Posts filed under ‘KF4 (Kiva Fellows 4th Class)’
Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending Hattha Kaksekar’s annual General Assembly, held at Sihanoukville, Cambodia’s resort town. When general manager Mr. Tong invited me I initially thought it was going to just a board meeting with a day at the beach thrown in for fun. Turns out I was very wrong. HKL is a large MFI. Everyone in the organization was invited, from the top managers and directors to security guards and janitors. Over 280 people attended, descending on Sihanoukville from nine HKL branches all over Cambodia. I hitched a ride on the bus chartered by the head office. Spirits were high as we left Phnom Penh, despite temperatures hovering around 100 in the packed bus. Everyone was excited for General Assembly, which is a highly anticipated event among HKL staff. It’s a chance to reconnect with friends and co-workers from other branches, some of whom they get to see only once a year. It was a festive five-hour drive down National Route 4 to the coast. Nonstop karaoke, drums, clapping, jokes, laughter. There were several leisurely rest stops along the way where we got out to stretch and sample questionable street vendor fare. As we passed through the Elephant Mountains, half the bus emptied at a roadside Buddhist shrine to light incense and make offerings for a safe journey. This is a must on Cambodian highways, where traffic laws are non-existent and safety consists of honking your horn as you pass on blind turns. Fortunately, we had a veteran driver.
HKL had practically rented out the entire Golden Sea Hotel for the occasion. The next day, everyone dressed in their finest business outfits. Most staff wore starched blue shirts with pressed pants or skirts, while management wore dark suits. I was hopelessly underdressed, but a tucked-in collared shirt goes a long way and they seemed to cut me some slack. Things started promptly at 7:30 with seven hours of power point presentations and speeches in Khmer. I sat up front with the management team trying to follow along, but could only comprehend numbers and whatever limited translations my seatmates whispered to me. 2007 had been the “year of valentine” for HKL, which I gathered meant that everyone was supposed to treat each other with love and respect. Mr. Tong declared 2008 to be the “year of happiness and prosperity.” Seven hours of business presentations in a foreign language was a bit of a challenge, but it was interesting to get a feel for the overall structure of HKL and its goals for the future.
The most anticipated event of the weekend was the banquet. Steaming mounds of rice topped with seasoned fish, mysterious crustaceans and mollusks caught that morning from the Gulf of Thailand and fresh fruit for dessert. And, of course, endless pitchers of Angkor beer. Cambodians love Angkor, which they drink with huge chunks of ice. Being unaccustomed to this practice, I politely declined because the beer was already ice cold. This turned out to be a mistake as the night wore on. Cambodians also love toasting, clinking glasses every minute or so. Having watered-down beer enables you to endure many toasts, which is essential because this banquet was especially large and long. Just about every credit officer from all nine branches wandered over to my table that night to introduce themselves and offer a toast. Trying to remember a single Cambodian name is hard enough for me, let alone over 250, but it was great to meet the faces behind the business profiles I’ve been editing.
After dinner various speeches and pronouncements were made. The Kampong Cham branch performed a skit called “Six Ways to Make People Like You” which included cross-dressing and riotous laughter. Then a DJ played HKL’s official song (yes, they have a song), a distressingly catchy piece of Cambodian pop written, composed, and sung by members of the internal auditing team. I had this song stuck in my head the rest of the trip. Once the music started everyone got up for traditional Khmer dancing. To me, this appeared to consist of walking counter-clockwise around a table with undulating hands and arms. Didn’t look too tough. I gave it a shot, much to everyone’s delight. I soon discovered that the moves were actually very specific and complex. Trying to save me from further embarrassment, a few guys asked me to show them some “hip-hop moves.” I don’t have anything remotely resembling hip-hop moves, but I indulged them with something vague and mostly awkward. The party ended around midnight, which is late a country where most people are in bed by 9:30.
The next day was a free day. The Banteay Meanchey branch challenged the Phnom Penh branch to a soccer match and won decisively 11-3. I couldn’t play because of a smashed toe, and my moral support evidently didn’t count for much. The rest of the day I hung out with the guys from the Stoung branch, playing beach games and swimming in the warm water. Mostly they sat in the shade playing cards and drinking Angkor. Vendors hawked all sorts of stuff, from swim trunks and sea-shell trinkets to raw peanuts and grilled squid.
Lunch and dinner was banquet-style with more seafood, but nowhere near as festive as last night. Everyone was up by 5:30 the next morning for the ride back to Phnom Penh. Back to work.
26 March 2008 at 14:27 eb78
Ezra, the administrator of Life in Africa’s new internet cafe, is working on configuring my laptop so that I am connected to the internet here. In the meantime, I am trying to make myself useful, Kiva-wise, by writing a blog entry.I have spent much of the past day trying to get a new powercord for my computer. It died sometime over the Easter weekend, which was unfortunate, since the computer stores were closed not only on Easter day, but Easter Monday as well, as I discovered when I went to downtown Kampala late yesterday afternoon.
This morning, I went downtown again and, after visiting 6 stores (luckily all in the same neighborhood) and walking a mile to the one bank that takes my ATM card (I hadn’t brought enough cash, and credit cards are taken almost nowhere), I purchased a new powercord.
Kampala seemed incredibly remote before I got here. I carefully packed Q-tips, unsure if they would be available. Now I recognize how easy it is to acquire many of the things that I need, or simply things I want. My stupid mistakes and technical difficulties can be fairly easily overcome, as when I forgot to attach an adapter when I plugged in the battery charger. Another was available in fairly short order.
At the same time, some things I took for granted are much harder to come by. I needed to print out copies of borrower profiles once I got here and accessing a printer meant taking a matatu (taxi) to the next neighborhood and purchasing copies at 500 shillings a page (about 30 cents a sheet). I am used to printing anything and everything whenever I want, but now I think carefully about whether or not I really need that page. Given the usual state of my office at home, this is a good thing.
The primary difference for me in my acquisitions is the time that it takes: taking a matatu instead of hopping in the car; going to six computer stores instead of Best Buy; waiting for someone to help me print out my files instead of doing it myself. And I admit I miss the ease of doing these tasks at home. I’ve lived alone for a long time and considered myself to be very self-sufficient. Now I’m being asked to do things in a way that I haven’t been asked to since I was a kid: to share, to wait, to take my turn, and to not always expect things to go my way. I’m glad to report that I haven’t had any temper tantrums–so far.
25 March 2008 at 14:06 toepfer
1. You are constantly told to eat more ugali so you won’t be so skinny.
2. Cell phone towers are more common than traffic lights.
3. You see signs like this:
3.5. And this:
4. The most common phrase you hear is “Hey mzungu! Taxi?”
(“mzungu” is Swahili for “white person”)
5. A short cab ride can cost up to 3,000 TZS, but no worries…that’s only $2.
6. The vernacular has enough common greetings to fill a dictionary, but locals resort to English to explain that they are “busy.”
7. KC & JoJo, Shania Twain and WWF Wrestling are popular.
8. You usually use laundry detergent powder to wash your hands in restaurants.
9. Riding three people on a small Chinese motorbike is safer than riding certain bus routes.
10. The internet is so slow it takes 25 minutes to post this blog.
24 March 2008 at 13:15 alecintanzania
Hopefully, this is just volume 1 of “You know you are in Tanzania when…” blogs. I am banking on contributions from Dana and Johannah, the other TZ fellows for the next volumes…
1. Coworkers frequently walk by and casually mention that they have malaria.
2. The most common question you are asked is: “Are you a Muslim or a Christian?”
3. Gospel music plays full volume during the workday.
4. During traffic jams, 2-lane roads become 6-lane highways courtesy of drainage ditches, school yards, and storefronts.
5. Cell phone airtime is billed per second.
6. Getting a seat on the bus during rush hour requires running at a full sprint or climbing through a window.
7. Children greet you with: “Good morning,” no matter the time of day.
8. You get better cell phone reception than you do in the U.S., but you have no access to running water.
9. Your bus hits a biker and drives away.
10. Your taxi driver can watch TV, make videos and play music with his cell phone, but his taxi has no radio, A/C, seatbelts, locks…and often, no gas.
21 March 2008 at 08:38 alecintanzania
Hello from Uganda! I have been in Kampala for a week now and all is going very well, but I have to say I feel woefully underdressed most of the time. People on the street are by and large impeccably turned out. Looking around the Life in Africa office, the men are all wearing nice trousers and buttoned shirts, and the women are in lovely skirts and blouses. And it’s true everywhere. I have seen more beautiful ties since I’ve been in Kampala than I’ve seen in years. And women: no trooping through the streets in sneakers. You’ll be in dressy shoes wherever you are, dirt road or no.
I’ll be wearing the two skirts and one dress that I bought almost continuously, I imagine, and I’ve been working up the callouses on my feet so that I can wear my better shoes everywhere. It just seems more respectful, somehow. The cargo pants and t-shirts will be for slouching around in the apartment and weekend activities.
19 March 2008 at 10:25 toepfer
Thanks to Drew Kinder, recently returned Kiva Fellow, I was able to stay at Kampala Kolping House for my first week of (and an easy transition to) Kampala life. Coming back after my first full day at the Life in Africa office, on my last night at Kolping House, I found the following to greet me:
What you can’t see is the longhorned bull on the other side of the driveway!
Make you homesick, Drew? Truly, a lovely place, and a wonderful experience thus far.
19 March 2008 at 10:19 toepfer
Loan officers are an integral part of the microfinance process. Without the hard work of loan officers, reaching the poor with financial services would not be possible. However, loan officers typically do not get very much attention. With that in mind, I thought it would be interesting for you to meet a friend of mine at YOSEFO to help give you a better understanding of how loan officers fit into the microfinance process.
At YOSEFO, each loan officer is assigned a community center. There are 13 centers serviced by the Dar es Salaam branch scattered throughout the urban area, primarily in poorer communities. During the week, each loan officer travels to their community center to have sessions with their clients. Each session consists of 40 clients, so loan officers typically meet with at least 400 clients every week. While conducting the community banking centers they collect repayments, disburse loans, and deal with issues that clients are facing. After traveling to the field, officers return to the YOSEFO office to record and process the transactions that took place throughout the day. The process can be tedious, but is crucial to ensure that collections, disbursements and defaults are recorded with the greatest possible accuracy.
Name: James Mwenda
Age: 27
Hometown: Njombe, Tanzania (Iringa Region)
YOSEFO Center: Vituka
Educational background: B.A. Geography and Environment
Favorite food: Ugali and Beef
Interests: Football, Traveling, Seeing new places, Singing, Gospel music
Future plans: I hope to return to University and obtain an M.B.A. in Human Resources Management
On working as a loan officer:
“Working as a loan officer is a challenging, but rewarding experience. I work with a very diverse group of clients that have different backgrounds and characteristics. My clients all respond to issues differently, and so it is often a challenge to learn how to deal with each client appropriately.
Not long after clients receive loans, I am able to observe improvements in their standard of living. It is not difficult to see actual physical improvements in my client’s live as a result of receiving loans. For example, some of my clients have been able to pay school fees for their children, and others have been able to purchase land for the first time. It is also rewarding to see my client’s ability to pay back loans improve over time as they graduate to larger and larger loans. Ultimately, working as a loan officer gives me the opportunity to learn the process of community development. I am able to actively organize and spearhead social development in the community.”
18 March 2008 at 15:17 alecintanzania
During my initial days here in Mozambique, while Bernardo was explaining me Hluvuku’s background and current position, he mentioned investments in a soccer team. Immediately I remembered all the NGOs that operate in Brazilian slums and their effort to promote sports (99% of the time soccer) and music. I though that soccer worked in Brazil because of the fame it has and because many star players come from those slums. I never actually imaged how far it could reach and how thoughtful this method could be.
Hluvuku is divided in 4 departments, as below. The 3 profitable ones are committed to give 10% of their monthly profits to Hluvuku’s social department.
- Microfinance: offering microcredit and micro-leasing
- Services: offering services to clients (such as tractors to help in their harvest)
- Production: raising cattle and selling meat in the region at a lower cost
- Social: promoting the soccer team of Bela Vista village and other community gatherings and traditional parties (below a picture of Hluvuku’s social center)
I must admit that my first reaction as a Brazilian girl used to having men talking all the time about soccer was to think that the choice of soccer was mainly because of Bernardo’s personal taste or because most of Hluvuku’s staff are men. Those might even be the true reasons, but it doesn’t matter!! Today I realized that soccer is an incredible way of promoting social and economic development, in any where in the world.
The Bela Vista team is already playing for a year now, and because of their great performance as beginners last year, they were given the chance to play Mozambican’s national second division championship this year. Yesterday a couple of representatives of this championship where here in Bela Vista checking the field’s conditions, as there will be a couple of games played here! More than an opportunity for a few young men to play and do something on their spare time, this will be an amazing opportunity for the village to grow and become known again.
Bela Vista used to be an important city before Mozambican civil war, if you get any map of Mozambique, it will always point Bela Vista just below Maputo. But the war simply destroyed it: almost all the brick houses where put down or abandoned and 16 years weren’t enough to rebuild it.
This simply choice of a soccer team was all but a personal or naïve choice. It will put Bela Vista back in the map. It will promote economic development through increase in people flow. It will help all Kiva borrowers that have grocery stores and will help local lodges to develop (today there is just 1 guest house with 4 rooms). It will also promote social development through the sense of one unit country, no more local tribes that have never been to each other villages.
The championship will begin in April. I already have a team to support! I will let you know how Hluvuku Futebol Clube goes!!
Ate mais.
18 March 2008 at 15:09 bcmauro
Sometimes the end is the best beginning. And, by the end of my first repayment day, a group of four women marched past me, through the hallway and onto the red dirt path outside the house where they had just completed their repayments. As they passed, some were shaking their heads, others were raising their voices in frustration, but they were all unified by their goal – to make a visit on a member of their group who was absent from the repayment meeting and failed to make another repayment again. The rest of the group covered her payment for her. Now it was time to collect.
When I first learned about microfinance, I like so many before me had read about the Grameen Bank and group loans. For me, the concept of converting something as instinctive as peer pressure into social collateral was brilliant in its simplicity. But, I wanted to see it first hand. Well, thanks to Kiva and Sinapi Aba Trust I got my first chance this past week.
As I entered the courtyard with the loan officer, there were several groups huddled in different corners. Within each group, a leader was busy collecting payments from members. The loan officer was seated in a corner in front of a simple desk. On the desk was a stapler, a notebook , an office calculator and some space to collect large wads of cash and piles of coins. As the payment officer called the groups up, they assembled around him and he started his counting.
For most of the groups, this process went smooth. But, there were exceptions. There was a woman who was claiming she didn’t have enough to make this week’s repayment. She opened her purse and paid all she could. The loan officer looked at her with disappointment. The other members in her group – particularly an elderly member – said to her, “you should pay to avoid disgrace.” After some silence and some pleading, she reached into various pockets and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, soon found enough bills and change.
In another case, a member said she couldn’t pay this week as she was waiting for some customers to pay her. She pled her case, but as the members paid for her, she slowly moved to the outside of the group. She sat in a chair - her arms crossed, her eyes staring at the floor. I didn’t get a complete translation, but I sensed and felt her dejection.
But, nothing compared to those women who rallied their group and marched passed me with such determination. I could not stay around to find out if they convinced the defaulting member to pay. I can only say I wouldn’t have wanted to be in her shoes as the battalion marched towards me.
13 March 2008 at 14:52 dylanhiggins
Stepping out onto the streets of Azerbaijan’s capital city is a quick way to gain insight on the local economic situation. The streets of Baku, much like other large cities, are plagued with traffic and drivers who use their horns more than they obey any sort of traffic laws. The mixture of vehicles that fill the roads is telling of the wealth disparity. Public transport is accomplished by aging mini-buses called marshrutkas plying the streets in all directions. Larger city buses are mostly absent so these marshrutkas provide the most comprehensive city transport in Baku. Although bus stops do exist, they are rarely used so one can wave down a passing bus at any time. Boxy, Russian made Ladas are most prevalent passenger car because they are cheap, easy to fix, and will last for hundreds of thousands of miles. However, with their 13” wheels and a manual choke lever, Ladas have less style than your back yard lawnmower. The final component of Baku’s streets is luxury cars. In stark contrast to the rest of the 4-wheeled street machines, BMWs, Mercedes, Land Rovers, Hummers and other high value vehicles by anyone’s standards are surprisingly common, clearly the spoils of the rich Azerbaijan oil deposits. Although watching these mismatched cars interact can be amusing (until you need to cross the street) one of the most enjoyable things to do in Baku is walk through the walls of the old city. The cobblestone streets, thankfully too narrow for cars, quickly dampen the noise of the busy modern city leaving you to enjoy the ancient architectural beauty in peace. The winding maze of alleys helps to prolong the peaceful experience before you inevitably exit the gates and face the modern world again – wishing that car horns wore out as frequently as brake lights.
13 March 2008 at 14:09 jonbuser
Or as locals would say hello in Ronga: Shawane!! For those of you that don’t know me, I’m Beatriz, originally from Brazil, and will proudly be a Kiva Fellow with Hluvuku-Adsema in Mozambique for the next 4 months.
I have arrived 2 days ago and so far so good! Hluvuku seems to be an outstanding organization. Fast growing since its establishment in 2004, today it has more than 2,000 clients and an outstanding loan portfolio of almost $1.0 million dollars. Hluvuku mission is to promote social and economic development in the district of Matatuime and surrounding, and apparently it has been doing a great job! There are 5 branches (Bela Vista, Boane, Catembe, Namaacha and Ponta D’Ouro) spread between Mozambican capital Maputo and the south of the country – close to South Africa and Swaziland’s borders.
I’m initially based in Bela Vista (100 km from Maputo), where Hluvuku’s general director, Mr. Bernardo Tembe, is locate. The village has around 3,000 people, is very poor but quite charming. It has considerable developed itself in the last 10 years and today, even though you won’t find proper roads to access the village, it is possible to see a few houses with cement walls and 2 streets with public illumination. There is even a Christian church under construction, what an honor for the village!
Yesterday Bernardo took me around all the branches (some located more than 100km from Bela Vista) and it was already possible to notice economic development / status differences between the villages. I will at some point live in each of them – I’ll definitely give more details as I move along.
I haven’t started to properly work yet, that is, to visit entrepreneurs with Kiva loan outstanding, I’m just getting familiar with the institution and with the 38-40 degrees Celsius (100-104 Fahrenheit) during the day (and 30C / 86F at night). For a Brazilian, this is even worse than arriving in Rio de Janeiro in the summer, getting out of the plane for a business meeting in a suit at a 40 C / 104F temperature!! I wish there was enough water to drink and/or shower, but unfortunately water (potable or not) is still a very scarce thing. I am living in a house together with locals, some government people from the district, and it will be an incredible experience. To share the local culture, learn and give, is what this fellowship is all about!
I look forward to getting involved with the operations and will certainly keep everyone posted!!
Ate breve / Hitavonana / Cheers
Beatriz
12 March 2008 at 06:14 bcmauro
Along with its microfinance unit, CRAN also sponsors social development projects. CRAN has built 5 schools in Ghana and has provided a community with clean running water. I recently got an opportunity to visit a CRAN sponsored school in the Abaenu community. To get to the village a 4×4 vehicle is a must. Once you turn off the nicely paved road headed to Accra, you embark on what is only comparable to a roller-coaster ride. For about 3 miles the truck bounced up-and-down, sided-to-side and every other way imaginable. After we arrived at the existing school it was apparent how badly another school building was needed, not because the current school was outdated or needed structural improvements, but because of how incredibly overcrowded the classrooms were. A leader from the village came to the CRAN offices and spoke with Teye, the director of social development projects, about the need for a separate school building for the nursery and kindergarten. The kindergarten consists of 109 children and the nursery has 50 children. In total, 159 total children were sharing 2 small rooms.
That’s when CRAN stepped in and built a separate building for the 2 kindergarten classes and the nursery. However, CRAN didn’t do all the work. CRAN provided the materials and specialized labor needed to build a school house, but engaged the community in the building of it. By actively helping in the building of the school, the community members feel more attached to the project and also provide a cost effective labor force. CRAN was able to build the 4 classroom school house with a bathroom for about $18,000.
When I arrived at the school house in the Abaenu village, I was immediately greeted with a loud cheer by the kindergarten class. They quickly left the overcrowded classroom and swarmed me. Kids absolutely love having their picture taken and looking at the picture even more. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to do anything till I took their picture, I pulled my camera out to take the picture and the kids immediately organized themselves in neat rows. After I took the picture, I showed the kids their picture and they all went nuts. Soon afterward, I got the opportunity to talk to the teacher of the class, Rebecca Aidoo. Mrs. Aidoo is an extremely sweet woman and should be a certified saint for being able to teach her kindergarten class of 61 children. On top of keeping 61 kids in order, she also has to share a room with 50 other children in the nursery. Thankfully, the new kindergarten and nursery building is near completion and should be in use within a couple weeks.
11 March 2008 at 16:14 danstrack
I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I told Mr. Sokmetrey I played soccer. Sokmetrey is the Marketing Director for Hattha Kaksekar Ltd. (HKL), one of Kiva’s newest microfinance partners in Cambodia, and my main contact in the organization. After picking me up at Phnom Penh International Airport on Thursday after twenty hours of travel, Sokmetrey treated me to lunch at a noodle house. Over steaming bowls of Khmer curry we fell into a discussion about Cambodian sports. I mentioned I enjoyed playing soccer, and he immediately invited me to play with his team on Saturday morning.
“I’ll pick you up at 7:30,” he said.
Pretty early, especially for someone still on West Coast time, but what better way to meet the locals?
7:30 Saturday came way too early, but excitement was enough to rouse me. Sokmetrey and a few friends picked me up on their motos. Being my first moto ride, it was a tense, white-knuckle twenty minutes for me as we wove through Phnom Penh’s chaotic traffic. I had no clue where we were going, and after a half hour we were well outside the city. People stared at the strange barang clinging desperately to the back of the moto as we puttered deeper into the countryside. Turning randomly onto a dirt road, Sokmetrey led us past rice paddies and saffron-robed monks until we came upon a pristine soccer field in the middle of nowhere. After introductions Sokmetrey dumped a pile of white clothes at my feet.
“You can pick your uniform.”
Uniforms? Seriously? I thought this was going to be a casual pickup game at some local Phnom Penh park, not a semi-pro league match way out in the provinces. I chose No. 9 (“like Ronaldo” they joked), shorts that didn’t look too ridiculous, and a battered pair of soccer boots a size too small. The jersey had the HKL logo emblazoned on it, and it dawned on me that I was playing for my MFI. I asked what team we were playing, hoping it was some other rival MFI like Maxima or Credit, but I was disappointed when it turned out to be the curiously named “Wheat Restaurant.”
After a very brief warm-up the referee blew the whistle and the game started. They must’ve thought I was some sort of prodigy since I started at striker, but I soon found myself making all sorts of mistakes. Outclassed, out of position most of the time and constantly getting burned by quicker opponents, I was more of a liability than anything. The style of play was faster and less physical than I was accustomed to. Wheat Restaurant jumped out to a quick 3-0 lead thanks to a few crucial defensive blunders and had us down 5-1 at halftime. By then I was a mess. Jetlagged and out of shape, angry blisters on my heels and toes, dizzy and dehydrated in the increasing heat, I must’ve been a disappointment. HKL should have known that Kiva wasn’t sending over a soccer star. No one seemed to care though, and despite my various ailments I was having a great time. I hadn’t played a game this meaningful since 8th grade. As I sat to begin the second half, HKL came out aggressive and stormed back to tie it at 5-5. Their last meeting with Wheat Restaurant had ended with a draw, so they were anxious to pull out a victory. After drinking two bottles of water I had sufficient strength to return for the last 10 minutes as a desperation sub on defense. Coincidentally, Wheat Restaurant scored two late goals before HKL made things interesting with a score in the final minute. But that dreaded whistle finally blew, and despite the outcome spirits were high after the match. Hopefully I’ll have a chance to avenge my performance some future Saturday, but I need to hit the gym first.
3 March 2008 at 11:18 eb78
Struggles. That’s what came to mind during my first days in Ghana. The struggle to find my way around to light a candle when the electricity had failed again. The struggle to keep my body hydrated in the heat and humidity. But, much more, it was the heart wrenching struggles of those around me. The crippled man trying to navigate the cratered streets and bloodthirsty taxidrivers. The mother balancing what amounts to a small woodshed of goods on her head while carrying a baby on her back and trying to contain a curious, energetic boy. Around us all, the sun was struggling to make its way through the clouds thick with dust blown in from the Saharan desert.
While the sun struggled to show itself, the heat did not. The heat had figured out a way to overcome in Ghana. But, the heat was not the only thing overcoming adversity, as I soon learned when I looked in the right places and with the right perspective.
There were the ambitious streetside hawkers who sprinted alongside the bus attempting to close a sale. Or the vacant lot with a crumbling foundation, but an optimistic owner who had posted on a wall, “This land is not for sale.” Or there was something so simple as a cool tile floor that brought an instant sense of relief to tired bare feet. But, it was not until today, when I first met clients of Sinapi Aba Trust that I saw firsthand hope in its most human form.
Today, I travelled along with two loan officers of Sinapi to visit some perspective clients in the suburbs of Kumasi. Before Sinapi finalizes a loan with new clients, loan officers visit the clients at their businesses to get a sense of their assets, their customers, their surroundings or even their neighbor’s perspective on their business.
As we walked around patiently trying to locate our first client, we knew we had arrived when a woman looked up from her pot of roasting palm nuts and a large ear-to-ear grin appeared on her face. Before long, I would know more about her business than I could have imagined. And while we were interviewing her, other women began to appear from nowhere. They also had smiles and warm handshakes. “Current clients,” the loan officers remarked. The gratitude was overwhelming. This was seeing microfinance at its best. As I paused to take this in, I looked around and then I realized that we were next to a dump. All of this hope and ambition next to a dump! And this was only the first week.
Now, when I look back after more than a week in Ghana, I think about struggles but I also see the power of hard work and perseverance. It could not be better explained than the passing van I saw earlier this week. On its back window a slogan was painted, it read, “No Food for Lazy Man.”
3 March 2008 at 10:13 dylanhiggins
I’ve been in Ghana now for one month and I realized I’ve been slacking in keeping up my journal, so I’m posting several random experiences I’ve had so far.
On most days I go out with a loan officer to take pictures of clients who are requesting loans for their businesses or have already taken a loan and we go to follow-up on their progress. The first problem you encounter when trying to find someone is there are no street names or addresses whatsoever. We had to find 11 borrowers who were all located within one small segment of Cape Coast, but to find each person you have to go up to random people and ask if they know of the person you are asking for. Sometimes finding the borrowers is fast, but other times it feels like you are walking in circles. However, this experience has had a huge impact on me. When I’m by myself, I usually walk on the paved roads and rarely venture deep into the residential villages of Cape Coast. There’s a whole different side of poverty within these villages that most visitors never see. The conditions are absolutely terrible. No electricity, no running water, a make-shift open sewer system, and chickens and goats literally eating out of the sewers. Small houses holding entire families are little more than mud walls with tin roofs. Little kids are just walking around during the day and clearly not going to school, nor will they probably ever get the opportunity to do so. Most adults in these villages don’t speak English because they’ve never attended school and never had parents who spoke English to teach them, so the cycle continues. My hope is that these loans can enable parents to have sufficient income to send their children to school. It’s truly the only way to improve their child’s life.
One thing I still haven’t been able to adjust to is the driving. Cars and pedestrians are all packed together onto semi-paved and unpaved roads. I’ve walked miles and miles through Cape Coast and surrounding villages and towns and have yet see anything that resembles a side-walk. This situation is intensified as both cars and pedestrians always feel they have the right-of-way. An employee at CRAN drives me and others to various destinations across the city and I’m always bracing myself, thinking a huge collision is only a turn away. I haven’t decided what’s worse, driving and thinking your going to clip a group of girls walking to school or actually walking and thinking your about to be hit by the next speeding taxi. No one else seems to even notice the cars missing them by mere inches. Girls and women carry various goods on their head don’t even blink an eye as a car will wail it’s horn and swerve at the last second to avoid clipping the person. Besides being the only white man for miles, I feel a little out of place because I’m constantly looking over my shoulder and stopping for cars and people to pass, so I’m not hit by the taxi that’s driving 30 miles per hour on a small dirt road.
My favorite experience in Ghana so far has been all the little kids and babies shouting “Obroni, Obroni” when I walk by. Obroni means white person or foreigner but has a positive connotation to it (at least that’s what I’m told). When walking up and down the streets little kids run up with huge smiles, touch your hand and sing “Obroni, Obroni…how are you? I am fine!!”. It’s inspiring to see these little kids living in such horrible conditions still being so upbeat about life and enjoying even the small events. When I first got to Ghana only the little kids would acknowledge me and I’d get blank stares from adults, but after a few days I realized I’m the stranger and should be the one to initiate the acknowledgement. So, now I just smile and wave at people working in their small shops and they break-out in enormous smiles, wave back and sometimes strike up a conversation.
The only talk in Ghana from late January to early February was the Africa Cup of Nations being hosted by Ghana. It’s basically the World Cup for Africa. If religion is what Ghanaians are most passionate about, soccer is a very close 2nd. I watched the games at my old hotel with either people from work, other Western visitors, or a few people I’ve met locally. The entire country was electric everyday that Ghana played a match. After a Ghanaian goal, every single person in the city would flood out into the streets, dance music would start blaring and there’d be a mini-party for about 5 minutes then everybody would return and continue watching the game. After a big victory, people would be out celebrating till 1-2 in the morning. After Ghana beat Nigeria to advance to the semi-finals, my friend came to my hotel and asked if I wanted to go to the middle of town and see the real party. I couldn’t imagine it would be any different than what was going on in front of the hotel but I went with anyway. When we got the center of Cape Coast, there were thousands of people jammed into the streets with reggae music blaring at every street corner. It was really a sight to see. The next day my co-worker, Eddie, asked if people were this passionate about sports in the US. I thought for awhile and told him the only way I could see this excitement and passion being matched would be if the Chicago Cubs won the World Series in game 7 with a walk-off homerun (I’m from Chicago).
I did a lot of research and talked to many many people before traveling to Ghana, but by far the best piece of advice I received before going to Ghana came from a former Kiva Fellow and current Kiva staff member. He said, in many parts of Africa, it’s not uncommon for a male to hold hands for an extended period of time (15-30 seconds) with another male after a handshake if he views you as a friend. THANK GOD I knew this beforehand. 15-30 seconds may not sound like a long time, but try holding hands with another male while walking through a crowded market for 20 seconds…it feels like an eternity.
27 February 2008 at 13:39 danstrack
Things at CRAN have been pretty hectic the past couple weeks. At the end of February, CRAN is having an international rating done. This basically announces to the entire microfinance world how well CRAN is run as a MFI. A good rating could mean new sources of capital as well as world-wide acknowledgement of CRAN as well as one of the top MFIs in Ghana. However, a bad rating would be a set back for the organization and would dampen spirits within the organization. All CRAN employees have been working extra hard the past several weeks to ensure they do get a positive rating. We recently had a staff meeting to go over what exactly the rating will cover. Some of the areas of emphasis are one’s you’d never even think of, but this rating will help to tie-down any loose ends and make CRAN really focus on every minute detail within the organization. How is money transferred to borrowers in the safest and most reliable manner? If a branch unit is in a remote area, how can it send information back to the main office on a daily basis if there is no internet connection and no cost effective means to drive it to the office? Without taking collateral from borrowers, what’s the best way to minimize loan defaults and late payments? These are just a few of the questions, in addition to everyday business; CRAN is taking on to ensure they achieve a high rating.
22 February 2008 at 14:08 danstrack
This past weekend was very exciting for Tanzania. As a part of President Bush’s tour of Africa, he visited Dar es Salaam. It was the first visit by an American President, since Clinton’s visit in 1998.
With typical Tanzanian hospitality, Dar was ready for the occasion, and I couldn’t help smiling… Banners were strung up that featured the Stars and Stripes crossed with the Tanzanian flag, and welcomed “Your Excellency President Bush.” Billboards were scattered throughout the city featuring a panorama of Kilimanjaro, with an artist’s rendering of Bush’s head emerging from the snow at the top of the mountain. My personal favorite was a woman’s dress that I saw on the bus: it was emblazoned with headshots of President Jakaya Kikwete and Bush connected with a screen-print that read “Lasting Friendship.”
Being one of the few (read ‘only’) white males near where I live, I frequently have humorous encounters with locals. When I am walking on the street, locals often point at me and exclaim “Bush!” It is made funnier by the Tanzanian pronunciation of Bush, which is something more like “Booshee.” A couple of times, street vendors have pulled me aside and asked me in a hushed tone if I am with the FBI. On Saturday, I was walking with a friend, and we encountered a group of Tanzanian boys. After greeting them, one asked me, with wide-eyes, if I was “the one that they call Bush.”
Of course, the reaction to the visit was really quite mixed, although the government clearly wanted to things to go smoothly. Journalists (in the English press, I can’t read Swahili…yet) showed a healthy amount of criticism and journalistic freedom. The result was a productive dialogue on a number of issues related to the Bush presidency ranging from African development economics to the Iraq war. Notably, there was considerable skepticism regarding the motive of the grant that Tanzania received during the visit. However, President Kikwete certainly welcomed the $700 million grant, which was earmarked for infrastructure development and disease prevention. Fortunately for him, the grant tripled the amount that was stolen from the government’s coffers in the most recent scandal, which felled the Prime Minister and forced Kikwete to dissolve the cabinet when it was revealed two weeks ago.
In only a short time, I have been received an exciting introduction to African politics. It has allowed me to step back and experience politics from a new perspective. Tanzanians are quite interested in current events, and I have had ample opportunity to discuss issues and take in a diverse range of opinions – an invaluable learning experience.
20 February 2008 at 09:05 alecintanzania
Literally. Last Tuesday was the first day it rained since I have been in Dar. There was no warning drizzle or gradual acceleration. Rather, the sky opened with a clap of thunder, and rain came down that sounded more like gravel than water as it pounded the thin tin roof over my head.
The roof belonged to YOSEFO’s center in the Tandika community. I am told that Tandika is best referred to as an “unplanned urban settlement,” although the vernacular would suggest otherwise. Inside the center, client meeting were conducted by the light of a single candle – terms dictated by a local power outage.
Tandika is a neighborhood of Temeke, one of the poorest urban areas in Dar. There was a noticeable contrast between the Tandika center, and the Vituka center I described in my first blog…
Edson Charles, YOSEFO’s credit officer assigned to the community explained that Tandika’s clients were almost exclusively women. Most of the women run small food shops, and receive loans that are often small in comparison to clients in other areas. However, with hard work and assertiveness, the loans often enable them to improve their family’s standard of living markedly, especially relative to the status quo in Tandika.
On the road out of Tandika, the bus wove between a maze of giant potholes full of water, and neglected mounds of gravel waiting to fill them. By this time, the rain water had reached critical mass and could qualify as a creek as it coursed between the road and clusters of storefronts. Most of the stores had no protection against the rushing water, and even the few with small doorsteps could not stop the water from seeping in and pooling on the floor. With this image in mind, it is not hard to understand why self employment in Dar is no easy task. However, it is encouraging to know that the idea behind microcredit – the idea behind Kiva and YOSEFO – is that access to a small amount of capital can provide just enough to enable a microentrepreneur to turn the corner.
20 February 2008 at 09:04 alecintanzania
In the United States, to have one’s credit card account put “on hold” would be grounds for getting slightly upset, peeved even. Fortunately, I am here in Cambodia, and when my dad emailed me to tell me that he received a letter from my credit card company saying that my account had been put on hold due to unusual activity, I did not flinch or get terribly nervous. One, this is because you really can’t use a credit card here unless you’re along the riverfront, the tourist mecca, and thus a place I avoid. Two, this is because I assumed that the unusual activity was the actual absence of activity on my account, and this in fact made me slightly cheerful.
Nonetheless, knowing that should an emergency arise I would need it to get a ticket out of here, I hopped on the phone and called my credit card company. After taking time (stupidly) to learn that all the push-button options were not going give me the service I needed, I proceeded to peck at the zero key until the calm-toned computer lady finally realized that I wasn’t smart enough to be dealt with in her organized way. Thus, she transferred me to “hold” until someone picked up the phone. I sat for a few minutes listening to Kenny G and Tina Turner, contemplating whether or not the music sufficiently justified hanging up. But, just as Tina went into her last chorus of “I’ve Got the Power,” while at the same time I was picturing a 60-something year old woman in a leather miniskirt dancing about a strobe-light-ridden stage and singing, a fine man introducing himself as Earl picked up the phone and started asking me to verify who I was.
After that was done, Earl asked what my problem was. I told him that my account had been “temporarily put on hold” due to this “unusual activity.” He then asked me if I had been in California recently. I told him yes, that I was in San Francisco to attend the Kiva Training seminar thingy. At this point I became concerned that this short trip to California would cause them to suspend my account, but then I remembered that I didn’t use my credit card while I was there. At the same time, he asked me if I went to any KFCs, to which I said no, I hadn’t frequented any Kentucky Fried Chickens during my stay. Thus, we determined that it was someone with my credit card # who in fact had. By now I was amazed at our age’s computer advancements, that Visa and Kentucky Fried Chicken can determine whether or not someone trying to pay for their 16-piece grease bucket and 2-liter bottle of corn syrup is actually paying with their own fixed 8.9% APR money, or mine, in this case.
As the conversation wound down, Earl told me to destroy my credit card, that it was of no use, which I realized when I was trying to buy skype credit with it in an effort to call my credit card company, hoping that being in Cambodia would throw the system off just enough to let me spend $10.00, and thus put some activity on my account and preemptively end what I had thought was the unusual [in]activity. Regardless, for some reason, I can’t bring myself to destroy the card. It’s worthless to me, and to anyone who steals it, but there’s something about having it that is a comfort. This, mind you, is disturbing, as if I now seem to have a psychological aversion to parting with a worthless plastic piece of junk that says Visa.
But I digress. Work here in Cambodia has been good. I spent Monday and Tuesday in Kandal Province, which surrounds Phnom Penh. I was observing Angkor Microfinance Kampuchea’s (AMK) loan disbursement and repayment procedures. While these observations were going on, I had my Cambodian Kiva counterparts practice getting information for business profiles and journals, which they did quite well.
Now, while the work itself went smoothly, with no problems arising, my driving experiences, whether going into the field or getting to the office, have been noteworthy (at least nominally). I awoke Monday morning and began casually getting out of bed and getting ready. I visited with my friend Ratha, but as I looked at my watch I noticed that the time was 7:23am. The office opens at 7:30, and we were to leave for the field at that time. Being someone who is always early wherever he goes, I had timed the ride to my office: eight minutes. I would be one minute late, and would somehow miss the trip out into the field that was arranged especially for me. When pressed for time, I should add, my thought processes lack the rationality that I’m accustomed to approaching most of life’s situations with. Thus, I panicked, ran to Thy (the fastest-driving moto-taxi man I know), and, not being able to resist the theatrical moment that I was presented with, hopped on the back of his moto and declared: “Fly Thy, show me the meaning of haste.” He looked at me confusedly, and so I clarified: “I need to be to work in five minutes.” That he understood clearly. He smiled, started his engine, and blasted up Street 310. We made it in four minutes, and that was probably the most fun I’ve ever had on a moto. Thankfully traffic was non-existent and so my trip was not suicidal (Thy would have made it in four minutes regardless of the traffic), and I now inwardly refer to Thy as Shadowfax, for his magical abilities of getting me to work in half the time allowed me to check my email and go to the bathroom before we departed.
On Tuesday I made it to work even earlier, and this time taking the full eight minutes to get there. We left the AMK office at about 8:00 and drove out into the field. I should note here that the pretty rice-paddy scenery in the provinces makes for a generally enjoyable driving experience, but only for about ten minutes, after which time one realizes that banging against the side of the vehicle every time you hit a big bump is going to leave bruises up and down your left (or right) side. This was not an issue on Monday, since most of the time there were only three of us in the back of one of AMK’s early- to mid-1990s Land Cruisers. It was comfy, air-conditioned, and there was enough space between me and the wall of the truck to allow me to bounce about with impunity. Tuesday presented a different scenario. One of my colleagues, Paujo, a nice bloke from Maine who I share an office with right now, wanted to go out into the field to see the same processes that I was. Thus, as he rode into work at about 8:00am on Tuesday, I called over to him and told him that we were heading out and that if he wanted to join us he could. He ran up to the office, dropped his stuff off, made sure there wasn’t anything pressing that demanded his attention, and came out.
In the meantime, I was casually leaning against one of the Land Cruisers, ready for another pleasant ride out into the field. Suddenly, however, a small Toyota Tacoma pickup truck pulled up and Pok Thy, the regional manager responsible for Kandal and also my guide, hopped in the front seat. I looked in the back seat (and at least it boasted an extended cabin), and grimaced. Four of us—Sophanith, Sophany, Paujo and I—would occupy that four-and-a-half foot space for the rest of the day. Paujo and I had backpacks precariously arranged on our laps or on the floor, which meant either blocking the air conditioning or having no foot room. I opted for the latter, and remained awkwardly positioned but reasonably cool, despite wearing dress clothes like everyone else. We arranged ourselves efficiently (like sardines, i.e.), and I waited for the driver to come shut my door. I was going to shut it myself, but when I tried I incidentally elbowed myself just beneath the ribs with the full weight of the door, which drove home the point that I should not have done that. Thus, it was up to our driver to close my door for me, and while I sat trying to look calm, I was in fact quite worried that much of me was still hanging out of the truck. He shut the door with enough oomph that everything previously hanging out was now smushed up inside. He chuckled. I made an involuntary grunt-like sound.
And thus we drove. When we hit the dirt roads, and the bumps that came every five seconds, my left shoulder banged against the corner of the door and the frame of the truck, while my head bounced back and forth between that same corner and the headrest (the corner won). Additionally, halfway into the journey, I began to notice a numbness coming over my right side from the waist down. Then I realized that I had committed the cardinal sin of long drives: I was sitting (read: bouncing up and down) on my wallet, worthless credit card and all. This too would leave a bruise, though I couldn’t feel it at the time.
Trying to take my mind off this sensation, or lack thereof, I asked Paujo what he figured the life of the suspension on these vehicles was. He said he didn’t know, and instead remarked rhetorically that he wondered what the suspension of his own rear end was, though his choice of words was slightly less kosher. The day continued on in this way, and when it was finally over, I asked Sopanith: how do you say “I’m tired” in Khmer. He told me, and I now have a new phrase, which this week has seen wide usage among those of us going into the field.
I took Wednesday off, needing to go to the bank to open an account, which was an ordeal in itself. The first time I went to the bank they told me I needed a letter from my employer saying that I actually worked in Cambodia and was not some useless lemming merely seeking to make a deposit. Thus, the next time I went into work I pulled up AMK’s letterhead and typed one sentence saying that I work here. Paul, my boss and AMK’s CEO, signed it and had me go get it stamped. In Cambodia, I should add, things with stamps and other official-looking “insignia” seem to be highly valued. On a side note, I should say that this largely constitutes a joke, as the first time I was here I found myself signing my name on fifty certificates of completion for a workshop that I and several friends put together. I could have signed “Santa Claus” or “Mr. Bojangles” with the same effect.
Anyway, when I was at the bank on Wednesday, they asked me if AMK was closed? I said no, and then they asked why I wasn’t at work. I told them: “because I needed to come here to open an account.” To this they replied: “why didn’t you come when AMK was closed.” AMK is closed on the weekend, and, coincidentally, so is the bank. Somehow this point wasn’t getting through, but fortunately some lady kept hearing “AMK” being mentioned, and so she walked over. I looked up, and saw one of my colleagues, who then verified that I am not a useless lemming seeking merely to make a deposit. For example, she too was there instead of at AMK. This is perhaps the first and only time that I will ever be grateful for windows between offices. Hers is right next to mine, and in this case that lack of privacy allowed me to open a bank account.
Thursday I was supposed to go back out into the field, but AMK did not have a vehicle available, and while I was slightly disappointed, my body was glad it had another day’s rest in a nice air-conditioned office. That night I went out with a friend who I met here and a few of her Cambodian friends, as well as some folks she met while traveling. We grabbed dinner and drinks, but as I had a splitting headache I didn’t drink anything and decided to call it a night fairly early. I hopped a moto and set off for home. The next thing I knew, however, I was in the Boeng Kak area at around 11:30 at night. At night, this area becomes a bit seedy, as evidenced by the many strung-out people drinking in dive bars and the drug dealers dangling bags of weed in front of your face as you drive by. This it seems actually takes some skill, since they never obstruct the moto-driver’s field of vision, but manage to slip the bag of drugs between him and his passenger. They know who to market to, evidently. Nonetheless, I found myself saying repeatedly, in Khmer, “no thank you” (why I thanked them I’m not quite sure…instinct, perhaps). Fortunately, I somehow got across the point that, as a wholesome lad, I don’t frequent the prostitute- and drug-ridden sections of town, and instead live in a nice quiet neighborhood, which I eventually got to.
Friday turned out to be a casual day, but a big one since AMK’s Kiva profile is done and I now have access to do things of consequence (hopefully good consequence, mind you). Being very tired though, I was also very ready for Friday to be over, and at 5:30, after a ten-hour day with a working lunch, it was. I shut down my computer, packed it up, and walked out of the office and into the heat of a fine Cambodian evening. I hopped a moto for home, and off we went for the casual drive home. As we proceeded towards my house, however, I noticed that my moto driver didn’t turn right onto Street 310 like most drivers do. Considering the fact that the opportunity to cross from one side of the street to the other in heavy traffic never presented itself, I didn’t blame him. There were other ways to get back anyway, and so he kept driving until he was able to get across the street. By this point, however, I began to notice that the sputter of his moto grew into a loud cough, and, on an unpaved side street about a mile from my place, the engine quit. He jumped up and down on the starter, trying to get some life into the tiny scooter, while I likewise bounced up and down on the seat. Tragically, his efforts were in vain, and I aggravated the bruise on my posterior.
Knowing that my ride was over, I began to dismount so I could start to walk, but he just looked at me and motioned for me to stay seated. He then sat back down, and with his left leg began pulling us along, determined to get me where I was going (despite the fact that he no longer knew where he was going). So there I sat, wearing sunglasses, slacks, a button-down shirt, dress shoes, and a helmet, moving at about half a mile per hour down a dirt road on the back of a moto while the driver pulled us both along with his left leg. This was not “the meaning of haste,” and rather an omniscient being’s way of getting back at me for defying the odds and making it to work on time on Monday.
As we creeped along, and as I sat thinking about how it would be faster for me to walk, and calorically more conservative for him to let me, I began to notice that everyone was out on in the road or on their balconies looking at us (well, probably me). Now, I hadn’t been at all comfortable with the situation at hand, letting some old guy drag me about a dirt road in Phnom Penh, but now that I was being stared at with confused-to-angry looks, I decided that it was definitely the time to get off. I went to stand up, but the guy grabbed my arm and sat me back down, and so I seemed stuck on the back of this guys moto. I felt, very simply, like a jackass. Then suddenly an idea came over me, I could help him out, and so between his left leg and my right leg, we pressed on in our slow journey. After about ten minutes we hit what could legitimately be classified as a road, and so I gave him a buck, begrudgingly took what change he had, and we parted ways. Two minutes later I was on the back of another moto, this one with enough gas, though the driver also didn’t know where he was going, and so after another ten minutes of trying to convince him that I did, I finally arrived home and had a beer.
In other news, and I have no idea what caused this, I have had immense cravings for fast food, not KFC, mind you, but burgers and fries, and Coca Cola as well. I don’t eat this stuff in the US, and I stopped drinking soda years ago, but for some reason I now have deep cravings for it. Thus, three days last week I went over to Lucky Seven (fast food chain) and got a sandwich, fries and a coke. Additionally, on Monday, when lunchtime came, we all piled into the comfy Land Cruiser and drove to a restaurant in Kandal. It boasted “fine Khmer and Thai cuisine in a relaxing and comfortable environment.” The terms relaxing and comfortable are of course strictly relative, as the floor was covered with tissues that previous diners and we used to wipe dust and dirt off our seats, and I spent most of the hour batting flies away from my Coke, which I drank warm because I did not trust the source of the ice. I ordered fried rice, which is a generally safe dish since everything is cooked, but I was slightly dismayed that it came served on a bed of lettuce and freshly cut tomatoes. Hepatitis A aside, I was starving and assume that I’ve been immunized for this, so hopefully I have antibodies. Fortunately, nearly two weeks later and I can say that nothing happened except the fact that I filled my stomach with some very tasty food. My days of dietary WMD are over, and my daily meals have returned to normal: lots of rice, fruit, stir-fried vegetables, and some good meat, pork in particular. Life is never dull here. Life is good.
Much love to you all,
Mark
p.s. The wicked French lady came back earlier than I expected. She never paid Thou, saying that her guidebook (three years old, mind you) said that Visa extentions only cost $35, and thus Thou was ripping her off by charging $40. Thou managed to get back at her, incidentally, for when she requested a ticket to Ho Chi Minh “Ville,” Thou’s sister accidentally booked her a ticket to Sihanoukville instead. We laughed heartily as we sat picturing the wicked French lady sitting properly and confidently on the bus bound for the south shores of Cambodia instead of Vietnam.
15 February 2008 at 01:44 janko85
Dr. Victoria Kisyombe pic
Mambo from Dar es Salaam! Mambo to the staff at Kiva, my fellow Fellows, our MFI partners, kiva lenders, and anyone else who wants to jump on the kiva rollercoaster. My apologies for failing to share my impressions of SELFINA, Dar es Salaam, and Tanzania for almost two months. The only excuse I can give is that kiva.org has been too generous with its posting limit, kiva lenders have been too generous and quick with their support, and the subsequent workload has kept me too busy to even think about blogging!
Perhaps the best way to introduce SELFINA (Sero Lease and Finance Ltd.) is to introduce its founder, director and ‘Mama’, Dr. Victoria Kisyombe. Originally from Mbeya, a beautiful and cool mountainous region in the South-West of Tanzania, Victoria completed her primary and secondary education first in Mbeya, followed by Morogoro, and finally Kenya. She returned to Tanzania to attend the University of Dar es Salaam, where she completed a bachelor degree in Veterinary Science in 1983. After completing her degree Victoria returned to her hometown of Mbeya to work as a vet, where her skill in dealing with livestock made her very popular amongst the largely agricultural community. In 1986 she was awarded a scholarship by Edinburgh University to complete a Masters degree in Veterinary Science.
Upon her return to Tanzania in 1987, Victoria began working on an intergovernmental project, which involved providing livestock to disadvantaged individuals and families as a source of income generation or subsistence. This position provided Victoria with an insight into the difficulties faced by many Tanzanians, particularly women. As is the case in much of Tanzania, many of the women she came across did not own any assets; their land, houses, household items, and agricultural equipment and produce, were inevitably owned by their husbands or a male family member. Consequently, it was, and remains, difficult for Tanzanian women to access finance.
Victoria and her colleagues tried to incorporate into their program, strategies to address the gender inequality and poverty they encountered. They began to insist that the women hold joint ownership of the livestock the program provided, and also encouraged widows and single mothers to participate. In addition, they expanded the program and began providing small loans, marketing advice, and business training to women running non-agricultural businesses.
In Victoria’s own words, all of this was an ‘eye-opener’ to the volume and variety of problems faced by women, but also to what a big difference just a little support can make. This is where her vision of an NGO to foster women’s empowerment began. In 1995 she established Sero Business Women’s Association (SEBA), named after a cow called Sero that was left behind by her late husband. Sero the cow supplemented Victoria’s paltry salary and provided milk for her one year-old daughter. Victoria hoped that SEBA (and later, SELFINA), would provide the same support and source of hope to the many women it served as Sero the cow had to her and her children.
SEBA’s first programs included providing business training, legal advice, health workshops, and forums on gender issues such as Female Genital Mutilation. But after providing business training to over 7000 women, Victoria realised that a lack of capital remained the major impediment to women’s empowerment, progression, and escape from poverty. SEBA needed a finance wing.
In 2002, Sero Lease and Finance Ltd (SELFINA) was born (or, to be more accurate, incorporated as a Limited Liability Company), following the successful implementation of a pilot microfinance project by SEBA. During the early years SELFINA struggled to access finance, not only because it was a new organisation, but because it loaned only to women and was directed by women. An important initial source of funding was the Tanzanian Government’s Small Enterprise Loan Facility (SELF). Efficient management and repayment of these funds made attracting further capital a little easier, and slowly but surely SELFINA has established an excellent credit history and large portfolios with institutions such as Bank of Africa, CRDB Bank, FBME Bank, ETIMOS of Italy, and the African Development Foundation (ADF).
SELFINA’s loan products are an innovative alternative to standard loans. In response to the fact that many women lack tangible collateral assets, SELFINA introduced a product called microleasing. Using microleasing, SELFINA, after consultation with the client, purchases a piece of equipment required for the client’s business. SELFINA owns the piece of equipment and leases it to the client until the final repayment is made, at which point ownership of the item is signed over to the client. SELFINA recently introduced a new product called ‘sale and leaseback’, in response to a need for working capital by many of its clients. Under this system, SELFINA purchases assets or equipment from its clients, in essence extending a loan to them, and then leases the same items back to them. Fortunately for the clients, the items are only physically seized by SELFINA if the client fails to make her repayments!
SELFINA now has over 6,000 clients and a portfolio of over US$3 million, and this is due to the tireless work of Victoria and a number of dedicated staff members (I should mention, so as not to be too biased, that we do allow men to work here and that many of them are extremely hardworking – a big shout out to Robbie Mageta). However, it is Victoria who is usually the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave (late at night). Even then, she frequently brings work home with her and regularly works on weekends. And despite the constant stress of never-ending loan applications for which there is not enough funding, meetings with bank managers to negotiate funds for these applications, phone calls day and night from clients, partners and staff members, Victoria always manages a big smile and always has time to discuss any problem, personal or professional. As Robbie once said to me, “she’s a strong woman”. That’s an understatement! Simply put, there are not enough synonyms for ‘inspiring’ to describe Victoria and what she has achieved.
The future? “To loan to more and more women!” says Victoria excitedly. And with her in charge, you can be sure it will happen.
The view from SELFINA’s Office (now you know why we don’t mind working long hours!).
8 February 2008 at 16:29 kafui
It is difficult to adequately describe the contrast between the frozen homogeneity of suburban Minneapolis which I left, and the noisy and chaotic vibrancy of Dar es Salaam. I traveled through five airports over the course of three days, and touched down in Dar es Salaam on Sunday in a jet-lag induced daze. Not quite knowing what to expect, I shouldered my touristy hiking backpack, and walked out of the international arrivals terminal – directly into the middle of a political demonstration
Thousands of Tanzanians were crowded around the doors of the terminal and on top of trucks, waving banners for the Civic United Front and shouting slogans in Swahili through megaphones. I found out later that Ibrahim Lipumba, popular opposition candidate returning from an appointment at the UN had been on the same flight from Nairobi.
It was certainly a fitting introduction to Tanzania.
I am new to blogging. In fact, I recently made the mistake of calling it a “weblog.” So think it best for me to ease myself in. Of course, it is difficult to pick out just one thing to write about; I am overwhelmed by the overabundance of new experiences. But I traveled to Tanzania to experience the impact of microfinance, so I think it only makes sense to start there.
The Vituka neighborhood of Dar es Salaam is where I first met microfinance clients. YOSEFO has a community-banking center in Vituka. Vituka is a typical East African suburb, with dusty dirt roads and winding paths between clusters of small shops and houses. YOSEFO’s center in Vituka is in one such cluster.
On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, loan officers travel to Vituka to meet with clients. YOSEFO’s clients receive loans in groups of five, and eight small groups make up each 40-member community-banking group. The organization of the process is quite impressive. Two loan officers run the meetings with clockwork-like precision. As clients entered and left the meetings, I was able to speak with many of them through George, who helped with translation. I have been familiar with the concept of microfinance and the anecdotal success stories that accompany it for some time now. However, hearing the stories first-hand was a completely new and exciting experience.
I went away wishing that I spoke Swahili, so I could understand more thoroughly the successes, challenges and failures that each entrepreneur described. Despite the barrier, I was able to learn and understand a surprising amount about the experiences of each businessperson.
For the time-being…for the foreseeable future, I will have to be content speaking through a translator. My Swahili is progressing at a snail’s pace – although, I have been able to learn numbers, which has worked wonders for my street cred.
I’m fairly certain that every day here is going to contain an adventure, or at the least, a story. I’ll be trying to put the good ones up here…
5 February 2008 at 11:21 alecintanzania
On Friday everyone shows up at the office dressed up. Mostly for religious reasons, but it’s a refreshing reversal of casual Friday. It’s our all-hands day, where everyone from the different parts of Abidjan meets here at 4pm. I saved the chocolates I brought for this day, and shared with everyone. I really enjoy meeting all the field officers- they are truly the heart & soul of this operation. Everyone I have met so far has been enthusiastic and friendly.
It is a hard life here. I walked through the market last night, it’s an open-air market much like you’d see in Mexico, with each vendor selling fruits, veggies, live crabs, raw meat, toiletries, etc. I want to just reach out and buy something from everyone. But of course that’s not the answer. It has to be a sustainable system from within, and the capital from Kiva to augment that system is a much more effective jumpstart and monitored much more closely than if I just go around buying stuff I don’t need!
I sat with the HR women yesterday to count the money from the markets, and talk about their processes. There are two different types of loans, the individual loan and a group loan.
The group loan is for women only, and it is coordinated in groups that start out as 10, and end up around 5-6 women. The women self-select their group, so that they determine to whom they will be accountable. Every woman in the group becomes responsible for the entire payment due each week, so that if someone is missing, the others must make up that amount and be reimbursed later. No three people from the same family are allowed in the same group. This is for many reasons- if there is a funeral in the family, then all three would leave at the same time, leaving the others in the lurch for that week. Or even worse, once they’d taken their share, they could just leave period.
There are two different ways of splitting up the group loans. One way is that one woman at a time gets the whole sum of money, and they take turns. The other is there is a total sum, and it is divided between the women equally. They use an evaluation form on many variables, including how many children each woman has, number of years experience in her field, if she has a criminal record, etc. Each woman fills out this form, and it is rated for risk. They add up the risk points for the group, and determine the loan size, and how it is split among the women. The majority of AE&I’s loans are individual, but the group loan is a good way for a woman to get started and develop credit with the institution. She can then transition to an individual loan. In talking with women in the markets, many of them started with a group loan, but much prefer the individual loans they are now doing. This is for the clear reason that when other members of the group defaulted, they had to pick up the amount.
If the woman hasn’t established her credit in a group loan, then before she can take an individual loan, she must start with a savings account. They meet with the potential client and talk to them about the business, what they would use a loan for, their family circumstances, etc. They explain to them that before they can get a loan, they must open a savings account and contribute a small amount to that savings account on a daily basis. The client determines how much they will contribute to this savings account. Most choose to contribute between 50 cents and two dollars per day.
After three months of diligent payments, AE&I adds up the amount. At any time during those three months if the person wants to withdraw their money, they can do it. But if they leave the money in savings, that serves as the collateral for their first loan, and they can be loaned that exact amount. Only their first loan has this collateral structure. And this is what I find interesting. This first loan is not the transformational loan- it is the screening process for quality clients. And these clients continue to work and expand their business, taking progressively larger loans in small increments. Then, once they feel confident, they can take a relatively larger sized loan, and use it to significantly upgrade their business. It is in this way that AE&I has cultivated a portfolio of trustworthy and thriving clients.
Savings and loan payments are tracked in a passbook that the borrower keeps. They pay 1000 CFA (about $2) for the passbook, so that they are careful not to lose it. When the clients make their deposit each day, they receive a hologrammed sticker for that payment in the passbook. There are different colored stickers, each with a different monetary value. This makes it easy to add up the amount contributed each month by counting up the stickers, and multiplying by the value of their color. The stickers allow borrowers, even those who cannot read and write, to track their savings, withdrawals, and loan payments easily.
In a country where corruption claims so much money, AE&I has set up a strong infrastructure to protect their clients and ensure the quality of each of their loans. Each transaction is documented in several steps, with cross checks between the computer system and handwritten logbooks. The Internal Auditor tracks the amount of stickers that are used by each loan officer on a weekly basis, and matches that number with the deposits and loan payments. And the Internal Auditor also visits clients in the market to follow up on late loan payments, and also spot checks to see that the passbooks match the loan records at the office. Microfinance is such a simple concept, but seeing the operations in the field has given me a deep appreciation for the complexity of its execution.
The Passbook:
4 February 2008 at 13:07 meganberwick
Just a quick post for those who were wondering how the meeting with Maman Fannie went… she missed her appointment! I was so bummed. I stopped by her apartment that night, and it turns out one of the children had gotten sick, and she’d taken care of her. But I had the sense that was just an excuse. She’d never even heard of microfinance before I talked to her about it, and so I imagine there is some hesitation on her part to meet with a financial institution on her own. I’m giving her space, so she doesn’t feel pressured by me… but next week, I’m going to see if I can bring her with me to the office one day for a short meeting. 
1 February 2008 at 12:28 meganberwick
My name is Dan Strack and for the next 2 months I will be living in Cape Coast, Ghana and working with the Christian Rural Aid Network (CRAN).
CRAN has 7 branches located throughout the central region of Ghana with its main office in Cape Coast. Cape Coast is a very poor area with some of the kindest people I’ve ever encountered. The first thing you notice in Ghana and especially Cape Coast, is how extremely religious everyone is. Many road-side businesses have names such as “God is Great: Hair Salon” or “Jesus is the Savior: Food Stand”. Cars, buses, telephone poles, you name it, have similar signs.
The staff at CRAN is extremely grateful for Kiva and is doing everything they can to run a smooth partnership. Every time I get a free moment at the office to sit down and do some writing, someone will come up and ask if I would like to go see some aspect of CRAN. I went with Abraham, who’s in charge of posting profiles and journals on Kiva, to the 4 branch offices located in Cape Coast. Each branch is strategically located so it can maximize its client base. One office is located directly across from a large auto repair yard, so the dozens of individual entrepreneurs who work there can get access to the capital they need. Two more offices are located right by fishing markets so all the fishermen can easily take out loans and repay them. The last office is in the middle of town and primarily serves those who run small road-side businesses.
Yesterday I was taken to a training session for 1st time borrowers. CRAN makes all new borrowers go through a 5 week training period, where they attend 1 class a week for one hour and go over basic finance principles and discuss individually how much they should take out for a loan. Many times after going through this training, the loan officer will determine that the entrepreneur does not need the amount of money they are requesting so the amount loaned out will be reduced to cut out excessive capital which would increase the burden on the borrower. After being introduced to the 7 borrowers in the group, I got to ask a few questions. After a few basic questions I asked the group, “What would you change about microfinance as a whole?” This caused everyone in the group to laugh and caused a bit of uneasiness because they didn’t want to upset the loan officer. One lady raised her hand and said she thought the groups should be smaller, instead of having to have 10 borrowers apply for the loan together, it should be smaller, around 5-7. CRAN (as most MFIs) require borrowers to apply for loans in groups so each member is responsible for everyone else in the group to improve repayment rates. After this one lady broke the ice, a whole flood of suggestions came forward from the borrowers about how to improve the overall microfinance process. I don’t know if the loan officer was as happy about this as I was, but I was absolutely thrilled to receive this kind of advice. Microfinance is still very new and isn’t a perfect system, so who better to get advice from than the people who depend on it.
This morning as I stopped at a road-side shop to buy a couple bananas for breakfast, an older gentleman introduced himself to me and asked what I was doing in Cape Coast. I told him I was working with the Christian Rural Aid Network just up the street. He wasn’t familiar with the organization, so he asked what kind of business they were. I responded that it’s a microfinance institution and that I will be working there for the next 2 months. His eyes opened in curiosity and asked if I was with Kiva. I was completely shocked he knew of Kiva and not the MFI just up the road. I replied that I was and he said, “Oh my!! I thought they were only working in East Africa!!” I told him that Kiva has recently experience tremendous growth and have expanded to new areas and actually have 2 MFIs in Ghana. He then thanked me for my time and walked down the street to his work. I didn’t have time to ask him where he heard of Kiva, but if an ordinary local man in Cape Coast, Ghana has heard of Kiva; they have to be doing something right.
30 January 2008 at 10:07 danstrack
Today was my first day at my MFI, AMK. Paul, the CEO, is a wonderfully nice guy (the nicest ex-pat I’ve ever met here, in fact). He is from the southern suburbs of Chicago. The utter mention of the words south and Chicago in the same sentence immediately frightened me, as if a sudden and deep philosophical difference suddenly arose between us. Thankfully, and this must have been commanded from on high, he is nonetheless a Cubs fan (see Mark’s objective truth list, #2, “Baseball is the best sport in the world”). I will be his friend even if for this reason only (though I am sure there are many other valid reasons for friendship.
Being here as a Kiva fellow, I felt that my first day’s experience should be mentioned first, but as nothing in this entry’s title really involves my first day at work (except maybe the last part), I’ll move on to the past few days. I will begin with the wicked French lady. As I was reading up on Management Information Systems (not a pleasure read) and visiting with the guys at the Boddhi Tree, I began to take notice of a cantankerous old snot who would not cease whining about everything, loudly, and with a French accent which I believe was intentionally pompous. She had ordered a beer, Anchor, which immediately made me aware that her taste in life’s finer things was poor. When the beer arrived, however, she began ridiculing the staff (my friends) about the glass she had been given. Evidently, the standard, eight ounce beer mug is not suitable for a refined lady such as herself. Did it make her look fat? Like an alcoholic? Uncivilized? I don’t know, but she needed (yes, “needed”) a tall, “smooth,” dainty glass, something that would befit her status as a rich French woman who traveled half the year and never worked a day in her life, which she proudly declared. At this point, I began to consider throwing her off the balcony. But, being principally a nonviolent guy, I decided I could not do this. Being that I would have had to carry her upstairs to the balcony before I could throw her off of it, it also seemed like the timing wasn’t quite right.
The next day was a standard day. I woke up, ate breakfast, read, did some writing (not blogging), went to the market, etc. That evening, though, it rained, poured, inundating (a word I’ll discuss in a later blog entry) the streets. The wicked French lady had peaked my curiosity (rage, actually), so I decided to return to the Boddhi Tree to see if anything else on par with the night before would happen. I sat, prepping myself for something to unfold by reading more about MIS. As the rain came down, the wicked French lady stormed into the guest house with an angry Cambodian behind her. The two were yelling. Evidently, he had been here tuk tuk driver, taking her back to the Boddhi Tree from Street 240. It was about 7:30 in the evening, dark, and wet, really freaking wet. She, of course, was perfectly dry. The tuk tuk driver was demanding that she pay him $2.00 for the ride back, while she insisted that the ride only costs $1.00. Now, for those of you who don’t know, she is what is generally referred to as “full of it.” I would use another word, but I only hazily remember the parameters of my blogging privileges with Kiva, and choose here to substitute an innocent pronoun in the place of a more crass word, truthful though it may be. Anyway, the two yelled at each other, and, frankly, given the conditions outside, she should have paid $3.00. As the yelling became louder (by the way, Cambodians don’t yell much, at all), the tuk tuk driver brought up the Khmer Rouge, S-21 prison, and the Killing Fields, and told the wicked French lady that she did not know Cambodian history, she retorted, declaring that she knew it much better than he. She then said that this whole incident was stupid and that the tuk tuk driver should not be so greedy over a dollar. She would have been over the balcony had she actually been on the balcony, I thought. I also pondered just getting up and giving the guy the extra dollar to set a good example and embarrass her, but then the tuk tuk driver said that she was stupid, and, suddenly recognizing his exceptional powers of perception, I decided to continue watching. Additionally, I think she realized that the tuk tuk driver was probably going to follow her to her room if she did not pay him, and so she finally yelled at Vireak to give the guy a dollar, and he left.
As I sat watching this display of unparalleled stupidity, Vireak text-messaged me about said stupidity. As many of you know, I am text-messaging averse, that is to say that I have never learned how to do it. Given this situation, however, I felt compelled to respond to my friends words of keen observation. Thus, I set out to teach myself how to text message. It took me ten minutes, but I finally typed out “she is crazy,” and hit send. My phone replied simply: “message failed.” Determined not to let my friend’s efforts at communication and subterfuge go in vain, I tried again, and, in spite of myself, was successful. Within twenty seconds I received “you are right, she is crazy” as a reply. This text messaging, I maintain, is the only time that a Cambodian will ever write in English faster than I can. Nonetheless, Vireak had encouraged me to learn something new that evening (don’t ever think it’s okay to text message me though), which is always refreshing.
While I sat watching the wicked French lady sit down, order a beer, and chug it like a baboon guzzling the juice from a coconut, I decided that I had to mock her with my Cambodian friends. I heard Thou outside, and decided to go chat. Thou was chatting with a very drunk moto driver, who had imbibed way too much of his own wine. I declined the offer for a taste. I started up a conversation with them, when my drunken friend said “ooh ae vu”. Mind you, it took me a while to figure out what the hell he was saying, because I was trying to interpret his “words” as being spoken to me in broken English drastically altered by his drunken state. Thou, however, is brilliant, and told me that he wanted to know where I was going, and that he was trying to speak French (oú est vous). Always wanting to practice French, or any language that I don’t know so well, I embraced this less-than-ideal situation and began conversing with my very drunk friend in a language that I was at the present moment comparatively fluent in (those of you in the know about my aptitude with the French language can probably now guage the extent to which he was drunk given my comparative fluency). Then of course Thou decided to break into his French, at which point I suddenly realized I had another opportunity to teach my friend Thou a new word. I asked him if he was familiar with the term bête, which he said he was not. Given the wicked French lady’s wicked French nature, I felt that this was the right word to teach, and so Thou and I laughed at how elle est bête (she is stupid). Mind you, Thou has not mentioned to her that he knows some French, because, as he says, she is like a baby. The less he has to speak with her, the better.
Sadly, the wicked French lady has screwed many Cambodians over, and when confronted with how it might actually be proper to pay them the right price, she says that because she is on holiday for so long, she has to budget, and that those people who stay for less time are making it difficult for her. In “budgeting” (think euphemism for “screw over like a heartless…”), her purchases include a $100.00 pair of shoes, which she financed by not paying for her rides, or paying Thou his fee for extending her visa ($5). Why he extended her visa I have no idea. I would have burned her passport, but that would only increase her stay. She has also stayed in nearly every room at the Boddhi Tree, demanding that she be moved every day because of some problem: rats (i.e. her imagination), mildue (it’s freaking Cambodia), size (too small, to large and thus too expensive). All I have to say is that she is a miserable old woman, and that I hope she never sits upstairs.
Moving on, I will now turn to my stinging shin. Some of you may have guessed that it had something to do with the wicked French lady (Laura’s her name, but as I find Laura to be a pretty name, I decided not to use it, less it be ruined for me). Well, no, my shin has nothing to do with the wicked French lady. Rather, it is the result of children playing in the street. Back in the United States, in the quite streets of our sprawling suburbs, we scold our children for running and playing wildly on the asphalt. Here, in the chaos driven streets of Phnom Penh, this value system does not seem to exist in many cases, or the streets are simply too loud for the kids to hear their parents cautioning them (again, not a lot of yelling here, except for “you need moto bike?!,” which I’ve now analyzed more fully and decided is both imperative and interrogative…again, apologies to non-grammarians). Anyway, as I walked to the internet café, there were two children playing in the street, near what is technically the sidewalk, but functions as a parking lot and place for vendors to sell stuff. In other words, one is forced to walk in the street, and while this may not seem safe, I actually feel pretty safe doing it, more so than in the US. That being said, these two kids were playing badmitten (sp?), though without a net. As I approached them, I noticed a certain glow appear to emanate from me. This certain glow, oddly, differed from my normal, natural glow, and I quickly realized that it was coming from the headlight of a moto fast-approaching from behind. I knew the moto would not hit me, that he’d go around, but I was walking straight into this one little girl’s swing at the birdie with her racquet. I had a choice, make a sudden move and hope the moto driver was still able to go around me, or brace myself for this innocent little girl’s feeble little swing. No contest, I would take a slight nick to my leg, and then laugh with the child, who would be amused and excited about being able to run home and tell mom that she clobbered an American with her racquet. I think I erred in judgment, for that girl swung with such gusto that I nearly fell over and banged my head on an old man’s grill, on which cooked some delicious-smelling grilled bananas. I hopped around on my good leg, while the little girl laughed just as I suspected. Finally, after regaining my composure, I comforted myself with some of those grilled bananas and continued on to the internet café, where I emailed Asawari briefly about my first day.
While the shin incident was a painful experience, the night before was quite pleasant. Sovath and I drove up to Olympic Stadium, where we talked about stadiums in the United States, and about life in general. He asked about the difficulty in finding American girlfriends. Mind you, Sovath understands a great many things, but in terms of my wisdom on such matters he is still lacking a bit in the understanding department. When I tried to explain this lack of wisdom on my part, he did not believe me (and thus I am tempted to take him home with me so he can explain his disbelief to various females). Anyway, as we walked, he came up with the weirdest analogy (simile). He said that I walked like Santa Claus. Impressed though I was with his familiarity with western religious/mythical/capitalistic icons, I was a bit concerned with how a 5’9”, 158-pound guy in his 20s could walk like everyone’s favorite blubbery old soul. I thought that perhaps it was the damage from the girl’s racquet the night before, but as I was not limping I did not want to fib. Rather, we walked over to some bleachers, and sat down. He never said anything, and so I will take that to mean that I do not sit like Santa Claus.
Moving back to my first day at work, I will take this time to comment on my attire. I wore a very sexy pair of grayish-green slacks, a light blue polo shirt, brown belt, and flip-flops. In other words, I looked like a waiter at a posche Hawaiian golf resort, expert at carrying Mai-tais across sandy white beaches to slowly-reddening people dividing their time between the sea and their blackberries. I immediately apologized for my shoes, and explained that my shoe tailor would not have mine ready until the 31st. Paul did not seem to care, probably because from the ankles up I was business casual, or because several other people were wearing sandals, though I was the only one who wore a matching belt.
Upon returning from work to my house, I was met by my friend Ratha, who immediately said, “mmmm, you look good.” Normally, I associate “mmmm” and “good” with a Campbell’s tomato soup commercial, but given the new association with me this evening I was a bit confused as to what my response was supposed to be. “Thank you” seemed appropriate, so I started there. Ratha was truly impressed, apparently, and it immediately became clear that this was not going to be a casual compliment, but a full-fledged conversation. I braced myself. Ratha then said, “I do not speak good English, but, mmmm, good!” He was shaking his head back and forth the whole time, to add emphasis to what he was saying. I commented that my clothes came from the market, but he replied, “yes, but…” and then began showing me how impressed he was that I tucked my shirt in. He touched the fabric, pants and shirt, and just smiled, “mmmm, good!” I said ‘thank you’ again, went upstairs and changed.
In other news, it seems that my friend Khmao has taken what I have taught him about non-violence to heart, as there are now several rats living comfortably (i.e. fattening up) at that wonderful place called the Boddhi Tree. Mind you, there were no rats in any of Laura’s rooms, since there is no place to hide, and so I maintain that she was making this up. Nonetheless, I had another chat with Khmao today and told him that, while nonviolence is important, so is eating three squares a day. Life here continues to be good, and in addition to my lesson with Non about how “sweeping is futile,” Thou and I now have “elle est bête.” I walk like Santa Claus, and look “mmmm, good!” The pork here is outstanding.
Much love to you all,
Mark
p.s. The wicked French lady returns to Cambodia in April. I think I’ll buy her a beer, in a regular mug, and have a little chat about how not to be a wicked French lady.
29 January 2008 at 05:46 janko85
I first met Deborah, an 11 year old girl, when I was looking for the trash cans outside my building. She happily showed me the way and started chatting me up. Then I met Colom, her older sister, who is 18 and very sweet. We became friends, and they asked if they could visit me sometime. I said, of course, anytime! That same night, when I walked up to my apartment building from work, they were both standing there with a younger boy waiting, and holding a grapefruit as a gift for me.
That first night we talked for a long time. Colom said she’d just moved here one month ago from the Congo (Brazzaville), to be with her mother. She misses her friends and her life in the Congo, and doesn’t know when she’ll be able to go back. Meanwhile she’s in school here, and enjoys her studies. Deborah and her brother teased each other and played around. They were both engrossed in my French grammar exercise books, and Deborah pointed out to me that it would be better if I wrote in pencil so that when I was done with the exercises perhaps someone else could use the book as well, and then it would not be wasted. She is a smart girl, and I hope we get to spend more time together. That night we played music, and had a good time together.
The next day I saw the girls, and they invited me for a visit. They came to my apt to fetch me at the specified time, and we went down to their apartment together. There I met their mother, Maman Fannie. Maman Fannie has a bright smile, and said that she’d heard the kids were very excited to meet me. While we talked, she sat and filled plastic bags with water. She has a big freezer in her living room. She filters the water from the tap through a cloth stretched across a plastic bottle and uses that as a funnel into a plastic bag. Once full, she ties the bag tight, and puts it in a pile to be loaded into the freezer for sale in the market the next day. She explained that she’d had a filter on her tap, but it broke recently and so she wasn’t able to filter the water as well. We talked about why I was here, for microfinance, something she’d never heard of. So I explained it to her. My first thought, of course, is that she is the ideal candidate for a loan. And she too had that same thought! I didn’t want to get into the technical loan process details on my own, so we agreed to meet on Tuesday and I would take her down to AE&I for her to meet with a loan officer.
From there our conversation moved from business to more personal subjects. She told me that when she first moved to Cote d’Ivoire from the Congo, she came with her husband for his job. They lived in a large house in another neighborhood. The house had eight rooms, and they had several children together. She told me that they had a housekeeper and a chauffeur. The chauffeur took the kids to school each day, and spent a good deal of time with her as well. After living with her husband in Cote d’Ivoire for several years, and over ten years of marriage, he abandoned her. The chauffeur and housekeeper arranged for him to meet a younger woman, and he left Maman Fannie to marry this other woman. He sold the house where they lived, and left her with the children, and no way to get home to Congo. Shortly after he did this, he lost his job, and left to live in France with his new wife. He never provided her any support, and has had no contact with his children since he left.
Now picture this woman sitting in front of you, filling up bags of water, and smiling- a big smile- as she tells this story. I could hardly believe it. This happened only three or four years ago. She now lives in a one bedroom apartment on the first floor of my building. In this apartment she takes care of Colom age 18, Germe age 12, Deborah age 11, and Manu age 5. While I was there, another daughter Sandrine visited, and her oldest son, Christian. (As a side note, I am not entirely clear on the exact biological or adopted relationship of each of these children. And so in my previous post I thought Colom had two children, which she does not. It seems a moot point to try and clarify these things immediately, as it doesn’t affect the fact that they’re all family and take care of each other as such.)
The children had all been going to high-priced private French schools in Abidjan. She could no longer afford these schools, but still she pays for every one of the children to go to a private school, and she works with them each night on their homework. Because she cannot afford to send them to the best schools, she emphasizes the importance of studying even harder so that one day they will have more opportunities. Tonight Colom took me for a walk to her school. It’s a fenced-in school, with a beautiful tree in the center of its courtyard, and a sandy play area for soccer games. The schoolgrounds were clean and well-kept. We visited her classrooms on the second floor. The classrooms have two large chalkboards along one wall, and several rows of wood desks and benches. In the warm spring air, I could smell the wood from the desks as I entered each room. Each room was a quick look into the day’s lesson. In the first room there were English sentences on the board. Next door we found Ivoirian history, and further down was a science lab with tiled desks, and kinetic Physics equations on the board.
Colom is currently in her 3rd level. I’m not entirely clear on the French system, but high school goes 6-5-4-3-2-1-Finished. So in three years she will take the Bac (the super tough French exit exam that determines where you can go to university), and apply for entrance to a university. She wants to be a lawyer. She said that there are many people in her family who have education but never went to work, or never completed school. Maman Fannie counts heavily on her to complete her studies, and pass the Bac with a good score so that she can advance herself. Then she told me that she is an orphan, that her mom died in the war in Congo. She wants to work to improve the lives of other orphans, and help them find a better life too.
I spoke with Ladji, one of my co-workers at AE&I about Maman Fannie. He said that she sounds like an ideal client- cold water sales is a very strong business model in Abidjan (because it’s hot here!!). He said that I will see what happens after she first takes one loan, pays it off, and then takes another loan and expands further… They have clients who started out with a small stand selling one vegetable who now have entire stores of merchandise. He pointed to a store the size of a New York hotel room- small, but it serves its purpose. I asked how many years that must’ve taken- and he pointed out that AE&I is only four years old. With the right person, microfinance can enable them to accomplish great things very quickly. I am looking forward to Maman Fannie’s appointment on Tuesday… and for my next eight months in Cote d’Ivoire.
28 January 2008 at 08:14 meganberwick
I’m Megan, and I am volunteering as a Kiva Fellow with Afrique Emergence et Investissements, a microfinance institute in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire. I arrived Monday night (1/21) and have been working in the main office since Tuesday. Already I am impressed with how well this organization is run, and the vision and enthusiasm of the team. To me, enabling the work of partners like this is what Kiva is all about.
I was greeted at the airport by Madame Coulibali and Rahambatou, two women from the office. Technically they are the HR team, but in reality they take on a wide variety of responsibilities. They are very much the office moms. Before I arrived they had rented an apartment on my behalf, and set me up with a bed and a fan. My apartment is in the Angre area (pronounced On-grey, not angry), a residential area within Abidjan. It’s about 30 minutes from downtown, au Plateau. Abidjan is an enormous city, with a population of about 4 million, and traffic worse than LA!
For a country the size of New Mexico, Cote d’Ivoire is extremely diverse. There are over 60 languages, different ethnic groups and religions, and many citizens come from neighboring countries such as Burkina Faso, Ghana, Mali, Togo, Nigeria, Liberia (and the list goes on) but also from around the world. Within two blocks of my apartment is a Lebanese restaurant and a Chinese one.
Last night I met one of my neighbors, who is from the Congo. Her name is Colom (pronounced koh-lohm), and she is living here with her mother, younger brother, and her two children. Her daughter Deborah is eight years old, and charmed me immediately with her outgoing personality and sharp intelligence. We are meeting tomorrow night to make dinner together, and I am looking forward to it. The food here is amazing! Fresh fruits- papaya, pineapple, grapefruit, plantains… and grilled fish with couscous or rice. Yum!
I live less than half a mile from the office, and so it is an easy walk each day. It makes me happy to think that I’m going to be here for eight months, and see the same people on my walk each morning. As I pass each shop, I wonder where my work with Kiva will take me. I can’t wait to have an excuse to stop by different shops and meet people!
26 January 2008 at 14:27 meganberwick
This will be short, as it concerns my last blog entry. First and foremost, I should reiterate the importance of editing, which, no longer being recquired to do so at work, has meant that I have become what is called “fastidious.” Fastidiousness has its consequences, namely that, in my encounter with Anchor butter, I said that it WAS swill instead of saying that it is not. More importantly, I said that Thy gave me a gun. I am not exactly sure how gun came out, but it does share two letters with the word I meant, hug. Thus, for those of you who are concerned that I am packing heat as I meander about the streats of Phnom Penh, your fears can henceforth be allayed. Moreover, if Thy had given me a gun, I doubt I would have given him a hug. Yet another example of the need to edit is in my inspection of my place’s wass. I’m not sure what a wass is, or rather are, since the next sentence referred to them as the plural they, but what I really meant was “walls,” which, as I said, are not crumbling.
That being said, I have not edited this post, so please interpret whatever typos I made as you see fit (though please do so in a way that makes me sound more likely to stay alive…where gun=hug, e.g.).
25 January 2008 at 11:36 janko85
On Butter, Beer, and Life so far.
I will begin where I left off, my trip and arrival back in Cambodia. Ahem, rather, I will start with memories of my first time here. As is one of my customs when traveling, I feel it is necessary to sample the various local brewers’ specialties. In Cambodia, this means Anchor and Angkor beer. Har licquor, it seems, is largely westernized (Johnny Walker comes to mind), and this may be ignorance on my part, but other locally-made ”hard stuff” I fear needs to be categorized as “Jungle Juice,” which 1) probably tastes like the bug spray of the same name and 2) does the same nasty things once imbibed.
Anyway, back to the beer. Anchor is absolute swill, and ranks with budweiser, heineken and pabst in my book of crappy beers. Angkor, conversely, approximates Coors Light, but isn’t as strong, and is really just “augmented” water. I developed a taste for it the last time I was here, and have once again “taken to the bottle” (of “augmented” water, and in compliance with any standards of sobriety).
But I digress. On flying from Hong Kong to Phnom Penh, I was once again served breakfast. Being that breakfast is my favorite meal, I was not disappointed. Being that it was airline food, I was. Anyway, as the breakfast trays approached, I noticed that the little mini-butter packet for our mini-highly-processed-non-rolls was made by Anchor. For those of you who know me, for the past several (4…5?) years, I have made it my New Year’s Resolution to eat less butter. I do this because there is no practical and quantifiable way to verify that I actually eat less butter. Honestly, I think I’m losing the battle, but that only forces me to renew this resolution yearly, and hence insure that my other vices remain safely untouched. Thus, while I sat on the plane, the thought of my New Year’s resolution never occured to me, and if it had, I would have said, simply, very simply, “meh.” And so I spreadsome Anchor butter on my mini-highly-processed-non-roll. To my surprise, it was swill, or whatever the butter-equivalent is for that word. That is not to say that it tasted like something fresh from an Irish churn, but that, like Angkor, I could develope a taste for it. This butter was the highlight of my flight(s).
Moving away from butter and beer (important though they are), I will turn now to life at the Boddhi Tree Guesthouse, since many of you prospective readers may find this of interest. For those of you who don’t know the Boddhi Tree, please bear with me, and there may even be something worth reading. Plus, if (when?) you come visit me, you should stay there. Anyway, Non (his spelling, not mine) got his hair cut, which makes me feel taller, which is, in other words, good. Ti (my spelling…wrong by definition) is still Ti. I haven’t seen Sophon; Sidan is well, and the first thing he said to me was that I was wearing the same hat as last time (accurate memory considering my hat is a nice indistinguishable beige). Thou is busier than ever, and his tuk tuk siren isn’t as pleasantly ubiquitous as in times past. His sister and nephews and nieces are now in Phnom Penh (he brought them here), and he is still studying English. Finally, Khmao is doing very well. I checked up on him about late-night rooftop violence, but he didn’t say much. Since he’s a cat I wasn’t expecting anything too deeply philosophical, like a debate between the efficacy of principled nonviolence or the Hobbesian State of Nature, but I thought I would get a little more out of him than I did.
Upon my arrival to the Boddhi Tree I was greeted by all the moto drivers, who remember us all very well (source of income) and send their wishes for you all to come/return (source of income). One of the moto drivers, Thy (his spelling, and probably what Ti’s should be), came and gave me a gun, then asked me what my name was since he had forgotten. I only remember him as someone I was obliged to drink with at the wedding. Speaking of which, Non invited me back to his “homeland,” and I said I would go so long as I didn’t have to push another bus, or spend the eight hours it took to get back sharing and ipod and listening to John Mayer (good) and Brittany Spears (it wasn’t my ipod).
This evening, as I was reading some Kiva stuff (I can feel the rejoicing in San Francisco) and eating dinner, the wind picked up and blew flower pedals and leaves throughout the Boddhi Tree. Non, like the good man that he is, grabbed a broom and swept evertying up. Just as he had all the debris in a nice pile, and as he walked to get the dust pale, the wind kicked up again, blew his pile everywhere, and more flower pedals and leaves blew off the trees and other shurbbery. I cannot express Non’s response in words, but it was some kind of yelp that came out while he was swallowing. I stopped reading (sorry) and laghed for a good two minutes before I could compose myself.
Now, this event was not merely comic. No, there was a lesson in this as well. As a lover of words, and someone who regards himself as nominally observant, I found that I had an opportunity to teach Non a new word–Futile. Normally my lessons in futility revolve around the Mark-girlfriend dynamic (static?), but as Non and I had already discussed this, I felt this example would be more clear given the recent events. Truthfully it was the opportunity to discuss futility in a way that was not at my expense (informative though those lessons are). At this point, I needed a phrase that would help drive the point home, something catchy that he would remember and link to this concept of futility. I now refer you to Star Trek (see Mark’s list of objective truths, #3, “Star Trek is the bomb”). We are all familiar with the Borg expression “resistance is futile,”and despite the fact that it isn’t (we still have Captain Picard, don’t we?), it is nonetheless a catchy phrase. Now, I could not use the word resistance, because the reference to Star Trek and the situation at hand were not compatible/complimentary. Thus, in short, I chose a substitute word, and we now have “sweeping is futile.” This should, of course, be recognized from this point forward as an axiom.
I will now move away from life at the Boddhi Tree, because I just recently moved away from the Boddhi Tree. Mission one in my move was to find a moto driver. To accomplish this, I stood up. Instantly two moto drivers appeared at the entryway saying “you need moto bike” (I won’t punctuate this quote, because I am still debating myself about whether or not this phenomenon is interrogative or imperative…apologies to non-grammarians). Regardless, I did need one, and told the drivers where I wanted to go. They worked out the details, like which one would take me. Of course, my driver said he knew where he was going (most say so), but as we were driving he also said he was the son of King Sihanouk. By this point, however, I knew he didn’t know where I needed to go. That being said, I deployed my “rugged” Khmer in hopes of remedying the situation (Note: I use the word rugged because it implies that my accent is intentional. On the contrary, my throat does not make those shapes/sounds, but in deference to my first Khmer teacher I will try and make her proud by using “rugged”) Anyway, since we had turned right on Sihanouk Blvd. instead of left (he may have wanted to visit the king, which was in the “right” direction), I told him to turn left. He turned right. Now, recognizing how rugged my Khmer is, my next decision was to tap his left shoulder, and then point, just in case I had actually told him to turn right by accident. He turned right again. Those of you tracking my progress may note that we are now headed in the correct direction (two rights = one left). This may be so, but this is Phnom Penh, which means I had no idea where the hell we were, plus I’m directionally impaired to begin with. Thus, my moto driver (a really nice guy, by the way) pulled over to ask for directions from a tuk tuk driver. I felt reassured when the tuk tuk driver burst out laughing. Nonetheless, after two minutes of what was undoubtedly humourous ridicule (certain things always translate), we were on our way again, turning right every single time. We eventually found the place…after another 10 minutes of driving (a long time in Phnom Penh), and, sitting outside the Guest house was the same tuk tuk driver. He was still laughing (there is lots of laughter in Cambodia). While they sat chatting, I went in, came out, and moved 300 feet from the Boddhi Tree, to a place Non recommended just around the corner. A big part of this decision was the ugly, disagreeable, shirtless white guy smoking a cigarette outside his room. He would have been my neighbor, and I didn’t want to hang out with him. Now I get to hang out with my friends at the Boddhi Tree more often.
This was not the extent of my houseing search. Earlier that same morning, Sovath, who for those of you who don’t know is essentially another brother, showed me the room he was about to rent for $30/month. There was a room next door, and being intersted in what life is like for a Cambodian, I went to check it out. No way could I have lived there. There wasn’t a window. It was basically a tin shed on the third floor of a builiding, like an oven, but an old one (i.e. without a window). I can’t imagine living in a place without ANY natural light, ever. Knowing that Sovath now lives there is even harder. For a while he was living at a Christian place, but to live there he had to study the bible for an hour and a half every day (he’s Buddhist, like 95% of the rest of the population), from 10-1130am. On the weekends, moreover, he was not allowed to study anything else, like English. So he moved, and is now moving again so he can study more (his last house got too crowded). I would have him live with me, and pay for it, but I know he wouldn’t accept my offer, which makes is much harder.
Now that all my friends, loved ones and relevant individuals are breathing a sigh of relief that I am not living “like a Cambodian,”I will now turn to my present living situation. I have a shaded balcony, two chairs, a small table, bed, refrigerator and fan (= air conditioning). I also have my own private bathroom (or, as they say here, “bathroom inside”).
There are certain things one looks for when in search of a place. I look at the wass for a starter. Mine are not crumbling, and are colored in a pleasant nuclear yellow, like a blond labrador dunked in gatorade. There is also ample light, supplied by the sun, as well as many well-placed overhead lamps. To my surprise, I also have a full-length mirror (perhaps a quantifiable way to measure my butter intake), and my pillow cases depict a bunch of brown teddy bears holding soccer balls (seriously). That being said, there are also certain things which one does not look for, which one expects to have automatically, such as a trash can, or a toilet seat. Every other place I’ve stayed in has had both of these. I have neither. Luckily, the Boddhi Tree is nearby, just three right turns away (I don’t think I turned left all day).
Much love to you all,
Mark
24 January 2008 at 03:09 janko85
Since the last 40 odd hours have involved sitting at a gate or in coach, it would seem odd that there exists the potential to write anything, but as I am still in a state of exhaustion, I’ll simply disagree with myself and write something anyway.
Leaving San Fran was really quite simple, and way better than my previous experience at LAX when I nearly went on the conveyor with my checked bag through security–interrupt: they have new keyboards at this internet cafe, which preclude me from being able to use parentheses…anyone who knows me knows the difficulty this presents; thus, what should follow the word “security” reads something like: I actually think it the policy of LAX to make sure that one does indeed hop on the conveyor belt with your bag and go through security with it. Being only a code orange, they probably just decided to let me off easy
Anyway, during my last day in San Fran I got to chill with Navin, the coolest person on earth (yes, even above me…also, I just figured out how to get parentheses…the keyboard is wrong when it says the left one is above the #8 key, and aside from some swirly “letters” on the keys, it’s a standard qwerty). Anyway, again, she was telling me about the Nanny Diaries (or maybe it was the princess diaries…I can’t remember just now…thank god for parentheses), but the point is that they were showing the Nanny Diaries on my flight, which I decided to watch. So, on my flight from San Francisco to Hong Kong I watched the Nanny Diaries in German. That was Cathay Pacific’s choice of language for this particular piece of in-flight video entertainment. I am not sure to what extent this was a good test of my german skills, as the story was pretty generic…i.e. girl=nanny for uber-rich, white asshole parents; gets “disenchanted”/fired, security camera catches her lecturing the bitchy “mother” who really cares for the child in the nominal sense (by calling her son her son)…fast forward, happy ending. I watched because the nanny was hot and it was in german. There was also this one jock-like dude who was supposedly somewhat shallow in the beginning but by the end had developed yoda-like wisdom, as all good-looking secondary male characters do. Either way, I was jealous since he got to kiss the hot german speaking (overdubs) nanny while my shoulder was co-opted into my neighbors awkward sleeping arrangement.
Now, food. I must say that I was actually able to sleep for a bit on this flight, and before I knew it 8 hours had passed. Psychologically this is very important. My typical experience is to be asked if I would like the braised chicken with rice or the fish and spicy noodle just seconds before I fall asleep. This did not happen, and so in a clear state i was able to order the braised chicken. While the fish may be just as good (i.e. just as bad), the thought of travelling for another 16 hours with fish breath…well, enough said. Anyway, in the decade that I have travelled internationally (not that impressive, really, but Ireland in 1998, when I was 12, did represent the first time I was out of the country), I have noticed that the food on airlines is improving. There is one thing that remains a concern. My meal came with prochiutto (sp?) and melon, which I became mildly excited about…as much as one can in situations such as these. Suffice it to say, the melon measured up to my expectations of airline fruit, but how fat and salt with a bit of meat (i.e. prochiutto) can taste bad remains a mystery. But, there it sat on my plate, looking particularly scrumptions. I picked it up, moved a bite towards my mouth, and it smelled like feet. Knowing that some of the finest creations smell bad (cheese, e.g.), I committed to not letting this prejudice keep me from continuing. I put it in my mouth, and it tasted like feet. In fact, I think it probably was feet. Swallowing was a test in the power of the mind, particularly the ability of the conscious to tell the subconscious (as well as the decenting parts of the conscious) what to do.
That being said, I am now in Cambodia. The ride from the airport did not go as planned, since I had to take a taxi and look like a rich white guy, but it beat sitting on a moto with 60lbs of luggage depending on my ability to keep in on the seat. My taxi driver got lost, not uncommon, but I finally arrived, slept, walked to the internet cafe, and wrote this. Ah yes, home in Cambodia again…now I have to go eat.
24 January 2008 at 03:06 janko85
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