Business tool helps transnational families stay in touch

Patricia Yollin, <a href=www.sfgate.com>San francisco Chronicle Staff Writer Saturday, May 24, 2003

Manuelito Juarez, a strong-minded boy of 5, wants burgers for dinner. But his brother Osberto lobbies for "the chicken place." They bicker and balk until their father intervenes and tells them to arm-wrestle. The winner gets to choose.

It is the most ordinary of squabbles except for a few things: The boys are in Guatemala City, their father is in San Francisco, and they're in the middle of a videoconference.

"People don't believe it's real," said Gabriel Biguria, whose company, AmigoLatino, had arranged the session. "It's like something out of a science fiction movie."

Although videoconferencing has been around since the mid-'70s, mostly in corporate boardrooms, it's a new medium for immigrants and those they left behind -- especially in Latin America, where many families lack phones or computers. Businesses like Biguria's also have surfaced recently in New Jersey,

Florida and North Carolina.

"With more and more transnational families, this is going to happen more often," said Belinda Reyes, a research fellow at the Public Policy Institute, a nonprofit think tank in San Francisco. "It's just a reflection of globalism."

Biguria, who immigrated from Guatemala in 1987 and from Silicon Valley last year, decided that videoconferencing could help melt the distance.

He chose to open AmigoLatino in the Flood Building on Market Street because it's next to Muni and BART's Powell Street Station and because it houses eight Latin American consulates. Biguria depends on flyers in their offices, ads in Spanish-language papers and word of mouth to attract clients.

He and his wife, Estefania, have decorated their three-room office with objects from Latin America. Burlap bags of coffee, Indian weavings and ceramic fruits coexist with a $3,000 Polycom Viewstation camera.

HUGGING THE SCREEN

Although Biguria tells clients exactly what to expect, there is, inevitably,

a surrealistic jolt as they stare at a 29-inch Sony TV screen and watch relatives materialize in a Guatemala City office with posters of San Francisco Victorians on the wall.

Sometimes they freeze. Or try to hug the screen. Once the shock and awe subside, the mundane frequently takes over.

"They'll say, 'You're so fat! What happened to you?' " said Carlos Bedoya, whose videoconferencing business in Miami serves Colombian immigrants like himself.

"Sometimes they haven't seen each other for a long time," Biguria said. "The record is 25 years."

During sessions at AmigoLatino, a few things are guaranteed: tears, laughter and requests for more money.

Mario La Torre, who's based in Passaic, N.J., and has targeted the state's 20,000 Peruvians, said, "It's a roller coaster of feelings."

"It really is a powerful tool for uniting families," said Erika Pineda Sharron, consul general of Guatemala.

There are now 28,000 Guatemalans in the nine-county Bay Area -- among a total of 149,000 Central Americans -- according to the latest census estimates.

"Migration has been going on for decades for different reasons," Biguria said. "The result is the same -- split families."

LOGISTICS OF LOVE

For Biguria, the result is a videoconferencing business.

Since starting AmigoLatino in October, he's held exactly 100 sessions. Encounters run $30 to $40 for a half-hour, $60 to $80 for an hour -- more expensive than the widely used prepaid phone cards but less costly than collect calls.

"That's a fair price," said Glenn Adamo, a telecommunications consultant in Miami. "It's an exciting thing and an interesting thing. But it's also a logistical thing. How do you hook up critical masses of people with critical masses of people?"

Since the mid-'90s, a handful of entrepreneurs have tried. Most attempts failed because the technology was too expensive or problematic or the ventures were underfunded. These days the equipment is cheaper, and it works better.

"Now things are a lot more cost effective, so there's a greater likelihood of succeeding," Adamo said. "But it's not an easy proposition."

In December, Mario Martinez opened Enlaces, a videoconferencing service for Salvadoran families, in San Francisco's Mission District. Although the San Salvador native has had only a few clients, he's not discouraged.

"I think there's a market for it," maintained Martinez, who uses an ISDN phone line and charges from $35 for 10 minutes to $170 for 60 minutes. "I heard so many people say, 'I haven't seen my children in seven years.' I said, 'Man, that's a crime with the technology that exists.' "

Elliot Gold, who's put out TeleSpan, a teleconferencing newsletter, since 1981, said, "If you could see your family, of course, you would want to pay for this. I bet they will take money they've allocated for food."

Still, he added, success is unpredictable. "Consumer markets are really fickle," said Gold, of Altadena in Southern California.

FORMING A NETWORKING

Biguria only lately discovered his counterparts in Florida and New Jersey. Together with a Nicaraguan immigrant who operates a similar company in Charlotte, N.C., they've formed a network. Besides their home countries, they can connect to Argentina, Mexico, Brazil, Peru, Venezuela, Spain and Japan.

Eventually, these young Latinos want their companies to be places to send money back and buy goods for their relatives -- one-stop shopping.

"Once you're able to connect families, there are a number of parallel services you can provide," Biguria said. "You're managing their relationship already."

At 34, Biguria is a veteran of Silicon Valley. He worked for Hewlett- Packard and high-tech startups before opening AmigoLatino with his savings and a loan.

The company's logo is a bus -- the kind of bulging "chicken bus" found all over Latin America.

"It's how most people travel," Biguria said. "It talks to everyone."

It talked to the Juarez family on a recent afternoon. The three children of Oakland residents Consuelo and Osberto Juarez got on a bus with their grandmother, aunt and cousins for a two-hour ride to AmigoLatino's Guatemala City office.

'SACRIFICING OUR HEARTS'

It was the second video visit since January, when construction worker Osberto Juarez saw his children for the first time in four years. For his wife,

25, it had been a three-year separation.

"Here it's living. There it's surviving -- even though we know we're sacrificing our hearts coming here," said Osberto Juarez, 28, in Spanish.

He and his wife -- who came to the United States to make enough money to support their family -- hope to return to Guatemala in two years and build a house. Meanwhile, they rent a place in Oakland's Fruitvale. He puts up Sheetrock and she works at Nation's burgers. They call home once a week, write once a month.

The videoconference uses a high-speed dedicated Internet line. It is intense and immediate, with a picture clear enough to see that 9-year-old Blanqui has lost a tooth and that 5-year-old Victor Manuel can count from 1 to 26.

There is other family news. Blanqui wants a new dress like the shiny kind they show on TV. Osberto Jr., 6, is calling out his father's name in his sleep.

And "Manuelito" is lifting the skirts of the little girls at school.

''He learned it from his dad," said Blanca Ruano, who takes care of her three grandchildren while son Osberto and his wife make their way in the United States.

TEARS AND HOWLS

Suddenly, Consuelo Juarez begins to cry. Biguria dives under the TV screen for a box of Kleenex and sister-in-law Lilian Juarez says, "Don't cry. Because when you cry, the kids cry."

It's too late. Manuelito covers his face with his hands, crawls under the table and howls like a wounded young wolf. "Usually, I just can't watch," said Estefania Biguria, who starts dabbing at her eyes and leaves the room.

Finally, everyone calms down. Gerardo Bobadilla, who runs the Guatemala City office, brings Manuelito some french fries. Osberto Jr. holds up a small Guatemalan flag. And Osberto Sr. promises to send a bicycle and robot.

"It's like you're on Santa Claus' lap and it's their chance to ask for everything," Biguria said.

When it's time to say goodbye, the children wave and Consuelo Juarez touches the screen. After they're gone, she sinks back on the couch, sad and happy.

"This means a tremendous amount," said Juarez who, like her husband, speaks no English. "The only options we had were photos or the phone. We couldn't express all our emotions."

E-mail Patricia Yollin at pyollin@sfchronicle.com.