I have my watch on today, one of the few times I wear it all week. I figure I better give myself enough time at the bank, this ain’t my first Caribbean adventure. We get up about 1 and start our way back down the road. As we pass Mi Yard I get a call out from a Rasta in the yard. We go over to have a talk. He says he is a Bush Doctor, asks if us or any of our family has diabetes. He has some bird peppers, tiny little green peppers. “Good for the diabetes, swallow them whole, don’t chew,” he says. We talk a little bit but I have to beg off, “I need to get to the bank so we can come back for the pub crawl.” “Sure, Mon,” he says. Sweetie Pie peels off at Easy Rock again and I head down to the NCB. I button up my hair shirt.
Chinese water torture and Japanese bamboo torture have a new ethnic dungeon mate, the Jamaican Bank Torture. I will describe it if you have the stomach to read it. First you enter the bank and get in line. It may be the right line or it may not. It almost doesn’t matter because even if it is the right line you may be asked to get in another line as well. When you get to the front of the line you may be able to go see a teller who may or may not be able to help you with your request, or like me, you may be told that you’ve been waiting in the wrong line and you need to go to the other line. “What other line?” you may ask. “Over there,” you are told and pointed to not a line, but rows of chairs. A line that moves SO SLOW that chairs are required. In Jamaica. That, my friends, is a slow moving line. When you finally get to see a bank agent be prepared to have your request denied if your first born child is not available. Passports, drivers licenses, SS, credit and insurance cards are all meaningless if you’ve been stuck with your middle name by your parents. This is a completely unacceptable practice in some parts of the world and causes me loads of grief today. The bank manager won’t issue me a cash advance but does help me figure out a way to get cash from the ATM tomorrow. “Can I at least get some money changed?” I ask. “Sure, you just need to get back in that line…”
I am in the bank long enough to calculate the average teller transaction time. It is 12 minutes per transaction. The slow line runs closer to half an hour. Just as I get to the front of the line it is closing time. At 2:29 pm a little old lady walks in the door and is guided to a chair at the front of the line. The next teller opens up and the little old lady is walked to her window. I have to smile at the fates. I walk out of the bank with $8350 Jamaican at 2:50.
My biggest frustrations on this trip have to do with getting money and getting money exchanged. The banking and financial services systems in Jamaica ARE antiquated and do seem to run at cross purposes sometimes. The money exchange is its own issue worthy of much discussion. I want to be clear, though, that me ending up in the bowels of a Jamaican bank flush mostly comes down to me not being prepared appropriately. Be prepared, or else…
I speed walk back to Easy Rock to grab Sweetie Pie. Her and Max are having a grand old time. No news on our email check but that’s OK. We settle up and head for the crawl.
