“Could I change some Chinese money please?”

  “Only if you have a bank account with us.”

  The same question and answer were repeated half a dozen times in an hour as I toured Manila looking for somewhere, anywhere, to change a fistful of renminbi into the local currency.  Then I had an idea.

  I remembered seeing a Bank of China, just around the corner.  Or was it the second corner?  After 30 minutes of going backwards and forwards in what I can best describe as sauna-like humidity, I found it.

  The cool air inside was a blessed relief.  As was the lack of customers.  No ticket machines.  No queues.  And plenty of staff.  None of whom looked up.

  The guard helpfully pointed me in the direction of a desk, behind which sat a late twenty-something lady of Chinese extraction.  She wore a red dress and a pretty white silk blouse with a rounded collar that was at odds with her hard expression.

  “Could I change some Chinese money please?”

  “Only if you have a bank account with us.”

  “I do have an account with you,” I said triumphantly.

  The lady looked at me with more than a hint of scepticism – it was a fully fledged scowl.

  “Where’s your bank book?”

   “I’m afraid I don’t have it, I’ve left it back in China”

  “In China?”

  “Yes, I bank with you in Beijing”.

  “In that case, we can’t help you.”

  “But I have an account with you, the Bank of China.  Please help me.”

  “I will have to ask the manager; let me have your passport”

  The lady took my battered book from me without a smile and went upstairs.

  In the ten minutes it took for her to walk back down the stairs I reflected on how wonderfully serene this outpost was – a marked contrast to the frenzy you would be swallowed by at a mainland branch.

  The lady returned, and she had good news.

  “Okay,” she said, “How much would like to change?”

  “4,000 yuan please”

  “We can only change 2,000 yuan at any one time”

  “Does that mean I can change 2,000 yuan and come back in ten minutes to change another 2,000 yuan?”

  She was not amused.  “Let me check,” she said with a grimace.

  Ten minutes later she returned with news, bad news.

  “We can only change 2,000 RMB per day...”

  “...But I know where there's a money changer, who will change the rest for you.”

   She looked at me, puzzled, as I broke into a laughter fit.  The scenario that was unfolding was surreal and had reminded me of my time in Shanghai, 12 years before, where the branches of the Bank of China had their own resident money changers who would actually wait inside the bank and compete between themselves for your business.  Their exchange rates were always better than the banks that hosted them, so consequently the banks’ foreign exchange counters never seemed to transact any foreign exchange.  Although, for some reason, the tellers and the branches’ security guards always took an interest when the money was being counted.

  I composed myself.  “Sorry for laughing,” I said, “But no thanks.  2,000 yuan will be enough.”

  I counted out the money.  She then counted out the money.  She counted it again.  And again.  “2,000 yuan,” she confirmed.  “Wait a moment.”

  Twenty minutes later I was still waiting.  At least it gave me time to transcribe the hilarious episode onto my Nokia.  But what was the problem? 

  After twenty-five minutes, the lady in the red dress and pretty white blouse, gestured me over to her colleague, who was sitting behind a glass counter window.

  “Sign here.”

  I signed against the 2,000 yuan and the agreed exchange rate.

  “And sign here”

  I looked at the long roll of paper that seemed to have as many numbers as a 1970s logarithm book.

  “What’s this,” I asked.

  “Serial numbers,” she said without a hint of humour.

  It then dawned on me that the reason it had taken so long is that she had typed each note’s serial number – two letters and eight numbers – into her machine and I was being asked to confirm that the numbers were right.  The 20 Chinese notes were sitting in front of her, so presumably she wanted me to do it from memory.

  It was a game I couldn’t resist.  “Is that number a 6 or an 8…” I said with my best feigned quizzical expression… “…Oh, I see, sorry it’s a 6.”  I then signed on the dotted line, pausing to make absolutely sure that the 20th and last note’s serial number was indeed as I had remembered it.