Trámite – May 31, 2006

The Mexican term for paperwork is trámite. It is a word that I find easy to remember because, to me, it sounds like it falls somewhere in between the English words trauma and tragedy. And, in my experience, this is exactly what one feels when dealing with paperwork in Mexico; traumatized and tragic. This week has been the week of trámite.

As some of you know and some of you don’t, I’m deep in permit hell. When sending our application to dig this year off, Harold called the people who review them and asked if they wanted the images in digital format. “Digital format? Why would we want that! We can’t do anything with that! No, just send paper copies, please.” So we did as asked. And, of course, you guessed it, our permit was rejected based on the absence of digital images. So, we have to gather everything together, get the digital images put together, and resubmit the proposal. Then, we twiddle our thumbs until these people next meet (could be next week, or maybe next month…), and review the resubmission. Keep your fingers crossed!

In the midst of these negotiations, I decided that the unexpected time off afforded me the perfect opportunity to go to the TELMEX office and attempt to get a phone line put in so I could attempt to get internet service at my house. What is TELMEX? Those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of making their acquaintance may need some context. TELMEX is the telephone monopoly in Mexico. It is the best example of why monopolies are a bad idea that I have ever encountered. You are about to see why…

Just an aside, you are going to read the story below and think I’m exaggerating for the sake of the story. But trust me. I’m not. I was in the TELMEX office for SEVEN HOURS!!! Yes, that is seven. I offer the cliff notes of the day below. Those of you who have had your own dealings with TELMEX, feel free to support my assertion of their awfulness in the comments…

In my experience, the earlier you get in line, the shorter the line will be. I expected that the lines at TELMEX might be epic by midday, so I very intelligently went first thing in the morning. I took a number (like at the deli counter). I took a seat. They were on number 59. I had drawn number 63. What luck! Thank goodness I got up early! And there were five people at five desks helping people! This wouldn’t be too bad….

Another aside. I now suspect the 59 represented the number of people they had assisted during the month of May. When I left the office seven hours later, they had made it to number 73. Yes, five people had managed to help 14 people over the course of seven hours.

A mere 45 minutes after I took my number (yes, I brought two books), they made it to number 63. I went up to the open desk, and Mr. Bureaucracy kindly offered me an empty seat.
“How can I help you?” says Mr. Bureaucracy kindly and smoothly.

“Well,” say I, “I would like to have high speed internet in my house, but I do not have a phone. So I think I need to have a phone installed and then get internet.”

“Yes, yes,” agrees Mr. B., “You do need a phone. So where do you live?”

O.K., so here is the thing. My house is in a pretty rural location. As a result, I don’t have an address. The dirt road in front of my house has a name, and the house is in a town, but I have no house number. I asked Zee about this the night before I went to TELMEX. She said, “Oh, most people in Tonancintla don’t have house numbers. And since you are the only house on this side of the street it especially doesn’t matter! I have a house number, but to do that, I had to go to the Presidencia [the mayor’s office] and hire surveyors to come out and measure and assign my house a number.”

So I hand Mr. B. a form that I’d filled out for a new telephone line that listed my address as Calle Alvaro Obregon S.N. (the S.N. standing for “without number”), Tonancintla. This is the appropriate way of listing an address without a number.

Mr. B. squints at the form. I know I’m in trouble from the look on his face.

“Without a number! I’ve never heard of such a thing! All houses have numbers, you silly girl!”

“Uhm, well, yes,” say I, “That is what I thought, too. But my house doesn’t have a number!”

“Ridiculous! Your house must have a number.”

We go back and forth about this for approximately 30 minutes. He says, “Well, I’ll just have to get the plan of Tonancintla and we will have to find the number.”

This sounds like a fine idea to me, and I say so, applauding him on his excellent problem solving.

But wait. No. This would require him to get up from his desk and walk 15 feet to where the plans are kept. On second thought…

He smiles nicely and tells me that someone on my street must have an address. I admit that yes, my neighbor has a number on her house across the street.

“Well,” says Mr. B., “What is that?”

Stupidly, I didn’t have it. But I did have her name. And I had her phone number. And this is the phone company… So I suggest that maybe we could look in the phone book?

Mr. B. laughs at the stupid Gringa and patiently explains that in Mexico, many people have the same name. I admit this may be true, but explain that my neighbor is an American, and that on my street of five houses in the small village of Tonancintla, there may not be too many people of the same name.

He laughs again. Stupid American! “There are many Americans living here, senorita, this is not at all practical.”

“Oh, of course, how stupid of me. Then perhaps we could look at the plan?” I say hopefully.

“No,” says Mr. B., “What you need to do is drive back to Tonancintla and get the number of your neighbor off the front of her house and come back here.”

I sigh, realizing this is not a battle I am going to win and agree to drive back to Tonancintla.

He takes pity and says, “When you come back, just come straight to me, do not start in line again.”

“Oh thanks,” say I, ever so gratefully.

I get in the truck. I drive back to Tonancintla. I write down Zee’s address. I write down the number on the telephone pole. I write down the number on the street sign.

I go back and wait for Mr. B. to finish with his current victim (the same woman who he started helping when he left) for another hour.

I retake my seat.

He says, “So, you have the number?”

“Yep, here it is!” I hand it over.

He looks at it, laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, but senorita, this couldn’t possibly be the number!”

“Uhm, well, uhm, it is. It is the number that was assigned to my neighbor by the Presidencia.”

“No, no, senorita. Tonancintla is a small town. This number is much too high. It should be much lower.”

I agree that Tonancintla is indeed a small town, and that there may indeed be fewer houses in the entire town then this number seems to indicate, but insist that it is the number on the front of her house.

Mr. B. spends 20 minutes speculating on what the number might actually be, ignoring my insistence that it actually is that number.

Then we go back to the discussion of what my house number is. We spend another 20 minutes discussing the fact I don’t have a number when of course all houses have numbers.

And then we go back to the fact that Zee’s number is much too high.

I again suggest we check the phone book. Somehow it seems to me that we have enough information here to make the search possible. Of course I am ridiculously wrong.

“I think we need the plan…” suggests Mr. B.

“O.K.” I agree hopefully.

He wanders off to the front of the office. He stands there and chats with a pretty woman for 30 minutes or so. When he sees me pulling out my book, he comes back, smiles at me, sits down at the computer, and stares at the screen for five minutes. No, he doesn’t have the plan. He looks at the screen. He looks at the form I filled out. He looks at the screen… After five minutes of this, he, with one finger, types in my first name. Then he says, “Is this your name?”

I nod.

He nods in satisfaction. With one finger, he types in my last name. Repeat above.

He sighs. He stares at the screen. He sighs again. He goes off in a completely different direction from last time and reappears, miraculously, with the plan of Tonancintla. He opens it out. I locate my street for him. He stares at it for a long while and then looks at me and says, “But senorita, these houses have no numbers!”

I want to cry.

I´ll spare you the rest of the exchange, which ultimately resulted in him looking up Zee’s address using her telephone number (as I had suggested five hours earlier…). After much going around, and two more lines, I finally end up back at his desk ready to have everything signed off on.

“So when do they come to install the telephone lines?” I ask hopefully. I’ve already been told that this will just get me a phone. Then I come back and stand in line to get the internet part of it worked out.

Mr. Bureaucracy looks at me kindly and says, “In thirty days, someone will call you to arrange a time…”

Yes, I spent seven hours getting put on a list to receive a phone call in thirty days….

So the saga continues… I am currently exploring other methods of bringing internet to my house! What the hell. Until the permit comes in, I have plenty of time to stand in line!

Hope this finds you all with less paperwork then I am facing.

Hugs,
E.