The Agent

Renewing my Malawian driver’s license became another cultural experience. I got the original in Zomba, a small town with a small office for motor vehicle issues. Silas took care of the details for me, so it was no problem. But I had to renew in Blantyre. Silas’ son Sam offered to help. He has taken care of most of my car issues. We were delayed in doing this because the Road Traffic office did not have the paper to process things and then did not have a functional camera for over two months. I have been having Maxwell or Sam drive for me since I was “illegal” if I drove. The police would not recognize my valid US driver’s license or my international license. I needed a Malawian license. I was thrilled when Sam said that the paper and the camera were finally available. Off we went as quickly as we could.

The first stop was in Ndirande, a crowded township near the Synod. There we needed to collect the Agent, a young man in jeans and a t-shirt with a pink backpack over his shoulder. This is where my cultural education began. An agent is someone who knows the workings of the Road Traffic offices and who can get things done faster. He takes care of running the forms from office to office for his client, for a small fee (about $8). This seemed reasonable to me, since the whole system baffled me. He had told Sam that I needed duplicate copies of my old license, my passport and my Temporary Work Permit, plus having the originals with me. He also recommended that I wear my clergy color. It would help expedite things. I was prepared. When he got in the car, he handed me an official Road Traffic form to fill out that asked for basic identification information and the copies I was carrying. I filled in the form as we drove to the Road Traffic office and gave everything to the agent.

When we arrived at Road Traffic, Maxwell parked the car and the agent and Sam led me to the first office we needed to visit. We passed an outer waiting room that was full and proceeded to the secretary’s office. She smiled and greeted me as she received the papers from the agent. She motioned for me to be seated in the only vacant chair in the area, which happened to be across from her desk. She looked over the forms, spoke to the agent and then took the forms into an inner office. She returned within five minutes with the forms signed and instructed the agent to take the forms and my money to the next office. I could remain where I was. I produced the needed money, took out the book I brought along for just such a situation and began reading. The agent left to process the payment for me. He returned in about 30 minutes and handed the papers to the secretary. She added a further stamp to them and handed them back, with instructions to take me to have my photo taken. I followed him outside and into an adjoining building, going past a long line of folks standing with forms in hand, waiting. The line wound into the building and down a hallway that provided seating for those further up in the line. We passed by all of them and entered the office they were waiting to enter. I felt guilty. Once in the office, I was instructed to take the last seat and wait. The agent handed the papers to the young woman behind the desk who was taking the photos. She handed them back and grumbled that I should wait. I had the distinct feeling that, while this happened all the time, she didn’t fully approve of those with agents jumping line. I wasn’t sure that I did either, but I had done it. I waited, moving up a seat each time she processed one of those ahead of me. As I got to the head of the line, another young woman entered the office with a bag of French fries and a soda for the photographer. It was tea time. But the photographer did not fully stop work; she merely ate, chatted with her friend and continued processing those waiting. I was impressed with her diligence. Others might have taken the full break. Finally my turn came and I stepped up to sign the electronic pad, enter my finger print electronically and finally have my photo taken. The photographer signed my forms, returning them to me and instructing me to return to the first office. I exited the office and sheepishly began to walk past all those waiting to be photographed. About half way down the hallway lineup, one of those seated stopped me to ask a question. She is one of the members of the Friends of Chigodi committee. She inquired about our last meeting, which she had missed. We chatted briefly, with no mention of my “cutting line.” She seemed unfazed by it. I was still feeling guilty.

As I exited the building, the agent found me and led me back to the first office. He instructed me to take a seat in the waiting area and he further processed the forms. He took them to the secretary and together they left the office. I resumed reading my book. About half an hour later the secretary returned with an official form with my photo and finger print. She told me it was my temporary license, good until August 20, 2012. By that time I should have my permanent license, but if not I could come to have the temporary renewed. They still did not have the paper for the card licenses. I thanked her and left. The agent was just outside the office, waiting for me. I thanked him and paid him. He left to help someone else. The whole process had taken 2 ½ hours. When I got into the car, I asked Sam about the procedure of an agent. He explained that those without an agent would be there for the entire day and may even have to return the next to complete the process. Agents were a way of those who could afford it to speed up the process. Anyone could do it, if they could pay. The Road Traffic office did not object because it kept people happy in the midst of a time consuming exercise. That is just the way business is done. I wonder about the ethics of it, but I still thanked God for the agent.