Why driving tests are an unnecessary inconvenience...

I got an email the other day notifying me of a date for my forthcoming driving test.  And despite the fact that I’ve survived three years driving under some of the most hazardous conditions known to man (UAE roads) and lived to tell the tale, I must admit I’m not feeling too confident.

You see, dear reader, let me say it out loud -- I've failed my driving test three times  -- and have a sneaking suspicion I’ll never pass.  Now when I say fail, please understand that none of the failures were actually my fault, but rather the result of petty jealousies, gross injustices and at times pure bad luck (or lack of planning as DH helpfully points out).

The first time I failed I knew I was doomed to failure the second I laid eyes on the tester: a disappointed looking, middle-aged, balding man wearing brown nylon slacks and an anorak; the type who won’t be swayed by a coy smile or a thrust-out bosom (I tried) – someone who’s very demeanor spoke not of deep personal satisfaction and success, but rather of a life of crushing disappointment: the yachts, the women, the champagne; none of it had happened and instead he spent his days making random decisions based on nothing but bitter regret.  I was correct in this assessment and was duly handed my first certificate of failure at the end of the forty minute ordeal.

The second time I failed I must admit that it may have had something to do with the fact that  I showed up without the obligatory 'L' plates on the car, so rather cheekily requested the tester allow me five minutes to pop down to 'Dunne's stores' to buy some. 

Ten minutes later  (having been momentarily distracted by the magazine display) I returned to the scene flustered, all pretense at cool unflappability now impossible. My unfortunate tester was subsequently treated to a distressing ordeal of nine-point turns, kerb-bumps, ‘left’s’ instead of ‘right’s’ as well as an absolute barrage of ‘Oh, sorry’ or ‘whoops’ or ‘ooh can I do that again?’ etc...  Fail number two quickly ensued.

Prior to my third fail I felt confident of success.  It was raining heavily which thankfully meant I got to avoid the part of the test which involved me naming parts of the engine, something which no matter how many times DH took me through it, I just couldn't quite remember (or was unwilling to; the feminist in me draws the line at engaging with, among other things, mechanics, dirt, insects, scart leads or instruction manuals). 

However, as we climbed into the parked car and I prepared to pull out on to the road, I noticed a car approaching from the right.


Prior to the test I had spent an hour with a driving instructor who had, among other criticisms, commented that I waited too long at junctions, and that if there was room, I should pull out.  With these words ringing in my head, I confidently pulled out. The other driver in his wisdom decided to speed up and beep his horn.  The rest of the test went off without incident.


As the tester handed me my 'Fail' certificate at the end, I indignantly blustered 'What? But why?’ to which he replied 'you failed before you began, you didn't see that car as you pulled out'.  

I’m pretty sure that driving testers take the driving tester equivalent of the hyppocratic oath (or something) since at this point he refused to engage in dialogue with me, waving me away from him as if I were some demented psychiatric in-patient stalking her beloved doctor. Drat. Fail number three and now I was going to have to move to the UAE with no driving license.  If I can’t pass a test in my own country, how on earth will I pass it somewhere else?

Quite easily it turns out.

You see, what makes the UAE a maddening place to live, can sometimes work in your favour. Reluctant to go through the whole driving lessons/driving test process, I had opted to cheat my way to a driving license.  Reasoning that the staff in my local traffic office were unlikely to know that a full Irish driving license is pink, while a provisional license is pale green, I employed some rather sophisticated techniques to remove the offending word ‘provisional’ from my already faded license.  To be specific, I simply rubbed it out with a rubber.

In order to get your UAE driving license, you need to go with your own country’s license, (translated into Arabic) to the local traffic department, along with some money, and in return you are quickly furnished with a full UAE license.  It’s a surprisingly efficient process and also involves an eye test, something which took less time to do than to actually pay for --

  
 - 'Read the chart please'

 - ‘Errr…A, O, E, R….’

 - ‘Yeah, that’s fine, ten dirhams please!’

Being a ‘lady’ meant that I was obliged to go the ‘Ladies section’ at the traffic department, an office staffed by a group of disinterested local women wearing hijabs and heavy eye make-up, languishing at their cuddly toy strewn desks.  As I handed over my l paperwork my breath started to come a little shallow (I’m a very, very bad liar and am likely to shout 'I'm a CHEAT!' should the deception last any longer than a few seconds), sweat trickling down my forehead.  The women inspected my paperwork, piece by piece, occasionally chattering in rapid Arabic to each other.

-‘Oh my god, they know I’m lying’ I thought with mounting alarm, ‘I wonder if I just slipped out now, would they ever find me?’.  The Arabic was getting louder --

- ‘She’s a cheating liar, this is not a full license….go and call the police immediately, she needs to be interrogated!. Quick, go before she leaves!’  (is what I felt sure they were saying).

I caught the eye of a severe looking, uniformed man on the other side of the divide and wondered if he could sense my guilt. One of the women sat down and began to input my details into her computer (a preliminary police report?), stopping every now and then to clarify a point, and suddenly I understood how it felt to have a condom full of cocaine in your stomach as you go through customs at Bangkok airport. 

She pointed to a camera above her head and instructed in a thick accent ‘you look at it!’  


- ‘Oh,  right OK, yes of course’ I looked up fearfully and attempted to look honest. Click and it was done.

‘Now you wait’ she told me. 

Fifteen minutes later I had a full license.  It’s the size of a credit card and bears a picture of my fearful face, staring out, waiting to be caught...


Name and shame...


I'm so fed up with DH's employer that I am now going to name and shame them (sort of) -  

"Shame on you Al Rajhi construction, builders of the prestigious project Tameer Towers on Al Reem island, who owe their workers 9 weeks pay with no sign of it coming.  How do you think these people pay their bills or feed their families, not to mention put petrol in their cars and drive to work (or indeed buy a flight home to see their families)? In a country where  you can be imprisoned for an unpaid credit card debt or a bounced cheque I think it is outrageously irresponsible of you to take such a casual attitude to paying your staff.  

What is worse is that you went to the trouble of recruiting many of these people from  abroad, only to hang them out to dry the second things got tough.  And as you sit in your gilded offices in Riyadh, counting your money, I'm pretty sure not one of you are hungry or worried about ending up in prison for an unpaid debt.  No indeed, such worries are for the little men.

Shame on you indeed!"