Thursday 18 Sep 2008
As I walk along I wonder what went wrong with our . . . . Wait, that’s an oldie rock & roll song.
As I ride along in the taxi heading toward Banco de Crédito I ponder how I’d feel about walking around in the US with $500 in cash in my pocket. I think about crime statistics and I’m certain there is more crime in the US than in Peru and I wouldn’t be concerned about robbery during daylight hours in the US with any amount of money in my pocket. For sure I wouldn’t go down a dark alley or street at night in the US with that kind of money in my pocket, or for that matter, without money in my pocket.
I think that Gina needs to understand that just because a person is poor, it doesn’t follow that they are bad people. She is a young woman, 23, and has not yet lived enough to realize that some of the cautionary tales told to you by your parents when you are a child are not true—they are exaggerations (the other side of the coin from Santa Claus and Easter Bunny) because parents are fearful and know that one very bad mistake by their child can be fatal.
Yes, I’m still seething a bit as I ride along, but I came up with a plan last night and I’m executing it. I’ll go directly to the bank, withdraw the money from the ATM in front of the bank and carry the cash inside to Gina. The most-used ATMs in Piura always have at least one cop standing very close by; the one downtown next to Plaza de Armas usually has three of four.
It turns out the branch where Gina works is way out on Sanchez Cerro near all the bus stations, has only one ATM, and it’s being used by some guy with a two-day old beard who won’t quit pounding the keys; it’s like he’s typing The Iliad. Why, I think, why didn’t I just do as I wanted to do and go to the downtown branch? It has three ATMs. I know why; it’s because I’m married and it’s better to compromise with your spouse sometimes—one must choose carefully which battles are important and which are not. Jot that down. I’ve been married to the same woman for 38 years, but I still wonder sometimes how in the hell I ended up married to a 62 year old woman—she wonders the same thing about a 66 year old man.
The Escritor (Writer) finally takes his stack of receipts and I step up to the ATM (batter up!). The machine will let me have only $200 US at a time; I want $500, so my computer like brain quickly calculates that I’ll need three strikes to get a hit—suddenly I feel the Escritor’s pain. After I collect my $200 I punch the ‘do you want another transaction’ button (The machine always asks which language I want when I insert my US card.) I go through the sequence again to get to the $200 choice and I hit the button. The machine says my account has insufficient funds for this transaction. Shit! “No es verdad (It’s not true),” I mutter. I recall a quote in the Crossing Cultures book about the consequences of cultural shock: “Simple things become complicated; complicated things may become impossible.” Es verdad, I think.
I glance over my shoulder and Escritor is standing a few feet away waiting for me to stop pounding the keys—he needs another at bat. I step away to let him swing away for a while and I realize what’s likely going on with the ATM is a couple of possibilities, 1) it’s out of US cash or 2) the bank limit isn’t $500 a day, it’s $200 a day. Of course, it is possible that someone hacked into my account over night and took all my money, but I don’t think so.
When Escritor is done he’s smiling and he trots off as if he just hit a home run. I step up and try for $200 again (Maybe the machine forgot me after the interim batter?). No. I try for $140 (the next highest total—I know, I know, why $140, why not $150?). No—insufficient funds. I try $100—and it’s a base hit. I now have $300 total and I decide there’s no way in hell I’m going to get anymore money out of the ATM. I leave the batter’s box in disgust—I’ve struck out. I realize now that it’s going to take me three days to get the $700.
I take my $300 and stalk into the bank. I stand fidgeting near a column while Gina finishes with a customer. She sees me when she’s done and waves me up. I pull the folded money from my pocket and put it on the counter between us. “Es todo (that’s all),” I say. She unfolds the money, smoothes the bills, and counts the fifteen $20 bills and looks up at me, a puzzled frown on her face. “I mean, es todo máquina (I mean, that’s all machine),” I stammer, feeling inadequate. “Todo?” she says, and I say, “mañana, cuatro cien (tomorrow, four hundred).” She nods and I slink off as fast as I can slink. I get a few steps and realize I wasn’t polite at all so I stop and say, “hasta luego (see you later).” She smiles coolly and I’m out of there as fast as my little legs will carry me toward my next embarrassment.
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