 |
Al-Ahram Weekly 24 Feb. - 1 March 2000 Issue No. 470 
|
||
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
|
Al-Ahram Weekly 24 Feb. - 1 March 2000 Issue No. 470
|
||
| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Focus Heritage Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Snakes and ladders
By Fayza Hassan
For many years, when we were living in Australia, we dealt with official papers by mail. It was for us a novel experience indeed, and one that convinced us more than anything else that we were now living in a 'developed' country. Soon, the 29 months of ordeal that we had ploughed through in Alexandria and then in Cairo to prepare our emigration files faded in our memories into an innocuous episode, taken too seriously at the time. When we returned to Egypt, we tried to steer as clear as possible from paths that would require official sanction, but soon found out that this was as unrealistic an endeavour as abstaining from breathing in order to avoid inhaling polluted air.
I am now resigned to dealing with bureaucracy when I must, but whenever I step into a government building I am overcome by a nausea that I find hard to fight back. I usually stumble on the numerous flights of stairs, find it impossible to follow simple directions to the various offices, and blurt out my requests fully expecting to be denied.
My latest attempt at dealing with the administrative apparatus was no exception. I was asked for English translations of two documents which, once completed, would be presented to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs for a stamp, a guarantee of their authenticity. I was given the name of the two "official" translators used by this ministry. The one I chose, expensive and slow, translated the same document twice (and charged me accordingly). Nevertheless, I was happy to move on to the next step, only to discover that my first move had not been the right one. "You need to request an official translation from the Ministry of Health for the first document and one from the Ministry of Justice for the second," a charming employee informed me at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. "Didn't you know? It is standard procedure."
Since it was Thursday, the first day of the weekend recently granted to government employees, I inquired if any of these ministries would be open. "Of course they are," was the slightly shocked answer. "They are there to serve the public." At the Ministry of Justice, notwithstanding the assurances of the security personnel at the door, the translation office was locked and the whole floor deserted.
I called it a day and resumed my quest on the following Sunday. This time the office was indeed open and full of sweet and helpful ladies, chatting animatedly. One of them informed me that the translation would take no less than ten days. I protested that it was a five-line text and could surely be completed in less time, whereupon one of her colleagues, who had been idly perusing the papers, commented to no one in particular on the strangeness of my attitude: "Her husband has been dead for ten years and now she wants the death certificate authenticated in less than ten days," she said, shaking her head in wonderment. Following me to the elevator, another member of the distinguished team suggested that I leave an English translation of the document with them, "because it would help if we knew all the words".
I almost ran to my next destination, hoping to clear my head and fight back the overpowering nausea. Unlike Justice, the Health Ministry seems to be the exclusive province of men. "I need the original," said the clerk. I have a strong aversion to handing originals around, having experienced the trauma of requesting authenticated copies. I did as told, however. "You will have to go to the ground floor and get forms 7 and 8, then go up to the 13th floor and pay for the stamps at the cashier's," this gentleman told me. "Then go to the Bureau of Health in Ataba, have this original certified by a doctor, then go to our translation bureau in Bab Al-Louq, pay them LE4 for an on-the-spot translation and then come back here," he continued, writing down his instructions on a piece of paper. "If this is the original, why do I have to have it certified?" I asked, bewildered. His glance left no doubt as to the level of consideration in which he held me.
Fortunately, a young man materialised at my side as I was leaving on my next assignment. "Can I be of service?" he inquired politely. For a price, he took care of the Bab Al-Louq errand while I went to Ataba. There, I was accosted at once and, having followed the proper procedure (which involved bills changing hands), I was rewarded with the proper stamp certifying that the "original" document was indeed what it purported to be. I have to confess that I did not find it in me to carry on. Having been duly handed the Bab Al-Louq translation, I placed the papers in my file with a sigh of relief, and refused to follow my improvised assistant, rendered eager by a hefty tip to proceed to my next objective. Tomorrow I'll play another round.
