Day 510 of 1827: Important Pieces of Paper

Over the course of the past 500-odd days, I’ve had to overcome many challenges.

I’ve been kidnapped by overcrowded buses; I’ve dealt with passive-aggressive homeowners; I’ve faced off against vicious attack dogs and poisonous spiders.

But today, finally, I went up against my greatest adversary yet:

The bureaucracy.

So, last week, I went to the Thai embassy to get a visa for Thailand. Technically, this isn’t necessary, as US citizens are issued a 30-day visa on arrival, but if you apply ahead of time, you can get a 60-day visa.

Or at least, that was the plan.

I woke up bright and early (I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make!) and caught a taxi out to the embassy. But that part’s boring, so we’ll skip ahead a bit.

The lady behind the counter asked me for my Chilean visa.

Errrrr, ok… you want to see my tourist card? Not sure why you need that, but then, I never was able to make sense out of all this visa nonsense in the first place, so I’ll just assume that you know what you’re doing.

I pulled out my passport and opened it to the photo page…

… and my tourist card was missing.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh… hm.

This is not good. What did I do with my tourist card?

…

Oh no.

When I dropped off my passport to get pages added the other week, I took my tourist card out and put it in my wallet for safe-keeping.

The trouble is, though, those so-called tourist “cards” (more like, “tourist pieces of flimsy carbon paper”) look an awful lot like store receipts when they’re folded up in a wallet.

I must have accidentally thrown away my tourist card!

This is not good — without my tourist card, Chilean immigration won’t let me leave the country!

Incidentally, I also wasn’t able to get the visa for Thailand — apparently they only issue visas for people who have Chilean residency or citizenship. The lady wasn’t asking to see my tourist visa — she wanted to see a residency visa!

This also made no sense to me, but I knew better than to try to have an argument about government policy in a foreign language through a thick pane of bullet-proof glass.

So it seems I have a new mission.

Now… how do I go about getting a replacement tourist card?

A little bit of research turned up a promising result. Apparently there’s a PDI headquarters at Morandé 672 in downtown. Good; looks like I’ve got a new destination!

Or at least, that was the plan.

I spent all morning walking up and down that street, and not only can I say with certainty that there is, in fact, no PDI office at Morandé 672, but I’m not even sure that address even exists!

Rather confused, I metro’d back to my neighborhood, where I remembered that there is a PDI building not too far from my apartment.

Oh good; I can finally make some progress!

Or at least… well, you know.

Apparently, I’m supposed to go to the extranjeria PDI office on the other side of town. And I should expect to wait for several hours; that place is always super busy. Oh, and also, they close at 2pm, so I’m gonna have to show up really early in the morning to make sure I get to the front of the line before they close.

Goodie goodie.

And so, once again, I found myself getting up far too early in the morning to go deal with government-type people.

The place was easy enough to find, and I walked inside to find a warehouse interior lined with cubicles and filled with chairs. And each one of those chairs had somebody sitting in it, waiting for their number to be called.

This is not a promising start.

I spent a few moments furiously brainstorming a way that I could bill somebody – anybody! – for the massive amount of time I was about to waste, failed to come up with any suitable candidates, sighed and took a number from the nearby ticker.

My number was 319.

The display on the wall said 111.

@#$% this; I’m getting some breakfast.

While I was out, I also picked up some cash at a nearby ATM. I didn’t know exactly how much it was going to cost me to get a replacement tourist card, but one thing I was pretty sure of was that the amount would definitely be greater than zero — and I wasn’t about to take the chance that they don’t accept credit cards at the extranjeria office!

I returned about 45 minutes later.

The display on the wall said 160.

Ohhhhhhhhhh this is going to hurt.

So I got in the caja line to pay the fee. Yes, even once I got a number, there was still a line I had to wait in. See, you have to go to a separate counter to pay whatever fee, and then when your number is called, you have to present the receipt that proves you paid for it.

Sure, why not.

30 minutes later, I finally got to the front of the line and explained to the cashier that I needed to pay for a replacement tourist card.

The cashier gave me such an odd look that I had to double-check to make sure I hadn’t suddenly sprouted an unexpected second head.

Apparently, there is no fee to replace a tourist card.

Also apparently, it is considered to be ridiculous even to have to ask. I guess that’s because of the non-existent price list that is hanging exactly nowhere to be seen.

So, I just incurred an ATM fee and pulled out a bunch of money that I’m gonna have to trade back into dollars (and eventually baht) and pay a bunch of exchange commissions… all for nothing!

Argh! Even when it’s free, they know just how to stick it to you!

Defeated, I shambled over to an empty seat and settled in for the long wait.

2 hours later – shortly after the display on the wall reached 200 – my phone battery gave out.

I really need to remember to plug my phone in at night.

Great. So now what?

♪ A thousand bottles of beer on the wall, a thousand bottles of beer…. ♫

Wait, no, gotta stay in practice.

♪ Mil botellas de cerveza en el muro, mil botellas de cerveza…. ♫

I had just reached negative thirty-two thousand, five hundred seventy-eight when the wall display finally reached my number.

Oh, has it been 4 hours already? My how the time flies! You know, they say that prolonged periods of mindless, repetitive thinking causes mental instability, but that can’t be right; I feel perfectly fine. Eeeeeeeeeeehehehehehehehehe! Gizmo caca!

Well, no matter. Finally, I had my chance to put this whole rotten affair behind me! I zipped over to the indicated cubicle and excitedly explained to the agent that I needed a replacement tourist card.

The agent gave me such an odd look that I had to double-check to make sure that the purple leprechaun floating on my shoulder hadn’t suddenly sprouted an unexpected second head.

Apparently, you don’t need to take a number to replace a tourist card.

Also apparently, everybody knows that you’re supposed to go to cubicle 10 to replace a tourist card despite zero signage indicating this, and the security guard and cashier both telling me to take a number when I asked them where to go!

Must. Resist. Urge. To. Throttle. Bureaucrat!

And so, a mere four and a half fracking hours into this little adventure, I got into yet another line, this time in front of the cubicle with the friendly 10 decal on the front.

At least I’m now reasonably sure that I’m in the correct line. That’s progress, right?

15 minutes later, I found myself sitting in front of another agent, explaining that I needed a replacement tourist card.

Why does everyone keep giving me that look?

Apparently, whatever it is that I need, it’s not called a “tourist card”.

But after a bit of Spanish charades, she finally managed to figure out what I was trying to accomplish.

Then she sent me back to the entrance to fill out some forms.

At the entrance.

It’s the only cubicle in the entire building that handles replacement tourist cards… and the forms are on the other side of the warehouse.

There is only one rational explanation for all of this.

I must be in Hell.

Somewhere along the line, I strayed from the flock and had a fatal accident, and now I am to be tormented for all eternity by demonic bureaucrats, being sent on meaningless errands and made to sit and stare at utterly bare and uninteresting walls while the beeping counter taunts me.

Actually, once I accepted my fate of eternal punishment, I found that my spirits were somewhat lifted — at least there was some purpose guiding all of this stupidity!

As it happened, the forms I needed were very easy to find — they were sitting right next to the security guard.

You know… the security guard that I directly asked about replacing my tourist card. Five hours ago….

Anyway, I’ve got my forms; let’s stay focused here.

I just need to fill these out, and… oh, look; there are no pens.

…

Well, of course.

Fortunately, I had my backpack with me, and I always keep a pen in there in case of just such an emergency!

One final trip back to cubicle 10, here we go!

Stamp, stamp, shuffle, shuffle.

At long last, I have attained the fabled replacement tourist card!

Ohhhhhhh, sweet, sweet freedom! I stepped out of the dreary warehouse and into the sunshine, and I felt my very life force returning to my body. I had survived!

—

This evening, while I was chatting with a friend, I pulled out my notebook, and my original tourist card fell out.

Oh, how about that. I never put my tourist card in my wallet in the first place; instead, I put it in my notebook so that I wouldn’t accidentally throw it out.