I’m a master of procrastination. But nearly two months in, I’m running out of days to push off getting my volunteer work permit. So Tuesday morning I force myself to get my medical certificate, radiological report, affidavits and finger prints done, once and for all.

I did not expect the adventure I got. I started off at the “Village Doctor” where I was told that Dr. K wouldn’t be in until 10am, despite the 8am opening time. I received some particularly cryptic directions to the hospital where I was to get my chest X-Ray done for my TB clearance (skin tests are so last season), and so naturally I ended up in the soiled linens ward. Four stops later (including the back of Food Services), I made it. Manila folders stamped MAMMOGRAM and ULTRASOUND were being doled out, as I was ushered into the changing room, and I think of how far away I am from home, and how lucky I am that this is all silly rather than serious.

“Take everything off your chest.” I changed into the scratchy maroon V-neck and waited in the passage for the technician to bring me into the dark room. “Please remove your neck chain,” she sighed, exasperated, as I unclasped my peace sign necklace and set it in the dip of the chair. I stepped forward, chin to the metal, and with one deep breath was barraged with alien clacking noises from some pre-Star Wars movie. Then, “We’re done here.”

Knowing my way around now, I went back to change, but this time in the closer changing rooms. Stripping down and putting my “soiled linens” in the green plastic basket, I turned around to see the figure of a man staring back at me. Men’s changing room. Pulled a Dan Levy on that one. Can I call you Kitty?

My manila folder in hand, I made my way back through the maze to the Village Doctor. The nurse brought me a coffee while I waited… in a silver mug with DIVA written under a big princess crown. What are you trying to say, lady? The “checkup” consisted of a flashlight in my left eye, a peek into my right ear, a stethoscope to what I’m pretty sure was my liver, and a tongue depressor shoved into my mouth as I was trying to answer the question, “Why do you want to come to SA when all we want to do is go to the USA anyway?”

Finally getting to work was a relief. When I got to my desk by the printer, my black Bain & Co gym back was sitting in a pile of red sand. Hmm. Went to move my bag and it felt so.. light! Unzip and find the first casualty to SA theft – my yellow Nikes. Best “I can’t go to the gym today” excuse I’ve had yet. Once the irony of the situation settles and I can stop laughing, I start to feel a little bit violated, and then just sad. Not sad for me, but for the thief. Who would want my still-Nambian-sandy and smelly shoes?

At this rate, it would be hard for the afternoon adventure to disappoint. Time to go to the police station for affidavits and finger prints. Only for this one, I got warning at least. “Beware,” Ryan had said. “It’s like a refugee camp in there.” As he drew it all out, I stopped listening after “Go past the clothesline” because I was laughing too hard.

I was brave, though, and walked into a waiting room with people smattered across a semicircle of chairs. “Where’s the end of the queue?” I asked. “It’s you,” I got in return. Thanks for that. Twenty minutes later, my birth certificate and police clearance substitutions – two one-page affidavits- were taken care of with two very swift, very forceful stamps. “Do you want to…um… see my passport?” Nehh.

A man with tinted glasses asked me to follow him to the fingerprinting office by grabbing on to the back of his belt to “make sure you find the way.” Thanks “Officer,” but I think I got this. Past the “hole in the fence,” I fill out more forms while another officer inks up his block. “You know you’re really amazing,” he tells me as he looks at my forms. I go to thank him for the compliment but he cuts me off. “You put SA address in US forms and US address in SA forms. Why are you so confused?” Not what I was hoping for. He smushes my right thumb, rolling left to right on the tacky ink, then left to right on the starched paper. My fingers in his grip, I feel like a kindergartener who completely failed the Mother’s Day card fingerprinting project and had to get the teacher’s help so she can take something home to Mom.

Clean up consists of dipping my fingertips into a giant bleach bucket of neon pink rose-scented soap swirling with gray ink leftovers. Good thing I cancelled last week’s manicure, because my nailbeds are permanently caked with black ink. I shower, guys, I swear.

Payment was the best part. I wandered past flower beds, barbed wire, and get a healthy boob grab from a woman not in uniform who I sure-as-hell hope works there. “Sistah, over here,” she says as she pushes me through a passageway – and into a brick wall.Is this the finance department? Thank you, Officer. We couldn’t keep the peace without you.