Getting our "Licencia de Conducir"

Hi all,

One of the joys of moving to a new city, state or country is getting all of those essential documents lined up. In Costa Rica, the first experience we've had with this was to get our Costa Rican "licencia de conducir" or the ever necessary "drivers license".


As in the United States, getting a drivers license can be a profound exercise of bureaucratic manic depressive minutia. In Costa Rica, the exercise is taken to the level of art form. I'm convinced waiting in line is a spectator sport in Costa Rica. Here was our experience.


First, getting into the parking lot. As the parking lot is too small to accommodate everyone on a daily basis who needs to get or renew a license, there is a security guard who has you wait in your car at the entrance until someone else leaves. (Line #1) On the morning we arrived (approximately at 10am on a Thursday) there were about 5 cars in front of us. "A really short line..." according to our mobility coordinator. About 15 minutes later, we get into the parking lot and park.


Second, everyone must be granted entry into the building by a dynamic duo of security guards. (Line #2) Evidently only those requiring a new or renewal license may enter. However, our coordinator requested entry with us as she was our support through the process. Spent about 10 minutes haggling with one of the guards whose intense and burning desire for Hilda (our coordinator ) to "respect his authority" was evidently at a peak that day. Hilda graciously got us to the next line and then went to wait outside at the point where we would exit. Remember this guy. He comes back into the picture later.

Third, the next line was for us to have someone inspect our passports and copies of our current US drivers licenses for accuracy. The "inspector" had to be ready for retirement about 15 years ago and probably couldn't tell a fake US passport if her life depended on it. She slowly and systemically wrote the passport # and info by hand, manually, into a log book, initialed the photo copies of our documents, asked about the kids, (who were with us and bored already) and sent us to the next line.

Fourth, the next line as it turns out started where Hilda was waiting for us to exit. As such, she had been waiting in line for us while we were going through the last line. This helped us greatly in getting through to the second person in the process, "the data entry clerk". When we stopped at her station, her role was to enter the data from our passports and "certified" copies into some type of software application. Basically she typed our info into a form. "Typed" being a stretch. Her extremely long fake nails were rather prohibitive for touch typing. A definite drawback in a country where most addresses are a direction (i.e. 100 meters south of the Church of the Sacred Heart, then 200 meters east). For both James and I, this was a good 20 minutes of time. The result of which was entry into a database and a hand written receipt to pay for our licenses (again, long fake nails do not promote efficient hand writing either). But we had our tickets to the NEXT line.

However, the most festive part and fodder for months of future buercratic debate was when the "inspector" noticed we seemed to get through the second line rather quickly, too quickly in her experienced opinion. As such, she questioned the "data entry clerk" who promptly told her she didn't know and went back to her one key typing. This did not satisfy "the inspector". She was convinced we jumped the queue and it was her civic duty to ensure we waited our turn. She summoned the security guard (the same guard from the entry). After some intense negotiations with Hilda and very stern "ugly American how dare you question me" looks from me, the "inspector" determined we had merely worked the system (Gasp! We followed all the rules but managed to get through faster than the average Gringos! Sacrilege!) We did not wait the mandatory eternity in yet ANOTHER line. The end result of the entire exchange was since we did not jump the queue or anger any of the other people waiting in line who saw Hilda dutifully wait, we simply went on to the next part of the process and left our fuming "inspector" and security guard with something to gripe about during their next hard earned lunch 2 hour.

After this exchange, we went downstairs to the main area where pictures were taken and the actual, "licencia de conducir" procured. As a side note, Hilda said she's now probably banned for entering the building for at least a couple of months or until a different security guard works the building. Heaven forbid someone actually figures out the system and enlists help doing it.

Line #4. We pay. Our licenses cost about $11 a pop. I took both of the hand written receipts and cash (no checks, no credit cards) to a bank teller window after waiting behind only 1 other person. 5 minutes later, paid receipts in line we were ready for the last stretch of our marathon to legal driving freedom. This was easily the most efficient part of the process.

Finally, line #5. Our "licencia" was within our grasp. Upon entering the area we discover the system has changed since Hilda was there the last time (like 2 months ago!). Usually there is a separate line for foreigners. Not this time. Now we're all one big hodgepodge of a line. Joy. After some questioning of the current inhabitants of the line ("inhabitants" since they are probably there long enough to register it as a new home address), we discover as foreigners we are supposed to just butt in line at a specific point which they point out. Okay...earlier, butting in line was almost high treason. But now, in this DIFFERENT line, it's what we're supposed to do. Okay, my head hurts. I need a map, a work flow document, fish bone diagram, something which makes sense to my process driven object oriented brain. We dutifully join the queue and about 10 minutes later, it's picture time. I go first. Hand over the mountain of paperwork I've accumulated from the previous 3 lines to a "picture person", smile and sign as instructed. James goes to the booth next to mine and begins to do the same thing with a different "picture person". But "Holy Mixed up documents Batman!" Our "data entry one key at a time clerk" from upstairs mixed up our passport #s! Crap with a Capital C! She put mine on Jim's and his on mine. We tremble in fright. Will we have to start completely over? Will the "respect my authority" security guard refuse to let Hilda out of the parking lot? Will the "inspector" suddenly decree our documents fake and deport us? Will Corwin's Nintendo run out of power with who knows how many lines to spare? Will Audrey's ever effective charm suddenly stop working on all the civil servants in the building?

Thankfully and quite unexpectedly, no. Whew! There was actually someone logical somewhere in this entire process. The "picture person" from the booth James went to actually LOOKED at the documents he handed her. Quite the novel concept. But even MORE amazing, was the fact it was easily and quickly fixed. This patron saint of all civil servants somehow miracously and simply switched the numbers to the correct person, took our pictures, had each of us sign as needed and "Viola!" After 5 different lines and about 3 hours of excitement, we had our golden tickets, "licencia de conducir". Our first official documents of Costa Rica!

As a side note, those of you who actually read this entire post (I made it long to give you the true experience of something long, boring and tedious like this entire process was) may be asking, Why all the lines? Why couldn't they make the parking lot bigger? Why couldn't the documents be inspected, scanned, receipt printed, cost paid and picture taken by the same ONE person? Well it comes down to the concept of "time and space". In Costa Rica, there is NO concept of time and space. Your time and your space are not a concept anyone really considers. More about that in a future post. I need to go. Quite suddenly after recounting this experience I feel a sudden urge to double check the passport # listed on my "licencia de conducir" just to make sure I'm not dreaming and won't suddenly wake up in some line somewhere waiting for someone to do something I can't understand either in Spanish, English or concept. :)