Migraine-ación

We went to the Bolivian immigration office today again to try and rescue our passports from the iron grip of the buearacracy. Fourth try. No luck.

We dropped off the passports over two weeks ago, and were told to return on May 30 to recover them with our visa extensions stamped and ready to go. I didn't expect them to be done on the 30th, since a whole slew of people have advised us that nothing involving the government here ever gets done on time, but this is getting a little bit ridiculous. We've been waiting for three days now on a single signature from the subdirector of the immigration office. Apparently she must be a very busy woman.

The Migración office itself stands as a living, breathing testament to the pre-computer-paper-trail bureacratic lifeform. No less than twenty five clerks sit in seemingly random positions behind twelve teller windows scattered hapazardly throughout a dingy grey room. Each teller window has a specific purpose, although every task involves several windows. Directions sound like the play by play of a very tedious and boring role playing game. "Go to window seven and pick up nine different forms. Fill each one out in black (not blue!) ink, affix the sticker to the top form, print your mother's maiden name in space provided, sign the line next to the word 'sucker' and roll your D-20 to calculate the likelihood that the teller will actually pay attention to you when you come back the window. Oops! She isn't even there anymore! Right, didn't you know that you need to go to window number eleven now? Oh, stop crying, the line's only thirty people long."

Unsuspecting tourists anxiously approach the windows with slips of paper clutched between white knuckles. Often, while one clerk attempts to locate a passport or a form, other clerks will point and the poor tourist's slip of paper or the computer screens and cackle out loud. So far I've seen quite a few very irate tourists bitching out the clerks, who sit calmly behind their plexi-glass enclosures and smile demurely while repeatedly uttering simple, aggravating, two-word phrases. "Vuelve mañana. Lo sé. Vuelve mañana." (Come back tomorrow....)

To pass the time while we wait indefinitely in line for our own disheartening experiences at the windows, Wayne has started describing the clerks' actions like a sports announcer, and offering his own predictions of their thoughts. It goes something like this... "He's taking the ticket!! Oh, he's going for the computer! Now he's thinking, 'Who the hell is this guy kidding, his passport's not going to be ready til August!'". It does help pass the time. But when some poor kid hands a clerk a slip of paper and the clerk passes it to his assistant and busts up laughing, I really have trouble deciding whether to laugh along with them or grind my teeth.

Our passports are supposed to be ready on Monday, just like they were supposed to be ready last Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and today. Maybe I should start taking bets.