On my way to the FRESH site in Umlazi, outside Durban, I encountered a road block that had been set up just after the Marianhill toll plaza. Police officers were choosing cars at random and directing them to pull over for inspection. I was one of the lucky drivers to be chosen.
Two officers, a man and a woman, approached me and asked for my license. So I handed over my NY State driver's license. This always incites a lot of questions – So what are you doing here? Are you on holiday? How do you like South Africa?
Everything seemed fine until the two officers walked around to the front of my car and contemplated my license plate. Moments later, the male officer informed me that there was a "serious problem". A serious problem? With what? He told me that the number on my plates did not match the number on the registration disc displayed on my wind shield. I was perplexed.
"Why don't they match," I asked stupidly. "You tell me," the officer said. "This is a serious offense. You could be arrested." Great. They think I'm a criminal. I calmly explained that I had purchased the car from another owner a few months ago and went through all of the necessary paperwork to exchange ownership – the same plates had been on the car since it came into my possession. I had even asked the official at the transport department if I needed new plates (like you would in the US). I had no idea the numbers didn't match – it never occurred to me to check.
The officers left me for a moment and went over to a police van where they checked both registration numbers. The number on the disc belonged to my car, a silver Subaru Legacy; the number on the plate was for a Volkswagon. Shit. Seriously? I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell them that the previous owner of the car was a giant douche bag and screwed me in every way possible, and that I wasn't at all that surprised that there was a problem with the plates. But I didn't say that. I apologized profusely and told them I knew nothing of a Volkswagon.
The female officer looked ready to pull me out of the car and cuff me. The male officer said that he would give me a break; he was going to give me "the benefit of the doubt". Well that's a relief. He told me that I must go straight to the nearest car shop and have new plates made. When I didn't respond right away he asked if I was familiar with the area. I wasn't. I only drive to and from Durban; I don't stop in between. "Where are you going," he asked. "Umlazi," I replied. "WHERE?" "Umlazi." Now the officers were the ones who looked perplexed. A white chick from the US with shady license plates driving to work in a rough black township that neither of them would care to spend much time in. It was hard not to grin.
After that, the male officer told me that he would drive to car shop nearby in Pinetown and I was to follow him. When we got to the shop, he handed over my old plates and gave the owner the correct number for new ones. In no more than 3 minutes, the new plates were on my car. And it only cost 140 rand (about $15). This was the alternative to being arrested. I can't say that I was surprised. But what did surprise me was when the officer handed me a slip of paper with his phone number on it.
His name is Errol. And I'm to call him if I'm ever in Pinetown and need help.
Two officers, a man and a woman, approached me and asked for my license. So I handed over my NY State driver's license. This always incites a lot of questions – So what are you doing here? Are you on holiday? How do you like South Africa?
Everything seemed fine until the two officers walked around to the front of my car and contemplated my license plate. Moments later, the male officer informed me that there was a "serious problem". A serious problem? With what? He told me that the number on my plates did not match the number on the registration disc displayed on my wind shield. I was perplexed.
"Why don't they match," I asked stupidly. "You tell me," the officer said. "This is a serious offense. You could be arrested." Great. They think I'm a criminal. I calmly explained that I had purchased the car from another owner a few months ago and went through all of the necessary paperwork to exchange ownership – the same plates had been on the car since it came into my possession. I had even asked the official at the transport department if I needed new plates (like you would in the US). I had no idea the numbers didn't match – it never occurred to me to check.
The officers left me for a moment and went over to a police van where they checked both registration numbers. The number on the disc belonged to my car, a silver Subaru Legacy; the number on the plate was for a Volkswagon. Shit. Seriously? I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell them that the previous owner of the car was a giant douche bag and screwed me in every way possible, and that I wasn't at all that surprised that there was a problem with the plates. But I didn't say that. I apologized profusely and told them I knew nothing of a Volkswagon.
The female officer looked ready to pull me out of the car and cuff me. The male officer said that he would give me a break; he was going to give me "the benefit of the doubt". Well that's a relief. He told me that I must go straight to the nearest car shop and have new plates made. When I didn't respond right away he asked if I was familiar with the area. I wasn't. I only drive to and from Durban; I don't stop in between. "Where are you going," he asked. "Umlazi," I replied. "WHERE?" "Umlazi." Now the officers were the ones who looked perplexed. A white chick from the US with shady license plates driving to work in a rough black township that neither of them would care to spend much time in. It was hard not to grin.
After that, the male officer told me that he would drive to car shop nearby in Pinetown and I was to follow him. When we got to the shop, he handed over my old plates and gave the owner the correct number for new ones. In no more than 3 minutes, the new plates were on my car. And it only cost 140 rand (about $15). This was the alternative to being arrested. I can't say that I was surprised. But what did surprise me was when the officer handed me a slip of paper with his phone number on it.
His name is Errol. And I'm to call him if I'm ever in Pinetown and need help.
Glad to see that your adventure had a happy ending. Take care of yourself.
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