Kafka in Brazil

I've now figured out that the most painful, terrible moment in the life of a prisoner is not when he or she has heard the sentence. The worst moment is the one right before the verdict is read. In that moment, one faces either purgatory or freedom, without knowing either possibility for certain. It's agonizing.

So after some mix-ups with Orbitz, I made a reservation to go to Buenos Aires last night, to leave the country, stop the clock on my expired visa, and restart the process.

The story of Montevideo and Buenos Aires can be told next. For now, I'll detail experiences with the Federal Police.

Yesterday, I arrived at the migration control at about 2:45 PM for a 3:30 PM flight. I was bound for Buenos Aires by way of Montevideo, flying the Uruguayan state carrier, Pluna. This wasn't ideal timing, but I hadn't been sufficiently organized to get out the door after my morning interview.

I explained to the official that I was there on an expired visa, I was leaving the country, and I had to pay a fine. She went to get a supervisor. The supervisor asked me why I overstayed my visa. I explained. She frowned, and asked what I thought was going to happen. I explained that I had gone to the Federal Police (in the adjacent terminal) and they had explained that I had to pay a fine. She frowned again, and walked away. A second supervisor appeared in a minute, and ushered me to a chair outside an office.

The time passed, and my mind started to wander over the idea that maybe I'd be hauled off in handcuffs, maybe I wouldn't be allowed back in, maybe I'd miss my flight.

At about 3:10, I started to pace outside the office. Other cases, probably simpler ones, had been whisked in and out of the office, as I sat there looking pitiful and worried. Through the window, I could see the second supervisor chatting with two agents, occasionally laughing.

At 3:20, I stopped the first supervisor and pleaded with her that my plane was leaving in ten minutes. She said, "Um minutinho."

"Um minutinho" sometimes drives me up the wall. It means "one small minute," but it's never one minute. It can be up to half an hour.

Five minutes later, I knocked on the door to plead with the second supervisor. He assured me that "it's coming up." He didn't explain what "it" was.

In the end, I was only to be fined, and my future left up to agents upon re-entry.

So at 3:31 PM, I signed the paper acknowledging my guilt and my willingness to pay (or appeal) the fine. I rushed to get an exit stamp, and into the waiting company of Pluna airlines staff, who brought me, the last passenger, onto the plane. I would pay the fine the next time I entered Brazil.

===

Fast forward to this afternoon, after 8 hours of flights, little sleep, little water or food, and endless confusion over how exactly one speaks Spanish. (I think I used to speak it.)

I arrived at immigrations and confessed that I needed to pay a fine. Again, the officer took my passport to a supervisor, who came out and invited me to sit in a chair outside another office.

As I waited, the rest of the plane filed through passport control, and the room emptied. A representative of Pluna arrived, and sat across the room. After a few moments of awkward silence, I noted aloud that I spoke Portuguese and understood the rules, and that I would be fine and she could go.

She went to speak with the supervisor, and returned.

"No, he's trying to figure out whether you can disembark in Brazil, or whether you have to return."

Oh, that familiar sense of sinking, and that familiar adrenalin rush returned.

"Have to return?" My thoughts immediately went to the astronomical costs of going back to the US instantly, and the concern that I didn't even have my computer or a toothbrush, let alone a change of clothes.

The supervisor emerged.

"We've determined that you have to go back. Your visa has ended."

"But ... it says multiple entries, valid for one year!" I'm sure I said a lot more than that. I was stammering, trying to maintain composure. I hope it was respectable Portuguese. I was exhausted, with a racing heart.

He flipped through the pages. "Oh, so it does. My mistake." With that, he returned to the office.

The airline representative and I chatted for a bit, and I explained what I was doing in Brazil and why I was in this spot.

The supervisor returned about ten minutes later. "We've determined that you can't stay in Brazil, for another reason. You've already spent 180 days here."

"But I've only been here since August!"

"Well, you came here on a tourist visa in April, June, and August."

"No, I was here as a tourist in April and May, and I've been on a temporary [work] visa only since August! I was in the United States for all of June." My mind was frantically trying to think of evidence I had, besides a long list of potential witnesses, to show my presence in the US for June.

He flipped through the passport, and said, "Oh, I thought I saw extra stamps." He returned to the office.

About half an hour passed. Limbo is miserable. I need to write to the airline and praise the employee for her kind words and for being a good listener. I may have been babbling. It was nice to have someone there, and it may have prevented me from going crazy with my own thoughts and imagination.

It later turned out that she was there, and she kept getting walkie-talkie messages because they were holding the plane - the same 3:30 PM flight - just in case they had to send me back to Montevideo.

Finally, the same supervisor emerged and said that, if I paid the fine, I could stay. The Pluna representative and I walked down the stairs through customs, paid the fine, and returned. Another Federal Police agent emerged, and spent a good half hour consulting the supervisor, entering my information into the computer, and repeating the process.

In the end, I'm now here on my tourist visa. Apparently, and somewhat to my relief, they've been having similar problems with Consulates, particularly in the US, not adjusting to the new visa system and only granting 90 day stays. For now, the Federal Police doesn't care if I conduct interviews or research; no one's going to stop me. In two months, when time comes for renewal, I need to go to Itamaraty (which is square two in this madcap game, I believe; square one is the Federal Police's foreigners' section at the Rio airport) and ask them to change the visa term for the temporary work visa. The Federal Police will be in contact with the US Consulates to clarify their directives.


===

Oh, and there's a punchline.

So after two hours this afternoon with the Federal Police, I said goodbye to the Pluna employee, and went downstairs to turn in my customs form and declare nothing. I had only my backpack, filled with books and now empty of a wad of ~R$400 in bills. I handed my slip to the agent, who asked, "Where's your luggage?" I replied that I only had what was on my back.

He asked me to follow him, and went to see a supervisor. The supervisor emerged and asked me why I didn't have any luggage.

I was being interrogated to see if I might be a drug or child trafficker.

I think I told such a ludicrous and bad potential cover story (expired visa, dinner, no hotel, and a night of wandering around Buenos Aires before crashing at the airport) that he let me go without further questions.