So You Think You Can Become a Peruvian...

Dear imaginary readers, please forgive me. I know it has been a long time since I updated my blog and by now you have grown weary of me and my empty promises. Let me make it up to you, won't you?

The last time we chatted, I believe I was newly married. Now Saúl and I have two months of marriage under our belts, so we're pretty much experts. The stake president of Pucallpa apparently agrees because he called us to be the new teachers of the marriage prep class at church. Unfortunately, we found out a few days later that there is no more marriage prep class. It has been cut from the church Institute curriculum worldwide. Oh well. The world will have to wait to benefit from our wisdom. Now I know how Moses felt when he came down from Sinai with the higher law only to find the Israelites cavorting around a golden calf. The people just weren't ready, were they Moses?

Anyway, much has transpired between our wedding day and today. I will blog about these last two months another time. Today I focus my writings on the magical world of Peruvian immigration. Before I begin, let me just say that I know my writing isn´t what it used to be. I've been re-reading these sentences and I know my syntax is jacked up. I can't really speak English anymore. The words come out in English, but they come out in Spanish order, like ''Did you see that cat black?'' I sound ridiculous. I suppose this means that my Spanish is improving, which makes me happy. I only wish it didn't come at the cost of losing my native tongue.

Forgive me. I digress. You're dying to know the ins and outs of Peruvian bureaucracy. Let me get back on track. Our headache begins in Pucallpa. We walk in to our local immigration office with all of the necessary paperwork for this portion of the process: a copy of my passport, a copy of our marriage certificate, a copy of Saúl´s new ID with his updated marital status, a receipt from a local bank for $35 (the application fee), and Form 004 (official change of residency request). Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. The nice lady tells us that she can't accept our application in Pucallpa because Saúl's ID card has a Lima address on it. Two months earlier Saúl had changed his ID from Pucallpa to Lima so that we could get married in Lima. Two WEEKS earlier, Saúl had to change his ID from single to married for me to be able to request residency. Now we can either wait another 2 weeks for Saúl to change his ID back to Pucallpa, or we could go to Lima to turn in our paperwork. We decided to go to Lima because Phase 2 of this process involves a trip to INTERPOL in Lima anyway. (Stay tuned for my rant about INTERPOL later.)

So we fly to Lima. The next day we go to the immigration office where we are told that we need an appointment (which wasn't necessary in tiny Pucallpa, but which IS necessary in enormous Lima.) So the dude at the information desk tells us we can make an appointment right there in the office. So we wait in a big fat line only to be told that no, we can't make the appointment there. The only way to make an appointment is online. So we leave a little miffed that the ''information'' guy doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. Lucky for us, around the immigration office there are lots of people who are making quite a good living off of misinformed shmucks like us. We walked into one of their offices and paid $3 to have someone fill out a fresh Form 004 and make an appointment for us for 2pm that afternoon.

After killing 4 hours downtown, we returned to Immigration where we discover that about 50 other people also have a 2pm appointment. We take a number and wait. Eventually my number is called, I turn in all of the required paperwork, and the lady behind the counter prints off a piece of paper with a code on it that allows me to track the progress of my request online. Sweet. So after we're done in the immigration office, we go to an Internet café to read up on the next phase of this process: INTERPOL. Before granting me residency, Perú wants to make sure that I'm not an international criminal. Fair enough. So while we're on INTERPOL's website, a very friendly and helpful Israeli gentleman overhears us and tells us that INTERPOL is an enormous pain in the keister and that we need to go ridiculously early because by 8am there is already a huge line, and they only serve 70 people a day.

Turns out the Israeli dude was spot-on. We go to INTERPOL the next morning, and we arrive at around 8:20 am because their office is inconveniently located on the other side of town from where we are staying (at Saúl's uncle's house). Swarms of people. Swarms. Saúl and I realize that we have no chance of being seen that day, so we decide to stay the night at the LDS temple hotel/lodging thingy because it is only a 10-minute bus ride away. The next day we show up at 6:30 am, and we are number 9 in line. There are a some ''tramitadores'' already there--people who have been hired by people richer than us to take care of all the nasty paperwork for them. They arrive at INTERPOL at the crack of dawn to hold a place for their clients, who get to waltz in at 8am looking fresh as a daisy, unlike Saúl and I who look like we are on our way home from a rave. The great news of the day is that one of these tramitadores' clients is late, so he trades numbers with us. We get NUMBER 2!!! Hot diggity dog! I turn in my paperwork: another copy of my passport, another copy of Saúl's ID, another copy of our marriage certificate, a receipt for $28 paid to the government, AND a certified check payable to the US Treasury along with a manila envelope for me to mail a copy of my fingerprints to the FBI. The citizens of the US, Canada, and Australia get to pay a little extra for some extra police screening. Whatevs. After turning in my paperwork, I am invited into a little room with a police officer who then examines my teeth. Weird. I basically just open my mouth and he looks around with a little flashlight and makes a record of my fillings and any peculiarities. Then I go into another room where I am fingerprinted twice: once for INTERPOL and once for the FBI. Then that is it! Oh, I can't forget this piece of very important information: I read that it takes one week for them to run the check on you, but if you tell them that you have flown in from a remote area of Perú, they can get the information to you in a couple of days. I ask the officer who is taking my fingerprints if I can pick up my results earlier, because it's Friday and our flight back to Pucallpa leaves on Wednesday. No problem, he tells me. Come back on Wednesday and it will be ready. Sweet.

So Wednesday rolls around. We take a taxi to INTERPOL, and I stand in the line of people who are picking up their results. The officer who examined my teeth tells me that my results are there, but the paper needs to be stamped and signed by the guy who took my fingerprints on Friday. Can I talk to him? No, he's not here right now. So I wait. And wait. He finally shows up, but he's joined by a man and a woman who obviously have a criminal record because why are they eating up so much of the boss's time? I wait some more. Saúl is freaking out because if we don't get a move-on, we're going to miss our flight. So after waiting about 30 minutes, I eventually barge in and interrupt the boss and the sketchy-looking couple: ''Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry, but can you sign and stamp my paper really quickly so that we can leave?'' The police officer who was so friendly and accommodating on Friday then snaps at me, ''You have to come back on Friday. It takes a week.'' I tell him, ''But you told me I could come on Wednesday because we're flying to Pucallpa in the afternoon.'' ''I told you no such thing, señora. Come back on Friday.'' ''But, but...'' ''Señora, I told you nothing of the sort. Come back on Friday.''

At this point I burst into tears. I go to where Saúl is sitting and tell him what just happened. He is sitting next to a man who is on the phone--we overhear him say that the same thing has happened to him. Saúl and I frantically call his sister, Hanna, who works at a travel agency. She is able to change our flight to Saturday (God bless her) for an $80 fee. What choice to we have? I'll tell you what choice we have: we can take a 20-hour long bus ride to Pucallpa, that's what we can do. No, gracias! Best $80 I've ever spent.

So on Friday we make our FOURTH trip to INTERPOL, wait in line for about 10 minutes, they hand me my results, and we bounce. So easy. On my way out, I make sure to spit on the building... while nobody is watching, of course. You'll be happy to know that I have no international police record... but if INTERPOL ever reads this blog, I might get cited for spitting on their doorstep. It was a ladylike spit, though. No phlegm, I swear.

So now I wait between 30 and 60 days. When my visa comes through, I will have to return to Lima to pick up my swanky new Peruvian ID card and get a new stamp in my passport. I'm sure that trip will be super easy and hassle-free, too. But hey. He's worth it: