Brazilian Bureaucracy, continued

Hi all,

I’ve written about Brazilian bureaucracy before.

Unfortunately, I have occasion to write about it again.

Bem, o negocio é o seguinte… (The business/story is the following…)

I recently got permanent resident status here in Brazil. As a part of the arrangement, I had to open a “microempresa,” or small business. So I’m now a law-abiding, taxpaying average Joe.

I decided to open a separate bank account for my business.

Don’t imagine that opening a bank account is anything like opening one in the US.

My first visit to Banco Itaú, which has a good rep and is patronized by many of my students, was a simple recon stop. I’ve learned that in Brazil, nothing of an administrative nature – and I mean NOTHING, EVER – can be accomplished in one visit. The first visit is just to get some general idea of what documents and other required items you should bring.

Subsequent visits reveal what additional items are required that were not mentioned in your recon sortie.

I was told that I needed:
Official ID, to wit, my passport and “protocol”, which is an official slip of paper issued by the Federal Police, who among other duties serve as more or less the INS. The protocolo is like a visa and is my ID until my new permanent residency ID card arrives. Whenever that may be. The temporary one (which I had regrettably had to surrender when I got permanent status) took 9 months to get spit out the back end the system.
A CPF, the equivalent more or less of a Social Security number. I have one, no big deal.
Proof of address. I have that.

So I showed up the next Friday (my designated day to run errands and navigate the murky waters of Bureaucracy Bay) with my docs. Wonder of wonders, after waiting only 30 minutes, Fabio had assembled my application, which would be sent to São Paulo to be processed.

Great! Could I open the account with 300 reais?

Well, he said, let’s get the account opened first. Then he’d call and I could come and deposit money into it.

It should have smelled trouble. Actually, I did, but chose to hope for the best.

So a few days later Fabio calls to tell me that the mysterious “they” residing behind the castle walls in São Paulo were not satisfied with photocopies of my US passport and the protocolo – though it is issued by the Brazilian Federal Police, and has allowed me to travel unimpeded in and out of the country. No, they need an official ID – which in my case is waiting to be laminated somewhere in Brasilia.

Fabio suggested that I get a carteira de trabalho – or work card. He thought that I could get one quickly with my passport and protocolo. “They” will accept a carteira de trabalho as official proof that I am who I say I am and then will graciously allow me to deposit money into their bank.

I had thought about getting a carteira de trablaho in case I stumbled upon some nice fat job that required one, so OK, let’s give it a go.

First I did my recon to determine the requirements. I popped by on Wednesday to ask. The guy consulted his paper for requirements for estrangeiros (foreigners). I appeared (that’s called foreshadowing, folks) to have everything I needed. Noting the long line, I asked when it was shortest. He told me to show up when they opened, at 7:00 AM.

So Friday morning, I rolled my reluctant self out of bed at the crack of dawn, picked up my backpack, and schlepped myself downtown to the Ministerio de Trabalho to secure my carteira de trabalho.

So I could open a bank account.

Let’s shorten this tale. (Hold your applause, please.) I took a number and waited 45 minutes for my number to be called. (Evidently a few folks had camped out the night before.) The lady asked me, “Brasileiro ou estrangeiro?” “Estrangeiro,” I replied. She told me that she dealt only with Brazilians and that I was to wait over there, waving vaguely. Evidently a lifelong civil servant, she offered no further assistance and dismissed me.

I took a seat, again. flashing for some reason on Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” and imagined myself sitting on the Group W bench, an outcast.

I waited another 45 minutes, with no one even looking my way.

People were called, people were serviced. I just sat. Living in Brazil, I’ve learned to be patient. To a point.

I walked back over to confront my dismisser and stood there till she secured someone else to take me.

My new adversary was a bit more helpful. It appears that I needed only one more piece of paper, a confirmation of my status, available from the Federal Police.

Did I mention that the protocolo, which I already had, was issued by the Federal Police? There’s also a nice stamp in my passport, taking up an entire page in fact, also put there by the Federal Police, also attesting to my legal and permanent status here. But for some reason a third item from this very same agency was deemed necessary.

As it happens, the Federal Police are ensconced out at the international airport. It’s not close. And the lines are always long, meaning you kill the better part of a day there.

So let me recap:
I was told to visit the Federal Police to secure an additional pice of paper, so that…
I could return to the Ministerio de Trabalho, again wait, and in all likelihood be told that I’m now missing some other piece of paper, so that…
I can wait an unknown length of time to receive a carteira de trabalho so that…

I forget.

Oh, yes, so that I can open a simple checking account.

On Monday I will go back to Itaú. The saga continues…

John

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