La Migra Station of the Damned

"It was much pleasanter at home, when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits."

Alice

And how, sister! Have you ever wondered if there was a government agency in your host country that was specifically commissioned for the sole purpose of seeing how long a foreigner will sit in a plastic chair before he/she begins to feed on themselves? Well if you live in a certain Central American country that will go nameless for now, yes, look no further because there is one. If you live here for more than a year and are getting your residency status, you will see it. Bring a book.

And even though my butt lost one dimension and about 40% of it's sensation during my wait, that wasn't it. That isn't what makes people lose it and seek their own fingers for nourishment. It's the fact that the wait consists of walking up to a desk for a paper. You fill out and return said paper and watch with mild amusement as it is slid into a drawer of the same desk.

On to another line where you fill out exactly the same paper. THAT paper gets you the honor of returning to the first desk where the first paper was slid in the drawer. The person at the first desk asks you to have a seat next to some dusty skeletons wearing equally dusty American and European clothes and strangely enough, all missing fingers.

No names are called. The man at the first desk with the paper you originally filled out to watch him abscond, just scribbles and occasionally makes a personal call. No numbers are called. The other line (which took 30 minutes) goes on it's business of making people fill out the identical form. No names are called. And you know if you open your mouth, you're just going to make an ass of yourself...again. No numbers are called.

Two hours in and still only the sounds of ceiling fan, shuffling feet, mosquitoes, and the occasional cough. No names are called. Why do your fingers have something to amuse themselves with? That's pretty unfair. Lookit'em just fidgeting away like we weren't trapped in some weird time nexus right now. No numbers are called. Just you and the tourist clad skeletons someone forgot to take with them when they first came here in 1955.

Four hours in and your fingers are starting to literally infuriate you. The skeleton next to you asks you for a smoke, but you decline on account of the cobwebs being a fire hazard and you'd be damned if you're losing your place because of a stupid skeleton setting off the fire alarm.

"Damned? What do you think you are right now?" No mistaking it, the voice came from your fingers. They are positioned like a sock puppet without the sock ....a....skeleton of a sock puppet! "Stupid fingers!! I'm turning you all into poop for that!!" you shriek as you begin to do what was unthinkable before you entered this building and clamp down bulldog style on your own mouse clickers.

THAT'S when they call your name and say they will call you in two days. You waited five and a half hours to wait to be told that you will be called in two days. So you can return....to La Migra Station of the Damned.