Monday was the day we had reserved for acquiring our fishing licenses. We had been warned to reserve the whole day for the process and with good reason.
It starts with a bus ride on the Cerritos Juarez bus ( pretty drive) to the Sorianna store. From there we change busses to the Parque Bonfil bus. No one told us we should catch the one that said "directo" on it. We showed the bus driver our piece of paper with the name of the building we sought (or so we thought) written on it and with a nod he was off.
Apparently we had boarded the milk run bus. The driver negotiated narrow streets barely avoiding colliding with cyclists and palm trees while rounding tight corners. Down barely paved residential alleyways and over bumpy intersections. Sometimes in his own lane and sometimes with one hand on the horn and one on the steering wheel down the opposite lane.
The driving rules here are simple, if a bus is coming toward you in your lane while blasting his horn, get the heck out of the way. And they do.
We continued around and about 'til we had not a clue where we were or where we were bound. Finally we arrived in a more populated industrial looking area and after several more turns the bus driver indicated to us that he wanted to look at the paper again.
After much squinting and head scratching he asked the only other passenger (a young woman) if she knew where the building was. No, she said. Undaunted, the bus driver continued 'til he approached a pick up truck and handed the truck driver the paper. Needless to say we were getting a little worried by now.
The truck driver gave some directions to the bus driver who translated them to us in his best English and left us standing, bewildered, on the street.
We started back in the direction he had indicated and by chance came to be standing in front of a building that displayed a name other than the one on our piece of paper. Because it was a 3 storey building (which we knew we were looking for) and the word pescar (fishing) could be made out among the titles painted on the edifice we gave it a try and voila' there, on the second floor was the shabby government office responsible for selling sport fishing licenses.
The friendly, middle aged secretary asked us to sit in the rickety chairs provided and between her broken English an our broken Spanish we were able to piece together that we required 4 fishing licenses. One for Pacific Jade, one for the dinghy, one for Joe and one for me.
The cost for the licenses was 2,150 pesos (a little over $200. Canadian Dollars) but not to be paid to the secretary because that would be too easy. The fee was to be paid to the bank that was a three block walk away.
We took our number, 284 and looked up expectantly at the electronic indicator to discover that number 255 was currently being served. Oh, I said to Joe, that would be what the chairs are for. The waiting customers occupied chairs that were lined up in rows like they were at a movie theatre where the main feature was the 4 busy tellers attending to one client after another.
Once our enormous fishing license fee was paid we trekked back to the fishing license office and took up residence in the rickety chairs while the friendly secretary painstakingly typed forms and finally our 4 fishing licenses. No computers in sight here. The only technology being a battered typewriter and numerous sheets of carbon paper all residing on the rusty metal desk.
Finally we were the proud and tired possessors of 4 fishing licenses that allowed us to keep the fishing gear on board without fear of having our boat confiscated if the navy boarded us. A day long process.
Don't get me wrong, the apparent lack of progress is part of what we love about Mexico. If you're in a hurry you'll miss half the fun. As another cruiser said, manana (sorry, no tilde) doesn't necessarily mean tomorrow, it just means not today.
We didn't have the camera with us so I've posted a picture of a boat at the marina on a typical morning.
It starts with a bus ride on the Cerritos Juarez bus ( pretty drive) to the Sorianna store. From there we change busses to the Parque Bonfil bus. No one told us we should catch the one that said "directo" on it. We showed the bus driver our piece of paper with the name of the building we sought (or so we thought) written on it and with a nod he was off.
Apparently we had boarded the milk run bus. The driver negotiated narrow streets barely avoiding colliding with cyclists and palm trees while rounding tight corners. Down barely paved residential alleyways and over bumpy intersections. Sometimes in his own lane and sometimes with one hand on the horn and one on the steering wheel down the opposite lane.
The driving rules here are simple, if a bus is coming toward you in your lane while blasting his horn, get the heck out of the way. And they do.
We continued around and about 'til we had not a clue where we were or where we were bound. Finally we arrived in a more populated industrial looking area and after several more turns the bus driver indicated to us that he wanted to look at the paper again.
After much squinting and head scratching he asked the only other passenger (a young woman) if she knew where the building was. No, she said. Undaunted, the bus driver continued 'til he approached a pick up truck and handed the truck driver the paper. Needless to say we were getting a little worried by now.
The truck driver gave some directions to the bus driver who translated them to us in his best English and left us standing, bewildered, on the street.
We started back in the direction he had indicated and by chance came to be standing in front of a building that displayed a name other than the one on our piece of paper. Because it was a 3 storey building (which we knew we were looking for) and the word pescar (fishing) could be made out among the titles painted on the edifice we gave it a try and voila' there, on the second floor was the shabby government office responsible for selling sport fishing licenses.
The friendly, middle aged secretary asked us to sit in the rickety chairs provided and between her broken English an our broken Spanish we were able to piece together that we required 4 fishing licenses. One for Pacific Jade, one for the dinghy, one for Joe and one for me.
The cost for the licenses was 2,150 pesos (a little over $200. Canadian Dollars) but not to be paid to the secretary because that would be too easy. The fee was to be paid to the bank that was a three block walk away.
We took our number, 284 and looked up expectantly at the electronic indicator to discover that number 255 was currently being served. Oh, I said to Joe, that would be what the chairs are for. The waiting customers occupied chairs that were lined up in rows like they were at a movie theatre where the main feature was the 4 busy tellers attending to one client after another.
Once our enormous fishing license fee was paid we trekked back to the fishing license office and took up residence in the rickety chairs while the friendly secretary painstakingly typed forms and finally our 4 fishing licenses. No computers in sight here. The only technology being a battered typewriter and numerous sheets of carbon paper all residing on the rusty metal desk.
Finally we were the proud and tired possessors of 4 fishing licenses that allowed us to keep the fishing gear on board without fear of having our boat confiscated if the navy boarded us. A day long process.
Don't get me wrong, the apparent lack of progress is part of what we love about Mexico. If you're in a hurry you'll miss half the fun. As another cruiser said, manana (sorry, no tilde) doesn't necessarily mean tomorrow, it just means not today.
We didn't have the camera with us so I've posted a picture of a boat at the marina on a typical morning.
posted by Debra Anderson at 7:59 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home