Ordeal at Licensing, 1979

With mobs of motorists who should have had their  cars inspected at most four years, 51 weeks and a day or two after they took delivery of a shiny-brand new car besieging Licensing, one wonders — has anything changed down on Wrightson Road since I wrote this in 1979?

“If you want to spend three days doing absolutely nothing and need a good reason for so doing, there is no better place to do it than while waiting to take a driving test at Licensing on Wrightson Road.” To get the most out of this change of scene and ideal opportunity for meeting new people, it’s best to take the test for a permit to ride a motor cycle or scooter.

Take the case of my daughter, Penny, who, after two bouts with the briefing officer to get a learner’s permit, and two more with the regulations test, played her third return match with the authorities a couple of weeks ago. She thought she was wise in the ways of Wrightson Road, that she’d get through in half a day — but she thought wrong. Having polished her helmet, freshened her “L” plates with lipstick and patched the tattered remains of her learner’s permit with Scotch tape she set off bright and early for Licensing, arriving there at 7.30 am determined to be first in the queue for her appointment at 8 am sharp.

A fair sized crowd had collected by the time the official doors creaked open. Previous experience taught Penny that to be 5' 2'' and not a bad-looking young chick would help her to the front of the queue. Forty-five minutes later she left the office to join the crowds milling around the World War II shacks where she was told to wait for her name to be called. Two more hopeful young motor-cyclists joined her. The examiners appeared, called out the names of . . . motorists — and vanished with their victims. “When are you going to test us?” asked one motor-cyclist. “Just now, I’m coming,” replied the examiner — who was never to be seen again.

Penny sat and waited while she alternately sheltered from the showers and improved her tan and her acquaintance with the fellow female candidates, comparing notes on scooters and the best hairstyles for wearing helmets. When the examiners departed for their lunch break, Penny was far too nervous to eat the sandwiches she’d brought for lunch (as she thought) at work. Testing resumed at 1 pm. More motorists came and went. By the time the examiners had passed — or failed — the last motorist, Penny had learned another of life’s more important lessons...  how to give a false, yet believable name and address to the hopeful young (and not-so-young) men hanging around the Licensing compound.

At 3.30 pm an examiner turned his attention to the motor-cyclists who now numbered eight. With strict impartiality, he passed four and failed four. “Never mind, try again tomorrow morning at eight,” he said, handing Penny her tattered learner’s permit. Disappointed, she rode home, all the while wondering why those who had passed the test seemed even more upset than those who had failed: She was soon to learn why. And so began a next day of liming at Licensing, from 7.15 am to 3.40, made new friends — but failed to influence the examiners. At 3.50 pm, the time when all good public servants head for home, Penny passed her motor-scooter driving test.

“No, no,” said the examiner, “you can’t have your learner’s permit back. You’re not a learner any longer.” “There’s no time to issue your driving permit now,” snapped the clerk inside the office, “come back tomorrow.” Which left Penny and the other successful candidates with a very tricky decision — should they leave their lovely, fairly new motor-cycles or scooters in Licensing’s Compound to join the scramble for route taxis, or break the law by riding their bikes home where they might expect to see them in the morning?

One true-true Trini lad who lived out beyond Sangre Grande decided to risk being stopped by police, hopped on his bike and rode away. Being a law-abiding young lady with a touching faith in the security of property left on official government compounds, Penny decided to walk five miles home through the rain. (2003 note — this was in the days before cell phones or even phone cards and the fact that, in any case, she had to walk to Park Street to get a Cascade taxi to our home in Knightsbridge). She was wet through and through when she reached the corner of French Street and Tragarete Road where a passing Customs Officer stopped to offer her a drop home. I still think it is no thanks to the Attorney General that that Customs officer was a decent, kindly man who drove her straight  home . . .

That night John and I spent some time explaining to Penny that on certain, special occasions — such as that same afternoon — it’s better, and far safer to break the law. Penny’s third day at Wrightson Road was spent in various queues, starting from 8 am to 9.30 packed like sardines in the World War II shacks, continuing until 1.30 pm in the front office and ending outside the raw-timber and galvanise, squatter-style hut, where, at 3 pm she finally got her driving licence. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to spend three days but she had made some new friends, had three days off work and — much to the surprise and relief of her parents, her scooter was safe and sound. And she had learned her last licensing lesson well. Which is that if the law says all drivers must walk with their permits and the Licensing Office doesn’t have any temporary permits to issue between one permit and the next, then Short pants is quite right, “The law is an ass.”