–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documents, or they don't have them authenticated, or they are out of date, or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…
