Archive for June 30th, 2008
Tororo, Uganda
Each morning before heading into the field, I read the New Vision, a daily newspaper in Kampala. A few weeks ago there was a special article about a town in Uganda in which the men do nothing but drink, gamble and nurse their hangovers while the women work and tend to the house, children and their needy husbands. The article speculated that the men needed therapy to deal with their lack of motivation resulting from the extreme poverty they are living in.
Upon mentioning the article to my associates at work, they said that one of MCDT’s branches, Tororo, suffers from a similar situation and that I should go visit. With that, I found myself making the three and a half hour drive to Tororo from Kampala for a visit.
My first impressions left me with two questions as follows:
1. Why did we pass the town of Tororo forty minutes ago and we haven’t yet reached our destination?
2. Why have we passed two infectious disease trucks?
My visit provided me with the answer to both of these questions.
During our drive I noticed many things that were different from the Kampala slums I visit. First, instead of motorbikes that are extremely popular as a source of transportation in Kampala, there were mainly regular bicycles and almost no cars. Then I noticed that the majority of the people, from adults to the school children, didn’t have shoes. Finally, there was the realization that these people didn’t live in brick or even wood houses but rather in huts made of mud with grass roofs that leak when it rains. Even the slums in Kampala could not compare to the slums I saw in Tororo.
But, we weren’t exactly in Tororo as MCDT is the only microfinance institute (MFI) that serves the villages in the bush outside of Tororo (why we drove over 40 minutes from the center of Tororo to the first site). The centers are so spread out that it would take at least a day to walk from one end of the MCDT district to the other. It is truly incredible that MCDT even has the capacity to serve these people as many other MFIs have opened branches, but then closed them due to the high costs of serving these villages that are so spread apart.
Once we reached the first center, I was greeted with singing, hollering, dancing and hugs. The women were so excited to see me and I was quite embarrassed being the center of attention! This continued through all three center visits and I continued to turn red with embarrassment each time.
The women were just as amazing as was their singing and dancing. They face so many obstacles beyond husbands who do not pull their weight including domestic violence, HIV/AIDS (hence the infectious disease trucks) and famine. The woman are subject to a high level of domestic violence in this area due to lack of food and high incidence of alcoholism, for when their husbands come home after drinking and are hungry, they are often upset with the lack of food and beat their wives. However, with the MCDT loans, the women are better able to provide for their families and therefore MCDT has seen a decrease in the incidences of domestic violence.
The drinking and subsequent alcoholism has also caused the increase in HIV/AIDS infections as there is a high level of casual sex. The ramifications are horrendous as one woman mentioned she cares for her brother’s children who are infected as he and his wife have passed. In addition, a large number of the women are infected and even have children who have passed due to the disease. The loans help these women get access to the drugs that lengthen their lives and the lives of their children and grandchildren.
In addition to the domestic and health problems, the women also face a yearly drought that causes a famine. Unlike Kampala and its immediate surrounding areas, the soil in Tororo is sandy. The combination of this and the lack of rain make it difficult to grow the vegetables and fruits that are so abundant in Kampala. Therefore, the women must purchase their food, making the act of providing essential nutrition a huge hurdle.
Yet, despite this, the women are happy and motivated. When I asked them how they are able to get up and work each morning, the women explained that it is difficult, but with the loans from MCDT, it is easier as they have seen an improvement in their lives. Before MCDT, the only jobs available were digging and even then the pay was infrequent and extremely low- never enough for school fees. Now the women can bring in their own money and help support their families.
Despite the many differences between the women in Tororo and the women in Kampala, there is one very striking similarity: like the women in Kampala they work so that they can provide their children with an education and hopefully a better life than they have had. Although they know they will not be able to send their children to university or even senior level schooling, they hope that by providing some education, the children will be able apply their knowledge of carpentry and agriculture to their own businesses and support their families. In addition, the women hope their children will care for them when they are older as they have cared for their children in their young age.
Upon returning to MCDT’s offices in Kampala, I relayed my experience to the women who work in the main branch. And after hearing about my experience, they asked me the question they face – How could we leave these women? I said the only thing I felt – You can’t.
To see currently fundraising loans from MCDT on Kiva.org, please click here.
11 comments 30 June 2008
The Road to Khujand
It’s 5:30am and after lying in bed all night, sleepless from both the strange Central Asian bacteria inhabiting my stomach and the sheer excited anticipation of my coming journey, the time has now come for what will be one hell of a ride. Kenjal, my trusty driver, arrives on time in his battered, white 4WD, his gold teeth shine in the morning sun as he greets me with the traditional “Osolom Aleikum!” “Vy gotovi? (Are you ready?),” he asks me in his thick Tajik accent. “Da, konechno, poyekhali!” (Yes, of course, let’s go!”) I reply with an enthusiasm that reveals the true extent of my American naïveté. And we’re off! Cruising past the suburbs of Dushanbe, I gaze out through the cracked windshield at the denizens of this small Central Asian capital getting ready for the hard, hot day ahead. Women with unibrows (some kind of fashion statement here, no joke) sweep the streets with handmade brooms as children ride to and fro on the backs of donkeys, smiling amidst the dirt and the poverty in which they have been fated to live the rest of their young lives. Kenjal, gregarious even at this ungodly hour, begins to interrogate me about my life in America with an intense curiosity that is understandable given the fact that there are only 450 of my compatriots (including embassy staff) currently living in this far off outpost of the former Soviet Union.
“Are you married?” he asks me to kick things off (typical first question in a country where family really is everything).
“No, I’m not married,” I curtly reply, knowing exactly what’s coming next.
“YOU’RE NOT MARRIED?!!” Kenjal is simply astonished. “And how old did you say you are again….25? A man your age should be married, you should have five kids by know.”
“I know, I know” I say giving him a response I have already practiced a few times, “It’s just that in America we get married later in life. We grow up a lot more slowly than you do in Tajikistan. It’s a very different culture. So, are you married?”
He smiles mischievously and says “Of course! Not only am I married but I have TWO wives. One in Khujand and one in Dushanbe. I also have nine kids.”
“Wow,” I say, still recovering from the shock of the whole polygamy thing. “Two wives and nine kids, you must be a busy man! Is it normal in Tajikistan for men to have more than one wife?”
“No, not really. But, you have to understand, I’m a bit of a hooligan.” He gives me a knowing wink and continues, “I don’t have that many kids, at least not for a Tajik. During Soviet times Tajikistan was famous for having the highest birthrate out of all the republics. My brother, for example, he has 19 kids… all from one wife!”
I keep smiling although at this point my heart is going out to that poor, poor woman somewhere in the Tajik hinterlands who has spent most of her adult life in a constant state of pregnancy. I take a break from our strange conversation and look out at mountains growing steeper and more beautiful with every minute. Wide, flat, and nicely paved, the road at first is sheer pleasure. This is Central Asian sightseeing at its best, its most luxurious. I’m loving every minute of it as we get deeper in the countryside, the river beside which we are traveling now nothing but pure whitewater. About an hour and a half into the drive, the road is still paved and I’m thinking to myself, “This isn’t so bad,” when we hit our first delay in the journey. “Kitaitsi rabotayoot,” (the Chinese are working), Kenjal tells me, and for the rest of our trip he will utter these two words like a Buddhist mantra.
Apparently, the Tajik government contracted out a series of major improvements on the M34(the “highway” between Dushanbe and Khujand) to a Chinese construction firm and all of a sudden there they are , these Kitaitsi who will be our companions for the next 11 hours. They work like automatons, welding, digging, hauling, laying concrete, asphalt, tar, gravel…I’ve never seen such roadwork in my life. And the conditions in which they live…my God! Felt tents that look like nomadic encampments litter the barren hillsides. It’s like some kind of industrial revolution-era workcamp, a place where men work so hard that the life simply oozes out of them. Even for the Tajiks who are accustomed to tough conditions, the filth in which these unfortunate Chinese make their meager livings is simply shocking.
First delay..not so bad…15 minutes for a little dynamiting operation. 20 km later, after passing President Emomali Rahmon’s highly gaudy roadside palace (I think this is number 11 or 12…slightly reminiscent of a certain Iraqi dictator who also had a penchant for overdone architecture and numerous residences) the asphalt reaches its end and the fun begins. We enter the Anzob Tunnel, an unventilated work in progress that feels like going down a mineshaft. No lights, no ventilation, just a lot of old Soviet trucks spewing toxic diesel fumes as we maneuver through the small lakes created by mountain streams gushing out of the rock face. After the tunnel we hit our second delay…a lot worse than the first. We eat plov(national dish of rice, carrots, and some kind of meat) and drink green tea amidst the breathtaking scenery of the Fan Mountains as the Kitaitsi lay asphalt on the road for 3 hours. Sheer drop-offs of thousands of feet keep me awake and terrified for the next 180km as we maneuver through the treacherous heights of the Shakharistan Pass. All along the steep mountainsides the wrecked and rusted carcasses of unfortunate vehicles provide silent, eerie tesimony to the hazards of the M34. I breathe deeply and trust Kenjal…even though he is slightly crazy and can’t hear very well, he sure knows how to drive. Finally, we descend down our last mountain and cruise the broad, flat plains of Northern Tajikistan. Soon, a big smile comes to my face and the sweat on my palms begins to dry up…after 350km of the worst roads I have ever traversed in my 25 years, I have reached Khujand at last!
To see currently fundraising loans from MLF Microinvest on Kiva.org, please click here.
3 comments 30 June 2008
Straws and sandpaper
It was kind of an inside joke between my father and I when I was younger that I would make fun of him for never using straws when he drank beverages. “Dad, it makes your life so much easier! You don’t have to bother picking up the glass. You just lean forward a little and drink. It’s great.”
My dad would shake his head at his twelve-year-old daughter. “Straws are superfluous. It’s an unnecessary step between me and my drink. I don’t need a tube to help me drink- I can do it fine on my own.”
We would argue like this back and forth. I don’t remember why such a mundane topic came up repeatedly during my childhood but it apparently occurred often enough for me to still remember today.
I promise this relates to Cambodia.
There are a lot of things here that can frustrate a foreigner. The buses are usually not on time; when they are, they usually still manage to arrive at your destination late. They stop at a small town to pick someone up and then drive two hundred meters to pick another person up. They are slow and inefficient. It can be frustrating.
On the days I go in the field I sometimes get incredibly dirty. I made the mistake of wearing a short-sleeve white button-up when driving to Khsach Kandal district, a rural area about forty-five minutes and a long ferry ride away from Phnom Penh. The roads in Khsach Kandal are dirt, which means passing cars, trucks, and motos disperse huge plumes of dust as they rumble down the street. If you are even the least bit sweaty (and I don’t think I have stopped sweating since I arrived a month ago) the red dirt turns into a very thin sort of mud that lines your collar and sleeves. It’s pretty gross and hopelessly futile to try to rescue the bright white color your shirt once was.
The roads in the rural areas are bumpy, even the paved ones. I have never gotten carsick but the bumps jostle your insides enough to make them start to hurt. I sometimes groan under my breath on the back of a moto (whose shocks I swear are nonexistent) and hold my stomach in a feeble attempt to keep my spleen and liver in their rightful places. I don’t know if spleens and livers can move to other parts of your body but to me it’s not worth taking the risk to find out.
Every meal is a gamble. Most often the ice is transported in large rectangle chunks without any sort of covering in the back of dirty trucks or on the back of motos. It is dropped, handled without gloves, and set directly on the street to cut into smaller pieces to sell to restaurants. I have no desire whatsoever to place a few drops on a petri dish and see what happens. The meat is possibly undercooked, the fish most likely left sitting out for several hours. It tastes delicious but the pleasure can sometimes be short-lived… two hours later your body makes you keenly aware of its disapproval in your lack of dietary discretion.
The electricity goes out, usually opting for the most inconvenient time to take its leave. It’s the middle of the day and 96 degrees outside and you have no fan. You have twenty-three Kiva journals to post before 5 PM and the internet has been out since 2.
Things don’t happen when you want them to, how you want them to, or the way you had planned. You are constantly inconvenienced, hot, sweaty, annoyed, tired, pressed up against the language barrier wall, put out by the cultural differences, pushed away from the comfortable and the expected.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind all of these challenges and quirks. I do mind. They are frustrating and emotionally and physically draining. But at the same time, there is something incredibly…. refreshing is the wrong word… cathartic?…. about not having every convenience handed to me. In Phnom Penh, I cannot step out of my air-conditioned home into my own personal air-conditioned car and drive to my health-inspector approved favorite air-conditioned restaurant, return the lemon pepper salmon because it didn’t taste quite right and have a new one brought to me at no cost, and drive back home to enjoy an evening of television and relaxation. But while I greatly appreciate being able to do this in the States, it feels good to experience something other than abundant comfort for a while.
My dad doesn’t use straws because they are waste of plastic and an superfluous convenience. The one-eighth of a calorie it probably takes to pick up a glass to him outweighs the desire to make his life unnecessarily easier. It’s a miniscule decision in his life but it’s representative of a larger perspective.
I had a friend one time describe a bad decision he made as one chosen out of the desire to “rub his thumb against a piece of sandpaper.” It was a conscious choice to step out of the ordinary and the easy and to place himself in an uncomfortable situation, to feel something rough and slightly painful, if only for a short time. I didn’t quite understand what he meant at the time, or why he would want to impose on himself anything less than the path of least resistance.
I think I understand it now. I think there is something to be said for not being completely obsessed with saving time and worshiping efficiency. The world is a dirty, dusty place, and it is natural to sweat. There are bumps in the road to Khsach Kandal and sometimes, just sometimes, it is nice to actually feel them, to not have hundreds of pounds of rubber and metal isolating you from the natural terrain. Food tastes better when it hasn’t been soaking in preservatives for three days, even if it might cause me a slight stomach ache later. I’d like to think my immune system is stronger if it does. Internet, electricity, and air-conditioning are luxuries; I am lucky to have them but I am not entitled to them. Power outages remind me of that.
It will be nice to go back home in a few months and take a shower at the precise temperature of my choosing, have a pizza delivered to my house with the press of a few buttons, to have constant access to information and people, and know with almost absolute certainty that things will go as I want and expect them too.
In the meantime though, I will appreciate living a life that is a little more natural, a little less insulated, one with slightly fewer straws and a little more sandpaper.
To see all currently fundraising loans from MAXIMA on Kiva.org, please click here.
5 comments 30 June 2008
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