With a sense of relief and expectancy I waited for my turn outside office number 6 at the Ministry of Education building. This is where all foreigners go to give and receive paperwork pertaining to their children's education, and my interactions with this particular agent (we'll call him Mr. A) had been pleasant in the past. On this day, too, his manner was pleasant; however, the news he gave me was not.
Mr. A explained that strictly speaking, without the birth certificates in hand by November 30 the Ministry would require that our children be removed from school and that we pay the balance of the schooling costs that the government would normally subsidize. The only advice he could offer me was to talk to the man sitting in for his boss, who was in Santiago for the week.
I did so and for the first ten minutes that I sat in Mr. J's office I listened as he called downstairs to Mr. A and rebuked him for not explaining to me that foreigners must follow the rules as they are written and if they cannot fulfill the requirements they simply must bear the consequences. While not speaking directly to me, he made sure that I heard every word of his lecture before addressing me personally. By the time he did so, I was seething inside but attempted to be polite and well-spoken. I laid out every step we've taken for the past eight months and my frustration was somewhat assuaged to see his manner soften and to hear him admit that "there are foreigners and there are foreigners" and that obviously we had done all that we could and ours was an "extraordinary" case which was now outside our control.
His recommendation was to write out everything I had shared with him and return Monday to speak with Mr. D, the head of the Ministry of Education in our province. I gritted my teeth at having to do this yet again (echoes of writing a letter to the governor for our residency paperwork) but did it immediately upon returning home. On Monday morning I arrived with letter in hand, only to learn that Mr. D was out of the office and would be in meetings all afternoon.
I was given the phone number for Mr. D's secretary and told to call for an appointment, which I did later that same day ... and the next day ... and the next day. Each time the phone would ring and ring and ring and finally start beeping as though it was busy. (Needless to say, the stress levels were rising.) When the director of the girls' school told me that the Ministry of Education office had gone on strike, I couldn't believe it. For crying out loud! She recommended that I try another office, which technically would be Mr. D's boss' office.
Frustrated beyond words, I went online in search of a phone number for Mr. D's boss. The number listed produced a "no longer available" message and I didn't want to waste my day running to an office which might also be closed for the strike. Instead, I edited my original letter and added the details of my unsuccessful attempts to reach Mr. D. On the Ministry of Education website, I found three e-mail addresses and decided they were worth a try (all the while convinced they would be "no longer available" as well.)
Finally, I clicked "send" and waited to see what would happen next.
Mr. A explained that strictly speaking, without the birth certificates in hand by November 30 the Ministry would require that our children be removed from school and that we pay the balance of the schooling costs that the government would normally subsidize. The only advice he could offer me was to talk to the man sitting in for his boss, who was in Santiago for the week.
I did so and for the first ten minutes that I sat in Mr. J's office I listened as he called downstairs to Mr. A and rebuked him for not explaining to me that foreigners must follow the rules as they are written and if they cannot fulfill the requirements they simply must bear the consequences. While not speaking directly to me, he made sure that I heard every word of his lecture before addressing me personally. By the time he did so, I was seething inside but attempted to be polite and well-spoken. I laid out every step we've taken for the past eight months and my frustration was somewhat assuaged to see his manner soften and to hear him admit that "there are foreigners and there are foreigners" and that obviously we had done all that we could and ours was an "extraordinary" case which was now outside our control.
His recommendation was to write out everything I had shared with him and return Monday to speak with Mr. D, the head of the Ministry of Education in our province. I gritted my teeth at having to do this yet again (echoes of writing a letter to the governor for our residency paperwork) but did it immediately upon returning home. On Monday morning I arrived with letter in hand, only to learn that Mr. D was out of the office and would be in meetings all afternoon.
I was given the phone number for Mr. D's secretary and told to call for an appointment, which I did later that same day ... and the next day ... and the next day. Each time the phone would ring and ring and ring and finally start beeping as though it was busy. (Needless to say, the stress levels were rising.) When the director of the girls' school told me that the Ministry of Education office had gone on strike, I couldn't believe it. For crying out loud! She recommended that I try another office, which technically would be Mr. D's boss' office.
Frustrated beyond words, I went online in search of a phone number for Mr. D's boss. The number listed produced a "no longer available" message and I didn't want to waste my day running to an office which might also be closed for the strike. Instead, I edited my original letter and added the details of my unsuccessful attempts to reach Mr. D. On the Ministry of Education website, I found three e-mail addresses and decided they were worth a try (all the while convinced they would be "no longer available" as well.)
Finally, I clicked "send" and waited to see what would happen next.
To Be Continued ...
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