A Moral Dilemma

The first full day that I was in Valera, I looked out the bus window on our way to work (6:45 AM) and saw a line that wrapped all the way around the block.  “What’s that line for?”  I asked. “Oh, that’s for the bank.  You have to go early.  We have lots of lines here…”

Almost the entirety of the last three days has been spent working on a single, simple, seemingly attainable, goal.  Opening a Venezuelan bank account. 

 

Before I came here, I was told that I should expect opening an account to take around 2-3 hours.  I believed this, but also thought that it sounded ridiculous.  What could you do in the bank that would take 2-3 hours?  So Yervio and I set aside an afternoon to accomplish this goal.  However, on Wednesday afternoon, we went to not one, not two, but five banks… and after all that, no bank account.  Three days of serious effort later, I still don’t have a bank account, nor am I sure that I am anywhere close to opening one. 

 

When you enter a Venezuelan bank, you must first take a number.  In larger banks, there are no fewer than 100, but probably closer to 200 or 300 people waiting.  In smaller banks, more like 50.  Thank god we weren’t waiting in the general line, we went straight to the security guard and asked where the desk is to open an account.  The wait to speak with them was anywhere between 10-30 minutes. 

 

The first bank hardly even spoke to us.  “Nope, she has to have utility bills in her name.  She’s a foreigner and cannot open an account.”  The second bank, “Nope, you have to bring 10,206 documents back to the bank before we will open an account…” and so on, and so on….  At our fifth bank, we waited to speak with the manager. Waiting at all these banks was somewhat torturous for me.  It was really hot, my stomach was on the verge of explosion, and it felt totally futile.  Looking around the bank, it appeared that the vast majority of people in the bank felt the same.  For a few, however, it was social hour.  “Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in three years!” “Oh, and how is your mother…how are your kids?” People hugging and kissing, people slouching and frowning.  A good mix.

 

When we finally spoke with the manager of Banco Provincial, he told us that to open an account, we would have to come back with: 1) A letter from the embassy, 2) My original passport and copies, 3) My driver’s license and copies, 4) 2 personal references, 5) 2 business references, 6) A utility bill, 7) A letter of residency, and 8) A reference letter from the bank (which he would provide).  I thought, “Dear lord, how in the world am I going to find all of these things... I don’t even know anyone here?!”  So Yervio and Susana got to work helping me. 

 

Yesterday morning, Susana and I ran around and around town, looking for people to sign reference letters and trying to get a letter of residency. These tasks may sound simple, though I assure you that they are not.  And because women do basically everything here, we had to make it home in time to make a lunch of beans, rice, guacamole, chicken, meatballs, and juice so that everyone could eat when the men came home from work.  "So the women don't work, then?" you might ask... but this is not true either.  Susana leaves for work at 5:30 AM, and is home in time to cook lunch for everyone.  

 

We walked well over a mile each way to get to the Prefectura, the office that issues important documents.  When we arrived, it turned out that we actually had to purchase a 5 BsF stamp on the 4^th floor of a building on the other side of town and had to make two extra copies of the document before  they could issue the letter.  So we walked and walked and walked to the other side of town, and made copies in a house along the way (on someone’s personal copy machine—I have no idea how Susana knew it was there). 

 

When we arrived at the elusive building, we climbed several flights of stairs, only to find out that we needed to leave the building, and go around to another entrance.  At the second entrance there was a gate with a keypad.  We pushed all the numbers we could think of that might make sense.  Nothing.  So we went back in the building, to the governor’s office, and got directions.  “Empuja 0404.”  I remember numbers very easily, but Susana must have forgotten.  She went to town with the keypad, 0044, 0004, 4004, 0440, all combinations of 0’s and 4’s. I reached past her, pushed the numbers, and we waited.  A woman answered, and told us she would be right down.  We waited, and waited some more.  Someone came down, but not the right person. Finally a woman arrived with a little toddler in one hand and a little stamp in the other.  The whole transaction was done through a locked gate, and in an instant we were back on our way to the Prefectura.  Letter of residency obtained: step one complete.

 

That letter was among the easiest and straightforward of the documents to obtain.  Susana and I ran around all day again today, to several stores, to the internet café, to the copy shop, to here and to there, with only some luck.  “She doesn’t want to sign this letter, it doesn’t have an address.” “He doesn’t want to sign this letter, it’s not specific enough….” So we couldn’t get all the documents before the bank closed at 3:00.  With the documents that we had, we ran to the bank at 3:45.  Upon arrival, we saw that the doors had been locked, with at least 100 people inside and 10 people outside trying to get in.  “Ya esta cerrada.  Tiene que esperar hasta el lunes.”  Wait until Monday.  Ok.  Awesome.  So there will be yet another day of banking chaos, if not more…  This is the first step in obtaining the Fulbright grant money, which is currently sitting in an American bank account, undisturbed.  Before I can get that money, I must open an additional account in Texas, and have money wired from MN to Texas to Caracas to Valera.  I cannot imagine that this is actually possible, though I must make it happen.

 

My host family has been nothing but wonderful to me.  As you can see, they help me with everything.  Yervio has shown me around the university and accompanied me wherever I need to go.  Susana has taken to calling me “hija” (daughter), welcomed me into her home, shown me around town, and she even brought me a bucket to pee in just in case I don’t want to leave my room in the middle of the night (?).  I want to please them, do as they do, ask their advice, and heed their warnings.  This is usually easy -- I follow their advice, ask questions when necessary, and try to be polite. Occasionally, however, I cannot compromise with food.

 

Today I was eating lunch, a delicious soup with beans and vegetables and a hunk of meat.  I took a closer look at the meat.  MY GOD, it was a hunk of HAIRY HAM!  That was the first thing that I did not eat, despite being told otherwise.  I was presented with another moral dilemma tonight when Yervio bought me a hot dog, bought off the street, with ketchup, mayonnaise, avocado, tomato, onion, parmesan cheese (?), several other unidentifiable crunchy things, and a glass of juice from a cooler.  “Que rico, no?”  “How delicious?” they asked me. And I must say, they did look very delicious.  “My stomach is finally back to normal,” I thought. “Why would I jeopardize that?”  “But no, that is very rude, and how much damage could it do to my body, anyway…?“ So I decided to compromise with myself.  Eat the hot dog.  Eat the toppings.  Leave the toxic-water-and-sugar-juice. So I did just that.  I ate slowly, and just smiled when they told me to drink the juice… until one of them drank it.  About two and a half hours later, I feel my stomach churning a little.  We will see how this goes…