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It’s just after 15:00 on a Wednesday afternoon when I arrive at the main Oshoek-Ngwenya border post between Swaziland and South Africa with my two children, aged seven and nine.
The car park isn’t thick with cars and the queues are around 10 people deep at each window of the three home affairs officials on duty.
I have unabridged birth certificates for both children and their father has provided two separate affidavits giving his consent for me to take them out of the country. He’s provided dates of departure and re-entry and even had a copy of his ID certified.
Everything is in order.
But on the other side of the bulletproof glass, home affairs official David Phiri is suspicious.
He checks the children’s details, painstakingly cross-referencing the passports and birth certificates. Then he checks them again. And again. And asks where the children were born – a strange question, as this detail is in black and white on their birth certificates and passports.
He then consults with his colleague – the two scrutinise each detail together. Finally, the passports are diligently stamped. It’s been around 40 minutes since we arrived at the window.
But we had it easy. At the window next to us, a couple with three teenage boys – one is their son and the other two are not – are travelling to a Boy Scout convention. An unabridged birth certificate was issued when their son was born, but the format is different to those being issued now. They are clearly in for a long wait.
A young Mozambican mother tells me she has been there for hours. Her daughter’s birth certificate is in Portuguese and needs to be translated. But there are no guidelines as to how this must be done and nobody can tell her. She’s not sure how they let her through the first time around – or whether they’ll let her back into South Africa.
Two young mothers, each with a toddler, say they are confident that their children’s documents are in order.
“It [was] a big problem. But I have got everything now. She [has] too,” one says, gesturing to her companion.
At the arrivals side of the border in Swaziland, the atmosphere is tangibly more relaxed. The officials smile and even look you in the eye and the queue moves at lightning speed.
But I have a problem here, too. In the confusion, the South African official at departures didn’t stamp one of the passports. So, it’s back to the South African side. Phiri is unapologetic and irritated. The queues have extended out of the door now, but we are let back in and get the stamp – this time after only a few minutes of scrutiny.
The Boy Scouts have been moved aside.
“We’re just waiting,” says the father. “They just don’t know what’s going on.”
