Accessing Money - Madagascar

The moral of the story is: When travelling to Madagascar, take a fat wad of crisp US$50 notes to exchange in the cities along the way and a VISA card for emergencies. Virtually nothing else works without a huge amount of effort and anguish. Several tourists I met along the way were cutting their holidays short because they couldn’t access their money.

So, my story begins with catching a pous-pous down the dusty tracks of Tolear to the Bank of Africa. I walk past the armed security guards to the ATM and optimistically put in my bank card. Something flashes on the screen and it spits it out, so I assume that’s a ‘No we don’t take Cirrus or Mastercard’.

I walk into the bank. One counter has a queue out the door. Another desk is closed ‘fermee’ and the other 2 have 10-15 people huddled around. None of the desks seem attended with bank staff nonchalantly wandering from office to office behind the meter-wide wooden counter. Lots of people are clutching forms and no-one seems too pahsed. Its only 10am and they’ve got all day. Im hoping to get cash, catch a pous pous to the station, get on a taxi-brousse for 3 hrs and arrive in Ranohira tonight. I survey the bank and re-consider.

I join a huddle for 10 min and finally hand my mastercard to the bank teller- a wirey, middleaged man peering at me over the top of his glasses. He turns it over and studies it upside down for a moment. I reach over and point to the ‘mastercard’ logo and he sifts through the papers on his desk, finally producing a small form ‘Demande Paymente Mastercard’. I smile. ‘Merci’ and retreat to decipher the form and calculate the available credit to local currency ‘Ariary’ taking into account the unknown fees/commissions from both sides. I go conservative- I really want this to work first time.

I rejoin the huddle and notice the sweat trickling down my back and the onset of withdrawals as my bloodsugar drops from the baguette, jam and industrial strength coffee I had hours ago. All these people and I still havent seen any money. The wirey bank teller finally takes my bankcard, passport and form and wanders form office to office as I watch my passport like a hawk. He returns without the form, hands me my papers and says something. He smiles quizically that I don’t understand. Why would you travel in a country where you don’t speak the language? Stupid tourist. I point to myself and point to the ground. He nods- I think, so I move to the empty counter 2m to his left and wait. There must be money here somewhere….

A french couple walk in looking hot and confused. ‘where to exchange money?’ Its mildly comforting to know I am not alone. They look at the queues for a moment and leave.
At 11.30ish I rejoin the huddle. When I get to the front he says ‘foroclok!’ with an exasperated ‘tsk!’.

My travel plans change to sleeping plans and I heave on my backpack and negoiate a pous-pous to a nearby hotel. It’s a classy establishment run by an exuberant french pimp. I fall into a restless, sweaty sleep in front of the fan in my dingy room.

3.10pm I wakeup and decide to head backto the bank ‘just in case’. The pous-pous driver refuses my payment- wanting the guarantee of the return fare. He follows me into the bank. I rejoin the huddle. When I get to the front he heads off with my papers after a lively conversation with the woman next to me. She introduces herself and explains that she is an english teacher. I ask about the joke and she said the teller had commented that I only spoke english- she suggested he learn and he retorted that that I could teach him after we were married. Of course. She points me in the direction of another queue and explains that the bank closes at 4pm. I slide in at the front of the queue, sign some receipts and the man counts out my Ar 250 000.

All that effort and waiting for $150. I’ll have to do it all again in a few days. I turn to leave and the bank doors are barred and bolted with 70 people inside. I knock on the closed door that people were pointing too and am eventually let out- my pous –pous driver is no where in site. He was more daunted by the queues than I was and had gone to find himself a shady spot to rest. I walk back to the hotel. He’ll find me- I owe him money and he knows where I live :-)