License to Drive.

As volunteers, we could never have afforded to purchase and/or operate a vehicle from our own resources so it was a real bonus that FH/E had a vehicle that we were able to use. Our car was a 1980s-era Renault 9 sedan. Here it is, in all its glory:

 

This car had seen better days: it had mismatched headlights and dented fenders and faded upholstery. So it was the perfect vehicle for newbies navigating the chaotic streets of Addis Abeba, and we were grateful to have it. We eagerly embraced the responsibility of transporting ourselves around town.

Of course, before one can legally operate a motor vehicle, one must obtain a driver’s license in one’s country of residence. We had gone to the trouble of acquiring our international driver’s licenses from the AAA office in Eugene but those turned out to be useless in Ethiopia. So we needed to make a pilgrimage to the Ministry of Transportation.

In the western world we complain a lot about government agencies, and the DMV is one of our favorite targets. Our visit to the Ministry of Transportation was our first personal encounter with the soul-crushing bureaucracy that is (or was?) the Ethiopian government. Thankfully we had a navigator in the form of Messay, the ever-cheerful Logistics Officer for FH/E, who guided us patiently through the grinding gears and became one of our favorite people in the process.

You know how, at the DMV, there’s a little machine where you take a number, and then you sit down and wait for your number to be called? And you can read, or daydream, or fret about the time you think you’re wasting? In Ethiopia, once you got past the guard at the gate, it was a free-for-all. First you had to figure out which window you needed (thanks, Messay!) and then you joined the scrum in front of the window, elbowing and jockeying your way forward. Being a foreigner got you lots of stares but no preferential treatment. The clerk could decide at any moment that it was time for a tea break or lunch. Since it was rainy season, it might start to pour – did I mention, this was all outside? Finally you reached the window and presented your documents for scrutiny, and were directed to the next window. And the next.

You know how, at the DMV, there’s a little camera, and when you get your license they take a picture of you and stick it on your card? In Ethiopia, you had to provide your own picture, black-and-white, of particular dimensions, just like a passport photo. Which meant that before you could go to the Ministry of Transportation you had to find a photographer and have your picture taken (and bonus points if there was no hot water for a shower that morning). So: photograph, passport, Oregon driver’s license, international driver’s license, and Ethiopian ID card. And cash, of course. Hand them over and hope to see them again soon. (Not the cash).

It could have been worse: at least we didn’t have to take a road test to demonstrate our skills. By that time we hadn’t been behind the wheel in weeks and the mere thought of driving was intimidating enough. As it was, obtaining our licenses was an all-day process that wore us out with hurry-up-and-wait. But by the end of the day, we were street legal.

I have to confess that I have dragged my feet about writing this because I keep hoping to find our Ethiopian driver’s licenses and include a picture of them. A search of internet images indicates that the format has changed completely in the past twenty years. These days, an Ethiopian driver’s license is a computer-generated laminated card much like the one you get in the USA, but in those days it was a paper booklet printed entirely in Amharic with your photo stuck in there. It seemed so foreign and so official, and also, it in no way prepared us for the actual challenges of driving.

Wisely, Messay did not offer to let one of us drive back to the office that day.