The U.S. government – under a new law incorporated in the Hiring Incentives to Restore Employment Act signed by President Barack Obama on 18 March 2010 – is demanding that international financial institutions reveal which of their clients are U.S. citizens with accounts of more than $50,000. Foreign banks are, in effect, being asked to act as the international enforcement arms of the Internal Revenue Service. Those banks that don’t comply will be subject to a 30% withholding tax on all payments made to them in the U.S. Many banks and wealth managers have decided it is far easier to politely show their U.S. clients the door.

Earlier this month, the law firm Withers conducted a survey of bankers, accountants, independent financial advisers, trust companies and other private client advisors to analyze the impact of the HIRE Act. Over half said they have seen instances where Americans were denied investment and banking services in the last two years. And 95% expect this to increase as a result of the HIRE Act.

David Treitel, a tax director, at U.S. Tax & Financial Services, said that at least 20% of the American customers serviced by his company’s London and Swiss offices have had their bank accounts closed over the past year.

The Hire Act is only the latest in a raft of different laws aimed at American expats, American residents with off-shore accounts and the institutions that service both groups. Jay Krause, a partner at the law firm Withers, says: “The difficulties that American expats face predates the HIRE Act. But the new law will take it to a whole new level. I think that it is the most remarkable piece of tax legislation ever enacted.”

The U.S. government already taxes expatriate citizens on their worldwide income regardless of where it is earned or where they live, making them the only people in the developed world who are taxed in both their country of citizenship and country of residence. Many expats complain that these rules are getting tougher and the penalties more draconian by the year.

continue reading at the WSJ

Three guys show up. One of them, the main guy, I haven’t even seen today, though supposedly he is off wiring some hierro or rebar together. The other two are grunt labor . . . they’re supposed to be digging the zanja or trench for the base.It goes something like this. The one guy uses the pickaxe to break up the dirt . . . 3-4 strokes. Then he sits down on the edge of the trench and starts talking. The other guy, in his own trench, a few feet away, scrapes his own dirt a bit with the shovel. Maybe two or three scrapes, then he leans on his shovel adn they talk for 7-10 min. Then the first guy shovels two shovelfuls of dirt out of the trench and sits down to fan himself with his hat, chattering away. The other guy does pretty much the same, minus the hat.

I should mention that they are doing this RIGHT outside my window. I now know that the short, young guy has two kids, one of whom was up with nightmares all night long and the other who should be in school, but he feels his wife is babying the boy too much by keeping him home too long. I know that the other guy has worked with every abañil who has screwed us over. They’ve also discussed what they had for dinner last night, how annoying their wives are, how annoying their children are, how annoying the other abañiles are . . . oh, and how hot it is. They also talked about the upcoming feriado (public holiday) and their plans to get away and drink some beer. I guess they don’t think I can understand Spanish or else they don’t think I have any power to do anything about their inability to work more than 30 seconds at a time!

I get that it’s hot . . . but this is their job. I wouldn’t mind if they had a break from time to time, but seriously . . . 2 shovelfuls per 15 min. of work? Uh, not gonna cut it boys.

Poor Genesis just doesn’t get it.  Doesn’t she realize she’s the problem?

On 5th Ave I ask a few people on the street where they pay their electricity and they point towards the Banco Industrial hole in the wall entrance that only has an ATM and tunnel like passage with a defunct metal detector and a security guard with a an AK47. I tell him I am here to pay my “power” and not electricity (after being corrected a few times) and he scoots me over to one line. The line moves fast for the people with their paper bills, but I do not have one, I am paying our landlady’s bill and she lost her paper trail. I tell them her address and all the identifying info for her and they smile and shake their heads. “Disculpe, solo podemos utilizar el contador.” We can only use the meter number to identify her house and the bill. I point at their computers and ask if they can’t find her in the database. No, they tell me, those are only for keeping meters and costs incurred by meter numbers. “But numbers are made of people,” I tell them and ask is there no way to connect her to her address? Well, maybe they tell me, but I have to go to the BIG Banco Industrial and the MAIN Empresa Electrica. At this point Brad is about to take a Tuk Tuk home, but I ask him to go along with me so we can figure out how things are connected.At the BIG bank we move through line quickly and we get to the teller and ask to pay the bill. “Do you have the meter number?” She asks. I sigh. “I had a feeling you’d ask me that.” She sends me upstairs, but before I go up we ask about where we can pay online so we don’t have to go through this again. She doesn’t have the Web address, but she informs us that as long as we have a Banco Industrial account, we can pay online. But what if you don’t I ask? She shrugs, we move upstairs as the storm breaks and the skies weep from the weight of it. Upstairs at the BIG Empresa Electrica, I expect a computer-lined hallway with massive databases. A security guard, also with a gun, greets me and so I tell him we need to connect a person to her address to get her meter number and then pay her bill. She walks me over a few inches to the phone next to him and dials customer support for the National Empresa Electrica. Brad sits down and watches the rain come down. I wait and wait and go through two attempts to connect her name to her address to her meter. “Favor de asegurar que ese es el nombre del la dueña.” But that is her name and that is her house and everything is under her name, I inform the representative. Well, I’m sorry, he tells me, but she does not exist in his system. I tell him, just try one more time, but just by street to find her name. “I’m sorry, señorita, but then you would get someone else’s bill and that’s private information.” Now, I tell him, do you think I would really pay someone else’s bill if you pulled it up and that didn’t match her name? I tell him to look one more time but just by her street name. He refuses. I ask him if he likes baseball. He says, yes, of course. Then strike me out, I tell him, give me three chances and if on the third try nothing comes out then I hang up the phone. Silence. “I’m sorry, I looked under her street name, and she is not in my system. I guess that means you’re out, too.” Yes, I tell him, fair is fair.

I promise you, deep down she has unresolved feelings of contempt and disdain for the (that would be ‘her’) Guatemalan people, they just haven’t come out yet.  Stay tuned…

Clearly not everyone would agree with this opinion, but I guess if you’re of the mindset that selling things is what matters, or getting votes is what matters (after all, there is no ‘intensity button’ on the voting machine) and you don’t really care what people think, well, I guess it works.

Perhaps that’s unwittingly what I’ve done here at GuateLiving.  I wouldn’t want to see the results of an intensity vote; I’m pretty sure the hatred level would set new records, but with every new ‘truth at all costs’ posts the blog grows in fame…or maybe it’s infamy.  You decide:

Yet over at Guate Living — el termómetro en el trasero de la vida gringa en la Antigua — we have been shocked to find the suggestion that meticulous locals will take their ceviche with a prophylactic of antibiotics, and that manitas shucas (almost exlusively of the Guatemalan kind) are the root cause of the regular unscheduled trips to the crapper that appear to afflict the more delicate members of the ex-pat community.

Whilst the occasional intestinal storm is almost unavoidable for those of us bearing bacteria in our gut that — however friendly — have yet to master the local lingo, we have found that we rarely suffer from the runs when we prepare our own comida at home.

We recommend that concerned readers kit out each of the maids preparing their gringo grub with PVC gloves, face masks and hair nets, if not indeed a sealed head-to-toe anti-microbial body suit. (NB: The mask is to prevent them from spitting in your soup.

When I first arrived in Guatemala, I was pretty fresh from Canada, though I’d come through Mexico by bus. I had the typical attitudes that most foreigners have and never imagined how much things would change in 7 years. To give you a glimpse, here are a few before and afters . . .

Before: I nearly had a heart attack when coming around a corner and bumping into an armed guard.

Now: I find it odd if a store doesn’t have a guard and shotguns don’t phase me at all.

Before: I couldn’t IMAGINE driving in Guatemalan traffic.

Now: My husband and I are seriously looking at buying a car . . . which I would drive . . . and the thought doesn’t phase me a bit.

Before: If you’d told me I could survive more than two days without a shower, much less water, I’d have laughed in your face.

Now: I’ve successfully survived up to 15 days without running water.

Before: I felt sorry for the children begging in restaurants and bars.

Now: I’ve seen those same kids in their private school uniforms on the bus.

Before: I’d never spent a night in a hospital.

Now: I’ve spent several days and nights in the public hospital here.

Before: I paid whatever they told me in the market because I felt embarrassed to try and knock the price down.

Now: I never accept the first price given and I’m pretty good at negotiating for my potatoes and tomatoes.

Before: My Spanish teacher told me I was too stupid to learn the language in 3 weeks of lessons. I could still barely count in Spanish.

Now: I’m fluent. Unless you ask my mother-in-law, who will promptly tell you I speak no Spanish at all.

Before: I was going places, no interest in ever settling down with a guy, and thought only about kids in the distant future.

Now: Here I am, with a house! And a guy! And TWO kids. And you know what? It’s not so bad at all.

Yup, things sure do change!

Genesis is a freelance writer and lives with her husband and two sons just outside of Antigua.  She blogs at Expat Mom.

Anyway, go read this extraordinary story of how two missionaries asked for, and got FoxNews added by their local cable company in Coban.

Although high-speed internet is widely available, frequent power outages and other infrastructure failures lead to frequent downtime.  If you work online or homeschool and rely on high-speed internet for your daily life, this can be frustrating.  I use and recommend Veridas, a local WIFI solution, because installation is available within a few days, prices are reasonable, there are no contracts and the company is owned and managed by expats. Other options can include long-term contracts and the notoriously bad customer service.

I’ve been considering an option that I thought I would share with you.  Several companies now offer 3G wireless connections here in Guatemala.  That means you should be able to get your iPhone or Blackberry to work here (cracking/unlocking it, if necessary, will cost you 100-400Q).  It also means that high-speed wireless internet should be available wherever there is a cell phone tower.

Claro and Tigo both offer this service, and I’ve been told Movistar does as well.  Tigo offers a plan that I’m really interested in; 1.5MB speed with no contract, no download limits and approximately $50 a month.  Friends tell me it works in Xela, Rio Dulce, Atitlan, Coban and even Tikal.  Pretty impressive for a third-world country, eh?

If you’re interested in this kind of service, you’ll want to stop by a local technology blogger here.  There are a series of reviews on this very service, with some good insights into what you’re likely to expect (for example, don’t be surprised if you get only 512k or 256k download speeds as they appear to have oversold capacity).  But, as the blogger mentions, if you’re looking for a country-wide mobile option and will use it as a supplement or backup to a primary connection, it sounds pretty good.

H/T:  Antigua Daily Photo

Reading the story below and reflecting on some of our own adventures (many not yet published), I recall the old saying, “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger”. 

Or is it, “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stranger?” 

Anyway, a story from some Pennsylvania missonaries here in Guate:

Those are strong words…”I hated today.”

But I did.

I’m back in Guatemala now, and that’s a good thing. But it was difficult traveling with 4-year old twins, a pregnant wife, a small dog, and 6 pieces of luggage to a foreign country. And then we waited at the not-so-safe airport for our mechanic to pick us up in our own car.

(Sidenote) Yes, we finally spent money on a car. Here in Guatemala, a 1996 Toyota 4-Runner cost us about $8,000. I know it’s outrageous, but it is what it is.

(Back to my story) I wanted a few things done on the car while I was in the States just to be extra safe. New shocks, brakes checked, lights checked, oil change, etc. It was in great shape, but I just wanted to be sure. I arrived in Guatemala and was handed a bill for 12,000 Quetzals! We paid the bill and went on our way. Remember, it is what it is.

When we were a good 45 minutes out of the city, my car practically blew up. It started dragging like it was in a low 4-wheel gear. I slowed down, and did my best to mess with the 4-wheel drive gear shift….but to no avail. It suddenly siezed up and yanked us to a stop as if we had hit a cement wall.

Now, mind you. We were in the middle of a ton of traffic, in a third-world country, with a smoking, busted car. I didn’t know what to do, except get my kids over to the side of the road (yes, those twins), along with my wife (yes, that beautiful pregnant one) and my dog (yes, that poor Yorkie) where everyone would be safe.
But we weren’t safe. We were soooo not safe.

To read the conclusion, visit their blog here.

Before anyone hyperventilates, let me state that I am categorically pro-breast.  I was suckled at my own mother’s breast and have lamented since then that I cannot remember a moment of it, and my wife has breastfeed each of our children.  I think every mother should, if possible, and I find the breastfeeding police in the US (you know, the ones who think breastfeeding in public should be a felony), absurd.

Despite this comfort of mine with something that is perfectly natural and good, I must say that I was not prepared to see women nursing in public with their entire breast exposed.  I’m not exaggerating folks, these moms whip that thing out like I might extend my hand to greet someone.  The thing that makes all this even more odd is that most women here are very modest.

Anyone who knows anything about breastfeeding knows it’s kind of like a hand-off in (American) football, and it requires just the right timing and coordination, or there might be a fumble.  A fumble can lead to a kid crying, loud sucking sounds indicative of poor alignment, or in some cases, an exasperated mom just letting it hang there as if to say to the kid, “Well, are you going to take it or not?”

A few weeks ago, I saw this in the park.  I was sitting on a bench getting my shoes shined and waiting for a friend, and a woman was on the bench opposite me trying to nurse.  Fortunately I had my sunglasses on so if I was staring it may not have been that obvious.  The mother had this kid on her lap who looked like he might have been 5 3, and was trying to get him to nurse.  The kid was kind of playing with it, but didn’t appear too interested, so she just left it there, dangling in front of him, and every now and then he would take a sip like I might of a nice glass of wine.  This continued while she made small talk with passing acquaintances.

A few days later I grabbed a chicken bus into town (they go right past my neighborhood and right by the bodegona and only cost 1.5Q), and realized I had made the mistake of getting on at lunch time.  The bus was packed, and by that I mean around 120 people on a bus built for 52.  That’s 3 people in each of the 26 seats, plus the entire isle filled from front to back, usually two abreast (no pun intended).

After the pushing and shoving was done I found myself standing in the isle next to a family of of four, a husband, wife, a young girl, and a nursing baby.  The daughter was sitting on the husband’s lap, and the mother was on the isle with the kid in her lap, ostensibly nursing from the breast which was only centimeters from my right thigh, and which I was working hard to avoid brushing up against.  Mom was asleep, or at least trying, and the kid was somewhat interested, drawing for 30 seconds to a minute or so, then backing off for a breather for a minute or two before resuming.  In the intervals, that C-cup breast just bounced all over.  I stopped trying to avoid the thing and looked away, pretending I hadn’t noticed anything.

Yesterday I was walking from Delicio, where I get such luxury items as cranberry juice, pickles and JIF peanut butter, towards the park, and there were two women standing on the sidewalk talking.  It’s not uncommon that local women will choose to have a long chat on the sidewalk and not bother to move, but what struck me this time is that one of the women was nursing a very small child, and again the entire breast was in full view.  This time, I was determined to do some people watching, so I crossed the street, leaned on a corner and watched.

You see, for me it’s kind of like an auto accident in that you know you shouldn’t stare, you turn away, but find yourself inexorably drawn to look again.  It’s not even a sexual thing; I don’t know any Dads out there who’ve watched their wife or sister or friend nurse a kid before and think of it as sexual, but it’s still a spectacle.  So, my purpose was to watch for a few minutes and see if anyone else took note.

It was obvious immediately that none of the locals, Ladino or Mayan, took any note of the breast, which by this time was detached and enjoying a slight breeze while the kid played with Mom’s necklace.  (Real jade, no doubt).  Several older expat-looking types walked by, and if the 60-ish women or hippie guys even noticed, I couldn’t tell.  Then three very tall, very blond 20-ish backpacker girls, either from Norway or Sweden, I couldn’t tell, walked by on the street, and all looked…hard.  One of them almost tripped on a cobblestone as she gawked, but at least they kept moving.

A few minutes later, three obviously American dudes, all wearing shorts and flip flops, and one of their girlfriends, in extremely tight short-shorts and a tank top, ambled by and one by one proceeded to fall over one another as they each did a double-take and, after walking further, had to turn around and take one final look.

I knew instantly that I wasn’t alone.  Apparently we young(er) Americans aren’t accustomed to seeing the breast in public.  So, if you’re like me, and perfectly comfortable with your relationship with the female breast, but are not yet accustomed to seeing it swing freely in public, well, watch some National Geographic films before coming so you don’t trip down Calle del Arco and have to come up with some lame story to explain your fall.