A week ago, Regina Jose, Hluvuku’s client in Mozambique, received a brand new wheelchair to replace her broken one!!! KivaFriends donated it, and with the help of many people it was bought, transported from South Africa to Mozambique and delivered to her!!

Regina was so happy with her new wheelchair that she even cried! Now she will be able to resume her activities and will go to church on Sundays, something she described as her favorite activity. As I wrote in my last blog, it took just over one month since my first journal about Regina to get all this done. One of Regina’s lenders who is also part of KivaFriends brought this into KivaFriends attention and in a teamwork event it was successfully concluded!

As I mentioned in my last blog, I’m quite impressed with this network of good-hearted people that don’t know each other in person but work together for the same cause – to help those in need.

The picture shows Regina shaking Bernardo Tembe’s hand (Hluvuku CEO) and with Ernesto Rungo, Regina’s loan officer from Hluvuku.

I’m already back from my fellowship in Mozambique and as some other fellow fellows, I will write about my microfinance experience in my next blog.

Ate mais.

Posted on behalf of Beatriz Mauro

TIA

A Tanzanian friend, who stays at the same guest house as me, came up with an expression that can be used to make any frustrating, confusing, or illogical moment in Africa, funny. TIA (this is Africa!). I can’t even remember the origin of this phrase (bad referencing I know), other than that my friend said it on the way home from a club one night, and made me believe that it was a commonly used expression in Dar es Salaam (N.B. sadly my gullibility cannot be attributed to drunkenness, it’s a special characteristic of mine, despite my supreme intelligence). This gullibility led to me using ‘TIA’ at will, until I realised that no one knew what it meant! I confronted my friend, who broke down and admitted that he had made it up himself and just wanted to embarrass me (although further research tells me he may have lifted it from the movie Blood Diamond). The minor embarrassment it caused has been well worth it though, because TIA has saved my sanity a number of times since.

Example #1: Dana Lunberry, my fellow Fellow in Dar, accompanied me on a trip to train an MFI’s staff on how to use the kiva system. The staff were professional, punctual, receptive, hospitable, kind (they gave us gifts), and generally wonderful (so much so that we finished the training a couple of days early). Until our second-last day. Usually we were picked up from our guest house at around 8am. On this particular day, we didn’t hear from our hosts until 11am (this wasn’t so strange because everyone realised there wasn’t really much to do, and we had been on an epic adventure the day before – involving a five hour drive to Lake Malawi with a fish flying along next to us in a plastic bag tied to the car to prevent it spoiling. The flying fish was subsequently presented to the manager and cook at the beach resort, who agreed to cook it for us. BYO fish was a new concept for us, but our hosts couldn’t understand our amazement and hysterical laughter).

Back to us waiting at the guest house. Our host rang and asked us if we were ready, because they were on their way to pick us up. “Of course”, I replied, cheekily using an expression often used out of context here in TZ, usually in cases where the implied obviousness of the situation does not exist, and where a simply yes would suffice (in this case, at 11am, I feel my polite “of course” was justified). So Dana and I waited, and waited, and WAITED! Until 4pm, when we decided a) to go for a walk, and b) to stop speculating as to why someone would say they were on the way to pick you up and then not show up. ALL DAY! As we observed later, neither of us ever suspected that a fatal accident or other form of emergency had occurred. Maybe we’ve been here too long. Anyway, the next morning one of the staff members showed up unannounced while I was still in the bathroom. Dana answered the door, and after the usual polite greetings asked, “So, what happened yesterday?”

“What yesterday?” our host replied.

“HOW YOU NEVER CAME TO PICK US UP YESTERDAY!” (Ok, Dana did not shout, she never does, I just couldn’t resist writing it because it would have been really funny if she had).

Our unnameable host: “Oh, we decided you were tired and needed to rest”.

???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

When Dana relayed the conversation to me later, I asked her what she said. “Nothing”, she replied, and anticipating my hot-tempered reaction to her non-response, added “What can you say to that?”

“TIA!” we chorused in unison.

Disclaimer: I love Africa, and Tanzania, and SELFINA, but I have gone beyond the ‘culturally sensitive’ stage of accepting everything I come across (although TIA is a form of acceptance). It’s now gloves off when it comes to cultural observations and criticisms, and in my experience most Tanzanians find it funny and refreshing (maybe because I’m just as critical of my own culture!)

N.B.: More examples to follow – I can guarantee that ahead of time!

By Mary Moseley

Senegal Fellow

CAURIE MF, Caisse Autonome pour le Renforcement des initiatives Economiques par la Microfinance, is a mid-size microfinance institution that serves over 15,000 clients in Senegal and as of March 31^st 2008, has a loan portfolio just over $4mUSD. They are present in several regions of the country: Diourbel, Kolda, Louga, Thiès, and Ziguinchor. Their mission is to offer best practice micro-finance services to poor, female-owned micro-enterprises in primarily rural areas while investing in their own eventual financial autonomy.

CAURIE is the organizational offspring of the Catholic Relief Services (CRS) and its primary regional partner, Caritas Internationalis. After a decade of Microcredit activities in Senegal, CRS realized that as an NGO, it would not be able to operate effectively within the realms of Credit and Savings, nor would it meet the needs of the country’s growing Microfinance market. Caritas-Thiès and CRS-Senegal then joined forces to launch a Microfinance project utilizing their program experience and after 5 successful years, decided to officially establish CAURIE Microfinance in September 2005.

A monthly meeting at one of the Village banks established by Caurie.

As a Kiva Fellow in Senegal, I’ve therefore gotten a chance to learn a lot about CAURIE and would like to introduce them to you! Read on to learn a little more about this amazing organization.

I’ve been working and living at the CAURIE Headquarters since March 2008. The director, Mamadou Lamine Gueye, has all the makings of an amazing leader: hardworking, responsive, decisive, and a nice guy to boot. Mr. Gueye has Fatoumata Binta Daniff, an ex-loan officer and accountant, spearheading the Kiva loan processing from headquarters. Mrs. Daniff is incredibly hardworking and creates each loan profile with precision and care. I think that Kiva has partnered with CAURIE at a really interesting time. CAURIE is an emerging microfinance company – it is growing rapidly. The inclusion of Kiva into its loan funding process is sure to foster their planned growth as an organization.

It’s important to note that amidst massive growth and expansion, CAURIE’s Village Bank lending methodology remains faithful to the core concepts of microfinance and, in my opinion, succeeds because of it. CAURIE lends to groups of women who form village-banking groups. Once the women organize themselves, CAURIE provides microfinance training (savings and loan methodology), improving a woman’s chance of success from day one. CAURIE has over 275 Village Banks (VBs) in Senegal with between 35 and 60 women in each. VB’s can get started in a variety of ways. CAURIE will sometimes send representatives out to villages to offer their services. Other times, groups of women approach CAURIE asking to set up a bank in their village. To begin, several informational meetings are held between CAURIE staff, the village leaders and the future borrowers. Within each Village Bank, the women split up into Solidarity Groups of between 3 and 10 women. In lieu of putting up collateral for loans, they agree to be held responsible for their fellow solidarity group members’ loans. Solidarity Groups are one of the reasons CAURIE’s loan default rate is 0% to date.

Caurie staff, Mary & clients during a monthly meeting at one of the Village banks

CAURIE’s loans are usually for a duration of 6 months and repaid by one single bulk payment at the end of the cycle. Although payments are made at the end of each loan term, the Village Banks meet monthly. During the meeting, each woman is called up to present her deposit into her savings account. Loan payments are also made in front of the group. At each monthly meeting, the members can opt to take out small loans from their Village Bank’s savings account. These monthly loans are very small and not related to the larger loans that CAURIE and Kiva lenders fund. But, small amounts like $20 US can be helpful in these women’s lives, and at each monthly meeting many of them choose to borrow a small sum to be repaid in full the following month.

Caurie staff visiting a client of a Village bank.

All women are welcome into the program and allowed a first loan of up to approximately $60 USD for a 6-month loan term. After the first loan, each borrower’s credit limit is evaluated and re-calculated based on her repayment history, their savings account balances and their experience with loans. With each 6-month cycle, the women have an opportunity to build their credit and take a larger loan or remain at whichever borrowing level is comfortable for them. I’ve met with many of CAURIE’s borrowers and loan officers. I’ve attended several monthly meetings and met with the elected management committee at each bank. The management committees are elected by the VB and are VB members themselves. All of these have been incredibly positive experiences, without exception. I believe in CAURIE’s methodology and I highly respect the hard work of the staff and the dedication of their borrowers.

Both CAURIE and the Microfinance sector in general in Senegal are growing rapidly. To date, there are over 600 microfinance institutions in the country. The beauty of Microfinance in Senegal is that it reaches out to typically under-served rural areas as opposed to traditional banking, which is primarily focused in urban areas. CAURIE is growing its loan portfolio, opening more Village Banks, and will be expanding its services to include micro-insurance this summer!

*This blog was posted on behalf of Mary Moseley*

I wonder if Jessica and Matt Flannery, Kiva co-founders, meant to create a Microfinance Fund to help local entrepreneurs in developing countries have money to grow or help their business. When I decided to join Kiva as a Kiva fellow I told my friends I was going to work for a Microfinance Fund. Last week I understood I was completely wrong. Kiva is a global community, not a microfinance fund based on small individual lending.

The other Friday, June 6^th 08, I posted a journal about a client I visited the previous day. Nothing special, that’s one of my main tasks here. However, the client, a disable woman, mentioned that her wheelchair was broken and that she hasn’t been to Church in almost 2 months, and therefore was considering using a next loan to buy a wheelchair. I wrote that. The following morning I read a comment on the journal written by a Kiva Friend saying that KivaFriends would be willing to donate a new wheelchair to Regina Jose (picture below). The next day Jill, the KivaFriend, created a new thread at KivaFriends and on Monday, June 9^th, when I opened Kivafriends.org for the first time in my life I saw that more than 300 people had seen Jill’s message and there were around 30 replies. People around the world were committed to give Regina Jose a new wheelchair, and then, for the first time, I realized I was working for a community, not for a Microfinance Fund. Now this message board has been seen for more than 900 people!!

For those not familiar with KivaFriends, it is a parallel non-profit organization that was created by very committed Kiva lenders, with the intent of helping further Kiva clients and Kiva itself. I am quite impressed by the power of Internet and global instant communication. Within 10 days the wheelchair was chosen and will be acquired next week, with delivery scheduled for the following week, hopefully in time for me to deliver the chair (representing KivaFriends) and take a few pictures on the occasion.

I am thrilled to see so many good people in the world wanting to help a client in a very poor neighborhood in the outskirt of Mozambican’s capital city Maputo. So many people have given advises and tried to help! A few even joined KivaFriends for the first time to help with donation!

If Jessica and Matt wanted a microfinance fund, they have it. Kiva is a fast growing fund on its way to be one of the largest microfinance funds in the world. Congratulations for that. But I believe they need a long applause for the community of good people they put together for the cause – helping alleviate poverty and promote economic development.

I’ll keep you posted on Regina’s wheelchair story!

Khanimanbo.

I’ve been working in Mozambique with Hluvuku-Adsema for the past 3 months now and I’m not even close to adapted. I must have visited more than 100 clients so far, and sometimes it is still quite hard to face reality. As a professional in the field I’m supposed to leave my emotions aside, right? Why is it so hard? Am I a bad “field employee” because I feel or am I just hurting myself?

I remember when my brother started to operate while in Medical University. My aunt, a doctor herself, told him the hardest part of being a doctor was to put the feelings aside and not suffer for all the patients’ lives my brother would loose in his career. I remember the first time my brother lost a patient. He went to my parents’ house devastated, and wouldn’t even talk. Four or five years have passed since my brother became a surgeon. I’ve listened to him talking about a few patients he has lost, but never emotional. Does this mean he doesn’t feel anymore, that he adapted? Or that he is just pretending he doesn’t feel anything?

Last Thursday I’ve visited 16 clients (Kiva and non-Kiva clients) and when I arrived home at night I was completed exhausted; emotionally devastated. I had seen so much poverty, so many problems, so many kids in horrible situations, diseases, hunger, lack of a proper home to live. A strong storm hit the region the previous night, and many people that had plastic roofing had just lost their home with everything inside. Many clients lost their stand and their place to sell their products, but they weren’t as scared as I was. They were sad, but behaving as “we lost it all one more time”, which for me was even more hard to take it.

I come from a developing country. I have already volunteered in slums in Sao Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. I’ve seen poverty and many children begging in the streets. Why am I still not used to it? Why do I still feel so much? I would like to work with economic development as a profession. Does that mean I will never be good enough for it? I will never adapt? Or am I just in my first “field year”, just like a first med school year?

Yesterday I walked through the capital city Maputo the whole day, just thinking and trying to understand the reality I am facing. With my sad spirit came my furiousness. If I already wanted to help the poorest reach the ladder of development, now I will.

Jeffrey Sachs said in one of his books that you can’t study, understand, and advise a country in it’s economic development path without going into the field, without clinically diagnosing what is the country’s “disease” so that you can find the best “remedy”. I agree. A field experience changes one’s looks and comprehension of the world. It does put life into perspective.

Khanimanbo.

“Blackouts without notice
And “internet down”
Spreadsheets that prod me
To cry and frown
Riding on motos
And closing my eyes
Clients are always my humanity ties…”

Okay, fine, that was really corny. Consider yourself lucky, though, because it was either that or “In da Field” to the tune of “In da Club” by Fiddie Cent.

This wonderful woman read my palm. She told me that if I married it would be to an older man, then asked me why I would want to marry such an old man. I don’t know? Also, at 64 she runs a fairly lucrative pillowcase business with her cousin to help support her quad-generational family of seven.

Probably the coolest elderly couple of all time. She made delicious khmer cakes with sticky rice, bananas and coconuts and sell mangos in the market. They were serious about making me their daughter-in-law. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I’m pretty sure my buddies Vichet and Sopheap were busy trying to arrange a dowry from them.

“Give me my money!” The pearls are an extra nice touch, lady.

Vichet, Josh, and I are really happy — we are fresh on sugar highs induced by the homemade sodas this lovely client made for us. She is also a member of the Human Rights party and has fantastic business ideas and plans.

This client had an otherworldly regal beauty. Josh and I were awestruck and couldn’t stop talking about it for days. She sold homemade Khmer food at a food stand by her house.

Talk about badass. This lady took her loan so that she could purchase her stand instead of paying rent and commission on it. Now she rakes in around $250 per day.

Probably one of the biggest issues facing microfinance today is that of impact. To what extent has microfinance actually affected global poverty? In what ways can its impact be measured, and how sustainable is it? Will it continue to grow? Though I agree that understanding impact is crucial and developing social impact studies and matrices is a valuable undertaking, I question the ability we have to concretely measure the more soft-data effects. How does one quantify the feeling of being better off?

One of the main responsibilities of Kiva fellows is to assist with the journaling process of our MFIs. With no interest rates, journals are the only tangible ROI for Kiva lenders. They are intended to show the progress of the clients’ businesses and essentially attempt to convey the impact of the loans on the clients’ lives. This opportunity to witness impact first-hand is probably what excited me most about this experience. Having now worked in Cambodia with CREDIT MFI for almost two months now, the interviews I have had with clients for these journals have done a tremendous amount to inform my own attempts to answer these questions.

With the clients I have met, repairs and construction, buying motorbikes, purchasing inventory, tools and equipment for their businesses, and paying for basic household amenities make up the overwhelming majority of loan usages. Those that are able to generate greater income after applying the loans tend to reinvest in their businesses, pay for their children’s education, and try to set aside a savings. Most hope for higher education and a better standard of living for their children.

In many ways, I find all of these motivations, applications, and hopes to be not unlike those of individual borrowers in the States. Mortgage payments, student loans, and start-up capital for businesses are what come to my mind when I think about why people I know borrow money from banks at home.

What strikes me is that at its root, microfinance is a singularly simple concept. “Small finance”– providing access to reasonable financial services in denominations that are proportional to the income and needs of the very poor.  A concept that is so bizarrely basic that it is has become revolutionary. Yet we wouldn’t expect access to loans to prevent bankruptcy or to guarantee upward income mobility at home. It would be equally foolish to expect total global poverty alleviation at the hands of microfinance.

What microfinance does do is provide financial access to those who exist outside of mainstream financial systems. This “normalizing” effect can serve as a powerful catalyst and tool. It is what makes the concept revolutionary and the implementation necessary –regardless of the tangible social impact that we are able to measure out of it.

The first week I came to MCDT, Justine, my supervisor, and Olivia, her supervisor, were looking at pictures of borrowers they were preparing to post to the Kiva website.  They called me over to look at one person in particular, standing in the middle of a group of five and said, “You must meet Ruth!”  They told me she was the embodiment of the entrepreneurial spirit and a real survivor.  They told me how she’s living with AIDS and lost her husband to the disease 10 years ago.  They told me how she as at least 5 businesses.  I didn’t know quite what that meant until I went to visit her earlier this week.

Justine and I walked down the hill from the MCDT office to Kamwokya, the slum area where MCDT gave out its first loans.  Walking through the narrow alleyways and jumping over a few gutters, we reached Ruth’s home.  We went into the most cluttered house I’ve seen here in Uganda, but it was cluttered for a reason: everything would be used for some business purpose or another. 

There was very little light in the house because huge bags of charcoal were stacked up around the outside (business #1).  Inside, a woman sat on a stool waiting for Ruth to return to finish braiding her hair (business #2); next to that stood an ironing board with an iron heated with charcoal for Ruth’s laundry business (business #3).  In the inner room, even darker than the first, with just a little light coming through a gap in the corrugated metal roof, Justine and I sat on a small sofa while Ruth sat on a mat she had woven and brought out other mats she had made and sells (business #4).  She could have brought down one of three kerosene lanterns she keeps on top of a wooden breakfront that she rents out to people (business #5).  In the lower right hand cabinet we could see several phones that she has used as pay phones, but the person she had employed to help her with that was unavailable.  She was waiting to find someone to do that so she could start the payphone business again (business #6).  To our right was a stack of baskets she had woven that she not only sells, but also rents out to people who are making a formal presentation to bridal families (business #7).

After a short visit, we went outside again to see Ruth’s grocery (business #8).  Immediately to the right of the grocery is a small hut which is Ruth’s pub (business #9).  We went into the pub, which is about 8’ X 10’ or thereabouts, where Ruth displayed her wares.  (I asked if she had any waragi, or local brew, an alcohol made from sugar cane.  She held up a bottle.  Then she pulled out a plastic packet of vodka and said, “Mazungu waragi.”  Yes, indeed.) 

The first picture heres show Ruth standing between her grocery business and the entrance to the pub.  You can also see the charcoal at her feet.  The second picture shows her sitting in her pub.

As we left, Justine told me about some of Ruth’s struggle to make sure she pays her loans on time.  She gave me this story as an example.  Ruth travels out to the country to see to each shipment of charcoal, wanting to make sure to get good chunks rather than charcoal dust.  One time, one of the coals was still burning and the whole shipment of charcoal burned before she even got it home.  Because MCDT offers group guaranteed loans, Ruth could have said she simply couldn’t pay that week and depended on the other group members to pay for her.  Instead, she got sugar cane on credit, chopped them into bite-sized pieces and bagged them, putting them out for sale near her pay phones (business #10).  Somehow, she was able to scrape enough money together to pay back her loan each week on time.  The dedication and integrity she has shown is simply remarkable.  Goodness knows not every borrower is like that, but the fact is there are borrowers like this, and it is a real honor to meet them and know that these loans are making a difference when taken in conjunction with ability, spirit and will.

Does microlending work?  That’s one of the questions that I wanted to answer as a Kiva Fellow and that’s the question I’ve been asked on numerous occasions since I returned to Seattle.  After a couple of weeks of readjusting to the American pace of life, I’m prepared to provide an answer.

Yes, it works.  But, it works differently than I thought.

When I left for Ghana, I had my preconceptions about microfinance.  I was intrigued by how these loans could enable wealth creation for the working poor.   Through my market-oriented frame of reference, I was hoping to see how a loan was helping an entrepreneur expand their business from a small market space and beyond.  Perhaps, it is my American-bred fascination with innovation and aggressive growth, but I viewed the loans as an opportunity to invest in the next big idea in a small corner of the world.  What I found out after three months in the field is that wealth is being created, but it’s a different kind of wealth.

While there are stories of how microfinance borrowers have used their loans to significantly expand their business, the majority of the stories are much more human, more real and, in the end, more meaningful.  After interviewing more than one hundred borrowers and asking them how the loans have changed their lives, the most common answer was not about their business.  Instead, it was about how the loan allowed them to help pay for their children’s school fees, put more food on their table, and pay for health insurance.   Sure, the loans helped them increase their inventories, sales, and profits.  But, more than creating wealth these loans are providing a type of social insurance to these borrowers.  As a Kiva lender I am not simply financing a business, but financing a safety net.      

And, in the process of answering one question, I realized I had answered another question.  What does a profit-oriented social business look like?  It looks like the single Ghanaian mother whose thriving roadside cocoa yam stand enables her to keep her business running and keep her daughter in school.  A true double-bottom line.   And its all powered by loans from Kiva lenders. 

Higher education opportunities aren’t a reality for most females in Cambodia.  Making it to university is a feat for the average male, let alone female.  With limited household income, rural families have difficulties supporting their children through school, especially beyond a primary education.  The odds for children to make it through secondary school will inevitably be dependent upon the school’s distance from the household: transportation to and from can be cost prohibitive.  Take into account the large number of households that must pull their children out to support the family income, and the pool becomes even smaller.  If a family is fortunate enough to have the funds and economic security to support a child through school, the luck of the draw ends here for the one or two of the lot who will be chosen and the male children will be prioritized for the privilege.  Given this, I am always inspired to learn about the backgrounds of those who have made it against the odds and how much they relish their “fortune.’

Meet Chandeth Phon, Credit Officer at Maxima.

Q: How was she able to continue her studies to university, when so many others cannot?

A: She continued her studies until the 9^th grade, at which point she returned home to support her family by weaving.  Very driven in school, and never falling below the top 3 in her class, she was devastated when she had to quit.  Watching her brothers continue their studies, although they lacked her focus and drive, made her all the more frustrated. 

Three years later, upon finishing 12^th grade, her friends were preparing to take the university entrance exam.  As passionate as ever about continuing her education, Chandeth convinced her parents to let her take the test, and eventually talked them into letting her attend university. 

She still remembers the day Mr. Kiry, Loan Manager at Maxima, crossed the river from Phnom Penh to visit her island.  He was recruiting new staff members for Maxima.  When asked if she would like to join the team, Chandeth jumped at the opportunity.  One month after working at the MFI, she started attending university- resuming her education for the first time since 9^th grade and holding her own in the classroom.

Q: How does she finance her education?

A: Now finishing her second year of university, she is able to pay for school on her own, thanks to the interest-free loans* Maxima offers its employees for education.

*60% of Maxima staff members are capitalizing upon the interest-free education loans to pursue continued studies.  A typical day for most starts around 6 am with work ending around 5 pm.  Then it’s off to school until 8:30 pm, followed by the commute home and a late dinner.   While some credit officers attend classes on the weekends, those who don’t are back in the office on Saturday, working to promote microcredit offerings and recruit more KIVA clients. 

The work of a credit officer never ends, but you won’t find one complaining.  In fact, you hear the opposite.  In the words of Chandeth, “I used to think I had no fortune in life.  I was so unhappy I could not go to school and I did not want to weave.  Now I think that I have great fortune… I am much more fortunate than others.”

Often when I visit clients with a loan officer, we show them a picture of their KIVA profile and explain that people around the world have read about them and helped to finance their loans.  Upon seeing their pictures, many blush with embarrassment.  (For many, it’s one of the few photos they’ve taken in their life.)  After a second look, a huge grin usually appears and the entrepreneur proudly shows their profile to other family members or curious neighbors.

If the clients’ stories have become famous through KIVA, Phal An’s has reached stardom.

I recently got the privilege to do a journal update for Phal An.  This came at the request of Inc.com, whose parent company helped to finance her loan.  She was a wealth of information and extremely eager to share all- about her business, her credentials, the local operating environment and her loan’s impact… So much so, that she produced enough for a blog entry, a homepage feature story and a slideshow explaining her business operations. 

She, like so many of the clients I visit, has an incredible story- waiting to be discovered.  For practical reasons and efficiency purposes (read: we want to get as many updates up for you as possible!), journal interviews usually only scratch the surface.  It was a treat to have an excuse to dig a little deeper this time- to learn more about the client’s reasons for borrowing and how the loan has played a role in her business expansion.

To find out more about Phal An, deemed the ‘the ultimate bootstrapper’ check out the following:

http://www.inc.com/articles/2008/05/kiva.html

http://www.inc.com/multimedia/slideshows/content/the-ultimate-bootstrapper.html.

In truth, she is just another KIVA borrower with an incredible story waiting to be told.        

I am proud to say that I have earned two blisters in the last week: one from hand-washing my clothes (I’ve now learned to really scrub ‘em), and another from pulling the kernels off corncobs. As a woman who has earned most previous blisters from breaking in new hiking boots or rowing crew, both luxury sports of a sort, this feels different.

Work in its many forms is so deeply ingrained in the culture in Bamenda that it takes shape in language. In pidgin, you would not believe how frequently the words “struggle” and “suffer” are used, usually not as self-pity but rather as matter-of-fact. When someone is getting by, they are “managing.” I suspect you may have to hear these words pronounced in Bamenda to get their full meaning.

My favorite new word is “ashia,” a way of greeting, sympathizing with, or appreciating someone who is working hard. The response, if you are a bit confused, as I was the first few times I received an “ashia”, is a simple “thank you.” The best parallel may be saying “bless you” when someone sneezes in the U.S. – although my sneezes here (which I’ve managed to suppress over the years so that they actually sound like the word “achoo”) tend to elicit laughter, since “achoo” is a favorite kind of soup in Cameroon.

Ashia has become a special word because there is no direct translation. It expresses something that I cannot express in my English – although when I tried to explain this to some people here, they tried to explain to me that “ashia” is English, meaning here that it is not from any one of the many dialects spoken in the Northwest Province, but is rather part of the common language, pidgin English.

Once I finally convinced my coworkers at GHAPE that we really don’t have the word or anything like it in the U.S., discussion ensued. Calista (the accountant) asked, “Well, how do you appreciate someone?” I struggled and pondered for the better part of five minutes, and finally offered the possibilities of “thank you”, “good work”, or “good luck,” none of which capture “ashia.” Could you say “Thank you” to a stranger on the street who you saw pushing an especially heavy load?

I’ve discovered that “ashia” is the best way to break the ice of being an obvious stranger. Naturally, as two of very few white folks in Bamenda (I may have seen two or three other white folks in the whole time I’ve been here), we stick out. By this time, five months of travel through West Africa later, we’re used to sticking out and everything that comes along with it – “You are welcome!” How is Cameroon?” “Come here!” “Where are you going?” “White man!” and many other things regularly shouted at us on an everyday walk to the market.

But, at a certain point, like one month into our stay in Bamenda, the desire to just be part of the scene grows. Since we can never be invisible, I’ve got a couple of tricks to break the ice or turn the tables. When an adult shouts, “White man” or once in a while acknowledges gender and says, “White woman,” I usually shout back “Black man!” This brings laughter that I find pretty refreshing after 26 years marinating in P.C. land, U.S.A. When it’s a child shouting, “White man!” and usually pointing, I either make faces and point back at them, or sing the song I’ve just learned, apparently a childhood favorite of everyone in Bamenda:

White man, white man, white man,
White man with a long nose,
Since my mother born me,
I’ve never seen a white man!

It doesn’t get much better than that for winning laughter and respect.

As far as fitting in goes, well, “ashia” is the best. I can catch someone’s eye as they’re toiling over some project, pronounce an “ashia,” and immediately feel some kind of communion. The communion is enhanced if I adapt the Bamenda way of addressing folks as “sister”, “brother”, “auntie”, “mami”, “pa,” etc.

The same day that we discussed the word “ashia,” Auntie Calista (the GHAPE accountant) asked me, “What do you say if you want to give someone respect?” This question also left me without a good response. Of course, we have “sir” or ma’am” but to my American ear now used to Cameroon, these both sound awfully formal. When we say “sir” or “ma’am” it is usually in a formal context, almost pushing someone away from us as we offer respect. In Cameroon, these respectful terms are add-ons to someone’s name and at least in feeling bring them closer. To an older woman or a woman I want to respect, I can say, “Auntie” or “Mami” (pronounced like mommy). To an older man, I can say “Pa.” To a woman about my age, I can say “Sister.” All these show respect and immediately break the ice for me, a “stranger” as they say here.

Not that there’s much ice in Cameroonian culture. Using these terms of respect, I don’t feel like I’m dancing the who-can-out-polite-who dance that I’ve felt in other parts of the world. I don’t ever feel like I’ve given someone offense. And, nearly every argument or serious discussion I’ve witnessed in Cameroon ends in laughter, usually a burst of it that comes out mid-rant as if someone has suddenly heard themselves talking or seen things form a bird’s eye view and finds it all hilarious.

This is a culture I enjoy settling into.

Families in rural Azerbaijan are heavily reliant on farm animals, often just a handful of sheep and a cow, for food and income. Microcredit loans allow enterprising individuals to scale up animal raising activities so that excess milk, cheese, wool, and offspring can be sold for a profit. But where does one go to buy a cow or a half dozen sheep? I learned that once a week as many as 4,000 farmers congregate with their animals to exchange ownership at the Livestock Bazaar. Kiva’s field partner, Aqroinvest arranged for me to meet a client and conduct an interview at the bazaar. With the help of another fellow we filmed our visit to the sprawling animal market.

Most of the clients I visit make just enough money from their businesses to get by day to day.  When you ask what their future plans or hopes are, some have none in sight- just repeating the same monotonous labor, day in and day out, to continue to put food on the table… challenging enough with the rising food inflation here (http://www.voanews.com/english/2008-04-21-voa21.cfm).  If family members are sick (with an 8+ member household in a developing country- odds are someone will be sick), medical costs can make this prohibitive and put business activity on hold.  That’s where Maxima often steps in with loans for start-up capital so the families can resume their business operations:

• http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=comment&id=20190&ent=43834
• http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&action=comment&id=30577&ent=47218

The great success stories come in when clients’ businesses have taken off to the point where they have excess—enough for monthly savings.  Realizing the villagers never invest this money into a savings account, I thought this was a greatly missed opportunity to turn interest…. until I found out about Cambodian gambling.

Cambodian gambling, or tontin, is a “game” that villagers play when they have extra money.  A tontin leader will form a group of friends or neighbors who pool their money into group savings.  Much like a group loan, members take turns borrowing, starting with the group leader (the one in need of immediate capital who established the group).  The twist comes becomes members can negotiate with each other to decide the interest rate they’ll pay, as well as the rate at which they’ll agree to be repaid.  Depending on the timing, circumstances and loan use, they may vary.  Playing tontin, members administer a self-regulated borrowing network.  The network acts as an insurance system to provide members reserve funds in times of need or emergency, as well as a savings system and means to earn interest each time another person borrows.

While occasionally members will skip town with the money, this is rare.  Rather, because members select each other from among friends and neighbors, they feel the system provides the best way to insure their money is safe and secure.  Many villagers feel it is safer with each other than with a bank.  In the ‘90s, Cambodia faced a meltdown with financial institutions.  Banks were established overnight with minimal capital, and after collecting significant sums of money, they took off with the cash and closed just as fast as they opened.  While the NBC (National Bank of Cambodia) now sets minimal capital requirements and the system is much more regulated, the scams are still too recent to be forgotten.  Villagers burned by the past are still reluctant to trust the financial institutions with their investments and consider their self-made institutions more reliable and accountable.  Not to mention, depending on their luck at the negotiation table, the interest rates can be even more favorable.

Cameroon. For us, it is the end of a long road. Since we left the U.S. in December, Dave and Megan have set foot in 13 countries, 11 in Africa. Our overland trek started in Casablanca and took us through Morocco/Western Sahara, Mauritania, Senegal, The Gambia, Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Togo, Benin, Nigeria, and finally here, Bamenda, the capital city of the Northwest Province, altitude above 1000 meters, surrounded by mountains, green, lush, and yes, the beginning of the “light” rainy season.

Our arrival in Cameroon three weeks ago occurred in several stages.

• First, crossing the border from Nigeria to Ekok, Cameroon, a process involving conversations with passport checks by no fewer than 8 border officials.

• Second, discovering that the guidebooks had not lied, and that the road from Ekok to the next major city, Mamfe, is in fact “terrible.” We departed Ekok at about 5:00 PM, crammed into a car dwarfed by its oversized wheels, makeshift rear-wheel drive, and jacked-up suspension – and arrived, mud covered, via motorbike, 63 kilometers later, in Mamfe at about 6:00 AM. In between: a bonding experience with our driver-cum-auto-mechanic and fellow passengers, involving a borrowed battery, siphoned petrol from the tank directly into the carburetor, and hours of pushing and pulling (with a rope attached to the front axle) through a series of mud traps with 8 foot walls of mud on either side carved out by the rains and previous vehicles.

• Third, from Mamfe to Bamenda, another 127 kilometers on a slightly better road in a much better vehicle, we bore witness to the “raw power” of four-wheel drive beyond Jeep Cherokee commercials. We sat in the open-air back of the pickup with ten or so other passengers and, though the trip took another 12 hours, we were content with good company and fantastic views of farms nestled in the rainforest, and across the mountains we were gradually climbing. Midway, a tree with an 18-inch trunk blocked our muddy path, but through geometry, rope, and 8-cylanders, our Toyota managed to pull it aside – take that weekend warriors! Of course, it rained, and as predicted, the air turned cooler as we approached Bamenda, so that we were happy to arrive as night fell.

The folks at GHAPE, our host organization, had been awaiting our arrival for days, and Loveline, the field manager, rushed to the bus station to meet us, greeting each of us with a hug, and quickly scooped us into a taxi back to the GHAPE office/house compound. There, we were greeted by about ten smiling faces, mostly women of many different ages – from 16 to 70, we would later learn – and ushered into our apartment in the compound. For her part, Megan can honestly say that she has only experienced welcome like this from her parents when arriving home the first few times from college to find her room newly cleaned and rearranged, food specially bought for her consumption.

Our two room apartment was perfectly outfitted – tables and chairs, living room set, stove, dishes, pots, buckets for dish washing, broom, bed, wardrobe, radio, TV and DVD player. Within moments, we had guests in every chair of the apartment, were reviewing names for the second time, trying to guess just who-was-who and what role each played, and brewing a pot of tea on our stove. Learning that Dave loves eggs, a man named Michael (who we later learned is the brother of GHAPE founder Bernadette) practically snapped his fingers and two-dozen eggs miraculously appeared.

That was Friday night, and we quickly learned how hard-working GHAPE – and most of Cameroonians – are. Work began at 8:00 AM the next morning, with a meeting of all the staff: Loveline, field manager; Donald, Fointama, Mercy, Josephine, and Bridget, credit assistants; Calista, accountant; and two volunteer workers, Mr. Eric and Hostensia. At first we thought this meeting was specially called for us, but in fact GHAPE works not only a 7:30 AM to 5:00 PM week workday, but also a half-day on Saturday mornings.

Saturday afternoon and Sunday introduced us to our neighbors – the immediate, extended, and adopted family of GHAPE founder Bernadette, a mostly female family, led by “Mama,” a warm and hilarious septuagenarian. By the time we returned from the food market and Megan from the cyber, where she sent the requisite “we’re safely out of Nigeria and at home in Cameroon” email, the other ladies of the house were helping Dave to properly wash and prepare his vegetables for dinner-making. Pascaline then lent us a grinding-stone-cum-cutting-board and helped Megan to prepare dinner, including the new (for us) “bitter leaf.” By evening, we had 17-year-old Abigail and 10-year-old Fru sharing food with us in our room and watching The Gods Must be Crazy with us on bootleg DVD (thank you, Nigeria!).

Sunday morning, Megan was collected at a quarter of eight to accompany Pascaline and Mama to mass at the Catholic Church down the road. She had her first practical lesson in the local Pidgin English, listening to the Kenyan priest, himself not a native speaker, read the mass: “We be listen for we lord and he talk say he helup all he piking (children). We be thank he for we protect and guide.” Walking home, Pascaline laughed when Megan proudly announced that she could understand much of the mass, and explained that the priest spoke more slowly and clearly than any native speaker. She is right. If either of these subjects piques your fancy, don’t worry, as we will certainly be writing more on religion, which infuses every aspect of life here, and language, which fascinates at least one of us, in future chapters.

Until then,

Send your comments and questions

(We promise to respond), and

Finance a loan for a GHAPE member

(We’ll write more about them soon)!

~Megan & Dave

As my fellowship nears its end, I’ve purposely taken time to step back and revisit my original reasons for deciding to quit my job, stuff my apartment into a dusty storage unit, leave family and friends and fly to Ghana.  One of my goals was to see the impact of commercialization on an MFI’s social mission. 

Recently, Sinapi has confronted this issue head-on when it started the process of converting from an NGO to a formal financial institution.   Like many MFIs before it, Sinapi wanted to change its business structure in order to receive more commercial financing as well as to take client deposits.   Many of the expected benefits were cited for this decision including new financial discipline in the organization and the potential to open new markets and reach more borrowers.  Likewise, I heard many of the expected negatives including the burden of debt-servicing and the pressure by commercial lenders to alter or downscale the social mission of the organization.  But, it was the impact this organizational change had on the lender / borrower relationship that I never really considered.    Or as I like to call it – the impact on the organization’s mission to be social.  In Sinapi’s case, the mission to be social was a key driver in its decision to slow its transformation process. 

During the weeks I’ve spent out in the field, the one thing that continually strikes me is how the loan officers and the clients are more family than business partners.  There are, of course, the smiles that will last a lifetime for me.  But, there are also warm hugs between loan officers and clients – when’s the last time you’ve hugged your banker?  There are the handshakes that last minutes not seconds.   There are clients who attribute their recent success to joining the Sinapi family.  There are the times after group meetings when we would pack into Sinapi’s Toyota van and take the clients back to their home – inevitably I’d find myself in the center of a group of giggling middle-aged women laughing at my attempts to communicate in Twi.  And back at the branch there is the open arrangement of the office.  There are no tellers.  No walls between the officers and clients.  Instead, clients walk into the office  – some with their business on their heads – and are welcomed to the officer’s desk.      

But, as Sinapi’s formalization plan was initiated and branches were converted into a more traditional banking layout, the relationship with clients evolved.    Clients became more hesitant to approach the officers.   They felt that they couldn’t come to the branch in their work clothes.  They were intimidated by teller windows.   The Sinapi family was gone.   Warm hugs were replaced by the cold creditor-debtor relationship we are all know too well.   So, the aggressive formalization plans were halted and the family atmosphere I’ve witnessed here returned to the benefit of everyone involved.   

Yet, I know the pressure to become more formal will not disappear anytime soon.   The supply of microfinance services needs to scale to meet the demand.  It will be up to successful organizations like Sinapi to find ways to meet this challenge but keep the Sinapi family intact.  

Last month I had the chance to shadow a couple HKL credit officers at the Kampong Cham branch, an hour and a half northeast of Phnom Penh. Since my responsibilities here in Cambodia are mainly training and implementing the Kiva process rather than write journals, I was excited to get out and meet the people who make microfinance happen. I have nothing but the highest respect for Mr. Virak and Mr. Vo, who ride around the hot, dusty countryside four days a week helping prospective clients process loan applications. And they manage to look sharp while they’re at it, which is a challenge with a heat index around 105. Unfortunately, I lost my little notebook along the way, so all I have are the photos I took.

The first client we met. At first I thought all this was trash, but it turns out she operates a recycling business.

This man repairs and sells used motorbikes.

The proud recipient of an HKL loan for farming tools. Mr. Virak on the right.

Pulling the correct file…

Checking the name…

…and climbing the stairs.

Discussing the provisions of their loan. This process can take anywhere from 10 minutes to a half hour.

Mr. Virak tells a joke in Khmer.

Loan documents are always signed using the client’s right thumbprint.

Credit officers like Mr. Virak use motos to visit clients because roads in rural Cambodia are usually little more than rutted dirt paths.

A barang with a camera is a strange sight in these villages.

Sometimes the loan documentation process can be a little tedious, especially in the stifling heat.

This entrepreneur was proud of the bicycle she purchased with her HKL loan. She uses it to collect cans, bottles and other recyclables around her village. She said the investment has noticeably increased her income.

She was in such a friendly mood that she wanted me to take a photo of her whole family.

The last clients of the long day.

Many thanks to Mr. Virak and Mr. Vo for showing me what they do.

Last week I had a heated discussion with a minibus taxi conductor. The locals that witnessed this event rarely see anyone losing their temper, let alone raising their voice in public. Genevieve and I have been using the same bus route for a number of weeks now and, while at first we paid slightly more than the locals, it’s now obvious that we know the price and all the conductors charge us appropriately.

I was having a bad day, I shouldn’t have let myself get frustrated in this way, and I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The argument went something like this:

“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”

“Yes, 700 Shillings”

“700? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 300”

“It’s 700 now”

“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 300. Can you let us on please?”

He obstructed our path.

“If you come on this bus you pay 700”

“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 300. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 700?”

“If you don’t pay 700 you can’t come. We are leaving now”

He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.

“Hang on. We’ll do it for 400. Come on – be fair”.

“700 or you stay”

We were meeting people in Bugolobi and we’re already late for them. It would take around half an hour to walk or three minutes on the bus. It was dark. There were no pavements for pedestrians along that road. It had been raining. We really didn’t want to have to work but we also didn’t want to have to pay extortionate prices. We’re volunteering here. We’re not earning an income – it was actually more than we could afford.

“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 500. Let us go please”.

He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.

“You will pay 700”.

“No way are we paying 700. We’ll pay you the fair price, 500. OK?”

“700 or we go now?”

We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.

We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra 200 shillings he wanted us to pay.

Our friends were waiting for us at the restaurant. No-one expects anyone to be on time here – not even close to being on time. Anything with an hour of the time planned is deemed to be “on-time”. A delicious pizza topped with creamy feta and Italian olives, and a couple of cold Club Beers later and we couldn’t even feel our wet trousers and had forgotten all about the nasty con tricks of the minibus conductor.

A few days later I remembered back to the argument and actually thought about the amount of money that we were arguing about and preferring to put ourselves through the annoyance, rigour and sweat over.

I went over the conversation we had with the conductor, this time converting the shilling amounts into English pounds…

“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”

“Yes, 20 pence”

“20 pence? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 9 pence”

“It’s 20 pence now”

“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 9 pence. Can you let us on please?”

He obstructed our path.

“If you come on this bus you pay 20 pence”

“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 9 pence. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 20 pence?”

“If you don’t pay 20 pence you can’t come. We are leaving now”

He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.

“Hang on. We’ll do it for 12 pence. Come on – be fair”.

“20 or you stay”

“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 15 pence. Let us go please”.

He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.

“You will pay 20 pence”.

“No way are we paying 20 pence. We’ll pay you the fair price, 15 pence. OK?”

“20 pence or we go now?”

We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.

We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra five pence he wanted us to pay.

Absurd isn’t it?!

The biggest holiday in Azerbaijan is Novruz. This spring event has its roots as a pre-Islam New Year celebration. It officially begins on the spring equinox but the celebration ramps up much earlier with large street bonfires every Tuesday for the month preceding Novruz. Each week represents a different element: earth, water, air, and fire. Much of the community comes out for the bonfires to socialize and listen to music. Tradition calls for fearless youth to jump across the bonfire regardless or how large it is. On one occasion I witnessed a boy run through a fire along a burning pole until he could leap the last 3 feet to the other side. I was coerced into making the leap over a much more manageable fire only to learn that once is not enough, three leaps is keeping with tradition. After four weeks of bonfires, and all the scrap wood has been burned, the Novruz holiday finally arrives with a full week of vacation for the entire country.

Novruz is also important for Azerbaijan’s small businesses. Many of the Kiva borrowers I visited were making business decisions based on their sales projections during the holiday. One client had pre-shorn three sheep with the hopes of selling them for butcher at a higher price during the holiday. All of the Kiva trading clients had stocked up on inventory for their shops. Some of the special items included small fireworks, nuts, and festive pots of wheat. This is a very enjoyable time to be in Azerbaijan.

I’ve been back in Chicago for about 2 weeks now and have had time to sit and digest my Kiva Fellow experience. Going into this I tried to keep a completely unbiased and open-mind about microfinance. I’m a huge supporter of microfinance, but I have heard critics argue that it does little to actually lift people out of poverty. So I tried to take my opportunity to see first hand how it affects borrowers.

During my 2-month stay in Cape Coast, Ghana I had the privilege to meet over a hundred borrowers successfully running their own businesses. I heard stories of individuals being able to pay their kids’ school fees because of their loan, a life-long farmer opening up a general store when she became to old to work the fields simply because of her loan, and businesses expanding and profits increasing because of a couple hundred dollars. During all my interviews and meetings I never once heard a borrower say they were unhappy they took the loan. Not one person thought the loan had hurt their business, but many had ideas and suggestions on how to improve the microfinance process. One on-going theme I saw was that the large group loans aren’t that popular with individuals because they often find it hard to find 10 reliable entrepreneurs to join their group. They often suggested to make the groups smaller and to have individual loans available. The reason MFIs have group loans is for security. Since no collateral is ever collected, social pressure is used as a way to ensure collections, but having cookie-cutter plans and principles that hinder borrowers will only hurt a MFI in the long run. Another common theme was interest rates.

During my stay in Cape Coast, I often had local individuals start conversations with me and want to know what I was doing in Ghana. When I told them I was working with a microfinance organization, almost everyone immediately said, “Oh, but the interest rates are so high!!”. I always took the time to explain why the interest rates were high, but no one seemed interested in my economics of microfinance speech, they were only concerned with how interest rates would affect them, and rightly so.

MFIs provide extremely valuable services in countries all around the world and have helped millions of people improve their lives. However, much more can be done to lower interest rates and further help the very people microfinance is aimed at helping. This is exactly why Kiva is so beneficial. Providing MFIs with 0% interest loans, these institutions can finally think about making steps to further help their clients that otherwise would not have been possible. I believe Kiva needs to be aware of this and make every active effort to encourage partner MFIs to lower their interest rates once they have become comfortable with raising money on Kiva. Right now Kiva is doing their part to help MFIs overcome certain barriers in raising low-cost funds, but these MFIs need to be held responsible with providing clients reasonable interest rates.

My stay in Ghana has been a priceless experience and I am only further convinced microfinance is the way to end poverty, but much more needs to be done to ensure the borrowers are the ones receiving the real help.