Certifiable

We first encountered the concept of ‘certified copies’ when we were gathering materials for our visa application to Australia. The Department of Immigration and Citizenship requested ‘certified copies’ of crucial documents such as diplomas, transcripts, passports, birth certificates, and our marriage license. After some research, we learned that a certified copy is simply a photocopy bearing the signature of someone officious who can verify that it is indeed a copy of the original. We figured the US equivalent could only be a notary public. After much blinking and frowning and circular argumentation, the notary public refused to certify a photocopy of the original, because she had no way to verify the authenticity of the original. This seemed painfully reasonable to me. However, it did not solve our dilemma with the Australian Government. Eventually, we just ordered originals from all the various bureaucratic agencies and submitted those.

Although our visa was granted without any complications, we still have frequent occasions to supply the Australian Government with various certified copies in support of various bureaucratic pursuits, such as Medicare Levy Exemption Certificates, Notification of Passport Renewals, and It Has Been Six Weeks Since You Filed Some Sort of Paperwork Submissions. For an activity that is clearly ubiquitous, the general population maintains an amazing level of ignorance as to its execution. Asking around, I have been told several blatant lies. The most believable of these lies being that I can get such copies at the Post Office, because the Post Office does everything BUT handle mail (note to self: write blog entry on the overextended services of the Australian Post and be sure to mention the cute little Postie Bikes used to deliver mail, and the fact that they won’t pick up mail from your mailbox, and that junk mail services are sub-contracted.)

My first attempt to get certified copies was rather painless, and in retrospect, possibly illegal. I took photocopies of my passport to the Post Office on campus and asked to have them certified. My request was answered with the blank stare unique to the incomprehension of non-native speakers.

“Copies?”

“Yes, certified copies.”

“Copies, 50 cents.”

“OK, certified copies?”

“OK”. He took my passport and proceeded to photocopy each page, then handed me the stack.

“Don’t you need to certify them?”

“What?”

“Sign them or stamp them or something?”

“You want a stamp?”

“Yes, certified copies.”

“OK. You want stamp, I give stamp.” And he stamped each page with a round decal that said Australia Post and the date. Whatever.

I sent the copies off to the Medicare Office and soon received my exemption certificate. On the next occasion I had requiring certified copies, I went to the St Leonards Post Office, also staffed by non-natives, but each having a distinctly better command of the English language.

“Sorry, we can’t make copies at this office.”

This morning, running late for work and not having much to do once I got there, I thought I would take advantage of the occasion to visit the General Post Office located in a beautiful venetian style building at Martin Place. The not particularly pleasant woman at the counter informed me that Australia Post does not certify copies. I said I had had it done at another office, but she shook her head and adamantly claimed that was not possible.

“The Post can make copies, but we cannot certify them. You can get free certified copies from the Justice of the Peace at the Supreme Court, on King Street at the top of the hill. Next in Line.”

Certifying tourist documents seemed to me a mighty menial job for a high-falootin’ office such as the Supreme Court of New South Wales, but who am I to argue with bureaucratic process. I considered returning to the dodgy campus post office, but this seemed like a fun opportunity to poke around historic buildings with a semblance of purpose, so I marched up the hill.

The Supreme Court building is a cavernous sandstone (what else) structure attached to a cavernous sandstone church located in complex of other cavernous sandstone government buildings from the early years of Sydney's history. The complex sits at the bottom of a replica of London’s Hyde Park called, unimaginatively, Hyde Park. I meandered through the intricately painted arched hallways tiled with black and white marble hexagon, searching in vain for the Justice of the Peace, my curiosity aroused by the numbers of groups of muslim families huddled in anxious consultations with men with slick curly hair in sharp wool suits. What exactly happens in the Supreme Court? Finally, I poked my head inside the Sheriff’s Office (I don’t think the Sheriff in Australia serves the same function as in the States) and asked for directions.

I was sent across the street to a modern high-rise where security officers x-rayed my sushi before sending me to the fifth floor. When my number was called, I approached the lady at the counter. Despite my best attempt at perfect courtesy, I watched a sneer crawl across her face when she detected my foreign accent. She directed me to a small office across the lobby that did not require a number. At this point it occurred to me that I was probably supposed to bring my own copies with me. She confirmed my suspicions with another sneer and said “Well after all, what else are we supposed to certify for you? What did you think?” Since I was no longer in need of her services, I decided to vent the considerable whinge that was building up inside of me, including a childlike display of stomping up and down while flailing my arms about my person just to illustrate the physical dimension of my frustration.

Then I left the building before she could called security.