So, off to Stamp Office, I would go. What could possibly go wrong?
Fortunately, I love downtown Kingston and will tolerate much.
Bearers are here in numbers, bearing the brunt of waiting; things grinding along like rusty gears.
Systematic queuing, like tickets, haven’t reached here, yet. Instead, officials call out names through a small mouthhole–their voices barely audible.
People waiting are obviously unhappy, even though it’s not long past 10, and the office opens at 8:30. Lots of grumbling, muttering and speculation:
“I don’t know what is so slow, them or the system, or both…” One of a group of women vents.
A name is called, a lady approaches the window. Another lady, still waiting, says “You ago mek me mek noise inna here…!” Not a happy camper.
After 25 minutes I hear my name called. I’m happy. I get back my papers: “Tek it to the cashier!” I walk across the hall and present papers and $500. Moments later, a receipt appears back on the counter. Silence. I ask if that’s it. While cleaning her ears, the cashier tells me to take a seat and wait to hear my name. (What infections might have been passed on my receipt?) 😩
More names are called and bearers come forward.
Meanwhile, on the street, men ‘manage’ the few free parking spaces. Empty buckets mark spaces and a ‘consideration’ will get them moved to free the space. The economy is working😏
But, I’m not done. I hear my name again, get my stamped documents and am ready to leave at 11:15. Not, too much time.
The grumpy ladies are still waiting. Changing name is relatively simple.
Maybe, Jamaica News Network needs to do some infomercials like ‘Inside the Stamp Office: what’s going on’. It couldn’t hurt?
Now, I have to trek through the mess of road on Marcus Garvey Drive to get to Spanish Town. Someone is being excessively cruel to us.