.  I got there right at 2pm, when they re-open after lunch."  At this, I was effusive in my praise of them, saying something to the effect that they had saved my life ... or something like that.

Well, it took me thirty minutes instead of seven, but by Monday afternoon, the deed was done.

This is the way things are in a new culture, and there's nothing else to do but just accept it and learn as much as you can along the way.  Things that would take two hours in the US will take two weeks here, for no other reason than we're cultural new-comers who haven't learned in the system yet.  At times this is incredibly frustrating, but there are unexpected advantages as well.  It occurs to me now, while writing this, that the frustrating situation caused me to talk about it with someone else, which then helped provide the solution I needed to the problem I faced.  Relationship, not rules.  It's not the American way so much, but it's the African way.