Yesterday afternoon unfolded in a way we hadn’t quite expected. Since we hadn’t disembarked in Port Elizabeth, we still had to meet South African immigration requirements, which meant making our way to the makeshift immigration setup in the deck 5 dining room. It was close to 3:00 pm when we wandered down the long hallway, joining the short but slow-moving queue of fellow passengers who were also there to have their passports stamped for exit from South Africa. We assumed it would be a quick in-and-out stop, the kind of errand that hardly registers as a blip in the rhythm of a sea day. But as we’ve learned repeatedly over the years of our travels, assumptions are often the very things that set the stage for unexpected twists.
The room felt strangely quiet for such an official task. Crew members guided passengers to a row of temporary desks where uniformed immigration officers sat, stacks of documents, laptops, and ink pads at their stations. The faint scent of paperwork, leather passport covers, and a hint of impatience replaced the dining room’s usual aroma of meals. We stepped forward when it was our turn, offering our passports with the kind of confidence that comes from having done this countless times before. But almost immediately, the officer handling my passport paused, flipping through the pages once, then again, more slowly this time. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a straight line…never a good sign.
She looked up at me with that practiced mixture of authority and mild annoyance that immigration officials around the world seem to perfect. “Where is your entry stamp?” she asked. I felt that familiar ripple of unease wash over me, the one that has accompanied every bureaucratic snag we’ve encountered during our travels. I assured her that we had entered South Africa in Cape Town just a few days ago and that the stamp should be there, tucked among the well-worn pages filled with years of border crossings. But she shook her head, still turning pages, still hunting for a stamp she insisted was missing.
Time seems to stretch in these moments. You become acutely aware of everything: the shuffle of feet behind you, the officer marking other passengers’ documents, the hum of conversation growing as people begin comparing their own passport oddities. I felt a blend of frustration and worry rise in my chest. Even after all our travels, it’s never pleasant to be held up by an official, especially for something as seemingly straightforward as a missing stamp.
The officer motioned for us to wait while she communicated with a fellow officer who also flipped through the pages of my passport. We waited, trying to calm that small but persistent voice inside that always imagines the worst-case scenario. Had the stamp truly been omitted? Would this lead to some drawn-out process we’d be stuck navigating long after everyone else had returned to their holiday routines?
The fellow officer took my passport with far more confidence, flipping through the pages like someone who had done this thousands of times. And then, almost anticlimactically, he and the original officer concluded that the entry stamp used when we arrived in Cape Town was recorded as an “exit” stamp based on our prior stay in South Africa. Since we’d been to South Africa so many times, it was easy for them to make the mistake. They assured us we won’t have a problem in the future.
The only peace of mind we could glean from the situation was that next time we enter South Africa, mid-June, we’ll easily get a new stamp from having just departed the USA, allowing us a new 90-day stamp.
Within minutes, our passports were stamped, and we were waved onward. The entire ordeal probably lasted no more than 15 minutes, yet it felt like a small saga, the kind that reminds us that even routine travel procedures can suddenly become moments of drama. As we walked back toward the elevators, I couldn’t help but laugh at how travel still finds ways to surprise us. Even after thirteen years on the road, the world continues to test our patience and teach us humility, one faint passport stamp at a time.
Again, last night, we had a fun evening, staying out of our cabin until midnight, only to deal with a one-hour time change when we returned, which cost us an hour of sleep. I didn’t nod off until 2:00 am, awakening this morning at 7:00. A short nap may be on the agenda this afternoon, as we languish in yet another pleasant sea day.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, November 17, 2015:
