Home of the affair

Kajsa and I tootled off to the Department of Home Affairs ten days ago for our ”interview” with a department lackey in order to verify and process Kajsa’s application for permanent residence. I use the term "interview" as the process involved noting of the sort. It became a fight for survival against a bureaucratic octopus, that is strangling South Africa’s journey to a brighter future.

The Department of Home Affairs office we visited in Harrison Street reminded me a lot of the South African railways office building I worked in for a short while after leaving school. Ten stories tall, no computers, one photocopying machine, one working lift, large Afrikaners in military style uniforms ( I kid you not. Some of them even seemed to be in charge of stuff), reams of papers and ledgers, wooden benches, plastic seats, and room after room of incompetent, uncaring or just plain angry government officials ( a few managed to tick all boxes).

Not one computer in the permanent residence application office. I was about to say not one person either but we did see three different people so that averages out to about one I suppose.

Everything is written down. It is madness. There is thus no link between the residence and work permit office so one has to give the same documentation twice, hence the copier.

It was two hours into our “interview”, after our second walk down and up four flights of stairs in order to find the lone copier, that Kajsa cracked. I had been looking forward to telling the story of how we met, how excited we were to be back and how keen we were to contribute to a county we left 12 years ago but nobody seemed interested.

I think the catalyst to Kajsa’s rage for that is what it was, came after we were told the permanent residence application would take six-months to process. “What if I want to work, to contribute, and to earn money to survive?” I think it was the empty look from the official, a look that one could see meant she had no concept or understanding of the question that set things off. At one point I honestly suspected that said official might think that white people do not need to work but of course that is crazy talk.

“I want to leave this fucking place. We are going back to Sweden!!” With that we left to wait 30 minutes for a taxi. That’s another thing. Taxis arrive when they can, and charge what they can. Stockholm it aint.

Not that it’s all gone to hell in hand basket. It seems South Africa has realised the importance of harnessing as many of the meagre tax revenues available (5 million registered tax-payers in a country of forty million) Okay I queued for around two hours but got a tax number on the spot. And the office uses the number system familiar to many Swedes. It works. Plus the guy who helped me, Peter, was engaging and helpful. We actually had a chat.