Hasta la Visa, Baby.

We've been leaving and returning to Quito so frequently recently we decided to stay until the Visa process was finished. Although the volunteer visa application process would seem to be straight forward with little room for trouble if all the documents are in order, we found order in a procedural sense to be something conspicuously absent from the visa offices. Below is an account of the rest of our application process.

30 May, Thursday

Early morning fog along Gonzalez Suarez, from Guápulo

We returned to the ministry in the early morning and by ten o’clock we were sitting across a desk from a ministry agent. She checked all of our papers and checked them again. She went through the list of requirements for the 12-VII visa and had us point out each document as she ticked them off. “OK,” she said, “I see that you have all the necessary documents, all correctly legalised. have you canceled your current visas?” No, we replied. What? “Before you can submit your application you must go through the process of officially cancelling your current visas. The fee is $50 per person. You can find the application form and requirements on the website of the ministry. Come back tomorrow and cancel your visa -- oh, and don’t worry about photos on the cancellation application -- then bring your receipt of payment to me on monday.” She flipped through our application a final time. “You’ll also need to buy a folder for all these documents; and tell me, where is your ‘Project’?” She tapped the requirement printout where it read:

For anyone applying for visa 12-VII as a volunteer:

• A letter from the organisation to the head of the ministry requested the services of the volunteer.

• A letter from the volunteer to the legal representative of the organisation in which the volunteer agrees to offer his or her services freely.

• A chronological list of activities to be carried out by the volunteer.

• Project.

These documents must be submitted along with the application. 

 “What is the necessary documentation for the project?” I asked.

“Let me see if I can get you an example,” she replied, leaving the desk to search through several applications on the wall behind her. She returned shortly. “Hmm, I can’t find any examples, but it should be OK if you just write about the project you will be doing.” I showed her my letter to the organisation in which I had specified the dates and content of my volunteering. “Like this, on a separate piece of paper?”

“I think that will be acceptable.”

“Can you give me any more advice about what specifically I need to write?”

“Create a new document with the heading ‘Project.’”

“And if I copy and paste the information from the letter under the heading ‘Project’ that will suffice?”

“I don’t know exactly. But that seems like enough to me. Do that, bring it with the receipt of payment for the cancellation, and we will look at your application again.”

We thanked her, left the ministry, picked up our small luggage in Guápulo and left Quito for Ibarra.

3 June, Monday

We returned to the ministry at ten o’clock, fully expecting the cancellation process to be quick. The ministry agent at the information desk looked over our application. “Where is your application for the new visa?” he asked. I looked at Sandra. She covered her mouth with a hand. I looked back at the agent and told him that the woman with whom we had spoken had not informed us we would need our application for the 12-VII visa in order to cancel our current visas, nor was that listed as a requirement on the ministry webpage. He would not give us a turn-ticket without the application. We caught a cab outside post-haste and once back in Guápulo printed the “project,” added it to our 12-VII application and caught another cab back to the ministry. This time we quickly received a turn-ticket and on the sparsely populated first floor our number was called immediately. As the agent behind the desk was reviewing our application I asked her if having so few people was normal on mondays. “No,” she replied, “none of us know what is going on.” She flipped back to the application form. “You need photos for each of you, but otherwise your application is complete.”

“The woman we spoke with last time we came told us explicitly that we would not need photos on this application form,” I said.

“You do need photos. Give the woman at number three your 12-VII application and ask her to review it. In the meantime, you can go take photos.”

While Sandra went to have her picture taken next door, I went to number three with the 12-VII application in hand. The same woman we had spoken with four days earlier gave the application, now properly enclosed in a folder, a cursory look and asked, “What documents were you missing?” I showed her the “Project,” she nodded approval and we both returned to number one. At this point Sandra met us with her photos which, glued onto the form, completed our application. We took the $150 invoice to the payment window on the ground floor, copied the receipt of payment at a copy shop down the block to include with our 12-VII application and returned to number one on the first floor to hand over our passports, to be picked up the following day.

4 June, Tuesday

Public parking for Ministry of Foreign Relations, Quito

The queue on the first floor was longer today and we waited about 45 minutes with a large screen broadcasting children’s cartoons from the front of the waiting area. The layout, with all of the seats turn forward in rows, reminded me of the US embassy in Brussels. No books, no magazines, no newspapers and no areas to chat; only a lone TV screen broadcasting unrelentingly into rows of onlooking seats. Our number was called, granting blessed relief from the television and another interview with the familiar female agent at number two. I mentioned the addition of the copies of receipt of payment for the visa cancellation. She looked over the requirements and had us locate each document for her. We did this several times as some of the requirements were together in a single letter or form. Satisfied that our application was complete, she had us sit in front of a camera for photos. “Everything looks to be in order. I’m giving you an appointment for next tuesday. Come between three thirty and four and go to the second floor,” she informed us. We left giddy and giggling between ourselves. Finally, our visas!

7 June, Friday

When Oscar and I arrived home at Ana Lucia’s in the evening after a day of working on the house in Chota, I noticed a message in my inbox from the ministry. The e-mail read:

After reviewing your application we have determined several documents are missing. You have 48 hours to submit the following or your application will be canceled:

• Birth certificate, apostilled or notarised, with notarised translation

• Domestic Partnership

• Justify diploma and workshops on résumé

Sandra and I conversed in puzzled horror. The only birth certificate listed as a requirement on the website was for children, and we had given an apostilled birth certificate of Ainoa’s along with a notarised translation as part of our application. What did the mysterious second line mean? How could we give a “domestic partnership” to the ministry? We had submitted a notarised statement in which we attested to living together as legal cohabitants for two years in Brussels. Likewise we had submitted an apostilled diploma with a notarised translation. What -- and how -- did I have to justify? And finally, what to make of the 48 hour deadline? Was that business days? Did the deadline stand in reference to our tuesday appointment? Was the ministry open Saturday? I sent a reply asking for clarification in the form of detailed explanations of what documents exactly were required, and we planned to leave Sunday night and visit in person on Monday.

10 June, Monday

Relatively short wait in line. At number three we met a new agent. We showed him a printout of the e-mail. “Did you submit your child’s birth certificate with the application?” he asked. We had. “And was it apostilled?” It was. “And your diploma?” Apostilled, with a notarised translation. Andres had explained to us that the “Domestic Partnership” document had not been used by population services for five years and our notarised statement was the most proof we could give. We explained this to the agent. He excused himself to retrieve our application. He had us show him all the documents, the copies in his file and the originals we had brought with us. He excused himself again. When he returned, he explained what had happened.

“Normally your application must contain notarised copies, but you have shown me the originals today and I have spoken with my director and he approves the application. We may ask to keep your notarised translations, but your application should be unblocked. Call this number tomorrow. It’s the legal department. They blocked your application. Tell them you spoke with Jimmy V. and his director told you to call. Ask them to confirm the status of your application. Then come back on Friday after 11am.”

We thanked him and drove back to Guápulo.

11 June, Tuesday

We spent four hours, from nine to one, calling the legal department at the ministry. The two times my call did not arrive at the voice mailbox, which was full, I explained the situation, the other party put me on hold, and within a minute I was listening to a dial tone. Sandra finally succeeded in having a discussion around a quarter to two. She was told that the justice department communicates exclusively by e-mail and if we had not yet received an e-mail yet we must continue to wait. They still had not replied to my original reply of two business days before. We decided I would return to the ministry the following day alone to get some answers.

12 June, Wednesday

I had to wait for over an hour but I had brought an illustrated Spanish vocabulary book so at least I was able to get something done and avoid the television, which was again broadcasting cartoons. When I came to number three the familiar woman was there. I explained the situation. She got up and went into the back room. When she returned she told me, “Your application has already been handed over to another department for processing. Don’t worry, you have all the documents and the application should go through now. There’s nothing you need to do. Don’t worry.” She gave me an appointment for Monday at 11:30 on the first floor. We had been told numerous times that I could come alone so that Sandra would not have to come with Ainoa, but all things considered we decided to go all three of us.

17 June, Monday

One of the guards helps Sandra carrying Ainoa by pulling her past the line and giving her a priority ticket while I retrieve my passport from the glove compartment of the pickup. Good thing, for when we arrive at the first floor there are more people waiting than we have seen in any of our visits. Even with priority, we have to wait about 40 minutes before sitting at number three. Our female acquaintance looks askance at us. “What was the problem with your application?”

“What?”

“What did they write to you?”

Sandra has to step in and help me because I cannot understand the Spanish. The woman listens to her response and leaves to the back office. When she returns she says, “Please take a seat. I’ll call you when your application is ready to be reviewed.”

Ministry of Foreign Relations, Quito

We sit back in the waiting seats, baffled. I am still a little hopeful. Sandra is devastated. The next in line at number three is an English speaking couple. From their conversation with their translator I make out that they too are having problems in getting their application approved. I ask them what visa they are applying for and what seems to be the holdup. The man’s 12-VII application has been held up for reasons unknown to them while the woman’s application has been approved. The only difference between their applications was their résumés. I wish them luck and return to my seat beside Sandra and Ainoa. The time is one thirty. We are called back. The woman brings the application file and asks where Ainoa’s birth certificate is. We locate it for her. She brings our file to the back office where she discusses it with two male agents and then brings it back to us. She asks where the apostille is. We ask her to turn over the page and have a look. Again she has a discussion in the back office and returns to us. She begins to enter data into her computer. I suggest that we give her the original notarised translation if that will help. “No,” she says, “everything is in order. Don’t worry. Your application needs to be signed by the director, which should take 10-15 minutes. Have a seat and I’ll call you when it is ready. Please wait downstairs with the baby so she isn't disturbed.” Half an hour later Sandra comes back to the first floor. Ainoa is asleep in the baby carrier. Five minutes later we are called to number three. Our application has been approved. We take the $250 invoice, pay downstairs, make a copy of the receipt, return to number three on the first floor, hand over the receipt and our passports. In return we get official application papers and an appointment for Wednesday to pick up our passports, new visas inside.

19 June, Wednesday
Our visas are here -- unfortunately we only have a year with them before we must renew. On the other hand, when we do renew we can add an additional two years to the stay, provided we still have money to continue with our project. Here's to the future!

Sleep Deprived

“The first gift you give to your children is sleep, and you never get it back.”

Brussels - 2056

When Sandra was pregnant with Ainoa, I reduced my working hours and planned eventually to be completely unavailable for work from a month before her due date. Half a year earlier a producer and director combo had signed up for a certain number of class hours with one of my employers, however they became too busy with work and postponed the remainder of the hours indefinitely. Now that I thought to take time off not only did they want to complete their hours, the producer had been feeling limited by his lack of command in English and had decided he would like to take private courses as well. I tried asking if they could wait until November to resume their study. The director had already filled his schedule and would not be attending any further classes. The producer would still be attending but he absolutely could not reschedule. Rather reluctantly, I accepted the job.

We met for one class and then Ainoa was born. When we resumed lessons a week later my preparation was hasty and I apologised for the slip in quality. The producer, a father of two-year old twins, looked at me and said, “You don’t have throw-up on your shirt, but if you aren’t getting any sleep, I believe you are a father,” and then he shared his wisdom about the gift of sleep.

This week, Ainoa has been struggling through the appearance of her two top-front teeth. She is inseparable from her mother and insufferable at night. For a baby who already wakes up three or four times under normal sleeping conditions, her insufferable nights are a marathon of wakefulness for the parents. The other day I crashed and had to rest in bed all day and the net day, Sandra fell in the line of duty and took her turn under the covers with the laptop.

Of all our difficulties here -- a foreign language, a foreign culture, administrative travails and no income -- sleep deprivation courtesy of Ainoa has been far and away the most challenging to overcome.

We woke up this morning at eight o’clock intending to arrive early at the ministry of foreign relations and submit our (finally) completed application for volunteer visas. In a fog of semi-wakefulness we prepared for the day and set out. At a tiny copy shop we bought a large manila envelope for all of our visa documents. Down the street we caught a cab to the ministry. The cab left us a block further than we had requested and we spent ten minutes searching for the correct address on foot, accompanied all the way by Ainoa cooing from the baby carrier. At last we saw it: a large concrete building with metal lettering on the facade. We queued behind seven or eight people at the information desk. When it was our turn I asked where we submit the application for 12-VII visas. “Visa applications are finished for the day,” replied the ministry agent. “We stop accepting new visa applications at 11am.” Was it that late already? We left the ministry and caught a cab back. I looked at the clock: 11:45. Where had the last four hours gone? And thus we were resigned to spend another night and day in Quito, all three of us feeling the pain of Ainoa’s teething.

Kafkaphony- May 2013

Meanwhile we managed to take care of some administrative business during a trip back to Quito. We signed up for healthcare with Ecuasanitas at $127 a month, which includes $25,000 life insurance, plus $7 per person per month for dental coverage and $5 total per month for ambulance coverage, which makes $146 per month to cover us three. I filed for an Ecuadorian replacement for my US license and I thought I would be taking the theoretical and psycho-sensory tests a week and a half later. I also thought that drivers are permitted only 90 days after their date of entry driving with a foreign license.

Quito - scenic view of the old city

I recently returned to Quito to enquire about the state of my application. On my first visit to the ANT office on the other side of the city I lost myself in the city streets and arrived an hour and a half after leaving the notorious driveway at Andres and Caroline’s house. When I finally arrived I queued in line for the license desk and upon consultation I was told to take my query to the international license branch on the second floor (first floor, for my European friends). Happy was I to see that the international license branch was almost empty. Happy was I to be seated by an agent almost immediately after stating my business. I explained my situation to her, she left for a moment to verify the status of my application, she returned. And then she shattered my happiness. My visa, she explained, only had two weeks left on it. The ANT would not issue me a driver’s license for such a short time. I kindly asked her to explain what the hell she meant by saying that I only had two weeks left on my visa. She pulled the copy of my visa approval from my application file and showed me the date listed as “REGISTRATION OF VISA”: November 25, 2012. The Visa was for 180 days and, she elucidated, my visa would expire on May 24. I protested. I showed her my passport with the actual Visa in it and handwritten thereupon, in the line “Date of Expiry,” 03/AUG/2013. She demurred. Why would the ministry of foreign affairs assign two differing dates? The date of expiry is 180 days from this date here, November 25, 2012, on this paper. I contested. November 25, 2012, is the date I applied for a visa at the Ecuadorian embassy in Brussels, and consequently the date the visa was approved. 

Quito - Virgin of the Apocalypse

I reflected that the efficiency of the administration at the embassy in Belgium seemed ironic in the present moment, but I didn’t say that. We continued like this for half an hour before I gave in. Very well, I said, but could she give me the maximum amount of time I was allowed to drive in Ecuador with a foreign license? Only 70 days? Was she positive it isn’t 90 days, as I had been told by traffic police and is listed on the US Department of State website for travellers visiting Ecuador? Oh, she is positive? And is there anything I can do between now and when I come back with a new visa, as she suggests I do, to continue driving? No? Despite that I’ve bought a car, that the administrative approval for a new visa might very well take months, was there nothing I could do? No. And if two weeks is now too short a period to issue me a visa for, could she tell me what the minimum period was, so I could be sure to know for how long at least I had to renew my visa? There is no minimum? There must be a law, or a rule the ministry follows when considering cases? No? Each case is decided by a panel and the panel determines the minimum? And does the panel have a general rule for minimum duration of visa? No? Is two weeks too short? Yes? Two months? Maybe? I see. Goodbye, señorita. I left the ANT completely dejected.

The following day, after talking with Caroline and then with Valentine’s nanny Rita about the best strategy to pursue, and with Sandra who convinced me I was after all right about the expiry date, I returned to the ANT. This time I arrived in twenty minutes. On the second-floor I was escorted into the back offices of the international license branch and seated before a high-level official. He took one look at my application and said “Oh yes, I remember you from yesterday.” I explained my case to him and he began to offer the same protest which had been so sour to me the day before. I interrupted immediately and explained politely but firmly that every foreigner who enters the country with a visa has to register hat visa with the ministry of foreign affairs within the first month of their stay in the country, during which process the ministry activates the visa and registers an expiration date starting from that activation. The date of registration for a visa on the other hand has no relation to the expiration date and, I continued, how little sense it would make to apply for a visa while abroad only to loose time off of your permitted stay for each day you remained abroad. He listened, we discussed, and then he took my passport and application, I imagine to a panel, for review. 

Quito - scenic view of Guapulo

Three minutes later he returned and explained that the agency had interpreted the date of application as the date of activation and therefore had assumed May 25 as the date of expiry. If, however, what I said was true -- and he would verify immediately with an e-mail to the ministry of foreign affairs, so if I could provide him with a phone number to contact me at several hours later -- then the panel would reconsider my application in light of this new development. But, he wanted to know, why did you want a drivers license now if you’ll have to apply for another license and pay the administrative fees again in two months when you have a new visa? How else, I calmly questioned, am I to continue to drive during these two months? What do you mean, he asked. But I’m only allowed to drive 70 days with a foreign drivers license. What? Or is it 90 days -- I don’t know, your colleague yesterday told me 70 but I’ve heard 90 from police officers and I’ve seen 90 online. No, no, he said, with a foreign drivers license you’re allowed to drive for 6 months -- 180 days, exactly the length of your visa. Oh. Could I have a print out of that law, please? Sure I can? Thank you, have a nice day.

Starting point - February 2013

This is the first in a series of updates about our permaculture and natural building project in Chota, an andean valley of Ecuador in the northern province of Imbabura. 

Quito - Guapulo

To fill you in if you're not caught up already: over 2010 - 2012 Sandra and I saved most of our income from working in Brussels (Belgium, capital of the EU, nice parks, drizzles frequently). In September of 2012 Ainoa, our now 6-month-old daughter, was born naturally in the birthing room of a midwife's practice. At the end of 2012 we quit our jobs and traveled to New York to spend a month and a half with my family. After some much needed rest and relaxation we said goodbye to very helpful grandparents and flew to Quito, Ecuador. Now, while we stay with Sandra's sister and her family we are taking care of administrative tasks -- applying for residency visas, purchasing health insurance, buying a car -- and as soon as we are done with these (we hope within a month) we will pack all of our belonging -- plus some necessary items from our gracious hosts like a queen size mattress and a stovetop set -- into a moving van and drive to Chota.