Archive for October, 2008
Why Ukraine Needs Microfinance
As a former Soviet state, home of the Orange Revolution, and under-journalized European backwater, Ukraine certainly has an image problem. It brings to mind images of inscrutable bureaucracy, frozen winters, and monotonous apartment blocks. Except to those of us who have visited the country or known citizens of Ukraine, it does not bring to mind the sorts of struggling poor that microfinance institutions typically serve.
Indeed, in the capital of Kyiv (aka Kiev), microfinance banks don’t operate. The cost of living is too high, and the living standards are those of a middle-income country. You can buy a pizza or condo or a Mercedes in Kyiv. But even here, life is harsher than it is in the West. Public transit, while ubiquitous and cheap, is slow, crowded, unmarked, and in poor repair. The bathroom in an apartment, often as not, is a post-remodel afterthought located in the kitchen. Tall buildings do not necessarily contain elevators. Internet access is in stunningly scarce supply, even in the capital.
Yet despite an average per-capita income of less than $20,000 a year in Kyiv, an apartment that nine years ago cost $4,000 now costs $100,000. Banks no longer give mortgages, partly in reaction to the 30% inflation rate, partly as a ripple effect of the US subprime mortgage crisis. The Producer Price Index is well over 40%. (Imagine that McDonalds’ beef suppliers raised the price of a pound of beef from $1 to $1.40. Quite reasonably, you might expect that last year’s $4 Big Mac is now this year’s $5.60 Big Mac. The beef price hike is Producer Price Index, and the Big Mac price hike is Consumer Price Index. Roughly.)
Outside the capital, life is closer to the edge. Per capita income is down into the $10,000 range (estimated; 2008 figures haven’t been released yet), and agricultural land is still impossible to legally purchase – a holdover from communist times. Corruption is ubiquitous. Unemployment is roughly 7%. With badly tended roads, few successful industries, and little communications infrastructure, there is essentially nothing to do and few prospects for prosperity. Never underestimate the economic power of abject boredom.
2003 figures estimate that poverty levels are 37.7%; it’s difficult to say what the intervening years and the weakened dollar (to which the hryvnia had been de facto pegged) have done to this number. As late as 2001, Ukrainians were still working without pay under a half-collapsed central planning system that left many of them unequipped to transition to a new market economy. Anyone over the age of 35 grew up without banks, credit, or business as part of their existence. Entrepreneurship was stamped out during the twentieth century, and the working poor, no longer secure in even an inefficient social safety net, have had to teach themselves new skills.
They make their living where they can, often in small shops reminiscent of those found throughout the developing world. While walking through a tumble-down market above a subway stop in Kyiv, the director of the HOPE Ukraine microfinance bank gestured to a woman selling cigarettes from a tiny glassed-in kiosk. “Microfinance client,” he said with an ironic tone. “Or she would be if we operated in Kyiv. All the market sellers would be.”
The picture is bleak, but into the infrastructure gap has emerged the Ukrainian microfinance industry. MixMarket lists three active microfinance institutions in the country, with a combined total of about 55,000 current borrowers. These small business loans average around $1,600, and can provide for several months’ worth of inventory, repair costs, or household expenses. Additionally, HOPE sponsors business education camps for the children of their borrowers, giving the next generation the tools they need to survive in the new Eastern Europe.
Learn more about Kiva’s field partner, HOPE Ukraine, here. And consider lending to these entrepreneurs for your next Kiva loan.
HOPE Ukraine serves clients like Tatyana all over the country
You Know You’re in Tanzania When…(Vol III)
A past fellow to Tanzania, Alec Lovett, posted two blogs on “You Know You’re in Tanzania When…” I’ve posted the links to his blogs and added volume III with my own observations. Enjoy!
http://fellowsblog.kiva.org/2008/03/21/you-know-you-are-in-tanzania-when…/
http://fellowsblog.kiva.org/2008/03/24/you-know-you-are-in-tanzania-when…-vol-ii/
Volume III
1. They say “Hakuna Matata,” which is actually Swahili but it’s still funny.
2. The water stops running in the middle of your shower. (This only applies if you are lucky enough to have running water).
3. You meet someone with a pet monkey.
4. You spend 10 minutes just with greetings.
5. The children point at you and yell “mzungu”.
6. Someone passes you his or her baby to hold in the dala-dala.
7. The dala-dala won’t leave until its full, which means the person on your lap has someone on his or her lap.
8. Half the channels play Bollywood films, which are actually addicting.
9. Women wear crazy colored kangas (traditional fabrics) that don’t match at all.
10. People order beer warm.
Get to Know Me
To introduce myself, I’d like to tell you how I got out of the basement. But first you need to know how I ended up there.
In 2005, I was a year removed from an undistinguished college career and working at a small hedge fund in midtown Manhattan. And struggling. With the city, my health, a colorless half-cubicle and requisite data entry, and the slow realization that I was not happy. My boss got animated talking about potential acquisitions, EBIT (but not EBITDA), and reaching the one-million subscriber milestone. For a while, I felt a charge from that energy, but it never filled me.
My boss and I talked about finding your passion, and we both believed that you could only do your best work if you loved it. Something had clicked for him in elementary school when his history class covered the Roaring Twenties and the 1929 Crash. He intuitively understood the concept of leverage, and he went home and told his father that he wanted to buy stocks.
I really liked to travel but didn’t consider it a passion. Yes my Let’s Go Costa Rica had felt like a choose-your-own-adventure book with no bad endings, and my world was blissfully shrunken down to my backpack and the destination ahead. But traveling felt like an indulgence, not a vocation.
I got a little more direction when Warren Buffett decided to give his fortune to the Gates Foundation. It suddenly became a lot more hip to view charity as a social investment rather than a handout, and I latched onto the notion. It was the prospect of rigorous analysis that had piqued my interest in finance initially, and I thought applying it to social causes could engage both my soul along with my brain. I clipped articles about venture philanthropy and social entrepreneurship and learned a bit about microfinance.
I gave my boss notice that I would leave after my first year. I told him how I planned to meticulously research the non-profit sector to guide me in finding the right niche for my new career. My boss counseled me to get a job and figure things out along the way.
I left Manhattan and moved into my parents’ basement. A cushy cellar dwelling with cream-colored carpeting, dehumidified air and framed charcoal sketches, but still technically a basement
You have to squint to see the basement
And there I stayed. The better part of a year evaporated below ground, not in pursuit of finding a new job, but to tasks I had neglected during my time in New York; I reorganized my files, created a gorgeous Excel spreadsheet for my immunization records, revised my estate planning documents at the ripe age of 25, and generally puttered. Time seemed to spend itself. I thought I was getting my affairs in order, but I was really hibernating. My experience in New York had drained me physically and spiritually.
“You’re stuck,” a friend told me during a fresh afternoon in 2006. I was lamenting the fact that all my ducks were not lining up neatly and that I could not move on with my life until they were. He suggested that maybe I couldn’t complete my to-do list because I didn’t really want to. He talked straight to me for the better part of an hour, and when I left him, I paced the sidewalk, feeling a sudden need for excitement and joy and self-indulgence. I decided to travel.
I ventured to places that had piqued my interest, from friends’ experiences and gorgeous New York Times Travel section spreads. Places like Iceland and St. Petersburg, Morocco and Torres Del Paine. Sometimes the majesty of these places made me ache. It was a good pain, like my soul was finally getting a workout.
Erg Chigaga, Morocco. Hot toes!
At the end of 2007, I returned from South America with a commitment to finally land a non-profit job in the Bay Area. I had dismissed the thought of a career in international development due to health and safety concerns and all the unknowns of living in the developing world.
But then I received an e-mail about a Doctors Without Borders informational session, and I had a mini-crisis. I realized that if I moved to California, I’d in all likelihood land a desk job, stare at spreadsheets once again and daydream about two-week adventure vacations. I romanticized about helping people under fluffy white tents with backdrops of savannahs and equatorial sunsets. I needed to finally make travel my vocation.
I applied to the Kiva Fellows program this past summer, was accepted, and learned the organization needed a Kiva Fellow in Bali, Indonesia. I was smitten by the prospect of bumpy motorbike rides to interview pig farmers and find out what an $800 loan really means. I’m pretty sure they don’t have basements in Bali.
Just for fun: Tilt your head and do your best Lander voiceover. Want to find out where the video was shot? Tune in next time!
Thanks for reading my post. You can expect a new one every two weeks. I’m a beginner in this new world of blogging, so please tell me what works and doesn’t and help me create something you want to read. Too long? Want more pictures? Videos? I will be grateful for your suggestions. Lastly, check out the new loans for my microfinance institution (there may not be any currently): http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&partner_id=82&status=fundRaising&sortBy=New+to+Old&_tpg=fb
Meet Two Dominican Entrepreneurs…
Below is a video from Esperanza International (from YouTube), the MFI (microfinance institution) that I will be working with in the Dominican Republic. Enjoy!
Time until departure: ONE MORE WEEK!
Take care,
Kalie
Public Transport in Uganda: Be aware!
I came across a flier this morning that I found as humorous as I did frightening. I wanted to share it with you, perhaps deepening your insight into just one of the many day-to-day rituals of being a Kiva Fellow in the field. This is a sequel, of sorts, to my earlier blog. I promise to move away from (no pun intended) the transportation theme!
I paraphrase:
Public Transport in Uganda: Be aware. Be very aware!
Over 2,000 people are killed each year on our roads. In terms of all fatalities and injuries, 42% are passengers, 33% are pedestrians and 14% are motorcyclists.
Your choices for public transportation include:
1. Matatu
A Matatu is a minibus, which holds up to 14 passengers. Matatus operate long a fixed route, stopping anywhere along the way to pick up passengers. They are almost always in poor condition, recklessly driven and without insurance cover or a licensed driver and don’t value their lives. Matatus are one of the primary contributors to the increasingly unsafe road conditions in Uganda. They are characterized by*:
§ Overloading of passengers – ü
§ Driving above the speed limits – ü
§ Swerving between traffic – ü
§ Disregard for other rnotorists and traffic laws – ü
§ Driving on pavement – ü
§ Driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs – ?
§ Inexperienced drivers – ?
(*Note: items followed by a ü are ones I’ve personally experienced after just a few days.)
If you choose to use Matatus:
§ Wear a seatbelt
§ Get out if you don’t feel safe
§ Tell driver to slow down
§ Avoid overloaded taxis
2. Boda Boda
A Boda Boda is a motorcycle taxi, typically a Honda 50 and is often in poor condition with no helmet for its passengers. Although they are a cheap and quick form of transport, Boda Bodas are renowned for their reckless behavior. Common examples*:
§ Riding through red lights – ü
§ Riding too fast – ü
§ Riding on the wrong side of the road – ü
§ Riding on sidewalks and road islands – ü
§ Often bike is in bad repair – ü
§ Swerving between traffic – ü
§ Complete disregard for other motorists – ü
(*Note: items followed by a ü are ones I’ve personally experienced after just a few days.)
If you choose to use a Boda Boda:
§ Wear a helmet
§ Choose a bike in good repair
§ Tell driver to slow down
§ One passenger per bike
The flyer then goes on to list emergency numbers and location of hospitals and clinics.
I’ve been to New York many times and have some legendary taxi stories. Yet, I’ve never seen a flier like this in NYC. New York cabbies are mere plebes compared to these guys in Kampala…
Interview with Paul Luchtenburg, CEO of AMK
I hope you guys enjoyed the interview. To see a list of all the AMK loans that are currently fundraising on Kiva, click here.
If there aren’t any AMK loans on Kiva, you should check out the AMK Fan Club instead!
snake! in my house!
I found a snake in the living room closet.
I had been trying to mentally prepare for just this sort of moment, imagining myself cool and collected, taking snakes in the house in my stride. “Oh, just another snake!” I’d smile to everyone as I calmly shooed the snake from the house, proving myself not some silly American, but someone capable – someone who doesn’t fuss about snakes in the house. However, I hadn’t, in fact, thought that I would need to call upon my no-snake-fussing mental fortitude quite so soon.
You see, I haven’t arrived in Kenya yet.
It’s not that I imagined snakes behind every door in Kenya, no, far from it. But I do have to admit that if I had been placing bets, I would have bet that my snake encounter would be more likely to happen somewhere in Kenya rather than in my parents’ house in the U.S. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, I am in southwest Texas after all.
Oh and that calm, collected, doesn’t-get-in-a-fuss-about-snakes Sarah? Yeah, that girl was slamming the closet door shut and running away as fast as her legs could carry her. There may or may not have also been some hand waving and high pitched screeching of “there is a snake! a SNAKE. in. the. house. !!” Too bad there was no one else home, so my melodrama was wasted. My, but it was a fine performance.
When my heartbeat had slowed a little, I knew exactly what had to be done. I called my dad. He, unfortunately, did not hear his cell phone ringing so I was forced to leave a somewhat incoherent message about me being attacked by snakes and how he sure would wish he had answered his phone when he came home and found my poor, mangled snake bitten body on the living room floor.
I then called my friend Anne. Living in Rochester, New York, I knew that she wouldn’t be able to be much more than moral support, but I knew that if anyone could understand my freak out then it would be her (let’s just say Anne is no great fan of snakes either). Immediately she rose to the occasion, telling me to toget.out.of.the.house. and to call animal control. Granted, I maaay have exaggerated slightly on the size and seemingly venomous nature of the snake, but hers was exactly the sort of response I needed. Talking with her allowed me to take a step back and look at the situation a little more clearly. I imagined the call to animal control going as follows:
Me: “Snake! In my house!”
Burly Texan Animal Control Guy who is wearing a huge live rattlesnake as a belt: “Okay ma’am calm down, can you describe the snake?”
Me: “Well, um, it’s about two feet long, is about as thick as two or three fingers, doesn’t look very threatening…”
Burly Texan Animal Control Guy who is now letting scorpions play on his face: “HAHAHAHA..click.”
Rather than earn such shame, and perhaps be kicked out of Texas, I put on a pair of galoshes, some gardening gloves, and grabbed a broom (standard snake catching gear, of course). I took a deep breath, got the snake, which turned out to be an incredibly scared, nice animal, and put it out in the front garden, where it slithered away happily, perhaps to relate its tale of adventure to the rest of the family over a nice fieldmouse supper.
As it turns out, along with finishing packing for Kenya, I may be needing a little more prep work on this whole “mental fortitude about snakes” thing. Let’s be honest though – from the accounts I’ve heard, there is only a small chance that I’ll even see a snake where I’ll be in Kenya, let alone find one in my house there. But after this encounter, I might be packing my galoshes and gardening gloves, just in case…
he seemed bigger in the closet
A Wet Ride on a Boda Boda
The 41 km road from the airport in Entebbe to Kampala is an endlessly spreading slum, the road choked with traffic and with boda-bodas and minibuses that serve as public transportation and which obey a vague set of driving rules. The banks of the road are littered with broken-down vehicles and garbage, and burning piles of garbage, and with ramshackle-looking developments. I can’t tell if they’re incomplete or if they’ve been left to deteriorate; every structure has heaps of sand and rocks and blocks surrounding it. The warm equatorial air is thick; the sun filters down through perpetual ground strata of dust and emissions. More people travel on foot than on machine, usually burdened with great loads of fire wood, fruit or large bags of rice. People appear busy; yet there are no obvious signs of commerce in the endless succession of convenience stores, restaurants, barbershops, clothing boutiques and other roadside kiosks roofed with umbrellas. This slum, like slums everywhere, carries the acrid smells of hydrocarbons and garbage, and unpaved roads lined by tin-roof concrete shacks with dirt floors. I’m reminded of Indonesia, Nepal and Bolivia. We pass a handsomely dressed woman urinating behind a road sign, and a desperately thin dog sniffing for scraps among the garbage – it appeared more vermin than companion. A ball gets away from a couple of children and I watch it bounce through an open sewage gutter and out onto the road. Vehicles don’t stop for kids, maybe they honk without slowing.
I feel viscerally puzzled and disturbed. The Africa of my imagination is a vast expanse of lush jungles and open savanna teeming with the continent’s iconic creatures. I knew Uganda was impoverished; afterall, that’s why I’m here. But here, poverty is as much a part of the scene as the banana trees and cumulus clouds. Africa is poverty. Breathing, smelling, feeling; indeed, being among poverty is an assault on my sense of humanity and morality. It’s shocking and difficult to confront, let alone absorb and process. I lose myself in philosophical and conflicting thought: How does this happen? Is this a product of exploitation by wealthy nations and, if so, the result of the comfortable lifestyle I enjoy? I’m thankful, if not guilty, that I won the lottery of life at birth being born in America. Why did I elude such a miserable fate? Am I just lucky or do I hold an obligation? I question my reason for wanting to be here and wonder if I can endure three months. Surely I can last 12 weeks, these poor souls are serving a life sentence. Most have never left their village. At this moment, I realize my life was easier when I was unaware and unconcerned with such things as poverty. It’s impossible to get that back.
Suddenly panic strikes. I haven’t yet arrived in Kampala and I realize the scale of poverty here is far beyond my capacity to effect. I came to learn and experience, yes, but I came mainly, perhaps naively, to make an impact, to help alleviate poverty, to make lives better, to try to equalize the gross misallocation of opportunity. There can’t possibly be anything I can do — I feel like a doctor must if called to treat an epidemic with only a single vial of penicillin.
But I must try.
I look for inspiration and courage in a book called “Mountains Beyond Mountains”, the wonderful story of Dr. Paul Farmer who has devoted his life to providing free health care to individuals in absolute poverty, the poorest and most neglected. Surely, the central plateau of Haiti, where Farmer works, is much worse that Kampala. If he can live there year after year, then I can certainly manage a few months here.
In reality, it’s not all misery. After all, this is the Pearl of Africa. I strolled by Namirembe Cathedral this morning. It’s an imposing but beautiful structure. It sits atop a lovely and well-manicured hill overlooking most of Kampala. It is Sunday and worship services are in progress. I couldn’t help but peek inside. It is packed with worshipers adorned in their Sunday best, men wearing ties and coats and women in colorful floral dresses and matching headdresses. These are proud and dignified people, and devoted to their faith. Here is the finest choral group I’ve ever heard. Absolutely beautiful, mesmerizing and soothing. I reluctantly begin to see value in faith. Perhaps it gives answers and strength and hope to those who are suffering, and a sense of community. An usher invites me warmly to join the congregation, but I decline; I’m in bush clothes and a 4-day beard – it would seem disrespectful.
I discover a few other unexpected pleasures my first day in Uganda: one, peanut sauce over rice, matoke (mashed plantains steams in banana leaves) and coffee. Delicious! Two, mosquito nets. There’s something romantic about them (think “Out of Africa”); I find it conspicuously satisfying to see a mosquito buzzing around me, but powerless to strike!
Shortly after settling in, I took a motor taxi (“boda boda”) to try and locate BRAC’s office. I could see on a rudimentary map that it was not far. Riding shotgun on a motorbike is a cultural experience; today, a rather unsettling, in fact, terrifying one! My driver, Eric (the name he gives us “mzungus” so we can pronounce it) is a friendly guy, 28 years old with a wife and young daughter. I wonder why he takes such unnecessary risks, swerving repeatedly into the lane of oncoming traffic, avoiding head-on collisions and certain death by mere inches. Within minutes, the sky darkens and opens up with a dramatic display of thunder and lightening. We take shelter under the corrugated tin roof overhang of a roadside convenience shop. I’m relieved to be off the bike and in relative safety. I’m captivated by the torrent; I’ve never seen rain this hard. The street is flooded within minutes. I then take notice of the store’s proprietor. She’s an attractive young woman with her adolescent daughter in tow. I ask if I can buy water, but she doesn’t speak English and I see she doesn’t have any anyway. Her store must cater to locals. She sells subsistence items like soap, flour and canned goods. I wonder if she’s a microfinance borrower. Naturally, then, I want to know her story. How’s business? What did she buy with the loan proceeds? How has the loan impacted her and her daughter’s lives? Her store has a concrete floor and a metal roof, it’s clean and well-stocked. She and her daughter wear nice clothes and shoes. They don’t appear to be ill or malnourished. I wonder how far she has come, and how far her daughter will go. It’s with this thought, looking in this young girl’s eyes, that the hope and meaning of my Fellowship is restored. I don’t need to solve global poverty, but maybe – with luck – my presence here will help just one person triumph in her struggle over poverty and reach a day that holds greater promise than this one.
I wonder what my days in the field will be like. Its the rainy season in Uganda.
Back to Cambodia
Thank you for reading my blog, I’m Kanae, Japanese and Kiva Fellow. Finally I came to Phnon Penh, Cambodia, on Oct. 3rd. The road to here was very long, but I’m very excited to be here again. Yes, I came to Cambodia 9 years ago. At that time, the city looked very dusty and unpaved. Now, there are many pretty restaurants for foreigners and many cars. Therefore, I realized my image of Cambodia is already gone and then I will know current Cambodia in 3months.
Why did I come to Cambodia as KIVA fellow? The reason is I had some experience 9 years ago.
I joined some project with a Janapese NPO (http://www.jhp.or.jp/) and came here at first time. The mission of the project is to build elementary shools in Cambodia. I stayed here for 1 month and met a lot of Cambodian children. They were so cheerful and friendly and I enjoyed to play with them. One day, when we should leave from a school, some children gestured to me ‘Give me your pen!!’ I realized they were get used to be given by foreigners. So I started to wonder donations is really good for them or not. Our goodness really help their lives in the long term? I didn’t have any answer at that time.
A few years later, I got to know Grameen Bank. I was excited about huge possibility of this bank. But there wasn’t any chance to learn microfainance in Japan unfortunately. The only thing I could do is to keep my strong passion about microfainance in my heart. And then, in 2007, one of my friends told me there is a interesting microfinance institution in the USA. This moment dramatically changed my life. I left my venture capital company, flied to San Francisco to have training and came here finally. I believe microfinance accelerates borrowers’ aspiring spirits because borrowers should improve their lives by themselves actively. This point is totaly different from donation.
I’ll learn microfinance and work with a local partner institution for 3 months which has more than 20,000 cliants in all over the Cambodia. Let me report my life here!
“Hi. I’m in Jail, Please Get Me Out of Here…” (Part 2)
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Jail in Beirut wasn’t really a high-security sort of place. Most of the “prisoners” were being led around without handcuffs, and no one was carrying a weapon. People were actually fairly friendly. My holding cell had only a few people in it when I arrived: two women who had apparently had a longer day than myself, and two men who had clearly over-dressed for the occasion by my standards. Ahmad had seemingly called ahead for a reservation, because he arrived with pita bread and labneh cheese in a shopping bag. He offered me some, but I wasn’t really in the mood to eat. He was there for some sort of immigration issue. The other guy whose name I didn’t catch said he was there “for cocaine.” With me, I had my folder of useless paperwork, my handy planner, keys, wallet, cellphone. When I finished my cigarette, I fished around in my pocket for my used and gently abused cell that I had just acquired for ten dollars the day before and flipped through my planner for a helpful number. The first one I came upon was a colleague at work, who I managed to get through to. The warden saw me on the phone– I made no sincere efforts to hide my call– and decided it was time to process me. That meant saying goodbye to the phone, my belt, shoelaces, money and my pen. I had a real mammoth of a metal pen at the time and understandably they wanted to take it away– it was definitely passable as a weapon. Not certain how long I would be there, I protested enough to at least keep the ink cartridge so I could write to pass the time… I already had a grandiose plan in the works to record my memoirs by matchlight and sneak them out of jail with the guards inside hollowed out cigarettes. I also insisted that I get my phone call. For a good twenty minutes I had a yelling match with the warden, refusing to move an inch until I got my phone call. I don’t think the Lebanese typically get one, but I had a terrible feeling that if I didn’t get in touch with the embassy, it would be awfully easy to get lost for a while down there. Begging and pleading finally won out and I was allowed my call to the embassy. I had enough time for a quick “Here’s my name, I’m in jail, please get me out of here” before the phone was snatched away and I was led down a long corridor to meet my new cellmates.
I spoke to some of the prison guards (They weren’t exactly guards, more like custodians. They had no billyclubs or handcuffs and from what I could tell spent most of their time sweeping the place.) who showed me around and found out they were almost all from Sudan and here in Lebanon on working papers from the U.N.. Really nice guys. We walked by cell after cell, each one filled with maybe 30- 35 prisoners, each one maybe 10×20 meters in size. Some were more crowded than others, but there seemed to be enough space to at least sit comfortably. The cells were covered on the far wall inside with prisoner’s dirty plastic shopping bags filled with clothes and toothpaste. The hallway had fluorescent lights hanging down from the low ceiling which dimly lit the passage with a hazy yellow glow. Huge fans blew around hot, damp, salty air, and there was a shelf for shoes outside of each cell. By the time we reached my cell, number 12, the last one at the end of the hall, I had made friends with a jovial guard, Hadool, who was happy to learn that I was from New York. Hadool had a sister living in Queens and gave me a pack of cigarettes as a welcome present “If you need anything, let me know” he whispered to me through the bars as the door was shut anew.
I don’t think I’m going out on a limb if I say that I stuck out a bit. My cellmates were all gathered in circles in their respective corners, many not wearing shirts, talking amongst themselves and sneaking glances over to the new guy. I quickly found out that these divisions were by homeland– the Sri Lankans in one corner, Indians in another, Palestinians, Iraqis, Thai; they all had their own enclave. I was welcomed by an Iraqi man wearing nice jeans who immediately started my inquisition. I got the impression he was the enforcer. He asked why I was there, and I said I really wasn’t sure, and he asked where I was from, and all I could manage was a feeble “Eh, far away.” Not content to leave it at that, his friends pressed on- “What, like from Australia?” Now I’ve never in all my travels misled people about where I’m from. Those who have traveled around a bit know that it’s tough sometimes, particularly recently, to say you’re American. Not just out of fear of a degree of embarrassment, but in some cases, out of fear for your safety. But I honestly think it’s kind of a responsibility of those who can travel to be totally honest and represent our country well. That said, in this situation, surrounded by imprisoned men from places where America isn’t exactly a nice word, and not knowing how long I would be spending with these guys, I admitted that yes, I was from Australia. The enforcer caught a knowing grin, “Welcome,” he said, “Welcome to Lebanon.” I felt a faint tinge of regret as I let out a sigh of relief and returned his greetings.
I struck up a conversation with a man sitting to my left on the sleeping pads who I learned was a doctor from Iraq who had been imprisoned for 54 days after being detained for immigration issues at a border crossing into Lebanon. At this, I swallowed hard, but he assured me that I would be out in a few days at worst. Countries that have embassies, he explained, always send people down to help. The guys from Thailand and Saudi Arabia got fresh clothes and food every morning. He was not so lucky.
I was only there for maybe half an hour when a military officer came to get me. I was hoping this was my ticket out, but my respite was brief. I handed him some documents and back I went. Another hour went by, and I was let out again. This time I was led past all the cells to an office where I sat counting the minutes as I watched the officers clock out one by one, grab their jackets and berets, and head out the door. My chances of leaving seemed increasingly grim as time passed, but at what seemed like the last possible moment, ‘le directeur’ emerged from his office. He came over to me, asked another officer who I was, tossed me a quick wink as if to say “Yella, let’s go” and we headed out the door. I don’t think I’ve ever be so happy to breath fresh air in my life.
In all, I was only in jail for the day. And to be honest, it wasn’t all bad. I was a bit concerned what spending the night would be like, but I met some interesting folks and learned an important lesson. I never really did find out why I was put in jail, but it doesn’t much matter, and I can assume it had a lot to do with the approach I took toward dealing with the military officers at General Security. I was quite sure based on my experience living here so far that assertiveness was the right tactic, but looking back, I was clearly mistaken. It was foolish to assume that I knew beyond doubt what I was doing, and I obviously should have shown some more deference to people who had a lot more power than I did.
Reaching into my pocket as I left the General Security compound, it occurred to me that after everything, at the very least, I had gotten a free pack of cigarettes out of the deal from my Sudanese friend. I think I’ll be saving those as a souvenir. Now how to explain this to my mother…
“Hi. I’m in Jail, Please Get Me Out of Here…” (Part 1)
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(So the following actually took place a few weeks ago, but by request, I’ve written an exceedingly long account of everything that happened. Certainly not a typical Lebanese experience, but an unfortunate twist of living in a strange land…)
I think my first thought when they shut the cell door was something along the lines of “Oh. Okay. So that’s what happens when they put you in jail… Crap.” And I’m not a smoker. I don’t smoke cigarettes. But I clearly remember my second thought being “Man, I need a cigarette.” It had been a long day.
The story really begins the day before. I believe my last post actually referenced this marathon of bureaucracy and I think I gave some grand advice about never loosing your passport in Lebanon, which I stand by. I also made the connection between the folks I was dealing with at the Lebanese General Security office and the insufferable French commander from the movie The Battle of Algiers, Colonel Mathieu. Unfortunately, I didn’t know just how accurate that comparison was. The only difference may have been that for all his authoritarianism, at least Colonel Mathieu had a real solid sense of humor.
On Tuesday I went back to one of the Lebanese General Security buildings as instructed at 9am, hoping to get the simple police report that my embassy hold told me I needed to show them and that a dozen Lebanese officials of various rank were unable to produce without signatures from the Prime Minister, Waldo (Where is he?), and Batman himself (Christian Bale would not suffice, I would have to find the Batcave). What I learned from the day before, and from my first two weeks in this country as a whole, was that generally speaking you can’t accomplish much unless you are assertive and refuse to let people step on you. This mantra served me well on Monday and when I came to the military wing of the GS Office on Tues, I was convinced of my tactics. I was sticking to my guns. Unfortunately- and there are a lot of unfortunately’s in this tale- I did not factor in the simple truth that military men are not civilians and do not take kindly to assertiveness. They had bigger guns than I did. After getting the run-around for a solid three hours, I was terrified that my application for a police report would get lost amidst the literally thousands of papers and carbon copies piled on desks throughout the building– not a single computer, photocopy machine, or even filing cabinet for that matter in sight. I told a few people that I wasn’t leaving until I got my police report and was pretty satisfied when I was brought to the office of an important-looking guy in new fatigues and shiny boots who was wearing his beret indoors. The man sat me down and told me, “I think… eh, you might have to pay 70,000 Lebanese pounds [just over $25] in order to get this processed immediately.” Given his hushed tone and seeming uncertainty with the truth of his statement, I was convinced this man was asking for a bribe. I would later be told by higher authorities that this was not a bribe at all, so in hindsight I clearly made a poor judgment. But at the time I was sure of my impression, and reacting as much to the insanity of the whole situation as to what was just told to me, I cracked an incredulous smile. The general’s face went blank and showed that he had no idea why I was smiling. “He really expects me to grease his palms for this,” I thought to myself. My smile broke into a chuckle, and for a few solid seconds the chuckle gave way to a deep, Santa Clause, belly rumbling guffaw. This time the general’s face was not skeptical nor inquisitive, it was flush with rage. I was directed to get out of his sight immediately, and I complied, only to realize that I didn’t know where to go next. Finding myself in another sticky situation, I returned a few minutes later to ask what I could do. I ran into even more angry words and curses, this time in English. After standing in the hall of the fourth floor of the General Security building for a good twenty minutes as a few military guys stared and others tried their hardest to ignore me, I took out my pen and started writing down the names on the doors of the various offices. I thought just in case I finally met someone who was helpful, I could explain where I’ve been. Or at the very least it would improve my Arabic handwriting. The bystanders were apparently not aware that I was a student of the language, and assumed I was getting ready to tattle on the aforementioned angry important-looking guy. It was about when he found out about this that my fate was sealed I think. There were more rooms and more generals and more signatures, and along the way I picked up one and then another escort with guns, but since they were carrying around an official-looking report I thought perhaps I was nearing the end of my journey. Unfortunately (there’s another one), that wasn’t my police report, it was my receipt. For jail.
Things started to feel wrong when I was sitting in one nondescript office next to my new entourage and a soldier came over and told me to put on some handcuffs. I had a brief moment of panic, but when I refused, everyone in the room had a good laugh, and I gathered they were just trying to lighten the mood a bit. They didn’t push the issue and although I thought the joke in poor taste, I let it slide. After this pit stop, we were off to a police jeep which was parked outside. I happily bounded into the back seat like a puppy on his first trip to the park. Thinking back, these guys must have never had an easier time transporting someone to prison. Of course I asked where the field trip was headed, but the only response from the driver and his accomplice up front was that we were headed to “Chez le directeur.” I thought perhaps this was finally it. I had figured out how to speak to the head honcho. I was going right to the top. The director. In a jeep. Fantastic. I would be on my way back to the embassy for my new passport in no time. Unfortunately, my dreams began to fall apart when the police jeep made a hard turn into what appeared to be a tremendous cement parking garage beneath an overpass. Led from the truck down a dark, wet stairway with several armed guards standing sentinel it seemed an inauspicious home for a directeur, and it was unlikely we had stopped there for coffee and donuts on the way. Still, when the clanking of doors became audible, then dozens of jail cells became visible, and then a man with a large manifesto before him demanded my name, I gave the boys the benefit of the doubt. Wasn’t it possible the prison warden was the one I needed to speak to? In a flash as the door of the holding cell slammed shut, however, I finally put the pieces together with all the excitement of a foreigner who has just found out he is going to jail. “Does anyone have a cigarette?”
The “Between” Week
My week has been one of experiencing the meaning of the word ‘between’ (Not to be confused with the town of Between, GA which lies exactly between my parent’s house in Atlanta and my most recent house in Athens). I have experienced and relished the state of being between, which I have conveniently organized into paragraph form for you. Yes, you.
The first state of between was geographical: between Kiva training in San Francisco and the start of my Kiva Fellowship in Peru and Bolivia. I am one of the first in the 6thClass of Kiva Fellows to go abroad and so had only 10 days to get everything I needed to do done. In between packing and preparing, I visited friends and family in Athens and Atlanta, Georgia and DC. From my forays into the realm of geographical betweens, I realized the importance of technology in bridging the distance.
The second state of between was financial: between donations and loans. Since Kiva Fellows are unpaid volunteers, we are asked to fund ourselves through networks of friends and family, creative fundraising efforts, and even grants from universities or wherever we worked. This reality left me in the uncomfortable position of asking for donations to support me support an organization that has as the core of its animating spirit a replacement of donations with loans. Kiva stresses partnership with the poor rather than paternalism; their mission is to connect people through lending [not donating] for the sake of alleviating poverty. The tension inherent in any fundraising I would do led me to seek out new ways of fundraising that would capture several shades of that magical word: ‘between’. If I have already paid for my trip by dwindling my savings to a month or two’s rent in DC when I get back, how can I allow any money I raise to be maximized in between it being raised and my need for it? If I want to leverage the goodwill of those who support me into supporting Kiva’s mission, what can I create in between the two to create that relationship? While I won’t go into specifics on this blog, you can check out my personal blog (http://joshtoro.wordpress.com/ ) for my answers (caution: it’s a work in progress for the next week or so).
The third state of between was psychological: between strangers and friends. The boundaries we sometimes construct between the two are often broken when generosity and kindness emanate in equal parts from both. For me several acts of generosity and kindness this past week have moved a few people into a new social region between friend and stranger that will lead me to ponder the supposed distinction in the weeks to come. During my period of initial fundraising for my Kiva fellowship, I made a jump into worlds of both strangers and friends. And in my interactions with strangers, I received unbelievable support, validation, and comfort. In particular, one individual became an anonymous donor for a fundraising dinner Sierra (a fellow Kiva fellow) and I threw with our friends. This donor’s support throughout has consistently been overwhelming and increasingly so (one example, the donor would match whatever we raised at the dinner up to $1500!!! When it turned out that only us and our college friends attended and we fell well short of that, the donor informed us that $1500 would still be given!). When I try to distinguish the kindness of ‘strangers’ and my friends who came on two day notice with hour-long drives to listen to mine and Sierra’s passion for Kiva in a cramped studio apartment with soup, sangria, and guacamole and give whatever they could, it begins to seem a little ridiculous to split the camps. I imagine the same might be true for borrowers on Kiva’s website. Before Kiva’s Field Partners gave them access to Kiva’s world of lenders, it is likely the borrowers had to rely on friends and family to support their small businesses. Now, I can go to them with pictures of forty individuals- strangers from strange countries- who supported their little business in the outskirts of Lima. I feel like my experience with fundraising this past week may help me gauge their reaction. “I understand my friends supporting my passion, but forty strangers? Why me?” If their feelings are anything like mine, the range of emotions may just be those invisible tendrils predicated on kindness reaching out between individuals and forming connections where once none stood: the ‘between’ between stranger and friend.
We learned in training that Kiva fellows are to act as bridges between several groups of people: we will connect lenders and borrowers by posting pictures and journal updates and we will connect Kiva with their Field Partners by helping the latter utilize the former. If my experiences of between during my ‘between’ week are any indication, this position of being in between is one I am going to enjoy immensely in the weeks to come. Perhaps it is only fitting that this blog entry was written in the air between Washington, DC and Lima, Peru. May the experience of between invigorate rather than dismay.
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This post is dedicated to the ampersand, that wonderful little symbol that no one really knows what it is nor what it truly represents (though some may claim it means ‘And’), only that its presence signifies a ‘between’: a distance bridged, a connection formed, an object once separate now joined to another.
