It's taken a long time, but I finally have all of the documentation required for my new passport application. So, today is the day. I'm off on a day trip to Santiago in order to submit the application, which must be done in person and includes an interview at the consulate. I'm therefore up early making sure I've got everything organised, then off to the airport for the 'early morning' flight that leaves Copiapo at about 9AM.
When it came time to make the travel arrangements, I had a bit of a 'learning experience'. The cost of internal flights here in Chile have been a bit of a mystery to me, until now. It seems that if you book a return flight with only a short time between the flights (e.g. 1 or two days), regardless of how far in advance you make the booking, then the flights are very expensive, let alone trying to book a return flight for just the one day. Total cost of todays flight would have been between A$500-600, but for Lizette pointing out how the charges work and suggesting that I book two flights instead. So, I booked something like the following;
- Copiapo to Santiago – this morning
- Santiago to Copiapo – return flight on a Sunday night in the middle of October
AND
- Santiago to Copiapo – this evening
- Copiapo to Santiago – return flight on a Friday afternoon in the middle of October
It took some time for me to get my head around how this works and the logic of it, but the nett result is that I have two flights for about 2/3 of the cost of a single return flight in the one day.
Anyway, so off I go to Santiago. It's a little bit nerve-wracking travelling using a cancelled passport as your identity document, however it doesn't LOOK cancelled, so it shouldn't raise any suspicions from the airline people. It would only be a problem if they were to punch the number into a computer system, which only going to happen if I cause trouble. Best behavior then, sitting up straight, brushed hair, pleasant smiles, "Gracias!" to one and all…
Everything goes swimmingly well through check-in and boarding – it's an absolute pleasure to be travelling without luggage – and just the same when I get off the plane. No waiting at the baggage carousel this time for the extra-special "gringo's bags come out last" trick again. Ha ha ha!!! The taxi trip goes well, with fresh snow on the mountains being the topic of discussion, which I can cope with for five minutes or so. I get dropped off at the other end of the street from the Consulate so that I can stretch my legs, make my ritual pilgrimage to Starbucks, post some letters, get some cash from an ATM to pay for the application and lost/stolen passport penalty. I therefore wander in to the foyer of the Consulate at about 11AM. All good so far, but…
I stand patiently waiting for the ladies on reception while they deal with two customers in front of me, both of whom seem intent on telling their entire life's stories in excruciating detail and seem in no hurry whatsoever to move on. The receptionistas are also in no hurry to move them on, nor are they in any hurry to deal with the (increasingly) bored and fidgety gringo standing and waiting. They look at me every now and again, so I know they are fully aware that I'm there. Aaah, at last, a good 10 minutes later and there is signs of one of them finishing up. At the exact moment the person leaves the counter and I'm bending down to pick up my bag, some guy comes barging through the rotating doors and arrives at the counter two steps ahead of me. He turns and looks at me, then looks to the receptionist and starts talking. She looks at me, and then starts talking to him.
I'm absolutely gobsmacked at the rudeness of all concerned in this little episode, but I shouldn't be so surprised. While queueing is a Chilean national sport, particularly where there are those little guides for the lines of people to stand in, when those lines don't exist and a little bit of a free-form line/queue is required, the people are more than happy to elbow their way past you and push in front, a la my Tur-Bus experience a month or two ago. Anyway, as I pick my jaw up off the floor and start to collect my stunned thoughts about what to say in Spanish (berating them in English will probably not be too effective), the other receptionist seems to be finishing up with her pesky customer, so I move with some haste towards her before one of the others now waiting beats me to her. Not that I have it my own way, as there were definitely moves made by others to get there before me! I glare at the other two, but they don't react at all. Situation normal, it seems.
Checking in to the building is easily done, simply name and passport number, get a visitors card and I'm on my way. Same as every queue here – my stuff is over and done with in no time, yet everyone else seems to take 5 times as long for no apparent reason. Not for the first time, I wonder if there is a big sign over me that says "Screw with my day, I've got nothing better to do!"
The Consulate is located on the 13th floor and I idly wonder if that will be lucky for me today. I announce myself at the security window and am asked to take a seat and wait and someone will see me shortly. The reception area has a number of posters advertising what the Consulate can do for you, as well as what it can't do for you. There are plenty of posters and items indicating that this is definitely Australian. The bit that sticks in my mind is the poster advertising that the mission statement for the Consulates is along the lines of "… helping Australians overseas…". Prophetic words.
I'm eventually ushered into a meeting room and the interview commences. I explain the circumstances of why I'm here and so on. Lots of nodding sympathy and all of the right noises. I hand over the passport application form and we start going through it. Hmmm, problems, she says. Photo's aren't right. What do you mean, they're not right? I went to a shop that specializes in passport photo's. I took the instructions for the photo's. I stood with the lady and watched while she measured everything to ensure it was all OK and matched the instructions on the application. That's nice, but they are not right. You'll have to go and get more. But don't you realize how long it takes to send things back and forth from Australia? It's going to take a minimum two weeks to get new photo's organized. Oh that's no problem, she says. We'll just use one of these incorrect photo's that are authorized and put it with your new photo's. No problem.
Next, where is your birth certificate? Of course I don't have my birth certificate here in Chile with me. But you NEED that for the application. But, I counter, I rang and discussed that with someone here in this office and said that I didn't have it and at no point did they indicate that it was a show-stopper. In fact, I'm pretty darn sure we discussed that if I had a bunch of other things, then we might not need it. I also filled out the application form where it said "Will you be presenting your birth certificate?", ticked the box that said no, and then went to the next question. At no point did the form say that this would be a show-stopper. That's nice, she said. It's a show stopper.
At this point, I pull my passport from my wallet and ask that, surely, seeing as all of my documents were returned to me (but after I had cancelled everything), then the old passport must count for something in the "identifying myself" process. Her eyes light up and for a moment I think that everything will be OK. The relief is short-lived, as the passport is extracted from my hands, examined forensically, and then she announces that she'll be cancelling it immediately and taking it off my hands. No, no, no I say. It is my only meaningful form of identification here and I need it for my flight back to Copiapo. But you can't travel with it, as it is cancelled, she says. We discuss that I know it is cancelled, but surely that only applies to international travel. Here, it is just a document with a photo on it that is used to confirm your identity when getting on a domestic flight. There is nothing official about it. Grudgingly she agrees to the logic of that, but disappears with it anyway to make a photocopy of it. A few minutes later she returns and hands me the passport, all now nicely stamped with the words "Cancelled" on each page, the bar codes cut off, and the edges trimmed as well. It is now very clearly an "ex" passport. Thanks, I think to myself. You do the right thing, and look what happens. I should've just left it in my bag and they'd have been none the wiser, and I'd have had less problems than what this will now present me. There is a very real chance I could be refused access to the plane this evening.
The interview resume with the next problem, where is a bill or something that shows your current address on it? I rent my apartment in Copiapo. The owners name is on all of the bills. All of my mail is sent via courier from Australia though my office there. I have NOTHING here that shows my address. That's nice, she says, but you need something that shows your address. But I can't get anything in my name without a Chilean ID card, and I can't get that without a work visa, and I can't get that without a passport! Hmm, yes, she says, seeing the circular problem, but you need something with your current address on it. But it isn't possible. But you need it… I stop that discussion at that point, as I'm only getting more frustrated, and her enthusiasm for bureaucracy is not going to be defeated by me on this occasion.
I slump, defeated, in the chair.
It's no problem, she says, just get someone in Australia to pop in to get your birth certificate, drop it off at the nearest passport office and they can send it through to us in Santiago. Then you can pop in, we can do the interview again, and everything will be fine, she says, smiling at me. The mindset here is that everyone lives in the capital city and that this sort of thing is no problem. However, when your family lives in regional Victoria, where passport offices are not on every corner and you don't pop into the local service station for your birth certificate, things are a little more of a challenge to organize. I also remind her that I live in Copiapo, and in case she doesn't know where that is, it is 800km to the north of here. You can't just pop in. Hmmm, she says, that's nice. Just get your info together and pop back in and we'll do the interview again.
What more can I say to that than "Thanks for your help", and my mind cuts back to the sign in the foyer about the mission statement. At that, I get the first bit of helpful advice from her. There is a passport photo place just a few blocks from here that is well versed in providing photo's for Australian passports. She even writes down the address for me.
I leave the office a bit after 1pm. Two hours, and all I have to show for it is a headache, a desire to kick the nearest cat, and an address for a new passport photo. I take a deep breath and head off to get some lunch and relax. After a fairly unsatisfying lunch at a local food hall, I head off to the photo joint. Excellent advice, the place looks very shut and there is a small sign on the door indicating that it isn't going to open any time today and if you want some assistance, here's the number to ring. My Spanish isn't up to that conversation, so I trudge off in search of another passport photo joint. I eventually find one in a small arcade and have a long conversation with the proprietor about the craziness of the Australian government and that I need some new photo's. Not to mention, they must be of these dimensions, etc etc. No problem he says.
Photo's taken, developed, measured and handed over. At least I've had one win today, I think to myself. Seeing as I've got a bit of time before the evening flight, I decide to take the opportunity of going back to the consulate and confirming that these photo's are OK. My experience with the receptionistas is better this time, as they have no-one to choose to serve ahead of me. I smile/grimace at them…
Back upstairs, the lady takes one look at my photo's and says nope, no good. I'm stumped. What do you mean they are no good? They're no good. She reads me the dimensions of what is required and describes what is required. Out I go, again. The passport photo man is surprised to see me again, but when I repeat my conversation with the lady and explain what she says, he shrugs his shoulders and we take another picture. Back again to the consulate.
Same story there too. Nope, no good. At this stage, I am close to understanding the feelings that people must have when they turn up at somewhere like this armed with a shotgun. Please, please, please, explain to me in painful detail why these photo's are no good. She disappears again and comes back with an overlay image thingie and hands it to me. The dimensions are for the face, she says. I understand that, I say, but we've measured the face every time. What is it that we're doing wrong?
It turns out that my hair is the problem. Because I have hair which has some form of a fringe, then the measurements must be from the bottom of the jaw to the bottom of the fringe, rather than the top of the head as the photo guide appears to indicate. It's a "eureka" moment. A final trip back to the very surprised passport photo man produces a final set of photo's, or so I hope. Back to the consulate and the lady looks disapprovingly at the photo's. They're a bit yellow, she says, but I think they'll be OK. Oh, happy days…
To celebrate, I stop off at Mundo del Vino and buy a few bottles of wine that is hard to get in Copiapo, then off in the taxi to the airport. The taxi driver is a sport nut, and is fascinated by what sports we play in Australia. I think I amuse him no end in trying to describe "Futbol Australiano", and part company at the airport with a firm handshake and big smiles, along with me paying him the normal price (i.e. without him trying to rip me off).
The return to Copiapo is uneventful. My concerns about my cancelled and chopped up passport are not realized at the boarding gate, and I'm home safely by around 9pm. Quite frankly, it's been a fairly crappy day. Better luck next time, with lots of lessons learned (the hard way).
Chao,
A
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