THE PUZZLE OF A THOUSAND PIECES

Sometimes, getting business done in Oman has seemed like putting a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle together … one piece a day!

Take exchanging my US driver’s license for an Omani one.

DAY ONE: Five days after I arrive (August 20), the university takes a bus-full of us to the Omani equivalent of the DMV. I had brought all the necessary bits and pieces: two photos, photocopies of my California license, university ID, resident ID, application form. Everyone cleared through the process in about an hour. Except me.

The first step was a crude eye exam using a nickelodeon-like machine you stare into. Is the E facing up, down, right, left? The right eye passed fine. However, with my amblyopic left eye, we immediately ran into trouble. “Which way is the letter facing?” “What letter?” I asked. The policeman made the by-now tired old discovery that, yessiree, my left eye didn’t see too good. “Not good!” was the verdict. I was whisked out the door to talk to the next higher-up. “Hmm. Not good!” was his verdict. “You must talk to the mudiir (director).” Regrettably, it was after 2:00, and employees in respectable positions in Oman have gone home by then. “Come tomorrow.”

I decided there was no point coming “tomorrow” unless I could present a good case for why they should grant me a license in spite of my undeniably bad left eye. I decided a letter from an eye doctor stating my binocular vision was acceptable for driving was the slam-dunk solution. The mudiir would have his cover, and I would have my license.

DAY TWO: After the weekend, I could finally start on my intermediate goal. So, Saturday I stop in the University Hospital (considered one of the top hospitals in Oman) and finagle a walk-in eye exam with an Argentine eye doctor, Dr. Carolina Montana. (She is a friend of my Argentine officemate Carmela.) “Come back tomorrow for the exam report.” Fine.

DAY THREE: I stop back by, expecting to whisk the report off to the DMV. But it is tiny, in inscrutable medical-ese, and in ENGLISH. “Not good!” is my first thought. No one at the DMV will understand it or even bother. I need an Arabic translation. Patient Services at the hospital helpfully provides this service to patients. I leave the eye report with the translator, Khalsa. “Come tomorrow.” “You can’t finish it today?” “No. Come tomorrow.”

DAY FOUR: I return to pick up the Arabic translation. It is ready, in nice big type on hospital stationary,. “Very good,” I decide. I have to return to the eye clinic and wait for Dr. Carolina to again sign the translation. Then I have to return to Patient Services to have it stamped with the hospital stamp. All in one morning (OK, several hours, but ONE morning.) So far, so good. But now it’s about 2:00, and we have a teachers meeting. Timed out again.

DAY FIVE: After one missed day due to more teachers’ meetings, I believe today is the day! 9:30 my own private university driver takes me to the DMV. LOCATION ONE. (Start keeping track of locations here.)

We bypass all the intermediaries and go straight to the mudiir, Saleh Al-Nu’mani. You know he’s important because his office is inside ANOTHER office. He grasps the situation rather quickly. “You must go to the Police lieutenant next door on Saturday (after the weekend).” My eye problem is apparently too momentous for even the director of the entire Motor Vehicles office to excuse.

LOCATION TWO: Next door is the main police building. My driver (who by some providential choice is an Omani man who takes his agent –for-faculty role very seriously) decides to test fate and venture next door the same day. We are ushered into Police Lieutenant Sultan Al-Za’abi’s office. He is a serious, intelligent-looking man who dispenses with time-consuming Arabic pleasantries and gets right to work, checking the Omani regulations book about minimum vision requirements. After a short discussion, he sends a subordinate to type up a letter requesting an eye exam for me in the Police Hospital. My driver is incredulous. “Sultan Qaboos University Hospital is one of the best in Oman. Why isn’t that good enough for them?” And the Police Hospital is clear across town on a Wednesday, the worst traffic day of the week. Driver is not happy!

The Police Hospital sits atop one of the breeze-swept hills of the ritzy Qurum district with views towards the sea.

LOCATION THREE: We walk in the main hospital entrance and hand my papers to the officer on desk duty. Wait. Wait. Finally, we are told the eye exam building is somewhere else in the hospital complex.

LOCATION FOUR: Drive. Park. Go in the eye clinic door. Lowly young policeman directs us upstairs.

LOCATION FIVE: Important older policeman listens to our tale. Directs us back to Location Three, hospital reception. Drive, park.

LOCATION THREE: We are told many patients are ahead of me. Fair, yes, but … “Wait for the doctor to call you. “ Five patients go in and out. Finally, the doctor’s underling mentions my name, listens to the problem and directs us back to Location Five, the superior officer’s office above eye clinic. Drive, Park.

LOCATION FIVE: Superior officer wonders why we are back. “Go to the clinic downstairs!” he barks.

LOCATION FOUR: An eye doctor is present this time. I take the exam (shorter and more muddled than my University Hospital eye exam). Doctor scribbles note. Staples note. “Take this to a consulting physician” in Location Three.

LOCATION THREE: We are told to knock on the physician’s door even though the sign outside clearly says, “Do not knock.” We enter the empty room. I wait. An Indian doctor finally appears and looks at the results of the eye exam. He writes a short note in pen on the back. Something like, “This young [!] man has an amblyopic left eye, but his total vision is acceptable for a driver’s license.” (I peaked before he stapled the note.) “Please take this to the Patient Relations office to get stamped.”

LOCATION SIX: The driver, patiently if grudgingly enduring this ordeal, now entering its fourth hour, sits with me in a waiting area of a brand new wood-and-marble office. The three men in the office would like very much to stamp the eye exam + note and let us go, but the only one with the proper authority to sign the form is not there. “He is out, but he will be coming back. Please wait.” After 45 minutes we ask when he will be there. (I have a 1:00 teachers’ meeting.) “He is at the hospital here. He will come soon.” I tell the driver we will give him 15 more minutes then leave and come back after the weekend. After 13 minutes, the driver wants to go. “Just two more minutes,” I urge. My Teutonic sense of time came in handy because in two minutes the Man-With-The-Keys-To-The-Kingdom does arrive, signs, seals and delivers the coveted form without which I have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a license.

It is now 1:15, too late to go back to the DMV (and I have missed my teachers’ meeting). I have no choice but to wait till after the weekend. Saturday will now be DAY SIX – and I will have been in Oman half a month tomorrow. Let’s hope all the saints, apostles and holy angels are with me next time. I really do need that license. You can’t really live here without a car.

Stay tuned for more Perils of Paul …