GRAVEL…IT’S THE OTHER WHITE MEAT

By | 2018-04-15T18:19:59-04:00 December 20th, 2010|Categories: Car, Cost of Living|Tags: |

Costa Rica Cost Of Living Update: Limited liability insurance for scooter- $140/year

We take our scooter everywhere since it only cost $6 to fill up the tank.  It is so economical we’ve even decided to go grocery shopping with it.

Today’s list was extra long so my husband went himself.  He came back with the following: a suitcase full of fruits and vegetables, 3 dozen eggs, a gallon of milk, 2 loaves of bread, bag of kitty litter (cautiously positioned between his legs), and a variety of other items.  The only casualty was the tortillas, the empty bag dangling off the back in defeat.  But not wanting to waste money, he drove back down the mountain and found them laying near the front gate.

He claims only the bottom one got dirty.  If that’s true, why does my taco taste like asphalt?

CAR REPAIRS IN COSTA RICA

By | 2018-04-15T18:20:03-04:00 October 25th, 2010|Categories: Car|Tags: |

Costa Rica Cost of Living Update: Flat tire repair $1.50

Repairs on cars are very cheap in Costa Rica.  They would rather replace, repaint, and refurbish than purchase a brand new vehicle.  Often the repair shops are right in your neighborhood in someone’s garage. With little overhead, they pass on the savings to you.

And while you wait their dog will inspect your undercarriage. (That’s after siesta time is over)

GOING POSTAL AND MOTOR VEHICLES

By | 2018-04-15T18:20:04-04:00 October 10th, 2010|Categories: Car|Tags: , , , |

There is one compelling reason to get a Costa Rica driver’s license: the ability to get cheaper admissions to parks and attractions. For example, the tourist price to see Poas Volcano is seven dollars per person, versus only a little over a dollar for Ticos. You actually need to show your residency card, but other gringos say their Costa Rica driver’s license works just as well. It would be a considerable savings, so I agree to go to Motor Vehicles, a place with little promise of a positive experience.

I grew up only ten minutes away from the New Jersey Department of Motor Vehicles. The building sits next door to Rahway State Prison, a name later changed to East Jersey State Prison as requested by the citizens of Rahway. Apparently, many residents felt that having a maximum security prison named after their city decreased property values. I would argue that it was living near a maximum security prison that decreased property values, but what do I know about the economics of real estate? Regardless, changing the name of it made the fastidious villagers happy, and they all rejoiced in their cul-de-sacs.

I always thought the community should have embraced their semi-famous clinker. Movies are always shot there, and the prison has the distinction of being the facility where the 1978 Academy Award winning documentary Scared Straight was filmed. This is a small piece of trivia my father is strangely proud of. He found this a perfectly acceptable way to prevent juvenile delinquents from re-offending and would threaten my sister and me with this program if we continued smacking each other in the back seat. Since Motor Vehicles was next to the prison, I got to relive this endearing childhood memory every time I renewed my driver’s license.

At first, I didn’t want a Costa Rican license, thinking it was a great way to avoid paying a ticket. Where would they mail it if we were not in the system? Nevertheless, mail doesn’t seem to be an issue because we don’t get any. None. Unlike the American structure of mail service and basic common sense, there are no house numbers or street signs anywhere. I recently found out my actual address is something like “six hundred meters south of the mango tree.” I now have to listen to my dad argue with me that I am hiding my real address from him, for no other reason than I want to hide my real address from him. All this confirms the sneaky suspicion my dad already has about me; I left the States for some nefarious reason. It couldn’t be that I just hated my job, something everyone on this side of the hemisphere already knows.

After a couple weeks, I realize that getting no mail has greatly decreased my anxiety levels. I like not having a box full of credit card applications, circulars, and catalogs that keep coming even though my last purchase from that store was in 1995. It’s less clutter, not only in my house, but in my brain. The whole point of moving here was to simplify my life, and that’s impossible if you are saturated every waking second with advertisements, and although Domino’s new cheesy crust pizza sounds delicious, I don’t need to read about it every day. However, it would explain why I ate the new cheesy crust pizza three nights a week.

It’s great that you do not need to get mail to pay your bills. Their system is easy: while at the supermarket, you can pay for your electric and phone bills along with your groceries. The arrangement is surprisingly uncomplicated. Somehow, in the States we have a way of making some of the simplest things more difficult, exponentially making life harder and less fulfilling. Living here is teaching me to trim off the excess to make room for what makes me most content, and clearly, that excess includes a lot of junk mail.

Technically, there is a mail carrier gallivanting around. I frequently compare him to a folklore creature, like Sasquatch or The Loch Ness Monster: often talked about but rarely seen. I did catch a sighting of him as I drove down the mountain one morning. He was leaning against his scooter with a small messenger bag strapped across his chest. He didn’t appear hurried, considering he was in the same place when I drove back up the mountain an hour later. He spent sixty minutes of his workday talking with a beautiful woman who appeared delighted to share his company. The man was the happiest postal worker I’ve ever seen, and why wouldn’t he be? All in all, it looks like a great job. “Going Postal” probably has a completely different meaning here than in the States. It would not be synonymous with workplace rage, but with something as cheerful as eating dessert or climbing a tree. I can imagine the kids on the playground scream, “Let’s go postal!” before merrily running to an ice cream truck. There are really great reasons to live here. I hope that going to Motor Vehicles is one of them.

Just as we are about to exit Valley Ranch, we see Dolores and her dogs walk toward our car. We give her a short greeting and tell her we are on our way to get our licenses.

“HAH, you’re both crazy. Hope you get it, but you need a medical exam first. You know that, right… AN EXAM WITH A DOCTOR,” she barks. Her eyes protrude out of her head like someone who just heard raccoons are taking over the city and establishing a new rule of law.

“A what? I have to see a doctor before getting my license?” I ask.

“Yup, you sure do. They have a bunch of medical offices outside Motor Vehicles. Go to one of those shit holes. That’s what the other gringos do. They are all a bunch of shit holes.”

I’m not sure if the last “shit hole” comment was concerning the gringos or the medical offices, but I don’t ask her to clarify, worried her eyeballs might pop completely out of her head. We drive off with the troubling information that we have to go to a medical office first. I hop out of the car to open the behemoth padlock on the gate, possibly for the last time since the hydraulics will be fixed, as Carlos promised, next Friday for sure.

The whole medical thing sounds scammy. A bunch of doctor offices around Motor Vehicles? The only thing I know about this process is I have to pay for something at the bank first. I don’t know what it is, but Rob doesn’t seem bothered by this. As a perpetual organizer, my brain cannot work this way. I must know all the details, unlike Rob, who says, “Hey, how bad can it be? We will figure it out when we get there.” This might be okay if we spoke the language; however, Rob does not consider this an obstacle. His method works most of the time, and due to default, my life has taken on this quirky solution to all my Costa Rican predicaments.

As I previously mentioned, there are no street signs in Costa Rica. It is impossible to get directions from anyone, so we spend the majority of our time just finding a place, sometimes to come back the next day to do what we had intended to do the day before. But we get lucky this time and find the location, only because a guy is standing in the street with a dirty, ripped cardboard sign that reads Medical Exam, a sign I would more likely expect to see on the side of a dirt road at a refugee camp. We find a parking space and ask the kid with the sign where to go.

Donde esta doctor? Por favor?

The kid points to a garage.

It looks like a place where, at the very least, we can place a bet on dog fighting… buy a kilo of coke… or plan a hit on your spouse. We stand there confused and unsure what to do. However, after seeing people walk in, and with no better option, we decide to follow the crowd.

We enter a dirty waiting room with plastic chairs and a man behind a counter asking us for ten thousand colones each (approximately twenty dollars). In return, he gives us a small piece of paper and points to the chairs. Across from us is a standing, decapitated female mannequin wearing a pair of soiled corduroy shorts. The room looks like the opening scene of a horror flick. Wasn’t Hannibal Lector a doctor?

My mind races, and I am sure I hear screaming victims in the back room trying to claw their way out of a twenty foot hole. My heart starts to pound, and I look next to me at a woman casually reading a romance novel. Nobody would read a book with Fabio on the cover if she were in mortal danger, so I calm down and take in my surroundings. I start to think about all the attention I placed on my waiting room when I was a chiropractor: beautiful wallpaper, scented candles, and relaxing music. Would my patients appreciate the dirty chairs and the stained walls, not to mention, The Silence of the Lambs theme? Not surprisingly, there is no suggestion box to voice my concerns.

I go into the untidy exam room first and answer a variety of questions regarding my health. Thankfully, the doctor speaks English. He is in his early thirties and presents himself with all the authority of someone who wants me out of here as quick as possible, a position I find myself in more times than I’d like to admit. I take no offense as I quickly read an eye chart, get weighed and measured like a steer up for auction, and finally walk out with a stamped piece of paper with the instructions to bring in the next patron. It probably took no longer than seven minutes. As Rob goes in, I start talking to an American couple who tell me I need residency to get a license. Rob and I have not even begun getting all the paperwork needed to apply for permanent residency in Costa Rica, and I never considered I needed it to get a license.

“You need to be in the system,” they say, “but, like anything else in Costa Rica, that might not be the case today.”

This totally ticks me off; we just blew forty dollars for a ridiculous medical exam and might not even get a license. I tell this to Rob after his exam, and as always, he is calm and says we should at least try since we are here.

We go to the bank and pay the fee for something that I am unsure has anything to do with getting our license. We take that receipt, walk next door to Motor Vehicles, and stand in line to get the copies of our passports stamped. Costa Rica is all about stamps, and I am inclined to get a bunch of generic ones and stamp the hell out of my documents. I really don’t think they would know the difference. Now the rest of the story is surprisingly similar to America: lines, then another line, and then another. We sit in chairs, and as the next person is helped, we each have to move down a seat. The room looks like we are doing the wave at a sporting event: up, down, up down. We have no idea what each line is for; we just go through the motions. Nobody here speaks English, and all I can keep saying is that Costa Rica is beautiful, Muy bonita Costa Rica, in some Tourette-like, Rain Man sort of way. Some look irritated with me, and some feel downright sorry for me. I feel sorry for myself right about now.

Finally, we are the next people in the last line, and we get our licenses. “Gracias, mucho rapido, muy bonita Costa Rica,” I exclaim in jubilation. I don’t think I would have done this without Rob. No, I definitely wouldn’t have even tried. With each hurdle I cross, I begin to feel more optimistic. This strange road I walk, one leg physically in Costa Rica and one mentally in America, is slowly becoming easier. Instead of a bumpy, jolting ride, the road is becoming a bit smoother.

In the end, I don’t know if we actually needed to be residents, or if maybe it was our lucky day. It took a mere five hours, and Rob confidently announces, “I knew we could do it. It really wasn’t that bad, was it?” To answer that question, all you need to see is the picture on my license. I look as if I am trying to claw out of a twenty foot hole.

BUYING A CAR WITH UNDERWEAR MONEY

By | 2018-04-15T18:20:05-04:00 October 10th, 2010|Categories: Car|Tags: , |

“How are we going to carry all this money out of the bank? We can’t just walk out of here with a paper bag full of cash,” I question as money is stacked in front of us.

We just withdrew five thousand dollars’ worth of colones, the Costa Rican currency, to buy a twelve thousand dollar car. There is a limit to how much cash you can withdraw from this bank in a single day. We now need to go to another one across town and attempt to withdraw the remaining seven thousand dollars to purchase the vehicle. After the teller finishes counting, she lays out two hundred and fifty bills in a single pile. Costa Rica does not have any currency worth more than twenty dollars, thus creating my towering skyscraper of cash. This has brought a considerable amount of unwanted attention from the other customers standing in line.

“Don’t worry,” Rob leans in and whispers, “I’m going to stick it in my underwear.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No I’m not kidding you. I’m going into the bathroom to stuff the cash into my underwear, most in the front with some in the back. I’m pretty sure I can get it all in there.” Rob reaches across the desk and slides the neatly piled cash into a plastic shopping bag. He then casually walks to the men’s bathroom.

I’m embarrassed to confess that this isn’t the first time Rob has hidden things in his underwear. Rob is constantly concerned about crime and feels that his drawers are the safest place to hide sensitive documents. On more than one occasion, our cash and credit cards disappeared into the dark recesses of his pants. I always felt sorry when I bought something from a vendor, giving them the cash that had been against Rob’s nether regions for the better part of a sunny afternoon. Now Rob wants to take this a step further and do the same with the five grand.

We never thought we would need to spend so much for a used car. They are expensive because the cars are shipped into the country and taxed heavily, a burden passed on to the buyer. This makes the cost double the blue book value listed in the States, but we had no choice and narrowed our selection down to a four-wheel drive SUV. The harrowing drive across Costa Rica influenced us in owning a powerful vehicle to handle the occasional river and steep mountainous inclines, and since the road to our house takes us through a river and up a steep mountainous incline, an SUV appeared to be the best option. We spend a few days looking at different models and decide on a Mitsubishi Montero, mostly because many people drive them here, and we know it must be cheap to get parts.

While shopping, we notice the dealerships have replaced things in the cars that one doesn’t usually see replaced. It wasn’t uncommon to see gray seats, a white dashboard, beige glove compartment, and a black steering wheel all in the same vehicle. This patchwork reminds me that this would be an excellent way to hide the effects of the waterlogged cars from Hurricane Katrina, and since some of these cars have “floated” on over to Costa Rica, Rob and I are meticulous when inspecting the inside and outside of the vehicles. I trust Rob since he has a lot of experience fixing cars.

When Rob was in high school, he noticed a puke green 1970 Nova that hadn’t moved for the street sweepers in months. It accumulated tickets until there was a pile clipped under the windshield wipers. He left a note asking the owner if he wanted to sell the car. The guy showed up and told him it ran, but someone had stolen both the radiator and the battery. Rob had no idea if it would work but knew Novas had a history of being reliable vehicles. Rob talked the owner down to fifty bucks, went to the junkyard, and bought a battery and radiator. He also took a roller and painted the car with two coats of Benjamin Moore’s white outdoor oil paint. That part, he said, was to impress the ladies.

Rob made the necessary repairs, and the Nova ran great until his crazy friend Dom (a guy who used motor oil on his head to clean out his hair follicles), got angry with Rob and shot out two tires, both car doors, and something under the hood that caused the heater to remain on indefinitely. The shoot-out occurred while Rob hid behind an oak tree helplessly watching as his car, and the oak tree, got blasted by a hail of bullets. Once Dom went back inside to lather his head with more oil, Rob jumped in his car and wobbled away on two flat tires.

After going back to the same junkyard, he once again fixed the Nova and used it for his budding career as a car service driver. He picked up customers in a car with bullet holes in the doors, a duct taped window, and a heater blasting in the middle of August not to mention, the passenger door was jammed, making them enter through the driver’s side and slide across the bench seat. It was this attention to detail that made the car unforgettable, not only to his paying clients, but also to the girls he tried to pick up while cruising down 86th street.

With that in mind, Rob searched for a vehicle he felt would have the same stamina the old Nova displayed years before. We found a red 1998 Mitsubishi Montero with roughly one hundred thousand miles, priced at twelve thousand dollars. Nobody in their right mind would pay that in the States. We brought our interpreter with us and started to negotiate, but this is where being gringos and pulling up in a rental car hampered us getting a good deal. Desperation is the world’s worst cologne, and we reeked of it.

Our interpreter was a sweet seventeen-year-old girl formally from California. She moved here with her parents when she was five and is fluent in Spanish. The owner of the dealership was not present, but the salesman called him and gave the phone to our interpreter. With her help, Rob began the negotiations. I was eager to see what kind of deal we would get. Rob’s tough Brooklyn-style bargaining had been successful with us never paying sticker price. He would talk down the price of a turkey sandwich if he thought he could get a better deal.

“Tell him I’ll give him ten grand,” Rob said. Reluctantly, our interpreter relayed the message.

“He said he’ll take twelve thousand dollars,” she nervously returned.

“What? Tell him I’ll give him ten thousand five hundred.” These negotiations went back and forth as our translator got upset. She had not planned on being in the middle of a heated discussion, and at seventeen, I doubt she had ever been placed in this position before. I started to feel bad for her when Rob barked, “I won’t go over eleven thousand five hundred. Tell him that’s it; I won’t pay a penny more.”

“Hmm… ah… he’s not going to like that.”

“Just tell him, that’s it; I’ll walk.” Rob confidently leaned back in his chair as our interpreter meekly relayed the message and consequently pulled the phone away from her ear. All of us heard the screaming. She then put her ear back to the phone, listened for another ten seconds, and turned back to Rob.

“He said he’ll take twelve thousand dollars.” And that’s how we ended up paying full price for our car, the first time in Pisani history. Rob’s Brooklyn negotiation skills sucked more than finding a DVD boxed set of Steven Seagal movies under the Christmas tree. I actually thought Rob might walk away, but the thought of paying another week for the rental car caused him to fold. It was the end of an intoxicating era.

I was thinking we were finished when the owner requested something out of the ordinary and more than a little suspicious. He wanted the money deposited into his account before he signed over the title. At first, we thought this was translated wrong. But no, he definitely said it. He promised he would provide us the legal paperwork after he received the money. Rob had done his homework and knew that this transaction should be performed in front of an attorney at the time of sale. Once we said we wouldn’t provide the money without the paperwork, the owner then wanted the money in cash or he would sell the car to someone else. We had no other choice but to figure out how we could acquire such a humongous sum of money in one day. With all the modern fraud protection on bank accounts, we knew this would not be an easy task.

I am now waiting for Rob to return from the bathroom with the five grand in his pants. We took the maximum cash advances on our credit cards and as much money as we could from our checking account. Finally, after several hours, we end up with less than half the money. Rob walks out of the bathroom and we try the same procedure at another bank. Luckily, they allow us to withdraw the remaining seven grand. We now need to walk two blocks with Rob carrying all of the cash in his underpants. Forgive me for being paranoid, but I get a little uncomfortable running all over a Central American town with twelve grand in my husband’s tighty-whiteys.

Rob exits the men’s room and waddles toward me with his grossly distorted pelvis. His pants are pulled up to his navel to prevent the money from pulling his underwear down. This gives him an unflattering case of high waters. I am unclear how this will help us blend into the crowd since my husband now looks like Jerry Lewis. We leave the bank and make a run for our car.

“You go first, and I’ll follow,” Rob says as he waddles across the street. He always makes me go first, another one of his security precautions, but this time it doesn’t make much sense since he is the one carrying the money and the one most likely to get hit over the head. Taking one last glance at his mismatched socks, I decide to take his advice and walk as far away from him as possible.

“This is crazy… the whole thing… it’s nuts,” I say as Rob opens the car door for me. “I feel like everything is harder here. How are we supposed to get anything done if buying a car is so damn difficult?”

“It’s just a snag, a small inconvenience. Today we will get the car and return the rental. It’s one more thing we can put behind us.” Rob starts the car, and we head to the dealership’s attorney. He is bilingual, so we will have a modest idea of what the hell he is talking about. It doesn’t take long for him to invite us into his office, where he lays out a variety of papers for us to sign. However, the SUV is not here yet. We ask the attorney to call the dealership and find out what the holdup is. When he reaches the owner over the phone, we can overhear him screaming, and the only bit I understand is crazy gringo. Just what you want to hear with twelve grand stacked in front of you.

“What’s the problem?” Rob asks.

“There seems to be an issue, Senor. He doesn’t want to sell it to you anymore.”

“Why the hell not?”

“He says you did not trust him. He wanted you to deposit the money into his account, and you didn’t, and I don’t think he likes gringos too much,” the attorney says as he pulls at his buttoned collar. Rob stands up and approaches him.

“If you think I am going to walk out of here with twelve thousand dollars in my pants… well… you’re out of your fucking mind. How many other people know I have this money?” Rob’s voice gets louder with each step toward the attorney. “I want you to call him back, tell him we did everything he asked, except we want a legal transaction just like any other Tico in Costa Rica. You got that?” They’re standing face to face, and I see a bead of sweat trickle down the attorney’s forehead. He quickly grabs his phone, and a salesman drives up with the SUV in less than five minutes.

The paperwork appears to be in order, all but the amount of three thousand dollars he put down as the purchase price, another way the dealership can avoid paying additional taxes, but we don’t care. We sign everything, and the salesman hands us the keys and one license plate.

“Where’s the other one?” I ask.

“You only need one in Costa Rica,” he says before swiftly leaving the office. We walk out to the street and soon notice all the other vehicles have two license plates. I am not surprised; the guy had all the intentions of screwing us one way or the other, but on the bright side, I do get great satisfaction knowing they are handling money that sat in Rob’s sweaty underpants.

The most important thing is that we have a car and can return the rental today. And even if they got one past us, at least the car is in my name.

I think.

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