I am really me

I guess it`s not really fair to gripe about something when so much effort is being made to make it better, but sheesh, logging on to my Absa account has been an exercise in concentration lately.

In the interests of fairness, every time I want to scream at the computer, "just let me see my frikking balance statement", I force myself to take a deep breath and think about what my bank is doing for me and why.

I was surprised when I logged on last week only to discover that once I had successfully navigated the turbulent seas of the starting screen, I was presented with another process barring my way.

Georgina Guedes, journalist, ITWeb

A couple of months back, after all the identity theft drama, I was presented with my usual log-in screen, but for some reason, the blocks had all gone red and I couldn`t type in them. The bleeping of my computer finally penetrated, and I hung up the phone call I was on and tried to analyse what I saw before me. Now that I had taken my brain off autopilot, I could see that there was a number pad to the right of my usual log-in text and boxes. Using the mouse, I was able to enter in my account number and PIN as usual.

I did notice that if at any point in my account number I had a repeated digit, the keypad didn`t animate the second key-press, but I let it slide, mentally thanking Absa for its concern for my funds. I had no inkling that this would soon be the least of my worries.

I also spared a momentary sympathetic thought for people like my matric maths teacher, who had spent all her spare time in front of a computer, eyes darting nervously from mouse to screen while she tried to get her co-ordination under control in an attempt to master this user interface.

In a moment of efficiency, I also changed my PIN number, so that any nefarious, identity-thieving criminal who had been logging my keystrokes in the past would be unable to utilise the fruits of his labour. Feeling confident in my newly protected (meagre) assets, I proceeded to go about my banking business.

Two days later, a number of people like my maths teacher had obviously complained to Absa, because at my next log-in experience, I was presented with the alternative of either using the keypad or entering my PIN and account number using my keyboard. In the interests of guarding my identity, I elected to make use of the keypad, logged in as usual, and was inelegantly dumped back at the starting screen. I logged in again, this time remembering that I had changed my PIN, but was unceremoniously hurled back to the starting screen again.

What now?

Screwing up my eyes, I peered at the error message, and discovered that I had failed to enter a "user number" in the appropriate field. Now user numbers, I can only assume, are for when more than one user might be accessing a certain account. In my case, there`s only me. Absa has always entered my user number for me, but for some reason, when it cleared my account number and the erroneous PIN, it also cleared my user number. I entered "1" hopefully into the user number field, started to enter the incorrect PIN, realised my mistake, tried to hit backspace only to have my computer produce more indignant bleeping.

The backspace key doesn`t work if you have elected for the on-screen keypad option. Instead, you have to use the mouse to highlight and delete the offending text. This done, and a deep breath taken, I entered the correct PIN, correct account number, correct user number and finally got my banking done.

Having mastered this procedure, with only a few minor user number and backspace hiccups over the next couple of months, I was surprised when I logged on last week only to discover that once I had successfully navigated the turbulent seas of the starting screen, I was presented with another process barring my way.

I was now required to select a password, which would act as further confirmation that I am who I purport to be. This password would be case-sensitive, and had to include both alphabetic and numeric characters. Since this password has to be entered using the keyboard, I thought that this would surely be a step backwards in the battle against identity thieves, and just another hassle in my life.

There was a lot of additional information and the word "Password" printed in a series of blocks, some highlighted in red and some not. Realising that this would probably be another one of those times that I should be paying attention, I tried to absorb what it was that the security people at the bank were trying to tell me. What I managed to make out was that when I next logged on, I would be requested to enter only certain letters of my password, as prompted by the empty red blocks on my screen. In this way, anyone logging my keystrokes would find himself baffled by seemingly meaningless strings of arbitrary letters. Not a bad idea, I thought, and entered my case-sensitive alphanumeric password with enthusiasm, ready to get down to some serious banking.

Hah! That`s what I thought.

I was subsequently instructed that if I forgot my password, I would have to visit my branch to have the account reactivated, unless I filled in the answers to a couple of easy questions, which would allow Absa to be sure that I am really me. I always struggle when presented with questions like these, to which there are no correct answers. For "favourite food", would I write "pizza", or "Italian", is my "place of birth" the city or the hospital that I was born in? And can I be relied on to remember what decision I made when confronted with these questions next time?

To further muddy the waters, the answers have to be case-sensitive. Sure, "Italian" would start with a capital letter, but what about "pizza", and which one did I choose anyway? Determined not to be beaten by the banking beast, I smartly entered answers that I thought I could remember. The all too familiar bleep let me know I had done something wrong again. I was only expected to answer four of the questions, I was please to deselect the rest. This done, I was ready to get down to banking.

No! The site then offered me a service that sends me an SMS with a verification code every time I want to create a new beneficiary to receive funds from my account. This also seems like a good idea, but I couldn`t actually deal with obfuscating my e-banking processes any further. Anyway, having been subjected to SMS delays spanning a number of days in some instances, I wasn`t about to relegate my personal banking to such an inefficient telecommunications system. It also occurred to me that if my handbag were stolen, along with my identity documents, bank cards and cellphone, my only means of accessing cash would be to transfer money into a friend`s account for them to withdraw. This new process would render me well and truly penniless until I could apply for identity documents from home affairs, hardly the last bastion of efficiency.

Having informed Absa that I would not make use of this facility, every time I bank, I am now met with the infernal red reminder that I have been negligent in my choices. I am learning to tune out the glare of Absa security red and conduct my banking as normal.