Uganda, by most accounts, is a religious country. It is religious in the way that many African countries are: a lot of evangelical missionary teachings, a dash of former colonial religion, and some good old fashioned animism and tribal customs.
Personally, having traveled a bit in Africa, I kind of like this mix. I am more comfortable with it than most religious communities in the US because it tends to allow for a bit more tolerance...as odd as that sounds. It also allows for a good deal of singing and dancing which, to my mind, are always crowd pleasers.
Despite being raised a Catholic and having attended strict Catholic school for twelve years, I never really got into all of the guilt and suffering inherent in most organized religion, especially Catholicism. To be honest, I have always believed in God or a Higher Power but I always kind of assumed that He/She/It had a lot more to do than focus on punishing someone for masturbating or eating meat on Friday (maybe together, maybe separately...but still, I think there are bigger things to think about).
So when I got to Uganda and found out that most Ugandans in Kampala are Christian and take God pretty seriously, I decided to adjust my behavior from one of cautious cynicism to one of respect. Mainly, of course, because my beloved driver, Robert, is very religious and I didn't want to do anything to insult him.
Robert has a well-worn Bible that he reads every day while waiting for me at the office or in meetings. He has dog-eared pages, transcribed entire chapters (or whatever they are called), and he carries the thing around in some hermetically-sealed plastic contraption that comes with us everywhere.
Every morning, upon entering the jeep, I ask about his wife, kids, niece, and, of course, the Bible. I feel it has become a friend and I track its progress with us on our rides as it becomes more dog-eared and more cherished by the day.
I have also grown accustomed to the fact that we listen to Christian rock everywhere we go...Jesus blaring out of the speakers 24/7...
It keeps Robert happy and some of the stuff has a decent beat so who am I to complain?
It was last week's rapture that did me in, however.
I think it was last Thursday and it was a particularly grueling day.
It was about 90 degrees in the shade and the traffic was horrible. I had meetings around town and, by the third one, had developed quite a headache from sitting in the wicked pollution of an hour-long traffic jam.
Robert, however, was beatific.
On the sound system, he had a new track playing called, "Tell Jesus You are Coming!!!"
Every ten seconds, the chorus would scream, "Oh Jesus, I AM COMING!!!!" I AM COMING TO YOU, JESUS.!!!!..Here I am, COMING TO YOU OUR LORD JESUS!!!!"
Normally, Robert is content to just listen but that day he was inspired.
As I flipped through the newspaper trying to ignore the traffic and my headache...Robert decided to sing along.
"Jesus!!! Oh Jesus!!! Can you see your faithful servant down here??" he wailed. "OH JESUS, OH JESUS...HERE I AM, JESUS...I AM COMING TO YOU ('from Kampala,' he'd throw in for good measure, just in case Jesus was confused as to where Robert would be arriving from....)"
I lost my cool when he pushed the 'repeat' button on the CD for the third time.
"Robert, can we chill on the Jesus stuff for just ten minutes, please? I have a wicked headache and while I do, um, enjoy your singing, can we just switch the channel to, maybe, like the BBC or something?"
He was upset but he obliged.
On the way home, we nearly got in a accident.
"Robert! What the hell (oops)... heck, is going on here? You almost hit that motorcycle! Are you OK?"
(Robert has the instincts of a cougar as a driver so this was HIGHLY unusual).
He looked at me sideways and said, "I think I am just a bit hungry, I am fasting now."
"Oh Christ, for what reason?!!!" I asked. "Is it Lent yet?" (In my mind I was trying to tick back through the calendar on Catholic holidays but wasn't coming up with any clues).
"For Christ," he told me. "I am fasting for Christ."
He went on to relate that he could take no food or water from sunrise to sunset.
"But Robert, it is very, very hot now and you are having to work twelve hour days driving me around as well as having to carry heavy things...are you sure this is a good idea?"
He looked upon me as if Blasphemy Itself had gotten into the vehicle.
"Yes, it is an obligation," he said.
And then...
"Besides, I had a rapture today!"
What? Where? Did it get on the seat?
Then I realized that he had said "rapture" and not "rupture" and I calmed down.
I decided that we were reducing our hours, for our own safety, until this Tuesday, when the fast, and its inherent raptures and ruptures, might be finished.
Yesterday, the last day of the fast, we happened to drive by a couple of Hare Krishnas on the road.
Robert was fascinated.
"Who are those people, Madame Boss?" he asked. "The ones on the road with the beads and the flowing robes and the funny hairstyles?"
"Hare Krishnas," I explained.
"Hairy Christians??!!" he asked. "I have never heard of this religion!"
No, not "hairy..."
"Hare"
"They are kind of like Hindus...but not..." I explained. "They don't eat meat, they are peaceful...and they have centers all over the world where one can get a decent meal if one is backpacking and has run out of cash..."
(Hey, all we have is our own experiences, right?)
"Do they think their relatives are living in cows?" Robert inquired.
"No, I don't think so...but maybe. I don't know enough about them," I admitted, "But I know what they look like and that they are a peaceful religion."
"Hairy Christians!!" Robert marveled. "Wait until I tell Rebecca!"
He went on in his musings...
"I wonder if they are like the Seventeenth-Day Adventurists?"
"Seventh, Robert...not seventeen...and it's Adventists...not adventurists" I corrected.
Then I went on to explain that I didn't think the Hairy Christians were much like the Seventh Day Adventists at all.
"Good," he concluded.
Apparently he had dated a Seventeenth-Day Adventurist before getting married. She had refused sex before marriage. He was appalled.
"How would I know?" he asked me, incredulous. "How can a man marry a woman who might be very...'dissatisfying'...FOR YEARS...just on some promise to God? Crazy religion, that one!! God DOES NOT think that way!"
I was about to interject but then held my tongue.
And today, we celebrated the end of his fast with a few pieces of pizza for lunch.
Afterwards, he wanted to go out and find the Hairy Christians...to take a picture for his wife.
It is good that religion remains in perspective in Africa.
20 January 2009
14 January 2009
Homecomings and goings
When I left Tampa and headed to New York last Monday night for the first leg of the 30+ hours it would take me to get back to Uganda, I was defeated. I was, actually, more than defeated. I was terrified.
Leaving the US for the first time was scary but I had somehow managed to adjust in the two months I had been in Kampala. I had been hesitant to go back home so soon but I missed my family and Scott so much that I decided that one short trip--only two weeks--back to the US would not do me any harm.
I was wrong. I managed to peel back a band-aid on a wound (so to speak) that was just healing and, by my last five days in the US, I was an absolute disaster.
Going back to Uganda frightened the hell out of me. I had no idea why.
I knew, for sure, I didn't want to stay in the US any longer (the depression and anxiety there started to wear on my nerves after a week) but I was suddenly ten times more terrified about going back to Uganda the second time as I ever was about arriving there the first.
By the end of Week Two, Scott and I were fighting incessantly, I was needy and panicked, I felt like I had left things with my family unsettled...and I was reduced to being all-consumed by fears that hadn't crept up in months. I was, literally, a complete fucking mess.
"It is time to go back to Africa," my mom told me the last night I was in FL. "If you don't go back now, you are never going to go back...so go back tomorrow. And stay there for a little while."
I should have been insulted but I wasn't.
I knew she was right. I needed to go back.
Upon leaving US airspace en route to London, I started to decompress. By the time I hit London I was just exhausted and beyond feeling a damn thing. I had an eleven hour layover so I checked into an airport hotel and slept for six hours. Upon waking, I felt about 50% better than I had when I had left the US. I missed everyone, for sure, but I was still so raw and unnerved that I had barely time to think about it.
When I arrived in Uganda, ten hours later, I was greeted by the same woman who always mans the immigration line in Entebbe. She is only there during on-peak hours and her sole purpose is to direct you to whatever immigration officer is going to give you a hard time about your paperwork and try to get some extra money out of you (mind you, Uganda is pretty transparent and laid back in its corruption as far as African countries go, but they still do try).
So this woman, Helen, and I greeted each other like old friends. She recognized me from the four times I have been in and out of Uganda in the past two months. She asked after me, my health, my family...and then directed me to the line where "foreigners with visas" go. I immediately moved to the line where "Africans without visas" get processed. Helen wagged her finger at me and winked while all of the white people in line behind me started howling that I was making some dreadful mistake...it's amazing how people feel the need to police others.
"You're in the wrong line!" the missionary chick yelled at me. "Hey, do you understand ENGLISH? You are not supposed to be in that line!"
Still, I went into the "African" line and, ten minutes later, my passport was stamped and I was through customs without a problem. The folks in the "people with visas" line were still twenty deep and still howling as the immigration officer slowly tapped his pen to his head and said, "Big problem with your visa, you need to pay some more money."
The last words heard from the missonary chick were, screamed at Helen, "Hey...that's not fair!!! How come SHE got to go through that line?? She is not an African...she is not BLACK!!"
(I am certain my South African and Zimbabwean friends would have loved this...along with all of the other white and Asian natives of Africa).
But that experience gave me some courage.
"At least I still remember how this works," I thought.
Then, upon exiting customs, I was swarmed by taxi drivers. One looked at me and declared, "Nevermind, she lives here," and then asked about how many foreigners were to be expected after me.
I had a ride waiting outside but I still hated selling anyone out. "No foreigners...or at least not a lot to them," I said.
My favorite taxi cab driver, the one who greets all foreigners in head-to-toe leather no matter how hot it is, implored, "C'mon Patricia...this is a British Airways flight! We know there are some foreigners and, please, it is the holidays...cut us a small break."
I was about to turn him down when I thought about the missionary chick and reconsidered.
"Well, there is this one woman..."
Back home, some survival skills still intact.
Leaving the US for the first time was scary but I had somehow managed to adjust in the two months I had been in Kampala. I had been hesitant to go back home so soon but I missed my family and Scott so much that I decided that one short trip--only two weeks--back to the US would not do me any harm.
I was wrong. I managed to peel back a band-aid on a wound (so to speak) that was just healing and, by my last five days in the US, I was an absolute disaster.
Going back to Uganda frightened the hell out of me. I had no idea why.
I knew, for sure, I didn't want to stay in the US any longer (the depression and anxiety there started to wear on my nerves after a week) but I was suddenly ten times more terrified about going back to Uganda the second time as I ever was about arriving there the first.
By the end of Week Two, Scott and I were fighting incessantly, I was needy and panicked, I felt like I had left things with my family unsettled...and I was reduced to being all-consumed by fears that hadn't crept up in months. I was, literally, a complete fucking mess.
"It is time to go back to Africa," my mom told me the last night I was in FL. "If you don't go back now, you are never going to go back...so go back tomorrow. And stay there for a little while."
I should have been insulted but I wasn't.
I knew she was right. I needed to go back.
Upon leaving US airspace en route to London, I started to decompress. By the time I hit London I was just exhausted and beyond feeling a damn thing. I had an eleven hour layover so I checked into an airport hotel and slept for six hours. Upon waking, I felt about 50% better than I had when I had left the US. I missed everyone, for sure, but I was still so raw and unnerved that I had barely time to think about it.
When I arrived in Uganda, ten hours later, I was greeted by the same woman who always mans the immigration line in Entebbe. She is only there during on-peak hours and her sole purpose is to direct you to whatever immigration officer is going to give you a hard time about your paperwork and try to get some extra money out of you (mind you, Uganda is pretty transparent and laid back in its corruption as far as African countries go, but they still do try).
So this woman, Helen, and I greeted each other like old friends. She recognized me from the four times I have been in and out of Uganda in the past two months. She asked after me, my health, my family...and then directed me to the line where "foreigners with visas" go. I immediately moved to the line where "Africans without visas" get processed. Helen wagged her finger at me and winked while all of the white people in line behind me started howling that I was making some dreadful mistake...it's amazing how people feel the need to police others.
"You're in the wrong line!" the missionary chick yelled at me. "Hey, do you understand ENGLISH? You are not supposed to be in that line!"
Still, I went into the "African" line and, ten minutes later, my passport was stamped and I was through customs without a problem. The folks in the "people with visas" line were still twenty deep and still howling as the immigration officer slowly tapped his pen to his head and said, "Big problem with your visa, you need to pay some more money."
The last words heard from the missonary chick were, screamed at Helen, "Hey...that's not fair!!! How come SHE got to go through that line?? She is not an African...she is not BLACK!!"
(I am certain my South African and Zimbabwean friends would have loved this...along with all of the other white and Asian natives of Africa).
But that experience gave me some courage.
"At least I still remember how this works," I thought.
Then, upon exiting customs, I was swarmed by taxi drivers. One looked at me and declared, "Nevermind, she lives here," and then asked about how many foreigners were to be expected after me.
I had a ride waiting outside but I still hated selling anyone out. "No foreigners...or at least not a lot to them," I said.
My favorite taxi cab driver, the one who greets all foreigners in head-to-toe leather no matter how hot it is, implored, "C'mon Patricia...this is a British Airways flight! We know there are some foreigners and, please, it is the holidays...cut us a small break."
I was about to turn him down when I thought about the missionary chick and reconsidered.
"Well, there is this one woman..."
Back home, some survival skills still intact.
Art Project
"Madame Boss! Whatever are you doing?!" Robert asks, at 9AM this morning.
I realize suddenly that this all might look a little strange and that I have lost track of time.
So there I was, standing on my kitchen counter, barefoot, in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, furiously trying to pound nails into the wall. I am smeared with grease from the nails and there are also some minor blood streaks running down the wall from where I have managed to miss the nail and pound my finger.
In these situations, it is best to be indignant, I have discovered.
"I am decorating, Robert!" I barked through the screen door wondering how an hour had gotten away from me so quickly. "Can't you see I am decorating??!!"
Welcome to jet-lag, re-immersion, and my life back in Kampala.
I have been home for a week and I finally, with the help of Melatonin, had managed to sleep two, eight-hour nights. Mind you, they might have started at 7PM and I am someone who really only needs six hours of sleep a night so, for the past two evenings/mornings, I dedicated myself to decorating when my Melatonin coma wore off...usually somewhere around 4AM.
Decorating, and buying things to decorate with, somehow grounded me in the reality that I was staying here after two months of "beginnings" and two weeks of "going home." So I embraced it with relish. I decided to go to the local galleries and art shops over the past three days and spend way too much money buying artwork that I had been staring at longingly since I got here.
I also decided that my natural gypsy tendencies had to go. In my last apartment, I didn't decorate until about two years into the process and exactly ten months before I decided to leave it. The reverse of what most women do, I know, but I always hold out the hope that I am going to be going somewhere else and decorating seems so...well, permanent.
But when I returned to Uganda last week, confused again about why I had come here and with my head still mostly in the US, I decided to decorate. That, at least, would make this seem more like home.
I guess the main problem with that theory, which is a good one, by the way, is that I have not a clue how to hang a picture. I also don't have a clue how to paint, sing, play a musical instrument, iron, do home improvement projects...or a lot of things. I have always contented myself that I can write and cook and I leave the decorating and "serious art and maitenance" up to someone else. I have a good eye for art and color but producing it and hanging it, ultimately, fails me.
Over the past ten or more years I have surrounded myself with people who can draw, paint, hang pictures and decorate so I never really had to learn.
They would let me struggle for awhile but then become so flabbergasted when I had managed to glue myself into a roll of wallpaper, paint the base boards, hang something in the wrong light, or generally just destroy the plaster in any given place that I occupied that they would relent.
"OK, I can't stand this anymore. It is too painful to watch. I know it is midnight and I have NO IDEA why you choose to engage in art projects at this time, but I cannot live with the fact that you are taking down an innocent wall to hang ONE FUCKING PICTURE. Let me do it." My ex, Ed, would say to me.
"You see this side of the wallpaper that says 'apply water here and paste evenly to the surface?' Why are you now covered head-to-toe in Laura Ashley fancy paper blooms while your walls are bare or, worse, look like they have acne? Jesus...just let me do it, already!" my friend Connie would say.
"Yeah, I guess that picture looks OK in that light...if you are consumed in an acid flashback...here, let me take it to my shop and re-frame...just let me do it," my friend Emily would say.
I would relent because they would also always say, "Look, just go write something funny or make some food. But, please, just let us handle this stuff. Go do 'your own thing.'"
So I did. My whole life. I did "my own thing."
But here, in Uganda, I have not gathered that support network yet and I needed art.
Which is why Robert found me on my kitchen counter this morning in my bare feet pounding and bleeding.
He coaxed me down through the door.
"Please get off of the counter, Madame Boss, I am a little afraid for you...and the artwork...right now."
I can do this! I assured him.
"Yes, I am sure you can. But I can go to the market NOW and find a carpenter who can hang all of this artwork for you for...maybe $25? Maybe less! Please just come off of the counter..."
I came down reluctantly and handed over my hammer and too-short nails.
"He will also be able to ummm, 'fix,' all of these holes in the wall if you want," Robert offered.
As I peered through the hole to my neighbor's kitchen that I had created earlier, I realized he might have a point.
I sent him off to get the carpenter.
"But I can still write!" I contented myself, sitting in plaster fragments, grease and blood while Robert went to fetch the carpenter.
"I may not be able to hang a picture or wallpaper a room...but I can write!"
So here I am...writing.
But, now that Robert is gone, I am convinced I can do this with some duct tape...how hard can it really be?
I realize suddenly that this all might look a little strange and that I have lost track of time.
So there I was, standing on my kitchen counter, barefoot, in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, furiously trying to pound nails into the wall. I am smeared with grease from the nails and there are also some minor blood streaks running down the wall from where I have managed to miss the nail and pound my finger.
In these situations, it is best to be indignant, I have discovered.
"I am decorating, Robert!" I barked through the screen door wondering how an hour had gotten away from me so quickly. "Can't you see I am decorating??!!"
Welcome to jet-lag, re-immersion, and my life back in Kampala.
I have been home for a week and I finally, with the help of Melatonin, had managed to sleep two, eight-hour nights. Mind you, they might have started at 7PM and I am someone who really only needs six hours of sleep a night so, for the past two evenings/mornings, I dedicated myself to decorating when my Melatonin coma wore off...usually somewhere around 4AM.
Decorating, and buying things to decorate with, somehow grounded me in the reality that I was staying here after two months of "beginnings" and two weeks of "going home." So I embraced it with relish. I decided to go to the local galleries and art shops over the past three days and spend way too much money buying artwork that I had been staring at longingly since I got here.
I also decided that my natural gypsy tendencies had to go. In my last apartment, I didn't decorate until about two years into the process and exactly ten months before I decided to leave it. The reverse of what most women do, I know, but I always hold out the hope that I am going to be going somewhere else and decorating seems so...well, permanent.
But when I returned to Uganda last week, confused again about why I had come here and with my head still mostly in the US, I decided to decorate. That, at least, would make this seem more like home.
I guess the main problem with that theory, which is a good one, by the way, is that I have not a clue how to hang a picture. I also don't have a clue how to paint, sing, play a musical instrument, iron, do home improvement projects...or a lot of things. I have always contented myself that I can write and cook and I leave the decorating and "serious art and maitenance" up to someone else. I have a good eye for art and color but producing it and hanging it, ultimately, fails me.
Over the past ten or more years I have surrounded myself with people who can draw, paint, hang pictures and decorate so I never really had to learn.
They would let me struggle for awhile but then become so flabbergasted when I had managed to glue myself into a roll of wallpaper, paint the base boards, hang something in the wrong light, or generally just destroy the plaster in any given place that I occupied that they would relent.
"OK, I can't stand this anymore. It is too painful to watch. I know it is midnight and I have NO IDEA why you choose to engage in art projects at this time, but I cannot live with the fact that you are taking down an innocent wall to hang ONE FUCKING PICTURE. Let me do it." My ex, Ed, would say to me.
"You see this side of the wallpaper that says 'apply water here and paste evenly to the surface?' Why are you now covered head-to-toe in Laura Ashley fancy paper blooms while your walls are bare or, worse, look like they have acne? Jesus...just let me do it, already!" my friend Connie would say.
"Yeah, I guess that picture looks OK in that light...if you are consumed in an acid flashback...here, let me take it to my shop and re-frame...just let me do it," my friend Emily would say.
I would relent because they would also always say, "Look, just go write something funny or make some food. But, please, just let us handle this stuff. Go do 'your own thing.'"
So I did. My whole life. I did "my own thing."
But here, in Uganda, I have not gathered that support network yet and I needed art.
Which is why Robert found me on my kitchen counter this morning in my bare feet pounding and bleeding.
He coaxed me down through the door.
"Please get off of the counter, Madame Boss, I am a little afraid for you...and the artwork...right now."
I can do this! I assured him.
"Yes, I am sure you can. But I can go to the market NOW and find a carpenter who can hang all of this artwork for you for...maybe $25? Maybe less! Please just come off of the counter..."
I came down reluctantly and handed over my hammer and too-short nails.
"He will also be able to ummm, 'fix,' all of these holes in the wall if you want," Robert offered.
As I peered through the hole to my neighbor's kitchen that I had created earlier, I realized he might have a point.
I sent him off to get the carpenter.
"But I can still write!" I contented myself, sitting in plaster fragments, grease and blood while Robert went to fetch the carpenter.
"I may not be able to hang a picture or wallpaper a room...but I can write!"
So here I am...writing.
But, now that Robert is gone, I am convinced I can do this with some duct tape...how hard can it really be?
04 January 2009
Musing from America: Credit Crisis
Tomorrow I return to Uganda after two full weeks in the U.S.
It has been an odd return to the homeland.
The first thing I noticed was the bizarre way the global financial meltdown has affected Americans. Because we're Americans, and refuse defeat in any form, people have adopted some odd spending habits that I bore witness to in JC Penny a day before Christmas as I was picking up some last-minute items.
I was standing in line, waiting to check out, while the two women in front of me did the "credit card shuffle."
They had about three dozen items stacked at the register and when it came time to pay, they ran one credit card after the other through the machine. "Well, they have caught up with me on that one," the woman said, "Let's try this one!" And again, and again...until one worked.
I saw the same scene repeated, about four more times, over the course of last week. It made my heart sink.
In the liquor store, Christmas morning, the burly guy in front of me, having had two credit cards rejected until one went through, turned to me apologetically and said, "I know this looks awful but I promised my daughter-in-law that I would bring the beer and some chips and I'm just a little cash-poor right now...the economy sucks right now and they have raised my interest rates on my credit cards so high now that I can't even begin to pay them back..."
I looked at the wad of cash in my own hand as well as the myriad credit cards in my wallet and felt awful. Not about the cash...if there is one good thing that Uganda has taught me, I don't pay for anything except in cash. You can't in Uganda...it is a cash economy. So when I returned home I just kept paying in cash...I never even considered my credit cards because they have become decorations, for the most part, to me in Africa because they can't buy you shit there...
But, last Thursday, I remembered my credit cards and the scenes of the past week and decided to check in on all of my accounts.
My mother has faithfully been paying all of my credit cards down from my checking account since I have been away and, because she is so thorough and I have no cause to use credit cards in Uganda, I had forgotten about them.
Upon checking in, I realized that my interest rates had gone up by several (and, in one case, TEN) points since I had left two months ago. No reason, no missed payments, just inexplicable "rate increases." I called immediately.
No one seemed to be able to explain it and, as frustrated as I was, I realized that screaming at someone in Bangalore was not going to get me too far.
So I tried a different tactic.
I decided, given this odd new "rate increase" for no clear reason, to start an accelerated program of paying my credit cards off.
I called the two banks, Chase and Bank of America, who hold my highest debt and asked how, since it was not apparent on the website, I could increase my monthly recurring payments?
"You cannot," the woman cheerfully reported to me from the Indian subcontinent. "We don't allow you to do this online anymore...but I can direct you to a credit counselor."
"No," I insisted, figuring she had heard me wrong, "I don't want to avoid my credit card payment, I just want to increase it...now, how do I go about doing that?"
"You cannot," she declared. "We no longer offer that service."
WHAT THE HELL??!!
"What you need to do," she continued, "is go to a local Chase branch with two forms of ID and fill out paperwork that authorizes us to increase your payment and then fax it back to us with a notarized signature and then we can do that for you...should be about six weeks...maximum."
I made myself a screwdriver, double shot of vodka.
"Look," I said, "I live in sub-Saharan Africa, I don't have a local Chase branch around me, certainly not a notary, and I just want to know how I can INCREASE my monthly payments and pay this credit card off so I don't have to pay this ridiculous interest rate...now TELL ME HOW TO DO IT!!!"
She repeated the above and I downed my drink in two swallows before slamming down the phone.
Next up: Bank of America.
The woman on the other line, this time, was an actual American (and, please, I am NOT racist, sexist, or any of the above...but it is nice to talk to a REAL native when you feel like you are in the Twilight Zone) and she said about the same as the Chase folks.
By this time I was beside myself, despite the screwdriver, and begged for mercy.
"Please, I am not joking...I really and truly want to pay off this credit card, I am not trying to avoid payments, I cannot go to any "local" branches, I really do live in Africa, I have plenty of government-issued identification cards so you can check me out to know that I am serious...I just want to pay you...WHY, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.... WHY CAN'T I PAY YOU MORE MONEY???!!!"
Janice, the woman on the other end, was refreshingly blunt.
"Sweetheart, I believe you...I know you live in Africa from your recent credit history and you have always paid your bills on time and I really want to help you but you simply cannot increase your payments online anymore...."
"Why??!" I asked.
"There has been too much credit card fraud over the internet lately so we stopped offering any new services and, also, you might just want to maintain your monthly minimum payments for the time being...you never know in this economy..."
I was about to launch into one of my "Are you crazy?! I want to pay you off!" routines when the reality sunk in.
I made another screwdriver.
"You are making it difficult for people to pay off their credit card debt because it seems like a better gamble to keep charging them ridiculous interest rates to make you more attractive to government salvation schemes and the gamble that once the economy turns around again...I will owe you a lot more money because you are making it difficult for me to pay now....right?"
Janice, a good American, sighed.
"Not that bad...really, but you're close."
"OK," I said, vodka helping..."So what do I do? I cannot go to any 'local' branches and I cannot find an American-approved notary in Kampala...what do I do?!"
Janice, and Bank of America, had a solution.
"I can transfer your call to another line and, after you pay $13.95, you can gain online access to increase your monthly payments."
I was stunned.
"So I have to pay fourteen dollars to make a phone call so I can gain access to an account that I want to increase payments on....you're punishing me for wanting to PAY MORE?" I asked.
Yep, pretty much.
So I did.
I spent $14 to increase my monthly payment on my Bank of America credit card.
And, now, finally, I completely understand what those two women and that one burly dude were talking about last week over Christmas as they did the "credit card shuffle."
I told my mother and Scott about this after I got off the phone....I was still stunned (albeit sedated after two screwdrivers) and they both said the same: "These are hard times...I remember when my father/grandfather used to hide his money under the mattress...those old folks had some wisdom."
Weird being home.
It has been an odd return to the homeland.
The first thing I noticed was the bizarre way the global financial meltdown has affected Americans. Because we're Americans, and refuse defeat in any form, people have adopted some odd spending habits that I bore witness to in JC Penny a day before Christmas as I was picking up some last-minute items.
I was standing in line, waiting to check out, while the two women in front of me did the "credit card shuffle."
They had about three dozen items stacked at the register and when it came time to pay, they ran one credit card after the other through the machine. "Well, they have caught up with me on that one," the woman said, "Let's try this one!" And again, and again...until one worked.
I saw the same scene repeated, about four more times, over the course of last week. It made my heart sink.
In the liquor store, Christmas morning, the burly guy in front of me, having had two credit cards rejected until one went through, turned to me apologetically and said, "I know this looks awful but I promised my daughter-in-law that I would bring the beer and some chips and I'm just a little cash-poor right now...the economy sucks right now and they have raised my interest rates on my credit cards so high now that I can't even begin to pay them back..."
I looked at the wad of cash in my own hand as well as the myriad credit cards in my wallet and felt awful. Not about the cash...if there is one good thing that Uganda has taught me, I don't pay for anything except in cash. You can't in Uganda...it is a cash economy. So when I returned home I just kept paying in cash...I never even considered my credit cards because they have become decorations, for the most part, to me in Africa because they can't buy you shit there...
But, last Thursday, I remembered my credit cards and the scenes of the past week and decided to check in on all of my accounts.
My mother has faithfully been paying all of my credit cards down from my checking account since I have been away and, because she is so thorough and I have no cause to use credit cards in Uganda, I had forgotten about them.
Upon checking in, I realized that my interest rates had gone up by several (and, in one case, TEN) points since I had left two months ago. No reason, no missed payments, just inexplicable "rate increases." I called immediately.
No one seemed to be able to explain it and, as frustrated as I was, I realized that screaming at someone in Bangalore was not going to get me too far.
So I tried a different tactic.
I decided, given this odd new "rate increase" for no clear reason, to start an accelerated program of paying my credit cards off.
I called the two banks, Chase and Bank of America, who hold my highest debt and asked how, since it was not apparent on the website, I could increase my monthly recurring payments?
"You cannot," the woman cheerfully reported to me from the Indian subcontinent. "We don't allow you to do this online anymore...but I can direct you to a credit counselor."
"No," I insisted, figuring she had heard me wrong, "I don't want to avoid my credit card payment, I just want to increase it...now, how do I go about doing that?"
"You cannot," she declared. "We no longer offer that service."
WHAT THE HELL??!!
"What you need to do," she continued, "is go to a local Chase branch with two forms of ID and fill out paperwork that authorizes us to increase your payment and then fax it back to us with a notarized signature and then we can do that for you...should be about six weeks...maximum."
I made myself a screwdriver, double shot of vodka.
"Look," I said, "I live in sub-Saharan Africa, I don't have a local Chase branch around me, certainly not a notary, and I just want to know how I can INCREASE my monthly payments and pay this credit card off so I don't have to pay this ridiculous interest rate...now TELL ME HOW TO DO IT!!!"
She repeated the above and I downed my drink in two swallows before slamming down the phone.
Next up: Bank of America.
The woman on the other line, this time, was an actual American (and, please, I am NOT racist, sexist, or any of the above...but it is nice to talk to a REAL native when you feel like you are in the Twilight Zone) and she said about the same as the Chase folks.
By this time I was beside myself, despite the screwdriver, and begged for mercy.
"Please, I am not joking...I really and truly want to pay off this credit card, I am not trying to avoid payments, I cannot go to any "local" branches, I really do live in Africa, I have plenty of government-issued identification cards so you can check me out to know that I am serious...I just want to pay you...WHY, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.... WHY CAN'T I PAY YOU MORE MONEY???!!!"
Janice, the woman on the other end, was refreshingly blunt.
"Sweetheart, I believe you...I know you live in Africa from your recent credit history and you have always paid your bills on time and I really want to help you but you simply cannot increase your payments online anymore...."
"Why??!" I asked.
"There has been too much credit card fraud over the internet lately so we stopped offering any new services and, also, you might just want to maintain your monthly minimum payments for the time being...you never know in this economy..."
I was about to launch into one of my "Are you crazy?! I want to pay you off!" routines when the reality sunk in.
I made another screwdriver.
"You are making it difficult for people to pay off their credit card debt because it seems like a better gamble to keep charging them ridiculous interest rates to make you more attractive to government salvation schemes and the gamble that once the economy turns around again...I will owe you a lot more money because you are making it difficult for me to pay now....right?"
Janice, a good American, sighed.
"Not that bad...really, but you're close."
"OK," I said, vodka helping..."So what do I do? I cannot go to any 'local' branches and I cannot find an American-approved notary in Kampala...what do I do?!"
Janice, and Bank of America, had a solution.
"I can transfer your call to another line and, after you pay $13.95, you can gain online access to increase your monthly payments."
I was stunned.
"So I have to pay fourteen dollars to make a phone call so I can gain access to an account that I want to increase payments on....you're punishing me for wanting to PAY MORE?" I asked.
Yep, pretty much.
So I did.
I spent $14 to increase my monthly payment on my Bank of America credit card.
And, now, finally, I completely understand what those two women and that one burly dude were talking about last week over Christmas as they did the "credit card shuffle."
I told my mother and Scott about this after I got off the phone....I was still stunned (albeit sedated after two screwdrivers) and they both said the same: "These are hard times...I remember when my father/grandfather used to hide his money under the mattress...those old folks had some wisdom."
Weird being home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)