Moving to Another Country

When I get an idea in my mind, I’m keen to get on with it. Unfortunately I live in a crazy world where it is perfectly possible that one or more lunatics may decide to destroy the world sometime over the course of the next week or so.

At the moment I am poised for action along many fronts in my life. But I am forced to wait and see if there is going to be a world where I can put my ideas into action. The first plan I have, as regular readers will know, is that I am very concerned that living in the EU, as I do, is not a very sensible idea. I’m used to Europe. I have lived here rather a long time. I speak English, French and Spanish with various familiarity. I am deeply versed in traditional English values, having been brought up and attended school in the UK. I have also travelled extensively in Europe. I think Poland is the only European country I have never visited, and I spent a lot of my teenage years living in Spain, and feel comfortable with Spanish culture, and that includes a solid grounding in the cultures of many of the Spanish regions, all of which are sometimes irritatingly different.

Not only that, but I have lived and travelled in Spain extensively while it went through at least two seismic cultural changes during the last forty years of the twentieth century.

I have been tempted to move to a more modern, more vibrant part of the world, and wanted to start by visiting Malaysia. Would I appreciate it? Or would it jangle my nerves?

I have also been watching a few blogs about such countries, and watching with a certain amusement the blogs about life in Spain, and whether one should move there. I suspect the people who are presenting these blogs are genuine, but the more I watch, the more it becomes obvious that most of these people dont have a clue what they are talking about.

Several years ago, in one of my blogs in which the subject was moving to a new country, I pointed out that it is very difficult to write for other people. That is why I have always said that you have to get a feel for a place, and someone else cant give you that feel.

I visited St Jose, the capital of Costa Rica, I got a bus into town from the airport. I didn’t like the look of the place. It wasn’t just that it looked terribly run down, there was something deeper. I checked into a hotel. Within half an hour I checked out again. I tried several more. For pity’s sake, this is a capital city. The hotels were not just sordid, they were appalling. I eventually checked into one right in the centre. I was very nervous about sleeping in the bed, and kept my clothes on, and slept on top of it. Or rather, I tried to. Then gave up and checked out.

I spent the next few hours plodding around the streets trying to work out what was wrong with the place. Then gave up and got a taxi back to the airport.

Now let me take you briefly next door, to Nicaragua.

I landed at the airport for the capital city, Managua. I was immediately disappointed. I thought, “Oh no, not another dump.” Managua certainly was a dump, but it had a vibrancy to it, and a sort of character. It didn’t appeal to me, so I decided to try another city.

I hopped on a bus to Granada. It was fun. There were people walking up and down the aisle trying to sell things. The ticket collector was a jovial chap, and spent most of his time in repartee with the customers up front. Another bus overtook us. Our driver laughed, then shook his hands at the passing bus, changed gear, revved the engine, and a few prospective passengers were forced to wait for another bus while our two raced to the next set of traffic lights.

There was something charmingly childish about it all.

I immediately loved Granada. I could happily live here. I offered some pennies to a girl sleeping rough. She looked puzzled, and gave them back. In the park a small child came up to me and gave me a sweet.

On sunday I went to church. There was the cathedral, and the Merced. I checked out the cathedral. The place was almost empty, and the priest was a dead loss. I left early.

Then I went to the Merced. It looked more like the business. Shall I say it reminded me of travelling on the bus.

The sunday service was pure entertainment. There was a short address by the priest, then some music. We sat down; we stood up; the kids ran around the aisles, played on the floor, but were quiet and well behaved. Then we sang a hymn. After three verses the organ was silent and somebody started a peel on the bells, and everyone got up, almost dancing in the aisle. The ladies kissed, the gentlemen shook hands and clapped each other on the back, and there was ten minutes of apparently spontaneous good humour.

After doing my share of hand shaking I looked round, full of bonhomie, and thought “This is what religion should be about; music, songs, the band playing, and smiling at one’s neighbours. Good grief, I could live here forever.

Some time later I was chatting with someone in the park. I told him about my experiences in the two main churches. “Ah, my friend, you will soon realise that in this country a priest needs three qualities to succeed. First he needs to have a strong voice, and not be afraid to use it. Secondly he needs access to a pickup truck.”

I look puzzled.

“He needs the pickup truck to get the members of the band to the church with their musical instruments.”

Oh yes, of course. I should have been able to work that out.

“And finally he needs to be able to make his congregation happy, and want to come back again next week.”

Tell you what, tune in again next week, and I’ll take you out on the lake.