I think I've been legally mugged

Even though the girl at the Bureau du Change had told me to come back just before they closed at three thirty to check the money was in, it was just too much to expect me to wait that long and while I sat in Café Anton writing it felt like I was six again and had been told by my parents not to go down stairs on Christmas morning until at least 8 o’clock just to make sure Santa had been. I am a little more patient now but at 1.30 the anticipations had just gotten toooo much and I packed up my laptop, finished the last of my goulash soup (I’d splashed out on lunch) and headed for Standard Bank. There was a small queue at the till I headed for but only two or three people and I happily tagged myself onto the end of it feeling sorry for all those in the other queues that stretched right back in a long snake across the banking hall. Just give it a few minutes I thought and I’ll be back out in the sunshine, sauntering along the beach holding the kind of ice-cream sundae that was so big it would likely win some international architectural prize. I allowed myself a little smile. The queue went down and soon I was sitting, facing the window, reference number and passport in hand. The girl checked the computer, smiled broadly, and said, indeed, the money was in. What was the feeling like? Well imagine ten years of Christmases and birthdays all rolled into one and that would be pretty much right. The feeling was pretty damn good. While the teller was filling out the Moneygram form I was wondering whether I might just manage to get one of the last seats on a late afternoon scenic flight up the Skeleton coast and just as I was thinking about it, right at that moment, all the power in the bank went off and that meant so did the computer screen with the confirmation number she needed before she could give me the money. Yes, it really did. Is there some BIG MESSAGE for me here I’m just not getting? Whenever on this holiday I’ve thought about fun and exciting things to do my world seems to fall apart. I’m starting to feel like a bit part actor in a remake of ‘The Day the World Stood Still’. Well, the lack of power didn’t stop anyone else getting their money apparently, so she asked me to step aside while she dealt with the simpler transactions that didn’t need the computer and when the power came back on she assured me the final few steps would only take moments to complete. It was now 13.45. People came and went, I leaned against the wall, sat down, then went for a walk to the other end of the banking hall, looked out of the window – you get the picture - then, at last, the power came back on. She gestured for me to sit, and smiling, filled in the rest of the form and said she just had to get it signed. Speaking to someone through what looked like a letter box in the wall behind her she disappeared and then didn’t come back for what seemed like a very long time and when she did come back she wasn’t smiling any more. The amount I had been wired was too big I was told (good grief, we’re talking hundreds not thousands here) and it needed special sign-off. The manager who needed to give the special sign off was in Windhoek and they were trying to get hold of him. They were “doing everything they could”. This kind of phrase, when used by a bank always rings warning bells and my recent experiences had not exactly built up my confidence in their competency. Time ticked on. The security guard closed and locked the door at 3.30 and the fifty of so customers still remaining in the banking hall went down to twenty, and then to eight, and then to four and in the end there was just me, leaning against the wall starting to get a bit vexed. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement. The teller was studiously avoiding my eye by this time so I went and sat down, square in front of her and knocked on the window until she looked up at me. I reminded her I had been there for nearly three hours, I had been broke for five days, I was leaving on the bus at 07:00 the next morning and I needed that money. If necessary I was fully prepared to tie myself to something or wrap myself around the chair but whatever happened, I was not leaving that bank without my money, no siree.

She disappeared again and this time I saw her on the other side of the letter box gesticulating wildly and conversing with some urgency with a person or people just out of my view. I saw a flurry of activity and a waving of papers and then she was back in front of me smiling again and telling me the release confirmation had just come through. She passed me the printout with the payment details converted into Namibian dollars and I was also smiling at this point and was until I looked down at the currency conversion rate. Somewhere between converting from Sterling into Dollars (all Moneygrams are in dollars) and then to Namibian dollars I had lost eighty pounds not counting the fee for doing the transfer. I’d been here since 1.30, it was now 4.15, the security guard was loitering in my vicinity and they were offering me the money at a rate that made me understand why bankers get to retire at 45. Because they rip off people like me. My choices were 1. to take the money or 2. not take the money and ring up and query it with their international division. I took the money and made a promise never ever, ever, to come back to Namibia.

Back on the street at 4.30 in the afternoon my enthusiasm for souvenir shopping has waned as has my lust for an ice-cream sundae so I know I am in a bad way. The money was presented in hundred dollar notes and not having a handbag I’ve had to push the wad down deep into the pocket of my shorts and I’m now walking around the shopping district in Swakop looking like a lady boy. I dawdle, looking in the shop windows not really seeing anything to enthuse me and decide that I’ll go down and look at the street market below the hotel instead. I go to see Bluey first. His stall is at the bottom of the steps and every time I have walked past it he has invited me to take a look. Every time I have explained in turn that I don’t have any money, I really don’t have any money. But I’d promised him that if I got some I would come and look at his stall first and so that’s what I do and I spend a few minutes looking at the bangles he hands me and the carved masks and the bowls but there’s really nothing that I like enough to buy. eHHe’s offered me ‘sunset prices’ and is obviously disappointed there’s nothing that I want but he takes it in good humour and wishes me a nice evening as I walk towards Palm Beach for the sunset and my date with a Mai Tai. I get to the Lighthouse Restaurant just as the sun is setting and I sit at the bar watching the huge orange red ball slowly dip into the sea. The waves curl around the mole and then crash onto the beach and the fronds of the palm trees are swaying gently in the breeze. There is enough light to enjoy the beautiful scene for a few minutes before the sun finally drops beneath the curve of the horizon and as it does so I raise my glass to Sandy and Phil. And then I have an Oryx steak and chips and it’s the best meal of my holiday.