What Do Missionaries Do All Day Long?

Once upon a furlough, a sweet but naive man told me, "I bet it's so incredible to be a missionary, to have nothing else to do but evangelize all day long." (At this point my missionary readers are chuckling audibly, because they all know that sometimes the simplest tasks can be all-day events in developing nations.) Yesterday, as I must do each summer, I re-registered my Ford Transit van--and that's about all I did yesterday. Here was my day:

Step 1. Drive out of the city to the police station with all the documents that were required of me last year for the same process.

Step 2. Wait in a line for an hour in the sun (OK, I'm being generous -- this is NOT a line, it is a mob of other sweaty, stinky men, all mashed upon you, jockeying for position, elbowing into one another's ribs in front of a small barred window, behind which one man is processing what seems to be the whole world's vehicle documents, by hand. Three other employees are sitting with him, drinking coffee but, predictably, doing nothing.)

Step 3. An hour later, when I finally elbow my way up to the window, I learn that this year I need to go to get a pre-inspection, down the road, so they can make sure my van isn't stolen. My first hour in the sun amidst the aroma of body odor has been in vain.

Step 4. I wait behind other cars for pre-inspection, and after 30 minutes, it is my turn. But the people need to see my passport and visa. I have in my hand the originals and photocopies. But no, they want a notarized photocopy. Logically, there is no notary nearby. I must drive back into town.

Step 5. The notary takes 40 minutes to put a stamp and signature on two documents.

Step 6. Back to pre-inspection. They inform me that my van is my van. Thanks. Then they spend 20 minutes filling out forms by hand verifying the same.

Step 7. Back to the police station to rejoin my mob friends, back in line to repeat Step 2. A young Italian priest shows up for the first time here. I think he is offended by my newly-acquired body odor.

Step 8. Finally, my documents make it into the hands of Mr. Processor. He pulls out files of forms to fill out by hand. Poor guy. The mob is insulting him. He must have incredible job satisfaction. Ten forms and $500 later, he tells me to return in an hour and a half, because the chief needs to sign my papers--but he is in "an important meeting."

Step 9. I have my laptop, so I go to a nearby coffee bar to work on Sunday's message. The chief is there having coffee with friends, watching reruns of last night's Euro 2008 soccer matches. This is his "important meeting." Thirty minutes later, he leaves.

Step 10. I return after the full 90 minutes, and Mr. Processor tells me the chief is still in his meeting and that I should return in another hour. God tells me, "Patience." I have just enough time to run home, wolf down a bowl of soup, offend my family with my acquired bodily aromas, and drive back out to the station.

Step 11. This time, the chief has come back and my document is ready. I look it over. They have mistaken my middle name for my last name, so the vehicle is now registered to David Edward, not to David Hosaflook. This could result in the police confiscating my vehicle, so I ask for a redo. Mr. Processor first tries to convince me that my name is actually David Edward, but I insist that I am indeed David Hosaflook, and he agrees to ask the chief for a redo. He says, "I hope he is still here," and I hope for the same!

Step 12. Thirty minutes later, they have redone my registration. David Hosaflook still owns his van. Now I can go get the thing inspected. As I am leaving the mob, I notice the Italian priest again. He's mumbling long, colorful, Italian words at a rapid pace, and he has body odor.

Step 13. Inspection. Five more forms to be filled out by hand and two more people to pay. The actual inspection has just one test: inside a huge building that looks like an airplane hangar, I must accelerate up to 35 miles an hour and slam on my brakes. If I leave nice long skid marks and manage to stop the vehicle before slamming into the inspectors and the inspection offices, I have will have passed inspection. If my brakes should fail, I will have killed the inspectors. This is beautiful, one of the few extant vestiges of communist genius.

Step 14. The inspector congratulates me on my beautiful skid marks as I emerge from the van massaging my whiplashed neck. I have passed. After 15 more minutes of paperwork, I am presented four stickers I can now affix to my windshield.

Step 15. I go home to get a cold shower and start nursing my sunburn.