Transito...

We are never sure what God has prepared for us to deal with on any given day. Example...

Yesterday (Friday), we had to go to Transito to get Jim’s license back…yes, he had received another ticket. When the FBC team was here, he had to take the van into Managua to buy some wood for the house and on the way back, he was stopped by a policeman.

At first the policeman wanted to write Jim a ticket for not having insurance on his driver’s license as a professional driver. Jim assured him he wasn’t a professional driver and he didn’t need insurance on his license. The policeman insisted…so did Jim. That quiet, mild-mannered husband of mine has some roots of stubbornness that go pretty deep, let me assure you.

Finally, the policeman must have realized that Jim wasn’t going to go along with that charge and so he then cited him for not having a red flag on the wood hanging out the back of the van. Jim had to agree he was wrong on that charge…and though I wasn’t with him when all this transpired, I am pretty sure that agreement came reluctantly! Jim received the yellow ticket and gave his license to the officer…standard procedure.

The law says we have thirty days to get the fine paid and pick up his license from Transito. He received the ticket on the the 29th of September. Thursday morning when we were going to school, we were pulled over again. I got the necessary registration and insurance cards out of the glovebox and Jim gave those to the officer plus his yellow ticket which allows him to drive.
The officer looked at the ticket and then checked out our car.

He wanted to know why we got the ticket. Jim explained to him. He wanted to know why we hadn’t paid the fine yet and we told him we were going to pay it the following day, at Transito. He said we should have already paid it. Jim told him that he had thirty days to pay the ticket. He kept talking and when I asked him to speak more slowly, he interrupted me and continued on. I overlooked the first interruption and chalked it up to an eager cop hoping we would pay him to let us go.

He seemed to be getting angry that we wouldn’t pay him. Jim didn’t understand him at all and I was having a great deal of difficulty trying to figure out what he was saying. Jim reached for our dictionary which we happened to have with us as we were on our way to school. Rarely do we use it there but we always have it with our things.

I tried to explain yet again that we were going to pay the ticket the following day and he interrupted me once again. Okay…that time it got under my skin…and every time after that. I really believe God had His fingers clamped tightly on my slippery and extremely aggravated tongue because all the stuff that was on the tip of it stayed there. The grumpy guy then said he was going to take Jim’s yellow ticket and give him a red ticket. At the same time, we both asked incredulously, “¿Por qué?” “Why???” A red ticket means Jim can’t drive…this was getting much more serious. The cop’s voice raised a great deal as he again said we had not paid our fine.

I felt like I was talking to a very stubborn and insolent child as I once again patiently explained that we had thirty days to pay the fine and that we were planning on going the next day to Transito. I took my phone out and told him I was going to call my friend who spoke Spanish and asked if he would talk to her. He looked like he was going to explode…we had yet to offer him any money. He shoved the paperwork back at Jim and started to walk off. Jim told him thank you and asked if we had a Blessing Bag in the glovebox. I had already pulled one out and we called the cop back.

Believe me when I tell you it took everything in me to hand this very unpleasant guy one of our Blessing Bags we carry for the men in blue. But then the thought flitted through my well-steamed brain that maybe God would speak to him through the materials in that bag. I explained we were missionaries here and we had a gift for him. He took it without looking at us or even so much as a thank you and walked off. As relieved as we were that Jim didn’t get a red ticket, I was just as ticked off at that cop. It’s those kinds of things that contribute to making life here difficult…after awhile, they begin to wear thin.

So, we made our trip to Transito. Jim had already paid the fine at the bank close to our house and so we had all the necessary documentation to retrieve his license. Should have been an easy process…oh yeah…nothing is easy here. We got in the line that said Extranjeros (Foreigners). Two men in line told us that we had to go get in another line and then after they looked at our payment receipt and copy of the ticket, they would direct us to the proper line. Jim told him we were Extranjeros. Hello. I think they probably could have figured that out themselves just by looking at us. Didn’t matter. They said we needed to go get in one of the other lines.

The 4 windows are divided alphabetically. I think in theory, this is to help expedite getting rid of all the traffic offenders which seem to consistently fill the room. The window that serviced all of us A-F offenders was closed. We had to move over to the G-whatever window. While waiting in line, I easily slipped in to one of my favorite ways to pass time in such venues…people watching. Funny…no one seemed to be in a particularly good mood there.

The man who was in front of us in the G-whatever line had been behind us in the Extranjero line. When he heard the two guys telling us we needed to go to the other line, he went ahead and moved. We were slower in the understanding and in the moving…hence, our line positions shifted. He happened to speak some English… actually, that wasn’t a “happened” kind of thing. We were to realize later God came to our rescue once again by placing this man there in front of us.

Finally, we found ourselves smiling at the unsmiling girl on the other side of the window. Jim handed her our paperwork. She told us that we needed to go to another area and she pointed to the part of the building where there were 3 doors to choose from. This was new…we hadn’t had to do that last time. We stood staring at them, not at all sure where to go. Jim went back and asked her again. This time, she came part way around the area and pointed with a very disgusted look on her face the door we were to go through. Goodness, I am now so much more sympathetic to folks in our country who struggle with the language than I used to be…

We went through the door and felt like we had fallen in to the Rabbit Hole…the office was air-conditioned and quiet…that’s odd enough to begin with. We waited and no one even looked up at us. I looked at Jim…I could see him and by the expression on his face, I was pretty sure he could see me. I wonder why the 5 people in that office couldn’t seem to see either of us standing there waiting?

After a bit, a policeman asked us what we wanted but we weren’t sure what he was saying. I tried our standard explanation of, "We don't speak much Spanish, could you please speak more slowly?" The policeman didn't care about our comprehension level, he just wanted us to answer his question NOW! Our “friend” from out front happened to be leaving from that same office and he translated for us. We answered the policeman and thanked the guy. He smiled and walked out the door. I hated to see him go…it was nice to have a friendly face who spoke with a familiar tongue in very unfamiliar and hostile territory. Jim handed the policeman our ticket and he said we needed to go out to the Extranjero window. We told him they sent us back there.

He then wanted to know what country we were from. I told him the U.S. He wanted to know what state. I told him Missouri. He walked over to another lady. She couldn’t find whatever it was she was supposed to have. He asked again what state. I told him again that we were from Missouri. He and the lady seemed to have another exchange, this time a bit more agitated. Finally, he walked back to us with some info written on the back of the paperwork and with a very stern face, directed us out of the office.

We walked back to the Extranjero’s line. The same two guys who were there to begin with were still there. The line of two didn’t seem to be moving too quickly. The girl behind the window looked at us and waved us back over to an alphabet window. We told her the man told us to come back to her. She stuck out her hand and waved it impatiently, motioning for Jim to give her his paperwork. He obliged.

We waited while she began filing through various packets of licenses…the number of confiscated driver’s licenses is mind-boggling. She asked what country we were from. Déjà vu. I told her the U.S. She asked what state. I told her Missouri. She rummaged through more packets and asked again. The answer was the same…Missouri. As she continued to rummage, I wondered if there is some kind of Surly and Sour Attitude training they all have to undergo before being hired or if it’s a dispositional characteristic that is highly prized for such a position. Either way, the place is sadly lacking in joy and niceties.

Finally, she found Jim’s license and silently handed it back to him as she walked off. We waited a minute, wondering if there was something else we were supposed to have. Neither of us could remember from the last time we had to visit there. She refused to look up. Jim asked her if that was all. She said, “Si”, but her tone said, “Si, you idiot.” We left with Jim’s license in hand. And we both breathed a sigh of relief.

On the way out to the car, I told Jim…no matter who needs what, don’t ever haul anything again without a red flag tied on it. He agreed. We also agreed that they don't like us much there. That's a little hurtful. But sometimes, truth such as that is hurtful...and ugly...and true. I would like to think that was our last visit to Transito. Somehow, I doubt it.