Francophone Africa: has the eclairs, not the bank machines. Got from the plane to the bank yesterday at 4:45. I go up to the big sign saying INFORMATION (last translation of four), French phrasebook at my nose.
"Pweej ew-tee-lee-say mah cart day cray-dee por francs?"
"You can speak English." Traduction: you've assed yourself enough, now go ahead.
"Can I get some cash from my credit card?"
"Cash machine is downstairs."
"Rock 'em. To and fro."
"But we have locked up the machine for the day."
"It's not five!"
"We lock it at four. It will be open tomorrow morning." I ended up paying for the cab from the airport by selling my few remaining Kenyan shillings to an Indian who ripped me on the rate.
This morning: Woke up at 7 Nairobi time, 6 Kigali time. Tried my best to enjoy an extra two hours of bed, though I couldn't get back to sleep. Got up at 8, leisurely shower, watched the international horrors on CNN, and back around the corner to the bank at 8:45. "Which way to the bank machine?"
Same lady. "Downstairs." I go down and explore to the left: no machine. Right: no machine. What the Dirty Mac? To the counter in the middle of the downstairs.
"Parle vous Anglais?"
"No. Francais." Meany.
I pull out my credit card. "MasterCard. Frances s'il vous plait?" I shake the card impotently.
"You want to get cash from your credit card." Jesus Christ Bananas, lady: that sure sounded like Anglais. She points me to the next line. 15 minutes gone so far.
Line 2: goofus American aid boy is cashing approximately 2 million dollars, one $100 traveler's check at a time. 15 minutes, then my turn. This lady and her toady (in my experience, at least half of all women with jobs in the bureaucracy have a toady who's only visible purpose is to snort affirmatively when the alpha lady is dissatisfied with your attitude) spend five minutes comparing the signature on my credit card with the signature on my passport, which is from 1996--back when the only time I signed a check was to buy calzones or Southpaw.
Eventually they acquiesce, charge me a psychotic fee, and send me to line #3, where I am again behind the American goofus. He's asking for so much money that the counter jams. Fifteen minutes after that, I get my money and run out the door.
Had a good, productive day of reporting, and am now writing this in a shabby roadside ice cream bar. The mops are out and the cashier is popping a zit in the mirror; I think this is the international "We're closing" signal. That or "Bah weep grah-nah weep ninny bawn."
