Tangled Cheese

Has anyone else had that recurring nightmare, the one where you are trying to get to class on the first day of school and you can’t find the classroom? I’ve been out of school for over 30 years, and I still have that one. (What does this mean?) The nightmare goes like this. I am hurrying to class because I’m already late, but then I realize I don’t actually know which class I am supposed to be hurrying to. I realize that before I find this out, I need to go to a different building to ask the registrar. But before I can do that, I need to find my way out of this building. And before I do that, I need to go back to my original starting spot because I forgot something there, and I’m not really sure where there is anymore. The classrooms are all full of strangers. And on it goes. I’m sure there is a lesson in there somewhere.

This nightmare works itself out in real life in Oaxaca. People have a joke about Oaxaca. It has to do with the string cheese they invented that is wrapped up in one tight ball. (I’ve got a picture for you, plus one of the tlayuda it’s used on that's making my mouth water.) 

Everywhere in Mexico this ball of cheese is called Oaxaca cheese, but in Oaxaca, of course, it’s just cheese. So what people say is that in Oaxaca, even their cheese is tangled. Southern Mexico, where 80% of the people come from an indigenous background, is a face to face culture. This means that you work things out through relationships, face to face, through extended networks of family and friends. It makes for tight and supportive communities. Families that stick together forever. North Americans with their Social Media culture (what is the right term, can anyone help me out here?) don’t have a clue how strong these ties are. Face to face is a good thing. But it does not make for getting work done easily on forms. In offices. No, that is the nightmare aspect of a face to face culture.

We’ve all come up against the tangled aspect of Law, of bureaucracy. I just ran into it when I was trying to figure out what to do about importing our rejected American car into Canada. I went on the government website, where I found a checklist:

Number one: Contact maker of vehicle to get a letter saying your car has not been recalled. Letter may cost you money. Please fill in boxes to find contact number for maker of your car.

Great. Ring! “No, I’m sorry, you have to call the American number for your car. It’s being imported from America.” Uh huh. I’m calling the number on the government website for importing an American car. Right.

Ring. “Hello, I need a letter from you saying the car I’ve got has not been recalled (I’m on a roll here. What could be simpler than this?) “…Wait. Slow down. Did you just say my car has been recalled?...What do you mean twice?...So I need to go across the border and take my car to a Dealer and leave it there?...Un huh. And how long did you say that might take?...Uh huh. And then how long does that take to get into your system, so I can get my letter?...Right. I call you back with this number…Right.”

At this point I didn’t have the heart to ask how I get the letter. And when, and all that. And I haven’t gotten to the rest of the checklist (it’s long, and involves making sure the odometer markings are correct, with a broken link to the page that tells me whether my car is going to need expensive corrections at some shop. And then comes the taxes and the inspections… The nightmare has started up in real life. The cheese is indeed tangled, (and this isn’t even Oaxaca). Meanwhile another angel is out there helping Robert get Tiny Tin registered and insured under his name, so I have a way to get to the doctor or to ER or to my Quiddler game or whatever.

A friend called us yesterday, blowing off steam about his most recent experience with tangled cheese. He’s trying to get his son’s Mexican passport, because his family is flying to Texas in July, and he went down to the Passport office for the final signature, or whatever. He’s been working on this for a while, and it’s a great relief to be at the last window where the guy is handing over the final form. But…he’s not. He’s saying that our friend’s American name is not matching up with Baby’s Mexican name. Now that he looks at it closely, Dad’s name has a little III after it (Dad is a “the third” guy.) So the entire process breaks down right there, and Dad has an interchange with the guy behind the window, and the guy enjoys the interchange so much that Dad gets a special escort to another part of the property. Some people don’t need to dream this stuff up at night.

We have to keep reminding ourselves that Government Beaurocracy is there for a reason, to protect us and organize us, and help us live together as a society. A little tangled cheese is a small price to pay, I guess, to keep the peace, and Paul reminds us to submit in good grace. But I’ll tell you one thing. In heaven, where the only Law there is, is written on our hearts, the nightmare will be over. There will be lots of Oaxacan cheese, and none of it will be made of paper.