It’s taken five years—five long years—for us to get my wife's immigration paperwork sorted out. A Herculean task, sure, but one that obviously didn't have to be.
I like to say that our arrival in Ecuador started off with a broken left foot. Not literally (hopefully that’s clear), but because it's the only way I can make you feel how it felt. A week after our plane landed, COVID lockdowns began. All the plans we had made? Straight into the trash.
We thought—wrongfully so—that when the country reopened, we'd be able to sort out the paperwork. After all, we were supposed to be cooped up for just a few weeks, to slow down the virus. Imagine our surprise.
Naturally, my wife’s immigration status ended up in limbo, and what we once thought would be a stroll in the park now required lawyers.
After gathering some references, we went with the name most Americans living here kept dropping. For expediency, let’s call him Joe (not his real name). One phone call later, my wife and I officially hired him—and the wait began.
I wish I could tell you I remember everything precisely, but it’s all a bit blurry now. All I know is, there's no way I would’ve agreed to pay the man if he hadn’t given me a reasonable timeframe to get it all sorted. So I’m confident he must have.
Who would’ve imagined that we'd finally be done with it—five years later. After countless phone calls, arguments, and multiple trips to major cities, we finally had in our hands a paper that said my wife had legal status.
Armed with this silly paper and feelings of relief, we walked into the government building that issues ID cards—here called the Civilian Registry (rough translation, but it works). As you can imagine, more obstacles were waiting.
To call the Ecuadorian government inefficient doesn’t even scratch the surface. Everyone gave us different answers. If I hadn’t channeled a male version of a Karen, I don’t think we would’ve gotten anywhere.
Three weeks ago, we were told her ID would be ready in a week. So we left, drove an hour and a half home, our chests puffed with pride. “We did it,” I said, turning to look at my smiling wife.
Again, it’s been three weeks. And as you can imagine, we still did not have her ID—the one document that tells a popo, “all is good.” So, in a take-the-bull-by-the-horns moment, we drove into the city today. We were not leaving without that ID in our hands.
We get there, walk right in. Almost nobody around. I’m feeling somewhat hopeful—maybe this time it won’t take hours. I head to the info desk to confirm where to go. I think I know, but better safe than sorry. He confirms my suspicion, and as I start walking away, he adds:
“The guy in charge of handing them out isn’t here today... You’ll have to return tomorrow.”
I smiled—but it was one of those customer service smiles you get from a retail worker the day after Black Friday. You know the type. “OK, no problem,” I said politely.
My wife and I walked over to the desk—the one I knew had her ID somewhere. I glanced over... and saw it. There it was, sitting neatly inside a little box.
“We’re stealing it” - I whispered - “Fuck this.”
My wife looked at me, gave me the nod, and as I pretended to scroll on my phone—using my ample humanity (I'm a big dude, though I'm dieting)—I served as an effective human shield.
I heard my wife say the magic words...
“Let’s go.”
We walked out, and of course, I waved at the security guard and the man behind the info booth.
“Thank you, sir” - I said loudly - “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He waved back and confirmed, “Yes, tomorrow for sure…”
We made it outside, far from prying eyes.
“Tell me you have it” - I said, my face probably glistening with excitement.
“Hell yeah” - she replied.
We're sitting in the car, celebrating our little heist, when my wife turns to me and says:
“Hey... maybe this is what Herzog meant by expropriation rather than theft.”
Smiling as I turned the key, I said...
“Fuck yeah... you got that right”
MenO