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Lorraine Mace |
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An Exhausting Project |
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Importing a car into Spain is rendered nerve-racking by the level of bureaucracy. Getting our car registered was further complicated by the fact that it was licensed in France. We decided that rather than try to translate from French into Spanish to get the car registered, we’d employ someone to do everything from start to finish. The process took months, but as all I had to do was turn up at various places to sign papers, or hand over photocopies, it was relatively painless. The company even supplied a translator when I had to take the car to the ITV. Not the television station, but the Spanish equivalent of the British MOT. I picked up the interpreter and drove to the ITV building. She presented my papers and paid the fee. Just as I was congratulating myself on having sailed through the whole procedure, she explained that I now had to drive my car through the ITV process. Back in the UK I’d always handed the key over and waited for the car to be delivered back to me, either passed or failed. Surely she was mistaken and some kind mechanic was going to appear and do the driving? But no, it wasn’t to be. She sat in the passenger seat, ready to translate, and I drove around to the start of the drive-through testing. First stop was to test the exhaust emissions. I had to rev when the mechanic gave the word and stop when told. The only problem with this is that he didn’t stick to rev and stop (or even their Spanish equivalents). A long torrent of Spanish was quickly translated as ‘rev the car’, but by the time I’d done that, the testing mechanic was already on the ‘don’t rev’ phase. Eventually we managed to co-ordinate command and action and the exhaust was declared safe to use. My passenger was looking a bit washed out after this, but that was nothing compared to how she looked later. The next step was driving onto dips in the ground which then shot the car upwards when brakes were applied. I overshot the dips, causing my translator to yell at me. Reversing backwards with care I eventually managed to position the car in the right place. Later I had to drive the car over a vast hole in the ground so that it could be inspected from below. I approached it with care and tried to ignore the prayers being said by my passenger. Again torrents of Spanish wafted up, this time from under the car, instructing me to do various things. The delay between command and action was getting considerably shorter, mainly due to the speed with which the translation was performed. I think perhaps she was a touch nervous about being suspended over a hole in a car driven by someone who doesn’t know when to brake. We went through several more tests, each more nerve-racking than the last. But finally we were through the Spanish Inquisition and I waited to learn my fate. If the car had failed it was going to be necessary to return to the torture chamber. I’m not sure which of us dreaded that thought more. My interpreter appeared to be trembling and I’m sure she was silently praying. The car was deemed fit to drive and given a seal of approval in the form of a sticker; I had two years before I needed to face that ordeal again. I dropped my relieved translator back at her office and drove my safety-tested car home. A week later the exhaust fell off. © Lorraine Mace 2005
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