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:
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.
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