Adventures in Pension Land - Round 3

Another bit of history:

The AFORE (Administradora de Fondos para el Retiro; Manager of Retirement Funds) began operating in 1997 when the new Social Security Law took effect, replacing the 1973 Law. If you were paying attention (and I understand if you were not, because this stuff is boring) you will remember that the IMSS changed the amount of weeks one has to pay "contributions" to it, from 500 to 1295 in that same year.

These AFORE are supposed to invest a portion of your salary, which is matched by your employer, into an account in your name. The idea was that the meager amount of money the Social Security System pays a retired person would be supplemented by his or her savings plus the interest accumulated by the good investment policies of the bank which holds said savings.

If you think about it, it was a great deal for the banks and the SS system. The banks got a ton of money to invest and were allowed to charge investment commissions on it, the SS system got off the hook of having to be the only source of retirement money, and the government could claim it was doing a lot for retired workers.

Well that is the theory, the practice is another thing entirely.

Here is my story:

There is a 65 year old guy who has been working for 45 years. He has accumulated more than enough weeks to be eligible for either the '73 Law (500 weeks) or the '97 Law (1295) weeks. He goes to claim his pension and he is told that if he wants to apply for it, he must first deal with the bank who is managing his AFORE.

DEJECTED ME

 Sigh! Yet another hurdle to jump, another obstacle in the "parcours du combattant", as the French say, another queue to stand in, another bunch of papers to gather, and so on, and so on. OK, so there was nothing for it, but to jump through the hoop, fight the bear, tame the tiger, bite the proverbial bullet.

I went on the Internet and googled "AFORES". I got a million hits but most importantly an 800 number to call.

I grabbed the phone with unusual vigor and called the said number. Much to my surprise, I got a person on the line who was actually in Mexico. He asked me for my SS number and in two seconds told me that my AFORE was Banamex. This bit of intelligence came not only as a surprise but as a sense of wonder: how did that happen? When and who assigned my retirement savings to that bank? The young man on the phone told me I could consult my AFORE online. Banamex has a website for said purpose, he assured me. This was another surprise. They actually made things easier for a user.

After consulting online, I found out that these AFORE are like sharks. There is a feeding frenzy and the smaller ones are eaten up by the larger ones. In theory, any bank can bid for your money and offer you services and good rates of return on your dough, but in practice, only the large ones have the muscle to manage such large investment amounts for such a huge number of people. Looking at the ratings of the banks that are still in the game, I noticed that Banamex was up at the head of the table with more than 8% return on your investment. I was delighted by this bit of good news. The web site also tole me where I could go to get a statement of the amount I had saved over the years.

SIDEBAR: OK, I am a computer savy person; I have access to the Internet 24/7. So, I had the resources to dig into all of this and find the information I needed. But, what about Juan Pérez (this is our mythical John Doe) who lives in a small town, who has worked for some small company for 30 years and now is about to retire? How does he find out what he needs to know to get the SS system to give him his money? I pity the man.

Right! So, back to my story. Now I am armed with information that says I have to go to my bank's AFORE office and claim my statement of account. You, dear reader, are an intelligent person . Guess what I found when I got to my bank's AFORE office?

THE DREADED QUEUE!

ANOTHER SIDEBAR: It seems that the reasons unemployment is so low in Mexico (4.3%) is that millions of people are employed at information desks! In Mexico City, for example, no matter where you go, there is always someone at a desk (usually in a badly fitting uniform) who asks your business, demands an identity card from you before you can go in the building, asks you to sign a smudged log book, and directs you to where you already know you are going. Someday, someone will invent an "Information Desk Robot, Version 1.0" and make a fortune.

So, there I was, in the queue for the information desk. Again, the idea was to get a number so one of the FOUR "executives" could help me with my request for a statement showing my savings and affiliation to an AFORE.

From the looks of things, I was going to be there all day, maybe even a week: there were some 30 people waiting in chairs, and another thirty on the queue. I took the time a person was taking with the AFORE executive, and it was like 30 minutes. So, 30 + 30 X 30? I did the math and got the Hell out of there.

I had taken the precaution of jotting down the address of the TWO Banamex AFORE offices in Monterrey. Of course, a metropolitan area of nearly five million people need not have more then two offices with just four executives each. Banamex is taking good care of our money by not spending it on such frivolities as good service.

Off I went to the second office hoping that I would have good luck and that it would be less crowded than this one. It was, literally, on the other side of town. It took me a half hour to get there. And when I did, here is what I found:

No queue at the information desk! Nobody sitting the the chairs waiting their turn! And four idle executives each one in his or her office!

"What can we do for you?" asked the girl at the information desk.

"I need a copy of my statement of account," I replied.

"Please take a number and sit down," she said.

I was about the say to her that I didn't need a number since there was no one there, but I decided to humor the girl. After all, she was probably bored and I was the first distraction of the day for her. I took a number--it was 38--and I sat down.

I noticed that there was a big counter on the wall and that the number on it was 35. I wondered where she or he was, as well as numbers 36 and 37 because there was no one sitting on the chairs and there were no persons in the offices other than the executives themselves.

"Hmmm, this is curiouser and curiouser," I said remembering "Alice in Wonderland."

All four executives were oblivious of my presence; they were busily clicking and clacking at their computer keyboards. Once in a while, one of them would pick up a phone and call someone. At last, about 15 minutes after I had arrived, one of them, a young man, got up and put on his coat. My spirits lifted. Surely he would ask me into his office.

But, alas, no: my spirits were dashed when the said executive announced, "I'm going to lunch!"

"Damned! Of all the cheek," I thought. But, I kept my cool and waited some more.

Another 15 minutes passed and another executive--he too was a young man--came out of his office and looking around as if trying to find a lost person, he said, "Number 36! Number 36, please!"

I had had enough! I said, "There is no one here! There are no invisible persons, or customers hiding under the chairs, or people too small to be seen! There is NO ONE HERE BUT ME!"

He ignored me and went back into his office, sat down and started to click and clack at his computer. The number on the counter changed to number 37.

After a couple of minutes another executive, this time a young woman, came out of her office and said, "Number 37! Number 37, please!"

I couldn't believe it! I thought I had fallen into a scene of a Kafka novel or something.

"What the hell is this?" I asked. "Is this some sort of meeting for the Braille Bible Study Group? A resource for the blind office? I am the only person here. Can't you people see that?"

My ranting was to no avail. She went back into her office and sat down to fool around with her computer. But, the number did change and the third executive, a young man, came out of his office and was about to say something when I got up from my chair and said,

"Wait, wait, let me guess: is it, perchance, number 38's turn?"

He seemed startled and said, "Why, yes. Yes it is."

"Really?" I said and turned to the empty chairs and asked, "Number thirty eight? Yooohoo, number thirty eight!" I looked down at my paper, "Oh, its me!"

I followed the young man into his office. He kept looking back at me, perhaps wondering if I was not insane.

He sat down at his desk and I sat down as well.

"What can we do for you today?" he asked and I felt like saying something nasty but I did not.

"I need a statement of my account with the total of my saving to date," I said calmly, surprising myself at how calmly I had said it.

"OK," he said, but first we will check to see if you are in our system." Phrases like that always mean trouble and this time was no exception. "Please give me your Social Security number," he asked.

I gave him the SS pink sheet and he typed the number into his computer; he waited a few seconds and then announced with a smile, "Ah, you are not registered in our system."

"And, what can we do about that?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"We can register you right now," he said cheerfully.

He started the litany of request for papers: SS proof, birth certificate, Voter Credential, and so on. I had everything. Lastly, he asked for proof of my domicile. Although I no longer live in Monterrey, the electricity bill still arrives in my name, and I had borrowed that from my ex-wife. In Mexico, electricity, or gas, or other kinds of bills are always taken as proof of where you live.

He looked at that last piece of documentation and puzzled over it. Finally he said, "This is not valid. It has to be less than three month old."

"It is less than three months old," I said. "It was issued on the 2oth of October. We are the 22nd of December."

"Uh, uh," he uttered and puzzled over the date some more.

"Do the math," I said, "20th of October, and 30 days, brings you to the 20th of November. Thirty more days and it brings you to the 20th of December. That is only 60 days, so the electricity bill is valid as proof of my current address."

"Ah, no," he stammered but the rule says 60 days or less."

"No," I said, "the rule says 90 days or less." I was about to add "you dunderhead" but thought better of it.

He got up and went to the next office to consult with the girl executive. Since the walls of the all the offices are made of glass, I could see what was going on. He showed the girl the electricity bill. Gestured to me. The girl looked at the bill. She looked at me. Said something to the boy executive and then she went back to her clicking and clacking on her computer. The boy executive came back to his office.

"What's the verdict?" I asked feeling like the guy who is trying to pass a bad check.

"Oh, she said it was OK," he answered and cheerfully started to type on his keyboard. I wondered why I had not had the good luck to be in the girl's office instead of the math whiz'.

"So, we are going to be able to register me in your system?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said cheerfully.

He typed and typed and typed. After a good 20 minutes he said, "There, you are in the system now."

"Good," I said. "Can I have my statement of account now?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" I said whining like a child who has been denied a second helping of ice cream.

"It will take the system eight days to complete your registration," he replied.

"Jeez! These are computers, not some guy running with a piece of paper all the way the Mexico City or somewhere like that. Why does it take so long? Do you send it by Pony Express or by carrier pigeon? No wait, a pigeon would take less than eight days. Why so long?"

"Well, actually, it is not up to us. We send the information to the Social Security system and the Infonavit system (the system that allows workers to save up for a home), and a few other government agencies, and it is they who take a long time to confirm the registration."

"So, I have to wait eight days before I can go back to the Social Security people to claim my Request for a Pension Form?"

"Yup, that's it," he said smiling. "But first you will have to come back to us for your printed account statement."

I left the Banamex office and waved to a taxi. As I got on, the driver said, "It will take a while to where you are going. There's lot of construction and traffic."

I said. "Oh, I don't mind. I got eight days to waste anyway."

Next: Eureka! I am told I am registered and I go back into the breach, dear friends!

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 2

Both of you who have read my last blog entry will remember that I had been told to go to my "Family Clinic" to fill out a "Request for Pension Form". Why one has to go to a hospital to get the ball rolling, pension wise, is beyond me; it is one of those imponderables that bureaucrats come up with to befuddle lesser mortals.

So, early one morning, I took a folder full of papers and official forms, and jumped into a taxi.

"Clinica Dos (Clinic Number 2)," I said forcefully to the driver--as if I knew where the hell I was going.

The taxi driver sighed and said, "OK, but its going to take a while."

The man knew what he was about because Monterrey being in the middle of a metropolitan area of five million inhabitants and a hub of industry and commerce, there is always a lot of construction, bypass building, and what not going on. So, a trip that would usually take 15 minutes was a twisting, short-cut taking 35 minutes long.

Clinic Number 2 is one of the most important and busy clinics the Social Security system has in the Monterrey Metropolitan Area. Needless to say, it is a sprawling, busy place with a multi-story hospital and a labyrinth of offices and corridors. Lucky for me, it seems that any of the hundreds of people that stream in and out of the place all day long, know where things are because, again, there were no signs or indications to guide you to any of the services rendered there.

I stopped a woman who was dragging along three children.

"Señora, can you tell me where the pensions office is?" Of course, there is no such thing as a "pensions office", but I was so ignorant I didn't even know how to ask the right question.

"Ah, if you want to do something about your pension, or if you want to sign for your survival, turn right on the first corridor, and then left. The window is right there."

That last part of her comment "sign for your survival" was an intriguing comment but I had not time to ask what that was about and she looked as if she had no time for idle chatter having three children to contend with, so I thank her and followed her directions to the "Pensions" window.

Of course, the "Pensions" window had NO sign to indicate that it was the "Pensions" window. It was also, by far, the smallest window in the building. There were HUGE glass protected windows next to it behind which  there where were several girls doing nothing but chatting and filing their nails. Through the small slit that was the Pensions window, I could see a harried girl shifting papers.

There was a man at the window and across the corridor, there were chairs where people sat and, as I found out, were waiting their turn to conduct their business at the Pensions window. I asked a lady,

"Is this the Pensions window?"

"Yes," she answered.

"And, I imagine all of you are here to, uh..."

"Yes," she said understanding the drift of my question.

"So, I should go to the end of the line," I said.

"Are you here for a pension or for survival?" she asked.

"Survival?" She had used the word "sobrevivencia" to ask the question. "What is this "survival" that people keep mentioning?" I asked.

"Ah, once you get a pension, you have to come here every six months to sign and prove that you are alive, that's what!"

That explained why there were men in crutches in the waiting line and a lady in a wheel chair with a tank of oxygen and little white tubes in her nostrils. There was even a lady with four children who explained that she had to drag her kids to sign as beneficiaries of the pension she and the kids had received upon the death of her husband. Trust the damned bureaucrats to make things as hard as possible on people.

I wondered why, instead of cruelly making these poor people on crutches or on a wheel chair come and sign to prove they were still alive, the Social Security system did not send some of these fat-assed women who sat behind the windows doing nothing to the house of these persons and take the damned papers for them to sign.

Of course, that would be the decent thing to do and God knows the IMSS bureaucrats are not in the business of doing decent things for their constituents.

Upon reflection, I considered that this signing to prove you are alive every six months was going to be a bit of a crimp to my style, as it were, for it meant that if I got a pension I would have to come back to Mexico to sign for it every six months. Well, that was a problem to be solved when it presented itself because first of all, I had to get the damned pension.

Anyway, I was the last in line, and the last person to walk up to the little window. Since the bureaucrats work only until 4:00 PM, and it was nearly that hour when my turn came up, there was no one else in the queue.

I leaned down and peered through the little window:

"I have come about a Request for a Pension form and ..."

She cut me short without looking up, "Your Credential as a Voter," she said, "and a copy." Luckily I had it with me and a copy of it in paper. This is a credential that you get when you turn 18 years old and it serves as an identity card and as a registered voter card. It is indispensable if you want to conduct any sort of public or private business. It is the equivalent of national identity cards in France or Spain.

"Curp," she demanded and I gave her the original and copy of the document which the government gives you as your unique identifying number.

"Social Security affiliation proof," she said and I gave her the famous pink sheet and a copy which proves I was affiliated to the Social Security system.

"Birth certificate and copy," she said and I have her that as well.

Finally she said, "Afore  statement."

I said, "What?"

She finally looked up and said, "You have to get a statement from your Afore in which they tell you how much you have saved for your retirement."

I had no idea I had been saving for my retirement, least of all how one goes about getting a statement that shows how much I had saved.

"Where do I get that?" I asked.

"From your Afore," she replied handing me back all my papers--neatly clipped together, I might add.

"How do I find my, uh,  Afore?" I asked meekly.

Before she could answer, it came to me, "Call the 800 number, right?" She nodded. I left.

So, it was back to square one.

I had no problem getting a taxi. Outside the clinic there is a veritable market place and fair with food vendors, drink vendors, people who say they can help you with your paperwork and formalities. And, of course, a long line of taxis.

Once back home, I googled "Afore" and found out an interesting fact.

The saga continues with "Adventures in Pension Land - Part 3" in my next blog.

Adventures in Pension Land - Round 1

Before I rant, a bit of history:

The Instituto Mexicano del Seguro Social, better known by its acronym, IMSS, was born in 1943. In January of that year, the first company subscribed to it and the first IMSS card was issued to a worker. The following April, the bureaucrats working for the IMSS organized into a union, threatened a strike, and made their first set of demands, something that has been happening with the annoying regularity of the bowel movements of someone with amoebic diarrhea (and with the same results).

In 1973, the IMSS changed the rules of the game: instead of 500 weeks of subscription to the IMSS so you could get a pension, it was now deemed one had to work and subscribe for 1295 week. Those of us who had started working before that year could retire after 500 weeks and at age 65, those who started to work after that year, would have to trudge, trouble, and toil for 1295 weeks. Do the math, folks; that's more than 20 years. One week less than that, and you're out of luck!

As a bureaucrat said to me, "The IMSS is not in the business of paying you money, it is in the business of avoiding, whenever possible, paying you money."

Now for my story:

OK, so ignorant of all of that, and even more (as you will see) I set off to try to get my pension, because I had just recently turned 65 and I had been working and paying my IMSS dues (and so had the people who had employed me) since 1967--or so I thought!

So, first order of business was to go to Monterrey, where all my records and history were, according to an IMSS 800 number I called. You see, the IMSS is very efficient in telling you where to go (and I don't mean that in the euphemistic way), but it does everything possible for you not to get anything done once you get there.

 It is also strange, although it fits right in with what the cynical IMSS worker told me about the IMSS being in the business of NOT paying your pension, that there is NOTHING published about how one should proceed when claiming a pension. You'd think they would publish a damned little pamphlet or put up a pdf in a website or even send out flyers when a worker, according to their computer systems and records, reached the age of retirement or the amount of weeks necessary for a pension.

Nope! Not a word, not a leaflet, not a flyer to be had anywhere. The so-called Sub-delegation where the 800 number told me I should go to inquire about my pension, has so much empty, unused space and unoccupied buildings that if they rented that space they could easily pay for a million information pamphlets or more. But, of course, that is not the case. If you need information or help, you are out of luck: you are on your own!

Off I went to the Sub-delegation 4, papers in hand, cheerful in spirit, thinking that at last I was going to get this thing done. When I got there, the queue at the information desk was a mile long.

 According to a hand-made sign on the wall, you had to state your business and the girl at the information desk would assign you to the proper window and give you a number.

From the look of the amount of people sitting in the rows of chairs and looking very forlorn, getting the number was half the battle; waiting for said number to come up, was the other half.

There was, however, a lady going up and down the queue asking what our business was and flushing out those that should not be there in the first place. When she got to me and asked what sort of information I needed, I said,

"I've come to start the process of claiming my pension."

"Do you have your Request for a Pension form filled out?" she asked.

"Uh, no, I have come to request a pension, so I don't have one, uh...yet, I guess."

She frowned, "But you must get a Request for a Pension form before you come here."

"And, where do I get that?" I asked.

"At the Family Clinic to which you have been assigned"

"And, pray tell," I insisted, "which clinic is that?"

She seemed really annoyed now, "Well, it is the clinic where you have gone for medical treatment or to consult with a doctor, of course!"

I said proudly, "I have never been to an IMSS clinic to consult a doctor or to have any sort of treatment!"

"Well, in that case," she explained, "you have to find out which one it is."

"And, who, in this palace of information and record keeping can tell me that bit of necessary news?" I inquired.

"You must call the IMSS 800 number. They will tell you," she said walking away.

I yelled after her, "But, you have dozens of people here, behind dozens of those little windows, and you have a whole system of queue numbers, and a large screen for information and to call out the next number and you mean to tell me that no one can tell me what my Family Clinic is?"

"No, you must call the 800 number," she said without turning around.

Dejectedly, I left the queue without even having reached the information desk.

Not having a Mexican cell phone or even a phone card to use one of the graffiti covered public phones, I had no choice but to take a taxi back home to call the IMSS 800 number again.

I called and got another cheerful IMSS person on the line. He couldn't tell me what clinic I belonged to but he said they would get back to me as soon as possible. The day was hot so I was taking a shower when the phone rang.

"Miss Liu Quinn Chong, can you tell me what Family Clinic I have been assigned to?"

"Yes," he said cheerfully, "I can. Please give me your Social Security number."

Ah! That I had. Among all of the papers I had brought from France, I had what is called "the pink sheet". This is a copy of the form an employer sends to the IMSS when they are subscribing you that service. I read out my number.

"You are assigned to Family Clinic number 2," she said.

"And where is that?"

"It is on Constitution Avenue a the corner of Felix U. Gómez Avenue."

I marveled that some girl in Timbuktu or Shanghai or whatever knew more about where I should be going to find out about my pension than I did, or the IMSS lackey who had first answered my call.

For years I had been passing that IMSS clinic, not knowing that I had been assigned to it (and all of my family as well). The reason I never went there was that the corporations I worked for discouraged it and had us visit private doctors or their own private clinics.

Restored in faith and body ( I had had not only a shower but a couple of beers while taking the phone call and while waiting for the taxi I had ordered by phone), I set off again to start my "Request for a Pension".

Little did I know that it would be, as the song says, "the start of something big".

To continue the saga, read Adventures in Pension Land - Round 2.