It may not sound like much, but I had been warned of mountains of bureaucracy and hours of queuing. And more pertinently for me, I faced three big fears:
- language - not understanding what I was being asked;
- orientation - not knowing what I was supposed to do and where and when;
- expulsion - a personal paranoia, but a fear that I may do something wrong and have my request to stay refused.
Upon arrival, I quickly located the queue I'd been warned about - it reached out the door, snaked around the landing and started to go up the stairs. I cleared the first hurdle of asking the person in front of me if it was the right queue and lined up alongside the other, mainly Peruvian, migrants.
Thankfully, the queue moved quickly and within around 15 minutes I was issued with a number and told to go downstairs to the tourist department. Being one of the first, I was soon called by a man who seemed reasonably friendly, slightly bored, but with quite a stern face. I timidly bid him good morning and sat down asking to extend my tourist visa.
Annoyingly, I cannot say the proper word for an 'extension' as it involves both a single and a double 'r': prórroga. This is the worst possible combination of sounds for me, which my poor tongue just can't get itself around. But I think he got the gist as he started to type into his computer.
"¿Estado civil?" he asks me. Oh! I know this one! "Soltera" I answer, relief evident on my face.
"¿Profesión?" This flusters me a little. I don't have a profession, and I certainly don't have a job in Chile otherwise I wouldn't be applying for a tourist visa, right? Eventually, I plump for "Editora". Now that didn't look suspicious. Much later, I remember that in Chile people still have the concept of a profession - i.e. they go to university to train in a particular field and that takes them onto jobs within that field. They are qualified as a journalist or a specialist in a public relations etc. but there are no sideways career moves. They don't study English Literature and then wander into marketing via copywriting and web management.
Anyway, next question. "Blah blah blah... en Chile?" This could be how long are you planning to be in Chile but this is a formal procedure so I'd better not guess. I ask him to repeat: "blah blah blah... en Chile?" Oh god. I still didn't catch it. After what feels like an eternity of mumbling and bumbling, I manage to bluster: "la pregunta es...?" ("the question is...?") and look at him inquisitively. "Di-rec-ción" he says pointedly. Ah! Address! The street name trips off my tongue. Then - oh no! - I've never given my address in Spanish before. How on earth do you say one thousand four hundred and five again? Big numbers are not my strong point.
I get through it and then with one last moment of hilarity, which finally manages to crack a smile on this poor man's face, I tell him the last digit of my phone number is "snow" - "nieve" instead of "nueve". It could have been worse.
After this there's a bit more to-ing and fro-ing, having to walk to a nearby bank to pay the admin fee, then go back to the same office, but this time without a number as I was told I didn't need one, just to go there directly.
Being British, I didn't like to stride back up to the desk, so I sat at the back of the room for a while trying to suss out my tactics, until a kindly French girl (who showed up my linguistic inadequacy by talking to me in English when I didn't understand her Spanish) told me that unless I pushed in I was going to sit there all afternoon because without a number I was never going to get called. So I mustered as much latina as I could and plonked myself back down in front of the same guy. And was finally rewarded with my extended visa!
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