CAR TALK

If you have been following my “perils” so far, you will know that my “puzzle of a thousand pieces” with respect to my quest for an Omani driver’s license has been being put together one piece a day. That has been part of a larger quest to buy an affordable car, since without one life here really is impossible – or just a home-to-job-to-home affair.

GOOD NEWS

(Summary: after 10 days of effort, I finally get my Omani driver’s license but am drained by one final maddening hurdle.)

I finally achieved (not “got”, but “achieved”) my license on September 1 after effort over ten separate days. The final day was supposed to be a cake walk – take the hard-won letter from the Police Hospital eye doctor to the Department of Motor Vehicles, hand it over to the director for his signature on my license application, and get the license.

True – the director looked at the letter, wrote some impressive looking swirls in the correct box on my application, signed his name and stamped it. But the low-down lacky I handed it to (and he was “low down” in several senses) chafed at giving me the license even with his boss’s signature. “You must take the eye test again,” he said definitively. “But I took the eye test using your machine the first day two weeks ago, which started the whole process that your director has approved two minutes ago!” No. Back to Square One. I must sit in front of their little nickelodeon eye machine once again in front of a much less medically qualified employee and pass THEIR test.

My driver, Salman (the same one that picked me up the first day at the airport) was incredulous, then indignant. While he argued in more persuasive Arabic than I could, I walked back to the director and said, “Your employee has refused your signature.” (I thought the insult of a lower-down countermanding his obvious permission would get his blood up. It did.) The employee came over, and the two got into a short discussion. Result: Yes, I had to submit to another humiliating eye exam, where they would discover once again that, yes, my left eye was amblyopic.

By this time, I felt the very heavens were conspiring against me and all bureaucratic precedent. Lower-down employee was going to stick by the letter of the law despite permission from both his boss, his boss’s boss, a Sultan Qaboos University hospital optometrist, and an official Police Hospital optometrist. (Oman in many ways is the opposite of “corrupt”. It is legalistic to blood-boiling extremes.)

I submitted – dejectedly – to the test, then pleaded in my best Arabic with the officer: “I am 50 years old. I have had a driver’s license for over 25 years now without an accident. I really can drive safely.” (OK, I’ve had a couple of fender-benders, but nothing serious. Rhetorical WEIGHT was what I was after more than 100% accuracy.) I held out my hand for him to shake. (A gesture of appeasement and reconciliation here.) He hesitated, then shook it ambivalently. I don’t know whether this was the miracle that gave me my license in the end, but suddenly he was back at his desk filling out the rest of the paperwork and taking my 20 riyals for the license.

This took all morning, and by the time Salman and I got back to the university just before noon, the little plastic card I had sweated blood over safely in my wallet, I felt totally drained, physically and emotionally. But September 1 was also the first day of classes for the new semester, and I had to pull myself together to meet my new students in less than a half hour.

But I finally had the driver’s license! (And the meet-and-greet session with my class went OK. Not great, but OK.)

BAD NEWS

(Summary: a subsequent car hunt leaves me car-less after nearly two weeks due to unexpected hurdles on the part of the bank and the university personnel office.)

Triumphantly, my driver’s license in hand, I began a week of car hunting to take advantage of the Ramadan dealer “special offers,” like 100,000 km free service and one year free insurance. I test drove a Toyota Yaris (a low-end compact available outside the US), a Kia Cravens (soccer mom SUV called a “Rondo” in N. America), a Kia Sportage (nice 4-wheeler), and a 4-wheel Daihatsu Terios (“Rush” in N. America).

After realizing that Toyota Rav 4 (my original pick) would be over $20,000 US, I decide to go for a more modest model that would produce monthly payments I could afford. In the end, I go sort of upper lower-end with the Terios. Daihatsu is Toyota’s equivalent of Gap's Old Navy brand, the low-end popular but reliable brand, but the engineering is Toyota, and the dealer would be Toyota also, one of the most ubiquitous brands in Oman. (Hence, parts are easy to come by anywhere in the country.)

Cyclone Gonu had trashed a lot of local cars in June (some were flooded up to their roofs) making the term “used” car sound a little more ominous than usual. Plus, with all the dealer specials around Ramadan, it made sense to have an on-going relationship with a dealer (rather than a private owner who can wash his hands of the car once it’s out of sight) and free service for 100,000 km. Oman is pretty big with lots of open country with roadside help scores of miles away. It’s not bad to have a car you can rely on because it’s (a) new and (b) covered by a nationwide auto brand with parts available in every little village.

But after my nice test drive with the Terios, including a 4-wheel off-road mini-adventure driving down the sand at Seeb beach like a California surfer dude (car handled it like a pro), I decided right then, September 6, to take it. The dealer happily signed a price quote letter for me to give to HSBC bank.

Several days later, however, when I finally squeezed two hours out of my work day to get to the off-campus bank, they couldn’t take my loan application because the dealer had put the complete sale price on the letter. Apparently, the bank could only give a loan for the exact amount the dealer wrote, not negotiate some lower quantity minus my down payment between the bank and the customer. “But I didn’t know what your rates or monthly payments might be till I got here,” I protested. So he offered a few monthly payment options depending on the loan amount and sent me back to the Toyota dealer to get a new letter for the exact amount I wanted financed.

Meanwhile, my itinerant HSBC agent (Firooz, who travels to customers in his car) called to say the bank would also need a “Salary Transfer Letter” from the university Finance Office – proof that my salary would be coming in and deposited electronically with HSBC (a reasonable demand). First time anyone had mentioned this. So, dutifully, I went to the FO and found out they couldn’t help me until my final contract was signed - which had depended on successfully passing my in-country physical (I had over a week prior). But the contract wasn’t ready yet. “Come back tomorrow. UmKulthum will probably have it ready.”

The next day, it was ready to sign, I signed, and asked if I could now get the Salary Transfer letter. UmKulthum: “Well, first the director of Personnel has to sign the contract for the university, then the dean of your college, then it goes to Finance.” “So can I come Wednesday? (last day of the work week)” I ask hopefully. “More likely Saturday or Sunday,” she answers. Four more days at least!

And this is just to get a letter to provide with my car loan application, which will then take another “five working days,” as Firooz assures me, for the bank to process it. Then, I get a check for the full car amount to give to the dealer and ride off happily into the sunset in my sporty little Daihatsu Terios.

And of course, Ramadan, the Muslim fasting month, just started this weekend, so that has a way slowing down the bureaucracy even further. I think the word “perils” iin my blog title s turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy!