One of the many blessings of my new diocese (Waiapu, Aotearoa New Zealand) is the contractual clause that says clergy have two weeks “leave” in which to get house, home and life re-established after moving to a new position (or “cure”). Last week I took two of those allotted days to attempt to free my car, the first of two en route here, from the clutches of the importation bureaucrats. To be fair, I totally admire the work done by Customs and MAF—any heroin secreted in my glove box or crocodiles hiding in my exhaust pipe deserve to be arrested dockside.
Registration of imported vehicles is on the other hand a nightmare of Orwellian proportions (as it happens I am reading Nineteen Eighty-Four). I carefully checked all available websites before committing myself to transporting the cars from Darwin, but could glean little. My removalists assured me it was a cinch: expensive, but a cinch. A chief wallah at Wellington’s Imported Motor Vehicle Industry Association assured me all was well and that my vehicles could be imported. Bring it on: I handed our cars over to disappear into the bowels of various ships.
Reams of paper, electronic and otherwise, see-sawed back and forth between Yours Truly, removalists in Darwin, removalists in Wellington, Customs, and MAF. Passports, ownership papers, compliance plates, VIN numbers and countless more were exchanged in glorious Technicolor, until last week I was told the first car had been released to Vehicle Testing Station Ltd. With glee I girded up my loins and, late on Wednesday, drove 300+ kilometres to Lower Hutt (via Raumati) to finalize the trans-ditch manoeuvres. I was armed and ready to replace a few damaged parts (windscreens and brake lights suffer the ravages of time), looking forward at last to driving my car home to Napier.
Not so. Vehicle Testing informed me that, although they had a copy of my proof of ownership and my passport, this was not enough. They had to see the originals. On Thursday I drove back to Napier, collected Passport and Proof, and made it back to Lower Hutt, ten minutes before closing. I drove back to my bed in Raumati for the night, 750 kilometres tired. All was well. Except that they forgot to photocopy said items. Back I went to Lower Hutt (I’ve always loved the Paekakariki Hill road …). They asked why I hadn’t researched my vehicle before I came. I told them I had and that the Imported Motor Vehicle Industry Association had told me it was fine. They said that no-one in NZ is authorized to give indications as to the viability of imports without eyeballing the car. I asked how, then, I was supposed to research viability—and they assured me it wasn’t possible, but I should do it anyway. I reached for my migraine tablets.
As it happens, and because I was so obsequious, they are granting me leave to import the vehicle … eventually. In a week or two, after they have stripped and checked it they will release it—at a cost—to drive alongside lowered hoon cars with nitrogen assisted clutches that scare the pants off all living things, alongside cars lowered so much they have to stop and drive diagonally over hedgehog carcasses, and alongside cars with flashing underbody lights. Fear not: I will one day drive my rather dull 4WD ute up Madeira Road. One day.
In the meantime MAF are very excited by one of our umbrellas, and many more days will be added to the 80 already past before our luggage finally arrives. And as for the other car …
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