The Unique Property Site Blog

---

Buying in Third World Countries

This is a very personal approach to where one moves to. I have chosen Portugal, or rather I chose Portugal twenty years ago. Would I choose it now? And what reasons do I bring to the front of the list when I choose a place to live?
There is a lot to be said for choosing to live in a third world country. At the end of the twentieth century Portugal was undoubtedly a third world country. When I wanted cash to pay companies for delivering building materials I had to drive either to Faro or even to Spain in order to get cash. Half the time the ATMs didn’t work. I hassled my local bank and they claimed they couldn’t afford to pay for them to be online every day.
They also had absurd rules which they backed up with utterly absurd arguments. Let me just tell you one such argument.
I was building a house, and I wanted €7,000 for some works and materials. I went to my Portuguese bank to release the cash. At the time I had a dozen or so cards, and four or five bank accounts, and had well over £100,000 in cash available.
I asked for the money and was told I couldn’t have it. I asked to speak to the Visa agent, and was passed the phone. I asked what the problem was. The charming lady said there was no problem. So I asked her why the bank would not okay my request. She said she didn’t know. So I asked how much Visa would let me draw right now. The answer was £14,000.
I put her back to the bank teller and insisted on withdrawing €7,000. Visa then spoke to me confirming they had authorised that amount for withdrawal.
The bank paid me €2,000. Their argument was that they were concerned about fraud. They did not seem able to comprehend that Visa had given them a magic number which put the responsibility for the payout onto Visa, not the bank.
Living in third world countries can be a pain. One still cant hire tools here. There isn’t a hire shop within 100 miles of me.
When I first came here the electricity supply crashed roughly seven times a day. I remember sitting on a sofa for hours in Conforama in Olhao (the nearest proper furniture shop to me living in Silves). There were half a dozen of us trying to pay for purchases but the tills kept crashing due to power outages. Twenty-five years ago life here was nothing short of a nightmare. If it rained the phones stopped working. And so it went on.
On the other hand, there is a lot to be said for living in a chaotic country. There is ample scope for workarounds. The thing I hate most about first-world countries is that they are so boring, and life is too mechanised and soul-destroying and restrictive.
I have land in Nicaragua. I love the place. My Spanish is good enough to survive quite easily. Shopping can be fun. It used to be fun in Portugal. I remember when a lady approached me in a shop and asked me if she could afford to buy the goods in her trolley. We selected a small area at the back of the shop, sat on the floor and she emptied her trolley. I explained what all the items were as she couldn’t read. And I counted up the cost. We then did some fiddling around to get cheaper goods, and in the end we worked out a take-home she could afford. It took nearly half an hour. Things like that make shopping far more interesting than shopping in Northern Europe.
Catching a bus in Nicaragua is not just a matter of getting a bus to take you home, it is an experience in itself. People wander up and down the aisle trying to sell you things. People start arguments. Others are hassled onto the bus because something serious has just happened, namely, a rival bus has just overtaken us and that wont do. “Get on, get on, Hurry!”
They are dragged up the steps, the driver jerks in the clutch, the passengers lurch back in their seats. Those in the aisle fall over,  and off we go at a hell of a rate of knots, chasing the rival bus. Luckily, that has to stop for passengers and we roar past, horn blasting, and passengers waving.
I used to go to church every sunday when I lived in Central America. Why? I dont believe any of the theocracy. But I did like the camaraderie in church. Half way through a hymn, the organ stopped and the church bells rang out, everyone started laughing and smiling, the ladies kissed each other, the gents shook hands and clapped each other on the back, and all was joy and goodwill while the kids were playing with toys in the aisles.
A priest there needs a strong singing voice, and a pick-up truck. The latter is to collect the band to play for the hymns. I could go on, but hopefully you get my point.
And I haven’t got to the reason for this story. Never mind, I’ll pick up next week where I’ve just left off, and try and make the real point. Remind me I was going to talk about Albania. How we ended up in Nicaragua I have no idea.  

Subscribe to our email alerts on the housing markets both in the UK and abroad.