Rob-Rivera.com

Panama and Immigration

With more than a million foreigners coming to Panama in 2008 and a trend that indicates we’re far from seeing the peak of visitor influx, you’d think that Panama’s immigration office would be up to the task to receive and process every single foreigner in the country. After having recently visited the main office I’m happy to report that the old addendum about government entities continues to jam its rusty blade into the annals of our society: the Panamanian Immigration Office is a clusterfuck quagmire of fairy tale insanity, the sort of unique mess that is not fantastical in its matter-of-factness but it boggles my feeble mind nonetheless. If you’re a foreigner and intend to visit one of the most beautiful countries in the world, skip lunch and brace yourself, for this roller coaster ride is designed to make you feel like a post-coital tramp who just got off her acid trip.

The numbers escape me at the moment, but the estimate for foreigners currently in Panama is a little over a million. That includes tourists, real estate buyers, workers and those in-between. A million. That’s 1/4 of the total populace. With tourism minister Ruben Blades and his “Master Plan,” its the government’s intention to pack the country to the gills with foreigners. There are plenty of opinions to go about that, I’m certain, but that’s an argument for another day. Fact of the matter is that Panama has the dollar, and everyone loves the dollar while they poop on the country that came up with it (or should I say pooped? Honestly, Obama has almost singlehandedly given the U.S. a clean slate in the eyes of the world) so everyone comes here. Panama is the New American Dream, but this “America” is the whole continent rather than just the Red, White and Blue.

Panama is attractive to the North American because it looks exotic, is a “tax haven” and carries the same currency while being three times cheaper. It’s attractive to the European because, again, its exotic and since the Euro has mad hits like it was Rod Carew, things are six times cheaper. Finally, Panama is attractive to the Latin American because we now have North Americans and Europeans looking to spend their money, and since a good salary to the Latin American usually means cheap labor for the North American/European, it’s a win-win. Besides, have you seen Colombian women? Sweet mother of God.

All of these sectors and the lovely characters they represent often converge in the Immigration Office. A government branch, they take care of all claims, queries and processes needed to get in and out of the country. I don’t remember much about my times in there, most likely due to post-traumatic stress disorder, but I can tell you it was never something you could call “pleasant.” More like “rape,” perhaps. By Carrot Top.

If you go get your driver’s license for the first time or get it renewed, you’ll surprisingly find yourself in for a real delight: the system was handed over to a private entity called SETRACEN in 2007 and whereas it took me, I shit thee not, seven hours, a bribe that turned out to be a scam, a screaming match with an official over the written test and a stroke of luck with the field exam when I took the license out for the first time in 2004, getting the new one took me a grand total of one hour and a half. No fuss, no bribes and no attitude. For once I was treated like a human being when dealing with the government. Of course, I sadly realized that it was all a lie, the dirty paws of privatization took a grip around the transit authority’s neck and… made the process efficient.

There are some things we know for certain in life. Love in unconditional. Everything that goes up must go down. Darwin was right. OJ did it. I could go on for weeks with this, but one thing we can count on is that dealing with a government entity, be it transit, immigration or otherwise, will always result in tears. It’s like scaling Mount Doom without shoes and a friend who likes you just a wee bit too much: it’s annoying, uncomfortable and you want it to be over before it’s even begun. Panama’s Immigration Office is no different.

I took a friend recently to get her tourist visa renewed with a pulp sense of adventure running through my veins. I love to help, and I wanted to know if the immigration office had improved its organization and customer service since last February they changed up the visa requirement laws in order to stimulate tourism and foreign investment, in an effort to make things more fair for everyone. I wasn’t expecting a back rub and cocktails on the way in, but being treated like something more than a piece of shit with legs and a t-shirt would suffice. As we walked into the black hole that is the Immigration Office entrance, I knew that nothing in my years of adventuring could ever prepare me for this.

Trying to come up with a coherent way to describe the place is like asking a blind man for directions: sure, I be he/she gets around just fine, but we’re talking about two very different levels of perception here. Trying to navigate through that office must surely take years of practice with no one to guide you. The place is cramped, packed full of people and no apparent way to figure out where the hell to go. There are lines everywhere going to different rooms, one no different than the next. Asking other people seems pointless since most of the time they’re just as clueless as you are and talking to people who work there is futile. Absolutely futile. Trying to decipher which of the seven lines was the one we were supposed to be in, I had an oh-so informative talk with an immigration worker, sexy navy blue vest and badge with his hungover face on display for all to see. He was asking people to step away from what I assume was the cash register area.

Rob: “Good morning.”

Immigration Official: “Argh.”

Rob: “Oh, alright. I would like to know where the line for visa extensions is.”

IO (bewildered): “Huh?”

Rob (pointing at his friend): “She wants to renew her visa and we were told it’s here, but which line is it?”

IO: “Well, you’re going to have to ask the people in the lines.”

Rob: “Come again?”

IO: “You’ll have to talk to the people in the lines.”

Rob: “You don’t know?”

IO (pointing to some people to his left who seemed to be making a line towards something): “If they’re in a line they must know what it’s for.”

Rob: “Are you for real?”

IO: “I haven’t gone knee-deep in the subject yet.” *chuckles*

The son of a bitch chuckled, like it was a joke. I went over to the people he pointed out to, a group who looked they had been out in the desert for days and were a hair away from killing their brethren. I asked what the line they were making was for. They replied that they were not making a line at all.

Looking at our surroundings, we realized the logic that governed this place was something way beyond our comprehension. I felt like an immigrant who came from planet Earth, stuck in some odd-shaped planet were people eat cats and dance to the sounds of folding chairs. Where’s your Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when you need it? I should’ve taken my towel.

With no time for a panic attack we eventually found the line we were supposed to make. A rather short line, I must admit. Also, a line where it took us one hour to advance a solid foot. One foot. Did I mention I hadn’t had breakfast that morning? I sported the grin people who are about to snap have right before their jump-off. There was some sort of “take a number” system in place but everyone ignored it, including the workers; the line also seemed like it was heading nowhere not just in terms of progress but also in terms of finality. There was much uncertainty. As it is with places that fancy a chaotic infrastructure, you can always count on two things: it’s a free-for-all in there, and always be on the lookout for windows of opportunity. Out of nowhere a man with the face I’m sure is that of Death pointed to a closed-off office cubicle shoved in a corner of the room and spoke:

“If you are renewing your visa, make a line here. Only five people will be served.”

Survival of the fittest. He only said it once and those with the sharpest reflexes got the coveted spots, including us. After two hours of waiting in line, a lucky break like this is a minor, yet sweet victory.

In the end we got in, and were given the following news: if you’re North American, you can’t renew your tourist visa. In fact, you don’t need one to enter Panama. you have ninety days of freedom in the country, and unless you leave before those ninety days are up, you’ll have to pay a $50 fine for every extra month you stay. This also goes for the following countries: Germany, Hungary, Argentina, Israel, Austria, Italy, Chile, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Poland, El Salvador, Portugal, Spain, United Kingdom, Finland, Greece, France, Singapore, Guatemala, Switzerland, Honduras, Uruguay, Holland (The Netherlands), Luxembourg, Belgium, and Bolivia.

Panama Business and Travel had broken down the different types of visas and all that jazz from the articles written by Panama Offshore Service’s own Steven Rich, published in The Visitor tabloid. You can check that info out by clicking here. In the meantime, my friendly advice is to avoid having to go to the immigration office at all costs, unless absolutely necessary. As it is with most things in Panama, the barter system is still alive and kicking, allowing the use of different options to get your process done. You know what they say: “where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

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