Little Man Syndrome

2012 02 18

Mexico officially welcomes retirees and tourists, at least in part because they want to get hard money from something other than drugs.  Well, pharmaceutical money is from legal drugs, anyway.  And granted, there is a lot less money in retirees than in ignoring the killings and other problems concomitant with the drug trade, so one should be prepared to be coddled somewhat less than Don Pendejo.  There are published rules about what is required of persons wishing to retire here, and then there are the rules of the assholes in the Inmigracion office.  Those rules are not published.  So, we decided that I should apply for my FM3, which would allow me to leave the country at my convenience instead of arbitrarily every 180 days.  We had oodles of fun with G's application, but we finally got the little plastic permission slip.  We were prepared.  We got all the documents for me that we needed for him, including getting my Canadian passport renewed because the one on which I last entered the country was slated to expire right around the published limit of six months after filing the application.

There is one office in which one can apply - 3 hours away in Morelia.  There is a form on-line that one must fill in - done.  One must have photos both full-face and profile - done. One must have proof of income - done.  Proof that one is living in some kind of housing in Mexico - done.  One fills in another form, which is an application to apply for an application for a visa - done.  One needs copies of passport pages, including entry visa stamp - done.  We're looking pretty good, here.  Saint Paul and I get in his car and take the first all-day trip to Inmigracion.  Oops, wrong form, you need to fill in this other one which is precisely the same but has a slightly different title.  Oops, you are wearing earrings, you have to take them out and get new photos.  Oops, the address of one of your proofs says c. de las tenistas, the other says circ. de los tenistas, you need to use that one instead of this one.  It's your fault Mexicans can't fucking spell.   Oops, your Canadian passport wasn't issued by Canada, it was issued by the Canadian Embassy in Mexico, therefore you have to state that the issuing country is Mexico, not Canada. It's your fault Mexicans can't fucking think.  Oops, in the blank that says state, province, city, you weren't born in Alberta, you were born in Barrhead.  Oops, I think your post code is wrong on no you're right forget about that.  Oops, I think your bank statement is using the wrong colour of black ink, oh never mind, I made a mistake.  After waiting four hours to see this asshole, he has made four mistakes in 'verifying' my forms, identified completely spurious 'mistakes' in my forms and, it turns out, has forgotten to mention one or two other invisible requirements.  So, back home to change the forms.  Cost:  nearly $100 in gas and food.

So, get other forms from my bank.  Change silly little shit.  Kill another tree printing our new versions, and back we go.  Wait around another four hours.  Get the same fuck-wit agent.  Oops, this is the wrong form.  Run around the corner and use another precisely similar form with the name he gave us this time.  Oops, I've decided that this needs to say that instead of the thing I told you last time.  Run around the corner and reprint form.  Oops, I have purposely kept you waiting so long that it is now too late for you to take the form I won't give you to the bank and pay the fees.  Oops, this is all your fault because you are a foreigner.  Oops, I forgot to mention that you have to include a cover letter that includes all the information in the other two forms plus a request for permission to apply for the visa.  No, Paul can't go change the form and get the receipt because it is after 13:00 and nothing can be brought into the office after 13:00.  If you leave, you won't be let back in.  The police officer manning the door can't hand me the stuff I need if I stay and Paul goes.  Cost:  $100 dollars in gas and food.  And my patience.

I said:  we have been here all fucking day and you have... by which time the agent was yelling at me not to yell at him, you used a bad word, you better be careful you will be in a lot of trouble....

It would be funny if it weren't so fucking pathetic.  And on top of that, the little cretin had the gall to remark how difficult my Welsh middle name is - this from a twat named Eduardo Pascual Rodriguez Vidridones.  Who said:  a little power corrupts absolutely?