Archive for November, 2008
First Thoughts
I am sitting quietly in the cool, green room of a family operated hostel called Dos Molinos in San Pedro Sula. Shortly I will leave for a long bus ride to Tegucigalpa where I meet up with Prisma staff who will show me to my new home.
As I prepare for Monday, when I want to hit the ground running, I find it hard to focus as my mind begins to wander all over the place (though maybe it’s just the vestiges of chloroquine induced dreams…)
My boyfriend prefers professional football to college. He likes brute force of it, and feels closer to the professional teams, which represent to him, his hometown in California more than any college team could. They are old friends, and a powerhouse of activity. Me- I can’t stand football, but the only games I’ve truly enjoyed are between college teams. These are players that still play for the love of the game, for the camaraderie, to make their coach proud, for Mom, Dad and maybe a girl in the stands. They play less for the money than they do for the love.
This is like me- I want to work for the love, and not for the money. This is why I’ve left my paid job for an unpaid Fellowship, left my apartment, friends and family and most of my worldly goods to move to Honduras. I’ve already met the kindest people, sobre todo, the folks here at the Dos Molinos. I find myself thinking, somewhat pedantically, what kind, wonderful people. I’m depressed by the next thought which is, “yeah, but they are only nice to me because I represent money”.
Is that true?
Worse, is my commitment to using microfinance not only to raise the standard of living, but facilitate global connections and understanding actually condemning the world to a game of professional football, where we loose that intangible human nature for a structured, monetary interaction? I love Kiva for its commitment to people, and for using technology to make the world a little smaller, but what do we lose in doing so? And how can I minimize the loss and maximize the benefit?
What can I do to make technology real in people’s lives, relationships both personally and financially prosperous, and us all a little happier?
I will explore these questions here in the coming months here. Join me.
1 comment 29 November 2008
Wednesday saves the week
Wednesday morning was a blast. I had to get up at 5 and get ready to go into the field alone. It was my first time to go alone, but I had set up a meeting with some of the clients from one of the centers in town so I could do a few extra interviews. I had never been to the center, so when I reached the junction the center was at I had to start asking for directions. The first woman I asked was carrying a bucket of popoffs (fried dough balls) and was on her way to the market. She grabbed my hand (holding hands is very common here), and led me to the bottom of a hill. She spoke to a friend of hers who apparently agreed to show me up the next leg of the trip and placed my hand inside my new tour guide’s hand. We walked up the hill and reached the local water tap. Children were lined up with large buckets waiting to bring back water for their family to prepare for the day. There, I was given a new tour guide—a girl around 10 years old with what had to be 20 litres of water on her head. She didn’t spill a drop as we walked quickly to the center. In front of the center waited 10 eager and excited clients, all of whom rushed over to greet me.
After conducting my interviews, I came outside to find two of the members waiting for me. One was the center chief of this particular center. They were standing with the neighbours and called me over. The mama of the home was drying out her fried grasshoppers and when she saw me coming immediately yelled at one of the children to get a ‘big paper’ (plastic bag). She filled a fairly large bag with grasshoppers and I thanked her. We continued down the hill. We walked through some compounds (essentially like someone’s back yard), to get to the Emelda’s shop. On the way, one of the neighbours was cooking her grasshoppers still. She went to talk to Emelda and asked if I could watch them. Of course, I immediately pulled out my camera and started taking a video, letting a couple jump out. Abraham, the center chief, assured me that would have happened even if I was stirring them properly.
At Emelda’s shop, or ‘off license’ which is similar to a bar, she sells beer, wine, cold drinks, and some food items. She wanted me to ’snap her’ (take her photo there), but she had had to hide all of her drink items off the shelves yesterday when the tax collectors came by; she didn’t have enough to pay taxes this month and knew they wouldn’t be going to help her people anyway. So, she decided to hide her items and pretend she had been doing very poorly in business. Next we went to Abraham’s farm. Emelda helps Abraham on the farm as well. The farm was huge, he was growing cabbage, tomato, sugar cane, njama njama (leafy green vegetable), pepper (jalapenoish), fish (in a fish pond), you name it, he had it. They had created an irrigation system by digging ditches through their farm land starting at the top of the hill (the farm was all on a downward slope). The ditches crossed back and forth over the approximately 5 hectares of land, finally ending in the fish pond. It was pretty muddy and slippery, so it was suggested I leave my sandals at the top. As we were walking around, the sun was starting to get pretty hot; Emelda had an extra head scarf and tied it on my head to protect me. Abraham decided to cut down some sugar cane stalks so I could take them back to the office. He cut down about 6 or 7 huge sticks and tied them together with grasses. They were about 4 to 5 feet long; they came up to about my chin. We left the farm and made our way over to another friend of Abraham’s who also helped on the farm.
He explained to me that here in Cameroon, you should not try to do it on your own. Your business and life will fail. He says life is too hard here to try it alone, you need the support of others; even just to cover you when you have malaria or 
typhoid, you need support. That’s why he likes being with GHAPE, they all support each other. All of them work together to make their lives better. Not a bad way to approach a problem. This other friend had three large pigs that had all just recently had piglets. There were quite a few of them all trying to jump out as soon as I looked in. I think they thought I was bringing them food or that the camera was food, because after a couple minutes they all became fairly disinterested in me. We walked up to the road so I could catch an okada (local term for motorbike here) back to the office. I still wasn’t wearing shoes (I know, could have caught all kinds of worms and bugs through my feet) and was wearing Emelda’s head scarf still (she said she would get it from the office later—it was too dusty to take an okada without it. I was now also carrying 7 or so long stalks of sugar cane over my shoulder and snacking on grasshoppers out of a big garbage bag; needless to say, I felt very Cameroonian. As I hopped on the bike and held the sugar cane with one hand, I rested my grasshoppers in my lap and pulled out my cell phone with the other hand to send out a few messages. It was only about half way through the ride home that I thought, “what am I doing? Hold on to the bike, put your grasshoppers and your cell phone away! What are you thinking?” Everyone was really happy to see me come back to the office with gifts of grasshoppers and sugar cane. They all went outside and began chopping off pieces of about one foot for each person. I was lucky enough to get my own stalk!
I have run out of time here, and have to get ready for Foumban this weekend. Foumban is about 4 hours outside of Bamenda and apparently has a huge cultural festival every two years. I will add some more blogs when I get back from that. However, I will say that this week, I successfully created the first GHAPE website! It was a bit over my head, but with a lot of trial and error it is up and running! Check it out and keep in mind there are still a lot of little details I’m still fixing up. www.ghape.org . I also added new photos to jenmcq.smugmug.com
5 comments 29 November 2008
You know you’re in Bosnia when…
In honor of the brilliant Tanzanian posts: http://fellowsblog.kiva.org/2008/10/10/you-know-you%E2%80%99re-in-tanzania-when%E2%80%A6vol-iii/
You know you’re in Bosnia when…
1. Any healthy foods must always be accompanied by sausage.
2. Your coworkers refer to annoying things as “liver” because “they cause the liver to feel pain.”
3. People mix their wine with coca cola.
4. The most popular musicians are over the age of 40, and are usually accompanied by accordions.
5. Pizzas are baked without tomato sauce, but you are welcome to squirt ketchup over the cheese, if you like.
6. Men wear identical black berets.
7. Graphic pornography is sold at convenience stands, next to the candy bars and gum.
8. You feel physical pain when you walk outside in the winter, as your brain contracts from the cold.
9. Cocktails cost $1.
10. US lotteries use 6 numbers. Bosnian lotteries use 19.
Also, here is a borrower update that I recently prepared on Daliborka and Nevenka Javanovic.
9 comments 28 November 2008
pero yo hago tamales….
but I make tamales
I spend most of my time meeting small business owners who have received funds through ADMIC, the local non-profit microfinance institution, using Kiva funds. I have this opportunity to enter people’s homes and hear them talk about the development of their businesses. Yesterday I met three women who make and sell tamales.
While the tamale recipe isn’t necessarily complex it is labor intensive. The spreading of the masa into the corn husks alone takes muscles that aren’t put into play by those of us who labor over a computer. As the cooks in my family have taught me, there is no technique that can replace “putting in the love” to everything you make.
Today I met three women who bring extra resources to their families by making tamales at home and selling them at the market or to th
eir neighbors. These two women used their loans to
purchase additional pans to make the masa and increase their production. They buy the masa ready made, prepare the various meats and assemble the tamales and cook them. They then take orders from their neighbors or hit the streets selling them door to door. Each dozen tamales sells for $35pesos (a few months ago that would have been about $3.50 but this week is $2.65) Tamales are hard work hence there is a market for them.
The third woman I met was straight from “No Reservations” with Anthony Bourdain. Senora Maria Ofelia 
makes tamales for the love of making tamales. She makes everything by hand. She takes 22 kilos of corn and grinds it
herself into the masa- “porque no sabe igual en maqina”/”because it doesn’t taste the same in a machine”. 22 kilos of corn makes 44 kilos of masa. She makes tamales de cabeza- “because that is what my clients request”. She prepares the meat 
herself to get the best for the tamales. She peels each chile de cascabel and takes out the seeds. She uses fresh rather than dried corn husks. She skips not a single step “porque no sabe igual”.
She makes tamales once a week. 55 dozen each time that she sells for $40pesos a dozen. She gets up early in the morning and only breaks from 5-7pm for church “because what do you have if you give up on God”? She then goes back to making tamales until 2am. She sleeps for a short while until 4am. She gets up again with the help of her husband because he sells them to his coworkers at Pemex. The orders were placed in advance and if she doesn’t deliver they won’t have lunch.
For this labor of love, Senora Ofelia will earn $2200 pesos or $157 before ingredients and material costs.
Her family tells her that tamales are too much work. Her blood pressure is too high. She should try making bread. Her response, “pero yo hago tamales”/”but I make tamales”.
Sra Ofelia’s ADMIC/Kiva loan was for $5000pesos was to purchase additional pots to steam the tamales. Now that one is paid she is hoping to take out another loan for a new larger refrigerator to store more ingredients and finished product. She wants to bring her sister on board to expand the business.
Call Bourdain….I have his next clip.
1 comment 28 November 2008
A Muslim from Togo
“We thought you were a Muslim from Togo,” the Director of Alidé told me on the way out of the Benin airport.
“Pardon?” I asked, wondering if I had heard correctly.
“You see,” he explained, “Lawson is a common Togolese name, even sometimes a Beninese one, and in West Africa Sarah is usually a Muslim name. So I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect.”
I explained to him that Lawson was originally English in my case. M. Valère Houssou, the Director of the NGO Alidé in Cotonou Benin, is an immediately likeable man. He is a small, fast-moving person, who was recruited to head Alidé when Alidé separated from the French NGO ID (Initiatives Développement).
Alidé means “another path always exists” in Fon, the local language of southern Benin. Alidé believes that another path always exists for the most poor, and aims to help the most marginalized women of the urban areas of Cotonou to move out of poverty. Alidé also stands for Association de Lutte pour la promotion des Initiatives de Développement in French (Association to Promote Development Initiatives), and is an MFI located in the capital of Benin, Cotonou, with 7 locations around the city.
Benin is a small country in West Africa bordered by Togo to the West, Nigeria to the East, and Niger and Burkina Faso to the north. Its lingua franca is French, followed by Fon and Yoruba. Benin is one of the few countries in the whole of Africa that has had two peaceful transitions of power, and enjoys a close relationship with the United States. President Bush visited last February and has directed a lot of funding towards fighting malaria. Benin has had 18 years of multiparty democracy. Its staple crop is cotton, and GDP per capita is about $1500. Many people practice Voodoo or an animistic religion, but Christianity and Islam are large minorities.
M. Valère Houssou stopped in a questionable-looking neighborhood not far from the airport. I tried not to feel scared as he said my homestay was near, and M. Vivien Hounkpe, one half of my homestay couple, jumped into the car to lead us into a more secluded alley.
I liked Vivien. He is 37 years old and the director of a smaller Alidé office in Cotonou. He served Valère and I chocolate cookies and Coke before Valère bowed out and I went to bed.
Or tried. I am not yet to get used to the intense heat of West Africa. I lay there in the humidity, thinking I was just not tough enough, and read a lot of Audacity of Hope. Finally, I asked Vivien if he could lend me his fan, and I slept for two hours before Alain picked me up at 7:30 a.m.
* * *
Alidé is covered in little inspirational quotes such as “One never gives you a dream without the power to achieve it” or “Demand a lot of yourself and little of others. Thus you will save yourself a lot of worry,” which are a good metaphor for the atmosphere of the place: optimistic and hard-working. Alidé is a small office of about 10 employees: the Director General, Valère, the Director of Operations, Alain, and the Internal Auditor, Michel. Landry is the Kiva contact, Rosaline the secretary, Caroline is starting a new program, and a few other young men work here as well as credit agents. There is a small yard in the back. However, the office holds two major attractions for me: air conditioning and Internet. These two attributes allow the 12 hours to be more enjoyable. The office day is structured quite differently in this tropical zone. We work from 8am-12:30pm in the mornings, and then break for lunch and at least an hour long siesta until 3pm. The workday officially ends at 6:30pm, but we usually leave at 8pm. I think the day is set up much more logically than an American workday as I never get any work done mid-afternoon anyway, I just wish it were a little shorter.
Landry is my Kiva contact here, and we are fast becoming friends. Following a morning meeting, Alain and Landry took me out to lunch at Maquis le Yao, or the Underground Woman in French and Fon. We ate rice, French fries, plantains, and fish of the sea. The restaurant was mostly full of men. Landry took me for my first motorcycle ride to change money and get a few groceries. From the start, it was a harrowing one as I ripped my dress getting on and burned my calf on the engine getting off. However, we were successful in all our transactions. As I grabbed some pasta noodles and eggs for dinner, I remarked to Landry that I had never been shopping with two men before (another man insisted on carrying my purchases).
The pollution in Cotonou is frighteningly awful, worse than I saw in China. It careens out of the back of a motorcycle as it slams on its breaks, and it coats the sky in the morning. Many people wear a handkerchief around their mouth, and I think I will have to emulate them because I find it hard to breathe. It is sad the way the environment is completely destroyed – it is rare to see a tree, or grass uncovered by trash. I now understand the impact of the rapid pace of urbanization in developing countries. It may be seen as a step forward for their economies, but the total devastation of the environment not only lowers the beauty of life, but becomes dangerous to the health of the population. I always joked about Hybrids and Priuses before, but watching the gas spewing out of the back of the motorcycle in front of me as I covered my mouth and coughed has made me a true believer in clean energy.
Most of the structures in Cotonou are low-ones, perhaps less than 25 feet tall, and look haphazardly constructed. The Marche Dantokpa of Cotonou, reputedly one of the best markets in West Africa, is simply a collection of topsy-turvy structures along the sides of an intersection.
I am still reeling, and cannot wait for a good night’s sleep tonight. Alidé has given me a spare fan, and I am putting it as close to my face as is humanly possible.
* * *
Another Version of Day 1, Now that I can write about it
I won’t sugercoat it for you. My first night and day here gave new meaning to the term “culture shock.” It was my first time in the developing world where I wasn’t a tourist, and my first time in Africa. My psyche could not withstand the new world, and I quailed before the explosion of unrelenting poverty. I simply could not react to what I saw.
There were no buildings, there were no Westerners, there was trash in the street, motorcycles, and no traffic laws. There were people living on top of each other, and dirt everywhere, and the pollution blotted out the sun. And I was going to be living in the middle of it, and working right off the street with giant potholes, or maybe just giant holes in the sand, with chickens running around. In the face of such poverty, I had a difficult time acting “normally,” I had to pretend to be “professional” and the lack of sleep amplified every difference. The morning looked bleak, and I wrote a lot of agitated e-mails.
A cup of coffee mid-afternoon helped the images sharpen around me a little, and I tried to stop literally stumbling around but I was still slow to process basic facts. I had not slept at all the night previously, covered with sweat and pressed close to the fan I had pleaded for at 3 a.m. after I could not breathe anymore in the room. That was when I broke down, and wished I was home, not so much for homesickness but because of the frustration with the Equatorial mid-night humidity.
Improvement came in the form of lunch, but then I burned myself on the engine of the motorcycle. By the end of the day, I functioned at maybe a quarter of my usual self, and there were still a few more hours of French left at dinner. I convinced sleep to arrive by tricking myself into seeing the fan as cold waves of air conditioning, and my body slid restlessly into submission.
* * *
Day 2- Friday
Last night I ate at a restaurant with Vivien. We walked down the street and since there was no electricity outside, we ate in the dark. He used a cell phone light to show me my food. We talked a lot about microfinance. Vivien is very passionate about having me in his house. He has spent a lot of time with foreigners and also has told me that I must work hard at Alidé because they have very high expectations for me, a statement which filled me with the fear of disappointment. However, it was nice to eat with him, and it warded off the crushing homesickness that descends with the darkness.
The fan Alidé gave me helped with the heat.
* * *
This morning I thought, it’s poor. Okay, and moved on a little faster.
I have my appetite back! For the first time in 2 days, I was actually hungry. As usual I satisfied my cravings with a healthy object – les biscuits chocolats (chocolate cookies). Landry and I went to lunch at the hospital, an unlikely place to eat, but there was a restaurant there and Landry ran into his childhood friend. When Landry introduced to me using my last name too he asked, “Mais, tu es Béninois?” (“But you are from Benin?”) Just trying, I thought, and answered, “Américaine.”
* * *
Day 3- Saturday
Vivien and I started out eating a breakfast of Mielo (a coffee/hot chocolate mix) and sort of soft, but tasty, baguettes. The plan was to head to Porto Novo, a city about an hour away and Benin’s political capital, so we stopped by his parents’ house to borrow their car. The road to his parent’s house is very bad. In terms of appearance, Benin reminds me a little of Haiti. The road traveled from ok (where we live) to very poor, so poor that the sand road is littered with trash and excrement and the “structures” are really just lean-tos of rusty metal. I didn’t talk at all during the ride because I was trying to digest it all, and Vivien kept asking me if I was ok. I was, it’s just that I seem to encounter many situations in Cotonou where I don’t have a clue what to say, which is funny given that you can’t keep me quiet for one second in the States.
In France, people will usually ask me about American pop, or to talk about American culture. Here that happens very little, as people never ask, and I wouldn’t even know where to start explaining. The one American person we can talk about is Barack Obama. Vivien introduces me everywhere as “This is Sarah. She worked for Barack Obama.” This gives me immediate star power, and is totally great. Barack Obama is such a popular figure that I seem to gain immediate social capital from this statement.
We went first to to one of Alidé’s seven agencies, the Santa Rita Agence, where Vivien is the Director. It was very modest, but it had a little guichet (counter) through which to disburse loans. I met one of his friends with whom he studied abroad, and who now does research in sociology and law. He also works to stop the trafficking of children. This was a subject that interested me very much. I always thought I should be a sociology major, but chose international relations because it sounded more impressive. I told him the research he does sounds very important.
I also met the first Alidé agent who spoke a little English, Raoul. Unlike in France, where everyone attempts to speak English with you regardless of their level of proficiency, here everyone speaks French to me. A few people asked me if I could teach them English.
We were on the way to l’enterrement de son pere, or the internment of Gille’s father. Gilles is a loan agent at Alidé- Allada Agence. It reminded me of the first chapter of Camus’s The Stranger. The ceremony was crazy because when we got to the church, hundreds of people were outside along the grounds, just listening, because the church wasn’t big enough for everyone. I wasn’t sure if the Alidé people would be more observant, but they didn’t pay much attention to the service. In fact, there was a great feeling of camaraderie among everyone as representatives of different Alidé agencies got to see each other. Everyone greeted each other very warmly, and most of them are young men. I was happy when Caroline got there (Caroline sits with Landry and I) with her little sister, as I was one of the only women present. I hang out most of the time with African men. It’s a good thing I’m not in the least bit intimidated, because I’m definitely the odd one out. They do try very hard to include me. In most social situations however, everyone speaks Fon with just a sprinkling of French, so I didn’t understand most of the conversation. That was fine with me, as it gave me a chance to relax a little. Every time I start to daydream about home or to reflect on something here, someone says, “ça va, Sarah?” (“you ok?/how’s it going?”) So I realize I have to re-engage, or at least appear to be engaged.
The Alidé men clowned around during the service, and then we got into the car and on motorcycles to go to the party afterwards. Of course I had no idea where were going, due partly to the dullness in my mind created by the tropical heat (oh, camus), and my general incomprehension of the French/Fon that kept floating my way. But I kept gamely spontaneous, and after getting lost a few times, we finally decided to go to a bar because no one had arrived at the party yet. After a few beers, everyone started shaking their shoulders in their chairs and then we all began to dance. They were excited when I tried to dance too.
We went to the party, and it was absolutely huge, as large as the service. There were at least 500 people, if not 700, and the party took over the whole street. There were both a DJ playing African rap and drummers playing traditional music. The servers brought out crates of drinks and then enormous coolers of steaming hot rice and meat, pâte, and fish. Pâte is corn flour, a mushy potato or grit-like substance, and is the staple carbohydrate of Benin. It is served with a spicy red sauce for dipping, and usually with fish and very fishy dark sauce. I haven’t yet learned to like it, but the rice was delicious. I sat with Clement, who works at another Agence, and the heads of the Porto Novo and Allada agencies.
Today I was the only Caucasian person at the whole party and mass. I read that there were 5000 foreigners in Benin, but where they are, who knows? Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen one Asian and two white people. Surprisingly, people don’t really holler much at me, they stare a little blankly, as if disbelieving that I am actually there. Yes, the little children call me “yavo” (white person), but the reaction is wholly better than I had expected.
On the way home the mood turned more somber as we passed Diamond Bank, scene of yesterday’s shooting. Last Friday night in the Dantokpa Market bandits entered and began shooting in the air. They were a well-organized and well-armed group from Nigeria. In April, the same group had tried to rob the same Diamond Bank in the center of Cotonou at Dantokpa Market. They failed, but robbed Diamond Bank in Cameroon and Nigeria. Yesterday they returned to Diamond Bank better-armed and robbed the Bank of about US $786,000 and won a 5-hour firefight with the police and some military back-up. In the panic that followed, 20-100 people were injured by stray bullets and a stampede that took place as people attempted to flee. The bank was targeted because of its high liquidity; the market women, some of whom are Alide clients, deposit their funds directly as they have nowhere else to keep it. The bandits escaped from the harbor in motorboats. As Valere put it, it reminded him of a “Western” or “Rambo.” Everyone here is frustrated by the poor security, and the fact that bandits were allowed to rob banks at least three times and get away with it. Most blame neighboring Nigeria, where the bandits have almost certainly sought safe haven. We watched the events unfold on live camera on the TV at Vivien’s parents house. Landry saw the panic as he passed by on his way home.
Late in the evening we went out with Vivien’s friend, Auguste, and his wife, Lareine. We began by talking about Ouidah, a nearby city which attracts a lot of tourists. We discussed tourism and also the different religions of Benin, namely animism. Vivien pointed to Lareine and said, “her step brother is the highest Voodoo priest in the country. Would you like to meet him?”
“Oui!” I answered. I think that would be fascinating. I tried to explain to them how Voodoo is a misunderstood religion in the U.S. I told them that since it had come to Louisiana, many people thought it was a violent practice and it had a somewhat negative connotation. I decided not to mention human sacrifice. Voodoo is the religion of about 45% of people in Benin. They agreed that I could help build a better reputation for Voodoo when I returned armed with knowledge. However, they emphasized that I would not be told all the secrets, and that I should take care to ask before taking photographs. Vivien added that if I was told not to bring a cell phone to a Voodoo ceremony and I brought one, that my cell phone would start to burn. I didn’t catch whether someone would light it on fire due to my insolence, or whether it would spontaneously burst into flame.
Lareine also makes traditional African clothing, and she offered to sew me an outfit to take home. We ended dinner with a lesson in Fon. Vivien explained that they were actually speaking three languages at the table – French, Fon, and their village’s language. Auguste decided to teach me hello in Fon.
“ ‘AH-FON-ghan-ji-yah’ means good morning. ”We lo, Ah-do-ghan-ji-ya’ means fine, how are you?”
* * *
I remembered striking up a conversation with the French woman standing next to me in the Customs line when I first arrived in Benin. After she complimented me on America’s selection of Barack Obama, I asked if she was staying in Cotonou.
“No!” She replied. “Cotonou is awful! Full of pollution. I would never stay there.”
I told her I would be staying in Cotonou for 3 months.
“Oh, well,” she said, “The people of Benin will make you forget the city of Cotonou.”
(Les Béninois vont vous faire oublier de Cotonou).
A fact which is proving more true every day here.
3 comments 27 November 2008
Thankful.
When FINCA staff interview clients to write their Kiva profiles, the last question each client is asked is “What are your dreams for the future?” As I looked at the profile of FINCA client after FINCA client, I was struck that almost everyone had some variation of the same three dreams:
1) “For my children to graduate with professional degrees” or “For my children to get a good education.”
2) “To open my own store” (for ambulatory vendors), “To open another store,” “To expand my store,” or “To offer a wider variety of merchandise in my store.”
3) “To build my own home,” “To own my own home,” or “To improve my home.”
Something bothered me about seeing the same dreams repeated over and over, but for a week or so I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that bothered me. In part, I think it challenged a mindset instilled in me from early on, reflecting a PC, middle-class American upbringing laden with positive reinforcement, self-esteem boosters and the notion that everyone is different in a good way. I can see the motivational posters on the walls of my second-grade classroom now: “Reach for the stars!” “I can do anything if I put my mind to it!” “The sky is the limit!” and so on. If you’d asked me then about my dreams, I would have told you that I wanted to be a professional ice cream taster and have my own calf for my backyard (my family lives in the middle of Minneapolis). My dreams today are the same size, though they’ve gotten less fattening and more socially oriented over the years (I don’t want to say what they are for fear of jinxing myself; I never did get that calf).
I think I expected clients to have similarly grandiose responses. To me, offering a wider variety of merchandise is a goal, not a dream. Winning the lottery is a dream, being a world-renowned artist is a dream, traveling to faraway places is a dream. Dreams are limitless and fantastic: if you’re really lucky you get close, but otherwise a dream is something to set your sights on and work towards as you go through life. Goals are concrete and attainable: if you plan ahead and work hard, you should be able to reach and even surpass your goals. I wanted clients to see that their dreams were in fact goals. What happens once you do start selling a wider variety of merchandise? Once your house has a second floor? Once you have two stores? Where do you go from there? It also bothered me that clients’ dreams didn’t involve working less or retiring. Most of the women I talk to work 50 or 60 hours per week and have large families to support; their kids usually work with them while not in school. But no one dreamed of not working. Many older clients told me they dreamed of continuing to work for as long as possible.
A couple of days ago, I came across a woman whose dream was “For my children to grow up to be better than me.” That made me cry, and I realized that this woman’s bluntly-put “dream” is in fact the common theme shared by everyone I’ve talked to. Any given combination of dreams #1, 2, and 3 is just a way of saying “I want a better future for my children.” I think this is probably the common dream shared by most mothers of the world, and I feel silly for not realizing this sooner. It doesn’t really matter if they’re dreams or goals; either way they represent small steps forward, and maybe it’s easier to go step by step than to look to a place miles away that you are trying to reach, since you might get discouraged once you realized how far away you currently are.
Being at FINCA for Thanksgiving has given the holiday a new meaning for me. I’ve always known that I have more material goods than most people in the world and that I’ve been blessed with a good education and a loving family, but I never thought about how much I’ve been empowered by those around me throughout my life. I was given a childhood of leisure time and had the luxury of dreaming about cows and ice cream; I didn’t see any doors closed to me. I never fully realized that my family has already achieved what most families only dream of.
5 comments 26 November 2008
The art and science of communication
Language is said to be the thing that separates man from animal. Oliver Wendell Holmes said it is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow. It is also the way in which we can most easily communicate our deepest thoughts and desires with another. It is a tool that we use to bridge us together.
Yet since I have arrived in Ghana, I have begun to define language in an entirely new way. It is a constant ebb and flow of words and understanding. It is a roller-coaster ride of gerunds and participial phrases that mean all the world to some people and don’t make any sense to others.
Ghana is a tribal-based country with about 80 languages. In any given region of the country, a different language is spoken based on the tribe or tribes that reside there. In addition, Ghana is a former British colony so English is the official language—which means that people who receive an education study the language of their region and English during their schooling, and the language is used in government and business practices. This leads to an interesting work environment in that none of my co-workers other than myself speak English as their first language. On top of that, while much of the work does involve speaking native languages, not all of the employees speak the same native languages. At least three different languages from three different regions are spoken in the office on any given day, and not everyone understands each others’ tribal languages, so the use of English becomes a middle ground where employees can meet to talk to each other.
Even the English that is used here in Ghana is different from the English that I am used to. People in Ghana learn British English, which is not all that different from American English, but they have taken it and changed it in their culture to make it their own—in part, I believe, due to a lack of exposure to the way the English language is used in the Western world.
Take the word fuel, for example. I kept hearing the CRAN drivers saying they needed foo-elle. Foo-elle, I thought. What in the heck is foo-elle? Oh, fuel, of course. Then there was the time I walked around the entire University of Ghana-Legon looking for the math department and asking everyone I met for directions while being pointed in every direction. Apparently they didn’t know what math was. I found out later that the word math is pronounced mass here. If only I had asked for the mass department, they would have known exactly what I was talking about. There are many words that are now pronounced differently, for lack of knowing how to pronounce it perhaps. Either way, it is culturally right to pronounce such words that way; otherwise, no one will understand what you are saying.
At first I thought that the people in Ghana have a whole different and less-than-American grasp of the English language. As a vivid reader and copy editor, my understanding of the science and art that is the English language is strong, and I saw a lot of rules that weren’t known and that were broken. I realized that the people I work with and interview only use it as a second language and don’t have the poetic vibe that being fluent in a language brings—that ability to truly and clearly articulate the specific words desired. Granted, there are varying levels of English and some are quite high, but each is different than that of a native English speaker and each is developed in accumulation with the culture.
Interestingly enough, despite the fact that many of the people I interview for Kiva profiles didn’t have much schooling and don’t speak English much or at all, they all know and use some English words on a daily basis. English has somehow fused with the native languages to become, in a sense, their own native words. Rather than saying Good Morning or Good Afternoon to someone in a tribal language, you actually speak these words in a sentence. For example, “Paucho, Good Morning. Ete Sen?” Translation: Please, good morning. How are you? In response, you might say, “Boco,” with a long o at the end. This means “I am cool.” What is funny is that even when speaking in English and I ask them how they are doing, people still respond by saying, “I am cool.” In that same way, the word please (paucho), a commonly used term of respect, is often used in the English language. Thus a waiter at a Chinese restaurant I went to once—that’s right, Chinese in Ghana—responded to our orders by saying, “Please, one order of rice.” And “Please, here is your coke.” The fun of this is that I can and do say “please, thank you” on a daily basis.
Many of my interviewees don’t speak the English language, yet they use a few English words—words that have become a part of their daily speech. So someone who lives in a rural area and who never went to school—someone who claims to speak no English—still says sorry when he or she bumps into someone.
Ghanaians have taken the English they learn and created an entire new way of speaking with it. I have been told a few times not to speak in slang—something that can actually unnerve me considering I am speaking proper American English and not slang at all. Until I learn Ghanaian English and start using words like foo-elle and mass in the proper settings, I will always be speaking slang to some Ghanaians.
I still love the English language with all its rules and regulations, and I love my understanding of it. But living in Ghana has taught me that the true role of language is to communicate, and sometimes that means throwing all of the rules out the window and telling people that mass was my least favorite subject in school and asking how much foo-elle prices are right now. The true purpose of language is to bridge a gap between the ideas and thoughts of two different individuals, and while I still love the rules, sometimes they don’t help me do that here. I will adjust over time, just as Ghanaians have included the English language into their own speech. And despite all the rules, isn’t it true that language is a melting pot of culture and a constantly changing means of expression anyway?
My university grammar teacher would be horrified.
*Note to reader: The language examples are Fanti, a language spoken in the Central Region where Christian Rural Aid Network is located.
2 comments 26 November 2008
Trusting, corrupt Azerbaijan
I’ve been in Azerbaijan for just over six weeks now, but I this is my first blog post since my arrival.
I haven’t known what to say, really. It’s not that I’ve been awed into silence by the exoticness of this Caucasus nation. I live in Baku, and we have six McDonald’s (so I hear — I’ve managed to visit two). Anyplace with that many McDonald’s fails some kind of exoticness test somewhere. Well, maybe if it was Japan and there was shrimp-burger on the menu, but the most exotic thing you can order at my McD’s is a MacArabic — basically, a really mediocre chicken wrap.
No, Azerbaijan’s foreignness reveals itself in small ways. The streets full of Land Rovers and Hummers and Mercedes and BMWsalso share space with Opels and Daewoos, and tiny, box-like Soviet Ladas and Zhigulis. You can buy a Snickers and some milk at the market, and a goat’s head as well. And, everywhere you look, there’s a cat. (More on that in another posting…)
I’ve had trouble pinning down just what makes this place tick. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and talked to a lot of people, foreigners and locals alike, but I still don’t know.
Azerbaijan is a study in overlap. It’s a Venn diagram country. If you took eastern Turkey, northern Iran and southern Russia and forced them all to share a room, you’d get Azerbaijan. If you took Shi’ia Islam — like you’d find in Iran — but diluted their vigorous, all-pervading faith with the atheist hangover of a formerly Soviet state and the secular flavor of Turkey’s Islam, you’d get Azerbaijan’s approach to religion. They speak Azeri, which is kissing cousins with Turkish, but a lot of people speak Russian and the more educated people might speak some English. On the subway, you’re apt to see advertisements in English, Azeri, Cyrillic and Farsi. The nation straddles Eastern Europe and Central Asia. It could be grouped with the ’stans, the Middle East, or its Caucasus neighbors, Armenia and Georgia.
The people are amazingly trusting, and yet, somehow, it’s one of the most corrupt nations on the planet.
On the one hand, here’s an example a friend in the Peace Corps, who is working in microfinance in the north of the country, shared with me.
People in Azerbaijan often refuse to use banks. This is understandable, as a banking crisis not that long ago wiped out the savings of some. But the banking system is much improved, and one bank is trying to lure people into opening accounts by explaining how the account might help a family share funds. The bank explains to prospective customers that a son or daughter working in the capital, Baku, can deposit money that family members in an outlying region can then withdraw.
What’s the point of that? they ask. Why not just give the 100 Manat to a taxi driver — along with 3 Manat for the drive — and have him bring the cash up from Baku to the village, two hours away? Azeris think nothing of trusting a stranger that way.
I’m from New York City, so I’m paranoid. I watch my belongings like a hawk wherever I go. But I would feel better about leaving a bag or a jacket unattended in Baku than in London or Paris or my hometown. Violent crime doesn’t exist, and even petty theft such as bag-snatching and pick-pocketing is hardly a problem. Women walk home alone after 1 a.m. through downtown Baku without looking over their shoulders.
And the people are hospitable to a fault. I’m treated like an honored guest at each of the three MFI’s where I’ve been working, Komak, Aqroinvest and Normicro. Tea is brought, lunch is paid for. The other day Ayyub, my boss at Aqroinvest, took me to a hamam, Turkish bath, to steam away my troubles. If you try to go outside with wet hair or a wet shirt, someone will get in your face about how you’re going to catch cold. That’s just how it is here.
But, oh, the corruption! As a foreigner, I’ve heard many stories but had little personal interaction with that ever-present force. (No one thinks twice of overcharging me for any purchase I make, but I’m not sure that qualifies as corruption.) Rather, I glean what I can from my reading and from the stories I hear. I can’t vouch for any of them, but everyone seems to have a story.
The most corrupt country in 2008, according to the watchdog group Transparency International, is Somalia, ranked 180. Iraq and Myanmar are tied for one spot better. The least corrupt countries in the world, sharing top honors on the list, are Denmark, New Zealand and Sweden. Transparency International rates countries on a scale called a Corruption Perceptions Index. It’s a 10-point scale. Those three countries range from 9.1 to 9.5 on the scale.
I’ve read that a good rule of thumb is that in any country under a 3 on the scale, corruption pervades all aspects of the daily lives of its citizens. In the 3 range you will find countries such as Niger, Egypt, Belize, Mauritania, Togo, Thailand and Saudi Arabai. Azerbaijan barely musters a 2, with an index range of 1.7 to 2.1. It’s tied with Burundi, Venezuela, Angola, Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Sierra Leone and the Republic of the Congo for a dismal 158th place.
On a drive to the regions with two of my friends from one of my MFIs, we were pulled over by a cop. We hadn’t been speeding or anything like that, so I was a bit alarmed as the cop got out of his car and approached the driver of ours. But our driver said not to worry.
He hopped out, greeted the police officer, and they shook hands and turned around and walked back to the police car. The policeman rejoined his partner inside the police car and my friend chatted with them through their window. No tickets were written, no admonishments made. It wasn’t until later that someone explained to me how it works. The supervising highway police have a quota they give their highway patrol to fill. The highway patrol must pull over X number of drivers each day. The standard bribe is 5 Manat (1 Azeri Manat=1.24 U.S. Dollars). When he shook hands with the cop, my friend was paying the bribe as you or I might pay the toll on a bridge. Any bribes the policeman can take beyond the quota he gets to keep.
Another example, much worse: schoolchildren pay for grades. It’s not that the poorest students bribe their teachers not to fail them: ALL students must pay. If a bright student who knows the material doesn’t pay, she fails. If a student who never opened the textbook pays the price, he passes with high marks. That’s the system. All the incentives that might produce an educated elite are out the window. Apparently, it’s gotten worse in recent years, with teacher’s assistants lining up the students before exams so they can pay the bribes one by one.
Azerbaijan doesn’t face the kind of poverty you find in many Kiva countries: people are poor, and often hungry, but they aren’t dying of easily curable diseases left and right, or one meal away from starvation. The incredible oil and natural gas wealth that supplies the dozens of high-end retail shops in Baku with customers has managed to trickle down a bit to the masses. But, despite its wealth relative to the very poorest nations, I still think Azeri schoolchildren lining up to pay the bribe before the exam is a singularly hopeless, discouraging image.
I hear other stories. Politicans buy appointments. Official document are only delivered with some baksheesh, and if any of your documents are out of order, expect to pay the price. Successful owners of large businesses — from doctors’ offices to supermarkets — must periodically pay thousands of Manat to police who march in and demand that the doors be shut. Bribes lubricate the gears of this country, both large and small.
I’m not sure what makes me more upset: that this goes on, or that no one seems bothered enough to speak up about it. I think, however, that it bothers many people, probably much more than it bothers me, but they lack the tools — a true democracy, a free press — to do anything constructive with that anger, and so they hold it inside.
When you leave the capital — and most of the Kiva clients at my MFI’s live outside the capital — it’s really like travelling back in time. You go from Cosmo Magazine, the Bulgari store and Japanese restaurants right into an agrarian society. Picture the 18th century, but with cell phones and cars, and all the farmers and sheep herders wearing pinstripe suits.
Driving through the regions, it has the look of a Disney movie — ducks crossing the road here, a puppy and kitten wrestling there, a cow grazing on the left and a herd of sheep on the right. Of course, you’re apt to have some enormous metal contraption the USSR left behind, something meant to leech the gas or oil from the earth, rotting in the background, but ignore that.
There is no industry for these people. The oil boom that makes Baku so Western — all of those petrodollars being pumped out of the Caspian into someone’s pocket — don’t reach these people. They survive on their wits. They find simple business opportunities. They raise cattle and sell the milk, or make it into yogurt or butter and sell that. If a calf is born, they might sell its meat. They raise chickens for the family to eat. Pomegranates from the tree in the backyard are sold at bazaar.
If they can raise enough capital, they might start a more formal business: a general store, a shop peddling auto parts, a hardware store, a butcher shop. This is where microfinance comes in. Kiva and its three partner MFIs in Azerbaijan does such good work for these people. The capital is the missing piece. It’s often the difference betwen a family of four or five living on $2-3 U.S.D. or living on $10. Nearly every entrepreneur I’ve had the chance to interview has made a point of asking for another loan.
If Azerbaijan weren’t so corrupt, microfinance might not be so important. But as it is, measures of this nation’s wealth are misleading. The richest, best-connected people, making millions off oil, skew estimates for everyones’ wealth. They hide the reality that outside the petrol industry, people have to build their own livelihoods. Thanks to microfinance, hardworking, honest people don’t have to be confined to poverty here.
11 comments 25 November 2008
Rai’s Way
Across from DINARI Foundation’s office, there is a large concrete lot with two long warehouses lining the perimeter. In the middle of the lot, blue tarps covered three mounds that were perhaps fifteen feet in diameter. In the morning, workers removed the tarps, revealing piles of what looked like sand as high as the men’s waists. Two of the men wheeled out mechanized plows and bulldozed the piles, gradually spreading the material across the concrete in messy spirals. A third worker appeared with a bandanna covering his nose and mouth, looking like a bandit. He and the others used large curved rakes to spread the sand in a thin even layer across the ground.
The lot across from DINARI Foundation
The men then disappeared into one of the warehouses. They returned with rectangular mops and swept the sand back into piles. The entire process would repeat throughout the day, interrupted by breaks when the workers squatted in the shade, arms draped over their knees. Sometimes trucks came and unloaded more material. Once a customer entered the lot and left with a big white sack strapped to her bicycle and another balanced on her head. At four o’clock in the afternoon, the men placed the tarps back on the piles, and activity ceased until the following morning.
When Rai came, he explained that the mounds were rice, not sand. The lot was part of a rice mill, and the men were drying the rice in the sun, which helped remove the husks. Farmers like Rai brought their crops there. In exchange for ten percent of the farmers’ supply, the mill processed the rice and the farmers could then sell it for twice the price of “rough rice.” In a one-hectare plot (about two and a half acres), most farmers could harvest five to six tons of rice during a four-month season. Rai’s record was 15.3 tons in 85 days.
He began farming ten years ago when he was twenty-seven years old, renting a small plot surrounded by buildings in Bali’s capital of Denpasar. At the time, he owned an art gallery in Kuta, the touristic heart of Bali. He sold his own paintings and ceramics, and he also designed jewelry and landscapes.
His family came from Blimbingsari, a rural Christian village in western Bali, and his father worked in Bali’s national park.
“Every day, I learn about nature,” Rai told me. He had wavy black hair that flowed down to his khaki shorts and dark stubble that reached up to his prominent nose and cheekbones. My first impression was of a Native American shaman, but his tan New Balances and ankle-high socks befitted a country club staff member.
His grandfather was a rice farmer, and Rai would watch him farm in the traditional way, burning the old stalks and flooding the paddies.
“As a child, I see this, and I think this is wrong.”
Rai studied economics and cinematography in college and never received formal agricultural training. But he read on his own about plant ecology, oxygenation and organic farming. He was concerned that traditional farming in Bali polluted the environment and strained its natural resources. He learned that burning the spent rice fields killed microorganisms necessary to aerate the soil. He began testing farming methods from Thailand and Madagascar, incorporating techniques that worked and disregarding those that didn’t.
“I have no rule,” he told me.
Most farmers filled their paddies with twenty centimeters of water. Rai speculated that with less water, the new stalks would receive more sunlight and oxygen. He irrigated his field with just one centimeter of water, and the stalks produced twice as many shoots. Less water also allowed the soil organisms to flourish and enrich the soil.
Ardi, one of the staff at DINARI, also grew up in Blimbingsari. He told me he would help his father plant rice. At the start of each season, he would follow behind his father, dropping five seeds in every hole. The method required 40 kilos of rice seed per hectare, at a cost of Rp. 2 million (approximately $200). Rai found that the rice grew better if he planted just one seed at each point, and he needed just 12 kilos of seed.
Rai began composting his discarded rice stalks instead of burning them. He cut up the stalks and mixed them with sawdust, cow dung, and rice husks. He added microorganisms he had collected from various trees, grasses, and bamboo bark. He then covered the mixture with a tarp for two weeks. The chemical processes released so much energy that the compost would measure 70° Celsius, so he had to open up the tarp after the first week to let everything cool down.
Rai understood that burning the rice fields wasn’t sustainable and required additional fertilizer to make up the nutrient deficit. A kilo of fertilizer cost about Rp. 3,000. At first, farmers might only require a ton of fertilizer per hectare, but every year they would have to buy more as they depleted the natural soil.
Burning also released pesticides that had been sprayed on the crops. Mothers often carried their babies with them when they worked in the field, and many infants died as a result from a bleeding disorder. Rather than applying chemical pesticides, Rai protected his rice with lemongrass, watered-down pineapple juice and leaves from the neem plant. I had seen neem extract bottled in a swanky natural foods store, claiming to treat diarrhea and inflammation.
Rai’s methods required time and careful planning, and the results were not immediate. But over the span of a few seasons, yields increased from 60% to 200%. Initially, the costs were similar to traditional farming, but by sparing traditional fertilizers and pesticides, Rai could eventually save millions of rupiahs for every hectare planted. His rice also grew faster, so he could plant four harvests each year instead of three. And because the rice was organic, he could sell it for twice the price of the conventional variety.
Rai in the rice paddy
“Your story is bullsh*t,” one farmer announced when Rai tried to explain his approach.
Most farmers believed that organic farming produced smaller yields, and few believed him. Some people got angry at his seemingly outrageous claims. Rai once ran away after a man brandished a knife at him. Rai decided to set up demonstrations, renting small farming plots in the villages and growing his own rice.
“My crops are like this,” he said, raising his hand level with his chest. He then dropped his hand below his waist. “And theirs’ are this. Then they listen.” His laugh was somehow both guttural and giggly.
Maybe only one farmer out a hundred would adopt his method at first, but gradually he won more and more converts. Farmers began visiting Rai to seek advice, often staying until the early morning hours. His wife ran out of coffee. Exasperated, she brought out a kettle of hot water one night, announced she was going to bed, and told Rai to get his own coffee.
Sometimes he was so busy he forgot to eat. His wife packed lunchboxes and implored him to drink more water. He recently spent three days in the hospital after contracting typhus.
“Perhaps I work too hard,” he admitted.
He wanted to “open minds”, to fundamentally change how Balinese people viewed farming and farmers. Most Balinese people looked down on farmers as dirty, poor, and stupid. Because the traditional way of farming was simplistic and shortsighted, Rai believed it instilled a mindset in farmers that served to justify the stereotype.
The rice field behind my guesthouse
Rai once received a call from one of his daughter’s teachers, who suspected his child had played a prank. His children attended good schools with expensive tuition, and most of the students came from affluent families. The children had been asked to write down their parents’ occupations, and the teacher did not believe Rai’s daughter when she wrote that her father was a farmer. Rai happily confirmed that his daughter was telling the truth. Later, when his daughter brought her schoolwork home, he saw that the teacher had crossed out “farmer” and written “businessman.”
Few young people chose farming as a career, instead seeking better wages in Bali’s cities and tourist areas. Often they would earn only Rp. 750,000, or $75, in a month.
“It’s crazy,” he said, smiling in disbelief. “Go to the city be a crime.”
He lamented that Bali had squandered its position as a rice producer and now had to import rice from the island of Java. He thought Bali’s shift from agriculture to tourism had been disastrous, as evidenced by the economic collapse following the 2002 bombings.
Rai’s own finances imploded after the terrorist acts. Vendors who previously bought his ceramics stopped ordering and began importing from Vietnam. Rai was forced to close his art gallery in which he had invested Rp. 500 million of his own money.
He couldn’t earn enough to feed his family, and it was not yet time to harvest his crops. He ate only one meal a day but didn’t tell his wife for fear she would get upset. He pleaded with his mother to send milk for his daughter. He tried giving her tea in the nighttime, but she told him she could taste the difference.
“It is sweet, but it is not milk.” As Rai recounted the story, his eyes moistened.
Even though he didn’t have any money, he arranged for a local television station to auction ten of his paintings for the families of the bombing victims. He raised Rp. 300 million.
Gradually, as he harvested his crops and the economy recovered, Rai rebuilt his life. He began dedicating most of his time to farming. He worked every day, three for his own livelihood and four to help the farming communities. After farmers implemented his approach, he would expand to new areas, renting farmland all over Bali in places like Klunkung, Karangasem, Tabanan, Singaraja, and Nagara. He spent half his money providing for his family and the other half for social work. He bought a car and a motorbike and sent his children to good schools, but he had no savings left over.
His friends told him he was crazy to spend so much money on his social work. He asked them how they kept good conscience while their neighbors lived in poverty.
“How come (can) you eat? How come (can) you loving?”
While growing up in Blimbingsari, Rai went to school with several children from the local orphanage. Sometimes a dozen would come to his home to study. When his mother came home, she demanded to know why all the food was gone. Rai recalled how, when he explained to his mother where his friends lived, “she not angry anymore.”
The Balinese rice association, however, was still angry at him. The market price for conventional rice was Rp. 7,000 per kilo, and the price for organic rice was twice that. But Rai sold his rice for Rp. 3,000.
“When I can grow so much rice, it is enough.”
I wanted to make sure I understood him correctly, that he voluntarily sold his rice for a fraction of what it was worth.
“That is why my friends say I’m crazy.” He laughed, scrunching his cheeks so that his eyes squinted.
I asked whether he could have a greater impact if he sold his rice at the market price, since he would have more funds for his social work. Poor people subsisted on rice, he told me, and he thought his first priority should be to help them, rather than just help farmers increase their production and hope this would lower the price of rice. But he struggled with the decision.
“It keeps me up at night,” he said.
A few months ago, Rai borrowed Rp. 9 million from DINARI Foundation when he ran out of funds. He wanted to rent a plot of farmland in the nearby town of Sempidi, hoping to convert more farmers to his sustainable agricultural practices.
He told me that banks also looked down on farmers and would not lend to them. Farmers were forced to borrow from “bloodsuckers” who charged 10% interest rates, often leaving the farmers with little or no profit at harvest time. Rai hoped that by lowering farmers’ costs, he could cut out the bloodsuckers.
Rai invited me to join him the following afternoon to watch him instruct several Sempidi farmers how to make compost. I saw this as evidence that his DINARI-financed project had proven successful. I agreed and gave him my energy bar before he left, worrying whether he would have time to eat.
The next day, as I followed him on my motorbike, he pointed out a driveway full of sand-colored rice, drying in the afternoon sun. His hair was tied up in a samurai’s bun that peaked out from beneath his helmet, and his unbuckled chinstrap flapped in the wind.
We pulled into the farmer’s house and parked in a grass lawn beneath a tree. There was a small dirt yard in back, and we sat a bamboo bench and one of the farmers’ wives brought us donuts and sweetened coffee. The farmer’s rice paddy lay beyond.
There was a pile of dried rice stalks on the ground, and two farmers began chopping them up on small wooden cutting boards. At times, the knives synchronized into a percussive duet. There were two sacks and a red plastic bag next to the pile, and Rai opened them to show me the compost ingredients: wood chips from a carpenter’s shop, coconut fibers, and rice husks. A pile of cow manure lay behind the rice stalks.
Inspecting the composting ingredients
As the farmers continued the prep work, Rai and I walked along the edge of the rice paddy. He knelt by one of the shallow pools and pointed out resting tadpoles. Frogs lived in the water now that the farmers had stopped using conventional pesticides. He showed me a neem tree growing behind a farmer’s house, its leaves fanning out in a modest circle. A number of farmers had learned of Rai’s techniques and begun poaching branches.
He explained that the paddy would be re-terraced to improve the irrigation system, and the farmers would work together to improve each other’s land.
“Hundred years ago, farmers work together. Now, they work together again.”
We checked back on Rai’s students, and Rai retrieved a plastic liter-size bottle filled with brown liquid. The bottle housed Rai’s microorganisms and would be sufficient for two hectares. Rai poured the brew into a bucket and mixed in sugar and water. The farmers could buy soil bacteria, but it was very expensive, so Rai would show them how to make it themselves.
After the farmers had combined the dry composting ingredients, the microorganism concoction was funneled into a canister and sprayed on top. The farmers took hoes and spent the next fifteen minutes vigorously mixing everything together. An old farmer, wearing a hat but no shirt, earnestly raked the pile until the veins on his sinewy arms swelled. Rai swept in the scattered remains, and finally a blue tarp was placed over the pile and weighted down with rocks.
A farmer mixing the compost
The farmers listened for a while as Rai smoked a cigarette and discussed his methods, and then gradually they left. Other men from the village began arriving with roosters, children, or both. They sat on the grass lawn, and I watched as the men decided which cocks would fight one another. The two owners then fluffed up roosters’ feathery manes. The men took turns holding each bird’s neck out for the other cock to peck, and the fight commenced when the roosters were worked into a sufficient frenzy. Sometimes the birds went at each others’ heads, and other times they launched into flying kicks.
The neighborhood cockfight
It was past six o’clock, and the sun had dropped below the distant trees. Between rounds, I looked over at Rai. He was sitting on the bamboo bench with his back to the action, smoking another cigarette and speaking with the last man and woman who remained with him. If not for me, he might have stayed long into the night.
Rai transporting microorganisms
While I always welcome your comments, I would also like to ask for your assistance this time. I have offered to help Rai find organizations involved in sustainable farming that might be interested in supporting his efforts. My knowledge of agricultural organizations is minimal, so I would be grateful for any suggestions you might have. You can leave a comment on this blog or on Rai’s profile on Kiva:
http://partners.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=about&id=62697
Please expect a new post from me in about two weeks. I encourage you to watch for new loans from the DINARI Foundation here: http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&partner_id=82&status=fundRaising&sortBy=New+to+Old&_tpg=fb
11 comments 25 November 2008
Sometimes the Most Boring Client is Really the Most Interesting
In the past week I have met with almost 50 clients, which is way more than I met in the previous six weeks combined. I should feel inspired and excited by that accomplishment, but I mostly feel tired and battered. That’s because all of the clients I met with were BORING! I’m not exaggerating – I didn’t have one interesting interview. At least, that’s what I thought in the days surrounding the visits….
When I meet with clients, I ask a bunch of questions about their business, family, and personal history in order to get a better understanding of the benefit they have experienced from working with a microfinance organization. The clients in and around my home base of Khujand haven’t exactly talked my ear off, but they’ve been surprisingly open and forthcoming with their responses. So when I took a week to meet with clients in the southern part of the country, I was shocked by their consistently brief and reticent responses. Here is a sample interview from the past week:
Me: Why did you decide to start a business?
Client: Because I wanted to.
Me: Why did you decide, after 9 years of owning your business, to apply for your first loan last year? Client: Because.
Me: What has been the impact of the loan on your business?
Client: It’s been good
Me: Can you provide any specific examples?
Client: No
Me: Do you have any goals for the next few years, for your business or family?
Client: No
It was the same thing, client after client. I wanted to scream – didn’t anybody have a wedding to pay for; a child to send to college; or a satellite dish to buy (all very typical responses to the goals question)? I pulled out every trick in the bag: rephrasing my questions; asking follow-up questions, smiling more; and talking about their family. But, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get anything out of these clients. We tried different communities, different branches, different translators and still nothing….the clients simply would not talk.
My first reaction was to chalk it up to the fact that microfinance isn’t always ’sexy’. It isn’t always the glamorous success story that, as a lender, you hope to hear. My second thought was that this part of the country was simply more religious and therefor more reserved. But, I wasn’t satisfied with either of these explanations and decided to ask for some help from my IMON coworkers.
It turns out that the “boring clients” are a complex and emotional consequence of Tajikistan’s civil war, which erupted in 1992, just after the country had gained its independence from the U.S.S.R., and lasted until around 1997. The violence took up to 50,000 lives and resulted in widespread and devastating food shortages. While the northern cities were able to avoid most of the conflict and suffering, it was a different story in the communities I visited around Dushanbe and Sharituz. In these towns, up to 30-40% of the women are war widows; almost one hundred thousand people fled to neighboring Afghanistan; entire communities were burnt to the ground or otherwise destroyed; and most people lost their job or simply stopped getting paid. That’s why microfinance was so necessary and therefor so successful in Tajikistan. It helped individuals and communities create their own jobs and futures after the war.
When I went back through my interview notes, signs of the war and the ensuing reconstruction were glaringly obvious. I realized that most (indeed, almost all) of the clients had had some sort of career before starting their business: they were nurses, teachers, managers, government employees, factory workers, on and on. And they all said the same thing when I asked why they had started the business: “because I lost my job”. I also noticed that many of the women I interviewed were widows. Even my colleagues from IMON filled in part of the big picture. I had two translators: one to translate from English to Tajik and the other to translate from Tajik to Uzbek – because the English translator missed out on learning Uzbek when he fled to Afghanistan.
Even during our conversations, it was clear that the entrepreneurs had started their businesses in order to get back on their feet after the civil war, but I still couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t talk. I wasn’t asking questions about their deceased husbands or their burned down towns or their abandoned factories – I knew well enough to stay away from all of that. No, I was just asking questions about their current successes and their future goals – why wouldn’t they want to talk about that?
Because, I couldn’t join them for a cup of tea.
Tea is an integral part of the Tajik culture – we have it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and everything in between. It is the first thing you are offered when you enter someone’s home and, as an honored guest, your hosts will never allow you to pour it yourself. Most of the clients I meet with ask me to stay after the interview in order to have tea, even if I am meeting with them at the very busy central markets. This is such an open and giving culture that it feels very natural to accept the invitation and focus on issues other than work but, when I am representing Kiva, I always decline the offer. First off, my MFI has strict rules about never accepting gifts from a client. And secondly, even though I have all the time in the world to sit with clients, I am always joined by a translator and loan officer who have very busy schedules.
So it wasn’t that my clients wouldn’t talk, it’s that they wouldn’t talk right away. Unfortunately, you can’t always get the interesting story in a 15 minute interview and you don’t always have time for a cup of tea. And, when you have a business history that includes death, war, and struggle, you’re not always interested in ‘cutting to the chase’ and explaining how it’s all connected.
I’ve learned a lot of things during 7 weeks in Tajikistan, mostly that this country is way more interesting than it often appears on the surface. The people are a complex mix of religions, languages, experiences, and dreams for the future. And the more work you put into uncovering these complexities, the more you are rewarded. I’ve learned to slow down when I am at work and when I am communicating. And I’ve learned to establish more realistic expectations about success, because sometimes it’s less about the answers and more about the process of getting there. To truly succeed in understanding Tajikistan and the people who live here, you must find that balance – as a Kiva Fellow and even as a Kiva lender.
Click here to learn more about IMON’s work and clients. As always, thanks for your wonderful support!
5 comments 25 November 2008
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