A week ago we became the proud owners of a grandiose 5 bedroom, 3 bathroom house, with a casita (2 bedrooms and a bathroom), a pool, room for a pony (yes, we have a pony… We´re trying to replace our car!), and an orchard full of lush fruit trees. Wow!
We have since turned the house into a community centre, school and foster home. We’re believing that God is calling us into a relationship with our community and local Church, so that we can bless them and see this barrio transformed from a semi-insignificant semi-rural pueblo, into an army of Nica-vangelists. That is the vision.
The road we travelled on whilst in the process of buying this house was a killer. We once owned a house in Australia and to be honest the process of buying and selling, even from overseas, was so easy I´m sure a child could have done it.
We looked online and narrowed our search. Then we went shopping for our dream house. Once we realised that our dream house was unobtainable we slid down the ladder of affordability and reality, until we found what was potentially ours.
The cheapest house in the cheapest suburb, on the wrong street, in a neighborhood of hookers, drug addicts and criminals (sorry Mark & Rach, Karl & Trudes, and everyone else who lives in Gordon… You know where we lived! Gordon really is a splendiferous suburb, I´m just usin you-mer).
We sought info through our broker (thanks Craigie), and he put us in touch with all the appropriate people. Selling was similarly easy. Someone wants to buy, our lawyer takes care of the rest. (you just hand over a kidney and half of your liver for payment…)
Well, that´s not how things work in Nicalandia! We found our dream house. And then we found about 100 more. Everything´s for sale in Central America, it´s the bargain basement for would-be home owners…
Come one, come all, there’s a small hacienda with your name on it! I think we could have negotiated for parliament house if our search criteria had included “historic” and “central location”.
But no, we found our dream home and settled on a price in record time.
The owners, a Kiwi-Yanky combo, were helpful, resourceful, supportive and timely. The lawyer, a Peruvian chap, was honest and heartfelt. The government officials, typically bureaucratic, were slow, obstructive, slathered in red tape and closed for public holidays, election days, inauguration days, Islamic religious days, ufo sighting days, and the like. The bankers, hooooo the bankers - a couple of “Nicas”, were true-blue, capitalist money laundering tyrants. (unfortunately for us, I adored them both…) White lies to-boot (I can relate!) and plenty of nose tapping, ear tugging action for all involved.
And so it was - the day we were to sign our contracts. I was stoked about the progress that had been made since the owner flew into town. I had been working on this deal for the past 4 months solid, and within a matter of 2 weeks he´d been able to slap everyone into shape and organise us to the place where we were sitting down to sign contracts.
I had been instructed by the bank we were borrowing money from that I needed to deposit $6,000USD ($600AUD these days) into our bank account. When working in my previous job, I had been forced to open another bank account, and it was in this account that we now had our money.
And so, as per instructions from the bank, all I had to do was withdraw money from one bank’s account and deposit it into another.
However, the transfer of funds had to be completed by 10am or the contract signing would need to be postponed until the following week – something I simply couldn’t allow (every day of waiting, has meant a little more gray…).
I went to the bank. Up until this moment, and for the past few weeks, I’ve been on such a missionary “high” it wouldn´t have surprised me if I’d received an invitation from Joyce Meyers to come and preach to a packed stadium of fem-bot-penti-red-headed-preacher-types… I was that on fire…
I sauntered into the bank. Performed my usual “high five” routine with the security guards, wink winks at the customer service people who don´t really do anything, a dignified nod to the manager – who pretended not to see me, and then I joined the que.
Now in Nicaragua, ques in banks are like ques in Australia, but in the 80s. I looked at my watch. I took a step forward. I leaned on a pole, only to accidently release the 2 inch wide isle divider which whizzed past me slapping the large lady (she, as a side note, was waaaay too adorned with exotic perfume and make-up), who is subsequently facing the other direction, on the rear-end. I started to point at someone, but everyone was staring at me. Red-faced I decided NOT to lean on anything else and switched from leg, to leg, to leg, to leg… I sighed. I sighed again. I sighed again and again and again and again.
I started to day dream. Then I started talking to myself. People looked at me once more but this time I didn’t point at anyone. From the colour of my skin people could tell that it was me who was muttering on about my mother-inlaw (in English)… My stomach growled and again, everyone looked on. I looked back at my watch. It had only been 30 seconds since the last time I had looked. Then I began the hideous cycle of similar actions, over similar time periods - I swear I have adult ADHD!!!
“Yay”, I’m at the front of the que. “Hello friendly bank teller. How are you today?” I asked… He gave me a look like “I´m a banker. I don´t have feelings. You saw the que you were in. Now shut-up and give me your ding-dang bank card.” I smiled uneasily.
I asked for my money and he asked for my card. I handed it to him. He asked for my cedula and I hand him my expired passport. He asked for valid id. I didn´t have anything else to give. The only id I had on me was my bank card from his bank, my bank card from my other bank, my credit card from Australia, my expired passport, a photocopy of my current cedula (residency card – our current passports and cedulas were at the office of immigration for renewal), my Mexican visa (kind of like a passport), my marriage certificate, birth certificate, driver´s license, frequent flyer card, old American School ID, Pricemart card (a shop here in Nicaragua), hair dressing discount card, atm receipts, chewing gum wrappers and so on, and so forth… I handed it all to him, though nothing was good enough.
After 30 minutes of waiting in the que, my transaction was over (after only 30 seconds). This fellow wouldn´t help me. I hadn´t had breakfast and was feeling weak. I started to shake. I couldn´t control myself. My feet wouldn´t move. I tried to talk but the wee-bit of Spanish that swirls around my brain, drained… I felt like God slipped out the front doors, quietly, not high-fiving nobody, no winks nor nods, and he left me, left me to deal with this dreadful situation.
The teller looked at me and I looked at him…
He asked me if he could help me in any other way. I just stared at him. My brain was either blocked or had ceased to function, either way I had successfully gone to la-la-land…
And so, this is how we progressed. I will translate into English so that you can fully appreciate the events that transpired...
Me: Want-money-now! Have-card-you-bank! Give me!
Teller: No, it´s not possible.
Me: Give me!
Teller: No sir, it´s just not possible. If you go and get your current cedula or your current passport then I will be happy to serve you.
Me: Give me now!
I look around and notice that all eyes are once again on me. The only person smiling is the lady who had been smacked on the bot-bot with the isle divider. The security guard who I usually “high five” is now standing next to me with his hand on his gun ready to cuff or shoot…
The bank teller continued, now smirking…
Teller: Sir, as I have explained, it´s just not possible. If you go and get your current cedula or your current passport then I will be happy to serve you.
Me: Oh, thanks. Me passport and cedula in government immigration office. Them-slow. Them-not-gave-me-documents. Need money now! You have! Money mine. Not-is-yours. Me give now!
Now when I used to work for Qantas Airways - the Spirit of Australia, I used to be the kind of person who looked for solutions for customers. There is generally ALWAYS a way to help someone, even if you´re only meeting them in the middle. I was in one of two groups. At Qantas, there were two types of people. The “helpers” and those people who got off on some kind of sick high by not helping. They would get an element of satisfaction knowing that they had completely ruined somebody´s day. It was difficult to work alongside people like this. Definitely not the “Spirit of Australia” in my opinion.
I love Nicaraguans, and find them to be more similar to Aussies than Gringos (people from the USA). They tend to be more relaxed, fun, and friendly, just like Aussies. However, there isn´t too much room for “taking initiative” in their culture. They have their rules and rarely step outside of the boundaries to get things moving.
Usually, that´s where the bribe becomes necessary. However, as Westerners, we find it repulsive to bribe someone when we believe that what we´re asking of them is within their role and inherent responsibilities.
So to me, this chap could have helped me if he had have popped on his “thinking cap”, but because he is Nica, his culture, team mates, rules of the bank, wouldn´t allow him to do so. He gestured for me to visit the customer service people who don´t really do anything. I have been tricked by this tactic before. Once you leave the que and visit with one of “them”, they inevitably send you back to the teller, and not via the front of the que, but by the rear…
Me: No. I sleep here.
The fellow then began to type nothing into his computer. I knew this is what he was doing because at Qantas Airways – the Spirit of Australia, in my ticketing office at the airport, I used to always be typing “nothing” into my computer with a strained look on my face. The objective when typing “nothing” is to think of the next play in your game plan.
Yet in this situation, I was the one being played. At this precise moment I think Jesus might have slipped back through the door and started to give me a gentle “you-who”, whilst simultaneously waving his white flag in a discrete manner. I think he might have been suggesting that I start thinking of my next play. But I can be stubborn. No! I´m too tired! I´d rather just fight this bloke and lose my house!!! I imagine Jesus, at this point, calling in a placid voice “oh right… Well whilst your destroying your life and your future, I´ll just be next door looking at shoes. Pop over when you´re finished here…”
I thought of my next step... I´ll become a person from the Northern Hemishpere!. They´re used to that… I´ll just demand to speak with the manager! That´ll get me a solution.
Me: Me want you boss!
The smirk changed into a chuckle… He walked away and got his supervisor, a beefy bloke who wreaked of attitude. I explained the situation again and he gave me the same story. I demanded his boss, the polar opposite of him – tall and slender, so slim I began to visualise them as extremely different characters in a comic strip. The same story again. However this time, a group of comedians had formed, behind the counter, and they were laughing about me, IN FRONT OF ME! (In Spanish, I can´t speak much, but I understand a fair bit…)
Me: YOU RUDE SHOULDERS! I AM THE RUDEST SHOULDER I HAVE EVER SEEN! HOW RUDE! LOOK ME… ME DESPERATE SHOULDER! ASSIST ME! NOT IS JOKE! IS SERIOUSLY!!!
I demanded the bank manager. She wasn´t to start until 12 midday, waaaaaaay after I needed to have the money deposited in the bank. In desperation I turned to my audience. I wanted to break into song at this point “Shut up, just shut-up shut-up! Shut up, just shut-up shut-up! If you want to lose control…” (the Black Eyed Peas do it so well…) But no, I pleaded: Does anyone, ANYONE here speak English.
A gentleman stepped forward. I had a freakish thought – this man has either lost his place in the que FOREVER, or is using MY LANGUAGE to gain my position. I didn´t know whether to slug ´im in the guts or embrace him with arms open wide. Luckily, I decided neither option would be appropriate. And so I twitched a little and tried to smile a lot!
Him: They´re trying to tell you that… (blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…)
Well thank you. At this point something inside of me just broke. I looked at this man, whose words were in my language but to which I no longer understood. I could go to the ATM and be charged $50 for taking out the funds over-and-over again, I thought. (which, is rather hilarious, because this same day, but in the evening, I was so exhausted I left my card in the ATM and had $300 stolen – the machine gives cash first and doesn´t ask for the pin number again – 6 transactions later…)
I waited for another 10 minutes. The man who had assisted me in English went back to his place in the que (the cheeky rat-bag proving that Nica´s are gentlemen). The people behind the counter chatted quietly or stared at me. I stared at them. I didn´t say anything to them and they didn´t say anything to me. I waited and waited and waited…
Then, I picked up my things and walked out the doors. I drove to another branch of the same bank in the city and handed the female bank teller my card and expired passport. I tried to make friendly small talk.
Me: Oh, you are a big bank. A lot big and many handsomes. I like you bank!
Pretty Female Teller: Oh thank you, you´re too kind…
She giggled and then asked me how I wanted it. I was so overjoyed I nearly leapt over the counter and kissed her. But that would have been inappropriate in any culture.
I spent the rest of the day going from bank to bank, from meeting to meeting, and from machine to person, to machine again. For the rest of the day I succumbed to local requirements and did as I was told.
I believe that after nearly 4 years of living in Latin America I am beginning to settle in. I really think culture is the most amazing phenomenon. It´s a true gift from God and can either make you feel so at home, or so displaced. (Different when you´re a tourist “oh nice”, “how interesting”, “so fun”, etc…)
Some things in my mind will never gel with the Latin culture. (It doesn´t feel normal for me that the bank manager leaves her office, says “hello”, kisses me and then returns to her office) I want to change them and show them “the way”. Yet that will never happen and neither should it. Other things feel so right. It´s like I´m at home…
Please pray for us. We are taking JUMBO sized steps in our mission here. The locals are in love with us and we truly believe our “Jesus” impact is tremendous and permanent.
However, we tread a precarious line between trying to change culture and radically affecting our community so that they learn to “walk in the way” (to quote my Dad) - embracing the things that matter to our Father in Heaven, and rejecting the things that don´t draw them in to Him.
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