A few weeks after classes began, our student advisor led us on foot through downtown Heredia.
We stopped outside a photography studio.
“What are we doing here?”
“New portraits. For your student visas.”
I thought about the stacks of paperwork I had already brought with me.
“I need new ones?”
“These are for immigration.”
I looked at the camera behind him.
“Okay.”
~
The next day, he gathered everyone together once more.
We sat around a table with stacks of forms spread in front of us. One adviser stood at the end with a folder in his hands. He looked down at the pages, then back at us.
“I hope you all brought your application packets from home.”
I took the folder from my backpack and set it in front of me.
Birth certificates.
Police background checks.
Notaries.
State certifications.
Federal certifications.
School transcripts.
I had carried the whole stack onto the plane—an envelope thick enough to convince immigration I belonged in Costa Rica for four months.
I looked at my passport stamp now. It was only good for ninety days.
The adviser was talking now.
“I know it was a lot of work, but that was just the start.”
He smiled.
“Chicos, if you want to stay in Costa Rica for the semester—and I’m sure you do—”
A nervous chuckle went around the room.
“Then we need to start your visas now.”
He picked up a stack of papers.
“Fill this out. Then we’ll go around and collect your fingerprints.”
He pointed to the police officers sitting around the perimeter.
“They’re here to take descriptions of scars, birthmarks, and tattoos.”
He paused.
“There’s several steps after that. I won’t bore you with the details now, but they all cost money. About a thousand dollars.”
A grumble when around the room.
“Chicos. Chicos.”
The advisor waved his hands to quiet the room.
“We have your new photographs. At least that part’s done.”
“How long?” someone asked.
“Months.”
He looked around the room.
“You’ll be lucky to finish before you go home. As I said, we need to start this now.”
I looked down at the forms in front of me and shook my head.
Then a second-year exchange student touched my shoulder.
“A can’t afford—”
“No. Come here.”
I followed her into the hallway.
She lowered her voice.
“You know you don’t actually need the visa.”
“Wait. What?”
She smiled.
“Just leave the country.”
I waited.
“Every ninety days. Go to Nicaragua for the weekend. Panama. It doesn’t matter. Come back. Your tourist visa starts over.”
“That’s allowed?”
She shrugged.
“Everybody does it.”
Behind us, the adviser was still talking.
I looked back through the doorway at the stack of forms. Pages turned. Pens scraped against them.
Then I looked at her.
She smiled.
“I’m actually planning a trip. You should come.”
~
The bus stopped in a cloud of dust outside two rows of chain-link fence.
Soldiers climbed aboard, boots thudding against the metal steps, machine guns hanging from their shoulders.
“Deja tus maletas. Leave your bags.”
Everyone stood. I followed them off the bus.
More soldiers entered the bus behind us. This time with dogs.
There was nowhere to sit, no shade to be found, so I stood in line with the others.
My turn came.
The immigration officer took my passport.
He flipped through it, found the last stamp, and pressed a new one onto the page.
The stamp cracked against the counter.
The soldiers and dogs left.
We got back on the bus.
My head hit the glass as the bus lurched forward about a hundred feet and stopped again.
I looked out the window.
We were still inside the fence, but the soldiers were different.
Different uniforms. Different colors on their arms. Different flags.
One of them came aboard.
“Out!”
We followed him off the bus again.
Dogs entered behind us.
Another kiosk.
Another immigration officer.
I handed over my passport.
He flipped through the pages until he found the last soldier’s stamp. My last Costa Rica exit stamp sat just above it.
He read the dates.
“Seven days?”
I squirmed.
“Yeah. I was t—”
He shrugged.
“Bienvenidos a Costa Rica.”
He stamped my passport.
“Your visa is good for ninety days.”