Us versus the Instituto Nacional de Migración, or How do you say “Bah Humbug” in Spanish?

I am in California now. I left Guadalajara early yesterday morning, almost exactly six months after I arrived. I’ll be heading back in a few weeks, but I think I’m still qualified to blog in the meantime. Part of being a migrant is the occasional trip to the home country, seeing what feels the same and what feels different.

I almost didn’t get to return to the United States. Since my last blog, my visa adventures went from frustrating to heartbreaking. On Monday, I went to the office again, this time with Paco, to turn in the last set of paperwork and payments for the student visa, and with my application for permission to leave the country while everything was being processed. Paco and I waited to speak with a licenciado (person with a college degree) so that I could make sure all my complications would be resolved. We watched as an older American man, cursing in English about the bureaucracy, waited with his lawyer. The lawyer apparently knew one of the licenciados, and he made this clear by a sort of “don’t you know who I am?” routine. The trick worked: they were seen immediately. I seethed and shot these rank pullers dirty looks. I really wanted to say a little too loudly, “I guess I should hire a lawyer if I don’t want to wait!”

When it came to be my turn (an hour later), Paco and I went into the office and sat down at the licenciado’s desk. As I explained my situation, the licenciado informed me, “you can’t leave the country.” My voice started to waver as I inarticulately tried to ask another question. Then the licenciado eventually added, “you can only leave if you withdraw the entire visa application process.” So either I was not going to be able to go to the States and see my family, or I was going to lose all of the money, trips, frustration and time I’d dedicated to getting the student visa. Faced with this decision, I started to cry–not just a little. As I was sobbing and blubbering, Paco tried to jump in and rescue me. The licenciado was clearly unmoved. Another woman in the office offered her advice.

“The problem is that you foreigners think you can just come in here and apply for a visa without knowing anything. Then you think you can leave the country whenever you want without asking us. You have to inform yourself. I empathize with your situation,” she told me sternly. I didn’t believe her professed empathy.

Through my tears, I responded, “look, I’m not making these mistakes because of cultural arrogance. It’s because of ignorance. There’s no information on the website, and nobody told me about these restrictions when I started the process.”

“The law says that ignorance does not excuse you from punishment when you break the law,” she said, and I kept crying. Later, I wished that I had said, “Ok, but if you actually want people to follow your laws, you might want to tell us what they are.” I’m sure this wouldn’t have helped at all, so I guess it’s better than I was unable to form a coherent and snarky rejoinder.

“Some people hire lawyers to help them,” she began. I interrupted, “If I were rich, I’d hire a lawyer too!”, and Paco sent me a telepathic message to shut up before we got kicked out of the office.

I didn’t know what to do, but unable to face not seeing my family, and realizing that changing my flight would be more expensive that paying the fees again (though not by much), I agreed to cancel the process. This meant more paperwork to fill out, and there were more obstacles in the way to authorize my departure. When another unfriendly bureaucrat started telling us that it would be impossible to give me the document I needed to leave the country, I started crying again, this time in front of everyone in the waiting room. It was horribly embarrassing, and I would have been sunk if I hadn’t had Paco there as my advocate. He talked when I could only whimper, and he told everyone “thank you” when I was too angry to express gratitude.

It would have saved me time, money, and emotional well-being if I had never set foot in the office at all. I could have stayed on my tourist visa and started the process in January if I were accepted into the master’s program. I thought a lot about what the woman had said to me: was it arrogance that made me think I could do this without asking? She said that I should have consulted with one of the licenciados before even beginning the process. But I realized that when I first visited, I didn’t even know that there were such people or that you could ask for help. There are no pamphlets, no guidelines, and every person tells you something different, and often the next person you talk informs you that the previous one was wrong, but now it’s your problem.

It wasn’t a total failure, because I did leave the country. When I return, I’ll be issued the same tourist visa after filling a form out on the plane, and then I’ll try again for the student visa. I dread dragging myself back to that office, especially since I made such a scene. I cry easily, but not often in public. Now I’ll have to face all the bureaucrats again, watch the people with lawyers get the VIP treatment, and make the same photocopies and the same payments all over again.

Paco and I were talking about the difference between Mexican and U.S. bureaucracy. I likened it to the difference between torture and a quick death. When Paco applied for a visa, it was a brief, horrific and unfair “no, and don’t ask again.” It was expensive, and it was over in two hours. On the other hand, I made so many visits, talked to so many people, dealt with errors, organized papers, and jumped through multiple hoops only to also get a “no,” but unlike Paco, I can try again (Paco won’t be issued a visa until he has a “strong tie” to Mexico, which we think means “earns a big salary in Mexico”). I think both systems are stacked against people without a lot of money and without legal help.

When I think about couples that are from the same town, or even the same country, I feel like everything must be so easy for them: they have the same native language! They don’t need to visas or passports to meet each others’ families! The sting of these barriers flares up when we go against bureaucracy without success. Back in California, I sit in my childhood home, and I feel Paco’s absence acutely. He’s not here only because of an unfair system that doesn’t see us or our situation. Even though our families have given us our blessing to love someone from a different country, our governments have not.

I know that there were officials who did care and showed concern when they saw me crying: not everyone sees me as just another cow among endless cattle to be processed (turned into hamburgers?). I also know that Paco will someday be eligible for other, non-tourist visas that will likely be more successful. Getting what you need out of a bureaucracy requires persistence and patience (and money), and giving up is the only way to really fail.

I talked about California. “I really do want to see that bridge,” he said. “What bridge?” “You know, that famous one.” “El puente portón dorado?” I offered, “the Golden Gate Bridge?” “But the bridge isn’t golden, it’s red,” he protested. I’d never really thought about that. “I guess it’s kind of an orange-red,” I suggested. “You can call yellow things golden, but not red,” Paco told me. As a little girl, I’d thought the same thing about goldfish. “I’d like a picture of us on that bridge,” he said.

I know we’ll take that picture one day, but I wish it were sooner.

Conquistadores, Coffee and Student Visas

I find it comforting, strangely, to be bogged down with papers and reading in December–it feels normal to me. The cycle of newness, stress, projects, sudden ends–the semester way of life. Of course, it all happened so quickly in this pre-Master’s boot camp.

It’s not over yet, but I’m in the final stretch. I’ve been learning about things I wouldn’t seek out on my own, but the information will help me be a better researcher, I hope. The theory and philosophy behind “social science” isn’t riveting, but it also is something I’d never really pondered until now. I wrote an essay last week about a Spanish conquistador who wreaked havoc on Western Mexico in the 1530s, based on a colonial-era account of his adventures. Although it was hard to understand (imagine reading 16th century English…in Spanish!), it reminded me of why I love history so much: the detective aspect, and the idiosyncrasies that make you feel connected to people who died centuries ago. In the colonial text I mentioned–a letter to the King of Spain–the final sentence read, “Everything I say here is true, and to prove so, I sign my name here.” And the below, the editor comments “[There is no signature].” So we actually don’t know who wrote the letter! How mysterious, strange and wonderful! Of course, besides the geeky pleasure of history, there’s also the uncovering of horrors. The conquistador in question tended to torture and kill, both indigenous people and his fellow Spaniards.

I still have three more essays to write: a book review, to be crafted in perfect, succinct prose to prove that I listened in Advanced Writing; an interpretation of a document–I picked a speech given by an indigenous student at a ceremony a few years ago; and a comparison of various theories and approaches to social science (I plan to write this one hyped up on coffee, pretending that I care).

Besides academic endeavors and sitting around not accomplishing things, I’ve been in the process of getting a student visa. So far, I’ve been to the National Institute of Migration (the government office where these things happen) a total of four times. The first time, I got the information about what paperwork I needed to file–it wasn’t online. The second time, I turned in the paperwork. The third time, I returned to pick up the visa, but I was given a letter saying that the bank statements I’d provided weren’t in my name. Except they were. So I waited for two hours to speak with an official, who agreed with me that the statements were indeed in my name, and told me to come back the following day, Friday, to pick up my visa. I went on Monday instead to give them a little more time, but I was informed that the document still wasn’t ready. Since it’s about a 45 minute bus ride to reach the office, I was pretty unhappy about this, especially since the delay was in no way caused by an error of mine. I hope that the fifth visit will finally yield a visa. It seems particularly unfair that Paco and I, as a couple, have to wrangle with two different countries and their bureaucracies! But as Paco reminds me, they ARE going to give me the visa. That’s the difference.

The Migration office is an interesting place, though. I don’t see foreigners very often in my day-to-day wanderings, but there are plenty to be found at the Migration office. I saw a group of blond Mormons (telltale short sleeve dress shirts), and American businessmen. A young, pregnant woman, apparently East Asian, listened to her Mexican lawyer ramble. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I noticed his gold chain, white socks, brown loafers, pale blue jeans, and his mouth, chewing gum as if the pace of his jaw could expedite the bureaucracy.

One benefit of making the trek to downtown Guadalajara is the Café Estancia. It has Wifi and a place to plug in my laptop, so I can write in my favorite work environment: caffeine fueled, consuming something with sugar, not tempted by the distractions of home, the cat, or other people. It’s not quite the same as my favorite American coffee shops–no weird music or muffins (instead, they serve “brawnies”–brownies!).  There’s a poster on the wall that says “Una mujer es como una buena taza de café: la primera vez que se toma, no deja dormir.”  I think I preferred the bizarre local art that adorned my usual haunts in the States. Still, it helps me revive the glory days of college, the mornings and afternoons spent in coffee shops writing my senior essay.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t continue this blog post, since I actually have to write those essays I mentioned. Luckily for you, your reading ends here!

The shape of a Saturday

Paco had to go to campus today to work on a programming project with his classmates, leaving me with the day to do other things. After I realized that I hadn’t picked up a copy of an article I needed for class, I decided to get the reading photocopied. The research institute is located in downtown Zapopan, a suburb of Guadalajara. I hopped on the bus, irritated to see a kid sitting with his legs up on the seat next to him while others were standing up. Bad manners. At the next stop, a young man with a guitar got on and began to strum–nothing unusual around here. As he strummed, he talked about this song that he had composed, and he philosophized about why we needed to smile, and appreciate other people, and other things I wasn’t really paying attention to. Once he finished talking, he played a few more chords and opened his mouth to sing.

I don’t have enough musical knowledge to say exactly how off-key he was, but this young troubadour’s voice was so dissonant with the perfectly reasonable chords he was playing, that it was almost unlistenable. Obviously, I didn’t know what the tune of his original song was SUPPOSED to be, but I’m sure that whatever he was singing was not what he imagined in his head. It took all my energy not to crack up–after all that build up and philosophy, he was off tune! I looked around to see if anyone else had a pained look or sympathetic upward head movement to psychically influence his pitch. I seemed to be the only one on the verge of hilarity.

When he finished the first song, he thankfully returned to speaking to explain his next number. “We’re going to do a survey,” he said, “what is the thing that is least important to you? Well, if you can think of it and name it, then it is important to you, isn’t it? So this is a song about when we try to forget things.” He launched into another cringe-eliciting vocal display, and I got off the bus before I could hear his pitch for the few coins in our pocket. I imagined that this might be a good scene in the novel I hope to write someday.

After I got my copies made, I decided to get a much-needed cup of coffee. There were a group of high school students eating and making noise in the café, in that way that high school students do, maybe trying to get the most satisfaction out of unsupervised moments, or maybe because freedom is still so new and thrilling that it has to be enjoyed at high volume. The waiter took my order for an Americano (you can’t get brewed coffee in Mexican coffee shops, so an Americano is the next best option).

When he returned with the coffee, he asked me, “you’re not from here, are you?” I affirmed that I was not, and I heard myself say very defensively, “why?” “No reason,” he assured me. “Where you from?” he asked. “California,” I answered. “So you’re a tourist,” he said. “No,” I said, not smiling. “You live here?” he continued. I nodded, surprised at how unfriendly I was being. Having awkwardly but effectively ended the conversation, he retreated to the safety of the bar, and I focused on my unusually bitter Americano (symbolic?) and the book I was reading.

I felt a little bad as I scowled into my book, still wearing my sunglasses. Nothing the waiter had said or asked was all that out of the ordinary, and certainly not offensive. It’s not strange to ask people with accents where they are from. I wished that I’d been a little more friendly. But it also reminded me why it’s hard not to be in my country, where I wouldn’t be of any particular interest at any given coffee shop, where I don’t have to walk around waiting to be asked to explain myself. In the places I’ve lived in the United States, there is so much diversity that you’d have to be an alien to seem really different. There is much more diversity in Mexico than people realize, but it’s not a place where you hear many foreign accents. The only other accent I’ve heard here, besides my own, belongs to the man who sells Chinese food in the market, which he announces in Spanish with a Chinese accent. I grew up EXPECTING to hear accents from my friends’ parents, from nurses and doctors, from cashiers and hair stylists. The first time I heard an American accent coming from the speaker at a fast food drive through, I was 18, and I was shocked.

Anyway, I told the cashier to keep the change when I paid, and I went home.

Riding the bus

I didn’t ride the bus very much before moving to Mexico. Since Paco and I don’t have a car and we live in a very large urban area, learning how to use the bus system has been an essential part of becoming mobile here in Guadalajara. In general, public transportation in Mexico is very extensive and well-used, probably because a smaller proportion of the population owns cars. That said, there is always a lot of traffic!

A bus ride here costs 5 pesos, or about 38 cents. When you pay the driver, he hands you a tiny ticket printed on tissue paper. In fact, signs on the buses exhort passengers to demand their tickets. After amassing an enormous collection of these little slips that invariably ended up in dusty corners of the apartment, I finally asked Paco why the bus drivers insisted on giving the passengers their tickets. He explained that it’s insurance: if the bus has an accident, you will be covered, as long as you have that slip of paper. I’ve been trying to figure out a clever craft project to make use of my tiny insurance policies, but so far they’ve just been one more prey for our kitten, Canelo.

With my ticket in hand, my next objective is to find a seat. I’ve noticed a certain set of bus etiquette here that I’ve tried to adapt to. Most of the time, when people have open seats next to them, they stay in the aisle, even when another person wants to sit down. To me, it seems logical to scoot over, but apparently people are not expected to make that concession. Instead, they shift their knees to the side to let you walk past. I think aisle seats are desirable because they allow you to move toward the exit with less hassle.

But there is a code of gentility despite territoriality over the aisle side. When an older man or woman boards a crowded bus, someone always stands up to allow the señor or señora to sit down. Women with small children also get this treatment. In general, women will be invited to take an open seat before men (Paco is physically incapable of sitting down unless I am already seated).  People are considerate, and I’ve had men offer their seats to me when I was carrying heavy bags. Of course, with my good old U.S. training to reject all offers of help, I said “no” without thinking about it, dooming myself to spend the next half hour trying not to fall down or wound other passengers with the unwieldy bulletin board I was struggling to manage as the bus careened through the streets.

Public transportation here has a lot of character. Drivers decorate their buses as they see fit, and it isn’t uncommon to see a bus go by with the route number and main stops printed in a Halloween-type font on the windshield, or even hand-written with a fluorescent grease pencil. On the fiberglass divider between the driver’s seat and the rest of the bus, I’ve seen images of the Virgin Mary, and prayers to the patron saint of drivers asking for steady hands, good judgment, and protection from unsafe motorists. Other ways to personalize a bus are decorative fuzzy dice or fuzzy mirror covers, lighting details on the windshield, and changing the sound played when someone requests a stop. The “buzzer” can be anything from a piercing screech to a videogame-like electronic blip to a honking horn. It’s fun to wonder what strange noise I’ll hear when I request my stop.

There’s also a certain amount of humor in the stickers and decals drivers affix to their bus. “Soy más cabrón que bonito,” said one, “I’m more of a bastard than a pretty guy.” Today, I saw a sticker that said, “Niñas mayores que 34B pagan pasaje aun sentadas en las piernas.” Basically, it’s a play on the “Children over 4 must pay fare even when sitting in lap,” except it’s not about children.

When a bus driver’s friends get on for a free ride, you can bet there will be some intrigue. This morning, these enterprising friends insisted the driver make a few stops to allow them to run out into the middle of the road where a few plastic bottles of soda had just fallen from an overloaded truck ahead of us. All the passengers watched as they darted between traffic to grab some very bubbly generic cola rolling over the asphalt.

The driving itself is pretty aggressive, and when I’m standing up, less-than-stellar Guadalajara roads can make a bus ride feel like a roller coaster. I’m still learning how to keep my balance standing up. But when I have a seat, and it’s not too hot or humid in the bus, I’m usually a little disappointed when it’s my stop. There’s almost always something interesting going on. People get on the bus with guitars and play rancheras, Christian music, whatever, hoping for a few pesos in tips. Other vendors sell chocolates, CDs, books, and my least favorite, children’s videos with songs to learn multiplication tables. They preview audio and video with portable players. They don’t pay the bus fare, and they are always extremely polite and formal in the little speeches they make to sell their products. Once, a man addressed all of us simply asking for money, since he didn’t have anything to sell. He was more successful than the CD vendors with his appeal to charity.

I’ve taken the wrong bus, or the right bus in the wrong direction, I’ve missed my stop, and I’ve gotten off too early. But in the past two months riding the bus, I have learned a lot about the geography–urban and human–in this city.