Argentina's Ruthless Efficiency

No, that headline is not meant in jest. I write not to mock Argentina's bureaucracy, but to celebrate it. Seriously. Yesterday I traveled across Buenos Aires, via the 108 bus (formerly known as the 21 bus and renamed for some obscure reason, but not changed on the city's bus maps; but I digress...) to the immigration division of the Ministry of Interior in order to renew my visa. Those of you who know something of Argentine bureaucracy, or of the European bureaucracy it aspires to be--or who've merely read Kafka's "Before the Law" at some point in your life--will understand the sense of foreboding such a trip inspires.

I'd been once before, in order to apply for a long-term work visa, and because I knew-someone-who-knew-someone, I was able to get my application done is a merciful four hours (they helped me concoct the letter explaining why I was applying from inside the country, let me make an advance appointment instead of taking a chit and waiting, etc.). But I got more than a feel for the process, the vibe, the onda of the whole thing. In the midst of a room blanketed in "Si Bush viene, yo paro" ("If Bush comes, I strike", referring to a planned work stoppage of Ministry employees should Bush come to the Summit of the Americas, which he did; whether they actually put in the effort to stop working is unknown to me) and "No smoking" signs bathed in clouds of cigarette smoke, sat clusters of resigned Bolivians, resigned Paraguayans, resigned Argentines, resigned... ok, everybody's resigned when they're sitting under sickly fluorescent lighting in a room where air doesn't--has never--moved, with their four bored kids and bad coffee and a chit that says "87" when the 'Serving Customer #' sign says 31.

At the end of my errand--my tramite--I was the proud owner of a 3-month visa precaria (a 'precarious visa', an accurate description of my immigration status that amuses me to no end). Beyond letting me work legally (thus taking the fun out of working), it gives me resident discounts at national parks, which has almost paid back its cost.

But back to my point. I shot across town yesterday, steeling myself for the inevitable bureaucratic marathon I'd endure being, as I was, bereft of any "help" from somebody-who-knows-somebody. And yet...I walked in, showed my old visa, was pointed to a desk without a wait, had my visa signed and stamped, walked across the cavernous room to the cashier to pay 10 pesos for a renewal, walked back to have someone else sign and stamp it (OK, there was a bit of bureaucracy), had it copied and handed back, was chased down by the immigration officer because the copier didn't work (this is Argentina; copiers don't work in government offices; it's the law), had the copy remade, and then simply...left.

That was it. 20 minutes. Visa renewed. If anyone wants to renew their faith in Argentine government, I would go to Migraciones ASAP, during January while everybody is at the beach, and revel in the lack of lines. It's like having your own private friggin' ministry. It's awesome.