โWe simply donโt agreeโ, the large man shouted angrily.
The translator would confirm the exact wording in a few moments, but high school Spanish had taught me enough to know.
Red faced, sweat beginning to pool just above his eye brows. It was an intense moment in an already tense day.
12 hours ago I had touched down just outside the capital, glad the worst flight imaginable was finally over. And 12 hours before that, I had been happily sipping a Daiquiri, celebrating our most recent success.
But when the government pays you a six figure retainer, and when the interior minister calls with a problem, you answer the phone with โyes sirโ.
What had started out as a lucrative build of a state sponsored system many months ago, was fast morphing into an industrial dispute that no techie was ever equipped to handle.
Yet here I was, arguing over system features with a very large, angry looking union leader. A leader entrusted by 200,000 low wage staff to decide the fate of their jobs and livelihood.
Weโd been at it for hours โ surrounded by cream walls and brown furniture.
Frustrations running high, however I was more concerned about disappointing the government minister than any shouting coming from the union leader.
And then it happened.
The translator leaned in and whispered, โHe says if the system goes live next month, there will be blood on the street.โ
I didnโt ask whose blood.
The rest of the negotiations were a bit of a blur, and I didnโt stay longer than necessary. The relief of getting on the return flight was indescribable.
Three months later the government minister was reported missing by the media. His family made an appeal for information and offered a reward.
We stopped cashing their treasury cheques and no longer submit expense claims. However, the prospect of an unexpected phone call still keeps me up at night.