Still Stranger In Motion

Here I go again.

This time though, my absence is planned to be temporary. Previously, my temporary absences were intended to be permanent. So hey then. I'll have to wait and see how this turns out.

I can't stand sitting in one place too long, and I hate traveling. Noodling along by car is OK, as is backpacking, my preferred vehicle of locomotion. And by "backpacking", I mean backpacking, staying outside and sleeping in the dirt. I don't mean attending drunken teenage parties in various countries recognizable only by their entries in a rumpled copy of some Lonely Planet publication.

Anyhow, by the time I leave I'll have spent 11½ months in Cuenca, continuously. My previous limit was six months, give or take a day. Besides being a record, this stay signifies a couple of other things. One being the fact that I'm older, and Cuenca ain't bad for geezers.

I have to watch what happens these days. Every few months, it seems, some other part of me goes off the rails, and I can't afford to be sick in the United States.

I can here, even without insurance, which is another whole separate topic. You know the phrase "get what you pay for". Here, referring to insurance, that has to be mended to "don't get what you pay for". Although the IESS (Instituto Ecuatoriano de Seguridad Social) seems well liked. By those anti-socialist ranters as well as by actual humans. The private insurers, no.

So if I actually have a problem with Age-Related Macular Degeneration rather than another scare as I did about two years back, then I can both get it treated here, and afford to get it treated, here. Unlike the Great and Grand Exceptional United of States in the America. Where I can't even get an appointment with a doctor. That's one thing. Gettin' older, gettin' more cautious, justifiably so.

Another reason is that it's just cheaper here. I'm finally getting used to that. This time around I have two income streams instead of one, and the difference between living here and living up north is substantial. I can't spend enough money here to make a significant dent in my income. Lunch is either $2.50 or $3.00 at the two places I eat. Either way, it's cheap. Rent is $450, which is around the middle, or slightly on the high end, but I've got what I like and $450 it is. I don't care. Utilities included. Maid service included. DirecTV included. Wireless internet included. No probs.

And though I'm close enough to being deaf that I basically can't communicate with anyone who speaks Spanish, life isn't that different from being in an English-speaking country where I still don't have much of anything in common with anyone anyway. My companionship comes from what I read and write whether I'm in Ecuador or any other country. I don't do smalltak anywhere. So that's all a wash.

So I'm still an outsider, a stranger, a philosophical wanderer no matter what. I don't fit. No matter which round spot I try to dip my squareness into. It never works. I mind my own business and keep out of trouble, and stay on the lookout for interesting things, but life gets slow sometimes. And as for where I fit in — I'm still waiting to find out. If nothing else, a change of scenery refreshes my attitude from time to time, and if, as now, I'm headed for several weeks of backpacking, well that's good.

Outdoors, off and away somewhere, is about the only place I don't feel like a stranger. And I'm going there.

Bye soon. For a while.

Adventures In Moving

Don't take your eye off the pea.

Well, I said maybe I had gotten lucky, finding another place to live for $160 a month.

And I did.

And I was.

It was in a whole different part of town, not the center any more.

Up fairly high, and even though my new room was at ground level, I was higher up than my original, sixth-floor room.

Along with the view from the sixth-floor room, there was the rent, which, at $12 a day, came to roughly $360 per month, depending on how long any particular month was.

But let's say $360 per month. Which is more than $160 per month.

So I moved. Planning to save money while I continued to search for an apartment.

Problem 1: There were three rooms on that ground floor of the new place, and I got the one with water damage. Which wasn't a problem except for the wall-wide closet fronting the water damage. The closet had a strong moldy smell when opened. Which I didn't do before I decided to rent the place.

But I could have switched to the other empty room. Which brings us to...

Problem 2: I couldn't connect to the internet.

I don't know why, but I tried everything I could think of.

It wasn't enough.

If I went to the top of the stairs (fourth floor) I got a decent signal there, and only there. But the connection would drop every so often, and I couldn't sit on the stairs all day day either.

So I had to bag that.

Good News: I was able to get another room where I was staying before.

Bad News: Unlike the room I stayed in for two months, this one, though it has a window, that window doesn't open.

The room is on a hallway, so I can't leave the door open to get air. And I have to cross the "lobby" to get to the "bathroom". It isn't much of a lobby, but I'm right in front of everyone. And it isn't much of a bathroom either, though it's all I have.

Another room with private bath will be available at the end of the month at the latest. They say. So I'm only stuck for two weeks.

Lessee. Two days so far and I'm going nuts. I'm going nuts here. I tell ya I'm going nuts here.

Hello?

Other Good News: The internet connection in this room is a bunch better than when I was located behind the elevator and had fresh air and a private bathroom.

At least I can work day or night. Although it's hard holding my breath for that long. Send air if you can.

Funny Stuff: I was paying $12 a day for the other room, the one with the fresh air and bathroom.

Now, for $2 less a day, I have no air, no real privacy, and no bathroom. Two bucks, go figure. No towels either. And although they no longer come in to tidy up and sweep the place and force me to go hang out somewhere until they're done, they no longer come in to tidy up and sweep the place.

And continue to not provide me with towels. And the in-public-view bathroom has no soap, although there is toilet paper today.

I can be happy about that. And I am. Happy. I'll take what I can get.

So it looks like I'm pretty well stuck here until I can find an apartment or until I hang myself.

Without a decent internet connection I might as well not be here, so I'm not going to chance it again with another place unless I'm sure about it.

I should have checked, right? Ya, you betcha. But I didn't, so there.

A lot of the places offering temporary accommodations or more permanent lodging are pretty slipshod about the internet stuff. Even sitting in the room behind the elevator I got a good connection at least two thirds of the time. Which is kind of stellar compared to some places.

Not many people here understand internet. It's like a gringo thing, so who cares anyway?

Just say you have it and if not, suggest they have broken computers. Which seems to be a common tactic.

The only thing my two-day landlady could do for me was to tell me that she had a student there once who had no internet problems.

So, I guess, the implication was that I shouldn't have problems either. But that didn't help me too much, being the cranky bastard that I am and all. And my clothes now all smell of mold.

Too bad. You should have seen the place. It was nice. Really was.

The owner lived on the first floor, and the second and third floors were fine. Sweet. Solid and clean. Carpeted all over.

I couldn't have afforded one of those rooms anyway. And then there's the non-internet issue.

The ground floor, where I was, was basically steerage on the Titanic. There was an older guy there (older than even I am) in the other occupied room. Pretty decent guy. I got to talk to him only once and then I vanished. He's probably still wondering. He had no mold. Lucky, happy guy.

My room had an east window, which was OK when there were no morning clouds, but he had a south window, which offered more sun.

The third room had a north window facing a brick wall a close 10 feet off, and was always cold. Dark too. But it didn't stink.

Really a shame overall that it didn't work, but the whole adventure only cost me about $30.

I paid half a month ($80) for the new place (for two days, having promised to pay through the end of each month I was there, regardless). But I also saved two days' rent here, and am paying less for the second half of January in my new, tight, airless room, so the difference comes out to only $30, plus some running around, which isn't all bad.

So, no end in sight.

Wish you were here, etc.

Please send encouragement.

From paradise, this is me signing off.

Penmanship

Watching a big-league game way up close.

So after getting a reprieve from "Legal" at Immigration on the bundles of apostilled documents that were inadvertently invalidated during photocopying by the removal of one staple each, I had only two things left to do.

One was to finish my application letter in which I probably said all the right things. It's like a why-I-am-really-a-good-person-and-should-be-allowed-to-stay-here sort of thing. And ten to one no one ever reads these anyway.

The other task was to get color copies of two pages of my passport notarized.

Notarizing things is a big deal.

Here's a summary of what it means.

• someone with a rubber stamp looks at some never-seen-before documents
• that someone inks a rubber stamp and hammers the document with it
• that someone then signs on a line left by the rubber stamp
• this signifies that said someone believes the documents are genuine

A person I met recently tipped me off to a notary place close by, about a block from where I'm staying.

Since I'd finished early for the day at Immigration and was feeling pretty good about not being thrown into chains and stuffed into a crate to be dumped at sea for having my seals broken, I went over there.

The time was 11 a.m. The place was packed.

It is upstairs, behind an anonymous ground-floor door with a word painted on the building's wall above the doorway.

The word is "Notario". I figured it out on my own.

Upstairs it looks like a converted warehouse.

The wooden floor is rough and bare of paint or even stain. The place is inelegant, like its only improvement has been the addition of interior walls. Nothing else.

At one end, to the left, is an archive of old notarized documents (if I'm guessing right - it could as well be an archive of deceased and mummified notaries).

Along the main wall are two barred doors. Over to the right is "Copias", which is where I realized I saw the line that morning. But it was enough to scare me off at the time.

Another gringo came in as I was exiting, after having decided that it was hopeless.

He went in anyway. Later he said that he'd gotten his work done in 15 minutes. I'm glad he didn't listen to me. No one should ever listen to me. I always do things the hard way.

I decided to try after lunch, when there might be fewer people in line.

Around here "after lunch" has a meaning. The meaning is after 3 p.m., give or take half an hour. Lunch for a lot of people runs from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m., and then you have to throw in tooth-picking, fingernail-polishing, idleness, and noodling time.

So I finished my own lunch and tidied up things in my room and by then it was 2:20 p.m.

At first I decided that it was too late in the day to bother.

Then I decided that I ought to go and see anyway. Maybe I'd get lucky. Or something.

Possibly something.

Luck. There were half a dozen people there this time.

Only half a dozen people.

So I decided that since I was there I had to give it a shot. By now the time was 2:30.

After 10 minutes or so the people ahead of me began to knot up around one of the barred doors. I joined them.

This door also had something about a notary written on top. I think. It seemed hopeful. Like a not-lost cause. Maybe.

Suddenly the inner door opened, the bars unlocked, and some of the people went in.

At almost the same time the door to its left opened and some of the people went in there.

I did too. Fewer people went in the second door, which gave me a better chance.

But a woman inside jabbered harshly and the guy ahead of me turned around, went out, and went in through the first door, with most of the others.

I did too. The woman looked mean. I didn't need mean. Not at this stage.

In the not-mean office we sat on chairs.

There was one woman in this office and four desks. Let's say that Betty was the woman's name.

In a chair in front of Betty's desk sat a large fat man. Every now and then she talked to him and he answered, but mostly she poked at a computer with some of her fingers.

After a lot of this poking and querying Betty got up and fed a single sheet of paper into a laser printer. Then she turned it over and did the same to the other side.

Then she returned to her desk and poked at the computer some more.

Eventually, after several decades of this, and many intrusions by many people who came right in and went up to Betty and began long conversations, she began pounding on documents with rubber stamps.

For someone not impressed by ceremonies, I have to say I was impressed by this one.

Betty has a helluva swing. Give her a bat and she'd beat every major-league batting record into sumbission.

Betty had at least four rubber stamps. She hit uncountable documents at least four times with each stamp. I think.

I wondered what happens when she runs her ink pads dry. I guessed that the office shuts down for a week or so until the ink-pad guy comes around with fresh barrel of stamp pad ink.

But maybe not. Given the lunch hours here it could take a month. Everyone could go on vacation to relieve the stress of long lunch hours and waiting in lines.

"Finally," I thought after the pounding of rubber stamps began to taper off, "she's wrapping it up. Now the rest of us can have a shot."

No. Not like that.

The fat guy got up and joined the rest of us, quietly sitting on his own visitor chair. Things got dim for a while. My mind went into the slowest slow motion possible. Let's say torpor. Torpor was about it. Think torpor.

Betty may have been on the phone for a while, but I'm not sure. It was a time warp. Mostly Betty poked at the computer.

She seemed to like that part. She was good at poking.

I remember not looking at my watch. I didn't want to.

My watch would only have told me that I was very likely to die on my chair, after which the mice would eat my remains and go poop them out on the street, whereupon I would be forgotten forever (even by the mice).

So then. More people came and went.

Mostly these people seemed to be after some kind of favor. Betty talked to each of them in turn and her answers always seemed to be essays ending in "no".

Betty never looked at the half-dozen of us who had been sitting there forever. We were only landscape. Wallpaper. Dead flies.

Suddenly (if I can say that after several eternities), an old man tore into the office.

He was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair on the sides, and wore a gray suit. Sort of a silvery-gray suit, which is slightly uncommon here. Most suits are darker. Some are brown. Lots are very dark gray, or black. Few are silver.

The man (let's call him Mr Notario) must have been in his 80s. He went to the big desk at the back of the office, behind Betty's bookshelves, and sat.

Suspense filled the parts of my mind which had not died.

The time was now 3:18 p.m., but it may have been 3:18 p.m. on a different day, in another year, in a separate reality. Or century.

I was hallucinating by then, so who can say?

With Mr Notario was a young man, bearded, with long unruly hair. I'd say he looked like Che Guevara without looking like Che Guevara. The beard and hair did. Let's call him Che anyway. Just for fun.

So now you have the images.

Then, things happened. All at once. All of us in the office were suddenly all being served. Communally.

I've never been juggled before, but being juggled would feel like that.

I had my two color pages rubber-banded and rolled up inside some waste paper for protection, and suddenly Betty, who had paid no attention to any of us, at all, was on top of me.

I fumbled with the rubber band and with my notebook, trying to look up the explanatory sentences I'd prepared, and while she did listen to me mumble and mangle the language she seemed to know why I was there and just kept saying "Su passaporte." ("Your passport.")

And of course I couldn't get it out of my pocket.

But she waited anyway.

Betty gave my passport and the copies to Che, whom I watched carefully. The passport was the one thing I couldn't afford to lose so I stood there while he eyeballed everything over and over.

Then he found the two extra sheets I was using to protect the actual color copies and he wanted to look at them too, even though by then I was tugging at them, trying to pull them out of his grip. He finally gave up and we were off.

He began hammering at the two actual color copies with his rubber stamp. I kept my eyes on the passport. It came through unharmed.

When I got my passport back (rumored street value: $2000 or about 4-months' income for the average person) I didn't care too much what happened next - the passport was safe. But something happened anyway.

Che went to his second desk in the back with the copies, and there he diddled with something, and then took the now-stamped copies over to Mr Notario sitting in his suit behind his half-acre desk.

Everyone else was behind me, swirling, jabbering. Like bumper car day at the amusement park.

Che motioned me over to Mr Notario's desk and I stood there not knowing what was happening, but Mr Notario motioned me to sit so I sat.

He didn't look at me or say anything.

He was scribbling.

What he was scribbling I didn't know, but he did it with all his might. His whole body went into scribbling.

I bet he could go a full 16 rounds against the world champ and come out fresh and smiling, is how strong and dedicated he looked with his scribbling, Mr Notario did. Age is no limit to a champeen scribbler.

Then the phone rang. Betty had transferred a call to Mr Notario.

She came to the back of the office and stood in a corner in the shadows and watched Mr Notario while he talked.

He wasn't just a scribbler. Mr Notario could really talk. Even I could tell.

I couldn't understand him but I can recognize a talker. He was a talker.

I looked at Betty in the shadows, wedged into a corner, but couldn't see her face. She didn't move. She only watched Mr Notario talk.

Something was going down. This conversation was not polite.

Toward the end of the call Mr Notario said two words which I can't recall, but whose meaning was clear. Maybe I remembered enough Latin to understand, but there was no doubt about the meaning.

What he was saying was "Shut up and listen to what I'm telling you." I got that. No doubt about it. He said it with his voice and with all of his lips, and with his full authority as a notario.

Eventually one or both parties got tired, the call ended, and Mr Notario got to my documents.

He scribbled.

He scribbled some more. And some more. And that was just the first document.

He started over on the second document.

Then at some point he was done.

He handed the documents back to me with an invoice attached by paper clip, and there was Che again.

Time to pay, and Che was my man.

Each notary fee was $1. For two documents that was $2, plus 24 cents tax. So $2.24 total. I gave Che $2.25 and he went to hunt for a penny. He found one and brought it to me. Good man, this Che.

Then I left. The circus was still running at full tilt inside the office. People were swirling, whizzing in every direction, jabbering, bouncing off the walls.

When Mr Notario handed me my papers I thanked him in Spanish. He gravely nodded his head once and then forgot I had ever existed.

He went back scribbling, with his head down, putting his shoulder into it.

Total elapsed time in the office: about an hour and 15 minutes.

When I got back to my room I looked at my two documents. There was nothing written on them except Mr Notario's signature, which took him a full 20 seconds to write out. He really put his soul into it though. When he signed something you could hear the pen scream from across the room.

But the documents were good. They were properly notarized.

Immigration accepted them, so I guess that part is over.

I probably left out some things, but you get the idea. It was a day.

A Slight Hitch

A day in my new life.

I got to the immigration office at 7:40, 50 minutes before it opened, and there were already nine people ahead of me. We waited outside until 8:30, and then went in and sat.

I still don't know how they figure who's first, who's second, and so on. Most of us got numbered tickets. And they have an electronic sign that shows the numbers, but it's not used. It is switched on but is stuck on "00". All the time.

A female security guard seems to know who goes where, and when.

So here's typical: You go in, get a number and sit down. This is harder than it seems. Once the door opens, the line turns into a crowd. Everyone puckers up to the security guard, and if you don't get your hand out to request a ticket right away, any advantage of standing in line for an hour entirely vanishes.

You can be third in line and end up 27th, or worse.

Somehow the guard sort of knows the deal, but you have to get your hand out there all the same.

OK then, you sit.

After a long while someone is at the counter. There should be two staffers there but yesterday there was only one, which is why, when I came in around number 40 it was hopeless.

So now we have someone up front. And today there are two.

About the first thing that happens is that someone else waltzes in the door and immediately goes to the counter. And they stay there 10 minutes, 15 minutes, a half hour. A long time. This may also happen after someone's number is called.

Numbers don't matter so much. The new person seems to have some priority.

There is much jabbering. Everyone seems to be negotiating a deal, especially the native Spanish speakers, who won't take "no" or "maybe" or "fuck off" for an answer.

Those whose numbers are called stand there at the counter for several eternities. Then they are done, and leave, either deeper into the building or back out the front door.

Someone else is called. More eternities pass.

Then the people who left come back again, and immediately go to the counter and begin negotiating all over. Once you've been at the counter you get to go back. A lot. Usually two to four times on a given day.

It's like reincarnation.

The rest of us wait.

Today there was a young guy ahead of me. He was playing with stuff on his phone. Then he began digging through his pockets. Then through his knapsack. Then back to his pockets. Over and over.

He had lost his ticket. Too bad for him.

No, wait.

He talked to the security guard. She didn't care. She knew which place he was in and didn't really need the ticket. He settled down.

The other (male) security guard then comes around to all the fat old white gringo guys and tells them to take off their hats.

For some reason gringo guys always wear their hats indoors. I always take mine off when entering a building. It shows respect. I was brought up in that era, and haven't gotten over it, so even back in the States I did it this way.

People understand when you're trying to show respect, even if they think you're a dick. You know?

The fat, white-haired gringo guys never catch on. And most of them wear sloppy clothes. I try to dress up at least a bit. Jeans but no T-shirts. No baggy shorts, no sandals, nothing dirty or stained. Nothing hanging loose. Nothing says "I'm a dick" like a shirt that says "I'm with stupid."

Time passes.

The universe ages.

The mountains grow wrinkles, age, and die.

It is now 10:10. I have been waiting two and a half hours. My number is called. I go to the counter. Andrea is there, which I'm grateful for. I've seen her twice before and she won't forget me.

She knows I'm a dick, but a kind of amusing one in a road-kill sort of way.

The first day I went in she asked to see my passport to determine how long I could remain in the country. I told her it was hidden in an awkward place and would not be easy to present, while pointing downward at my crotch.

OK, she's been through a lot, but maybe this was a first.

I carry my bank cards, passport, and all my spare cash in plastic bags inside a pouch I made, and I wear the pouch inside my pants. If I wear a loose shirt you can't really tell anything strange is going on unless you watch my crotch for a while.

So far I haven't run into anyone like that.

Sometimes if I sit down I get an unusually large bulge in my pants. That one is hart to miss, so I cover myself with a jacket or arrange my arms to disguise my Mr Enormous look.

So I get to Andrea, finally, and tell her the story. I fucked up.

I took the documents to the language school where they were copied and the copies were then translated from English to Spanish.

I wasn't explicit enough in making sure that we all understood that these documents could not be altered in any way, including removing that one critical staple.

Which they did.

I show her my documents.

She looks at the documents.

She says that by having the staple pulled from my apostilled documents, I have invalidated everything.

"Exactly," I say.

She is 100% right, and I agree.

I don't beg, cajole, whine, wheedle, argue, or sob.

I ask for her thoughts. Just that. She is the expert. I at least want to see if she has any Option B, whatever it might amount to.

"Let me go ask Legal," she says.

I wait.

Time passes.

More time passes.

Andrea returns.

In the interim I have grown a long beard and all my hair is white, just like the other gringo guys here today.

I wait for the trapdoor to open, dropping me from the platform to hang from my neck on my own carelessness until deported back to the U.S.

"Legal says they will make a special exception this one time," she says.

Unbelievable.

Maybe.

The language school I went to for translation is where Andrea learned English. She is extremely good at it too.

Her teacher, Marcela, personally translated my documents. I have receipts.

Marcela said she and Andrea not only work together but they are personal friends. I think that all helps.

I showed Andrea one of the receipts, but only after she got me a reprieve.

Better that way. Less like trying to force things, and more like "Oh, yes, that's right, and here's some actual proof."

Both receipts show Marcela's signature.

I think I'm clear.

This afternoon I went to get the color copy of my passport notarized. That is another story. You really have to try this some day.

You really do.

It's better than any circus.

I may share it later. Come back and see.

My Avocado And Me

Don't talk to me about fruit salad. Just don't anymore.

I got frustrated trying to figure out the residency requirements for a small Latin American country, so I decided to hire an attorney.

Down there they call them "abogados". I eventually found out why. Because of the resemblance to fruits and vegetables.

Which is why, for me, the term is now "avocado".

I held off asking real, meaty questions until I hired him, to be fair.

His fee was US$800, with half up front, and half on completion. Everyone recommended him. Even that expert guy who runs the forum I've been a member of for almost four years. Even him, and he's been around. Said something like he'd trust this avocado with his life, if it came to that.

So I told him to let me know when he got the money I wired him, which he didn't. But one of his emails sort of indicated that we were actually now on business terms, so I got into the nuts and bolts.

See, there is a lot of weird stuff, and if I were coming into my country instead of trying to leave it, I'd see different weird stuff, but it would be weird. Like some I just heard today. Like you can't have been associated with the German NAZI party in the 1930s and 1940s. Like that.

If you were, then you can't become a U.S. citizen.

So, especially, there is a medical requirement for this other country. I read the law. Even with my primitive Spanish I could get through it. The law mentions a "medical certificate".

So I asked, what?

Is there one, or a form, and please send me a copy of it or them and of the administrative rule that spells out in detail what the deal is so I can understand what I actually have to do here, because the law obviously says nothing.

Because if I can find a physician who will even talk to me without the comfort of medical insurance, I can't say I need to be pronounced clean and fit. That would be like a big ear of corn walking into the pig sty and saying "Howdy, fellas! Let's be friends!" Dangerous. I could get run through every test and procedure there is, and be getting bills from unknown labs for decades.

Seven days go by. During which I receive lots of email silence.

On the eighth day I send another message repeating the above, and I get a response that says basically I have to be in good health and free of diseases. And I should follow the link he sent to see what worked for someone else.

Which told me as much as you get from what I've written so far. Zip-doodle. I should be in good health and free of diseases.

'K...

I knew about the thing that worked for someone else but so effing what?

I wanted real information from someone whose whole business is in immigration and residency. So I wrote again.

You know. Asking the usual. What does "being in good health" mean, EXACTLY, and WHICH diseases? Exactly.

And the response I got was kinda like silence. So much like silence that it was exactly the same.

You know, like he forgot how email works.

Maybe that happens to him.

Maybe it's all because he's an avocado and has only so much fruit-filled energy available.

So after another four or five days, guess what?

I tried again, apologizing for breaking in on what must be a hectic schedule and all, but saying that I really needed specifics, and this was the fourth time I'd asked and all, and I did need to get exact, precise answers, as I'd said before.

And he did reply this time, saying I needed to be in good health and free of contagious diseases.

You know, I checked. I went to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. They must have some kind of list. Nope. No comprehensive list of contagious diseases.

I did find a long list somewhere, about 200 of them. Things like HIV, tuberculosis, and leprosy, to mention the three that stood out. Which are in no way contagious, and barely communicable. So crap.

Right, I told him he was absolutely useless. Which is true.

And he was fired, which was true. Still is.

And that I know more than he does. At least based on our communication, which is reasonable, because he supplied no information.

You know, really, saying "try getting a letter like this because it worked for that other guy" seems less than professional quality service.

Yeah, so I'm not going there. Not near him, not near that country.

You have to deal with the consulate closest to where you were born for your birth certificate, and at least one more consulate if you're not living where you were born.

And the consulates do not do email or answer the phone, and they possibly keep the doors locked. If they actually do have offices. No one seems to know.

And though there is another way, which involves going through the Washington, D.C. consulate, which requires that you first go through an office of the U.S. State Department, that recently changed so you have to do something else now on top of that to get your documents past, by, under, through, or around the State Department, and then they finally get to what seems the only consulate in the country that can actually do anything.

And then you sort of have to start over in-country, but need all this preliminary work following you like an angry storm of endless papers and pain.

So I'm going to do something else, and I hope that's where this blog can really start.

But it will be a few weeks yet.

Poop.

Going Home

Where is that again?

When you've lived abroad for a few years, you may start thinking about what it's like "back home". You may even halfway decide to go back, or "repatriate". Some do.

Some don't.

There are reasons. Everyone has their own person reasons for doing this or that, or not, but they do fall into broad categories.

Learning the language

You may think that because you're from a place, you can just go back and pick up where you left off.

But if, like so many of us who have spent time in prison, you find that things are really different, and you don't understand people anymore. And they don't understand you.

For example, take "cell phone". On the inside you use a common phone bolted to a wall. No phones in the cells, except for Dominic, and he was special. You didn't ask to use his phone. Or even look at him.

Outside, "cell phone" is something else entirely. There you are.

And if you're coming back from abroad, your whole day is like this.

People have funny habits

Again, you grew up here, so, you know, you think you ought to understand how life works.

But you don't, anymore.

You're used to getting up a little later, going to bed a little earlier, doing more walking, and having time for your family and friends. If you see someone on the street, you go out of your way to stop and chat.

Over there.

Back "home" you rush. If you try to slow down you get run over. And that's on the sidewalk.

"Hey", and "Bye", are considered complete conversations. Everyone moves in a blur.

What happens on television is considered important. Friends are people you can make money from, or sell things to.

When people smile, their eyes don't. Instead you see rictus ringed with teeth.

Owning a car, and then sitting in traffic for hours a day is considered high status. As if.

Some days it seems like that crinkling sound is the only one there is. People buy things, tear layers of wrapping off, and then wad it all up, throw it out, and start over. How is that supposed to be a life?

Employment

Employment falls in there too. A job is who you are, where you've been, and where you're going.

It is your worth.

The more you manage to take from everyone else, the more you have, the bigger your pile, the more important you are.

Well, maybe you've been living where your job is the role you fill to support society. It still is, in a sense, who you are, but it's because you actually do something and not because you are a walking spreadsheet displaying your numbers and flexing your dollar signs every whichway.

Frozen time

Despite everything being different from what you remember, the most important things are all the same.

It's exactly like growing up and moving away, then coming back for a visit to your home town, and all your former best friends.

You find out pretty fast that they have all barely changed. They still have all the same failings and stunted outlooks that they had when you were all 16, but you aren't any more. But they are.

Even the best and the brightest seem like caterpillars happy to stay put in a little backyard garden, blithely unaware that there may be a mountains and forests and oceans over the horizon, or that, if they really grew up, they could sprout real wings and fly away.

And this is another reason you can't ever go back. It isn't there anymore anyway.

Plan 9

Haven't we heard of this before?

So, things are in motion.

I looked at: Mexico, Thailand, the Philippines, Guatemala, Honduras, Belize, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Venezuela, Ecuador, Uruguay, and Chile.

Several were too expensive. Several were too dangerous. Or too restrictive. Or too potentially weird.

In many ways, Nicaragua seems nice but I have lust for the land. Ecuador's central Andean highlands were a good bet. Then I checked out Chile. Wild and crazy. Fantastic mountains. Large areas with almost no people. Endless months of winter rain. Gray skies. Maybe too expensive for now.

Plan Z has looped around and sunk its teeth into the tail of Plan A.

Probably Nicaragua.

Cheap enough. Kind of close. I sort of know people already there. I've studied it the most. I know of a place or two I can live, perhaps. I can spend a year or two getting used to things while I work on understanding Spanish, and waiting for my income to double.

After that, maybe more adventure.

So here's how you do it.

First, if you are at least 45 and can prove your income, you can be a "pensionado". This means you are either a geezer or want to live like one.

You need proof of income, a police report saying you have been good, and a health certificate. Plus a couple more things. These need to be certified as being real in your home state. The documents you get certified then go to the nearest consulate where they are certified as having been genuinely certified as being real.

Then you can go.

With one small hitch.

If not living in the state where you were born, your birth certificate goes to the nearest consulate for that, while everything goes to another consulate closer to where you actually live.

OK, fine.

My birth certificate would go to Texas and the rest to California.

With one small hitch.

The consulates don't seem to be open. Recently someone from where I am living emailed the California consulate. No response.

Then they called the California consulate. No one answered. And the voice mail was full, so he couldn't leave a message.

Then they were in the area and stopped by the California consulate, which was closed and dark and locked up.

The Texas consulate, from what I've heard, is about the same.

OK, fine.

There is a way around this.

You can get all your real documents certified and then send them to a branch of the U.S. State Department, which will give them a sort of intermediate certification certifying that they have been certified. Then you hire a courier to take them to the Washington, D.C. consulate, which can fill in for any of the others.

Once the documents are there, the consulate, as usual, certifies everything as having been certified by, in this case, your state secretary of state, and also, in this one special case, by the U.S. State Department. And then you are good to go.

With one small hitch.

The U.S. State Department apparently no longer does this, or the office moved, or installed new hoops which are not yet properly calibrated to account for the changes in gravity brought on by climate change which, as we all know, is a hoax. But it might be a relativistic effect due to the expansion of spacetime. Not quite clear yet.

Which, as you may guess, does not change anything.

But this is the procedure. OK, fine.

So right now Ecuador is worse. The immigration system was purged for corruption in late December and so were the people waiting for some purely rubber-stamping formalities. Which tends to be a good warning about not even thinking thoughts in that direction.

If I could manage getting there though, I would be in a city of 330,000, know no one, and would not understand Spanish any more than I do now. And six weeks ago I went deaf in my left ear. With luck this will turn out to be an ordinary although sort of rare odd little infection thing that probably will clear up within three months. If it does.

OK, fine.

There is a way around this.

And that is to keep at it because others have done it, and I have a secret weapon. I know about a lawyer (an "abogado") who specializes in this sort of thing. Everyone says he is straight out honest and reliable. His name is Antonio Caimán and I recently wired him $400 U.S. money. Plus $30 for transactions at his end. Plus an almost trivial $14 for transactions at my end.

OK, fine. I am all set. He got the money. Now I can finally ask questions of a real expert and get things started.

He says it is really easy.

I need income certification, a birth certificate, two photographs, a copy of my passport, a police report, copy of marriage license, list of household goods to ship, and some info about the vehicle I will import.

OK, fine. Strip out the marriage license, household goods and vehicle because they don't apply, and let's focus on the most relevant item.

Which is the "Health Certificate". I've never seen one, so I asked for a copy of it.

And more importantly I asked for a definitive list of what information I actually must supply.

I've heard just about everything. Must be free of contagious diseases, or of communicable diseases, or sexually-transmitted diseases, or various combinations. Must be said to be not crazy.

Maybe can have a handwritten note from some random doctor saying I'm OK as far as he knows. Because that worked for one guy.

Every variation seems to have worked for someone, although I haven't heard what did not work because, I guess, those people gave up, or are still trying to figure things out.

OK, fine.

So what's the answer?

I don't know. My good friend Antonio Caimán, Abogado, who received his $400 retainer, whom everyone says is the only person in Nicaragua who is absolutely honest and reliable, who knows all about this process that it is possible to know, has not responded to my emailed questions.

Heh.

Frank & Angie's Grab Bag

Half pound of this, handful of that.

I'm still not sure what I'm going to be doing.

Sure, no one cares, and that's fair. It's my life and my call, and if I was really desperate I would have acted before now.

I am going to leave the U.S. before long and land elsewhere. I just don't know yet where I'm going or when I'll be there.

So I dither. Gathering intelligence, I call it. I'm hoping to get smart real soon now.

As part of this process I recently splurged on a Borch map of Ecuador so I could get reliable information about what really was where. And a book called "Culture Shock Ecuador", which I may review when done. And finally, the "DIY Cuenca Landing Guide: Everything you will want to know to make your stay easier, less expensive, and more fulfilling".

The last is what I'll deal with here.

I don't know actually who wrote it. "Frank, Angie, Brandon, Angelo, and Alex" are listed on their blog, and they don't say any more in the book. You can't really tell who is writing any given passage either.

Frank and Angie are the parents. The others are their sons. They have been living in Cuenca, Ecuador for close to a year.

They make a production of being frugal. Of avoiding the expat ghettos, and of living as close to the day to day culture as they can. They sound nice, but desperate in a way. Like used car sellers during a weekend off. They way those people would sound if you knew them personally and you weren't marks, and if they were off-duty and ranting.

I feel as though I should like these folks and feel odd for not liking them. They seem sincere. I decided to buy their book (which is in PDF form) because no one else has tried in any real way, as far as I know, to collect practical information about Cuenca and package it.

So how's the book then?

In a word, sloppy.

I can't say I'm disappointed because I've been reading their blog off and on for a while, and am familiar with their galloping, free-for-all, shoot-from-the-hip style.

Still, this book is hard to read at times.

Some samples:

Item: "Out of all the washers they sell here the 'Whirl Pool' looks tough and seems like it will last a good long time. The whirl pool will set you back about $700 to $1200."

Item: From a photo cutline: "That's Frank and I up on the terrace eating...LOL no, just kidding....got ya though didn't we?"

Item: "On Thursday's, Plaza Rotary market is mainly geared for the locals where they roast the whole pigs, bring out the fruit vendors and sell furniture, and there is less artisans craft stalls on this day."

Item: "Most expats do not ride the buses around town; rarely do we see gringos riding the bus; they would rather flag down a taxi and pay the $2 bucks to wherever they are going. But overtime this can add up because then you need to hail down a taxi again to take you back home for another $2 bucks. Then what if you want to go out again in the evening—there's another $4 bucks roundtrip, spending $8 on taxi fare for one day. In two weeks that adds up to $112 and in one month you will have spent $224 just on taxi fares. Here's what we do: Rather than spend $4 to $8 dollars a day on a taxi we spend $1 dollar. If we do go out in the evening time we do take a taxi just because we have read the buses aren't safe at night. The buses are perfectly safe to take during the day however; we have never had any problems or negative encounters riding the bus."

Item: "We have met with expats from the states who have had to use the emergency services in Cuenca and they were quite pleased with the outcome. Her appendix burst and she had to be rushed to the Hospital. She said that not only was the quality of care good, the hospital was clean and bright and the price for everything was amazing."

If these passages are not disorienting then you are not my kind of people.

I am.

And what I think is that someone who throws words into a pile and shovels them through a computer and then sells the result for $19.99 in PDF form does not get my trust.

I feel bad for saying this, but I have to wonder if these people have ever been to school, and if so, what they did there. Some parts of the book are so loose that I can't really tell what they're talking about. Reread the passages above if you think you really know what they said.

And the reason I bought this book was for solid information.

Which brings me to the nut. The most important things for me were:

1. the best route into Ecuador
2. how to get from the nearest airport to Cuenca
3. where to find temporary lodging
4. where and how to get reliable, reasonably fast internet service
5. 100% solid, nuts-and-bolts advice on the immigration process

The last two were barely mentioned. They are the important ones. For me.

Internet service is a deal maker, deal breaker thing in itself. I already have a rough idea of the level of service and the challenges getting good service, but hoped for real information. Nope. Not here.

As for the most critical section, dealing with residency, finding an attorney to help, getting on-the-ground information about services offered, fees, who is good and who is not, and all the rest, well that is not in the book.

So let's have a summary. Let's decide.

Should someone interested in moving to Ecuador (specifically Cuenca) buy this book? Yes. And every other recent book you can find. And then read the rest of them for background.

Is this book great, or even good? No.

What I can say is that with pages 15 through 30 ("Choose a Hostel and Hang Your Hat") I probably got my money's worth. That section appears to be useful. Of course I can't tell without going there and seeing what actually happens, but it sounds as though they know what they have written about.

So overall, too bad. I was not expecting this book to be amazingly good, and was not pleasantly surprised.

Now if you want something really well written, the piece that made me suddenly giddy at the thought of Cuenca in the first place, read Top 20 Reasons I like Cuenca, which dates from April, 2008, and is unfortunately less and less true by the day.

Or visit Frank, Angie, Brandon, Angelo, and Alex directly at Discover Cuenca Ecuador

Bye.

Running A Country

I'm going nuts here.

I'm looking for a place to move to and things are squirrelly.

I did a bunch of research and had it all figured out pretty well, and then one day I thought about checking Ecuador. Hey, I don't know why. Really. I can't remember why that happened, or why I hadn't thought about it earlier, but wow. Number One Place Of The World.

I did huge amounts of research, i.e., sitting at my computer reading blogs. OK, so what? That's how I do huge. You go and do it your way if you want, but this is my story. So huge. Huge amounts of research.

There are all kinds of good things about the place.

On the equator, so there is plenty of sun, but kind of humpy in the middle with the Andes Mountains and all, so it's pretty cool, temperature-wise. Decent infrastructure, good water and clean streets, at least around the place I was looking at. And a fair number of people already there speaking my language.

Sure. I am learning Spanish. But, you know. Well, you should. It isn't all that easy to pick up a language sitting at home, even in front of your computer. Even trying hard. So yes, I'm getting there, but I'll have to be on the ground as they say before I can really hammer at it.

So, getting back to the place thing, it was nice that there were other English speakers there already. And all that stuff. Sounded great.

Finally. Enough research. (I read some books too. The paper ones. OK?)

And then when I figure I ought to go for it, although this isn't the cheapest place and it's going to be a little stretchy, money-wise, for the next couple of years, I say hey - do it. (Talking-to-myself-wise, you know. Which is mostly in my thoughts, but not moving my lips or anything.)

So then what happens? Nothing much, it seems, because it all happened a year or so back and is happening again. Bribes. Corruption. Flagrant disregard for the law. Not by me, you should know. By them. The people there running the show. So that kind of crapped out. The system is locked up solid.

There is one blog I found which is pretty good even though the author prays a lot. Like he prays about where God wants him to go do lunch. And he lost his keys and prayed to God to tell him where they were. Not my personal style, but if the world wasn't full of crazy people we'd have to invent them so they could see us as crazy too and we could all snicker back and forth.

Which is beside the point.

The point being that, this guy, and his wife, were there and loving it. They had a nice apartment in a nice city, were settling in, making friends, exploring, eating meals. They had submitted all their forms and all the apostilled doodads and the notarized signatures pasted over with official seals and the seals on seals and triplicate copies, all submitted in correct form to the correct places at the correct times under supervision of a local attorney specializing in all this to make it super correct.

OK, cool. Back to corruption. Which is the main point right now.

So the head of immigration gets busted for corruption, which happened to someone else just a year or so back, and he and a bunch of other people get booted out. And the whole system is in an uproar. Heads are rolling here, people. Majorly. Got serious head-rolling going on.

And this is about the time I had finally decided to make my move, to start making my move, and then it all craps out.

And this other guy, the praying one, who really does have a pretty decent blog despite that, well he says he thought they were just basically sitting there and waiting for their final approval to come through - a formality at this point - well, they were simply swept out of the system. Foof.

Big rubber stamp with a skull and crossbones on it. DENIED. Denied with prejudice.

That's it.

And he tried submitting an appeal, through his lawyer and all, but I guess the good news is that though they have made no progress so far they haven't been escorted to the airport at gunpoint. Yet.

So crap.

Central America. South America. They kinda work this way.

So I'm looking at other places now.

Does Latin America Exist?

I've been reading about a certain country south of here for around three years. I've been thinking of moving there.

Mainly, I'm cheap. Because I have to be, not having much to live on. And with less to come. And there are the other things. You know. Or maybe you don't.

For one thing, when you get to be older it becomes harder to change jobs, or to find work if you don't have it. What "older" means depends on a person's sex, geography, educational level, and field of work. And sometimes makes some sense. If physical ability is important, and a person can no longer maintain an even strain, then that's it right there.

But most work these days isn't seriously physical, so what about the rest?

Sometimes, just appearing older than one's workmates is enough. Or being in a "young" field. No matter how profoundly stupid this whole ethos is, it is. The young don't catch on because, well, they are young. When this situation hits them they are both no longer young and can't avoid it anyway.

So there's that.

And then "older" is also a matter of experience. For instance, in more and more kinds of employment these days, if you have significant experience you are considered dated. Somehow it is assumed that once you have learned one thing, you can't learn another. And since you have been doing one thing for a while, you are no longer up-to-date. That is, you have become expendable.

So there we are.

Some parts of Latin America look not bad at all. I'm ready to try now. I just have to find out how to get there.

A lot of people take a trip or two or three, and then make the transition. I don't know any of them. I also can't afford to go flying around, staying places while maintaining a residence "back here", and spending money on sightseeing and exotic experiences and hotels and eating out everywhere.

I just want to go.

Nah. Not working out. Not so far.

I mean, though I want to start the process, it doesn't look like there is any way to do it. I've tracked the reports of many others who have moved and resettled, and none of them quite knows how it happened. No two pieces of advice are the same. No one has ever, in the many reports and hundreds of comments that I've read, ever described, step by step, a definite process.

Some recommend a certain resource, usually a lawyer, but the information is always vague. Sometimes it's a name and a city. And even those who freely admit to going this route always report massive confusion, false starts, dead ends, waiting, fear, frustration, and, if they say they finally did it, can't quite find the words to say how.

So right.

I'm looking at a place everyone has heard of. Not too big. Not too famous. Not too far off. Somewhat on the fringe, in a way. Others seem to be there, and to be doing well, and all that. And I thought I had about as much information as it was possible to get. As much as I needed.

But.

When I sat down last weekend to actually lay out my plan and start doing actual things, I realized that, as has been said before about other situations, you can't get there from here.

I have to get certain documents, and send them to certain consulates, and do some shuffling and get stamps and translations and various things done to or with my documents, and I understand that. But the consulate staffs, as has been reported and repeatedly confirmed, do not speak English. At all. No one.

Also, although the consulates may have email addresses, those don't work. Telephoning may reach an unconnected number, or a voice mail system that cannot accept messages. Street addresses can sometimes be found, but they may not be addresses that accept mailed-in documents, if they are real at all.

So it's a wash.

One comment I've seen is that the one who knows the most is the last person to have completed the process. Others say that you have to go in person, and hand-carry things, and take a translator, and really be persistent.

Though this does not help if the doors are locked and the lights are out, even if you've found the right building at what should be the right time of day on the right day of the week.

Yet others recommend this attorney or that one, though not even the attorneys show up when needed. Though I guess they still charge.

One woman reported being about one step from success when the person across the counter said to her that her city of birth did not exist because it was not in the computer system. She could not change it to the city she had lived in all her life because that was not her city of birth. Adding her city of birth was also not possible because doing that was not allowed. It made no difference what her birth certificate said.

Which is why I now think that Latin America is an internet hoax. Latin America does not exist. If it did exist then it would be possible to do more than read about it. It would be possible to go there, and, obviously, no matter how many people write about it, or tell their experiences, it simply is not possible to actually connect.

Go ahead, try.

Therefore, there is no Latin America. Latin America does not exist. Which makes me wonder if I am living right on the edge of an unpublished J. R. R. Tolkien story. One that is rumored about but which cannot be read because both the place that the story is about and the book are mythical.

Running For The Exit

America, leave it.

A year or two back Mega-Omni Corp. told its employees they had a wonderful new employment option. Move to a randomly-assigned foreign country at half pay or be cut loose.

More recently GloboPlex proudly announced that because of the rebounding U.S. economy they would start adding thousands of new jobs in Singapore.

A lot of Americans, enticed by the giant sucking sound but skittish of continuing to work for corporate overlords, are trying the idea on for size.

For example, take an engineer with six or eight years of college and 25 years of experience. Obviously this person is unemployable in the United States because:

• They've seen every kind of crap there is to see, and won't take it anymore,
• They want to try doing something fun for a change, and
• While having fun they want to make a difference, and
• Education and experience make them too expensive to keep on the payroll.

All good reasons to bail.

All kinds of people are doing this, not just engineers. Accountants, plumbers, doctors, bus drivers, professors, librarians, electricians. You name it, especially if they're over 40. You know what they say: "Too old to work, too young to compost."

So these people, a lot of whom have Social Security checks amounting to a few hundred dollars a month and boxes full of unfulfilled promises from former employers and government, are vacating the premises.

If they were 20 or 30 years younger and foreigners, they'd have corporate sponsors pounding on the doors of Congress to let them into the U.S. as contract workers. But since these people are experienced adult citizens it looks like their best chances for a life are elsewhere.

In a press conference about its Singapore move GloboPlex spokesman Bert Stench said, "We've outsourced just about everything. Maybe we have to start putting people on planes and dumping them at sea. We're working on it as we speak."

Meanwhile things are happening in other countries. "There's a feeling among more entrepreneurial Americans that if you really want to get anything done, you have to get out of country and away from the depressing atmosphere," said Bob Adams of America Wave.

He lives in Panama.

How To Become An Expat

Try harder.

So you want to try that greener grass thing. It isn't as easy as just leaving one day and announcing your arrival at Sunny Wherever.

For example, where is it?

First you have to find a place to move to.

One way is going to the library and stealing a map. Then take it home and throw darts at it. But what if you forgot to steal darts? You go to Plan B. This is getting a copy of the internet.

A copy of the internet can be expensive even in paperback, so if you get lucky and find one in a trash bin, good. Or try the recycling center before the grinder gets to it. An older copy is fine. Countries don't change all that fast anymore.

So take your copy of the internet home -- dog-eared is OK, and a few missing pages is OK too -- and flip through it. For every country that doesn't look too bad, tear out that page. After a while you have all the good ones (there aren't too many), and you get down to research.

Once you pick your country, begin loosening your ties.

A good first step is paying off your debts. Even better is tricking someone else into doing it for you.

For a good talker this is pretty easy. Just borrow money, pay the bills, and vamoose. It isn't like they'll ever find you, the way the IRS can. To be extra safe, change your name en route.

Don't plan on coming back for holiday visits either, even if Mom lets you.

Given no other option, get a job, work hard, build up a reputation, and then go for the cash drawer as soon as they trust you.

Or do it the really, really hard way and cut back on your beer budget until you've paid off all of your debts. However distasteful that is. But if you go this route maybe you aren't sharp enough to live with foreigners, so give it some thought.

Now to get "overseas", which is the kind of lingo that true expats use, you'll need transportation.

Most people use airlines, and you have to buy a round-trip ticket, even if you can't come back because of all the money you weaseled out of Big Eddy. But on the bright side, maybe you can sell the back half of it to some gullible local and at least get pocket change out of it.

Details: Make sure your passport is up to date and you have all your shots.

Save a few bucks on the medical by going to a willing veterinarian. You probably have lots of them in your home town, no matter how small it is, and they all need cash. Plus, they're trained professionals. They just don't have the fancy license that "allows " them to work on people.

This is yet one more layer of government bureaucracy that is driving you away, and learning to step around it is good practice wherever you end up.

So, once all that is done, have a good breakfast, shower up, and put on clean clothes. You want a running start.

And, before we forget, be sure to take along a few essentials.

Hard as it is to believe, firearms are frowned on in most places, even on planes, so you may have to let someone else smuggle your hogleg in. Better they rot in a 4X4 cell for 10 years than you, anyway. Right?

Generally, you want to pack as light as light as possible, and there's nothing with a better value to weight ratio than $100 bills. Make sure they're genuine.

Carry them in your underpants. Preferably taped right to your skin.

If your last job (the one where you built up a good reputation) had a lot of change in the cash drawer, or better yet, had a vault, you're probably set on this account, as long as you manage to hang onto it.

Take extra socks. You can never have too many clean socks.

Finally, say goodbye to anyone who will miss you and won't help the bounty hunters track you down, no matter how high the offer goes.

This is likely to be close relatives who will be glad to join you and help with your export business, though the Mexicans really have a lot of the options bolted down pretty tight by now. Still, there's always room for someone with seed cash, good ideas, initiative, and a few expendable relatives.

And then get on the plane and go. Remember not to make any jokes about "skyjacking" or "crashing" or any of that stuff.

Buckle your seatbelt. Appear amiable. Keep your mouth shut.

That's about it.