Adventures at the PRC

At the gate of the Professional Regulations Commission, vendors are always ready to offer you anything you might need. When the guard announces to the people queuing outside the gate, “bawal po ang nakasando at nakatsinelas…!”, a man sidles up to some guys in the queue and says authoritatively, “bos, bos, eto medyas…bawal rin po ang walang medyas…”

If you’ve forgotten to get a cedula, vendors can also offer you one. If you were in a hurry, it probably wouldn’t matter if you paid the residence tax to the city hall or the vendor, as long as they give you that measly piece of paper. It is a step back for you if the people in the PRC discover it’s a fake. Then again, maybe it isn’t and the government has really devised an easier way of making people pay taxes – maybe the vendors are authorized intermediaries?

Across the street, small establishments offer the whole range of goods and services neccessary for those applying for a licensure exam: photocopying, notarization, I.D. photos. This is a big business, as the people applying to the PRC could easily reach up to a thousand a day. A lady shouts, “mam! I.D. picture, five minutes lang!” She leads you to a small cramped corner under a staircase (the “studio”) where the photographer hands you the chalkboard with your name on it. It’s not really ready within five minutes, more like 10 or 20 minutes, but it’s faster than most photo studios. They know people want to get this over with fast.

Inside the grounds of the PRC, they also offer the same services, albeit in a more “professional” manner. People queue (or perhaps the more accurate word is “cluster”) around booths offering digital I.D. photos, mailing envelopes and metered documentary stamps. The I.D. photos are probably P25 pesos more expensive, and the mailing envelope costs three pesos more than what the vendors offer. The three pesos could be for the postage stamp, but if you bought an envelope outside and give it to them, you still pay the same price. You’ve just given them an additional envelope to sell to other people.

Tiger Lily

The application division is a long, rectangular space filled with seats for the applicants. The seats however are too few to accommodate the swelling crowd of people, so the queue spills over to the aisles, blocking the way. Sweaty and a little harassed, you squeeze yourself amidst this throng trying to find the end of this long queue. When you finally get there and settle down to wait, you are jolted by a shrill voice on a loudspeaker: “di ba professionals kayo??? Bakit ang gulo-gulo pa rin ng mga papers niyo pagdating dito? Ilang beses ko nang sinabi na dapat mauuna muna ang birth certificate, then transcript, then diploma…masyado na pala maraming tao ngayon, baka hindi na kayo ma-accommodate…bumalik na lang kayo bukas, ok?”

You crane your head to see who’s speaking, and you see this petite lady with a ponytail and glasses behind the window holding the microphone. Then you remember somebody already told you about her, that woman at the PRC, whom someone aptly named Tiger Lily.

Fortunately your queue doesn’t end at her window. But when (after two hours) you do get to your designated window, the lady in charge says, “ay, architecture..di ko alam to..punta ka sa kanya,” and points (to your horror) to Tiger Lily. You meekly submit your papers, and brace yourself for another tirade on the microphone should she find that your requirements were a little less than perfect. Surprisingly, she rifles quickly through your papers and even makes a little chit-chat: “Kilala mo ba si Ms. Juan? Nag-apply din siya dito, U.P din siya. Wala na bang leather case yung diploma ng U.P. ngayon? Sa amin dati meron…” She actually seems nice. Maybe it’s because you went to the same school. You heave a sigh of relief when she hands you the claim slip. The next guy, however, seems to have a hitch, as an argument erupts between them and she ends up thrusting him back his papers. It’s hard to gauge Tiger Lily’s mood.


Let’s Make Pila

I’m glad I went to U.P., because it has really trained me to be a professional (e.g., how to ‘make pila’ professionally. I pity the freshmen today who enroll through online registration, and didn’t get to experience lining up for Soc. Sci II. When they graduate and get jobs, they will have to queue for their cedula, NBI clearance, TIN number, NSO birth certificate and the PRC registration, and find, to their shock, that their education hasn’t equipped them with the skills needed for the ‘real world’ – like processing papers in government institutions.

They can write articles about it, though, and get famous (or heavily forwarded through email) like Jol Ong, with his tragi-comic adventures at the BIR. For those with not-so-tragic (but nonetheless stressful) government application stories, you keep your questions to yourself, the numerous why’s that crop up while you try to construct a bubble of calm and serenity around you while being pushed and shoved in the queues. Why do you have to line up to five different windows for a single application? Why can’t they provide a spacious, airconditioned space for those who are waiting? Why do you have to pay P20 for a single stamp? Why can’t they put clear directions on where to start? Why do they have to shout?? Why in the world do you have to get a cedula when Andres Bonifacio already declared a century ago that they were useless???

At the end of the day, you’re just thankful you’ve survived. You try to content yourselves with heaving a sigh of relief (or a glass of halo-halo, a nice dinner, or a massage at the spa) after you finally get that piece of paper, the ticket that will give you that opportunity to become a real “professional.”