Chime Purgatory

–Are you waiting for them to open?

–Yep.

–You as well?

–Yeah.

–Were you the first people here?

–No, these Japanese guys were here when I got here.

–Nobody else though? 

–I don't know, not that I saw.

–Have you been here before?– Juliana was trying to figure out what to expect when the doors opened an hour and a half later.

–Yeah, I was here in the airport last year at this exact office of the Polícia Federal to get my Carta de Trabalho, it was a total mess. A worker came out, and only gave out about ten numbers, the first people that got ‘em got ‘em. Total mess.

Juliana sighed, realizing her entire day might be spent here and we might accomplish nothing.

I looked around at the forty forlorn people who were also looking at each other, hoping that we wouldn't become enemies over the next few hours.  Having come two hours early, it seemed like we would at least get in the door, but getting in the door is no guarantee of success.  

In fact, it seems that more than half of the people that get through the door into one government agency or another here in Brazil end up without all the right documents, or they don't have them authenticated, or they are out of date, or in the wrong language.  And it seems like the Brazilian authorities have done their best to examine all the documents in the universe and choose to require the ones that are the most difficult to procure.

Juliana is a young Brazilian with little to no patience.  Unable to contain her inquisitiveness and overwhelmed by uncertainty, she started talking again to the red-haired fellow again who was Brazilian as far as I could tell.  I would later understand that the only people in this struggle truly were non-Brazilians.  

After a moment the man on our other side chimed in mentioning that he had some problems in the past with this agency.  He was a neurosurgeon from Guatemala who could only come one day a week because he was doing his residency at Restauração, the local trauma hospital.  At the mention of a Central American nation, the red-haired fellow then broke into a Spanish that was familiar to me, even more so when he mentioned that he was from Managua.  He and the Guatemalan broke into conversation and before I knew it we were talking in Spanish.  I was happy to use Spanish because I had a much better vocabulary for the injustices of bureaucracy than I did in Portuguese.  

Juliana however had put on a bit of a dejected face, realizing she was now the minority in her own city.  It begs the question of whether or not an airport really belongs to the culture of the city in which it is located.  After discussing food prices in Nicaragua, cultural tourism in Guatemala, and difficult big jet landings in Tegucigalpa, we came back to the topic of Brazilian bureaucracy.

It was now about thirty minutes until the door opened and I could barely stay in my seat with all the people walking up to the door to read the posted signs, and then back to their seats.  The act of going to read the signs was part of the unspoken process of putting your name on the figurative list, whether you knew it or not.  Unable to take it any longer, I spoke loudly enough to the red-haired Nicaraguan so that the Japanese men could here me.

–I think it’s time to make a line. – I stood up and all eyes in the waiting area moved to me. –Let’s make a line.

The Japanese men did not object, I anticipated this.  There was something of a mad rush to create the line and somehow I ended up behind some people who clearly arrived later than we had.  Two men from French Guiana were tall enough, serious enough, and black enough to dissuade anyone from negating their claim to have been there before anyone else.  There was a general tone of respect save for the French Guianese and we discussed arrival times with some measure of sympathy.  I started conversing with an older fellow from Portugal who mentioned that the clerk inside was his neighbor, so of course I asked for her name for later schmoozing.

–Sandra. – He said, and I gave him a wink.  We were in it together.  He complimented my Portuguese and I told him of my love for Lisboa, Sintra, and above all Algarve.

Finally, the doors opened and the worker was very curt with us.  She said there would only be ten spaces for unscheduled visitors.  I was the ninth person in line until another Japanese appeared, claiming to be part of the group ahead of me.  Deception not being a typical trait of the Japanese, I nodded approval.  Others were not so understanding.  I realized then that Sandra was, for everyone but the Portuguese and I, a ruthless representative of an overly bureaucratic state.  To us she was Sandra, neighbor and human, and that was enough to get us through the event.

Later on, inside the tiny room full of papers, stamps, staples and antiquated computers, I overheard something that was almost frighteningly in line with my expectations.  The Guatemalan neurosurgeon who works at Restauração was having quite a problem.  He had waited more than a year to renew his papers with the Federal Police and he was making a plea to not have to start the process anew.  Starting anew would an extra week and a few visits to sundry government offices.  That’s when I overheard the following conversation.

–I'm not approving your documents to be clear, but what a coincidence that you work in the same hospital where he is having surgery.  Could you check on him?  And I'll get your number?

It became apparent that she was talking about a family member who had went in for surgery recently, maybe last night, and they hadn't heard about his condition yet.  The absurdity of the situation was on display for everyone, but it seemed not to be a laughable matter, culturally speaking, so I remained quiet.

–Of course, I’ll see what I can do.  My number is 88 59 58 94.  Call on Friday.

–Much appreciated.

Minutes later he got flat out rejected and was told to go pay the fees at the agency down the street and wait 24 hours for the payment to go through.  I couldn’t help but think that he might shove his finger in that guy’s brain if he gets the chance.  I never saw him again after he stormed out the door.

----------------------------

The second stop of the day was the Receita Federal.  There I sat listening to the chime in the waiting room, a two-tone chime clearly attempting to imitate the type of waiting room that might precede St. Peter and his pearly gates.  There was the chime again.  A sneeze, a yawn, another chime.  Time slowed to the rhythm of the intermittent chimes. 

I wondered if I preferred the chimes, a sign of progress, to the uncertainty and madness earlier in the morning?  The possibility of total chaos and a potential fistfight?  I am still uncertain.  

There was much less to talk about in this waiting room on account of the chimes, no ambiguity, no frustration.  The masses were quelled.  Another chime.  And another.  I made three new friends at the airport and none in at the Receita Federal.  I started conversation with a Brazilian information technology specialist but as I asked his name his number came up on the screen and I was instantly a figure of his past.  I know him only as VTC 81.

The codes and numbers kept flashing: CFF 61, VTX 104, VF14, VCB 17.  Another chime. VNJ 42.  Another chime, VCA 20.  The woman next to me sneezed again but no one gave her blessings.  The risk is too great.  Even an instant is enough to miss your number and be transfixed in chime purgatory.

VTC 82.

VNJ 43.

VCB 18.

CCF 40…