Garage wars

In this office there's a strange dynamic around vehicle repairs and maintenance. One of the Toyota car dealerships and workshops has an annoying monopoly over NGOs, frightening them about servicing and repairs, which they charge at incredibly high cost. It results in impractical decision-making in NGOs.

Last month when I was in the field our Monrovia office was trying to recall our vehicle to the city when we were making use of it for travelling around the project site.

I got a phone call from Monrovia.

'The garage has reminded us our service was due at 20,000 kilometres.'

'Well we're due back in a few days so we can take it in then.'

'It's better to bring it now.'

'The car is needed here until Tuesday and has already passed 20,000 kilometres. By the time we get there it will be 200 more.'

'They say they may charge more if we miss our service.'

'Are they giving these services for free?'

'No.'

'Then the mileage thing is more of a recommendation. We shouldn't let the garage dictate our field plans.'

'Ok.'

As I wasn't compliant, the office called the car's driver directly, encouraging him to return to Monrovia. I had to explain there was no logical reason to do so, as we were leaving three days later and plans shouldn't be disrupted. I had to say the same to at least five others who got involved to say the car should return to Monrovia immediately. There was nothing apparently wrong with the car at the time.

This is an example of blind trust of an outfit which purports to be professional yet about which all of us will say we are concerned about what they charge and their motive for including items on the bill.

There is a tendency to take the word of others as gospel, especially of someone working in a flashy garage. Back in Monrovia I was told one of the issues with the car was a noisy exhaust when a rattling sound was quite clearly coming from under the bonnet. Yet it was too late: that was the story that people in the office were clinging to.

The evening was spent on a long Skype call to fulfil my trustee duties back home. It worked fine technologically except when Sue, also dialling in via FaceTime from the Lake District, was stationed too near some screaming children, who reverberated hideously through the ether.

I had just enough time to catch the restaurant open and cram some delicious fried chicken into my cakehole.