Boy George, It's a Miracle

Two days ago I went to the SAT (Mexican IRS) Offices but failed to complete the task I had to complete due to unforeseeable events on behalf of this venerable institution. 

As I was walking there, I passed by a bunch of little "street businesses" offering photocopies, USB's , tax consultation and printing of documents.

I stopped to take a picture of the source of power. Let me explain the fascinating relationship between formal and informal structures in Mexico, on the right lies the SAT, the cables hanging from the left side to all these informal structures come from the same light poles all taxpayers and the governmental institutions depend upon.

Is the government against it? Nope. They are almost conveniently blind to these subtle supplies of certain demands towards the regular Joe that wants to pay their taxes with regularity. It's like a bunch of pilot fish aiding the sharks in a big ocean of charges. 

So I got there today at 8 a.m. but once again, they told me I couldn't make this procedure because they were out of appointments. I spoke at this pale, skinny, older man in spectacles and begged him, I jokingly told him my accountant was going to torture me like there was no tomorrow and one corner of his mouth made half a smile. "Dunno", he said, "stay in there until 11 a. m. and if there's a spot I will come and get you". 

In Room A, things were as usual. I was correcting some thesis papers from my students as people fled in and out the improvised room made out of white tarps. These are the kind you place for special events like weddings. It started raining outside and people half wet, half dry crowded the place a bit more.

ROOM A

At Room A, a lady came over, she let me know she was the assistant of the skinny guy outside and gave me a small paper to fill. She then took me to Room B. 

ROOM B

At Room B they inserted some data into a computer and sent me back to Room A to wait for my turn.

ROOM A

I thought about the informal economies outside and suddenly they didn't seem like such a bad option anymore. These guys have all the profit in their pockets, no lines, no paperwork, hell, they even get the electrical supply from the government itself!

Finally after a while, I was sent to Room C, where a young, ponytailed woman took my papers.

ROOM C 

There were about 30 people working in that room. All in front of their computers, a pledge of honesty and declaration with their picture against corruption stood by a free spot by side of their desk.

She finally sent me to Room D, color sure plays a role in psyche because I felt I was in in a hospital. There was a long line of SAT workers in front of a photocopying machine, they were in line to complete their own processes for never ending lines of people like me. Making small chit chat about bets they had made against some soccer team, internal jokes about a stupid coordinator or about the breakfast they had some hours ago. 

ROOM D

After a while, another lady called my name, she gave me back my papers. "We're done. You can leave now". On my way out, I hugged the thin, pale spectacled man that let me into Room A. With a couple of papers in my hand, there was a huge sense of accomplishment, a feeling of Graduation came upon me.

Almost sixty percent of the Mexican economy is informal. Sixty.

What I did today was just a change of address. Imagine if the procedure I had to do was something more complicated than this, something which took several days and I had a quarter less of a formal education. I would rather stay informal too.

In contrast to other places where they make this process really helpful, swift and painless, paying taxes in Mexico is really a bureaucratic miracle!. And as I said on a post few days ago, the hard part to swallow is that the money we do pay as small businesses or individuals, we never get to see where it's really going. To Lady Gaviota's new shoes? Or to Mr. Mancera's business, one that will aid his next presidential campaign? I'm sure he or his friends don't wait in line or even pay taxes, they surely have an untraceable bank account in some paradisiac tax-less heaven.