Halfway There, We Hope

I've got it, a solution to the immigration issues poisoning what could be a mutually beneficial relationship between the United States and Mexico. I saw the light almost by accident, and, ironically, in Mexico itself. In short, all United States authorities need to do to resolve today's acrimonious debates over immigration is to adopt the same sort of measures that Mexico imposes on immigrants who want to work in the country, stay longer than six months, take advantage of medical services and own property: Compel them to get an FM2 or FM3 visa.

I'm not sure what FM2 and FM3 means, though wags in Mexico glibly refer to them as Foreign Moron Second Class and Foreign Moron Third Class. Whatever, one or the other is supposed to facilitate ordinary life in Mexico for expats, from getting through the airport to transferring property. We were told this a few years ago by various people who long have lived in Mexico. At that time we were starting to entertain thoughts of residing part-time in Baja California Sur. We bought their advice, and soon after we bought our casa we applied for our FM3 visas. Since getting them, I haven't realized any advantages, but I also haven't tried to find a job.

Instead, our FM3s have become a source of frustration, confusion and anger, but only on the day when we begin the annual renewal process, precisely one month before they are to expire. You have to do this in person in Mexico. The ritual starts with a trek to immigration headquarters in Cabo San Lucas. There, you first stand in line outside, then you and a dozen or so others dash upstairs to queue up again. (You should see the wheelchair ramp in this place. I've never seen anyone in a wheelchair actually attempt to go up or down it, but skateboarders practically droll at the steep, narrow and frightening challenge it offers; I tried to take a photo but the security officer stationed at the foot of the ramp grabbed me as if I were from Sinaloa, packing heat. He pointed to a sign indicating that no cellphones or cameras are to be used in the building. Meanwhile, at the top of the ramp, many of the people waiting to process their papers are on their cellphones.)

But back to renewing our FM3s. Here's what this year's exercise entailed, starting this past Thursday:

- A two-hour wait in the immigration office. There's a TV overhead, but it wasn't on. Every sign in the place is in Spanish. All the clerks speak almost solely Spanish, with little English. That's OK, it's Mexico, where Spanish is the dominant language, and anyone who lives there even part time probably should know enough to get by. Still, it is an immigration office, with most of the clients English speaking.

- After two hours, we're called up. We've been through this before. We know what to expect. We're ready. We've come with everything we've been directed to bring in the past: Copies of our three most recent bank statements to verify that we're more or less solvent and won't become a burden on the state's welfare services; our passports; our FM3s; copies of our most recent electricity bill to confirm that we're property owners. All this paperwork is enclosed in the required vanilla folders. (The people with blue folders are attorneys or agents who expats can hire for a fee of generally around $150 per FM3. They get to line up separately, though I'm not sure the service they get is any faster. A lot of them are Mexican women in tight pants and amazingly high platform shoes with spiked heels. The speed with which they can dash across the room in those shoes when their name is called is about the only entertainment you'll get if you didn't bring a good book.)

- The clerk flips through our paperwork quickly. He sighs, then tells us we don't have the new forms that have been required since late January. One of them has to be completed online. He points to a desk with a computer in the corner. He says if we have any questions about operating the computer ask the person in the information kiosk next to the desk. Neither then nor any time subsequently did we ever see anyone manning the information kiosk. We log on and find that all the questions are in tortured bureaucratic Spanish. A woman in line waiting to use the computer offers to help us maneuver through this minefield so she can get on with her own business. That task finished, we turn to the second form, to be answered by hand. The questions are surprisingly personal and dubiously relevant, but we proceed to fill in the blanks that ask about our race, education, complexion, height, weight, tattoos or scars, children, occupation, monthly income and religion (if I put down "Catholic" might that expedite the process, I wonder).

- Back to the counter, where the clerk notes that our names on the printout from the computer don't precisely match our names on our passports. We point out that the computer form asks for our names as they appear on our passports or on some other official identification. Because we are renewing our FM3s, we figure that our names on the form should be as they appear on the FM3s. We've figured wrong. The clerk insists that our names should be exactly on the form as they are on our passports. He directs us back to the computer to redo and reprint the forms.

- Back to the counter. He asks where our photos are. In the FM3s, we indicate. Nope, we need new ones, in color. By this time it's 1 p.m. We've been in the office four hours. The office is open weekdays only from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. (I thought the same thing: Who handles their collective bargaining?) By this time we're thoroughly beaten down. We leave, find a small nearby photo shop whose only business is taking photos for visas. It's fast and relatively cheap - 120 pesos each, about $10. Next, we find a bank where we can pay our annual renewal fee, precisely 1,294 pesos each (about $110), and it must be paid in pesos only, no credit cards, no checks, no Unites States currency.

- We return to the immigration office first thing next morning, again joining the lines. The night before I've reviewed every possible contingency, and made backup copies of even backup copies. Nonetheless, I'm not confident that every base has been covered. The contradictions and delays of the day before were rattling, and I remind myself to adopt the attitude of the woman who'd stepped up to help us. She said she continually tells herself well before she gets to the office that "this is immigration day." She doesn't plan to get anything else done this day; she exercises her upmost patience; and she tries to keep smiling. I kept repeating that mantra, especially when the clerk asks the whereabouts of the two additional copies we were to have of our payment at the bank the day before. Yikes, I hadn't known we were to do that. But just as we were about to head out of the office in search of a copy shop, we ask if he might just make the required copies on the copy machine behind him. I feel uneasy about this, figuring we've already gone through a ream of paper and a printer cartridge, but he agrees, so I get over it.

- With that, he flips through the papers in one folder, then the other, shuffling, stacking, stamping and stappling. He then gives us a "very important paper," basically our receipt, which we are to bring to the office to pick up our new FM3 visas, anticipated in about a month. He points to a website address on the form and says we could go there anytime to check on the progress of our application. I've tried, following the directions over and over, but get a message that the page doesn't exist. We'll wait a week or two, then start calling the immigration office to find if our new FM3s are in.

I know what you're thinking: If only the immigration process in the U.S. were this onerous all those immigrants would beat a hasty retreat home. I'm not suggesting that at all. I've no idea what immigrants in the U.S. face if they hope to stay in the country for an extended time and perhaps find a job, go to school and buy property. The system in the States could be so daunting that it alone explains why some immigrants ignore it, but I doubt that. At the least, every direction will be in Spanish as well as English.

The Mexican bureaucracy is legendary for its finicky and rigid ways. The unprecedented computer station at the immigration office on our most recent visits, however, is an encouraging sign. Maybe the process gradually will become more logical and less irksome. (Oddly, not once on any of the forms we filled out were we asked an email address so immigration officials could keep us abreast of changes in their standards, which seem to happen annually.) Despite the computer, however, we went through more paperwork than usual, and clerks looked to be using no fewer rubber stamps, paper clips and glue sticks than ever. The clerks, incidentally, were never obtuse or mean-spirited, just equally unprepared in the details of the new procedures.

For sure, the Mexican system is inefficient, awkward and costly, yet we feel compelled to abide by it so we can be seen and treated as good neighbors. I wouldn't want to wish it on anyone, but I've a hunch the comparable means to allow immigrants to buy property, pay taxes and the like in the U.S. is more streamlined. Nonetheless, it apparently isn't perceived as being as necessary to live by as the visa procedure in Mexico, or it wouldn't be shrugged off as casually as it is. What I'd like to see is some sort of reciprocity between the two nations, so that immigrants from one country to the other can know beforehand what's expected of them and can comply with minimum hassle.

Given the traditions, history and proximity of Mexico and the United States, you'd think there could be more understanding and cooperation between the two countries. But relations appear to be nearly as strained as ever, with that grim fence snaking along the border a depressing symbol of political and diplomatic ineptitude in both countries. With leadership and imagination, politicians and diplomats should be able to come up with a relatively easy and encouraging way for citizens of both countries to cross the border and pursue their dreams in a manner beneficial to all concerned. That day seems far off, given the acrimony and fear generated  by overheated differences concerning guns, drugs and illegal immigration. Nevertheless, we can hope.