Ever wonder what missionaries do on the field?

We come to tell people about Jesus and serve them in their areas of need, but sometimes we get to do other things to assure that we get to continue to do that. In case you've never experienced the bureaucracy of Central America, you will get a flavor for it if you can actually get through this whole post. We've tried to make it worthwhile by also making it entertaining.

Seth and I started the day out yesterday taking our applications for our religious worker resident visas to immigration. We had an optimistic outlook after months of document preparation, authentication, seals and translations, advice from a lawyer, and the whole sha-bang. We prayed while walking in that God would give us grace and favor with those with whom we would need it. It went like this:

• We arrive at immigration and ask where the bank is to complete step one of the process: pay our fees. The sheet we had printed off said $30 per person, so we showed up with $150 for all 5 of us. Ready, set go!
• We wait in line for 30 minutes, to be told by the teller that the amounts are variable and that we need to ask at information first to see what the right amount is, and then come back.
• We wait in line at information for another 30 minutes. We decide to divide and conquer. Seth tries another source of information while Andrea stays in line.
• Seth is patently rejected by the person who accepts the religious worker visa applications, who assumes that we can't possibly have all the documents we need (without looking at them) and refuses to give him any information. "We need to pay our application fees, but how much do we pay?" "Go away and come back when you've paid." "I know, but how much do we pay?" "Come back when you've paid." Gee, thanks for your help.
• Little ringlets of smoke begin to come out of Seth's ears. We now know why SHE is assigned to the religious worker desk: those of us who are filled with the spirit of Christ are the only ones who can engage with her without homicide being the result.
• Seth returns to find Andrea at the information desk, and the man who is trying to help her has disappeared. He looked at her blankly when she explained her question, and left to ask someone what the heck to tell her. The elderly ticos behind her ask if he's taking his coffee break.
• Info man returns to explain that the law just changed. $30 was the old amount. $250 is the new amount. Over 800% increase in the fee overnight? Sure, that makes sense. We leave knowing that we're not submitting our applications that day, because we don't have the money and have to submit another advance to CFCI for the rest of the money.
• We begin to suspect there are other things that have probably changed that would affect this process, so we do some searching on the internet. We learn that we now have to register for voluntary insurance with the socialized medicine system (La Caja) to apply for visas. We decide to try to accomplish SOMETHING today, so we try to figure out what we need for this, make copies of everything required according to their website, and head out again.
• We find the building that the Caja's web site directed us to for this and wait in line for an hour. We begin discussing the merits of ripping people's arms off and stuffing them down their throats as a way of getting things done in developing countries. Very Christ-like, huh?
• The man at the window that we explain our situation to has no idea what to do or tell us. He finds a superior, who explains to us that we have to go to another building 2 blocks away for this. We explain that we already have insurance and that we're hoping to get an exemption when we show them our insurance cards, past bills paid by them, etc. and assure them that we will not be a burden to their health care system. Their response: it is now obligatory to participate in the Caja regardless of your insurance status.
• The light bulb goes on: this is a new way for Costa Rica to make money off of foreigners and get us to help fund their medical system that is bankrupt. Maybe our money will help people get their medical care after a 4-month wait instead of after an 8-month-one.
• We find the next building and sit in chairs for 30 minutes until someone can help us. He tells us that we need to somehow prove our income and expenses so that he can calculate our premium based on our "extra" (net) money. We have a letter on hand from CFCI stating our income (which was not required, but we suspected it might come in handy). He is confounded that we do not receive our income in Costa Rica (we are paid in the U.S.) or pay taxes here, and has no idea what to do with us. He tells us to go home and bring him copies of our bills, something the web site said nothing about. It is clear we are the guinea pigs and he is making this up as he goes along.
• We go home and do this, and go back freaking out that most of our monthly expenses are in cash and we don't have "bills" to show him to account for what we spend each month, so it will appear that we have plenty of extra money to hand over to them.
• We go back and sit in chairs for another 30, listening to other Americans in front of us flip their lids when he tells them they owe $400 per month. We begin sweating profusely. The others leave without enrolling and promise to return with more bills showing a more accurate reflection of their expenses. Seth threatens under his breath to deliver a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the man's solar plexis if he tries that highway robbery with us.
• When it's our turn again, the man kindly explains that the bottom line is that the Caja wants 10% of our leftover income after our bills. As we hand him our "bills," which don't nearly reflect the total of our mandatory monthly expenses, we explain that we don't have EXTRA money. We get x amount per month, and we spend it all on necessities of life. Period. He is worn out after his conversation with the previous Americans and explains that the minimum amount he can calculate a premium off of is about $200. We say great. He tells us our premium is $15 per month.
• Andrea asks if there's a document outlining the coverage we will receive if we use the government health plan's services. He looks at her blankly and says, "You get health care, we pay for it." "There's no co-pay or deductible?" "No, we pay for it all." Gee, I wonder why they're bankrupt and people don't get care in a timely fashion.
• He cannot remove the pension aspect of our premium due to a computer glitch (without that the premium should have been $8 per month), even though we explain that we don't expect to still be living here when it's time for retirement. I guess Seth now gets a Costa Rican pension in about 25 years.
• All of this only enrolled Seth in the plan, since he is technically the wage earner in the family. We now have to go to the nearest health clinic to our home and register the rest of the family on his policy to get cards for all of us to show to immigration that we've fulfilled this requirement.
• We hit the clinic on the way home (it looks like Hannibal Lector's prison cell from the outside), and it's locked up tight. They've closed for the day by 4:30.
• We head home, and remember to thank God that we made progress today and did get the much-needed favor from the gentleman at the Caja at the end of the day who gave us the benefit of the doubt and took our word for it on our finances, a favorable low premium that does minimal damage to our monthly budget, and an opportunity to take our lives into our hands by getting treatment at the government health clinic free of charge. We can't wait to taste that government cheese!

Sooo, we started the day setting out to apply for residency, and ended it by participating in the socialized health care system. I guess you just never know, huh?

Maybe we'll actually get to leave our application files with immigration when we try again. Then again, maybe it will take 5 more trips to even begin the process...

We know that it's worth it, and despite the frustration we really did laugh at times,

Andrea