Bureaucracy Part 2

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taxi ride #6
"Think we'll be done by noon?" I asked.
"Sure, I mean we need a stamp," she replied, "It can't take that long to get a stamp, can it?"

We walked into the Department of Education with our forms in our hands, where we were greeted by the same older man from yesterday. After telling him what we needed to get done and reminding him that we were there yesterday, he led us to the same room. In that room, we were greeted by the same older man.

"I have a very, very bad feeling about this." I said.

After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to the same room as yesterday. In that room, we were greeted by yet another older man. After telling him what we needed to get done he led us to yet another room.

I find it odd that people here are able to be frustrated with my memory of their language, and yet they can speak three languages but not remember that two foreigners walked into their offices repeatedly the day before.

In the final room, there was a new guy. This man looked friendly, as though he was happy that he had a source of income. We told him our story of the day before, about the number of taxi rides we took, about the traveling back and forth to get everything correct. We handed him our forms, but he hands them back.

"Did you know that this one is only a photocopy?" He asked.
"Yes," I said, "Because the Department of Health gave us the photocopy and kept the original for their files."
"I need an original."

The PCV and I smile. It was the type of smile you give when you don't know what else to do. It was the type of smile you give when you need to keep your teeth together.

"You two look really friendly." The man said, "I like you."
"Of course," We said.

taxi ride #7
"Do you think we should mention to the Department of Education that we all are in the same commune?" The PCV said.
"I don't think we are."
"Well, the forms all say the same commune."
"It has to be right," I said, "Why would he write the wrong one on there? The previous guy just forgot to update it from the previous form."

We look at each other, certain only in our uncertainty.

We arrived at the Department of Health and walked back to the office, where we were greeted by the same women from the day before. We show her the photocopy form.

"Oh, this is a photocopy." She said.
"Yes," I replied, "You made the photocopies and kept an original here. Now we need an original."
"Why would we keep a copy?"
"I don't know," I said.

My voice had taken on a new form this day; it was as though every time I opened my mouth, not only words came out, but pieces of my soul. I felt an empty feeling with each repeated word.

"Well, let's look for it."

She looked for it for a while, and then we gave her an idea.

"Can't you just stamp this one again?"
"No."

After a few more minutes of looking, I stand up.

"Is there any reason why you can't?"

She comes over, takes the paper, and has an idea. She fold the bottom of the paper where the stamp was, photocopied the original, and stamped the form.

"But now the stamp from SIAAP over the corrected commune is photocopied."
"That won't be a problem."

taxi ride #8
"Are you sure we shouldn't have gone to SIAAP just to make sure?" I asked.
"Do you really want to do that?" She asked.
"Does it matter at this point?" I replied.
"No." We both said.

We arrived at the Department of Education, where we simply walk through the front gate without speaking to any of the secretaries. As we make our way through the breezeway to the back room, we are stopped by the first man, who we told our story again.

"Oh, he won't be able to sign those." The man says.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"He's not the delegue."
"So," The PCV said, "The guy we've been speaking to... the guy whose been giving us all of this hassle... isn't even the guy who would have been able to help us in the first place?"
"I'll take you to the delegue."

We walk through another building into a large room. The delegue takes our forms. The PCV and I look at each other and sigh. Our journey was near its end. I felt a little like Dorothy as she stared through the woods at the Emerald City.

"Why is this commune written on here?" The delegue asked.

Damn poppies.

"What do you mean?" The PCV asked.
"Your town isn't in this commune. Actually, none of the towns on this form are in the commune written here."
"So," I asked, "The guy at SIAAP just wrote down a random commune on our form?"

The delegue made a list of the communes that each town goes into, and told us to go to SIAAP to get it corrected. Only then can he sign the form.

taxi ride #9
"It's 11:30 AM." I said, "I hope we have time to do this today. Everyone leaves at noon."

We stood at the entrance to SIAAP. Our wrinkled and dirt covered forms, photocopied to near oblivion and covered in the blue ink of the stamps, rest in our hands. We walk into the main room, where a new man greeted us. A man who hadn't yet heard our story; a man whose ears had not yet been tainted with the events of the past two days. We hand him the forms and explain that we need the new communes written on it. We point to the room where we knew the whiteout was so we would save time. The man shakes his head. By this time, the words spoken became a blur, and meaningless string of syllables. Needless to say, I managed to pick out two verbs in the sounds. I heard the verb "to go back" and the verb "to start over", but the PCV and I simply stare back at each other and point to the commune section of the form. It was unfathomable to think that we would start over. We knew what that meant. But he didn't budge, so we turned around and left SIAAP.

Albert Einstein once said that "Bureaucracy is the death of all sound work”. Javier Pascual Salcedo said that “Bureaucracy is the art of making the possible impossible”. To people whose dealing with bureaucracy go no further than the DMV, these quotes are mere words. But I have learned the actual truth of them. Here we were, two PCVs, working over 2 days in order to get one stamp placed on three pieces of paper. Hidden within the words of Einstein and Salcedo were the bitter scissors of bureaucrats whose only joy in life seemed to be to hack away at the blooms of our progress.

taxi ride #10
"Mission abort?" I asked.
"Mission aborted." the PCV replied.

We arrived at the bus station to go home. As we sat in the bus and looked around, our eyes met.

"So, let's recap." I said, "Everything that we have just done. Every event... every taxi ride... every conversation... every moment of being led through rooms and breezeways and halls... all of that. And what do we have to show for it?"

We held up our forms that at this point were nothing more than pieces of tattered paper, and laughed uncontrollably in the bus. The Moroccans stared at us, unsure of why the two Americans were laughing so hard. The bus filled with the laughter of the defeated souls, the twisted utterances of two souls lost in the labyrinth of bureaucracy, the final breaths of the idea that was once to go into town and get one stamp placed on three pieces of paper.