[It’s a long road that has no turning. Here’s the end of our quest for temporary residency permits in Mexico]
We went to our appointments the next day, and I shook Omar’s hand like a pump handle until he made me stop. I went first while my wife cooled her heels in the waiting room. Literally. They have air conditioning.
I got a “Tale of Two Cities” moment. To Have and Have Not. Your interview is held in one of those rows of glass cattle chutes that gummint offices love. The glass is not between you and the agent, though, like in the US. It just separates all the interviewees from each other. On my left, there was an American woman, dressed like a common streetwalker, with yarn hair, giant fake eyelashes, and an attitude that would make Joe Isuzu seem taciturn and forthright in comparison.
Me? I just nodded and smiled at Aida, the pleasant clerk who was helping me. I had my giant binder filled with written proof of everything that has ever happened in my life, from conception to the hope of resurrection. Next door, she had nothing, just kept telling the clerk to give her a resident card, and hurry up, because she used to have one, but she lost it. Over. And over. And over again. She also stood up, six different times, without any explanation, and went in the ladies’ room, leaving the clerk sitting there mystified.
Aida arrived at a hole in my paperwork. It was some form I was supposed to download from their website that summed up my (electronic) interactions at the immigration desk at the airport. I think her finger was lingering over a button that opened up a chute under my chair that ended up in the Rio Grande somewhere while she asked for it.
I mumbled and made puppy eyes, and she took pity on me. She called up the form on her screen, and filled it out for me. She later did the same for my wife. Aida, if you’re reading this (I know you’re not), we love you.
There was less love on display in the next chute over. After the sixth trip to the john, the clerk called over a very stout looking gent. He spoke pretty good English to the candidate next door, so I don’t have to guess what was being said. Get out. Not out of the office. Not out of the city. Out of the country. Now. Get out and start over. I was mildly disappointed. I’d hoped to see the Rio Grande button in action, but she left in a huff before they could press it.
We’d read on the internet (har har) that there was an elaborate dance to pay the fee for your residency card. It’s not cheap, about $650 per person, depending on the exchange rate. You were supposed to get a ticket, and then go to a nearby bank, belly up to the ready teller outside and take out close to 12,000 pesos, run to the human teller inside with your bushel of banknotes, pay the fee, show the ticket, and then go back to the INM office with your receipt. As is often the case, the internet rides the information shortbus. They have a credit card reader right at each clerk’s counter now. Easy.
Then you’re told to go home and wait. I suppose they still could still have changed their minds and told us to: Get out. Not out of the office. Not out of the city. Out of the country. Now. Get out and start over. But they told us by email to come back the next day, to get fingerprinted, photographed, and write our signatures. They issue the cards right then and there, which look like a driver’s license, but aren’t.
The clerk making my license had to ask me a few questions, and unlike everyone else in the line, she told me to stay seated for my picture, perhaps because she didn’t want a picture of my belt buckle. She asked me if I spoke Spanish. I hit her with the usual, “Estoy aprendiendo espanol poco a poco.”
She didn’t miss a beat, and said, in Spanish, “Good. Then learn Yucatecan.”
I said, “Yo entiendo una palabra en yucatecan ya” ( I understand one word in Yucatecan already).
“Que?”
“Xix,” I said and wiped my face comically (sounds like sheesh, and means crumbs).
Both clerks within earshot belly laughed. It wasn’t a good joke, of course, but the gringo had made a joke in a foreign language, in a foreign language, and that was enough for them. They gave us our permits.
The card might turn yellow in my wallet, and eventually expire, but the laughs will stay evergreen.
4 Responses
Yarn hair. Heh.
I’ve heard that Mexican Spanish has diverged somewhat from Castillian. Now you’re telling me there’s at least one local dialect. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m only mildy so. Beats the heck out of needing to learn Somali when moving to Minneapolis. I assume immersion will speed up the process of becoming at least functional in Yucatecan.
Now you can finally relax, and regale us with screeds about the Mexican equivalent of snout houses. 🙂
Hi Jed- Our Pimsleur tapes instructed us to call it castellano, not Spanish, while in the Yucatan, but I don’t know how out of date that info is. No one calls it that here anymore, if they ever did. The Spanish who came here were all from Castile, so it made sense, I guess. The Yucatecan language is what they spoke here before the Spanish showed up. Many people speak it as their first language, still, although not so much here in the city.
I will bore you all with Yucatan architecture, of course. An entire civilization without vinyl siding. Paradise.
I see I’m guilty of being sloppy. After a bit of reading, perhaps I shouldn’t even call Yucatecan a dialect of Mayan. I’m not a linguist, after all. I’m reminded of a comment from a co-worker who grew up in New Mexico. She said they speak Castillian, not Mexican. That isn’t the only time I’ve heard mention of the distinction. But apparently, there are some who think this is an important distinction.
She is technically correct. Of the different dialects or languages spoken in Spain in 1500, Castilian became the preferred one in the New World. Even today, five hundred years later, Spanish/Castellano is not the only language spoken in Spain. Basque. Galician/Gallego in Galicia. Catalán in Catalonia/Barcelona. Julio Iglesias had a big hit, Song to Galicia, which he sang in both Spanish/Castellano and Galician/Gallego Canto a Galicia.Lots of bagpipe music in Galicia. Because I worked in Argentina, I got accustomed to Castellano/Castillian. But here in the US, very few have ever heard of Castellano.
I was taught some words of indigenous languages in Peru—Quechua—and in Guatemala–Kekchí. Which is one of about 15 Mayan languages. The rig workers in Guatemala all spoke Kekchí, which is where I learned it. One time I and a rig worker were replacing a piece of rig equipment. The process was not going as easily as I had anticipated. In frustration, I shouted, “Milaná!” (roughly equivalent to “A la gran puta.”)
The rig worker replied: “De donde es Usted?” (Where are you from?)