Just got back from Hell on Earth (or, as the government persists in calling it, Home Affairs). What a fucking nightmare.
Now, everyone who knows me knows that I'm ever so slightly (read: to the point of psychosis) obsessive compulsive about, you know, organisation, cleanliness, that sort of thing. Therefore, spending an hour - minimum time it takes to accomplish anything in that vacuum of efficiency - in the kind of place that asks you to deposit your valuables into an empty beer box while you step through the metal detector...well, it really does my head in.
Swiftly was I robbed of any delusions I might have been clinging to regarding anything along the lines of a 'Q Here' sign. Bugger that, I'd settle for an actual queue.
The ninth circle of hell is reserved for those of us who dare request the issue of an ID document. Enter, the fingerprinting station. As if having my digits blacked and then plunged into the nausea-inducing bucket of cleansing gel wasn't bad enough, my happy little fingerprinting technician couldn't begin the process until he'd fiddled around on his phone and then balanced it on the counter, where it proceeded to blare Gospel music at me. Jesus loves me? Oh no, I rather think he does not.
Last but not least, please note that no gifts are 'excepted' at the Wynberg Home Affairs office. From this I assume we are to conclude that all gifts, without exception, are accepted? Maybe if I'd slipped someone a fiddy, I'd have been in and out before you could say 'corruption'.
EDIT: Well, colour me surprised. Home Affairs just SMSed me to acknowledge receipt of my ID application and to provide me with a reference number. Miracles do happen...
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