Going Crazy? Blame the government.

Today was another exercise in bureaucratic futility. And at times, it made me feel like I might actually become one those raving lunatics one occasionally sees on the TV, shouting insults at government agents that have long since disappeared from sight and retreated back into the safety of their offices.

Let’s start from the beginning. This morning, I awoke bright and early, so as to give myself enough time to meditate, take deep breaths, do yoga like maneuvers, and otherwise properly prepare for what would undoubtedly be another fun-filled day of visiting government offices in Buenos Aires. My mood was optimistic, although with all the prior bad acts and gubernatorial shenanigans I’ve been exposed to around here, it was hard to be blindly so. Still, I tried not to go in with expectations of failure. Instead, I allowed myself the hope that things might actually be resolved today.

We headed out to the Ministry of International Relations. It was there, we had decided, that my DNI (National Identification card) problems would be resolved. Back-story: A few days after arriving here, I went down to the police station to try and renew my Argentine passport. After standing in 2 separate lines for over 3 hours, I finally reached the front of the line and was promptly told by the designated retard at the front desk, that my DNI was not valid. Why? Ah, because it seems that 5 years ago, when I went to the consulate in Los Angeles to renew it, the Consul General himself forgot to sign and stamp it. Aha. In the meantime, I have renewed my passport, presented it for numerous other functions, and never once been told it was not valid. Alas, it seems that someone was finally paying attention, (just my luck!), and realized it had been invalid this entire time. Oodles of fun. I was then told that I would have to resolve this problem before I could apply for my passport. The nice lady neglected to mention exactly how this problem could be remedied, believing instead that the best option would be to let me figure it out on my own. My speculations were that I would have to either get the DNI signed somewhere, or else have another one made. Which brings us back to now.

So we passed through security, rode up to the 8^th floor, and waited to be helped. Here I was met by a very nice woman who seemed to want to help me. Naturally I was suspicious. This is not ever the kind of attitude that one encounters in these kinds of situations. After listening to my plight, she seemed extremely sympathetic and told me that I would, in fact, have to get a new DNI, but that if I went directly to the National Registry, Office of Special Affairs (O.S.A.), they would be more than happy to have a new one made for me in 48 hours. These were after all special circumstances, she explained. Slightly pained at having to spend the money again to get a new document made but grateful for the expedited procedure, grandma and I thanked her and made our way to the next office. I should mention now that by this point it was already 11:00 a.m., and it seemed that the office we were being sent to was open only until 11:30. I have never in my entire life heard of a government office that is open to the public 3 ½ hours a day. Clearly I’ve not spent enough time around here. So we hightailed it there in taxi, and made it there by 11:15. Not too shabby. Hooray for mad cab drivers! I quickly went to the main entrance and asked to be waived through to the O.S.A. The lady at the front calmly explained to me that I had to go down the street to the corner, stand in line, and ask Information where I should go. “I already know where I need to go,” I tell the lady. “No, you must go down the street, stand in line at Information, and they will give you a paper there telling you where you need to go.” At this point I began to insist, a little louder by now, that I was quite well informed thank you, that I did not need to be told by a man at Information where to go, because the nice lady at the Ministry had already explained the whole procedure to me. The lady stared blankly at me for a while. Long enough for me to understand that I would, in fact, have to go down the street to the corner to stand in line and be informed. I was none too happy.

Nonetheless, I went to stand in that line. It was11:28 by the time I made it to the front of the line, for those of you keeping track. When I explained the whole situation to The Man at the front, he told me that I had been misinformed, that he had no paper to give me, and that I should just go to the main door and they would let me in there. My frustration was clearly mounting by this point. I explained to him that I had just been sent to him by the front door people. He then said to me words that I will never forget. He told me that he knew exactly what was happening, that he knew the system like the back of his hand, that he knew “The Truth.” And The Truth, it seemed, was that I would have to go back to the front door. Slinging English curse words left and right along the way, I trailed back down the street to the front door. I approached my lady friend and told her I had been sent back to her. She told me that in fact that was the wrong move. That I needed the paper The Man would not give me, and that I had to go back there. I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and told her that The Man had told me The Truth: that I must be here instead. She kept insisting, and so finally I told her that she would have to escort me over there to explain to The Man that he was wrong, that he had been mislead, and that he should give me whatever little paper it was that she needed. Clearly realizing that if she didn’t accompany me I might actually take hostages, she walked over there with me. Without even speaking to The Man, she took one of his papers herself, wrote down 1^st floor on it, and signed it. Well Jesus Christ, I could’ve done that!

She told me that the other lady, the one at the Ministry, had been wrong. That I would not have to make a new DNI, that I could just have it signed by anyone on the first floor and be sent on my way. Um….okay….So I took myself up the stairs to the 1^st floor, waited in another of the countless interminable lines I’ve still not yet grown accustomed to, and was finally helped. At this desk, I was told that since my DNI had been prepared by the Consul General in Los Angeles, only he could sign it to make it valid. Translation: I would have to get another one. (AHHH!) Many many deep, cleansing breaths later, I managed to explain to this woman that I already knew that, that that was why I had been sent there, that I did not want to waste my time there with her, but rather had to go to the O.S.A. Alas, it was already 12:15. My office had been closed for nearly 45 minutes. Not to worry though, as this lady told me. That was not the office for me anyway. I could only go there if I had a plane ticket showing that I was leaving the country in 48 hours. I would have to go to the Civil Registry, where she warned me there would be “massive lines,” and might possibly receive my new DNI in 15 working days. Might not. She didn’t really know. Well, at least she didn’t claim to know THE TRUTH.

Suffice it to say that the only reason I did not leave that office in hysterical fits of crying, was that I was already planning the bonfire of my passport, DNI, and any other documents that might identify me as an Argentine citizen. In fact, it occurred to me that if the American government would let me, I would gladly present myself in one of their offices and renounce my Argentine citizenship daily. Forget the one time I did it when I swore in as an American citizen. Daily affirmations that I bow down to the powers that be at the U.S. and cast blame, castigation, and hopes of failure on my previous country of allegiance, would do just fine for me. It took me a few blocks of silent fuming before I was even able to tell my grandma what had happened. They had not allowed her upstairs, so she had been waiting patiently downstairs for me. I informed her of my fiery intentions, and she begged me to reconsider. She offered reasons as to why it might be useful for me to have up to date argentine documents. I hardly listened to this logic. Although it did finally occur to me that I am not someone who takes this kind of thing lying down. That I am determined and single-minded in my quests. That I have been through far worse, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some retards in the federal government taint my vision of my entire country. So in that moment it occurred to me that I was not going to go stand in forever lines to get my DNI processed in 15 days. Maybe. Instead, I was going back to the Ministry. At the very least to make my voice heard. Grandma brightened up considerably at the prospect of yelling at someone. So we took another taxi, this time in much less of a hurry, and got back to the Ministry.

When I made it back up to the 8^th floor and found the woman who had helped us before, I politely (honestly I am shocked at the level of politeness I somehow exhibited in that moment) asked to speak to her boss. While she went to get him, we sat down and waited. And waited. And waited. A half hour later she emerged to ask me for the DNI. She took it and disappeared again. Another 20 minutes later, she came out again, this time accompanied by a man I deemed to be her boss. He shook our hands and apologized for the delay, and told us he had been on the phone with both the National Registry, (where I’m guessing they shared their version of The Truth with him as well), as well as the Consul in Los Angeles. Although the Consul in LA was still closed, (it was 8:45 PST), he told me he had come up with a solution. Seeing as how it was unfair for me to have to process the DNI all over again, and pay for it again as well, he would send it over to the Consul to have him sign and stamp the thing. He would then, at his expense, mail it back to him with private mail. He kept emphasizing that he was really trying to help, that he believed I would have the DNI back by next Monday, and that hopefully this would make me able to present my passport for renewal as soon as possible. Maybe it was because I was physically and emotionally exhausted after having spent nearly 5 ½ hours running back and forth. Maybe it was because I didn’t—still don’t—want to lose hope entirely that there is still someone in this country who does not believe the citizens should be treated like cattle. Maybe it was simply because I’m naïve. But I chose to believe him.

It wasn’t until we were on our way out, almost to the elevator actually, that we heard someone address this man as Minister. It seems that we had just been helped, and kissed goodbye, by the Minister of the Exterior himself. My Where’s Waldo of political figureheads continues…