Unless you know the head of the National Statistics Office, or the President of the Philippines, or someone useful like that, you will have to line up to get a copy of your birth certificate.

First of all, the NSO “Serbilis Center” on East Avenue is one giant pressure cooker. Outside, it’s crowded with people selling ballpens. Inside, it’s crowded with people sitting around looking dazed because there are a million obstacles keeping them from getting their birth certificates.

For example, the line for people whose last names end with “L” and “M” is twice as long as the line for “A” and “B.” If by some unfortunate twist of fate, a Mr. Lopez lines up and finds out upon reaching the window that his birth certificate was lost in World War II, he would have wasted twice as much time as a Mr. Abenoja.

That’s another thing, people born before WWII have to file a “late registration” form because all the files from the pre-war era are now lost. One would think NSO would publicize that fact and encourage people to file their forms now or something. But no. You have to find out just when you need it the most, coz frankly, who the heck goes to the NSO unless it’s urgent?

Then there’s my predicament. Apparently, my records aren’t part of those that are computerized already. So I have to wait another week to get an original copy of my birth certificate because they’re doing it manually. And you know how those bureaucratic typists work, right? Three words per hour, give or take an article or two. At this rate, I will never get my passport in time for my China trip in early May.

And these NSO guys are tough. They don’t care who you are or how much you make and who you work for. You can sob your heart out and they won’t buy it. On one hand, it’s frustrating not to be able to talk your way out of your (bad) situation, but it’s also a little reassuring that the next guy, with his fancy cellphone and styled hair, won’t get his way either.