September 27, 2007
Remember how I waited four hours the last time I was at the immigration offices? This time it was five. My experience was as follows:
11:00am: Arrive at immigration offices (Ministerio Interior)
11:00-11:30: Wait in line to get a number for another line.
11:30-11:35: Argue with the lady handing about the numbers which was the next step. The debate was whether I needed to be in the line for Visas or Stamps. She said, “Visas,” and I said, “I already have a visa, I need a stamp on my passport now.” Then she proceeded to notify me that I had to wait in the Visa line because they would give me an “Orden de Pago,” or payment order. I would need to take that payment order to the special bank that works with immigration offices and stand in line there to pay for my visa. Once I had proof of payment, only then could I get the stamp on my visa.
11:30-1:45: Wait outside on the grass outside of La Moneda reading Newsweeks that my mom sent me. This is where I was, it’s quite nice especially now that it’s spring:
1:50: Sprint back to the immigration offices so they don’t lock me out. The doors close at 2.
1:50-3:30: Still waiting
3:35-3:45: I finally had my turn with the lady at the Visas window. She told me that since I was a U.S. citizen we didn’t have to pay for the visa (hallelujah, no waiting in line at the bank and no $80 dollar charge!). But, WTF, why didn’t the lady handing out the numbers know that?!? She’s supposed to send people to the right line, it’s HER JOB. Her only job. I showed her my U.S. passport and my visa papers and she had still said I needed to pay. Anyways, I conversed with the Visa lady who told me that now I could get my passport stamped and I’d be kosher, as long as I had a few pertinent documents…ummm, what documents? I needed proof of activities to be performed in Chile and documents that stated I was able to financially maintain myself. I had the financial documents of my husband’s salary because we had needed those to apply for the first part of the visa way back in May and I carry all my important visa papers around in the same folder. So they just happened to be in there. But, I had nothing stating what I do here in Chile. Was I supposed to have my bosses write a letter stating that I’m online all day long writing stories and answering emails? I wasn’t quite sure what the woman meant.
Think fast Kyle!
“Ummm, I don’t do anything here in Chile. I’m a housewife. So do I need papers to prove that?” Little white lie. What the government doesn’t know doesn’t hurt them. I’m strong believer in tax evasion.
I feel like I’m not a very believable liar, but she bought it. I guess it’s not a stretch. I’ve had lots of people assume that if I married a Chilean, he obviously must be a rich Chilean. I mean, it’s logical…every gringo has boatloads of money and of course we would never marry below us. That is why I married Seba and we now live in a beautiful mansion in the nicest neighborhood in all of Santiago, Estacion Central, where there’s neighborhood delinquents’ graffiti on the door that we don’t bother painting over because we know they’ll just re-do their handiwork the next night.
So anyways, the woman then tells me that I’ll need a notarized document signed by my husband saying that he plans to support me. But she gets a very grave, scared look on her face when she tells me I’ll have to get that and come back tomorrow to wait in the Stamp line to finish up the rest of the paperwork I need. I supposed she seemed frightened because a lot of people probably go ballistic when she tells them that. Then with a conspiratorial beckoning of her finger, she motions me closer.
Government Lady: “Do you have a baby?”
Me, confused: “Perdon???”
Government Lady: “Bring a baby with you, that may help you jump to the front of the line.”
Smile and nod, slowly back away. She’s crazy; she may blow a fuse at any minute.
Ok, now where can I steal a baby?
No, stealing is unnecessary. Seba’s friend’s is pregnant. This baby is surely the next messiah; he/she would definitely get me to the front of the line. Can I wait six months to complete my visa? Nope, I’d be an illegal alien in this country. Again. It’s not the danger/risk of being deported that comes from being illegal that worries me. It’s the fact that to un-illegal yourself you have to stand in all these damn lines again. Alright, bringing a baby is out.
WAIT! I was about to walk out the door when I remembered that I had cajoled the number doler outer into giving me a number for the Stamps line as well, since I still didn’t really believe the lady who said I needed to get a number for the Visas line! Would they have passed that number already? Go back and check…nope. There’s still another hundred numbers before they get to 337. Would these people turn me down because I don’t have the right documents notarized? Oh well, only a hundred numbers is worth waiting to find out if it means I won’t have to come back and wait another five hours the next day.
3:45-4:30: Wait, while the numbers before me get called…and skipped over. By this time too many people have either given up and left or thrown themselves out of the window out of desperation.
4:30: It’s my turn. “I need to get my visa stamped, I have all the papers I need,” I lie nervously. I hand her my envelope full of documents and pray she doesn’t realize that there’s nothing notarized inside.
Government Lady Dos: “What do you do in Chile?”
Me: “Nothing, I’m married.”
Government Lady Dos looks over my papers: “Ok, we don’t need proof of that.”
How convenient! She rifles through all the paperwork again, gives them a second glance again and looks up at me. Oh no! She’s discovered my secret…I’m not notarized!
Government Lady Dos: “Who are you married to?”
Me: “ummm, Senor S.N.L.L.”
Government Lady Dos, impatient now: “Well what’s his nationality?”
Me: “He’s Chilean.”
Goverment Lady Dos with eyes widening: “REALLY? How did you two meet?!?”
I tell her the story and suddenly she’s calling over her supervisor asking him to quick run my name through his computer and check. Yep, everything’s good, STAMP, STAMP, sign here, another stamp, sign again. Ok thank you so much, here’s the documentation you need, you can now leave and entry the country freely as well as work if you’d like.
These people take care of their own. I bet you twenty bucks if I had told her I was married to any other nationality she would have told me to come back tomorrow and the next day….and the next day…until I eventually left the country out of hatred for the Chilean immigration system.
4:45: I practically skipped out the door! I was so happy to be done with paperwork and waiting and long lines and government employees! I got everything over with and I didn’t even need to steal a baby to do it. Then I glanced at the documents she had handed to me on my way out.
YOU HAVE THIRTY DAYS TO:
1. Register with the International Police. You will then be given documentation to apply for Chilean ID.
2. Apply for your Chilean ID at the Registro Civil.
FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN BLAH BLAH BLAH LOTS OF BAD STUFF.
So I have to go wait in line at Policia Internacional which is not as bad as immigration services but it’s still horrible. There they’ll give me more paperwork in order to permit me to get my Chilean ID and I’ll need to go stand in line at the Registro Civil, which is even worse than Immigration Services. OMG, by the time I’m done with all this crap we’ll be ready to leave for our trip around the world.
September 25, 2007
Do I look tired? Good, because I am. Actually tired is an understatement. The bags under my eyes make me look like I’m on drugs. I’m not. Those purple beauties were a gift passed down to me by a caring father.
I have been running on 6 hours of sleep a night, plus a 30 minute nap in the middle of the day when I take my “lunch break.” Oddly enough I used to do the same thing when I worked an office job. During my lunch hour I’d go out to my car, set my phone as an alarm, and pass out. The best part is that I worked at United Soccer Leagues, located in FL, right above a social security office. My Jeep Wrangler was the oldest, crappiest (hottest) car in the world and it didn’t have air conditioning. So I’d nap with all the windows down praying for the cool breeze that never came, just waiting for the day when I woke up next to random old man who’d left the S.S. offices and gotten into my car by mistake. I’m telling you, there were some characters walking around that parking lot!
Anyways, back to my lack of sleep. I know for some of you that’s a good night’s rest! I’m not like you people. Six hours is a nap for me. I need at least 10 consecutive hours to feel well-rested. And considering the fact that just three months ago I was sleeping an average of probably 14 hours a night…this is sheer madness! I hope I get used to this whole waking up early thing, it’s kind of a foreign concept to me. But I do like being busy and I like what I’m doing. It’s just hard to keep my eyes open while I’m doing it.
September 24, 2007
This past weekend S. and I were out on a walk. On our way home we have to pass two Chinese restaurants, and outside one of them was an old man. Let me be clear about one thing. We smelled him before we saw him. He was hunched and frail looking, his layer upon layer of clothes all hung off as if he were nothing more than a human hanger. His face was black and dirty but his eyes were piercing. They were hungry. With a beer tucked under one arm he stood at the doorway of the Chinese restaurant looking in. As people walked past him, he made eye contact but he didn’t beg for spare change. The smell of fried wontons and Mongolian beef was so strong in the air that my stomach rumbled. I could only imagine what the odors were doing to this gentleman who hadn’t eaten in days.
I asked my husband for change. He didn’t have any, neither did I. We were both in workout clothes that didn’t even have pockets. The only item we carried between the two of us were the house keys.
I felt my eyes welling up with tears. He looked so hungry. S. trying to make me feel better said, “He would’ve just spent your money on more alcohol anyways.” I didn’t care. S. then pointed out, “You’d just be fueling the habit that put him on the streets to begin with.”
At first I thought he was right. Maybe I would’ve just been wasting my money in trying to help the old man. But after arriving home I came to a conclusion…
Who are we to judge?
If I were living out on the streets, in the cold, with no walls to protect me from the wind, I too might opt for a strong drink to warm me up and make me forget for a while, rather than a bite to eat that would only leave me feeling hungry again in just a few short hours. If I give him money does that mean he’s obligated to do with it what I want him to? Of course not. People always judge the homeless or the needy for what they spend their money on. When I was younger, at Christmas time, my brother and I used to choose wish lists from families that were not well off and had registered with the Santa Claus Girls to be “adopted” by someone who would buy some of the presents they had asked for. One year I showed the list I had chosen to a friend. She asked me with outrage, “Why would a poor kid ask for Nike tennis shoes? He should be asking for food and clothes that he actually needs!”
Maybe that little boy wanted shoes that would make him feel like the rest of his classmates. Maybe he looked up to Michael Jordan and wanted to be like his idol. Maybe having new shoes would give him a new dignity.
You really can not possibly know the motivations behind people’s desires unless you have walked a mile in their shoes. The saying is cliche, but it always rings true.
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