Our postal service leaves much to be desired, and as there has apparently been a long strike at the central depot, we haven't been getting anything in the post box for months. Things have started to trickle through, but we definitely did not receive the two speeding fines for my husband and son earlier this year. A message on his phone alerted He Who Can Fix Anything (apart from paying speeding fines) to the situation when he was informed the fines could only be paid at Wynberg Magistrates Court and not online as they were so old.
As I am chief cook and bottlewasher, also general dogsbody (positions that are not remunerated), I was informed that I should pay them forthwith in case there was a problem getting licences renewed at a later stage. So I set aside a few hours of my valuable (though unpaid) time and set off for another new experience of the state of the nation. I found a parking place right outside the court and went inside to be greeted by a sign saying: 'Do not give clothes to prisoners'. My bag then went through the x-ray machine and I went through the thingy that hopefully didn't x-ray me. This was followed by a body search (patted down by a young lady), and a body was duly found. I asked what she thought I might be hiding under my quite flimsy summer blouse but humour wasn't on the menu - just doing her job.
I found the mercifully short queue of what appeared to be taxi drivers awaiting their turn to pay fines under a sign that said 'Prisoners Friend'. I asked a fellow fine-payer if that meant those who paid bail for their friends. It was. Most of the men were indignantly flapping long rolls of printed paper similar to a till slip from a popular supermarket after shopping for Christmas all in one go - one fine totalled R8 000 and this was for multiple offences of not having a licence. He had told the traffic cop he had it at home, but that obviously didn't sway the issuing of the fine. I asked him why he didn't just get a licence but the general consensus was that the magnitude of the fine was the problem, not the lack of a licence! I sat there clutching my little piece of paper on which was scribbled the reference numbers of the minor speeding fines - not even an official document. I felt a little out of place, but grateful that I had a licence.
The queue quickly moved on and I reached the officious lady who would direct me to either pay the fine, appear in court or beg for a reduction. She asked to see my ID and of course I had to confess that they weren't my fines. Without the slightest attempt at PR and trying to improve relations between finers and finees, she snapped out: 'Affidavit from your husband.' No smile, no discussion. I said I just wanted to actually pay it. 'Affidavit from your husband.'
I confided to the handsome young man with a full set of gleaming gold-tipped teeth seated next to me that nobody I knew ever paid their fines and just threw them away. He asked if we had had a summons. 'But what about when I try to get a licence renewed?', bleated this honest taxpayer. 'They'll print out a statement and you pay it then, and then they give you your licence.'
Bowing to his greater knowledge and unbelievably impressed by the gold teeth, I accepted his advice and left.
On the way out of the gates, a samoosa seller brandished her wares and I bought a packet, feeling peckish after the excitement of fraternising with taxi drivers, and was duly ripped off by the lack of filling in them. I think she should be inside, explaining to the magistrate about false advertising.
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