Archive for April, 2008
Cambodian “Gambling”
Most of the clients I visit make just enough money from their businesses to get by day to day. When you ask what their future plans or hopes are, some have none in sight- just repeating the same monotonous labor, day in and day out, to continue to put food on the table… challenging enough with the rising food inflation here (http://www.voanews.com/english/2008-04-21-voa21.cfm). If family members are sick (with an 8+ member household in a developing country- odds are someone will be sick), medical costs can make this prohibitive and put business activity on hold. That’s where Maxima often steps in with loans for start-up capital so the families can resume their business operations:
- http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=comment&id=20190&ent=43834
- http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=comment&id=30577&ent=47218
The great success stories come in when clients’ businesses have taken off to the point where they have excess—enough for monthly savings. Realizing the villagers never invest this money into a savings account, I thought this was a greatly missed opportunity to turn interest…. until I found out about Cambodian gambling.
Cambodian gambling, or tontin, is a “game” that villagers play when they have extra money. A tontin leader will form a group of friends or neighbors who pool their money into group savings. Much like a group loan, members take turns borrowing, starting with the group leader (the one in need of immediate capital who established the group). The twist comes becomes members can negotiate with each other to decide the interest rate they’ll pay, as well as the rate at which they’ll agree to be repaid. Depending on the timing, circumstances and loan use, they may vary. Playing tontin, members administer a self-regulated borrowing network. The network acts as an insurance system to provide members reserve funds in times of need or emergency, as well as a savings system and means to earn interest each time another person borrows.
While occasionally members will skip town with the money, this is rare. Rather, because members select each other from among friends and neighbors, they feel the system provides the best way to insure their money is safe and secure. Many villagers feel it is safer with each other than with a bank. In the ‘90s, Cambodia faced a meltdown with financial institutions. Banks were established overnight with minimal capital, and after collecting significant sums of money, they took off with the cash and closed just as fast as they opened. While the NBC (National Bank of Cambodia) now sets minimal capital requirements and the system is much more regulated, the scams are still too recent to be forgotten. Villagers burned by the past are still reluctant to trust the financial institutions with their investments and consider their self-made institutions more reliable and accountable. Not to mention, depending on their luck at the negotiation table, the interest rates can be even more favorable.
Sorry, Officer, I just don’t do fines.
Days go by and I often forget how life in Africa can be so different than life in the States. Events from this past weekend remind me that I am going to really miss Tanzania when I leave in June.
On Saturday, I was driving to a friend’s house when I was stopped by a policeman who flagged me down from the side of the road. In Swahili, he asked for my license and then asked for me to show him that the brakes, lights, windshield wipers, etc. work. Seeing that everything worked properly, he started talking about something outside the car. Unfamiliar with these Swahili words, I got out to see that he was pointing to rust on the side of the car. He led me around the car to point out all the spots that had some rust. I replied in English (due to my limited Swahili) that it’s true, that it is an old car. He told me that the rust was “a problem” and that I would have to pay a fine of 20,000 Tanzanian Shillings (about $18). Flabbergasted, I responded saying, “I’m very sorry, but I don’t do fines. Please just take me to court.” We argued about it for a few minutes. He kept saying that court was unnecessary, but I insisted that I preferred going to court. He then left with my license to deal with another driver. Returning five to ten minutes later, he asked if I was ready for the fine papers. I said no, and insisted that I just wanted the court date. Having grown up in East Africa, I know all too well of the common occurrence of “kitu kidogo” (Swahili for the polite way of asking for a bribe). At that moment, I remembered that humor was probably my best tactic. In broken Swahili, I laughed saying that receiving a court date was better for me since I would just get the owner who I borrowed the car from to show for court. He then laughed with me and finally he let me go.
Sunday brought me more amusement. I was walking from my home to the grocery store to buy some margarine when I met an eleven-year-old girl named Mariam on the road. She struck up conversation with me since we were walking in the same direction. Although she was from my neighborhood, she looked like a typical village girl, all except for the fact that she was wearing slippers instead of walking barefoot. She had a sarong wrapped around her over a ragged, oversized dress. On her head, she carried a large, heavy plastic bucket of rice which she was taking to the mill to be processed into flour for her mother’s roadside snack business. She rejected my offer to assist her with the bucket and made her own offer to carry my umbrella.
Walking side-by-side, we used up all the Swahili I know. Going an extra half-mile out of her way, she accompanied me to the grocery store, located (ironically) at the most modern mall in Tanzania. The contrast between this girl, with the big bucket on her head, and the westernized mall around us intrigued me. After buying the margarine and some chocolate, as was her request, we then walked to complete her chore down some muddy back roads where chickens dart across the street. Somehow, at the end of the walk, I felt like we were two peas in a pod.
Making friends and laughter with strangers is an everyday experience here that I will dearly miss when I go. Life in Tanzania is lived in a sense of community in which people prefer to sit with strangers than to sit alone. I find that if I am ever alone at a roadside restaurant waiting for a friend, people who come in and see me by myself often choose to join my table although there are empty ones nearby. Not only do they want to “alleviate” me from my aloneness, these strangers courteously welcome me with a “karibu” to the food they have ordered. Life, I am ever finding out, becomes richer and more amusing when we all accept each other as peas in a pod.
Top Ten List
It seems to be a requisite duty of a Fellow to provide the “You know you’re in…when” so here’s my take:
10. Rugby is life. American Football is called ‘American Rugby’. Though a Samoan-American is 40 times more likely to make the NFL than a non-Samoan American (thanks, ESPN), the more than 30 ethnic Samoan football players in the NFL, like Troy Polamalu or Junior Seau, do not have celebrity status. That fame is reserved for the Rugby players of Manu Samoa (National Team) and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson born of a Samoan mother.
9. “Mmm” means Yes. If you ask, was that a “yes”? You’ll receive another “Mmm”.
8. At times, no communication can be better than bad communication. I mistakenly relayed that I was married with kids when I first arrived through a conversation in broken Enlgish. Neither is true.
7. If you ride the buses, be prepared to have someone on your lap and make stops every 200ft due to no designated bus stops and Samoans’ aversion to walking.
6. As a foreigner, the only persistent dangers are the wild dogs and sunburns. Both potentially nasty. As a local remarked to me during my first few days here: “you are not made for this sun.”
5. If you’re raised in a village, you really have more like 20 mothers there to chastise you and provide swift corporal punishment in the form of a stiff rear-end smack at any time.
4. Only in Samoa (or perhaps Scotland) are four NFL linemen-sized men singing Madonna’s “Borderline”, in lavalavas (skirts), still an intimidating sight.
3. Walking along the side of the road is like playing a game of chicken with the passing vehicles. I am convinced they want to get as close to you as possible. When a driver provides ample room to walk (and live), I know it’s an expat driving by.
2. Your mobile phone calls are very short. No introductions, no good-byes. The result of per-second charging and exorbitant rates.
1. Your deceased relatives never really leave you. Many are buried on your porch or front lawn.
We be thankful we arrive fine for Cameroon. Or how the cross-Africa dash came to a welcome pause in Bamenda.
Cameroon. For us, it is the end of a long road. Since we left the U.S. in December, Dave and Megan have set foot in 13 countries, 11 in Africa. Our overland trek started in Casablanca and took us through Morocco/Western Sahara, Mauritania, Senegal, The Gambia, Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Togo, Benin, Nigeria, and finally here, Bamenda, the capital city of the Northwest Province, altitude above 1000 meters, surrounded by mountains, green, lush, and yes, the beginning of the “light” rainy season.
Our arrival in Cameroon three weeks ago occurred in several stages.
• First, crossing the border from Nigeria to Ekok, Cameroon, a process involving conversations with passport checks by no fewer than 8 border officials.
• Second, discovering that the guidebooks had not lied, and that the road from Ekok to the next major city, Mamfe, is in fact “terrible.” We departed Ekok at about 5:00 PM, crammed into a car dwarfed by its oversized wheels, makeshift rear-wheel drive, and jacked-up suspension – and arrived, mud covered, via motorbike, 63 kilometers later, in Mamfe at about 6:00 AM. In between: a bonding experience with our driver-cum-auto-mechanic and fellow passengers, involving a borrowed battery, siphoned petrol from the tank directly into the carburetor, and hours of pushing and pulling (with a rope attached to the front axle) through a series of mud traps with 8 foot walls of mud on either side carved out by the rains and previous vehicles.
• 
Third, from Mamfe to Bamenda, another 127 kilometers on a slightly better road in a much better vehicle, we bore witness to the “raw power” of four-wheel drive beyond Jeep Cherokee commercials. We sat in the open-air back of the pickup with ten or so other passengers and, though the trip took another 12 hours, we were content with good company and fantastic views of farms nestled in the rainforest, and across the mountains we were gradually climbing. Midway, a tree with an 18-inch trunk blocked our muddy path, but through geometry, rope, and 8-cylanders, our Toyota managed to pull it aside – take that weekend warriors! Of course, it rained, and as predicted, the air turned cooler as we approached Bamenda, so that we were happy to arrive as night fell.
The folks at GHAPE, our host organization, had been awaiting our arrival for days, and Loveline, the field manager, rushed to the bus station to meet us, greeting each of us with a hug, and quickly scooped us into a taxi back to the GHAPE office/house compound. There, we were greeted by about ten smiling faces, mostly women of many different ages – from 16 to 70, we would later learn – and ushered into our apartment in the compound. For her part, Megan can honestly say that she has only experienced welcome like this from her parents when arriving home the first few times from college to find her room newly cleaned and rearranged, food specially bought for her consumption.
Our two room apartment was perfectly outfitted – tables and chairs, living room set, stove, dishes, pots, buckets for dish washing, broom, bed, wardrobe, radio, TV and DVD player. Within moments, we had guests in every chair of the apartment, were reviewing names for the second time, trying to guess just who-was-who and what role each played, and brewing a pot of tea on our stove. Learning that Dave loves eggs, a man named Michael (who we later learned is the brother of GHAPE founder Bernadette) practically snapped his fingers and two-dozen eggs miraculously appeared.
That was Friday night, and we quickly learned how hard-working GHAPE – and most of Cameroonians – are. Work began at 8:00 AM the next morning, with a meeting of all the staff: Loveline, field manager; Donald, Fointama, Mercy, Josephine, and Bridget, credit assistants; Calista, accountant; and two volunteer workers, Mr. Eric and Hostensia. At first we thought this meeting was specially called for us, but in fact GHAPE works not only a 7:30 AM to 5:00 PM week workday, but also a half-day on Saturday mornings.
Saturday afternoon and Sunday introduced us to our neighbors – the immediate, extended, and adopted family of GHAPE founder Bernadette, a mostly female family, led by “Mama,” a warm and hilarious septuagenarian. By the time we returned from the food market and Megan from the cyber, where she sent the requisite “we’re safely out of Nigeria and at home in Cameroon” email, the other ladies of the house were helping Dave to properly wash and prepare his vegetables for dinner-making. Pascaline then lent us a grinding-stone-cum-cutting-board and helped Megan to prepare dinner, including the new (for us) “bitter leaf.” By evening, we had 17-year-old Abigail and 10-year-old Fru sharing food with us in our room and watching The Gods Must be Crazy with us on bootleg DVD (thank you, Nigeria!).
Sunday morning, Megan was collected at a quarter of eight to accompany Pascaline and Mama to mass at the Catholic Church down the road. She had her first practical lesson in the local Pidgin English, listening to the Kenyan priest, himself not a native speaker, read the mass: “We be listen for we lord and he talk say he helup all he piking (children). We be thank he for we protect and guide.” Walking home, Pascaline laughed when Megan proudly announced that she could understand much of the mass, and explained that the priest spoke more slowly and clearly than any native speaker. She is right. If either of these subjects piques your fancy, don’t worry, as we will certainly be writing more on religion, which infuses every aspect of life here, and language, which fascinates at least one of us, in future chapters.
Until then,
Send your comments and questions
(We promise to respond), and
Finance a loan for a GHAPE member
(We’ll write more about them soon)!
~Megan & Dave
The mission to be social
As my fellowship nears its end, I’ve purposely taken time to step back and revisit my original reasons for deciding to quit my job, stuff my apartment into a dusty storage unit, leave family and friends and fly to Ghana. One of my goals was to see the impact of commercialization on an MFI’s social mission.
Recently, Sinapi has confronted this issue head-on when it started the process of converting from an NGO to a formal financial institution. Like many MFIs before it, Sinapi wanted to change its business structure in order to receive more commercial financing as well as to take client deposits. Many of the expected benefits were cited for this decision including new financial discipline in the organization and the potential to open new markets and reach more borrowers. Likewise, I heard many of the expected negatives including the burden of debt-servicing and the pressure by commercial lenders to alter or downscale the social mission of the organization. But, it was the impact this organizational change had on the lender / borrower relationship that I never really considered. Or as I like to call it – the impact on the organization’s mission to be social. In Sinapi’s case, the mission to be social was a key driver in its decision to slow its transformation process.
During the weeks I’ve spent out in the field, the one thing that continually strikes me is how the loan officers and the clients are more family than business partners. There are, of course, the smiles that will last a lifetime for me. But, there are also warm hugs between loan officers and clients – when’s the last time you’ve hugged your banker? There are the handshakes that last minutes not seconds. There are clients who attribute their recent success to joining the Sinapi family. There are the times after group meetings when we would pack into Sinapi’s Toyota van and take the clients back to their home – inevitably I’d find myself in the center of a group of giggling middle-aged women laughing at my attempts to communicate in Twi. And back at the branch there is the open arrangement of the office. There are no tellers. No walls between the officers and clients. Instead, clients walk into the office – some with their business on their heads – and are welcomed to the officer’s desk.
But, as Sinapi’s formalization plan was initiated and branches were converted into a more traditional banking layout, the relationship with clients evolved. Clients became more hesitant to approach the officers. They felt that they couldn’t come to the branch in their work clothes. They were intimidated by teller windows. The Sinapi family was gone. Warm hugs were replaced by the cold creditor-debtor relationship we are all know too well. So, the aggressive formalization plans were halted and the family atmosphere I’ve witnessed here returned to the benefit of everyone involved.
Yet, I know the pressure to become more formal will not disappear anytime soon. The supply of microfinance services needs to scale to meet the demand. It will be up to successful organizations like Sinapi to find ways to meet this challenge but keep the Sinapi family intact.
Photos from Kampong Cham
Last month I had the chance to shadow a couple HKL credit officers at the Kampong Cham branch, an hour and a half northeast of Phnom Penh. Since my responsibilities here in Cambodia are mainly training and implementing the Kiva process rather than write journals, I was excited to get out and meet the people who make microfinance happen. I have nothing but the highest respect for Mr. Virak and Mr. Vo, who ride around the hot, dusty countryside four days a week helping prospective clients process loan applications. And they manage to look sharp while they’re at it, which is a challenge with a heat index around 105. Unfortunately, I lost my little notebook along the way, so all I have are the photos I took.
The first client we met. At first I thought all this was trash, but it turns out she operates a recycling business.
This man repairs and sells used motorbikes.
The proud recipient of an HKL loan for farming tools. Mr. Virak on the right.
Pulling the correct file…
Checking the name…
…and climbing the stairs.
Discussing the provisions of their loan. This process can take anywhere from 10 minutes to a half hour.
Mr. Virak tells a joke in Khmer.
Loan documents are always signed using the client’s right thumbprint.
Credit officers like Mr. Virak use motos to visit clients because roads in rural Cambodia are usually little more than rutted dirt paths.
A barang with a camera is a strange sight in these villages.
Sometimes the loan documentation process can be a little tedious, especially in the stifling heat.
This entrepreneur was proud of the bicycle she purchased with her HKL loan. She uses it to collect cans, bottles and other recyclables around her village. She said the investment has noticeably increased her income.
She was in such a friendly mood that she wanted me to take a photo of her whole family.
The last clients of the long day.
Many thanks to Mr. Virak and Mr. Vo for showing me what they do.
Lost in Translation
Last week I had a heated discussion with a minibus taxi conductor. The locals that witnessed this event rarely see anyone losing their temper, let alone raising their voice in public. Genevieve and I have been using the same bus route for a number of weeks now and, while at first we paid slightly more than the locals, it’s now obvious that we know the price and all the conductors charge us appropriately.
I was having a bad day, I shouldn’t have let myself get frustrated in this way, and I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The argument went something like this:
“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”
“Yes, 700 Shillings”
“700? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 300”
“It’s 700 now”
“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 300. Can you let us on please?”
He obstructed our path.
“If you come on this bus you pay 700”
“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 300. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 700?”
“If you don’t pay 700 you can’t come. We are leaving now”
He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.
“Hang on. We’ll do it for 400. Come on – be fair”.
“700 or you stay”
We were meeting people in Bugolobi and we’re already late for them. It would take around half an hour to walk or three minutes on the bus. It was dark. There were no pavements for pedestrians along that road. It had been raining. We really didn’t want to have to work but we also didn’t want to have to pay extortionate prices. We’re volunteering here. We’re not earning an income – it was actually more than we could afford.
“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 500. Let us go please”.
He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.
“You will pay 700”.
“No way are we paying 700. We’ll pay you the fair price, 500. OK?”
“700 or we go now?”
We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.
We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra 200 shillings he wanted us to pay.
Our friends were waiting for us at the restaurant. No-one expects anyone to be on time here – not even close to being on time. Anything with an hour of the time planned is deemed to be “on-time”. A delicious pizza topped with creamy feta and Italian olives, and a couple of cold Club Beers later and we couldn’t even feel our wet trousers and had forgotten all about the nasty con tricks of the minibus conductor.
A few days later I remembered back to the argument and actually thought about the amount of money that we were arguing about and preferring to put ourselves through the annoyance, rigour and sweat over.
I went over the conversation we had with the conductor, this time converting the shilling amounts into English pounds…
“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”
“Yes, 20 pence”
“20 pence? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 9 pence”
“It’s 20 pence now”
“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 9 pence. Can you let us on please?”
He obstructed our path.
“If you come on this bus you pay 20 pence”
“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 9 pence. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 20 pence?”
“If you don’t pay 20 pence you can’t come. We are leaving now”
He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.
“Hang on. We’ll do it for 12 pence. Come on – be fair”.
“20 or you stay”
“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 15 pence. Let us go please”.
He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.
“You will pay 20 pence”.
“No way are we paying 20 pence. We’ll pay you the fair price, 15 pence. OK?”
“20 pence or we go now?”
We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.
We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra five pence he wanted us to pay.
Absurd isn’t it?!
Two Near Identical Conversations
In the right place at the right time, I had the great fortune to meet the Deputy Prime Minister of Samoa as a representative for Kiva. An SPBD entrepreneur was selected through Kiva by Advanta, an American small business banking company, to travel to the United States and speak at a few engagements about her Elei printing business. A big deal here in Samoa evidenced by a send off from the DPM. It even made the national newspaper: http://www.samoaobserver.ws/local/LNPages/0408/1608ln007.htm
One would think the content of a conversation with the women of a village centre and one with the Deputy Prime Minister would be noticeably different. They are not.
When I arrive at a village centre, it begins with the standard introductions. Name, country of origin, organization. My information does not generally pique significant interest. Then it becomes their turn for a question: are you single? Do you have a Samoan girlfriend? At which point, I am told through some chuckles that all the women are single (despite the droves of children all around us).
No different in the DPM office. Except the children.
Immediately, they begin to call me “Benicio”, a lead actor in a widely-watched Filipino soap opera. Despite having no resemblance to him, each village, without fail, calls me by his name. Slightly troubling considering he is the reviled antagonist. Saying that this soap opera is all the rage is a great understatement. The country comes to a halt during the 3-hour, 3 times a week showing. With pirated copies circulating, there is no longer the dreaded break in between episodes.
The DPM, similarly, requested that SPBD’s General Manager, who is Filipino, purchase new Filipino DVDs during his next trip home. Though he unconvincingly claimed not to be a fan.
The DPM did raise some weightier subjects: the US Presidential Election and his own political controversy.
He was very well-versed on the Democratic Primary, and he even knew about each candidate’s most recent gaffe. I can not say who he endorses (he refused), but no one here seems to know that there is a Republican nominee.
As to the great Samoan political controversy rocking this tiny nation: the Prime Minister is imposing a switch from left-hand drive to right-hand drive vehicles. Coupled with a switch of the driving side on the roads. It has been met with near unanimous opposition: 2 protest marches and “Vote NO on RHD” t-shirts, signs and bumper stickers everywhere. The motivations for the change are not exactly clear. Here’s a shot in the dark: it has something to do with money. I am just glad that I’ll be long gone when that chaotic day comes in 2009.
Courtship, Filipino soap operas and RHD. There’s no escape from it here.
Baku is Burning
The biggest holiday in Azerbaijan is Novruz. This spring event has its roots as a pre-Islam New Year celebration. It officially begins on the spring equinox but the celebration ramps up much earlier with large street bonfires every Tuesday for the month preceding Novruz. Each week represents a different element: earth, water, air, and fire. Much of the community comes out for the bonfires to socialize and listen to music. Tradition calls for fearless youth to jump across the bonfire regardless or how large it is. On one occasion I witnessed a boy run through a fire along a burning pole until he could leap the last 3 feet to the other side. I was coerced into making the leap over a much more manageable fire only to learn that once is not enough, three leaps is keeping with tradition. After four weeks of bonfires, and all the scrap wood has been burned, the Novruz holiday finally arrives with a full week of vacation for the entire country.
Novruz is also important for Azerbaijan’s small businesses. Many of the Kiva borrowers I visited were making business decisions based on their sales projections during the holiday. One client had pre-shorn three sheep with the hopes of selling them for butcher at a higher price during the holiday. All of the Kiva trading clients had stocked up on inventory for their shops. Some of the special items included small fireworks, nuts, and festive pots of wheat. This is a very enjoyable time to be in Azerbaijan.
You Know You’re in Cambodia When…
Inspired by the TZ fellows, I’ve come up with a top 10 for a taste of Cambodia:
1) The first questions people ask you are not “where are you from” or “what do you do” but “how old are you” and “are you married.”
2) Your clients bring you pictures of their sons and try to arrange marriages during your meetings.
3) A “taxi” transports 50+ people… and you don’t get a discount for sitting on the roof.
4) The Lexus SUV on the street has one person inside and the motorcycle beside it is transporting a family of 7… plus some groceries.
5) Drivers make their own lanes, honking is polite, and the best way to turn around isn’t a side street—it’s a u-turn into oncoming traffic.
6) Pepsi bottles aren’t filled with cola- they’re liters of gasoline-to-go.
7) Hammocks are the only furniture you need: they’re multi-purpose cradles, beds and chairs.
8.) Spiders, fermented fish paste and duck embryos (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balut) are delicacies.
9) A 50-note bill is, to you, worthless.
10) You could rival the Pope with the number of hand-clasped bows you do in a day.
On Returning Home… …some thoughts from the plane
The past six months have been indescribable. I’ve attempted to wrap my thoughts around them and put them to words, but the result does not compare to the experience. I’m home now, trying to find a way to live here, in this world, with the same passion that comes so naturally when given the constant inspiration and education I received from Kiva’s entrepreneurs. Here are some thoughts I scrambled together on the plane ride home, reflecting on what there is left to do and how to possibly take on the challenge:
Poor little rich girl with the luxury of picking around the slightly bruised grapes, choosing not to eat the peas and carrots accompanying the mashed potatoes. What must it be like to not think that way; to feed your child dirt to quell the pangs coming forth from their tiny helpless body? Part of me almost wishes I knew, just so I could identify with those who own this as their reality. Because I can never know, no matter how close to it I live, how many mothers I see defeated, how many sighs of helplessness I breath. Trying to understand it is like trying to understand war by watching Glory, love by reading Shakespeare. I can get lots of ideas, form my opinions, decide what I think the best solutions might be, but I can never know it. It is a part of me in an entirely different way than it is a part of them. They are teaching me. I selfishly benefit from their misfortunate birth into poverty. I can choose to learn from them, or to go elsewhere and learn from someone or something else instead. But for them, the choice is only present in the decision to get up and fight one more day.
The world is perfectly cruel and wonderful, tilted just like the earth itself to bring constant periods of light and dark. In all its unbalanced harmony, where a small percent of the population controls the vast majority of the world’s wealth, there is enough. The problem is, not for a second, resources. The problem is distribution. Distribution of food, water, education, opportunity. There is enough food on the earth for each person, all 6.6 billion of us, to eat almost 3000 calories a day. But while we fill up on free refills and seconds and thirds at the buffet, others feed their children dirt, simply to temporarily relieve the unimaginable ache that haunts every waking moment.
I don’t know who said it, but I’ve often repeated to myself the phrase ‘comfort is a vice’ over the past six months. Comfort can be wonderful and good, but the things it keeps us from doing are dangerous. Comfort keeps us from committing to the voice within us telling us to act when we see something that needs to change. Comfort encourages us to drive on, live our lives in the warmth of our home, enjoying the fruits of our labor while ignoring the barrenness of theirs. Maybe if it were our neighbor who was feeding their child dirt for every meal, maybe then we wouldn’t cling to comfort. But isn’t it our neighbor? Our mother, our brother, our friend?
There are society’s solutions to poverty–give of your money to every charity that knocks at your door, or volunteer your time until you are so exhausted you have no more time to give. Maybe if you donate both of these gifts, you won’t have to be annoyed with guilt from the wonderful burden of knowing that you do have the power to change the world. But basing your role in change on society’s validation doesn’t work. Listen to yourself. You know your truth, you know how to press your inner comfort levels, to challenge your abilities and be an agent for change. The world needs not only our money and our time; it needs our talents, our compassion, our love, our attention. If you could make a change in the world, in your country, your city, your home, what would you do?
If your brother were born without sight, would you read him stories? Share your knowledge? If your sister had no legs, would you carry her? If your daughter were mute, would you speak for her? If your son was hurt on the side of the road with no way of calling for help, and all who passed him by looked the other way, what would you feel? Would you be his voice? How would you help him find his voice so he could be the voice for another?
Instead of anger, choose resolution. Instead of hate, choose love. And instead of indifference, choose action. Choose to be moved by the quiet voice in your head that is so easily ignored. Listen to it. Instead of just talking about all the world’s problems, take the guidance from Gandhi; Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Bonjour from Senegal!
Although we are not too active on the blog, there are a few of us Fellows here in west Africa, one of Kiva’s fastest growing partnership regions! I’m currently based in Senegal with CAURIE Microfinance.
For my first Kiva Fellows blog, I’d like to introduce you to a few of CAURIE’s clients: local entrepreneurs Awa Yombe Diagné and Mboudy Démé. I’ve had the pleasure of following their new loans on the Kiva site and meeting with them personally. While the economic and financial implications of microfinance and its impact on poverty throughout the world are incredibly interesting, equally interesting are the micro borrowers and their stories. Please read on to find out more about these Senegalese businesswomen!
AWA YOMBE DIAGNÉ: FUTURE REGIONAL TRADER
Awa lives in a village in the Thiès region of Senegal. She has been a customer of CAURIE Microfinance for several years and uses their micro-loans to stock and replenish her boutique. Awa is an ambitious business owner with a keen sense of marketing and customer service. Her boutique sells beauty products and household items and is the only one of its kind in the village. She provides a very important service by traveling to the capitol city, Dakar, and bringing back good that can only be found there. During holidays and various seasons of the year she stocks the store with goods that she knows her customers will need for parties and traveling. If a client requests something specific, she listens and brings in the requested items.
Recently, Awa began renovations on her store! Instead of pausing business during construction, Awa took her merchandise out of the store and went door to door around her village to sell the inventory.
Awa wants to eventually become a regional trader in West Africa. She hopes to travel to cities such as Dubai to import products for distribution in Senegal. To do so, she plans to become trained in management and marketing and to continue using micro-credit to reinforce and grow her business.
MBOUDY DÉMÉ: ANIMAL SALES STRATEGIST
Mboudy Démé has been in the business of buying and reselling goats and chickens with her husband for six years. They live in a very rural village near Ngollar, Senegal where water and electricity can be scarce. Mboudy has been a customer of CAURIE Microfinance for five years and has used their micro-loans for her business. She has implemented various strategies to mitigate the effects that climate and disease have on her business. During the driest season, there is not enough grass for her animals to eat and they become too emaciated to sell. So she uses her loans to purchase food and feeders to fatten them up. Through micro-loans, She has also ensured consistent and high quality vaccinations for the animals. Her animals survived a recent epidemic because of the vaccinations.
In the future, Mboudy and her husband hope to borrow a large loan to build a fenced-in area near her house to protect the animals from predators and thieves. During our interview, Mboudy kept reinforcing that there is a huge difference in the quality of her life since becoming a microfinance borrower. While she cannot make it rain or ensure regular electricity in her village, she can make improvements to her life on a smaller scale. With the expanded profits from the animal sales, she has recently purchased a water pump for her well, a television, and more nutritious food for her children.
The True Mission
Many Westerners come to Samoa and quickly make one of two judgments: all Samoans are poor OR no Samoans are poor.
That dichotomy can be perplexing, so I decided to engage a Centre Manager (loan officer) in a conversation about it. One who stood firmly with the belief that all Samoans are poor. None of this should be treated as a final judgment. Far too early for that.
To paraphrase:
Everyone in Samoa is poor, he stated.
If I ask the people if they’re poor, what would they say? They would say that they’re not poor.
So why do you say that they are? What do you mean by that? No one sleeps on the streets. Everyone has a home. The community spirit in Samoa would not allow anyone to be sleeping on the streets. No one is starving. Food is abundant. Using these gauges, a passing observer might instinctively decide that there is no poverty at all.
Many international relief organizations define poverty as living on less than $1 a day. By that standard, Samoa is considered one of the most impoverished nations in the developing world. But if you travel to parts of India, Africa, China, you will see emaciated homeless, tangible poverty. But in Samoa, though many live on no money, they grow their own food, make their own clothes. Without even property taxes, they can live self-reliantly. Plus, smiles are ubiquitous. Everyone seems content with their standard of living notwithstanding the tribulations of any society (jealousy, greed, infidelity, etc)
I had to dig deeper into how exactly this CM defined poverty, so I asked from a different angle. How will you know when Samoa is developed? What are the indicators? Many Samoans do not have electricity or potable running water. When they have those things, we will be developed.
But is that going to make them happier? Maybe, maybe not. I surmise that the overall happiness is greater here than in most, if not all, developed countries. Is electricity and running water going to make Samoa a happier, better country? Maybe, maybe not.
(I will resist entering in the dispute over poverty and development and happiness. The enduring “what’s really best for this country?” question.)
So then no one is really poor?
When I walk into a village for the first time that is not a part of SPBD, the women are still smiling. It’s our nature. But once they enter the program, I can see a different smile on the women’s faces. Starting a business, earning money, making payments gives them dignity. Everyone knows about money. Now they feel they’re a part of that system. I come from a poor background. Like most Samoans, I had a sort of poverty of the mind. Belonging to SPBD, starting a business, gives them a purpose, a drive, a goal. Pride. As an outsider, you cannot see this difference in their smiles. I don’t work here for the money. I can make more money at the National Bank. I work here for them. For a better Samoa.
****
A cynic might say that this is a self-fulfilling prophecy. I want to feel good about what I do; therefore I will only see the good in what I do. But this CM, who I can attest to his blunt honesty, was only speaking with absolute sincerity.
SPBD’s stated mission is “to improve the quality of life of poor families of Samoa by providing training, unsecured credit, ongoing guidance and motivation to help the clients start, grow and sustain micro-businesses.” In reality, I would say that is the ancillary benefit. For this one CM, his mission is to fill a void of knowledge and purpose. Provide a sense of duty and accomplishment. Running water and electricity are the tangible outcomes of poverty alleviation. But in a country mostly content, the mission is increased dignity. Evidenced by a different smile that most outsiders will never be able discern.
Final thoughts on Ghana
I’ve been back in Chicago for about 2 weeks now and have had time to sit and digest my Kiva Fellow experience. Going into this I tried to keep a completely unbiased and open-mind about microfinance. I’m a huge supporter of microfinance, but I have heard critics argue that it does little to actually lift people out of poverty. So I tried to take my opportunity to see first hand how it affects borrowers.
During my 2-month stay in Cape Coast, Ghana I had the privilege to meet over a hundred borrowers successfully running their own businesses. I heard stories of individuals being able to pay their kids’ school fees because of their loan, a life-long farmer opening up a general store when she became to old to work the fields simply because of her loan, and businesses expanding and profits increasing because of a couple hundred dollars. During all my interviews and meetings I never once heard a borrower say they were unhappy they took the loan. Not one person thought the loan had hurt their business, but many had ideas and suggestions on how to improve the microfinance process. One on-going theme I saw was that the large group loans aren’t that popular with individuals because they often find it hard to find 10 reliable entrepreneurs to join their group. They often suggested to make the groups smaller and to have individual loans available. The reason MFIs have group loans is for security. Since no collateral is ever collected, social pressure is used as a way to ensure collections, but having cookie-cutter plans and principles that hinder borrowers will only hurt a MFI in the long run. Another common theme was interest rates.
During my stay in Cape Coast, I often had local individuals start conversations with me and want to know what I was doing in Ghana. When I told them I was working with a microfinance organization, almost everyone immediately said, “Oh, but the interest rates are so high!!”. I always took the time to explain why the interest rates were high, but no one seemed interested in my economics of microfinance speech, they were only concerned with how interest rates would affect them, and rightly so.
MFIs provide extremely valuable services in countries all around the world and have helped millions of people improve their lives. However, much more can be done to lower interest rates and further help the very people microfinance is aimed at helping. This is exactly why Kiva is so beneficial. Providing MFIs with 0% interest loans, these institutions can finally think about making steps to further help their clients that otherwise would not have been possible. I believe Kiva needs to be aware of this and make every active effort to encourage partner MFIs to lower their interest rates once they have become comfortable with raising money on Kiva. Right now Kiva is doing their part to help MFIs overcome certain barriers in raising low-cost funds, but these MFIs need to be held responsible with providing clients reasonable interest rates.
My stay in Ghana has been a priceless experience and I am only further convinced microfinance is the way to end poverty, but much more needs to be done to ensure the borrowers are the ones receiving the real help.
Getting Deeper into a Microfinance Institution
I’ve been working with Hluvuku in Mozambique for a month now and had the chance to live for at least a week in 3 different branches (including the headquarters). I was lucky enough to live the day-to-day life of a small branch office with only one loan officer and to witness a transition of portfolio, as this loan officer, Paula, was moving back to a bigger branch and a recently promoted 1st year loan officer, Luciano, was taking over her portfolio. By than it was crystal clear the huge importance of a loan officer at the microfinance world: without their knowledge of local people and local culture, a microfinance cannot work. How would Luciano know what to write about the person’s character without the guidance of trusted people Paula appointed? And how would Hluvuku disburse a loan to someone they don’t know if they can trust and if it will pay back? Quite interesting the dynamics between a loan officer and a microfinance institution… It is almost as if each officer was an institution by itself…
However, I really got deeper into Hluvuku after Bernardo, the founder and general director, asked my help to review their 2007 annual report before it went to their board of directors. The first thing one would notice is how profitable Hluvuku was in 2007, even with substantial increase in expenses due to the opening of a new branch office (which is still not profitable). The obvious question to Bernardo, that in fact I didn’t have to make, he answered before I even started talking, was: if Hluvuku is a non-profit, had social projects and still had a lot of profits, what are the next steps to the organization? What to do with the money? How to think about financial projections and sustainable growth?
I had the most interesting 4-hour conversation with Bernardo ever. He shared all his knowledge of the microfinance world, all he learnt during seminars he attended all over the world and his views on Hluvuku’s future. Yet it was not clear to me he is prepared for a sustainable growth and to move forward without major risks. Bernardo does not count with a knowledgeable board of directors and he actually has reduced academic background (he never went to university). My basic knowledge of microfinance, yet reasonable knowledge of finance, let me to think that a significant reduction in the interest rates charged is possible. Today they charge between 35% and 55% annual interest rate (depending on the industry and loan use), calculated on a decreasing basis over the outstanding loan. After hearing a few complaints from clients I visited, I came to the conclusion Hluvuku does have margin to reduce it. On the other hand, Hluvuku could use this profit to increase their social efforts (such as the soccer team or the help to create water holes for communities that do not access water) and therefore reach more people than just their clients, and at the same time protect itself against any downturn and need of own capital.
I wonder how other MFIs around the world are dealing with this “good” dilemma. And I wonder what is the future of MFIs in Mozambique, Africa and in the world. Any comment or guidance is highly appreciated!
On a completely different subject, yesterday I met a client and while walking to her house to take her picture in front of the house she is building, she mentioned that her family was against her marriage in the beginning because her husband was poor. She was raised in the capital Maputo and her father was a carpenter, but gave all the 6 children access to school and basic needs. And that was enough for her to be richer than her husband. They have been married for 13 years and today her family loves him. Nothing like putting life into perspective, no?!
Ate mais.
A Loan as an Inflationary Hedge
I’ve visited over 100 clients in the past two months and one of the most common responses to “how are you going to use this loan” is “I’m going to buy in bulk.” At first, it appeared to me that perhaps this is a common impulse to overstock inventory so a customer never walks away empty-handed. But, I was quick to learn that this bulk purchasing phenomenon is not driven by concern about product supply but rather inventory cost. Here, in Ghana, there is an omnipresent concern over creeping inflation. And with Zimbabwe in the news this week and the accounts of inflation rates exceeding 100,000%, it seems inflation is becoming a center of conversations here as well.
Officially, the government recently raised its benchmark interest rate for commercial banks to 14.25% as a result of inflation that had risen to around 13.2%. But, what has been more interesting is how it creeps into my daily life. Like every gas-dependent American, I at first noticed it in the rising gas prices at the petrol stations. Soon, the taxi drivers were trying to raise their fares (taxi fares are not metered, but highly negotiable). At work, the company’s cook insisted on a pay raise as the cost of her food was increasing. On the corner outside our office, the lady who sells me lovely bananas with small bags of peanuts started selling me three bananas for 20 pesewas instead of four bananas. And, now the President of Ghana is at the Africa-Indian summit telling the world that rising food prices threaten to stall Ghana’s development achievements of the past several years.
It is in this environment that a loan provides an important hedging tool for the working poor. By giving an entrepreneur the cash to stockpile their inventory they guard against these price hikes. I, of course, thought to myself – “what happens if the price goes down though.” Joshua, the Kiva Coordinator, only smiled at me, “prices never go down.”
Muzungu, Muzungu, Muzungu…. Muzungu bye!!
Almost everywhere we go it feels like we’re the centre of attention. Most often we’re the only white people around amongst a sea of locals. The attention isn’t bad – it can’t be classed as harassment like we receive in India, Morocco and certain other countries – but we’re aware that all eyes are on us. We’re just different – we look different, we move differently, we wear different clothes, we sound different, we’re doing different, possibly interesting things.
For the small kids, as we walk through their small communities, nestled onto the lower slopes of the small hills that rise from the city’s flats, they are ecstatic just to see a white person. If we walk passed a hundred kids in a community I’d be surprised if more than a couple of them managed to resist the temptation to shout “Muzungu”. Many of the kids will come up to us wanting to hold our hands or touch the skin of our arms. As the first few more daring kids are reach us and hang off our limbs it creates a signal to the rest of the kids in the community that we’re open to being used as climbing apparatus. Within a few seconds there might be twenty or thirty small kids, most of them no higher than our waists, holding our hands, grabbing our legs, clinging onto our arms, all squealing with excitement about the fact that they are in contact with a white person. The kids that are more reserved remain in the close proximity of their mothers. They’ll still shout “Muzungu” and most normally wave, again getting very excited when we wave back. “Muzungu, bye”, is their usual reply.
The older kids that have started school take the conversation to the next level. “Muzungu, how are you?”, they will shout as we approach. They can see us coming for miles. It’s as though we’re shining white lights, glowing bright as we approach their neighbourhoods. You can hear the excitement building amongst the kids as we draw nearer. One kid may spot us coming a long time before we’ve seen him. He’ll light the metaphoric beacon where he stands with a quick excited outburst of “Muzungu”. For the other kids within earshot, who may have been playing with the same half of a plastic bottle or stick on a rope or, if they’re very lucky, an old rubber bicycle tyre for the past few hours, the quiet whispering of the word Muzungu pricks their ears, they see if they can spot the white person approaching and the “beacons” are very quickly lit throughout the entire community.
“Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu”. “Muzungu. Bye”. “Muzungu, how are you?” When we reply to their question it’s more than often greeted with a very quick “I’m fine”, followed by an even quicker retreat to the safety of their front doors. On the occasions where Genevieve is surrounded by hoards of overexcited children I may pull the camera out of my bag to snap a quick photo. The appearance of the camera only leads to more kids coming out from the confines of their home turf to get close to Genevieve for the photo. Yesterday evening, for the first time, I showed the photo that I had just taken of the kids to them all on the camera’s screen. The reaction was immediate. All the kids ran off in the same direction, waving their arms in the air screaming ecstatically, jumping into the air. These are the happiest children I have ever come across. They have next to nothing. Their family homes are one room, built from mud bricks, wooden poles and corrugated iron roofing. They have no kitchen or bathroom.
The mothers do all the cooking on the street out the front of their homes. Most have a speciality dish that they have become known for. One mother will make chapattis, another fried bananas, another matoka. Some will fry pigs trotters, others boil eggs or fry chipped potatoes in huge pans of boiling oil. The community clan is one huge family. The food is exchanged between the mothers so each family has a variety of food for their meals.
The kids’ bathroom consists of a plastic washing up tub half filled with water which has been warmed on the fire and placed next to the front door. The adults must wash in the privacy of their homes.
The homes have no running water. All the water that they use is carried to their homes from the local pump in ten litre plastic yellow petrol containers. Light in the home is provided by the sun and at night, by fire from candles. The community does have electricity, but only for a few communal rooms. The bar is lit at night and pumps out music as the locals play pool amongst the goats. There is a separate big screen which shows movies or, more often than not, English Premiership football. The Ugandans are crazy about football. They’ve never had a strong national team but they all have strong support for teams from England. Liverpool, Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal are followed by 99% of the locals. I did see one poor delusional man wearing a blue and yellow striped Leeds United top from 1993. Maybe he doesn’t know? Maybe the die-hard loyalty that Leeds fans have doesn’t stop at the English based supporters? Maybe he really does know – that, one day, Leeds will be back, bigger than ever and he can say that he stuck with them through thick and thin, the highs and lows, the ups and downs He is proud not to be one of the masses that jumped on the Manyoo bandwagon in 1999 or joined the Russian Revolution at Chelsea or the French croissant eating aristocracy at Arsenal in even more recent times.
Anyway, back to the hillside community and its smiling happy shiny people. The young adult men that approach us usually have a story to tell. They tell us the recent history of their family, their sons and daughters who have died, their nephews and nieces in their care due to the early death of their parents, their struggle to earn enough money to provide all their children with a school education. They don’t want our money. They want us to give them a job.
Rich muzungus in Africa can come across as lazy abusers of the cheap labour that the locals can provide. While some may view the fact that a white man has a driver, a personal shopper, a daily cleaner, someone to cook for them, a nanny for their kids, two security guards, a house keeper and someone to give extra tuition to their children as unnecessary, the reality of the situation is that he is giving his staff a good income, directly supporting all of their families and distributing the money he has around the local community. While we are all capable of washing our own dishes and changing and cleaning the sheets on our beds, a muzungu can do much more for the community to pay someone to do these tasks for them.
It’s even better if a muzungu has a business here in which he can employ locals. It’s just a shame that we’re volunteering here and when young bright eyed men approach us asking for work we have to put out their fires by telling them we don’t have a business or anything we can offer them. Still, they’re too proud to plead and beg and they quickly turn the conversation towards pleasantries about the day.
But it’s the children that have had the biggest effect on me so far. It’s just incredible how happy they all are in their villages. If a small child has one toy it will keep him entertained for hours on end. There might be a small gave of football between some of the slightly bigger kids – I’m yet to see a football being used that has any air in it! Still, they seem to be able to control a fully deflated ball as well as most of us can use a pumped up ball. It’s not uncommon to see two or three babies of no more than 18 months old, sitting down together, communicating with each other while pointing to a few bottle tops that they are amusing themselves with. The kids are left alone for long periods of time, the parents perfectly happy that they are safe to wander round anywhere within the community.
They all seem so content with their lives. They have next to nothing.
My Muzungu Man
We entered the wooden hut that served as the meeting room for Rubaga Women’s Group, desperate for some respite from the Kampala sunshine. It was much cooler inside, despite the absence of windows and surprisingly, the thin gaps between the planks of wood let in a cool breeze. So we sat down and were grateful that the women were able to make enough room for us to squash between them. Our sense of personal space has been altered since we came to Uganda and we no longer feel uncomfortable to be pressed up against smiling strangers on buses, in queues at the check out counter in the supermarket, or anywhere really.
There were ten or so women, ranging in age from mid twenties to late forties. When you consider that the average life expectancy for a Ugandan is 51, you realize that the older women were actually senior citizens. Not that anyone acted or looked old. There was so much teasing and laughing that it could have been a group of school girls. They were all mothers, many of eight or so children. And the woman who had only one child, was scolded light-heartedly that she should be working on having more. Incidentally, she was also the one with the largest and most successful business. But more on the link between family planning and economic advancement another time.
As we worked our way through the list of names and interviewed these lovely women, a pattern emerged. It’s a familiar story here. A woman has several children with one man – who is often her husband but sometimes not. He leaves her for a younger woman, and the responsibility for childrearing falls entirely on the woman’s shoulders. A variation of this theme is that the man dies, often of AIDS, leaving her with several children to raise on her own. Add to this, the fact that many also take in orphans, nieces and nephews whose parents have died of AIDS. So we seemed to be in a nation of incredibly hard-working, resilient women who are bringing up the next generation single-handedly in the harshest circumstances.
But you wouldn’t guess that life was so very hard. There were infectious smiles and laughter and sense of dignity and pride that was inspiring. But we were sweating in that wooden hut, still recovering from the dusty journey to this part of town. So Adam offered to buy some sodas – for me, and after half a second’s thought, for all the other women here. It’s a small gesture, but it was much appreciated by all. Especially the one whose shop it was where Adam where made this bulk purchase. We could see how this sale would be helpful, when many of the clients have told us they make the equivalent of five dollars a day.
When Adam left the meeting hut to buy the drinks, the women all turned to me to chat –the way women chat with each other when there are no men around. They all said “Look how lucky you are. You Muzungus, your men stay with you and help you. Ugandan men have babies with us and leave us for younger chicks. Or they die and leave us alone”. We went around the table and counted the number of widows and single mothers. They were by far the majority. So this is why the women were so touched by Adam’s gesture. Not only did he offer to buy drinks, but he also got up from his seat, walked out into the heat of the day and fetched them for us all.
Our visit had shown these women something that was so foreign to them. We were a couple who spend all our time together (neither of us are planning to leave anytime soon!) and a man who is kind and generous and willing to get up and do something for his wife and the other women around him. But I just couldn’t feel smug. My blessing felt merely bitter sweet. It seems so unfair that my experience of marriage is something these women can only dream about.
So I guess we can add that to the long list of inequalities in this world…
Goodnight Serenades
This is why I love my office…
The other day at work, my colleagues found out I have a cell phone. They immediately took turns getting my digits- wanting my phone # ‘just because.’ Some who are hesitant to use English will call and hang up as a “just wanted to say ‘hi’” gesture. Better yet, others will leave SMS messages.
For the past week, every night, I’ve gotten a goodnight text, tucking me into bed if you will.
“Hello lady. Finish your dinner? How about it? Ok good night from your good driver. See you on your dream.”
“How are you Jessica? SokSabBay? Are you happy today? Ok good night! Best regards!”
“Hi Jasika sleep yet? Doing? R u busy much? R u tired? R u hote? Dinner ready? I have dinner ready. N sleeping. Good nigh n Sweet dream 2. Bye.”
Tonight, they culminated in a lullaby. Yes, a goodnight serenade. You can’t make this stuff up:
“ ()”..*()
How do you do…..
‘o’ ‘o’ ‘o’ ‘o’ ‘o’
,?, ,?, ,?, ,?, ,?,
Run, run to bed…
()”..^()
(,*,.)
Smile for ur
Lovely
Night….
0 
* Sings alone
4l *
// *
Sweet dreame lady”
The Perfect Day
Just one epic of a post to depict a day in the field:
Only after experiencing the lows can you fully appreciate the highs. While everyday in the field is an incredible experience, some days are absolutely exhausting- mentally. The 8 hours in 90 degree sun dressed like I’m observing purdah is fine… off-roading on a moto… dodging trees and making u-turns in 6 “lanes” of traffic… breathing like I’m on a ventilator through my helmet when sand storms of dirt cover the air… all fine- I actually enjoy these experiences. But some client interviews can be like pulling teeth… with my hands tied. When a loan officer accompanying me is rusty on the English, getting one solid answer can take a good 15 minutes. (It will come only after I’ve rephrased 12 times, used vivid hand gestures, given two to three examples, written out the words on paper, and asked 15 round-about questions that eventually lead to the golden concept. The Khmers are a special breed too: they always appear to know what you’re asking – e.g. the tuk-tuk driver that swears he knows your street, but takes you down one-way roads for a solid 20 minutes. For this reason, I often sit through 5 minute explanations translated from totally unrelated questions… and practice as much self-control as possible to appear engaged and interested, while trying to keep my train of thought and simultaneously search for ways to reword my original question.) Patience is an **invaluable** virtue in Cambodia and I recognize its value regardless of how frustrated I get. After all, any translation at all is a thousand times better than the data I’d have otherwise, and it’s my own dumb fault that I’m interviewing Khmers without knowing Khmer. I’m indebted to any loan officer that has the patience to sort through it all with me, and I have no doubt it’s equally- if not more- exhausting for them. To make matters more complicated, for both the loan officer and me, some clients will share their life stories, while others prefer yes/no answers, or vague and indeterminate ones that leave you right back where you started.
The first few weeks were a challenge. Some told me business was great (the price for their goods had shot up so they were making more money) but when I pushed further, they’d say the contrary (their costs had also increased so they were struggling to turn a profit or break even). I’ve finally figured out the best questions to get the best answers, and with the help of a few colleagues, got a survey form in Khmer.
Today– the form wasn’t even necessary. My loan officer, Lux was incredible, and the work was so effortless. The answers were golden: partially because of his translation, partially because the entrepreneurs we met were full of success stories. One had figured out a brilliant market opportunity for selling $100 dresses in rural Cambodian villages:
http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=about&id=20186
Another had made a business investment to double production and now makes 40% more per month- even after loan repayments:
http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=about&id=24513
On top of this- the people were PHENOMENAL. While all Cambodians thus far have been a joy to meet and hospitable and doting beyond belief—the clients today, and even the random villagers we met along the way, were icing on the cake. We went an hour out of Phnom Penh long national road 6A to visit villages of Khmer Muslim communities. Around 95% of Khmers are Buddhist, so these communities are rarities—and complete gems!
When we arrived at the first house, our client was just getting back from a shower, so she asked us to meet her around the back of the house, in the common area between all the homes. Lux and I found a congregation of 6 already there, and joined them on the slated wood platform in the shade. Immediately, more and more villagers and children flocked around to watch and listen to our conversation. Lux explained two of them were Kiva clients as well, and when I replied “Ohhhhhh!” and quickly found out, in their language, I was saying “Nooooooo!” Despite this, they were still excited to have me, and as I spoke, the kids got a kick out of repeating “Ok,” “Ok,” and every English word they recognized. Then I looked to my side and saw a group of dozen women and children huddled over pots. When I asked what they were doing, I was told preparing for a wedding- the cooking alone takes 2 days. They saw I took interest, and within 10 seconds, had a bowl of the sweet cake and mint tea ran over.
The interview started when the client appeared, with each pause between questions there was a new comment from the crowd for Lux to translate:
“He wants to learn English so he can talk to you.”
“He’s staying to stare at your face. He wants his daughter and son to have the same. ‘Sa-at na,’ he says.” (I heard this three times throughout the day, to which I replied, “No- I want my children to look like yours!”)
We got in two more interviews before lunch, and I had one client “beg of me” for my nose. Interesting. Over lunch, Lux and I talked about the village leaders and their plans for the community. He says, “Right now, they’re trying to work on gender… like Hillary!” (Translation: gender empowerment.) Then he asks me if I like to go on walks with my roommate at night. (The office has found out I have a – brace yourself- male roommate, another Kiva Fellow. When I say he is my friend, they interpret it as “friend.”) I’ve discovered this is a way of asking if my roommate’s my husband (what all boyfriends are referred to as) and I’m assuming long walks at night is the thing to do if you’re a couple. I respond, “I go on walks with all my friends.” And now, he probably thinks I’m a prostitute.
When we got back on the road, before we could find the last client’s home, three ladies sitting on the side of the road invited us to sit down and talk. The eldest lady, sweet as can be, couldn’t stop rubbing my arms, as if they were a good luck charm or the feet of St. Peter statue. ( I know the St. Peter analogy doesn’t work really well bc she’s Muslim… at first I was going to go with a Buddha belly, but that wasn’t much better either…) They insisted, “Svai, svai” and brought me sweet mango to eat, not forgetting water either. We were wrapped up in conversation (read: they were impressed with the 10 khmer words I know and teaching me new words from their own language) when we heard a loud commotion. A boy had crashed his bike on a rock, fallen off with his food, and was picking it back off the ground when a bystander explained what happened. Evidently the Muslim villages see “Europeans” even less than the others, so the poor boy had been distracted staring and it caused him to wreck. So not only do I eat them out of house and home, I cause road injuries now too!
Kiva Loves Maxima
‘Agressive Friendliness’
I heard the claims before I arrived: “Samoans are exceptionally friendly.” It sounded simple enough; they must live with a tattooed smile and provide a helping hand to those in need. But, as I discovered, it is much more. Samoans have what I’ll call an aggressive friendliness. As I walk around town, the never-timid local Samoan will unfailingly pepper me with questions within the first couple minutes. All questions that I undoubtedly would be unwilling to answer a stranger in the US. And was quite reluctant to answer my first couple days here.
Greetings are always initiated by, “where are you going?” (“Over there”)
Then, “what are you doing here?” (“Working”)
Followed by, “where do you live?” (“Back there”)
And at some point, “what religion are you?” (“Is there a correct answer to this question?”)
Always concluded by the unanticipated, “do you want to come to my village?” (“Don’t you think we are rushing into things a bit fast?”)
In the States, a reflexive retort of “none of your business” (or often a less polite version) would be the common response.
These people could not possibly be that interested in my answers. They must be building information on me. Determining where I live and work. Luring me back with a false sense of security to their homes. I couldn’t suppress my skepticism and leeriness.
But after a few days, I realized my suspicions of their generosity were unfounded. Everyone asked a nearly identical list of questions.
The motives for their questions were much more innocuous.
“Where are you going?” is simply a greeting like “how’s it going?” Often, they don’t even care about your answer. If so, they are simply curious about where this palinga (white person – strangely translated as “from the sky”) was headed.
Where someone lives indicates with what village they are associated. In a country without street names and addresses, a significant way of identification.
The importance of religion needs no further explanation in this country that has more churches than banks, bookstores and restaurants combined.
On the topic of inviting me home, their hospitality is truly that powerful that they wanted to take me in. (Ex. Though not typical behavior, as I believe the man to be under the influence of an intoxicating substance, a local hugged me and gushed with joy of my visit to his country.)
In other hospitable nations, entering someone’s house affords you guest status. In Samoa, entering the country affords you guest status.
Sunday at the tombs
Man, it seems like the Ugandan fellows have taken over the blog! I probably should wait my turn but I wanted to tell you about an encounter I had last Sunday.
One of the great sites in Kampala is the Kasubi tombs where the Buganda kings are buried, and so on Sunday in search of touristy adventure, I went.
It’s not a very big place overall, about the size of a baseball field (to use a comparison comfortable to me), with a few huts in it. The largest is where the kings are buried behind a fig bark cloth hung from the ceiling in a place referred to as the forest. I had to wear the skirt for my individual tour, which was led by a young man named Nicholas.
I learned about the 52 pillars in the hut, representing the 52 clans of the Buganda; I learned about the table and two chairs sent by Queen Victoria which caused such an uproar when it was suggested that the king and “the” queen should sit in them, as the king had I can’t remember how many wives. I saw the preserved remains of the leopard that had been the pet of King Mutasa (I believe), but had gone wild after his death.
Nicholas told me all of this, informed and placid, and as we approached the end of the tour he asked me what I did. I told him about Kiva and about microfinance and Nicholas became tremendously animated. “I make juice,” he said, “And this is just the kind of thing I need!”
We sat down in the front office as I passed along the names of the MFIs that I knew about in Kampala, since Life in Africa isn’t offering loans at this time. He gave me his phone number and email address and then took me on an entirely additional tour of the Islamic School right next to the tombs where he sells the juice he already produces.
Nicholas seems to me to be just the kind of person microfinance is around to serve: an entrepreneur with drive but not quite the capital he needs to do the job. He showed me some of the juice packets left lying around empty and introduced me to the headmaster who showed me around: boys dorm, girls dorm, classrooms, and the school building that used to be a mosque: the first mosque in Kampala.
Talk about microfinance opening doors! I didn’t know it meant that quite so literally!
The picture shows Nicholas (left) and the headmaster in front of the first mosque of Kampala.
