Archive for February, 2008
Random experiences in Ghana
I’ve been in Ghana now for one month and I realized I’ve been slacking in keeping up my journal, so I’m posting several random experiences I’ve had so far.
On most days I go out with a loan officer to take pictures of clients who are requesting loans for their businesses or have already taken a loan and we go to follow-up on their progress. The first problem you encounter when trying to find someone is there are no street names or addresses whatsoever. We had to find 11 borrowers who were all located within one small segment of Cape Coast, but to find each person you have to go up to random people and ask if they know of the person you are asking for. Sometimes finding the borrowers is fast, but other times it feels like you are walking in circles. However, this experience has had a huge impact on me. When I’m by myself, I usually walk on the paved roads and rarely venture deep into the residential villages of Cape Coast. There’s a whole different side of poverty within these villages that most visitors never see. The conditions are absolutely terrible. No electricity, no running water, a make-shift open sewer system, and chickens and goats literally eating out of the sewers. Small houses holding entire families are little more than mud walls with tin roofs. Little kids are just walking around during the day and clearly not going to school, nor will they probably ever get the opportunity to do so. Most adults in these villages don’t speak English because they’ve never attended school and never had parents who spoke English to teach them, so the cycle continues. My hope is that these loans can enable parents to have sufficient income to send their children to school. It’s truly the only way to improve their child’s life.
One thing I still haven’t been able to adjust to is the driving. Cars and pedestrians are all packed together onto semi-paved and unpaved roads. I’ve walked miles and miles through Cape Coast and surrounding villages and towns and have yet see anything that resembles a side-walk. This situation is intensified as both cars and pedestrians always feel they have the right-of-way. An employee at CRAN drives me and others to various destinations across the city and I’m always bracing myself, thinking a huge collision is only a turn away. I haven’t decided what’s worse, driving and thinking your going to clip a group of girls walking to school or actually walking and thinking your about to be hit by the next speeding taxi. No one else seems to even notice the cars missing them by mere inches. Girls and women carry various goods on their head don’t even blink an eye as a car will wail it’s horn and swerve at the last second to avoid clipping the person. Besides being the only white man for miles, I feel a little out of place because I’m constantly looking over my shoulder and stopping for cars and people to pass, so I’m not hit by the taxi that’s driving 30 miles per hour on a small dirt road.
My favorite experience in Ghana so far has been all the little kids and babies shouting “Obroni, Obroni” when I walk by. Obroni means white person or foreigner but has a positive connotation to it (at least that’s what I’m told). When walking up and down the streets little kids run up with huge smiles, touch your hand and sing “Obroni, Obroni…how are you? I am fine!!”. It’s inspiring to see these little kids living in such horrible conditions still being so upbeat about life and enjoying even the small events. When I first got to Ghana only the little kids would acknowledge me and I’d get blank stares from adults, but after a few days I realized I’m the stranger and should be the one to initiate the acknowledgement. So, now I just smile and wave at people working in their small shops and they break-out in enormous smiles, wave back and sometimes strike up a conversation.
The only talk in Ghana from late January to early February was the Africa Cup of Nations being hosted by Ghana. It’s basically the World Cup for Africa. If religion is what Ghanaians are most passionate about, soccer is a very close 2nd. I watched the games at my old hotel with either people from work, other Western visitors, or a few people I’ve met locally. The entire country was electric everyday that Ghana played a match. After a Ghanaian goal, every single person in the city would flood out into the streets, dance music would start blaring and there’d be a mini-party for about 5 minutes then everybody would return and continue watching the game. After a big victory, people would be out celebrating till 1-2 in the morning. After Ghana beat Nigeria to advance to the semi-finals, my friend came to my hotel and asked if I wanted to go to the middle of town and see the real party. I couldn’t imagine it would be any different than what was going on in front of the hotel but I went with anyway. When we got the center of Cape Coast, there were thousands of people jammed into the streets with reggae music blaring at every street corner. It was really a sight to see. The next day my co-worker, Eddie, asked if people were this passionate about sports in the US. I thought for awhile and told him the only way I could see this excitement and passion being matched would be if the Chicago Cubs won the World Series in game 7 with a walk-off homerun (I’m from Chicago).
I did a lot of research and talked to many many people before traveling to Ghana, but by far the best piece of advice I received before going to Ghana came from a former Kiva Fellow and current Kiva staff member. He said, in many parts of Africa, it’s not uncommon for a male to hold hands for an extended period of time (15-30 seconds) with another male after a handshake if he views you as a friend. THANK GOD I knew this beforehand. 15-30 seconds may not sound like a long time, but try holding hands with another male while walking through a crowded market for 20 seconds…it feels like an eternity.
2 comments 27 February 2008
Planet Rating
Things at CRAN have been pretty hectic the past couple weeks. At the end of February, CRAN is having an international rating done. This basically announces to the entire microfinance world how well CRAN is run as a MFI. A good rating could mean new sources of capital as well as world-wide acknowledgement of CRAN as well as one of the top MFIs in Ghana. However, a bad rating would be a set back for the organization and would dampen spirits within the organization. All CRAN employees have been working extra hard the past several weeks to ensure they do get a positive rating. We recently had a staff meeting to go over what exactly the rating will cover. Some of the areas of emphasis are one’s you’d never even think of, but this rating will help to tie-down any loose ends and make CRAN really focus on every minute detail within the organization. How is money transferred to borrowers in the safest and most reliable manner? If a branch unit is in a remote area, how can it send information back to the main office on a daily basis if there is no internet connection and no cost effective means to drive it to the office? Without taking collateral from borrowers, what’s the best way to minimize loan defaults and late payments? These are just a few of the questions, in addition to everyday business; CRAN is taking on to ensure they achieve a high rating.
Add comment 22 February 2008
The president is coming…
This past weekend was very exciting for Tanzania. As a part of President Bush’s tour of Africa, he visited Dar es Salaam. It was the first visit by an American President, since Clinton’s visit in 1998.
With typical Tanzanian hospitality, Dar was ready for the occasion, and I couldn’t help smiling… Banners were strung up that featured the Stars and Stripes crossed with the Tanzanian flag, and welcomed “Your Excellency President Bush.” Billboards were scattered throughout the city featuring a panorama of Kilimanjaro, with an artist’s rendering of Bush’s head emerging from the snow at the top of the mountain. My personal favorite was a woman’s dress that I saw on the bus: it was emblazoned with headshots of President Jakaya Kikwete and Bush connected with a screen-print that read “Lasting Friendship.”
Being one of the few (read ‘only’) white males near where I live, I frequently have humorous encounters with locals. When I am walking on the street, locals often point at me and exclaim “Bush!” It is made funnier by the Tanzanian pronunciation of Bush, which is something more like “Booshee.” A couple of times, street vendors have pulled me aside and asked me in a hushed tone if I am with the FBI. On Saturday, I was walking with a friend, and we encountered a group of Tanzanian boys. After greeting them, one asked me, with wide-eyes, if I was “the one that they call Bush.”
Of course, the reaction to the visit was really quite mixed, although the government clearly wanted to things to go smoothly. Journalists (in the English press, I can’t read Swahili…yet) showed a healthy amount of criticism and journalistic freedom. The result was a productive dialogue on a number of issues related to the Bush presidency ranging from African development economics to the Iraq war. Notably, there was considerable skepticism regarding the motive of the grant that Tanzania received during the visit. However, President Kikwete certainly welcomed the $700 million grant, which was earmarked for infrastructure development and disease prevention. Fortunately for him, the grant tripled the amount that was stolen from the government’s coffers in the most recent scandal, which felled the Prime Minister and forced Kikwete to dissolve the cabinet when it was revealed two weeks ago.
In only a short time, I have been received an exciting introduction to African politics. It has allowed me to step back and experience politics from a new perspective. Tanzanians are quite interested in current events, and I have had ample opportunity to discuss issues and take in a diverse range of opinions – an invaluable learning experience.
4 comments 20 February 2008
When it rains, it pours.
Literally. Last Tuesday was the first day it rained since I have been in Dar. There was no warning drizzle or gradual acceleration. Rather, the sky opened with a clap of thunder, and rain came down that sounded more like gravel than water as it pounded the thin tin roof over my head.
The roof belonged to YOSEFO’s center in the Tandika community. I am told that Tandika is best referred to as an “unplanned urban settlement,” although the vernacular would suggest otherwise. Inside the center, client meeting were conducted by the light of a single candle – terms dictated by a local power outage.
Tandika is a neighborhood of Temeke, one of the poorest urban areas in Dar. There was a noticeable contrast between the Tandika center, and the Vituka center I described in my first blog…
Edson Charles, YOSEFO’s credit officer assigned to the community explained that Tandika’s clients were almost exclusively women. Most of the women run small food shops, and receive loans that are often small in comparison to clients in other areas. However, with hard work and assertiveness, the loans often enable them to improve their family’s standard of living markedly, especially relative to the status quo in Tandika.
On the road out of Tandika, the bus wove between a maze of giant potholes full of water, and neglected mounds of gravel waiting to fill them. By this time, the rain water had reached critical mass and could qualify as a creek as it coursed between the road and clusters of storefronts. Most of the stores had no protection against the rushing water, and even the few with small doorsteps could not stop the water from seeping in and pooling on the floor. With this image in mind, it is not hard to understand why self employment in Dar is no easy task. However, it is encouraging to know that the idea behind microcredit – the idea behind Kiva and YOSEFO – is that access to a small amount of capital can provide just enough to enable a microentrepreneur to turn the corner.
1 comment 20 February 2008
Child labor?
I am finding myself in situations here that require much moral thought, and I can’t seem to come up with the right answer, no matter which choice I make. There are children everywhere, all of them somehow under the age of twelve, and all of them working the same trade, selling bracelets, scarves, and little souvenirs on the streets, sharing their stories of sadness and begging for your business. I don’t know what to do with them. Long ago I couldn’t have seen anything but goodness in giving to a child- believing that my money and my food will help them out of their poverty. Now, I see things differently (although not entirely).
I have mixed feelings about buying from children in the street. On one hand, they are offering me something in exchange for my money, so they are working for it, it’s not a handout. On the other hand, they are working for it. They are so young, should they be spending their time working all day? And if I buy from them, does it just affirm to their parents that yes, they should be working all day? My heart tells me to never turn away a child, but my mind goes through the whole process, and sees a parent who has the option to put their child in school, or on the streets working. And when the child comes home from work with money, which option will the parent choose? But then six-year-old Tomás comes up begging, dirt in his eyes, no shoes, and pleading for me to buy a doll from him, he hasn’t eaten all day and he needs to buy a tortilla, please. What can you do? I had met Tomás earlier in the day as I sat down to read. I told him no, thank you, I didn’t want to buy a doll. This time he found me as I waited for my dinner. Sometimes I’ve seen kids laughing in the streets, and as they see me coming, they immediately stop laughing and turn on the sad face, as if it’s a Pavlovian instinct triggered by a gringo. But Tomás, his tears appeared genuine, the desperation in his voice real. There was a family next to me, and they had a small dog who was clearly loved. They were having a pleasant family night, eating pizza, drinking Cokes, laughing at stories and playing with their dog. Tomás approached them, necklaces draped over his arm, dolls in hand, asking five Quetzales for both (about 75 cents). They politely said no, and continued on with their night. He persisted, lowering his price, showing them the necklaces, telling them his story. They again said no, not unexpectedly. Finally, Tomás asked if he could have some food, as he was so hungry and they had plenty of leftovers. They said no, and eventually he gave up and moved on to me. As I was talking with Tomás, his eyes looking as if they were about to spill over, this family’s dog was barking, sitting on his hind legs, and being fed pizza for each trick he performed. It broke my heart to have to watch Tomás witness this, I can’t imagine what he made of it—people would rather feed their food to a dog than take away his hunger.
I don’t intend to judge this family, they have their reasons, and the situation runs deeper than I can imagine. It just struck me, and made me wonder.
I had an encounter the night before that made me start thinking about this subject. I was, again, sitting down to dinner in a little café on the main street of Panajachel. I had just gotten an iced tea and was writing in my journal, and a little girl approached me, basket upon her head, another one in her arms, begging me in her sad voice to please buy a bracelet, she hadn’t made a sale and couldn’t go home until she made some money. I said no, sorry, they’re beautiful but I’m not going to buy any. She persisted, lowering her prices, showing me everything she had to offer. I looked up this time, and said no thank you, not tonight. She didn’t seem fazed; rather she sat down, and asked what I was doing. I told her I was writing, and asked if she liked to write. She said she did very much, but even more she liked to draw. We talked for a few minutes, she had several questions; she wanted to know how I could write so many words, and what tea tasted like when it was cold. After a bit she got the courage to ask if she could draw in my book. I said of course, and her eyes turned huge with excitement. She took my pen, opened to the first blank page, and began to draw a picture of the Lake Atitlan, with a smiling sun rising over the mountains (the sun was happy because it was morning). She drew pictures of her house and her family, flowers and hearts and birds. I asked her if she could write her name, to which she answered, of course! She then wrote down a little poem, and signed it ‘Para Maren, De Maria Guadalupe’. Clearly, this eleven-year-old was being educated. At this point I decided it was okay if I bought a bracelet from her. Figuring she’d leave after she had my business, she instead continued to draw, talking away, hardly even noticing the money in front of her. A friend of hers approached, basket in hand, and upon seeing us drawing, dropped her basket and pulled up a chair. She wanted to draw, too, and after a minute we were playing games—one person begins a drawing, the next has to add to it, and the next finishes it, ultimately deciding what the object will be. Somewhere in here, my pizza arrived, and I felt quite guilty and a little rude eating in front of these girls. They weren’t about to ask for any, but you could see hunger in them. I didn’t know if it was okay or not, but I shared the pizza and hoped for the best. I felt as if I were sitting down to lunch with friends- they were so grown up, and had so many questions. They both go to school regularly- Maria Guadalupe wants to be a teacher (and when she heard that’s what I had studied, I was amazed at the questions she had for me), and Veronica wants to be a tour guide because she loves to travel.
The girls drew and played games and recited poems for close to an hour, part of me feeling guilty for keeping them from work, the other part kicking myself for feeling guilty. They so eagerly abandoned their work, and transitioned so naturally into being kids. I fought with this, wondering if it’s okay for them to work, or if it’s okay because it’s not taking them away from their education, but wondering if it will eventually keep them from studying, when their parents see they’ve brought home so much money… The two girls decided to show me how they make the bracelets, and did so so quickly and skillfully. I thought they would try and sell me these new bracelets, but instead they tied them on my wrist as gifts. I almost lost it. I think I wished I could adopt them more than I wish for a puppy.
I have no decided point to this story, simply meanderings about what to do in situations like these. Does giving to children encourage their parents to put them on the street? Is it okay for kids to work if they’re still getting an education? Should we buy from kids even if it does encourage child labor- for how will they eat if we don’t? What’s more important, that the child eats or that we make a point? If you have any thoughts or ideas on the subject, I’d love to hear them…
5 comments 19 February 2008
My Credit Card, KFC, the Meaning of Haste, Not the Meaning of Haste, and Dietary WMD.
In the United States, to have one’s credit card account put “on hold” would be grounds for getting slightly upset, peeved even. Fortunately, I am here in Cambodia, and when my dad emailed me to tell me that he received a letter from my credit card company saying that my account had been put on hold due to unusual activity, I did not flinch or get terribly nervous. One, this is because you really can’t use a credit card here unless you’re along the riverfront, the tourist mecca, and thus a place I avoid. Two, this is because I assumed that the unusual activity was the actual absence of activity on my account, and this in fact made me slightly cheerful.
Nonetheless, knowing that should an emergency arise I would need it to get a ticket out of here, I hopped on the phone and called my credit card company. After taking time (stupidly) to learn that all the push-button options were not going give me the service I needed, I proceeded to peck at the zero key until the calm-toned computer lady finally realized that I wasn’t smart enough to be dealt with in her organized way. Thus, she transferred me to “hold” until someone picked up the phone. I sat for a few minutes listening to Kenny G and Tina Turner, contemplating whether or not the music sufficiently justified hanging up. But, just as Tina went into her last chorus of “I’ve Got the Power,” while at the same time I was picturing a 60-something year old woman in a leather miniskirt dancing about a strobe-light-ridden stage and singing, a fine man introducing himself as Earl picked up the phone and started asking me to verify who I was.
After that was done, Earl asked what my problem was. I told him that my account had been “temporarily put on hold” due to this “unusual activity.” He then asked me if I had been in California recently. I told him yes, that I was in San Francisco to attend the Kiva Training seminar thingy. At this point I became concerned that this short trip to California would cause them to suspend my account, but then I remembered that I didn’t use my credit card while I was there. At the same time, he asked me if I went to any KFCs, to which I said no, I hadn’t frequented any Kentucky Fried Chickens during my stay. Thus, we determined that it was someone with my credit card # who in fact had. By now I was amazed at our age’s computer advancements, that Visa and Kentucky Fried Chicken can determine whether or not someone trying to pay for their 16-piece grease bucket and 2-liter bottle of corn syrup is actually paying with their own fixed 8.9% APR money, or mine, in this case.
As the conversation wound down, Earl told me to destroy my credit card, that it was of no use, which I realized when I was trying to buy skype credit with it in an effort to call my credit card company, hoping that being in Cambodia would throw the system off just enough to let me spend $10.00, and thus put some activity on my account and preemptively end what I had thought was the unusual [in]activity. Regardless, for some reason, I can’t bring myself to destroy the card. It’s worthless to me, and to anyone who steals it, but there’s something about having it that is a comfort. This, mind you, is disturbing, as if I now seem to have a psychological aversion to parting with a worthless plastic piece of junk that says Visa.
But I digress. Work here in Cambodia has been good. I spent Monday and Tuesday in Kandal Province, which surrounds Phnom Penh. I was observing Angkor Microfinance Kampuchea’s (AMK) loan disbursement and repayment procedures. While these observations were going on, I had my Cambodian Kiva counterparts practice getting information for business profiles and journals, which they did quite well.
Now, while the work itself went smoothly, with no problems arising, my driving experiences, whether going into the field or getting to the office, have been noteworthy (at least nominally). I awoke Monday morning and began casually getting out of bed and getting ready. I visited with my friend Ratha, but as I looked at my watch I noticed that the time was 7:23am. The office opens at 7:30, and we were to leave for the field at that time. Being someone who is always early wherever he goes, I had timed the ride to my office: eight minutes. I would be one minute late, and would somehow miss the trip out into the field that was arranged especially for me. When pressed for time, I should add, my thought processes lack the rationality that I’m accustomed to approaching most of life’s situations with. Thus, I panicked, ran to Thy (the fastest-driving moto-taxi man I know), and, not being able to resist the theatrical moment that I was presented with, hopped on the back of his moto and declared: “Fly Thy, show me the meaning of haste.” He looked at me confusedly, and so I clarified: “I need to be to work in five minutes.” That he understood clearly. He smiled, started his engine, and blasted up Street 310. We made it in four minutes, and that was probably the most fun I’ve ever had on a moto. Thankfully traffic was non-existent and so my trip was not suicidal (Thy would have made it in four minutes regardless of the traffic), and I now inwardly refer to Thy as Shadowfax, for his magical abilities of getting me to work in half the time allowed me to check my email and go to the bathroom before we departed.
On Tuesday I made it to work even earlier, and this time taking the full eight minutes to get there. We left the AMK office at about 8:00 and drove out into the field. I should note here that the pretty rice-paddy scenery in the provinces makes for a generally enjoyable driving experience, but only for about ten minutes, after which time one realizes that banging against the side of the vehicle every time you hit a big bump is going to leave bruises up and down your left (or right) side. This was not an issue on Monday, since most of the time there were only three of us in the back of one of AMK’s early- to mid-1990s Land Cruisers. It was comfy, air-conditioned, and there was enough space between me and the wall of the truck to allow me to bounce about with impunity. Tuesday presented a different scenario. One of my colleagues, Paujo, a nice bloke from Maine who I share an office with right now, wanted to go out into the field to see the same processes that I was. Thus, as he rode into work at about 8:00am on Tuesday, I called over to him and told him that we were heading out and that if he wanted to join us he could. He ran up to the office, dropped his stuff off, made sure there wasn’t anything pressing that demanded his attention, and came out.
In the meantime, I was casually leaning against one of the Land Cruisers, ready for another pleasant ride out into the field. Suddenly, however, a small Toyota Tacoma pickup truck pulled up and Pok Thy, the regional manager responsible for Kandal and also my guide, hopped in the front seat. I looked in the back seat (and at least it boasted an extended cabin), and grimaced. Four of us—Sophanith, Sophany, Paujo and I—would occupy that four-and-a-half foot space for the rest of the day. Paujo and I had backpacks precariously arranged on our laps or on the floor, which meant either blocking the air conditioning or having no foot room. I opted for the latter, and remained awkwardly positioned but reasonably cool, despite wearing dress clothes like everyone else. We arranged ourselves efficiently (like sardines, i.e.), and I waited for the driver to come shut my door. I was going to shut it myself, but when I tried I incidentally elbowed myself just beneath the ribs with the full weight of the door, which drove home the point that I should not have done that. Thus, it was up to our driver to close my door for me, and while I sat trying to look calm, I was in fact quite worried that much of me was still hanging out of the truck. He shut the door with enough oomph that everything previously hanging out was now smushed up inside. He chuckled. I made an involuntary grunt-like sound.
And thus we drove. When we hit the dirt roads, and the bumps that came every five seconds, my left shoulder banged against the corner of the door and the frame of the truck, while my head bounced back and forth between that same corner and the headrest (the corner won). Additionally, halfway into the journey, I began to notice a numbness coming over my right side from the waist down. Then I realized that I had committed the cardinal sin of long drives: I was sitting (read: bouncing up and down) on my wallet, worthless credit card and all. This too would leave a bruise, though I couldn’t feel it at the time.
Trying to take my mind off this sensation, or lack thereof, I asked Paujo what he figured the life of the suspension on these vehicles was. He said he didn’t know, and instead remarked rhetorically that he wondered what the suspension of his own rear end was, though his choice of words was slightly less kosher. The day continued on in this way, and when it was finally over, I asked Sopanith: how do you say “I’m tired” in Khmer. He told me, and I now have a new phrase, which this week has seen wide usage among those of us going into the field.
I took Wednesday off, needing to go to the bank to open an account, which was an ordeal in itself. The first time I went to the bank they told me I needed a letter from my employer saying that I actually worked in Cambodia and was not some useless lemming merely seeking to make a deposit. Thus, the next time I went into work I pulled up AMK’s letterhead and typed one sentence saying that I work here. Paul, my boss and AMK’s CEO, signed it and had me go get it stamped. In Cambodia, I should add, things with stamps and other official-looking “insignia” seem to be highly valued. On a side note, I should say that this largely constitutes a joke, as the first time I was here I found myself signing my name on fifty certificates of completion for a workshop that I and several friends put together. I could have signed “Santa Claus” or “Mr. Bojangles” with the same effect.
Anyway, when I was at the bank on Wednesday, they asked me if AMK was closed? I said no, and then they asked why I wasn’t at work. I told them: “because I needed to come here to open an account.” To this they replied: “why didn’t you come when AMK was closed.” AMK is closed on the weekend, and, coincidentally, so is the bank. Somehow this point wasn’t getting through, but fortunately some lady kept hearing “AMK” being mentioned, and so she walked over. I looked up, and saw one of my colleagues, who then verified that I am not a useless lemming seeking merely to make a deposit. For example, she too was there instead of at AMK. This is perhaps the first and only time that I will ever be grateful for windows between offices. Hers is right next to mine, and in this case that lack of privacy allowed me to open a bank account.
Thursday I was supposed to go back out into the field, but AMK did not have a vehicle available, and while I was slightly disappointed, my body was glad it had another day’s rest in a nice air-conditioned office. That night I went out with a friend who I met here and a few of her Cambodian friends, as well as some folks she met while traveling. We grabbed dinner and drinks, but as I had a splitting headache I didn’t drink anything and decided to call it a night fairly early. I hopped a moto and set off for home. The next thing I knew, however, I was in the Boeng Kak area at around 11:30 at night. At night, this area becomes a bit seedy, as evidenced by the many strung-out people drinking in dive bars and the drug dealers dangling bags of weed in front of your face as you drive by. This it seems actually takes some skill, since they never obstruct the moto-driver’s field of vision, but manage to slip the bag of drugs between him and his passenger. They know who to market to, evidently. Nonetheless, I found myself saying repeatedly, in Khmer, “no thank you” (why I thanked them I’m not quite sure…instinct, perhaps). Fortunately, I somehow got across the point that, as a wholesome lad, I don’t frequent the prostitute- and drug-ridden sections of town, and instead live in a nice quiet neighborhood, which I eventually got to.
Friday turned out to be a casual day, but a big one since AMK’s Kiva profile is done and I now have access to do things of consequence (hopefully good consequence, mind you). Being very tired though, I was also very ready for Friday to be over, and at 5:30, after a ten-hour day with a working lunch, it was. I shut down my computer, packed it up, and walked out of the office and into the heat of a fine Cambodian evening. I hopped a moto for home, and off we went for the casual drive home. As we proceeded towards my house, however, I noticed that my moto driver didn’t turn right onto Street 310 like most drivers do. Considering the fact that the opportunity to cross from one side of the street to the other in heavy traffic never presented itself, I didn’t blame him. There were other ways to get back anyway, and so he kept driving until he was able to get across the street. By this point, however, I began to notice that the sputter of his moto grew into a loud cough, and, on an unpaved side street about a mile from my place, the engine quit. He jumped up and down on the starter, trying to get some life into the tiny scooter, while I likewise bounced up and down on the seat. Tragically, his efforts were in vain, and I aggravated the bruise on my posterior.
Knowing that my ride was over, I began to dismount so I could start to walk, but he just looked at me and motioned for me to stay seated. He then sat back down, and with his left leg began pulling us along, determined to get me where I was going (despite the fact that he no longer knew where he was going). So there I sat, wearing sunglasses, slacks, a button-down shirt, dress shoes, and a helmet, moving at about half a mile per hour down a dirt road on the back of a moto while the driver pulled us both along with his left leg. This was not “the meaning of haste,” and rather an omniscient being’s way of getting back at me for defying the odds and making it to work on time on Monday.
As we creeped along, and as I sat thinking about how it would be faster for me to walk, and calorically more conservative for him to let me, I began to notice that everyone was out on in the road or on their balconies looking at us (well, probably me). Now, I hadn’t been at all comfortable with the situation at hand, letting some old guy drag me about a dirt road in Phnom Penh, but now that I was being stared at with confused-to-angry looks, I decided that it was definitely the time to get off. I went to stand up, but the guy grabbed my arm and sat me back down, and so I seemed stuck on the back of this guys moto. I felt, very simply, like a jackass. Then suddenly an idea came over me, I could help him out, and so between his left leg and my right leg, we pressed on in our slow journey. After about ten minutes we hit what could legitimately be classified as a road, and so I gave him a buck, begrudgingly took what change he had, and we parted ways. Two minutes later I was on the back of another moto, this one with enough gas, though the driver also didn’t know where he was going, and so after another ten minutes of trying to convince him that I did, I finally arrived home and had a beer.
In other news, and I have no idea what caused this, I have had immense cravings for fast food, not KFC, mind you, but burgers and fries, and Coca Cola as well. I don’t eat this stuff in the US, and I stopped drinking soda years ago, but for some reason I now have deep cravings for it. Thus, three days last week I went over to Lucky Seven (fast food chain) and got a sandwich, fries and a coke. Additionally, on Monday, when lunchtime came, we all piled into the comfy Land Cruiser and drove to a restaurant in Kandal. It boasted “fine Khmer and Thai cuisine in a relaxing and comfortable environment.” The terms relaxing and comfortable are of course strictly relative, as the floor was covered with tissues that previous diners and we used to wipe dust and dirt off our seats, and I spent most of the hour batting flies away from my Coke, which I drank warm because I did not trust the source of the ice. I ordered fried rice, which is a generally safe dish since everything is cooked, but I was slightly dismayed that it came served on a bed of lettuce and freshly cut tomatoes. Hepatitis A aside, I was starving and assume that I’ve been immunized for this, so hopefully I have antibodies. Fortunately, nearly two weeks later and I can say that nothing happened except the fact that I filled my stomach with some very tasty food. My days of dietary WMD are over, and my daily meals have returned to normal: lots of rice, fruit, stir-fried vegetables, and some good meat, pork in particular. Life is never dull here. Life is good.
Much love to you all,
Mark
p.s. The wicked French lady came back earlier than I expected. She never paid Thou, saying that her guidebook (three years old, mind you) said that Visa extentions only cost $35, and thus Thou was ripping her off by charging $40. Thou managed to get back at her, incidentally, for when she requested a ticket to Ho Chi Minh “Ville,” Thou’s sister accidentally booked her a ticket to Sihanoukville instead. We laughed heartily as we sat picturing the wicked French lady sitting properly and confidently on the bus bound for the south shores of Cambodia instead of Vietnam.
Add comment 15 February 2008
Changes
I’ve found myself lately in a state of peace I can’t seem to explain nor justify. But peace is much preferred to chaos, and I’ll take it, no questions asked. For the first three months of my fellowship I was based in Lima, traveling from there to the different branch offices around the country. While amazing to experience the intense variety of Peru, it can be unsettling to be in a constant state of movement- just as you get used to a place, you have to leave, wondering what you could have accomplished with a bit more time, what relationships you could have formed. So, with much eagerness and gratitude, I spent my last month in Peru in the amazing city I’d fallen in love with in December, Ayacucho. For the first time since I had landed in Peru, I was able to not only unpack my bags, but actually put my things in a closet, on hangers, in drawers! The excitement was too much! But Ayacucho proved to be much more than a place to simply ‘hang my hat’. It became my temporary home, complete with friends and family.
I was lucky enough to have my month in Ayacucho correspond with the country’s massive festival of Carnaval. I believe Carnaval is celebrated a bit differently in each city throughout the world, and here, in Ayacucho, they celebrate with water. Each day in the weeks leading up to this great celebration presented a challenge. The children nearby the house where I lived had a scope narrowed in on the gringos, and thought the best way to pass their summer vacation was to hide behind whatever door, wall, or car they could find, and spring an attack of water balloons whatever chance we gave them. And so it turned into a covert operation, constantly on the lookout for little hands clenching all too maliciously to purple and green balloons, ready to pounce. And then one would hit, and by the time you could shake off the shock and turn around, all that was left was joyful squeals, relishing in their triumph. Something had to be done. So dinosaur water guns were purchased for 50 cents. Although cute, they were not enough. And so, the right of passage to becoming a true Ayacuchano took place. Water balloons, and lots of them. And so it became, fully armed at all times before venturing into the dangerous streets, true participants in Carnaval.
It continued like this with no relief, being drenched became the norm. I became very good at repeating to myself ‘it’s just water, it will dry’. And then arrived the true Carnaval. No longer innocent water balloons, but buckets full, followed by baby powder and an insane amount of spray foam. And, to the unlucky, paint and oil. I could no longer reassure myself with ‘it’s just water, it will dry’. But somehow, even the paint was welcomed. Seldom have I laughed so hard, or seen so much pure happiness in every direction.
I had the great privilege to be a part of Finca’s ‘comparsa’, singing and dancing in traditional dress for six hours through the streets of Ayacucho in one of many Carnaval parades. Desperately trying to learn the Quechua (native language) songs, and proudly belting it out whenever the Spanish lines came along, we twirled through the streets, with spray foam and baby powder in hand, ready to engage in war with the thousands of awaiting spectators. It was fantastic.
The staff at Finca amaze me. I feel so honored to have been a part of something so important to them, and so sad to have to leave them so soon. The work they are doing has an incredible impact. Every socia I got to talk to willingly conveyed their immense gratitude for the loan officers and staff of Finca, that more than money, Finca gives them hope and teaches them how to live as strong and loving women. Skeptics ask if microfinance really works. I have not a single doubt. And it is so much more than finance. It is life.
I had to say goodbye to Finca last week, and they gave me a going-away party I’ll never forget, one that touched my heart and deepened my understanding of what the thousands of socias see. After my short visit to Ayacucho in December, I wrote a blog about the city, post terrorism. One of the things that struck me most was how, in a city that had been destroyed by evil less than two decades ago, there was no indicator that the town had ever been anything other than peaceful. Finca has been an alive presence for fifteen years now, and I have to believe that they are a strong factor in the community’s ability to rebuild and thrive. I can’t wait to see what they accomplish in the next fifteen years.
I was so sad to leave my temporary home and move once again to a new and strange place. But Guatemala has a story of its own, and a people who love it like Finca loves Ayacucho. And slowly, I’m seeing the beauty in this, and finding the courage to uncover the miracles that Friendship Bridge creates every day.
Add comment 14 February 2008
RSS - Posts
