Well, I am back in Mexico after a spell in the USA. I've started a new job which unfortunately means registering a change in immigration status with the Mexican government. This is not a simple process. So far I have been to the Palacio Federal five times (traveling an hour and back each time to get there). This palacio is more of an unadorned concrete rectangle than say the Taj Mahal or Versailles, but that's how Guadalajara rolls. My trips there have resulted in two scenarios: waiting in line so long I just have to leave or else being given false information that will be used against me the next time I go back.
So yesterday, amid a number of other early morning emergencies, I rushed to get there before 9:00 am. (If you get there after they open, even by 5 or 10 minutes you are absolutely screwed--you probably won't talk to anyone before they close again at noon). But luckily I managed to get into the queue outside the locked doors at 8:45. There were some lost American senior citizens who had found their way from the retiree paradise of Lake Chapala to the big, bad city. Having experienced their confusion on similar visits, I told them what line to stand in, what floor the bathrooms were on, and so on. Boy was that a mistake. Unfortunately the line they needed to stand in was also mine, so I was now subject to their annoying banter for as long as it took to wait there.
"English teacher, huh? You teach Ebonics? You don't teach them to talk like blacks do you?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, good. They think they can talk that way and then they complain they can't get a job! Because they'd rather just chill in their crib. And another thing..."
It was a two hour wait. So I've pretty much sworn off the bond of common fellowship with my countrymen who come to Mexico to live out their golden years. If they come down here to die, from now on I say, let 'em die. Darwin and all that.
Finally my number was called, and I expected to at last pick up my new work visa. The guy looked over my papers, had me sign some other papers, and went into the back office. However, instead of a work visa, he returned with an official letter demanding that I pay $2,400 (pesos) within 10 days or else be deported! This is an unwelcome sum to pay on a Mexican salary. But the agonizing part is that it means going back across the hall to wait in line to get a payment form, leaving to pay at a bank, then bringing the bank receipt back to the Palacio Federal to wait in line to prove I've paid it, then waiting at his window with the notification that proof of payment was accepted.
I tried to argue with him that two separate immigration officials had independently assured me that this fee was no longer being charged. (Both the lady that had given me the wrong forms to fill out and the lady who refused to admit that she lost my passport told me of this). He shrugged, took a bite of his candy bar, and gave a bored explanation of how, due to 'mala suerte' I had come in after the new law was passed, but before it actually took effect, causing them to re-evaluate my application.
A new coworker of mine mentioned getting through immigration by pulling the ugly American--demanding to talk to a supervisor, yelling, etc. after which the problem was cleared up within a matter of minutes. But the thing is, I'm pretty sure he's also a native Spanish speaker. For me as second language learner, high-stress situations are very hard to communicate in. I could maybe achieve a primal scream as I gouged the bureaucrat's eye out with a pen, but that would be about it. I can barely express myself in English when I'm this angry. After I left I was able to compose a quite flowery and savage denunciation of the INM in Spanish as I walked down the street, and I'm sure this greatly impressed other pedestrians.
