The document from Johannesburg, S. A. properly stamped arrived today.  We took it to the tax office in Mbabane to get it stamped in Swaziland. We were told it goes through four people with stamps.  STAMP! STAMP! STAMP! And STAMP again!  We anticipate a call Monday saying everybody at the tax office with a stamp in their hand has had their whack at it and now we can go back and retrieve whatever shreds of paper are left.

On the way home from Mbabane that drat radar gun got me again driving 110K in a 100K zone.  The cop vacuumed another E60 right out of my wallet finalizing the traffic violation with a receipt of payment putting a stamp on it before putting it in my hand.  Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

Government bureaucrats and cops in Swaziland are not the only stamp happy officials in the world.  Before boarding the airplane in America the customs official took a whack at my passport.  Whack!  Whack!  Whack!  Not satisfied, another customs official in South Africa took another whack at my passport.  Whack!  Wack! And Wack again!  At the boarder of Swaziland after South African customs agents stamped my passport I walked 50 yards to the Swaziland customs officer waiting to stamp my passport anywhere he could find an unstamped place to stamp it again.

After being whacked and stamped in Mbabane at the tax office and by police on my way home we regrouped at Nando’s restaurant before going to the bank across the street.  Inside the bank while waiting for Emmalyn to transact important coordinating business I entertained myself watching the bank tellers stamping away on big papers, little papers, all kinds of papers.  Every paper needed a stamp.  STAMP!  STAMP!  STAMP!

Not all tellers stamp the same way.  Some pound with rapid furry.  POUND! POUND! POUND! Some tellers stamp with feminine gentleness.  Tap~Tap~Tap.  Some tellers stamp with awesome urgency.  BAAM!  BAAM!  BAAM!  Tall tellers stomp more than stamp  STOMP!  STOMP!  STOMP!  Heavy set tellers romp on their papers.  ROMP!  ROMP!  ROMP!  Cagey tellers pounce on their papers.  POUNCE!  POUNCE!  POUNCE!  It was hot in the bank.  Sweaty tellers trounced on their papers.  TROUNCE!  TROUNCE!  TROUNCE!  It was an awesome site.  It was a magnificent site.

From my perspective standing in the bank lobby looking at the long row of tellers behind security walls and glass windows flailing away at paper passing their way, it looked more like a bank of clients in anger management therapy.  I’d have given anything to take just one of them back home with me tonight to swat the mosquitoes so I could get a good night’s sleep.