When you hear the word jungle spoken in reference to Costa Rica, your first thought likely strays to monkeys swinging through trees, scarlet macaws, toucans, blue morpho butterflies, and our unofficial national symbol, the sloth. But live here long enough and you may find yourself traipsing through a less appealing jungle, that of the Costa Rican bureaucracy.
I have had my own misadventures over the years, having been turned away at the airport on one occasion due to a child support payment mix-up. I have also spent my share of time in lines to get papers stamped and documents authenticated. All of that is benign compared to the problems of another U.S. expat, an acquaintance who is caught in the unpredictable wheels of the apparatus while he tries in vain to get his residency.
I heard the story secondhand while enjoying a couple of cold ones at a beachside cantina. My drinking buddy asked if I’d heard about our acquaintance Theo’s problem. I said I hadn’t, so my friend laid it out for me. Theo is a businessman with small companies in both the U.S. and Costa Rica.
He travels frequently between the two countries, as well as Panama and Canada. He first came to Costa Rica, like myself, over 30 years ago. He has a home in Costa Rica, a Tica wife of 25 years, a clean record, and money in the bank, yet his application for residency has been trapped in some sort of bureaucratic purgatory, due in part to his frequent travels in and out of Costa Rica.
According to my buddy, after so many years of being a part-time resident with only a U.S. passport, our friend Theo decided it was time to make it official. With the help of an experienced immigration lawyer, he completed the required steps. After a long wait, he received a mailed copy of his birth certificate from the U.S.
He was fingerprinted, got his FBI report, had everything translated and authenticated, and presented it to Migración. It was rejected because the birth certificate was a reissue and not an original. When he finally got a copy of the original birth certificate sent down, his original file had been misplaced.
He bounced back and forth from Migración to Archives to the Registro Nacional like a pinball in a machine with no exit. Then, like the punch line to a practical joke that would never end, he was told that his original application had been denied because the deadline for filing it had passed. He would have to restart the process.
I can’t say I was surprised, though it was totally illogical on the part of the government. You would think they would love to have this guy on the rolls, another resident alien paying into the Caja pension program, one always in need of fresh funds, and from which he will never benefit financially. But his attempt at finally becoming a permanent legal resident remains in limbo.
As fate would have it, I ran into Theo not long after. I knew it was a sore spot, but I couldn’t help but bring it up. Theo has lived here long enough to know that certain glitches come with the territory. But still, he remains a bit salty.
“If I were a narco or from any place but the U.S., I bet this would have been over a long time ago,” he said. “They let people from other places just raise their hand and swear what they say is true, and bingo, they have their residency. If there is a hell,” he added, “it’s not a place of fire and brimstone. It is a place run by bureaucrats.”
