Like most other incursions into the bureaucracy here, acquiring a driver’s license in Costa Rica can be an adventure.
My first encounter with the Ministerio de Obras Públicas y Transportes, (MOPT), was not horrible, if you don’t count getting lost on the way. I’d armed myself with the required medical form and a deposit slip made out to the agency. And I had my Spanish-English dictionary. What could go wrong?
Anything. A friendly parking lot guard must have sensed my anxiety as I approached the building. He checked my paperwork, and found I had everything except copies. He rushed me past a long line of people, and told his counterpart at the door I’d be right back. In fifteen minutes, he said, they’d close the doors for the day. I raced to the copy shop and back, and the guard let me in before closing. A couple of hours and several lines later, I left with my license. It could have been worse.
My second encounter wasn’t so easy. In October, Jack drove me back to MOPT to renew my expired license. The first glitch surfaced as we pulled up behind about twenty other cars waiting to be waved into the parking lot whenever someone exited. “No problem,” I said, “I’ll walk up there and get things started.” But a guard turned me back, and instructed to wait my turn in the car. “Let’s look at this as another opportunity to practice patience,” I said, pulling my Kindle out of my bag.
I’d heard stories about folks being turned away at MOPT because their passports had been reissued, and the numbers didn’t match the ones on their license. So I copied the front page of my passport. Good thing, since someone soon stole it. No worries. I would show the man on the door that the numbers on my drivers license were legitimate. But no.
Fifteen minutes later, our taxi driver sped to another MOPT agency, where someone would approve my new passport, I hoped.
Alas, when we reached our destination, I was turned away within a minute of stepping in the door. The man thumbed through my passport and said, “You have to leave the country. You’ve been here longer than three months.” I whipped out residency documents.
According to the Immigration Authority, anyone who isn’t a legal resident here, or hasn’t applied for residency, must cross the border every ninety days. I haven’t had to make a border crossing, because my residency has been in the process for almost two and a half years now. My lawyer keeps promising I’ll get it right after whatever major holiday is coming up.
“No,” I said. “Look! I don’t have to leave the country!” But he wouldn’t look.
At least we won’t have to wait in line to get into the parking lot again, I thought, as I forked over a small fortune to the taxi driver. Who knew the destination agency was a half-hour away?
I sent my lawyer an email and asked if I really had to leave the country. My dearest Myralita, she replied, if the man says you have to leave, then you have to. Apparently, MOPT is its own authority. Nicaragua, here I come.
