Mexican Bank Saga: Coda

I’m back in Guanajuato to try, for a second time, to retrieve the money from the sale of the house Jack and I had down here. If you’ve been following the banking-in-Mexico story, here is the finale. 

The middle daughter in my Mexican family has been helping me with this. I met her at the bank two days ago. She doesn’t speak English, but she speaks Spanish slowly and patiently so can make sure I can understand what the bank folks are saying.

You may recall that my first attempt, in November, was to transfer directly to my account in Canada, but I was told that my bank here couldn’t transfer to that bank. This seemed very odd, unbelievable in fact, but there seemed no way to contest it. So it was determined that I would get a cashier’s cheque. That was the point at which the identification issue came up and I had to leave without the money. Monica dealt with the bank in my absence and when she confirmed that the identification issue had been resolved, I made plans to return. 

So here I am. Monica had met with the bank manager himself, who told her I was to see him personally when I arrived. But gosh, he’s kinda busy when we get there, so we meet with one of the lesser managers with instructions to move up the ladder if problems arise.

I wait nervously while all my passport and other identification pieces are examined with care and checked against various things on a computer screen. It takes quite a while, but yes! I can proceed. 

The only problem is, says the banker with appropriate concern, since my last visit there’s been a change. Cashiers’ cheques can now only be cashed within Mexico. 

This is incredible. The point, here, is to get the money to Canada. I am about to make an inappropriate fuss when…

“Why don’t you do a bank-to-bank transfer?”

“I’d prefer that, but in November you told me I can’t.”

They scurry off to check. Every time someone scurries off to check something, it’s a good fifteen minutes before they return.

But yes, they can. So, apparently something else has changed. This is good news. I am ushered away from the desk to one of the wickets.

“Please insert your bank card and enter your PIN.”

 This is a bank card I almost never used even when we spent winters here, and haven’t used at all in the last three years. I have no idea what the PIN is. I try one of the several combinations of four digits that open the door to various accounts and applications in my life. It doesn’t work. I try a second. It works! Amazing.

Equally amazing, ten minutes later I need to enter it again and I can’t remember which of those many sequences of four digits it had been. After a couple more frantic tries, I am, of course, blocked.

Disbelief all around, and an embarrassed old lady is ushered back to the desk. Oh yeah. That’s me. The process of getting a new PIN involved another lengthy wait and a lot of paperwork–because I’m a foreigner. And possibly demented. 

Finally, new PIN in hand, I return to the wicket where there’s quite a lot of coming and going and scratching of heads and then I am presented with a small pieces of paper on which is written the names of the only two banks they can transfer to, neither of which is mine. Sound familiar? This is exactly what happened in November, right down to the little piece of paper. No transfer. No cashiers’ cheque. What??

But there’s a difference. This time, the people I am dealing with really want to help. Probably, they realize it’s the only way to get rid of me.

On the form I filled out initially with my personal and bank information, there’s a line where I had to write the location of my bank. I wrote Sault Ste. Marie because that’s where my bank is. A no-brainer. Aha, but not so. It turns out I should have written Toronto, which is both the centre of the known universe (okay, the Canadian universe) and the location of my bank’s home office.

A quick email to my bank contact (in Sault Ste. Marie) confirms that, indeed, I should write Toronto on that line. And in fairness, maybe the folks in the Sault should have pointed that detail out to me in the first place. Once done, the doors to international banking swing open and I am able to send a relatively small trial transfer. 

I was only in the bank for about four hours.

That transfer arrived in my Canadian account this morning! When I returned to the bank this afternoon, two employees greeted me by name. I guess I’m famous now, though I’m happy not to know exactly why. It took just an hour this time, and I give full credit to the bank employees who were patient with my language problems (I was alone this time), and super-careful to make sure everything was in order. So careful that the transaction timed out twice and had to be re-entered. During that time the exchange rate changed a few points in my favour! 

There’s a maximum transfer allowed per day, so I will need two more bank visits. But it appears this is the end of the story.