Archive for January, 2008

Kiva Friends Donate $4,430 to Mirembe Youth Development Projects

Kampala, Uganda. On Saturday, January 26, 2008 I had the honor and pleasure of presenting a check in the amount of $7,389,750 Uganda Shillings (US $4,430) from Kiva Friends to Florence Kaluuba and the Mirembe Youth Development Projects.
The purpose of this blog is to report back to the generous donors at http://www.kivafriends.org/ who contributed to Florence and her girls following the posting of my Kiva Fellows blog “Mirembe Youth Development Project” in December. I am especially thankful to Jill who organized and helped execute the Kiva Friends fund raising effort in the US.
Jill originally told me the fund raising goal was $400 with a small possibility it might reach $800. I informed Florence of this after Christmas and she seemed quite pleased. Four hundred US dollars is more than a month’s salary for many well employed Ugandans. Florence happily made plans to spend the money wisely on essential items for the school.

Several weeks ago Jill informed me that Kiva Friends had collected over $4,000. I withheld the information from Florence in belief that it was just too good to be true; and since I didn’t have the cash in hand, I didn’t want to risk disappointing her.

It was quite a scene at the Mirembe School as we arrived at 10 am on Saturday. Florence arranged for a number of students and alumni to be there, so the little 4 room school building was packed with young women and their small children. There were also samples of the crafts and teaching materials Florence’s staff teaches the girls to make and use in their jobs as nursery school teachers.

I came to Florence’s school with Stuart Tamale, Florence’s credit Officer from Share an Opportunity Microfinance Ltd, whose original loan to Florence of $1,200 was used to purchase a desk top computer and printer. SAO is a MFI partner of Kiva.org, so Florence’s loan was funded by Kiva social lenders.

I was also accompanied by my daughter Molly Kinder who is a graduate student at the Kennedy School at Harvard, completing her final semester of a Masters degree in International Development (MPA/ID). Molly stopped to visit me in Uganda on her return to Boston from a two week assignment in Liberia working for the Ministry of Finance on their Poverty Reduction Plan.

It was a proud moment for me as my daughter witnessed the check presentation ceremony and met Florence in person. Of course Florence, the consummate teacher, recognized the value of a 28 year old role model for her girls so Molly’s visit was heavily promoted in advance. The young women flocked to the tall red headed American like a visiting rock star.

When we went into Florence’s small office to present the Bank Check, I told her the amount was a little larger than we expected. She didn’t react visibly as she read the check. It seems Florence uses reading glasses, which were not being worn in front of our cameras. Once she put her glasses on, she acted quite surprised and pleased by the large donation. She said she would have to send Jill a new expanded list of items to purchase with the donation.

The actual donation, as reported to me by email, was $4,430. The amount that arrived in my checking account was 7,389,750 Uganda shillings. Dividing the two amounts yields an exchange rate of 1,668 shillings to the dollar, which is pretty much half way between the posted foreign exchange rate at Metropolitan Forex Bureau of 1,650 shillings to the dollar for a funds transfer and 1,690 shillings/dollar for US $100 dollar bills. I am satisfied Barclay’s Bank treated us fairly.

On this visit I was reminded of something about the Mirembe School I failed to emphasize in my original blog. Florence’s “Founders Class” of young women had 16 graduates. Many of those young women went on to teach and then eventually establish their own nursery schools with an average enrollment of about 60 children. Subsequent graduating classes totaling about 500 graduates have followed the same pattern.

My blog talked about Florence’s amazing determination to salvage the lives of her students and enable them to be productive members of society and excellent mothers. I missed the multiplier effect her graduates are having on the next generation of young Ugandans. That information made me feel even better about the support the Kiva Friends have given her.

Afterwards, as Molly and I reviewed the day’s events, I told her no vacation has ever given me greater pleasure than the simple act of presenting the Kiva Friends check to Florence and her girls. I am very thankful to Kiva Friends for that opportunity.

6 comments 30 January 2008

1st week in Ghana

My name is Dan Strack and for the next 2 months I will be living in Cape Coast, Ghana and working with the Christian Rural Aid Network (CRAN).  

CRAN has 7 branches located throughout the central region of Ghana with its main office in Cape Coast.  Cape Coast is a very poor area with some of the kindest people I’ve ever encountered.  The first thing you notice in Ghana and especially Cape Coast, is how extremely religious everyone is.  Many road-side businesses have names such as “God is Great: Hair Salon” or “Jesus is the Savior: Food Stand”.  Cars, buses, telephone poles, you name it, have similar signs.

The staff at CRAN is extremely grateful for Kiva and is doing everything they can to run a smooth partnership.  Every time I get a free moment at the office to sit down and do some writing, someone will come up and ask if I would like to go see some aspect of CRAN.  I went with Abraham, who’s in charge of posting profiles and journals on Kiva, to the 4 branch offices located in Cape Coast.  Each branch is strategically located so it can maximize its client base.  One office is located directly across from a large auto repair yard, so the dozens of individual entrepreneurs who work there can get access to the capital they need.  Two more offices are located right by fishing markets so all the fishermen can easily take out loans and repay them.  The last office is in the middle of town and primarily serves those who run small road-side businesses. 

Yesterday I was taken to a training session for 1st time borrowers.  CRAN makes all new borrowers go through a 5 week training period, where they attend 1 class a week for one hour and go over basic finance principles and discuss individually how much they should take out for a loan.  Many times after going through this training, the loan officer will determine that the entrepreneur does not need the amount of money they are requesting so the amount loaned out will be reduced to cut out excessive capital which would increase the burden on the borrower.  After being introduced to the 7 borrowers in the group, I got to ask a few questions.  After a few basic questions I asked the group, “What would you change about microfinance as a whole?”  This caused everyone in the group to laugh and caused a bit of uneasiness because they didn’t want to upset the loan officer.  One lady raised her hand and said she thought the groups should be smaller, instead of having to have 10 borrowers apply for the loan together, it should be smaller, around 5-7.  CRAN (as most MFIs) require borrowers to apply for loans in groups so each member is responsible for everyone else in the group to improve repayment rates.  After this one lady broke the ice, a whole flood of suggestions came forward from the borrowers about how to improve the overall microfinance process.  I don’t know if the loan officer was as happy about this as I was, but I was absolutely thrilled to receive this kind of advice.  Microfinance is still very new and isn’t a perfect system, so who better to get advice from than the people who depend on it.

This morning as I stopped at a road-side shop to buy a couple bananas for breakfast, an older gentleman introduced himself to me and asked what I was doing in Cape Coast.  I told him I was working with the Christian Rural Aid Network just up the street.  He wasn’t familiar with the organization, so he asked what kind of business they were.  I responded that it’s a microfinance institution and that I will be working there for the next 2 months.  His eyes opened in curiosity and asked if I was with Kiva.  I was completely shocked he knew of Kiva and not the MFI just up the road.  I replied that I was and he said, “Oh my!!  I thought they were only working in East Africa!!”  I told him that Kiva has recently experience tremendous growth and have expanded to new areas and actually have 2 MFIs in Ghana.  He then thanked me for my time and walked down the street to his work.  I didn’t have time to ask him where he heard of Kiva, but if an ordinary local man in Cape Coast, Ghana has heard of Kiva; they have to be doing something right.

4 comments 30 January 2008

The Wicked French Lady, My Stinging Shin, and “Looking Good.”

 Today was my first day at my MFI, AMK. Paul, the CEO, is a wonderfully nice guy (the nicest ex-pat I’ve ever met here, in fact). He is from the southern suburbs of Chicago. The utter mention of the words south and Chicago in the same sentence immediately frightened me, as if a sudden and deep philosophical difference suddenly arose between us. Thankfully, and this must have been commanded from on high, he is nonetheless a Cubs fan (see Mark’s objective truth list, #2, “Baseball is the best sport in the world”). I will be his friend even if for this reason only (though I am sure there are many other valid reasons for friendship.

Being here as a Kiva fellow, I felt that my first day’s experience should be mentioned first, but as nothing in this entry’s title really involves my first day at work (except maybe the last part), I’ll move on to the past few days. I will begin with the wicked French lady. As I was reading up on Management Information Systems (not a pleasure read) and visiting with the guys at the Boddhi Tree, I began to take notice of a cantankerous old snot who would not cease whining about everything, loudly, and with a French accent which I believe was intentionally pompous. She had ordered a beer, Anchor, which immediately made me aware that her taste in life’s finer things was poor. When the beer arrived, however, she began ridiculing the staff (my friends) about the glass she had been given. Evidently, the standard, eight ounce beer mug is not suitable for a refined lady such as herself. Did it make her look fat? Like an alcoholic? Uncivilized? I don’t know, but she needed (yes, “needed”) a tall, “smooth,” dainty glass, something that would befit her status as a rich French woman who traveled half the year and never worked a day in her life, which she proudly declared. At this point, I began to consider throwing her off the balcony. But, being principally a nonviolent guy, I decided I could not do this. Being that I would have had to carry her upstairs to the balcony before I could throw her off of it, it also seemed like the timing wasn’t quite right.

The next day was a standard day. I woke up, ate breakfast, read, did some writing (not blogging), went to the market, etc. That evening, though, it rained, poured, inundating (a word I’ll discuss in a later blog entry) the streets. The wicked French lady had peaked my curiosity (rage, actually), so I decided to return to the Boddhi Tree to see if anything else on par with the night before would happen. I sat, prepping myself for something to unfold by reading more about MIS. As the rain came down, the wicked French lady stormed into the guest house with an angry Cambodian behind her. The two were yelling. Evidently, he had been here tuk tuk driver, taking her back to the Boddhi Tree from Street 240. It was about 7:30 in the evening, dark, and wet, really freaking wet. She, of course, was perfectly dry. The tuk tuk driver was demanding that she pay him $2.00 for the ride back, while she insisted that the ride only costs $1.00. Now, for those of you who don’t know, she is what is generally referred to as “full of it.” I would use another word, but I only hazily remember the parameters of my blogging privileges with Kiva, and choose here to substitute an innocent pronoun in the place of a more crass word, truthful though it may be. Anyway, the two yelled at each other, and, frankly, given the conditions outside, she should have paid $3.00. As the yelling became louder (by the way, Cambodians don’t yell much, at all), the tuk tuk driver brought up the Khmer Rouge, S-21 prison, and the Killing Fields, and told the wicked French lady that she did not know Cambodian history, she retorted, declaring that she knew it much better than he. She then said that this whole incident was stupid and that the tuk tuk driver should not be so greedy over a dollar. She would have been over the balcony had she actually been on the balcony, I thought. I also pondered just getting up and giving the guy the extra dollar to set a good example and embarrass her, but then the tuk tuk driver said that she was stupid, and, suddenly recognizing his exceptional powers of perception, I decided to continue watching. Additionally, I think she realized that the tuk tuk driver was probably going to follow her to her room if she did not pay him, and so she finally yelled at Vireak to give the guy a dollar, and he left.

As I sat watching this display of unparalleled stupidity, Vireak text-messaged me about said stupidity. As many of you know, I am text-messaging averse, that is to say that I have never learned how to do it. Given this situation, however, I felt compelled to respond to my friends words of keen observation. Thus, I set out to teach myself how to text message. It took me ten minutes, but I finally typed out “she is crazy,” and hit send. My phone replied simply: “message failed.” Determined not to let my friend’s efforts at communication and subterfuge go in vain, I tried again, and, in spite of myself, was successful. Within twenty seconds I received “you are right, she is crazy” as a reply. This text messaging, I maintain, is the only time that a Cambodian will ever write in English faster than I can. Nonetheless, Vireak had encouraged me to learn something new that evening (don’t ever think it’s okay to text message me though), which is always refreshing.

While I sat watching the wicked French lady sit down, order a beer, and chug it like a baboon guzzling the juice from a coconut, I decided that I had to mock her with my Cambodian friends. I heard Thou outside, and decided to go chat. Thou was chatting with a very drunk moto driver, who had imbibed way too much of his own wine. I declined the offer for a taste. I started up a conversation with them, when my drunken friend said “ooh ae vu”. Mind you, it took me a while to figure out what the hell he was saying, because I was trying to interpret his “words” as being spoken to me in broken English drastically altered by his drunken state. Thou, however, is brilliant, and told me that he wanted to know where I was going, and that he was trying to speak French (oú est vous). Always wanting to practice French, or any language that I don’t know so well, I embraced this less-than-ideal situation and began conversing with my very drunk friend in a language that I was at the present moment comparatively fluent in (those of you in the know about my aptitude with the French language can probably now guage the extent to which he was drunk given my comparative fluency). Then of course Thou decided to break into his French, at which point I suddenly realized I had another opportunity to teach my friend Thou a new word. I asked him if he was familiar with the term bête, which he said he was not. Given the wicked French lady’s wicked French nature, I felt that this was the right word to teach, and so Thou and I laughed at how elle est bête (she is stupid). Mind you, Thou has not mentioned to her that he knows some French, because, as he says, she is like a baby. The less he has to speak with her, the better.

Sadly, the wicked French lady has screwed many Cambodians over, and when confronted with how it might actually be proper to pay them the right price, she says that because she is on holiday for so long, she has to budget, and that those people who stay for less time are making it difficult for her. In “budgeting” (think euphemism for “screw over like a heartless…”), her purchases include a $100.00 pair of shoes, which she financed by not paying for her rides, or paying Thou his fee for extending her visa ($5). Why he extended her visa I have no idea. I would have burned her passport, but that would only increase her stay. She has also stayed in nearly every room at the Boddhi Tree, demanding that she be moved every day because of some problem: rats (i.e. her imagination), mildue (it’s freaking Cambodia), size (too small, to large and thus too expensive). All I have to say is that she is a miserable old woman, and that I hope she never sits upstairs.

Moving on, I will now turn to my stinging shin. Some of you may have guessed that it had something to do with the wicked French lady (Laura’s her name, but as I find Laura to be a pretty name, I decided not to use it, less it be ruined for me). Well, no, my shin has nothing to do with the wicked French lady. Rather, it is the result of children playing in the street. Back in the United States, in the quite streets of our sprawling suburbs, we scold our children for running and playing wildly on the asphalt. Here, in the chaos driven streets of Phnom Penh, this value system does not seem to exist in many cases, or the streets are simply too loud for the kids to hear their parents cautioning them (again, not a lot of yelling here, except for “you need moto bike?!,” which I’ve now analyzed more fully and decided is both imperative and interrogative…again, apologies to non-grammarians). Anyway, as I walked to the internet café, there were two children playing in the street, near what is technically the sidewalk, but functions as a parking lot and place for vendors to sell stuff. In other words, one is forced to walk in the street, and while this may not seem safe, I actually feel pretty safe doing it, more so than in the US. That being said, these two kids were playing badmitten (sp?), though without a net. As I approached them, I noticed a certain glow appear to emanate from me. This certain glow, oddly, differed from my normal, natural glow, and I quickly realized that it was coming from the headlight of a moto fast-approaching from behind. I knew the moto would not hit me, that he’d go around, but I was walking straight into this one little girl’s swing at the birdie with her racquet. I had a choice, make a sudden move and hope the moto driver was still able to go around me, or brace myself for this innocent little girl’s feeble little swing. No contest, I would take a slight nick to my leg, and then laugh with the child, who would be amused and excited about being able to run home and tell mom that she clobbered an American with her racquet. I think I erred in judgment, for that girl swung with such gusto that I nearly fell over and banged my head on an old man’s grill, on which cooked some delicious-smelling grilled bananas. I hopped around on my good leg, while the little girl laughed just as I suspected. Finally, after regaining my composure, I comforted myself with some of those grilled bananas and continued on to the internet café, where I emailed Asawari briefly about my first day.

While the shin incident was a painful experience, the night before was quite pleasant. Sovath and I drove up to Olympic Stadium, where we talked about stadiums in the United States, and about life in general. He asked about the difficulty in finding American girlfriends. Mind you, Sovath understands a great many things, but in terms of my wisdom on such matters he is still lacking a bit in the understanding department. When I tried to explain this lack of wisdom on my part, he did not believe me (and thus I am tempted to take him home with me so he can explain his disbelief to various females). Anyway, as we walked, he came up with the weirdest analogy (simile). He said that I walked like Santa Claus. Impressed though I was with his familiarity with western religious/mythical/capitalistic icons, I was a bit concerned with how a 5′9”, 158-pound guy in his 20s could walk like everyone’s favorite blubbery old soul. I thought that perhaps it was the damage from the girl’s racquet the night before, but as I was not limping I did not want to fib. Rather, we walked over to some bleachers, and sat down. He never said anything, and so I will take that to mean that I do not sit like Santa Claus.

Moving back to my first day at work, I will take this time to comment on my attire. I wore a very sexy pair of grayish-green slacks, a light blue polo shirt, brown belt, and flip-flops. In other words, I looked like a waiter at a posche Hawaiian golf resort, expert at carrying Mai-tais across sandy white beaches to slowly-reddening people dividing their time between the sea and their blackberries. I immediately apologized for my shoes, and explained that my shoe tailor would not have mine ready until the 31st. Paul did not seem to care, probably because from the ankles up I was business casual, or because several other people were wearing sandals, though I was the only one who wore a matching belt.

Upon returning from work to my house, I was met by my friend Ratha, who immediately said, “mmmm, you look good.” Normally, I associate “mmmm” and “good” with a Campbell’s tomato soup commercial, but given the new association with me this evening I was a bit confused as to what my response was supposed to be. “Thank you” seemed appropriate, so I started there. Ratha was truly impressed, apparently, and it immediately became clear that this was not going to be a casual compliment, but a full-fledged conversation. I braced myself. Ratha then said, “I do not speak good English, but, mmmm, good!” He was shaking his head back and forth the whole time, to add emphasis to what he was saying. I commented that my clothes came from the market, but he replied, “yes, but…” and then began showing me how impressed he was that I tucked my shirt in. He touched the fabric, pants and shirt, and just smiled, “mmmm, good!” I said ‘thank you’ again, went upstairs and changed.

In other news, it seems that my friend Khmao has taken what I have taught him about non-violence to heart, as there are now several rats living comfortably (i.e. fattening up) at that wonderful place called the Boddhi Tree. Mind you, there were no rats in any of Laura’s rooms, since there is no place to hide, and so I maintain that she was making this up. Nonetheless, I had another chat with Khmao today and told him that, while nonviolence is important, so is eating three squares a day. Life here continues to be good, and in addition to my lesson with Non about how “sweeping is futile,” Thou and I now have “elle est bête.” I walk like Santa Claus, and look “mmmm, good!” The pork here is outstanding.

 

Much love to you all,

Mark

p.s. The wicked French lady returns to Cambodia in April. I think I’ll buy her a beer, in a regular mug, and have a little chat about how not to be a wicked French lady.

3 comments 29 January 2008

Maman Fannie- my neighbor!

I first met Deborah, an 11 year old girl, when I was looking for the trash cans outside my building. She happily showed me the way and started chatting me up. Then I met Colom, her older sister, who is 18 and very sweet. We became friends, and they asked if they could visit me sometime. I said, of course, anytime! That same night, when I walked up to my apartment building from work, they were both standing there with a younger boy waiting, and holding a grapefruit as a gift for me.

That first night we talked for a long time. Colom said she’d just moved here one month ago from the Congo (Brazzaville), to be with her mother. She misses her friends and her life in the Congo, and doesn’t know when she’ll be able to go back. Meanwhile she’s in school here, and enjoys her studies. Deborah and her brother teased each other and played around. They were both engrossed in my French grammar exercise books, and Deborah pointed out to me that it would be better if I wrote in pencil so that when I was done with the exercises perhaps someone else could use the book as well, and then it would not be wasted. She is a smart girl, and I hope we get to spend more time together. That night we played music, and had a good time together.

The next day I saw the girls, and they invited me for a visit. They came to my apt to fetch me at the specified time, and we went down to their apartment together. There I met their mother, Maman Fannie. Maman Fannie has a bright smile, and said that she’d heard the kids were very excited to meet me. While we talked, she sat and filled plastic bags with water. She has a big freezer in her living room. She filters the water from the tap through a cloth stretched across a plastic bottle and uses that as a funnel into a plastic bag. Once full, she ties the bag tight, and puts it in a pile to be loaded into the freezer for sale in the market the next day. She explained that she’d had a filter on her tap, but it broke recently and so she wasn’t able to filter the water as well. We talked about why I was here, for microfinance, something she’d never heard of. So I explained it to her. My first thought, of course, is that she is the ideal candidate for a loan. And she too had that same thought! I didn’t want to get into the technical loan process details on my own, so we agreed to meet on Tuesday and I would take her down to AE&I for her to meet with a loan officer.

From there our conversation moved from business to more personal subjects. She told me that when she first moved to Cote d’Ivoire from the Congo, she came with her husband for his job. They lived in a large house in another neighborhood. The house had eight rooms, and they had several children together. She told me that they had a housekeeper and a chauffeur. The chauffeur took the kids to school each day, and spent a good deal of time with her as well. After living with her husband in Cote d’Ivoire for several years, and over ten years of marriage, he abandoned her. The chauffeur and housekeeper arranged for him to meet a younger woman, and he left Maman Fannie to marry this other woman. He sold the house where they lived, and left her with the children, and no way to get home to Congo. Shortly after he did this, he lost his job, and left to live in France with his new wife. He never provided her any support, and has had no contact with his children since he left.

Now picture this woman sitting in front of you, filling up bags of water, and smiling- a big smile- as she tells this story. I could hardly believe it. This happened only three or four years ago. She now lives in a one bedroom apartment on the first floor of my building. In this apartment she takes care of Colom age 18, Germe age 12, Deborah age 11, and Manu age 5. While I was there, another daughter Sandrine visited, and her oldest son, Christian. (As a side note, I am not entirely clear on the exact biological or adopted relationship of each of these children. And so in my previous post I thought Colom had two children, which she does not. It seems a moot point to try and clarify these things immediately, as it doesn’t affect the fact that they’re all family and take care of each other as such.)

The children had all been going to high-priced private French schools in Abidjan. She could no longer afford these schools, but still she pays for every one of the children to go to a private school, and she works with them each night on their homework. Because she cannot afford to send them to the best schools, she emphasizes the importance of studying even harder so that one day they will have more opportunities. Tonight Colom took me for a walk to her school. It’s a fenced-in school, with a beautiful tree in the center of its courtyard, and a sandy play area for soccer games. The schoolgrounds were clean and well-kept. We visited her classrooms on the second floor. The classrooms have two large chalkboards along one wall, and several rows of wood desks and benches. In the warm spring air, I could smell the wood from the desks as I entered each room. Each room was a quick look into the day’s lesson. In the first room there were English sentences on the board. Next door we found Ivoirian history, and further down was a science lab with tiled desks, and kinetic Physics equations on the board.

Colom is currently in her 3rd level. I’m not entirely clear on the French system, but high school goes 6-5-4-3-2-1-Finished. So in three years she will take the Bac (the super tough French exit exam that determines where you can go to university), and apply for entrance to a university. She wants to be a lawyer. She said that there are many people in her family who have education but never went to work, or never completed school. Maman Fannie counts heavily on her to complete her studies, and pass the Bac with a good score so that she can advance herself. Then she told me that she is an orphan, that her mom died in the war in Congo. She wants to work to improve the lives of other orphans, and help them find a better life too.

I spoke with Ladji, one of my co-workers at AE&I about Maman Fannie. He said that she sounds like an ideal client- cold water sales is a very strong business model in Abidjan (because it’s hot here!!). He said that I will see what happens after she first takes one loan, pays it off, and then takes another loan and expands further… They have clients who started out with a small stand selling one vegetable who now have entire stores of merchandise. He pointed to a store the size of a New York hotel room- small, but it serves its purpose. I asked how many years that must’ve taken- and he pointed out that AE&I is only four years old. With the right person, microfinance can enable them to accomplish great things very quickly. I am looking forward to Maman Fannie’s appointment on Tuesday… and for my next eight months in Cote d’Ivoire.

4 comments 28 January 2008

Megan’s in Cote d’Ivoire!

I’m Megan, and I am volunteering as a Kiva Fellow with Afrique Emergence et Investissements, a microfinance institute in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire. I arrived Monday night (1/21) and have been working in the main office since Tuesday. Already I am impressed with how well this organization is run, and the vision and enthusiasm of the team. To me, enabling the work of partners like this is what Kiva is all about.

I was greeted at the airport by Madame Coulibali and Rahambatou, two women from the office. Technically they are the HR team, but in reality they take on a wide variety of responsibilities. They are very much the office moms. Before I arrived they had rented an apartment on my behalf, and set me up with a bed and a fan. My apartment is in the Angre area (pronounced On-grey, not angry), a residential area within Abidjan. It’s about 30 minutes from downtown, au Plateau. Abidjan is an enormous city, with a population of about 4 million, and traffic worse than LA!

For a country the size of New Mexico, Cote d’Ivoire is extremely diverse. There are over 60 languages, different ethnic groups and religions, and many citizens come from neighboring countries such as Burkina Faso, Ghana, Mali, Togo, Nigeria, Liberia (and the list goes on) but also from around the world. Within two blocks of my apartment is a Lebanese restaurant and a Chinese one.

Last night I met one of my neighbors, who is from the Congo. Her name is Colom (pronounced koh-lohm), and she is living here with her mother, younger brother, and her two children. Her daughter Deborah is eight years old, and charmed me immediately with her outgoing personality and sharp intelligence. We are meeting tomorrow night to make dinner together, and I am looking forward to it. The food here is amazing! Fresh fruits- papaya, pineapple, grapefruit, plantains… and grilled fish with couscous or rice. Yum!

I live less than half a mile from the office, and so it is an easy walk each day. It makes me happy to think that I’m going to be here for eight months, and see the same people on my walk each morning. As I pass each shop, I wonder where my work with Kiva will take me. I can’t wait to have an excuse to stop by different shops and meet people!

4 comments 26 January 2008

On Typos

This will be short, as it concerns my last blog entry. First and foremost, I should reiterate the importance of editing, which, no longer being recquired to do so at work, has meant that I have become what is called “fastidious.” Fastidiousness has its consequences, namely that, in my encounter with Anchor butter, I said that it WAS swill instead of saying that it is not. More importantly, I said that Thy gave me a gun. I am not exactly sure how gun came out, but it does share two letters with the word I meant, hug. Thus, for those of you who are concerned that I am packing heat as I meander about the streats of Phnom Penh, your fears can henceforth be allayed. Moreover, if Thy had given me a gun, I doubt I would have given him a hug. Yet another example of the need to edit is in my inspection of my place’s wass. I’m not sure what a wass is, or rather are, since the next sentence referred to them as the plural they, but what I really meant was “walls,” which, as I said, are not crumbling.  

 That being said, I have not edited this post, so please interpret whatever typos I made as you see fit (though please do so in a way that makes me sound more likely to stay alive…where gun=hug, e.g.).

1 comment 25 January 2008

On Butter, Beer, and Life so far

I will begin where I left off, my trip and arrival back in Cambodia. Ahem, rather, I will start with memories of my first time here. As is one of my customs when traveling, I feel it is necessary to sample the various local brewers’ specialties. In Cambodia, this means Anchor and Angkor beer. Har licquor, it seems, is largely westernized (Johnny Walker comes to mind), and this may be ignorance on my part, but other locally-made ”hard stuff” I fear needs to be categorized as “Jungle Juice,” which 1) probably tastes like the bug spray of the same name and 2) does the same nasty things once imbibed.  

 Anyway, back to the beer. Anchor is absolute swill, and ranks with budweiser, heineken and pabst in my book of crappy beers. Angkor, conversely, approximates Coors Light, but isn’t as strong, and is really just “augmented” water. I developed a taste for it the last time I was here, and have once again “taken to the bottle” (of “augmented” water, and in compliance with any standards of sobriety).

But I digress. On flying from Hong Kong to Phnom Penh, I was once again served breakfast. Being that breakfast is my favorite meal, I was not disappointed. Being that it was airline food, I was. Anyway, as the breakfast trays approached, I noticed that the little mini-butter packet for our mini-highly-processed-non-rolls was made by Anchor. For those of you who know me, for the past several (4…5?) years, I have made it my New Year’s Resolution to eat less butter. I do this because there is no practical and quantifiable way to verify that I actually eat less butter. Honestly, I think I’m losing the battle, but that only forces me to renew this resolution yearly, and hence insure that my other vices remain safely untouched. Thus, while I sat on the plane, the thought of my New Year’s resolution never occured to me, and if it had, I would have said, simply, very simply, “meh.” And so I spreadsome Anchor butter on my mini-highly-processed-non-roll. To my surprise, it was swill, or whatever the butter-equivalent is for that word. That is not to say that it tasted like something fresh from an Irish churn, but that, like Angkor, I could develope a taste for it. This butter was the highlight of my flight(s).

 Moving away from butter and beer (important though they are), I will turn now to life at the Boddhi Tree Guesthouse, since many of you prospective readers may find this of interest. For those of you who don’t know the Boddhi Tree, please bear with me, and there may even be something worth reading. Plus, if (when?) you come visit me, you should stay there. Anyway, Non (his spelling, not mine) got his hair cut, which makes me feel taller, which is, in other words, good. Ti (my spelling…wrong by definition) is still Ti. I haven’t seen Sophon; Sidan is well, and the first thing he said to me was that I was wearing the same hat as last time (accurate memory considering my hat is a nice indistinguishable beige). Thou is busier than ever, and his tuk tuk siren isn’t as pleasantly ubiquitous as in times past. His sister and nephews and nieces are now in Phnom Penh (he brought them here), and he is still studying English. Finally, Khmao is doing very well. I checked up on him about late-night rooftop violence, but he didn’t say much. Since he’s a cat I wasn’t expecting anything too deeply philosophical, like a debate between the efficacy of principled nonviolence or the Hobbesian State of Nature, but I thought I would get a little more out of him than I did.

 Upon my arrival to the Boddhi Tree I was greeted by all the moto drivers, who remember us all very well (source of income) and send their wishes for you all to come/return (source of income). One of the moto drivers, Thy (his spelling, and probably what Ti’s should be), came and gave me a gun, then asked me what my name was since he had forgotten. I only remember him as someone I was obliged to drink with at the wedding. Speaking of which, Non invited me back to his “homeland,” and I said I would go so long as I didn’t have to push another bus, or spend the eight hours it took to get back sharing and ipod and listening to John Mayer (good) and Brittany Spears (it wasn’t my ipod).

This evening, as I was reading some Kiva stuff (I can feel the rejoicing in San Francisco) and eating dinner, the wind picked up and blew flower pedals and leaves throughout the Boddhi Tree. Non, like the good man that he is, grabbed a broom and swept evertying up. Just as he had all the debris in a nice pile, and as he walked to get the dust pale, the wind kicked up again, blew his pile everywhere, and more flower pedals and leaves blew off the trees and other shurbbery. I cannot express Non’s response in words, but it was some kind of yelp that came out while he was swallowing. I stopped reading (sorry) and laghed for a good two minutes before I could compose myself.

 Now, this event was not merely comic. No, there was a lesson in this as well. As a lover of words, and someone who regards himself as nominally observant, I found that I had an opportunity to teach Non a new word–Futile. Normally my lessons in futility revolve around the Mark-girlfriend dynamic (static?), but as Non and I had already discussed this, I felt this example would be more clear given the recent events. Truthfully it was the opportunity to discuss futility in a way that was not at my expense (informative though those lessons are). At this point, I needed a phrase that would help drive the point home, something catchy that he would remember and link to this concept of futility. I now refer you to Star Trek (see Mark’s list of objective truths, #3, “Star Trek is the bomb”). We are all familiar with the Borg expression “resistance is futile,”and despite the fact that it isn’t (we still have Captain Picard, don’t we?), it is nonetheless a catchy phrase. Now, I could not use the word resistance, because the reference to Star Trek and the situation at hand were not compatible/complimentary. Thus, in short, I chose a substitute word, and we now have “sweeping is futile.” This should, of course, be recognized from this point forward as an axiom.

I will now move away from life at the Boddhi Tree, because I just recently moved away from the Boddhi Tree. Mission one in my move was to find a moto driver. To accomplish this, I stood up. Instantly two moto drivers appeared at the entryway saying “you need moto bike” (I won’t punctuate this quote, because I am still debating myself about whether or not this phenomenon is interrogative or imperative…apologies to non-grammarians). Regardless, I did need one, and told the drivers where I wanted to go. They worked out the details, like which one would take me. Of course, my driver said he knew where he was going (most say so), but as we were driving he also said he was the son of King Sihanouk. By this point, however, I knew he didn’t know where I needed to go. That being said, I deployed my “rugged” Khmer in hopes of remedying the situation (Note: I use the word rugged because it implies that my accent is intentional. On the contrary, my throat does not make those shapes/sounds, but in deference to my first Khmer teacher I will try and make her proud by using “rugged”) Anyway, since we had turned right on Sihanouk Blvd. instead of left (he may have wanted to visit the king, which was in the “right” direction), I told him to turn left. He turned right. Now, recognizing how rugged my Khmer is, my next decision was to tap his left shoulder, and then point, just in case I had actually told him to turn right by accident. He turned right again. Those of you tracking my progress may note that we are now headed in the correct direction (two rights = one left). This may be so, but this is Phnom Penh, which means I had no idea where the hell we were, plus I’m directionally impaired to begin with. Thus, my moto driver (a really nice guy, by the way) pulled over to ask for directions from a tuk tuk driver. I felt reassured when the tuk tuk driver burst out laughing. Nonetheless, after two minutes of what was undoubtedly humourous ridicule (certain things always translate), we were on our way again, turning right every single time. We eventually found the place…after another 10 minutes of driving (a long time in Phnom Penh), and, sitting outside the Guest house was the same tuk tuk driver. He was still laughing (there is lots of laughter in Cambodia). While they sat chatting, I went in, came out, and moved 300 feet from the Boddhi Tree, to a place Non recommended just around the corner. A big part of this decision was the ugly, disagreeable, shirtless white guy smoking a cigarette outside his room. He would have been my neighbor, and I didn’t want to hang out with him. Now I get to hang out with my friends at the Boddhi Tree more often.

This was not the extent of my houseing search. Earlier that same morning, Sovath, who for those of you who don’t know is essentially another brother, showed me the room he was about to rent for $30/month. There was a room next door, and being intersted in what life is like for a Cambodian, I went to check it out. No way could I have lived there. There wasn’t a window. It was basically a tin shed on the third floor of a builiding, like an oven, but an old one (i.e. without a window). I can’t imagine living in a place without ANY natural light, ever. Knowing that Sovath now lives there is even harder. For a while he was living at a Christian place, but to live there he had to study the bible for an hour and a half every day (he’s Buddhist, like 95% of the rest of the population), from 10-1130am. On the weekends, moreover, he was not allowed to study anything else, like English. So he moved, and is now moving again so he can study more (his last house got too crowded). I would have him live with me, and pay for it, but I know he wouldn’t accept my offer, which makes is much harder.

Now that all my friends, loved ones and relevant individuals are breathing a sigh of relief that I am not living “like a Cambodian,”I will now turn to my present living situation. I have a shaded balcony, two chairs, a small table, bed, refrigerator and fan (= air conditioning). I also have my own private bathroom (or, as they say here, “bathroom inside”).

There are certain things one looks for when in search of a place. I look at the wass for a starter. Mine are not crumbling, and are colored in a pleasant nuclear yellow, like a blond labrador dunked in gatorade. There is also ample light, supplied by the sun, as well as many well-placed overhead lamps. To my surprise, I also have a full-length mirror (perhaps a quantifiable way to measure my butter intake), and my pillow cases depict a bunch of brown teddy bears holding soccer balls (seriously). That being said, there are also certain things which one does not look for, which one expects to have automatically, such as a trash can, or a toilet seat. Every other place I’ve stayed in has had both of these. I have neither. Luckily, the Boddhi Tree is nearby, just three right turns away (I don’t think I turned left all day).

 Much love to you all,

Mark

Add comment 24 January 2008

my trip and arrival

entry 1, trip and arrival

Since the last 40 odd hours have involved sitting at a gate or in coach, it would seem odd that there exists the potential to write anything, but as I am still in a state of exhaustion, I’ll simply disagree with myself and write something anyway.  

 Leaving San Fran was really quite simple, and way better than my previous experience at LAX when I nearly went on the conveyor with my checked bag through security–interrupt: they have new keyboards at this internet cafe, which preclude me from being able to use parentheses…anyone who knows me knows the difficulty this presents; thus, what should follow the word “security” reads something like: I actually think it the policy of LAX to make sure that one does indeed hop on the conveyor belt with your bag and go through security with it. Being only a code orange, they probably just decided to let me off easy

Anyway, during my last day in San Fran I got to chill with Navin, the coolest person on earth (yes, even above me…also, I just figured out how to get parentheses…the keyboard is wrong when it says the left one is above the #8 key, and aside from some swirly “letters” on the keys, it’s a standard qwerty). Anyway, again, she was telling me about the Nanny Diaries (or maybe it was the princess diaries…I can’t remember just now…thank god for parentheses), but the point is that they were showing the Nanny Diaries on my flight, which I decided to watch. So, on my flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong I watched the Nanny Diaries in German. That was Cathay Pacific’s choice of language for this particular piece of in-flight video entertainment. I am not sure to what extent this was a good test of my german skills, as the story was pretty generic…i.e. girl=nanny for uber-rich, white asshole parents; gets “disenchanted”/fired, security camera catches her lecturing the bitchy “mother” who really cares for the child in the nominal sense (by calling her son her son)…fast forward, happy ending. I watched because the nanny was hot and it was in german. There was also this one jock-like dude who was supposedly somewhat shallow in the beginning but by the end had developed yoda-like wisdom, as all good-looking secondary male characters do. Either way, I was jealous since he got to kiss the hot german speaking (overdubs) nanny while my shoulder was co-opted into my neighbors awkward sleeping arrangement.

 Now, food. I must say that I was actually able to sleep for a bit on this flight, and before I knew it 8 hours had passed. Psychologically this is very important. My typical experience is to be asked if I would like the braised chicken with rice or the fish and spicy noodle just seconds before I fall asleep. This did not happen, and so in a clear state i was able to order the braised chicken. While the fish may be just as good (i.e. just as bad), the thought of travelling for another 16 hours with fish breath…well, enough said. Anyway, in the decade that I have travelled internationally (not that impressive, really, but Ireland in 1998, when I was 12, did represent the first time I was out of the country), I have noticed that the food on airlines is improving. There is one thing that remains a concern. My meal came with prochiutto (sp?) and melon, which I became mildly excited about…as much as one can in situations such as these. Suffice it to say, the melon measured up to my expectations of airline fruit, but how fat and salt with a bit of meat (i.e. prochiutto) can taste bad remains a mystery. But, there it sat on my plate, looking particularly scrumptions. I picked it up, moved a bite towards my mouth, and it smelled like feet. Knowing that some of the finest creations smell bad (cheese, e.g.), I committed to not letting this prejudice keep me from continuing.  I put it in my mouth, and it tasted like feet. In fact, I think it probably was feet. Swallowing was a test in the power of the mind, particularly the ability of the conscious to tell the subconscious (as well as the decenting parts of the conscious) what to do.

 That being said, I am now in Cambodia. The ride from the airport did not go as planned, since I had to take a taxi and look like a rich white guy, but it beat sitting on a moto with 60lbs of luggage depending on my ability to keep in on the seat. My taxi driver got lost, not uncommon, but I finally arrived, slept, walked to the internet cafe, and wrote this. Ah yes, home in Cambodia again…now I have to go eat.

Add comment 24 January 2008

One Day in the Life of a Microfinance Branch Manager

carolyne.jpgNabwire Carolyn, Manager of BRAC Uganda’s Kalerwe Branch, awakens at 5:30 each work day.  A devoutly religious person, she spends the first half hour of each day in prayer.  Next she prepares her two children for the day.   Joshua, age 4, attends pre-school and Ester, age 2, goes to day care.  Carolyn prepares breakfast for the children and her husband, Joseph, who is a computer programmer and web designer.  At 6:30 Joseph departs in the family car to drop the children off at school on his way to work.

Carolyn walks to the Kalerwe Branch.  BRAC requires branch managers and credit officers to live within the boundaries of their branch.  Given the overburdened and unreliable public transportation system in Kampala, and the fact that the BRAC work day begins precisely at 7:00 am, this is a wise policy.

On this day, Carolyn was met at the branch office by five credit officers and Mr. Emma, the branch support staff.  Olive, Demali, Annette and Jackie are micro-finance C.O.’s.  Ms. Raymond is a newly hired credit officer assigned to launch an individual loan program at the branch.

The Kalerwe branch recently celebrated its one year anniversary.  Carolyn, Annette, and Jackie have been there since the first day. 

Carolyn related to me the difficulty of opening a new microfinance branch in Kalerwe.  There are about ten different microfinance institutions operating within her branch boundaries, which extend out about a three mile radius from the branch office.

BRAC follows the same procedure whenever a new branch is opened.  The first step is to conduct a survey of every household in the area.   Carolyn and her credit officers expanded concentrically from the office in ¼ mile increments, not missing a single residence.

The BRAC survey asks basic questions of residents to determine their relative wealth compared to their neighbors.  

At the end of the day, Carolyn took her survey results to the LC1, the local elected official who oversees most activity in the area.  The two of them went through the surveys and the LC1 used a red pen to check off the lowest 50% of residents in terms of wealth and income.   Anyone with an existing loan from another Microfinance Institution was eliminated from consideration.

The households with the red checkmarks were BRAC’s initial target customers.  Carolyn and her staff went back to those homes to invite the female head of household to an informational meeting.  Their initial greetings were not always positive.  Many MFI’s have operated in this area, promising much and delivering little.  The BRAC staff was able to overcome much of that distrust and skepticism at the informational meetings.

Groups were formed consisting of four to five subgroups of five members each.  The sub-group members were friends and neighbors who were required to guarantee each other’s loan repayment.

When I asked Carolyn about her best day as a BRAC Manager, she said it was the day she disbursed her first loan, just six weeks after opening the branch.

After one year, the Kalerwe branch is nearing full capacity.  The maximum number of members served by a BRAC branch with 4 microfinance credit officers, assuming a maximum of 30 members per group and three group meetings a day for 5 days, is 1,800 members.   The current membership roll at Kalerwe stands at approximately 1,400.

When I asked Carolyn about her worst day at work, she told me about the time it flooded and she had to slog through mud and flood water to reach her group meeting, only to stand on a table once she arrived.

The part of the job Carolyn enjoys the most is attending group meetings.  Like snowflakes, no two meetings are the exactly the same.  She finds them interesting and usually amusing.  If she is having a bad day, she says she forgets her troubles at a group meeting.

Carolyn believes in BRAC.  When I asked her what makes BRAC different from the other Microfinance Institutions operating in her territory, she replied;

1.        BRAC’s interest rate is lower.

2.       They do not ask for collateral.

3.       They keep overhead down to about 10%, loaning the remaining 90% to poor borrowers.

4.       They do not make members feel inferior.  Members interact freely with a respectful staff.

5.       The objective is poverty reduction and empowering women, not profit.

6.       They loan money to poor women who have been denied credit by other MFI’s.

7.       At meetings all members sit on the ground on mats in a horseshoe or circular pattern, which she believes is unique and indicative of BRAC’s spirit of equality and group dynamics.

 One of Carolyn’s primary duties is to prevent loan fraud.  Every afternoon and between morning meetings, she personally interviews loan applicants at home and at their place of business.   On the home visit, Carolyn listens for comments from neighbors and assesses the applicant’s living conditions.  She confirms the size of the family and the marital status of the applicant.  Not only is she there to approve or deny the loan, she also has to determine an appropriate loan amount.  Loaning too much money places an unnecessary strain on the borrower and creates a temptation to use excess money for personal purposes.

At the applicant’s place of business, Carolyn fills out a loan appraisal form as she critically examines the business.  She asks questions, examines inventory, and tests equipment to confirm it operates.

Another valuable source of information is feedback from the members of the borrowing group, especially her sub-group of four loan guarantors.  Although these women might be reluctant to speak publically against a loan application, they often approach Carolyn or her Credit Officers in private with their concerns.

Finally, the applicant’s credit officer conducts a separate but identical loan assessment.

After conferring with her C.O., Carolyn signs a loan approval which is sent to her Area Manager and Country Office for review.  In one year and approximately 1,400 loans, the Kalerwe branch has not had a single uncollected loan.

Another of Carolyn’s major responsibilities is to train and develop her credit officers.  Most BRAC employees are green; joining the company with no previous microfinance experience.  Carolyn is proud that several of her C.O.’s have been promoted since the branch opened.

Carolyn attends three group meetings each morning.  Her role is to observe and double check the C.O.’s work.  She randomly samples five pass books against the computerized collection sheet to confirm the C.O’s entries.  She also evaluates the C.O.’s conduct of the meeting, including promptness, attendance, and meeting content.

dscn6104.jpgRecently, BRAC Uganda partnered with Kiva.org to raise 0% interest funds for BRAC.  The Kiva model is based on “peer to peer” lending from individuals in developed countries to poor borrowers in developing countries.  The model requires a digital picture of the borrower as well as a written profile of the borrower and the business purpose of the loan.

Branch Managers have responsibility for collecting this information.  Carolyn has quickly become an expert using a digital camera at group meetings.

 The manager and C.O.’s arrive back at the branch at about noon.  They spend the next hour counting and reconciling loan repayments from the morning meetings against the computerized collection sheets.

At 1:00 pm disbursements begin.  All members whose loans have been approved are scheduled for a loan disbursement appointment.  The women are called into the office one at a time from a waiting room.  After the member signs loan documents, Carolyn confirms her identity, signs the documents releasing the money, and records the loan in the member’s pass book.  The credit officers then disburse the loan amount from funds collected that day.

After lunch, Carolyn typically conducts loan due diligence, visiting homes and businesses of prospective borrowers.

carolyne-at-her-computer.jpgThe BRAC business day ends at 4 pm.  Before leaving the branch Carolyn must enter all collections and disbursements into BRAC’s proprietary RADAR program on the office computer.  Next, she prints computerized collection sheets for the group meetings scheduled the following day.  Once that task is complete, she returns home to her family, fully prepared for a fast start at 7:00 am the next day.

4 comments 21 January 2008

Regina

How does a 48 year old widow in Uganda with no job, no savings, very little education, and no business training provide for regina.jpgeleven orphans, ranging in age from 9 to 17?

One answer is to take out a US $180 micro-loan from BRAC Uganda and work very hard to establish and operate two successful small businesses.

The story of how Bayiyana Regina came to be the sole supporter of eleven orphans is both a tragic commentary on life and death in Uganda and an inspirational tale of sacrifice and perseverance in the face of overwhelming adversity.

Regina and her husband had eleven children. They lived a modest but relatively secure life based on his salary as a primary school teacher. Then in 1987 her husband developed a “headache that lasted three days, and he died”, according to Regina. She was left with no savings, no pension and only a small, one room mud brick home located in a swampy flood plain in Bwaise, Uganda, a northern suburb of Kampala, the capital city.

Since then, seven of her eleven children have died; two from AIDS and the remaining five “fell sick” from unspecified illnesses. Of the surviving children, one is “missing”, two are “just around”, and one is a student at Makerere University, Uganda’s leading university.

The eleven orphans in Regina’s care are all family members. Some are her grandchildren, where both parents died of AIDS, and some are the orphaned grandchildren of her deceased brother. She looks after seven boys and four girls.

When I asked Regina about the worst day in her life, she paused and replied it was the day her brother went off to work and never returned. He died on the job. Regina counted on her brother. He lived nearby in a small, half-finished two room home. He and Regina relied on each other for mutual support. The day he died, Regina knew she would provide for his orphans as well as her own.

Regina’s greatest hope in life is that her son will graduate from university and get a good paying job to help support the children. Until then, she works extra long hours to contribute to his tuition. When school is not in session he returns home to work hard like his mother, performing casual labor such as delivering water and doing other peoples’ laundry.

Regina is a very serious person. As I interviewed her following her weekly BRAC group meeting she seldom smiled and never laughed. When I asked her what she does for enjoyment, she replied she “sleeps”.

All this changed as we walked down the soggy lane approaching her modest house. Her orphans ran to be at her side. The first to arrive was Marvin, a young boy who was injured in a fire. He has burns on his arms and legs and about half of his left foot is missing. None of that seems to bother Marvin. He wore a constant smile on his face and he was the first to reach his grandmother. She handed him her bag, which he proudly carried for her. I sensed Marvin occupies a special place in Regina’s heart.

reginas-orphans.jpgAs the children grouped around us, Regina’s stoic composure softened. She smiled and hugged her orphans. They obviously worship her and she relishes their company and devotion.

Regina’s microfinance group was formed less than a year ago. It consists of five sub-groups containing five members each. At their first meeting, the 25 group members elected Regina as their group leader for a two year term.

Regina’s primary business is selling roasted chicken. She buys live chickens during the day, kills and cleans them, and then roasts the birds in a charcoal fueled oven and sells them on the covered sidewalk in the commercial center of Bwaise. She starts selling roasted chicken at about 6 pm. Her first customers are commuters returning home from work. Her next customers are revelers leaving bars in the area. Regina stays on the job until the last roasted chicken is sold, sometime well after midnight.

She shops hard during the day to locate plump birds, paying between 4,000-4,500 shillings each. After roasting and cutting the chickens into pieces, she is able to sell one chicken for 5,900 shillings. She sells six chickens a day Monday-Thursday and seven chickens each day on Friday-Sunday. Her average weekly gross profit from selling roasted chickens is 75,000 shillings, before subtracting fixed costs such as charcoal fuel. This is approximately US $45.50 per week.

One of the threats to Regina’s business is not being able to obtain a reliable daily supply of live chickens. At certain times of the year, especially around holidays, chickens are in short supply.

To even out her cash flow and to guarantee a minimum income, Regina opened a second business of selling fresh water from a water company tap located on her property. She borrowed 300,000 shillings (about US $ 180) from BRAC. With the proceeds of her loan she was able to have the water tap installed as well as replenish working capital in her chicken roasting business. Regina estimates she generates 6,000-10,000 shillings ($3.60-$6.00) profit per week selling clean water to neighbors who do not have a water tap.

The profit from her water business is small but very important. With responsibility for feeding and caring for eleven orphans, earning cash money every day is essential. If the chicken roasting business fails to meet her family needs, she can count on cash income from the water tap.

The daily diet in Regina’s home consists primarily of starches such as posho (made from corn flour), matoke (banana based), potatoes, and cassava. The children wear second hand clothing purchased at Kampala’s sprawling St. Balikuddembe market for 2,000 to 5,000 shillings ($1.20-$3.00).

reginas-house.jpgSome of the orphans sleep with Regina in her one room house. The balance sleep in one room of her brother’s former home, under the supervision of Stephen, an extremely polite teenage grandson who is Regina’s “right hand man” in the family.

Regina’s greatest challenge is paying school fees for the children. Uganda has universal primary education which theoretically provides free schooling for children from Primary 1 through Primary 7 grades. It doesn’t really work out that way. First, additional fees such as uniform fees, book fees, and teacher’s transportation fees are often imposed at public schools. Second, public primary schools are not always available. In Regina’s parish there is only one public primary school and 10 private schools. Finally, the quality of public school education is widely perceived to be sub-standard. The majority of students in the Kampala area attend private schools.

One private school a short distance from Regina’s home charges about 25,000 shillings ($15) per term for a primary level student. Tuition is higher for secondary grades. There are three terms per year.

With a monthly family income of only about $65, it is easy to see how school fees take a large percentage of her household budget.

Regina is a determined woman. She has never been late on a weekly loan payment. She spoke to her credit officer and branch manager about taking out a larger loan when the first loan is paid off. With the additional capital she could raise up a small portion of her swampy land to build a poultry house. Rearing her own chickens will improve profitability by lowering her cost of goods as well as insuring a supply of birds year round.

She has also considered borrowing money to finish the second room of her brother’s house and renting it out. She figures the rental income will repay the loan and eventually contribute to family income.

When I asked Regina what would happen to the children if she was not there, she looked at me through sad eyes and said they would be on the street.

As I bid good bye, I was filled with profound respect and admiration for this saintly grandmother. Impulsively, I bent down to kiss her on the cheek. The children howled in delight and shock at the sight of a tall blond stranger kissing their grandmother in public.

The meaning of my kiss was to let her know that she is not alone. She has the respect of her grandchildren, her neighbors, her peers in the BRAC group, her BRAC credit officer, her BRAC branch manager, the social lenders at Kiva.org who supply funds to BRAC, and at least one American businessman who stands in awe of her unselfish determination.

4 comments 19 January 2008

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