Just in Case...

Walking to Receita Federal
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

...you were worried that with my registration with the federal police completed there was nothing left on my to-do list outside my internship, you can cease worrying. Really that was just one piece of the scavenger hunt, which I do believe the country of Brazil has constructed in order to help foreigners orient themselves to their new cities.

Of course, I didn't realize that before I came here. Yes, I was aware that I had to register, but I didn't bother to ask what that entailed and the Brazilian consulate in Houston believed that a simple line in my visa advising me about this would suffice. I had this assumption (yes, I know, don't make assumptions) that I'd just show up, say "hi" to the police, they'd take a cursory glance at my passport, note my name down and that would be the end of it.

Ha!

As y'all may know, that wasn't the end of it. Indeed, I hadn't thought to bring the original copy of my visa application with me because I assumed that the pretty visa pasted into my passport would get me everywhere I needed to go (again, I know, don't make assumptions). So I left the application at home with my boyfriend.

I was wrong.

I wish I had been right because then I could have gotten this whole process started my first week here instead of during the beginning of my internship.

As luck would have it, my friend Estrela was flying back to PoA and in the nick of time my boyfriend was able to deliver the visa application and a copy of my birth certificate (gotta be able to show who my parents are) to her to bring to me here.

Phew. Thank you to my boyfriend and thank you to Estrela!

So once I had my papers in order, I got my registration over with in a mere 4 hours.

However, no rest for the weary. The next day I went to the Banco do Brasil (Bank of Brazil) for Step No. 2 in the process: getting my CPF number!

Basically this is like an American social security number. I had tried to obtain this number prior to registering with the police, but was sent away. Clearly this constitutes proof that this is a scavenger hunt - you have to progress one step at a time in order to get all the required clues to bring you to the next step.

So, yesterday, armed with a passport stamped by the police (and a stamped slip of paper, bookmark-size) and proof of residence (thank you A.!) I went to Banco do Brasil.

As usual I bumbled through security (my bag always sets off alarms) and confused the guards. I grabbed a ticket and waited for my number to be called.

Luckily, I had grabbed the right ticket! (The first time in the Banco do Brasil, I'd gone to one desk after waiting 20 minutes only to be given another number and told to wait some more).

The guy was friendly and began rapidly entering my information. "Ok, ok," he said, "Just one more thing...maybe it'll be here."

He opened my passport.

"Nope," he said, "Not there. I need something with the name of your parents."

"Uh..." I said. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead because I hadn't thought to bring my copy of my birth certificate with me.

"Well, we can do it this way," he said, "How about you just tell me their names?"

"I can do that!" I said, "How about I write them down?"

Phew! Obstacle surmounted.

He collected some money from me (just a few dollars) printed out a receipt and said, "Ok, you're done."

I was thrilled.

"Now starting tomorrow afternoon," he added, "You have to go to the Receita Federal to finish the process."

"I can't go today?" I said. I had taken the afternoon off my internship to go the World Social Forum and was trying to fit these "errands" in so I didn't have to take any more time off.

"Nope, tomorrow."

Sigh...."My God, they're going to think I'm such a slacker," I thought and was very relieved to discover later on Google Maps that the address was actually relatively close to my internship.

---

So today, I set out at 11:30 AM to walk to the next step in my Scavenger Hunt: Receita Federal.

It only took a half hour for me to get there and I confirmed with the guard that I was indeed at the right location (there was nothing written on the building).

I went to the information desk. They directed me to another room. I waited in line and then was given a CPF number and told to go upstairs. There was a huge waiting room packed with people and a monitor listing numbers (not just CPF numbers, all sorts of other numbers - I have no idea what they were for).

There was also a TV playing the news with the volume just loud enough that you think you can understand the words, but you can't really. I sat and stared. Luckily the numbers were moving considerably faster then with the federal police.

It only took 30 minutes for them to reach my number: 67. I jumped up and strode as fast as I could to desk number 53. "Alo!" I said.

The man looked up and smiled. I handed him the stapled bundle of papers from the Banco do Brasil.

He asked for my passport. He looked up information and confirmed with me who I was, who my parents were and where I was living. He printed a piece of paper with my CPF, gave it to me, and said I could expect the actual card a really long time from now.

I was ecstatic. I made it back to my internship, having been gone only an hour and a half (the normal amount of time they take for lunch).

This CPF number is a pretty groovy part of my Brazilian scavenger hunt. With it I can do such exciting things as open a bank account, buy as many cell phones as I please AND, move onto Step No. 3 in the scavenger hunt: obtaining a Student ID card.

The student ID card will give me a 50% discount on buses among other things. Of course I actually have to be enrolled in the university to get this card and the semester doesn't begin until March. So, I have a little bit of time to spend just being happy that I exist somewhere in a Brazilian database...

Vespas Brasileiras, Part II

Chairs
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Yesterday I got to experience two Brazilian systems: the federal police and the hospital pronto socorro (essentially a hospital version of the United States emergency room).

One took 4 hours.

The other took 20 minutes.

When I walked into the federal police building, I was given a Ficha Estrangeira (Foreigner ticket) with the number 32 printed on it. I was there because I was required to register with the police within 30 days of my arrival.

I sat down in what felt like an airport seat staring at the backs of people's heads. Frequently people's names were called, but no numbers. It took a while for me to figure out that two different systems were occurring simultaneously. Brazilians (whose names were being called) were here for passport related stuff. The estrangeiros (foreigners) were here to register, among other things.

It took at least 30 minutes for a Ficha Estrangeira number to be called. Number 9.

"Oh damn," I thought, "This may take a while."

And indeed it did. I'd been planning a nice lunch and instead I was spending it eating crispy, cheese-flavored fried things from the vending machine.

I finished the book I was reading.

In between staring into space, I even started reading my Portuguese-English dictionary.

I made friends with a woman who was born in Afghanistan, moved to India when she was 7, came to Brazil with her abusive husband, learned Portuguese and with the support of a neighbor divorced her husband and is now here working to support her two teenage children (who are both in school). And she never was given the opportunity to learn how to read and write. She was number 40. She got someone's attention and explained her situation to him -- that she was afraid she might lose her job if she stayed here all day. She got helped.

I was especially interested in how many very young (early 20s?) women were working here and how casually they were dressed. Tank tops and flip flops and too-tight pants. 

It was always amusing when someone came out to call a new number saying "Estrangeiro número 17" essentially, "Foreigner number 17."

3 hours after I arrived, my number was finally reached. I jumped up and practically ran into the room. The man took out a list and started telling me all the things I needed to register. "Yup, got that," I kept saying. He looked surprised. "How did you know you needed all this?"

"The university told me." Inwardly I was thinking how grateful I was to the university because if I had to wait 3 hours just to be told, "Go get this stuff and come back and wait again another day," I might have exploded.

He sent me back outside to fill out an application form, which I filled out, making some less than educated cases, which later had to be corrected when I returned to his desk. For example, instead of putting down my passport number, I put down my flight number from Houston. "Huh?" said the man, "What on earth is this number." I blushed.  Uh, perhaps my brain was a bit muddled after all that waiting?!

Then I was sent back outside to wait some more.

A different man came and handed my passport back to me with a little strip of paper with an official stamp, some numbers, a bar code and my photograph. Then he took me into a small room and coated my fingers in thick black ink for fingerprinting. Luckily, they had stuff in the ladies bathroom that got it off.

And that was it. Exactly 4 hours later I was free to go.

----

So...needless to say, although a visit to the doctor seemed prudent because the rash from the wasp sting on Sunday was continuing to grow in size (after all, I have no idea what these Brazilian wasps are capable of), I kept putting off going.

I walked over hill and dale to register for the World Social Forum (post to come about this), even got on a bus by myself (woo hoo!), wandered around the indoor market downtown and then, since nighttime was fast approaching made a move for the hospital.

I didn't know exactly what would happen or even if they'd accept me because this wasn't really an emergency in my mind. And I also didn't know how much they'd charge me. I wasn't thrilled about that prospect either.

I brought along my international insurance information just in case that could do something. Though I doubted it.

I went to the information desk. They told me to go sign in. I handed the guy my passport and he clicked away on his computer and asked me for my address and my phone number.

Then he said, "Follow the yellow line to room number 6." I did with "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" playing in my head.

The doorman to room number 6 directed me to sit in the waiting room nearby. "Here comes the waiting," I thought and started to send a text message to A. since she lives nearby.

Before I could finish it the doorman was calling out my name. Incidentally, "Alison" is a man's name here in Brazil, so everyone is a bit confused when I respond to it (such as the lady in the shoe store when I presented her with my credit card. "But you can't be Alison?" she said reading the name on it).

Inside, room number 6, I was asked simple questions about why I was there and what had occurred.

"Where are you from?" asked the doctor after finishing the medical questions.

"The United States."

"And how long have you been here?"

"Two weeks just about."

"Wow, you speak such good Portuguese."

I didn't mention that I'd studied the language for about 2 years, so I better speak decent Portuguese. I like to bask in the lie that I could have picked up all this Portuguese in 14 days time.

Then I was directed to another waiting area. This one was filled with unhappy looking people. There was one woman who could barely sit and was moaning in pain.

A few minutes later a nurse/doctor motioned for me. "We're going to do an injection," she said and directed me to the other side of the room, past sick people in hospital beds, to a small space behind a curtain.

She pulled out a needle.

"Where?" I said.

She smiled. "Your bunda [bottom]."

I winced considerably because it felt that the needle would never end.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she said kindly (if that's possible).

"Yup!" I agreed.

She motioned for me to go sit back down.

The moaning lady was still there across from me, half in her seat, half out. 

Then the first doctor spoke to me again. She said that if the shot hadn't been enough that I should go pick up a prescription that she'd written on my form.

"Tomorrow morning," she said emphatically, "Not any sooner."

"Okay" I agreed. 

The doorman asked me if I was ready for the liberação (liberation). I laughed and said yes - I felt ready for liberation - and he opened the door for me.

Oops, he wasn't joking. Literally, I had to go to a window marked "Liberação" to give them my medical form and sign out.

No money charged.

Wow.

I looked at my watch and all of this had transpired in approximately 20 minutes.

Wow.

Now of course, I should preface this by saying that I've heard stories that not all visits to the pronto socorro are so easy. However, this experience is a far cry from what would have happened had I shown up in an emergency room in the United States with an allergic reaction to a bug bite.

Truth is, I wouldn't have gone in the first place.

And good news too! Today the rash has subsided quite a bit.

Woo hoo for painful shots in the bottom!