A long and boring but important cross-cultural story...

 So I've had an interesting experience this month trying to renew our vehicle registration. It's been both frustrating and gratifying, actually. There are so many interesting aspects to tell (well, I find it interesting, anyway), I'll start at the beginning and tell as much as I can. Last week I went to the revenue office to renew our vehicle registration. I waited in line for an hour, then finally got up to the desk. The woman looked at my paperwork and said that she couldn't renew my registration because the blue book (the "title" of the car) wasn't in my name. I was confused and a little upset, because I didn't have a problem last year. She looked at my paperwork and said that I was missing a vehicle roadworthiness form in order to transfer the vehicle to my name in the blue book. If I had that, then she could renew my registration.  

Well, to get a roadworthiness certificate, you need a police clearance form that authenticates that you did not steal the car. I had completed this process last year together with the woman from whom I bought our car, but at the time I did not realize that this was NOT the last step in vehicle transfer process! Now, my police clearance form was expired, so it was looking like I might have to start the process over. Only I couldn't do that, because the woman I bought the car from is not in the country anymore. Grrrr. 

At this point, I need to say that our car has a headlight out (yes, the same one as last year ... another "grrr"), so I was starting to feel concerned that the vehicle may not pass the roadworthiness test. In which case, I could have a big problem because I need to have the registration renewed by the end of March, and it will take me longer than that to get the parts I need.  

Back I went to the police station to see what I could sort out. I can't relate all the conversation I had with the gentleman there, but the substance of that conversation is incredibly important for understanding this story in its entirety. I explained to him my situation, and his first response was to say exactly what the woman had said at the revenue office, that I would need to start over. I explained that the woman wasn't in the country anymore, and he softened a bit. I then explained that I had a headlight out on my car, etc., etc. I think he was a little confused by my frustration, he kept saying that this was not a "big problem." Of course, this did not reassure me at all. In fact, I corrected him to say that it would be a "big problem" if I was not able to renew my vehicle registration on time. He kind of ignored me and moved on to his next task, and I remained sitting in the chair in the office. He waited an uncomfortable second or two, then asked me if there was anything else. I was about to say that my first thing wasn't taken care of yet. I hadn't even gotten the words out when he asked me, "Are you satisfied?" I said, "No, I'm not satisfied." Then he nodded to one of his assistants, and I sat wondering what in the world was going on. 

Here's what was going on. He was telling his assistant to check the ID numbers on my car and prepare for me a new police clearance form since the old one had expired. If he had followed the letter of the law, he should have made me go back to the revenue office and pay E50 (about $5) because that is the fee for the police clearance form in the first place. But because I was upset, and because no one in his office had communicated to me last year that I needed to complete more steps in the process of registering my vehicle in my name, he let it slide. For the next 30 minutes I was whisked around a little, opening the hood of my car so that the woman could check the numbers, then filling out forms shoved in front of my face, duplicating other forms that I had filled out the year before ... the whole time feeling really confused about what exactly was happening. Then, magically it seemed, I was handed my blue book and papers with a new police clearance form attached and stamped "Mar 2014." Ah, one step completed. 

The manager made sure to tell me clearly that I must go to the CTA to have the roadworthiness test completed. I told him that I understood that, NOW. I mentioned to him that I might have a problem with the roadworthiness test, and I asked him if there was something I could do to complete my registration paperwork even if the car did not pass. He seemed really dismissive in response, saying, "Just go to the CTA." I interpreted this to mean that there was nothing he could do about my problem. I was a little annoyed, but I got the point. 

From here the story starts to turn around. I was venting my frustrations about this whole situation to my good friend Matthew, who is a white Swazi and has lived here almost his entire life. As I got to the part about sitting in the police office and not leaving when I wasn't satisfied, he started to laugh and said to me, "Joel, you're turning into a Swazi!" He explained that what I had done was the Swazi way -- you get a little upset, and if that doesn't work, then you fight a war of attrition by simply waiting until your problem gets resolved. I actually found some comfort in his affirmation, even though I was still worried about my potential "big problem" on the horizon. 

On Tuesday morning, I made arrangements for William's child care until late in the afternoon, so that I would have plenty of time to do whatever I needed to do at the CTA to get the roadworthiness issue taken care of. This day was an thoroughly African experience. I knew the CTA was in Matsapha, which is the industrial hub of Swaziland and about a 30 minute drive from Mbabane. But I had no clue where it was in Matsapha, and I knew that if I tried to ask someone in Mbabane, they would give me directions like, "Go a ways down from the Spar, then turn right, go around the curve, and then it will be on your left after some meters." Here's the African way to navigate this situation: 1) drive to Matsapha; 2) stop somewhere in Matsapha and ask for directions; 3) follow those directions as best you can, and if you get lost on the way, stop again and ask someone else for more directions; 4) repeat step 3 until you reach your destination. Which is exactly what I did, getting directions three different times along the way before I finally reached the correct building. There was no sign on this building, no official reception area, nothing like that. Just a somewhat run-down building with a bunch of people milling around in a seemingly random fashion. This also is the typical African way. Anyhow, I was really proud of myself because I went through this whole thing without an ounce of frustration. I knew what to expect, and I did it. [In retrospect, it occurred to me that the only real substantial difference between this process and an American process is the dependence on receiving information from others more or less every step of the way.] 

In that last paragraph, there's one small phrase that is pregnant with meaning to the cross-cultural experience: "just a bunch of people milling around in a seemingly random fashion." This is, of course, merely an American interpretation of what I saw. But that's a grossly inaccurate description of what was actually happening. In fact, there was a plan and purpose to what everybody was doing; and part of the process of assimilating into another culture is acquiring a new set of eyes in order to look past surface appearances and see the cultural norms that are driving the actions that appear perplexing. I'm excited about what happened the other day because, in the span of about 90 minutes, I watched myself go through that very process. And when I left that building, I understood clearly what was happening and my part in the whole dance. And rather than being frustrated at people whose words and actions I couldn't understand, I was actually very grateful for the tremendous help I had received! Not only this, but I was able to express my gratitude in a way that was warmly received by the very people who had helped me the most! 

First, I approached the building, found an "official-looking" man, then proceeded to explain my situation and what I was doing there. I told him that I might have a problem with the headlight that would prevent it from passing inspection, and he said that he would look at the car. If it was only a headlight problem, he said it might be OK. He told me to circle my car around the building and put it in line with the vehicles waiting to be inspected. He pointed out another "official-looking" man, saying that I needed to get paperwork from him and then pay my money. No sweat. So I pulled my car around, but by this time the man had disappeared. No problem, I figured. Either he'll come back and I'll talk to him then, or I get the papers from him after the car is inspected. Well, my turn came up before he came back, and when I got there, the inspector (the same man I had talked to in the first place) asked me where my papers were. Of course, I didn't have them. He asked me, "Why didn't you see the man I told you to?" [He wasn't upset or anything, he was just asking. It was clear to me by this time that I was holding up the line. Thankfully, there weren't that many cars at this particular moment.] I mumbled something in reply, and I think it was then clear to him that I had no clue what I was supposed to be doing. He told me to wait while he went off somewhere. Now the second guy appeared again, saw me waiting with things being held up, and he asked me why I didn't get my papers from him. Again, not knowing exactly how to respond, I said, a little mournfully, "Oh sorry, I thought I was doing things right, but obviously I wasn't." He smiled and laughed a little but didn't say anything, and went about his business.  

OK, so while I was standing there relatively dumbfounded and very self-conscious, they were getting the papers I needed and filling them out for me! Then someone (I don't remember exactly who) pointed me toward a window and said, "There, pay your money there." Which I did, dutifully. Then the first guy told me to pull my car forward while he performed the inspection. After he was done he said to me in a straight face, "Ah, you have so many problems with this car." [This was a joke! Delivered in a Swazi way. It took a while to realize it.] Then he directed me to an unmarked office and told me to wait outside there, where a few others were waiting as well. I could see my papers sitting on the desk along with several others, and a man working not quite furiously but ardently to fill out the proper forms for everyone, stamping them, etc. 

It took nearly an hour for my set of papers to get signed and stamped, and it was during that time that I was able to really observe the "seemingly random milling about "of everyone. Things started to take shape before my very eyes - it was amazing, actually, like watching something invisible fade in to visibility. There was one guy responsible for giving the proper forms to people who came to get their cars inspected. He had an office with a desk that was kind of out of the way, and he was continually coming and going out of his office alternatively giving forms to people and then bringing them back. But he was doing it in an African way, which means he was always talking to people, greeting them, laughing and joking; so he didn't look "on task" on the surface, but he was. People who came would put their car in line and then sometimes leave their car in order to take care of their forms. There was another guy (who I assume was either an employee or a guy working for tips) who was helping people drive their cars in the line while they were taking care of their paperwork, and doing other various things around. There were two more guys performing inspections on vehicles and assisting customers as they needed help. There was another guy in an office behind a one-way glass window taking money and giving change. There was a group of people hanging around doing nothing but talking, and they were customers like me, waiting for all their forms to be signed and stamped so they could be on their way. Everything made perfect sense. 

Now in an American context, things would be organized very differently. All the employees would either have name badges or uniforms so you would easily tell who they were. There would be signs on offices, designated waiting areas ... again, basically everything would be set up for "do-it-yourself" completion involving the fewest possible personal interactions for the purpose of getting/sharing information. As an American, we are so dependent on these information systems (not necessarily in a bad way, it's just the American way of doing things) that when they are removed, it's extremely unsettling and confusing. We feel lost and helpless. 

Which is exactly how I had felt through the process. Then it dawned on me, the full impact of what the CTA staff had done for me. They saw that I was lost and helpless, not knowing what to do next; so they simply did things for me so that I wouldn't be shamed in front of everyone. They weren't trying to make me feel uncomfortable, they were looking out for me! Again, this isn't the American way, of course. In America, someone would have explained it to you so that you could do it right the next time ... but in Africa, that would be shaming. In Africa, it's assumed that you can use your own two eyes and figure things out for yourself. Which is exactly what happened with me. Next time I have to go through that process, I'll know exactly what to do. [Maybe my friend Matthew is right, perhaps I am turning into a Swazi.] After everything was finished, I specifically found both of the men who had spoken with me and said in a heartfelt tone, "Thank you so much for helping me." Both men smiled warmly (and knowingly!), and I left feeling like I had made a real human connection. It felt really good. 

Not only this, but my frustrating conversations at the police station also made sense. The first police official was not invalidating my situation at all when he said that I didn't actually have a "big problem," nor was the manager being dismissive when he told me to "just go to the CTA." They were simply communicating in the best way they knew how that the staff at the CTA could work around my issue. Probably, the CTA staff are not really supposed to do that, so the police guys can't admit it straight out. I probably looked really silly at the police station getting all hot and bothered about it. When I left, they probably all had a good laugh about the American (again with these Americans!) who got all upset for no reason. And I laughed at myself, too.