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A real life clash of the Titans in Tenerife
By Joe | May 1, 2009
Had a bit of a clash with the Titans in Tenerife yesterday while trying to renew my residencia.
Why are the people who deal with paperwork so damn awkward? Is it because they’ve been breathing in teeny particles of paper dust? Is it because they’re sick and tired of all the paper cuts they get?
No. It’s because they’re all self-important numpties who love nothing better than to bark a stern ‘No!’ across obsessively ordered desks.
Just 20 seconds of being with this race whooshed me back in time to when we had a bar and had to battle with the paper police on an almost daily basis. No wonder my fringe fell off.
From More Ketchup than Salsa: Confessions of a Tenerife barman…
…the most aggravating thing about our paperwork quests up north was that more often than not, they were unsuccessful. We knew that as soon as we entered the police station or foreign office or department of health and social security, a frumpish bulldog would be assigned with the sole intention of barking a curt ‘no!’ even before we’d had the chance to explain our reason for being there.
And this was no normal ‘no’, delivered with a hint of pity and suggestions of alternative routes. The ‘no’s’ that we received were full-blooded, self-satisfying absolute refusals served with a strong side order of condescension. Apparently we had produced the wrong documentation, presented it in an unsatisfactory manner, at the wrong time, wearing the wrong clothes and with just the wrong inflection in our voices. The officials would not be moved, no matter that we had a business to run and couldn’t afford to return the following day and thereby lose a consecutive day’s profits. No matter that we had risen at 6.30, driven north for an hour and then spent another hour trying to find a parking space in a city that had none, driving on an interminably stupid one-way system that flung you back south if you accidentally missed the unmarked turn-off.
It might have made an inkling of difference if the capital was a pretty city. But in 1991 it wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination. The first monument that greeted travellers from the South was a shoreline oil refinery whose odour was twice as unpleasant as the sight of its steel intestines. Once in the centre, a hotchpotch of architectural styles sullied the pedestrian Plaza de España, a place where gypsies would charge at you waving linen tablecloths and frilly pillowcases. And that was your reward for enduring a white knuckle ride along the TF-1, a testing ground for kamikaze taxi drivers and 16-year-old rally wannabes.
This time, we entered the police station with a large sigh, a foreboding sense of doom, and a bulging folder containing every piece of paper we’d collected.
Inside, all seemed calm. The only noises were the low hum of fluorescent lighting and a periodic ‘clack’ as a large bespectacled man in the background cautiously poked at his computer keyboard. Every tap was followed by an uncertain glance up, checking that every letter typed was in fact making its way from fingertip to screen. Satisfied that it was, he would then gaze around looking for someone with whom to share his accomplishment.
‘Take a number’, the sign said. I looked up at the electronic counter – ‘13’, it read. Our ticket said 112. We sat down and flicked disinterestedly through a couple of faded Hola! magazines that had been thoughtfully provided in 1987.
The minutes moved on but the numbers didn’t. Whatever problem had befallen the elderly English couple at the desk, it was not being rectified despite their exasperated insistence in front of the shoulder-shrugging assistant. They had given up struggling with the local tongue and were now remonstrating in strong Geordie accents. The girl behind the counter had suddenly lost the ability to speak English and was having none of it. She shooed them off with a wave of her hand and summoned the next in line. The Geordies sauntered off, red-faced, clutching the wad of seemingly ineffectual forms. They had my sympathy. Several times before we had failed to impress a paper shuffler, only to return the following day with a different clerk on duty who would then process our paperwork with not the slightest of fuss.
Eventually, with a colossal leap from 18 to 112, the counter indicated that it was our turn. I passed over the bundle of papers.
‘Do you have the 123 and the 234?’
I lifted the top copy and there indeed they were. The girl scanned every detail, trying desperately to find a reason why they shouldn’t be accepted.
‘Residencia,’ she demanded, annoyance now creeping into her voice.
This we produced and frustrated again, she moved up a gear, converting back to Spanish to try and throw us.
‘Did you submit your double ‘O’ seven, fill in a 36C and receive a signed copy of the B52s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever taken an A2B, forwarded a 4-4-2 and been given a T4-2 or a 2-4T?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Last month.’
Her face lit up as if she’d tripped over a bucketful of gold.
‘Then it’s expired.’
She sat back in the chair contented. Her smug expression and folded arms evidently insinuated that she was done with me and victory was hers, but we were not giving in this time. From our folder I slowly produced another form. Our eyes locked in a Mexican stand-off. As she saw the form, her mouth dropped and we both knew I had won. We had the notorious re-submitted, double stamped, top yellow copy of form 666. A valid extension from hell. The lights flickered, horrified heads turned to stare and the girl behind the counter shielded her eyes.
‘Sign it,’ she screamed, tossing a chewed biro onto the desk. The clock chimed twelve as we flung open the doors. The daylight streamed in, causing the clerks to wince and groan. We had won. Joy was at last going to be legal; well, almost…
From More Ketchup than Salsa: Confessions of a Tenerife barman…
Copyright Joe Cawley, 2006-2009
Topics: General musings, Inane rants, More Ketchup excerpts, More Ketchup than Salsa, Tenerife, Writing Clips | 1 Comment »
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