Burro Hall: The Labyrinth of Ineptitude

Did you know that all foreign FM3 visa holders have to register their address with the Mexican government within 30 days of their arrival? Don't feel bad, neither did we. That's possibly because we're stupid, or possibly because not a single goddamn official at the Mexican Consulate in New York, the consulate in Boston, or the border crossing at Matamoros ever mentioned such a thing. Indeed, the whole purpose of subjecting oneself to the frustrating and degrading visa application process is to get your bureaucratic nightmares over with before you get to Mexico. Turns out, it's merely a warmup.

We found out about the registration requirement not through any official channels, of course, but from Victor, the cook at the Spanish school.

The purpose of all this, as we understand it - and, let's be clear, we actually do not understand it - is so the government has your address. This could probably be accomplished by filling out a 3x5 index card with your name and address. Oh, but then what would the bureaucrats do all day? So we emerged from our early morning visit to the immigration office two weeks ago with a thick stack of forms to be filled out in triplicate. Typewritten, of course, which involves a trip to the "escritorio publico," a grubby storefront where, for two bucks a page, someone with an old manual typewriter will type it for you. Also, you need eight pictures of yourself, 4 centimeters square, four head-on, four facing left with your right ear clearly visible, all black and white. The form demands, among many, many other things, all your previous addresses in your country of origin, your mother and father's birthplaces, what you studied at school, and the names and addresses of two people who can serve as references. We put two American classmates, and they put us. We're all in this together.

Most of the first page is taken up by a multiple-choice checklist of your physical appearance, a vocabulary-building exercise because if, like us, you're unsure of the Spanish word for "nose," you're probably going to have trouble choosing which of the four nose-describing words bests suits yours (recto, as it happens). Filling this part out took close to an hour. On the right-hand side of the page, an inch away, are the black-and-white photos of our actual faces, nariz recto and all.

Of course, as we may have mentioned before, we actually live in a hotel, which means we have no fixed address to register. No matter, the Bureaucracy needs to be fed, and so when it’s all said and done we'll be registered with a bogus address and phony landlord: Victor, the Spanish school cook.

Not that we expect it all to be said and done in our lifetimes. Last Monday, we went to turn in our voluminous stack of phony documents. The fact that we were doing this over two months late was an immediate topic of discussion, and we explained that we had spent the first two months traveling extensively in your beautiful, enchanting country. (We hadn’t, but once you start lying to the Bureaucracy, it’s hard to stop.) We were told to return Friday (yesterday) to pick up our certificates. We pointed out that La Señora is flying to England on Wednesday, and so we absolutely needed her visa returned to us by then. No problema we were assured.

Stop us if you’ve guessed already, but Sí, problema. We show up yesterday morning and, rather than receiving our certificates (and again, we still don’t know why we needs these things) we’re presented with a bill for $120 for registering two months late. Having budgeted several thousand dollars for dumb-ass expenses like this, we reached obediently for our wallet. Not so fast, Señor! No, you don’t just pay a fine here. First, you have to fill out Form #16. In triplicate. Separate forms for each of you.

Okay, fine, hand them over.

You must purchase the six copies of Form #16 - we reach again for the wallet - at the stationery store down the street. (He’s kidding, right?) Once you have filled them out, bring them to the bank three blocks away, and there you will pay the fine. Still smiling, but with English-language obscenities increasingly peppering the conversation, we ask if we then return to the office to pick up our documents, since, as we’d mentioned repeatedly, La Señora needed her visa back more or less immediately.

Yes. They will be ready a week from today.

It was at this point that our alter-ego, Mr. Shouty (“Señor Gritando”) arrived, pounding the countertop and demanding the answer to one simple little question: "What the fuckin' fuck?" Our frustration was compounded by the fact that this implacable bureaucrat – whose entire job was to deal with foreigners – didn’t speak any English. Lucky for us, one of us happened to actually be implacable English-speaking bureaucrat – who was muttering, through clenched teeth, the First Rule of Dealing With Implacable Bureaucrats: You catch more flies with vigorous ass-licking than with vinegar. The Bureaucrat, who obviously did speak English but simply chose not to, nodded enthusiastically.

We bought the forms. We filled them out. We brought them to the bank. The bank rejected them because we had crossed out an error on one of the forms. We bought more forms. We filled them out again. We shelled out hard-earned money. We returned to the Office. We took a number. We waited.

The Bureaucrat informed us that La Señora would indeed be able to travel, no problema! All we needed to do was fill out Form #5 (in triplicate, purchased down the street, etc) provide several copies of her passport, travel itinerary, a letter begging permission to leave the country while her visa is held hostage, etc…pay a fee of 231 (yes, 231 – not 230) pesos and, if we got it all done before the Office closes at 2:00 (2:00!) we should be able to pick up her Letter of Permission Tuesday afternoon at precisely 1:30PM. Mr. Shouty had long since left the building at this point, and we stood motionless, slumped against the counter and staring out the window.