Yesterday I doorstepped the State Governor. As I turned the corner I saw him and realised a) I had no idea how to spell his name nor b) what, in fact, was the correct pronunciation of same. I figure if you are going to walk up and introduce yourself to the man these really are fundamental considerations that sort of go hand in hand with being well prepared for such an encounter. Then I reminded myself that this was in fact merely a chance encounter - and one not to be missed. I knew the Guv'nor and I could become potentially very good friends, confiding in each other, doing the school run when one or other was ill, exchanging 'Mystery Friend' Christmas presents. He just didn't know any of these things yet.
And I was feeling at peace with the World having just come out of an afternoon showing of 'Friday the 13th'. It was Hallowe'en and I had been eight years old when the film was released and thus a little young to be watching people dying violent and grisly deaths. But with a belly full of toffee popcorn and with a finger rubbing away the final traces of the sugary snack from my incisors I crossed the foyer of the shopping mall and introduced myself. I knew the Governor must be a people person the way he was sat prominently in the foyer with no security. I presume protocol exists for these things and, born iconoclast that I am, I went ahead and breached it.
I cannot vote here. I would if I could, but I can't. I have a permanent visa here, indeed am totally legal. Mrs Beaumont is Brazilian. You cannot imagine, you really cannot imagine, the jaw-dropping complexity of marrying in Brazil. I needed papers issuing in Britain from a minister of religion that I was a person free to marry. Since I didn'y know any ministers of religion, I had to get my Mum to obtain this. I won't even start to tell you what you have to do to get a university degree revalidated in Brazil. That's a whole different blog.
When you fly over to Brazil, you enter on a tourist's visa. Within three months you have to report to the Federal Police to apply for a permanente visa. I am a lttle fuzzy on the details, frankly, but I am sure that, as part of the process, you have to provide lots of documents that have been issued in your country of origin, stamped by a Notary Public, brought to Brazil, translated by An Official Translator (don't even think of skipping this part, neither the translation nor the officialdom), turn up at the church, say "sim" during all appropriate pauses, ensure a true aim when going in for the kiss, then set up home together. A Federal Police officer will then come and visit you to make sure this is not a sham wedding. Weeks of uncertainty over procedure run into months. After a long, long time you can go to the Federa Police to pick up something resembling a plastic credit card that permits you to stay for ten years. Mine comes in an attractive shade of ochre.
In short, I believe it is easier to prove your innocence and escape corporal punishment in a minor African republic than it is to marry in Brazil.
Of course, the Governor and I kept it light and didn't even touch on any of these things. Instead, we discussed the jaw-dropping awfulness of Saturday morning tv and how to house-train Vietnamense pot-bellied piglets (a shared interest, I believe). Then I was hungry and excused myself to go and get some more popcorn.
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