The Stamp in the Kitchen

Some time ago, the very day I got Priscilla Queen of the Desert, I put a scratch on the bumper when I backed too close to a temporary sign outside the school which Had Not Been There Before. Any accident has to be reported to the police, as none of the panelbeaters (called "Painting and Denting"!) can do anything without a police report. You have to stop your car right where you are, even if you are in the middle of a roundabout, and call the police who will determine there and then who is at fault with a logic that takes into account your nationality and gender, is mostly in Arabic etc etc. Then you go off to the police station and get the reports done, and it is a prolonged process. Well, a little scratch compared to engaging with the police just didn't add up, so I left it and contented myself with glaring at the scratch whenever I saw it.

A couple of days ago I found out that any accident not involving another vehicle can be reported to the local traffic police station after the event, so found out the details and off I went to Al Rayyan Traffic Police Station get my police report.

When I got there I found the sorriest collection of battered cars imaginable parked outside the police station. I realised that I had arrived at a concentration of the worst drivers in Doha, and I was very interested to go inside and see them all close up. The police station has a couple of Painting and Denting shops close by and a little man from one of the shops helpfully pointed me to where I was supposed to go and then showed me which shop he worked for. I went into the wrong counter at first and they then pointed me to the portacabin next door, where two traffic police were sitting in front of their computers. "Assalaam alaikum," I said in my best Arabic, "car scratch". "You bring here", said the round one with the stubble. I went out and the painting and denting man at the gate showed me where the driveway was into the compound, and I parked in front of the portacabin. The other policeman, who had a magnificent long beard, came outside and looked at my little insignificant scratch and walked around my car. "Come", he said. I sat in front of the first guy as he typed out the report. He handed me two official sheets of paper in Arabic. "Go to kitchen", he said. "The kitchen", I said. "The kitchen", he said firmly. "Next building".

I've learned not to argue or question when something strange is said to me here. Off I went with my forms to the next building and sure enough, there was a grubby sign at the end of the entranceway with an arrow saying "Kitchen". Another errant driver was waiting outside the kitchen with a queuing number in his hand. Nobody was in the kitchen, but there were a couple of chairs. "No need", he said when I asked him where to go to get my number, "someone is here in five minutes. Sit down." In a couple of minutes a man turned up. "Twelve riyals", he said to me. I rummaged in my purse and he rummaged in his shirt pocket and produced two bright little stamps, licked them and stuck one to each form. "Go to counter. First building". I went back to the very first building and stood again in front of a battery of policemen behind their computers. "Assalaam alaikum", I said and proffered my forms. The policeman examined the report closely and entered some stuff on the computer. With a flourish he stamped my forms. "This for insurance", he said pointing to one of the lines of Arabic. "Thank-you. Khalas?", I said. "Yes, finished", he said.

I have no idea what happened.

With ma'al salaama I was off out the door and into my car, a shining scratch-free future vision in front of me.