The stamps and the security black mark

I've been having a week or two of irritating Doha bureaucracy lately. I thought I was used to it and could now face all bureaucratic moments with serene calm these days, but last weekend I proved myself wrong.

It started in November with getting a police clearance from New Zealand, so that I can be taken on as a staff member at Sidra, rather than on the current contract basis. The police clearance, due to an unfeasibly slow mail journey, took a month to arrive in New Zealand. It got there just before Christmas, and then had an unfeasibly slow journey back to Qatar. It arrived in early February after I had lost all hope of it ever arriving at all. I took it triumphantly to our Immigration Officer, Ahmed, and did a little victory dance in his office. Ahmed, an immensely dignified character, looked at it coolly.

"There is no stamp," he said.
"What do you mean, 'stamp'?" I naively asked.
"You need a stamp from your embassy."

Of course, a stamp. Silly me. I went off to find a suitable embassy to stamp my police clearance, as the closest NZ embassy is in Saudi Arabia. After a bit of scouting, I found that the British Embassy would do it for me for QR255. Unfortunately they were just about to move into new premises and would not be open for ten days. I waited. I got it attested and got my stamp. I went back to Ahmed, triumphant again.

"I am very sorry, but the rules at CID have just changed," he said, "the police clearance has to be translated into Arabic before the CID will process it."

I was cool, calm and serene at this news.

"No problem," I said sweetly, "I'll take to the souq. They have lots of people there who can do this for me."

A look of horror crossed his face. I was talking about a little street of men with typewriters in Souq Waqif, who work out of closet-sized offices. A wee industry has sprung up here to take care of just this kind of problem.

"Let us take care of the translation," he said. "That will be QR20".

After the translation was done, he then broke the news that the translation needed a further stamp. I told him I was not going back to the British Embassy again, once was quite enough. He told me that they would take care of it, no problem, but it would cost me another QR255. Perhaps I might like to go there myself, and see if they would stamp it again for me, two for the price of one. Off I went to the British Embassy, or was it Fort Knox. It cost another QR255.
I think the British Embassy must have taken pity on me though, it came back so festooned with ribbons and stamps that I'm sure the CID will give my police clearance a very rapid passage.

Anyway after all this, last Saturday Leo, Robbie and I went over to Education City, where I work, to take advantage of their magnificent staff amenities. The boys were to play football with the sons of some of my workmates in one of the gyms, and I was going to do pilates with some friends. We were late. The only park was a gap in a row of illegally-parked cars, all of which had a sticker of shame on them warning them of their illegal parking and of the dire consequences if they did that again. Reasoning that the security guy wouldn't possibly have time to come around and put a sticker on my car in the short time we had left, I parked defiantly along with the rest of the bad people.

When we came out I had a sticker of shame. And the security guy was standing next to my car. I had to brazen it out.

"You have parked in the wrong place," he opened.
"I know," I said, picking off the sticker.

I felt quite mad all of a sudden. All this bureaucracy. Even though he was right. I crumpled up the sticker and threw it disdainfully in the car.

"And," he said, warming up, "why does your parking permit have a different number to your registration?"

Oh no. Busted. My fake photocopied parking permit. Suddenly I was really mad.

"Well!" I said evilly, "If it didn't take you you guys SIX WEEKS to get around to giving me a proper one, I wouldn't have to do these things!"

"I am going report you to the gate security," he said, "They will write down your registration number."

"Do that! Do that!" I shouted. I was almost gesticulating by this stage. "I will tell them just the same thing!"

I tossed my head and gathered the boys into the car and roared off.

The only problem is that I have to go back soon. I wonder if my registration number will be in their little black book.