Rebecca Corey, KF9 Tanzania

The first time I got shoved out of the way in a mad rush to the dala-dala bus, my friend Victor said to me, “This is the local local lifestyle, pole sana–I’m very sorry.” The next time he said it was when the electricity went out and I was reading in the living room. “This is the local local, pole dada–sorry sister.” Then again when I had Malaria: “The Tanzania local local, pole sana, pole sana.” In the streets, when Tanzanians are shouting to me, “Mchina, mchina!” Chinese person, chinese person! : “They are local local, they cannot tell you are Korean. Pole.” And every time, he smiles his big smile, apologetic, almost wistful, partly amused, always sincere.

I have also started to think to myself, “local local,” several times each day. We haven’t had water for the past eight days because of a broken water pump, so we fetch bucketfuls from next door. Tanzania is suffering from a major power crisis, so electricity is rationed. Ours goes out for a full day once every three days. I get up at five every morning to catch the dala-dala before the major traffic jams so I can get to work by eight. I see one bus that says on the back, “Don’t Hide, Just Pay,” another claims “Jesus is Power,” and a third “Blootooth On.” “Local local,” I think.

I myself am becoming more and more local local. I bought a kanga the other day, a long sheet of patterned fabric that is cut in half and worn around the waist and draped or wrapped over the shoulders. I sleep in it and wear it around the house. I’m also starting to think and speak in Tanzanian English. I have started to say things like, “this here pen” and “I live some few miles away.” When I want to say “etc.,” or “and so on,” it’s “and this, this, this.” When saying that someone went on and on (as in blah, blah blah), it’s “he said, ‘You are wrong,’ and what, what, what.” One of my favorites is “I feel to relax,” or “I feel to go to the store.” And not only have I started to speak like this, these phrases make perfect sense to me, have a charm and character of their own.

My Swahili is improving, too. This past week I went into the field to interview two Kiva clients who were filmed about five months ago for a documentary for BBC World. The film crew is returning soon to shoot follow-up segments on the same borrowers. With help from Rita, the Kiva Coordinator, I was able to ask a majority of the questions about Atuna and Neema’s businesses. While I don’t want to give away details of what will be in the film, I will say that I was humbled and inspired by both of these women. They are shrewd business owners, caring mothers, and true bread-winners. When one endeavor doesn’t work out–cassava crops fail, it’s too hard to turn a profit running a pharmacy–they adapt, start new businesses, continue without a thought of giving up. They, too, are local local.

At a Rotary event last weekend, a kind Rotarian expressed shock and dismay that I take the dala-dalas to get around. He suggested hiring a private car. At work, my co-workers have urged me not to move in with a Tanzanian family, and instead to “get a nice apartment for mzungu.” I even got an email today from the U.S. Embassy warning foreigners against living in unguarded homes and taking taxis and dala-dalas for transport because they are “frequently overcrowded, poorly maintained, a common site of petty theft, and [their] operation is generally unsafe.”

I don’t want to be reckless or unappreciative to those who are looking out for me–but here’s the honest truth: I love the local local. It’s not always easy, and much of the time it’s very hard. I’m on the edge of exhaustion, I’m sunburnt and hungry, but I am also supremely happy. I can get a mango or an avocado for 50 cents at the Mombasa market down the street. I can fight my way onto a dala-dala like any Tanzanian, and I’ve come to enjoy the nearly four hours I spend a day on those “overcrowded, poorly-maintained” vessels because they give me time to think, to listen, to watch, to become daily more a part of the world around me. Children shouting “Hello-madam-how-are-you-I-am-fine!” in one breath, sleeping outside on the porch during an afternoon rain, eating in the dark at one of the many small canteens around the city, perfecting the bucket shower, taking clean clothes down from the line, this is the local local. Friendliness, generosity, grit, patience, hope. These are the local local.

I am learning hard lessons the easy way. That is, I am doing something I love, that I believe in, and for that reason it is worth every moment of sweaty, dust-caked fatigue, of anger at the world’s injustices, of fear that change is hard to come by. I’m living for a while a faint imitation of what millions live every day, for their entire lives. And what I’ve found is that poverty is cruel, but human dignity, ingenuity, and heart are persistent, unafraid. This gives me hope, conviction, and a fierce pride in how strong people can be despite their circumstances. So here’s to that strength. Here’s to the local local.

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Rebecca Corey is a Kiva Fellow in Dar es Salaam with Tujijenge Tanzania, Ltd. See Tujijenge’s currently fundraising loans here, and join the Tujijenge lending team! Also, remember that the holiday season is coming up, and Kiva.org gift certificates make wonderful presents!

By Jennifer Gong, KF9 Tanzania

YOSEFO has come a long way.  In 1997, it humbly opened its doors to 50 clients, for a total loan portfolio size of $5000.  However, with unwavering determination, it has succesfully expanded into 14 different communities around Dar es Salaam and has opened offices in Ifakara, Zanzibar, Kilwa and Tanga.  Today, YOSEFO can proudly claim to serve over 11,000 active clients and has seen its loan portfolio increase to $1.5m. This is definitely something to celebrate about, and celebrate we did!  To mark 12 successful years of serving Tanzania, my MFI decided to organize YOSEFO Day 2009.  

The purpose of the celebration was not only about rejoicing, it was also about recognition.   It was about acknowledging the outstanding clients and staff members that have played a significant role in making the past dozen years successful.   Recognition is important because the sweat and tears of both clients and staff often go unnoticed. Furthermore, the showcasing of successful stories will hopefully create a competitive spirit that will drive everyone to strive for more.  

Here are some highlights of YOSEFO Day 2009…

Best Borrower - Deogratius Likunga

Mr. Likunga is one of YOSEFO’s  earliest clients.  His group applied for their first loan in 1997.  Due to his excellent repayment history, he was eventually able to graduate from the group lending method to the individual lending method.  His loan sizes are much larger than the average YOSEFO client, yet he still maintains a spotless repayment record.   And his dedication to being a terrifc client has paid off, his hardware business is doing better than ever.

Best Entrepreneur – Anold Peter Kavishe

Anold left Moshi to come to Dar es Salaam to work as a servant boy.  But by age 19, his entrepreneurial spirit told him to strike it on his own.  In 1998, he took out his first loan with YOSEFO.  Anold now owns a few businesses, including a retail store and a wholesale store.  Furthermore, he is able to employ 17 workers and thus create jobs for others in his community.

Best Credit Officer – Ashama

The job of a credit officer is painstakingly difficult, each day he or she needs to spend hours in the communities.  Ashama is the only officer to cover two communities (Kitunda and Mazizini).  With 554 clients to see each week, she has gone above and beyond to serve everyone.

The award ceremony showcased the amazing possibilities of microfinance as well as the hard work needed to transform those possibilities into realities.  Above all, it was a chance for every shareholder – management, officers, clients, board of directors and partners – to come together and get revitalized for many more great years ahead.

By Jennifer Gong, KF9 Tanzania

My name is Jen Gong and I will be spending a few months at YOSEFO, a Kiva field partner in Tanzania.  I arrived in Dar Es Salaam about 2 weeks ago and here is my first entry…

the YOSEFO CREW!

There is something enchanting about Tanzania.  Most travelers would say the charm is in landscape.  And without a doubt there is much to behold here.  I have not yet wadded in the turquoise waters of Zanzibar, climbed to the top of Kilimanjaro or spotted the exotic creatures of the Serengeti, but flying into Dar Es Salaam itself was a treat.  I wish I took a photo of how the tin roofs sparkled like stars against the blue Indian Ocean. 

But for those who have spent a little more time here and immersed themselves in the local culture, they will claim the charm is in the people.   Tanzanians are colorful, diverse and warm.  When my coworkers held a meeting to discuss about the upcoming marriage celebration of one of the credit officers, I was asked to be involved because they said “<I am> now a part of the YOSEFO family”.  My host family of three sisters, treat me like their own dada (sister in Swahili), and have been generously teaching me Swahili and Tanzanian cooking.

Nevertheless, the country suffers from the same woes of similar developing nations.  Because Tanzania depends on hydroelectric power, recent droughts have caused both water rationing and power outages to occur.  Infrastructure has not kept up to pace with the burgeoning population and has led to extremely bad traffic during rush hours.  And the abject poverty in which some communities live can be heart wrenching.

I have just started meeting clients in the field and have been observing Kiva processes at YOSEFO.  I hope to bring everyone more stories about the impact of Kiva loans on both clients and MFI.  In the mean time, please enjoy some pictures of this charming place!

 Credit officer Emmanuel collecting money in the Mbagala Community:

Client “Mama” Showing off her Vegetable Stall in Charambe District (and Me):

Kiva Lender, Ed Skoch, and I listening to credit officer Lazaro explaining the collection process at Buguruni Community

By Rebecca Corey, KF9 Tanzania

After my first day interacting with Kiva borrowers I was exhausted but exhilarated. It was slow work, waiting while the money for the loans was counted out and matched with each client’s loan record booklet, paperwork was filled out, treasurer and secretary books were gathered. Outside the Tujijenge branch office in the heart of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, members of loan groups languished in the sun, clothes bright against the dusty ground. I glanced out of the window from time to time to watch them and try to guess what each group had named itself.

At Tujijenge Tanzania, most of the loans are given to groups. Each group consists of 15-40 members, who are split into sub-groups of 5-7, whose members act as guarantors of each others loans. For many poor borrowers, the group’s guarantee is the only collateral they can offer. The social pressure from the group is a major deterrent to delinquency and default, along with the hope for future loans. After a group is approved by Tujijenge, they have one month of business and microfinance training by loan officers. At this time, their information and photos are collected, they elect group leaders, a secretary, and treasurer, and they get to choose a name. Many of them convey a sense of national pride (like “Kilimanjaro” or “Mungu Ibariki Tanzania”–God bless Tanzania), but as you can imagine, these names go fast. So there are also groups like “red rose,” “lion,” and “peace.” Soon, even names like these are gone. So groups pop up named “flag” or “Bob Marley” or “Ferarri”. One of my favorite groups was called “Parachichi,” which means “avocado” in Kiswahili. I loved this little bit of trivia so much that I included it in the business profile for the group on Kiva.org. The other group we worked with that day called itself “Sigara.” I didn’t have time to ask what this meant, but leaving work that day I asked a friend. “Ah, yes, sigara! It means ‘cigarette.’” I recalled my interview with the elected leader of Sigara group, a tall and slender woman with large eyes who held her child in the lap of her green dress as she told me about her shop, her monthly profits, her hours, and saving for her children’s education. I wondered if it was her idea to name the group ‘Cigarette.’

I remember laughing the first time I heard a pop song on the radio with the refrain “Malaria, malaria, ohhh, malaria.” The grim, the dirty, the ordinary, seemed out of place in a hit song, just as the name “cigarette” seems such an odd choice for a group of entrepreneurs using enterprise as a way out of poverty. But what I am learning daily is that it is in our greatest pursuits that the rough-and-tumble of daily life is most relevant. The abstractions I want to paint in broad strokes across life and work in Tanzania would whitewash away the raw, rich, bursting colors, textures, smells, and truths of this place. The ordinary avocado, the cigarette… why should I disdain them? And why should I laugh to hear a pop song about Malaria?

For the first week of my time here in Dar es Salaam, I went through culture-shock lite. At first, I felt like I had finally come home. Back to the country that had carved a place in my heart when I volunteered in Bagamoyo, Tanzania in 2007 as an undergraduate. Then came the ache and pang of realizing that Dar es Salaam is not Bagamoyo, a sleepy historical beach town with one paved road. It is not where I will spend days with children curled in my lap or twisting my hair. It is not where I will go to the beach every day for two hours of swimming. It is where I will work and study and jam myself into buses and choke on dust and smoke, and sweat it out with no ocean breeze. I began to notice faces in the crowds around me that looked familiar. That one looks like Omari. That one looks like Sophie. That one looks like Abduri, Yona, Warda… The beauties of Bagamoyo, my students, my children, but grown up and hardened, selling water for 20 cents a bottle between speeding buses that have no regard for life or trudging down the highway with one hundred pounds of grain on his shoulders, or digging a ditch, or even waiting outside at Tujijenge for 2 hours to receive a 50 dollar loan to buy some more cassava for a small vegetable stand. Even this was not the dream I had for those children. And I saw their faces everywhere.

I didn’t want to admit it, I don’t want to still, but I wasn’t prepared for the sadness that settled around my shoulders and in the pit of my stomach like a stone. I know microfinance is only one tool out of many to alleviate poverty. I know it is a slow-rolling stone. I know development itself is incremental and unwieldy. But isn’t it easy to desire passionately a better world right now? Who suffers from a fever and relaxes knowing it will break eventually? Who looks at an open wound and doesn’t want it closed immediately? But not only did I balk at the idea of slow change… I looked around and didn’t see potential for any change at all. And it had to get worse before it could get any better.

After my third day at work, I came down with an extremely high fever. The next day I went to the small clinic near our house and it was confirmed. Malaria. And not just one malaria, they told me. “Two Malaria”. “I don’t understand.” “You have two malaria. Two parasites.” I struggled to understand. Finally, I got it. Not one, but two strains of malaria. At once. Just my luck. Last week passed in a haze of fevers and chills, exhaustion, tears, rants, swallowing pills, rejecting food, and, most of all, sleeping. I have never felt so completely incapable of movement. Every muscle in my body refused to move. I would stare at a glass of water a foot away and not be able to convince my hand to reach for it. I am ashamed, but I wanted to give up. I wanted to pack my things, take a taxi to the airport, and just go home.

But I didn’t. And now I’m better. I wake up to the sound of the dawn call to prayer. I ride the buses to work with children going to school in their uniforms, and people going to work. Today, a little boy asked to wear my red sunglasses. He put them on, grinned sheepishly, then gave them back to me quickly, his laugh so bright and pure and sweet. Jimmy Kunjombe, the director of the school in Bagamoyo, visited me when I was sick and he was in town for a medical treatment. He told me about everyone there… his wife and son, the neighbors, the kids at school. Most of the students I worked with have graduated primary school and are now off in first or second grade. He reports that they are doing well in school and making good grades. When I greet the borrowers at Tujijenge, I say, “Shikamoni,” my respects… They accept them and grin at the strange visitor in front of them, always delighted that I know a little Kiswahili. They joke among themselves, “Ah, this Chinese person knows Kiswahili! Why? Why would she come here and talk to us?” Then their thoughts leave me, and they become business people again. They concentrate on their loans, counting the money to make sure it is all there, signing papers, reading the loan contract aloud to one another. Sometimes I draw a spot of ink onto a client’s thumb so she can “sign” for his money. I want to answer their question: Why would I come here to talk to them? Because their bravery is of the most noble and humble sort. They work and endure, without expecting an instant fix. “Get-rich-quick” is not an option. They know tomorrow and the next day and the next may not be any easier than today, but they persevere. They battle through Malaria, and worse. They are business people, entrepreneurs, innovators. They are working for their children, for all children to come.

Tujijenge Tanzania, Ltd. is a microfinance institution based in Dar es Salaam Tanzania. To see their currently fundraising loans, please click here!

By Rebecca Corey, KF9 Tanzania

I’m sitting in terminal three at Dubai’s International Airport. The moving sidewalk beside me sounds like horses trotting on a packed dirt road. Since my 14-hour layover began a several hours ago, I’ve heard the Islamic call-to-prayer twice over the airport intercom system, followed soon after with enticing invitations to browse the duty-free shops that run down the center of the terminal. I should be sleeping, re-setting my internal clock, but the fluorescent lights and ribbons of Arabic that stream from the ceiling won’t let me rest.

Hi, my name is Rebecca Elizabeth Yeong Ae Corey, and I am a member of the Kiva Fellows Program’s 9th class. I trained for a week in San Francisco, had two days to pack up my bags and say my goodbyes in my hometown of Athens, Georgia, and now I am headed for Tanzania. Once I get to Dar es Salaam, I will settle into a homestay and begin work at Tujijenge Tanzania, Ltd., one of Kiva’s field partner MFI’s. I’m en route. I am Tanzania bound. 

Tanzania bound. This is one easy way of saying where I’m headed, my destination. But, being an English major in college and the daughter of a poet, my head immediately spins with what other meanings these words might bear.

So what does it mean to be bound?

After reading my post about BRAC Tanzania a few days ago, I imagine that many of you are just chomping at the bit to get more involved with the organization.

Oh you absolutely are, you say?

Well, you’re in luck. There is a BRAC Tanzania Lending Team on Kiva.org that you can join and be surrounded by fellow BRAC Tanzania enthusiasts! We only have 8 members right now, so you should really go to the site, join the lending team and help our BRAC Tanzania Lending Team grow to be as massive as BRAC itself!

Thanks to those 8 people who have joined and together already made 6 loans toTanzanian women!

A BRAC Tanzania borrower makes a loan repayment in Zanzibar

Sarah Forbes was a KF6 in Kenya with K-MET and is now serving her KF7/8 placements with BRAC Tanzania. She is clearly very excited about the new BRAC Tanzania Lending Team. You should join, so she’ll stop harassing you about it.

The concept of risk has been discussed by many, and often, over the past year, as citizens around the world voice their concerns about the global recession. Mortgage risk, loan risk, credit risk, bailout risk, risk assessment, risk of spending too much, risk of spending too little, and on and on. A lot of risky business (and not the underwear dance kind) has been going on and we are paying for it now in all too literal a way.

There is another kind of risk though; one that I think some of you may be familiar with. That’s right, it’s Risk, as in epic board game, world domination style Risk.

I have been thinking about this particular kind of Risk lately due to the fact that while working with the Kiva field partner BRAC, I cannot escape how much the organization makes me think of the game, with its trademark little army men taking control of continents and sweeping across the globe in the attempt to gain complete domination of the two dimensional board game-world.

Only in BRAC’s case, the army is not little plastic figures, but a human, benevolent BRAC army of Bangladeshis, Afghanis, Sri Lankans, Pakistanis, Southern Sudanese, Ugandans, and Tanzanians. And this is just the beginning – the army is growing, sweeping the globe, out to conquer the poverty of the world, one country at a time.

The figures in green represent BRAC, those in red...poverty.

Okay, my analogy may be getting out of hand at this point. “Out to conquer the poverty of the world” is definitely too melodramatic, but the quantity and quality of BRAC’s global work to improve the lives of those living in poverty is undeniably striking.

Created in 1972 as a small-scale relief and rehabilitation project that was designed as a response to the consequences of the liberation war in Bangladesh, BRAC has since evolved into the largest southern NGO in the world.

With its programs in Asia and Africa, BRAC provides services to more than 110 million people. These services include: microfinance, health, water and sanitation, education, adolescent education and life skills, agriculture, livestock, and other social development programs.

Poverty is a simple word for a complex beast – BRAC works to improve the quality of people’s lives using a holistic approach, with strategically linked programs that address the causes of poverty from multiple angles. This might mean that within a microfinance group, there will be a health worker providing medical supplies for her group members or that down the street from a microfinance meeting a client’s daughter will be learning about gender issues at an adolescent club.

BRAC focuses on empowering women through these development programs, viewing women as crucial agents of change who will be the ones to lead their families out of intergenerational poverty.

Two BRAC Tanzania loan officers head out in the early morning to meet their borrower groups

Not only are women the target population for these programs, but women are also the primary workforce behind them.  BRAC employs more than 120,000 people worldwide, the majority of whom are women. They are the real life Risk-style BRAC army. From microfinance area managers, branch managers, and loan officers to agricultural workers to health program coordinators to adolescent club mentors, women are the driving force behind BRAC’s work in underdeveloped countries.

There are also dedicated men involved. BRAC’s head management is staffed by development experts from Bangladesh, men who move to the targeted country for a period of 2 to 3 years in order to implement the programs and train staff to run them. Agriculture and livestock program staffs are also often men, and male guards at the offices provide valuable work to the security of BRAC’s operations.

Together, these hardworking BRAC employees spread out across countries, opening branch offices and providing valuable services to citizens who have, until now, lived outside of the reach of other means of assistance.

I served my KF6 Fellowship at K-MET in Kenya, now I am in Tanzania working with BRAC. Moving from a one (albeit super-) man operation to the 85 office strong (and growing) BRAC operation in Tanzania has definitely been an eye opener in terms of scale.

A borrower group sits in the BRAC required U-shape seating formation (with near military like precision) on a mat in rural Zanzibar. Borrower groups meet once a week to make loan repayments and apply for loans. The group (of 20-40 women) is subdivided into small groups of 5. Each small group member acts as a guarantor of her group members's loans - if one of the small group members fails to pay, the other four are responsible for the payment.

BRAC Tanzania employs more than 800 (77% of whom are women) Tanzanians and reaches over 750,000 citizens across the country. Starting in June 2006, BRAC has expanded from one office to approximately 85 (I say approximately because they seem to be multiplying overnight of their own accord – it’s hard to keep track), reaching people in poverty in 17 out of the 26 regions in Tanzania. Over 80,000 women borrowers attend group meetings each week.

As BRAC Tanzania continues to grow, its relationship with Kiva plays an increasingly important role. Though BRAC has an Africa Loan Fund that provides funding for many of their programs, and the microfinance program itself is largely self-sustaining, the organization continues to want to diversify their funding avenues. Kiva’s  loans are a great way to continue to scale up their programs, enabling them to provide even more Tanzanian women with access to credit.

It is in this way that, you, the lenders, can become a part of the great BRAC army. Welcome. Make a loan to a BRAC Tanzania borrower today. Be a part of opening the door to financial services to women across Tanzania. And with the borrower group guarantee, it’s not even a little bit risky.

Sarah Forbes worked as a KF6 with K-MET in Kenya. She is now serving her KF7 and KF8 terms with BRAC in Tanzania. Unfortunately, she has never actually played the game Risk.

Not every day as a Kiva Fellow is a good one. There are days when I wait for seven hours for a credit officer to be available to take me to the field to collect journal updates for only two clients. There are hours of intermittent internet in which I am able to load less than one page. There are the clients I meet about whom I would be inspired except that after doing the math I’m not convinced they’ve found a way to run their businesses with a net profit. Luckily, after more than 7 months of victories and setbacks, I think I’m in the black.

Small moments compensate for unpleasant hours. A coworker’s delight at a weak attempt at their local language can be contagious. The look of recognition on the faces of loan officers to whom I just presented a new template keeps me going for days. And the shy request by a client to have a picture taken with me makes me feel that my presence is appreciated.

On top of the ups and downs of the day-to-day, though, there is another secret to my contentment: the Kiva Fellows. In ways both tiny and massive, unexpected and enormously appreciated, having a virtual community of fellows makes my life infinitely better. During training in June, I left four days at Kiva HQ disappointed that after meeting so many fascinating and fun people I would ultimately embark on this fellowship solo. I only wished we could all be placed at the same MFI. Kiva said no—that would sort of defeat the purpose. Time and again, however, I’ve been able to turn to them for all manner of support despite great distances between us.

Three Fellows (Zack, Nabomita, and me) in Mombasa, Kenya--brainstorming about Kiva and how to save the world

Not sure how to shrink a photo? Wondering if anyone has an effective training Power Point presentation? Curious about coping mechanisms for language barriers? For all manner of information—from the recreational to the professional—fellows have proven to be an essential resource.

And as it turns out, Kiva has good judgment. As my Fellows class, KF5, has gradually finished up in the field, I despaired that I’d be left alone without my network of compatriots. I was entirely wrong. When I risked deportation from Tanzania, I was able to call on a KF6 and stay with her in Kenya for a week—all arranged having never met. From there I went on to intrude on another Kiva Fellow whose acquaintance I had never made but who quickly became an indispensable friend. The prospect of Christmas and New Years alone in Africa was depressing so three KF6ers and I ignored the fact that we did not know each other and made plans to travel Africa together to be in the company of people whom we knew would soon be friends.

On the job in Kisumu, Kenya--I met and stayed with Sarah

New Year's in Kigali, Rwanda--in the good company of Fellows Ankush and Sarah

Whether it’s crossing African borders to see one another or participating in email chains that gain momentum and garner nearly 50 responses from fellows in the same boat, I couldn’t live without the other fellows. It’s possible that I’ll never actually be in the same room as some of the fellows with whom I’ve been in frequent correspondence. Others I’m quite sure will persuade me to cross one or more countries just to see them again. Whether in Cameroon or Cambodia, Bolivia or Tanzania the fellows play a significant role both in helping me to get through the day and in helping me to add the most possible value to Kiva and my microfinance institution placement. There’s nothing like a real, live human resource to advise, commiserate, support, and amuse. Thanks for keeping me sane, fellows!

Jara and I did a joint staff training when we were both placed in Tanzania

Fellows recovering from a hard day's work in Dar es Salaam

To see all of Vision Finance Company’s currently fundraising loans, click here or join the Vision Finance Company lending team.

Julie Ross is currently serving as a Kiva Fellow at Vision Finance Company in Rwanda. In December she completed her first placement with BRAC Tanzania.

My life has turned into a bunch of “lasts.”  My last time seeing friends I have made here, my last time gathering around the table with what has become my family, my last time going to my favorite market where they know me by name, my last time swimming in the warm and oh-so-blue Indian Ocean, my last time laughing with others about my attempt to speak and understand kiswahili, my last time holding on for dear life on a daladala (city bus), my last time climbing those 3 flights of stairs to the whitewashed office that is SELFINA (the partner Mico-Finance Institution I am assigned to), my last night sleeping under a mosquito net, my last Monday, my last Tuesday, my last Wednesday….the list goes on…

If I had to sum up what I have learned in this experience, it is to be patient and flexible (well, as much as my Type A personality will allow!).  Working on an internet based system when internet is haphazard and sometimes non-existent for periods of up to 2 weeks, one has to be patient and flexible.  Having malaria far from one’s home base and still having to achieve certain goals in a short period of time, one has to be patient and flexible.  Driving for up to 2 hours, swerving through traffic on the main roads and then trying not to smash one’s head on the roof top on some of the bumpiest dirt roads I have ever seen only to arrive to a location to find the client you are looking for not there, one has to be patient and flexible.  Trying to make sure when journaling that information does not get lost in translation (sometimes the client will talk very expressively for 10 minutes and the Kiva Coordinator will simply tell me the client is doing well), one has to be patient and flexible.  Understanding SELFINA’s capabilities and the Kiva requirements and making that relationship sustainable, one has to be patient and flexible.

Without a doubt, this experience has been very unique and inspiring.  Being invited to these women’s (SELFINA makes loans only to women in order to empower them in society) business and homes and learning about their struggles and their future dreams and plans has given me a peek at the strength and potential Tanzania possesses.

It has truly been an honor.

I had been looking forward to going to the southern city of Mbeya even before I arrived in Tanzania. Mbeya is known for it’s cooler climate and lush vegetation. So when it turned out that SELFINA had branches in Mbeya and the surrounding areas and that journaling needed to implemented in those branches I enthusiastically bought my ticket for a 12 hour bus ride that would take me there.

The first few days were great! I was teaching them how to conduct, write and post journals and everything was rolling according to plan. Then, one morning I woke up with a mind splitting headache, severe eye pain, and flashes of fever and chills. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I honestly thought it was from being surrounded by electronic devices too much. I was thinking to myself, I should have listened to my mother and not have sat at so close to the tv screen all those year, should have taken more breaks to rest my eyes at work, etc. The pain was so severe that I broke down in tears just climbing the stairs to my room …

But as I had no idea what was wrong with me, I proceeded to go to work like it was any other day. I had mentioned to a couple of people at the office I had a huge headache but did not make a big deal about it. I proceeded with my day and taught one of the branch managers from a nearby region the process of conducting journal surveys. After completing the training I had to excuse myself, as the pain was too much bear. I had contacted some friends who advised me that it may be malaria, which I thought would be impossible for me to get as I was taking anti-malarial dugs and spraying myself with deet every day. I found myself walking to a nearby dispensary down the road from where I was staying to get tested for malaria, in my mind, to cross that off the list of things I did not have.

In the front was a pharmacy and they escorted me to a room in the back where there was a doctor sitting at a desk in a bare off-white room texting on his phone. I sat down next to him and told him my symptoms, he took my blood pressure, and he advised me it was probably malaria, however, they would need to test my blood to confirm. I thought that was a very good sign and a vote for confidence for this place. He then proceeded to inform me that the blood test would not be performed until later that evening or the next day as there was no electricity to run the test. Mbeya and the surrounding region was in its second week of no electricity due to a transformer room blowing up at the one and only electricity provider in the country (in the SELFINA Mbeya office, we were lucky to have a generator to use during the day).

As I have no medical background, I of course had my concerns. I probably asked this man 50 times in 50 different ways if my blood specimen would last that long without refrigeration. He reassured me several times that it would be okay and just as they were about to draw blood, the Mbeya SELFINA branch manager, Mr. Kibassa, a bear of a man, barges through the door and tells them to stop.

He apparently learned I went home after not feeling well and went to check up on me at the place I was staying where they informed I had come here to be tested. He basically whisked me away and we arrived at this other clinic, one that happens to have a SELFINA client running the pharmacy, but more importantly to me at the time, solar panels which enable them to run my test now. I go into the cluttered office of the doctor, describe my symptoms again, get my blood pressure taken again, and get sent to a lab of sorts where they try to distract me as they draw my blood (I get quite queasy with needles). 30 minutes later, malaria positive test results in one hand and malaria fighting medicine in the other hand, I leave the clinic happy to know my illness isn’t from an overdose of staring at screens all of my life but something supposedly curable in 3 days.

I wish I could tell you that it was a painless and speedy recovery in 3 days, but it hasn’t been. I still have pain in my head and eye a week later. But I’m trying to take it as easy as possible and think of the positive side of things such as now I can relate a bit more with people here, most of whom have had malaria at least once in their life.

Note: I later learned that the incubation period is about 14 days, so I must have been bitten when I was back in Dar es Salaam

Rebeca walks into the SELFINA Mbeya branch with an air and a flair that is hard to describe.  She is here to make one of her monthly repayments.  As this is her third loan, so she knows the routine quite well. 

As she settles herself into the chair and rewraps herself in her colorful khangas (traditional Tanzanian cloth with bold and vibrant colors and patterns) we explain that we are would like to spend a few minutes learning how her loans have impacted her life. 

At SELFINA there are a total of 20 questions in total in which we ask every client when we journal, ranging from how much was your loan, to what are your future dreams for your family, to what are your recommendations for SELFINA.  Each journal we conduct lasts about 30 minutes as we take the time to verify the information with the clients file and try to get to know a bit more about these clients.

When we reached to the question, are you married?  She said, “nope, single!”  As I too am single I give her a high-five!  We exchanged a bunch of laughter and she then informed me that she is actually getting married soon and invited me to wedding.

But it wasn’t her being single that I decided to write about her (although her being 36 and still single is something that is a bit out of the Tanzania norm), it was about her story, her entrepreneurship that touched me. 

Rebeca had first heard about SELFINA in the market place a few years back and she had encouraged her friends to go and take out a loan.  After 5 of her friends successfully took out loans, she decided it was now her turn.  Rebeca used her first loan to pay for classes on how to make cakes.  Prior to the loan she knew how to make a standard type of cake, but nothing special.  After, she knew how to make a wide variety of cakes, how to decorate them, and how to market them.  Her cake business took off! 

But was Rebeca satisfied with just making cakes for the rest of her life?  Nope.  She took the extra profits she earned and sent herself to nursing school.  Now her future plan, after her wedding festivities are over, is to open a pharmacy where she can apply her newly gained knowledge yet again to another business.  I am sure this business will do at least as equally as well and I’m interested into what she’ll use her pharmacy profits for.  The sky is really the limit for Rebeca.

But what about her cake business you may ask?  She plans on hiring employees and teaching them how to run that business.  Rebeca is someone to keep your eye on.  She’s definite a mover and a shaker.

After working at FINCA for six years and then earning a Masters degree in the United States, Winnie Terry was well prepared to start a new microfinance organization (MFI). Together with some former colleagues, she opened an MFI in Dar es Salaam known as Tujijenge Tanzania (meaning “build together” in KiSwahili). With Winnie as the managing director, they kicked off in July 2006 and were giving loans to their first groups that November.

When Winnie first learned about microfinance in 1998, her initial reaction was, “that will never work!” But after she started working at FINCA, she found she related well to the women receiving loans and liked this systematic method of offering credit. When opening Tujijenge Tanzania, her and her colleagues were looking to fine-tune the process of offering credit. Even today, Tujijenge isn’t trying to be the largest MFI in Dar es Salaam in terms of clients or portfolio size. Rather, they want to be an MFI of best practices. They work hard to determine the needs of their clients and meet those needs through innovative products. For example, Tujijenge administers debit cards when disbursing a loan instead of handing a client a wad of cash. They believe this hinders the urge to quickly spend the cash on hand, and is safer for the clients and loan officers than carrying cash.

In the next few years, Tujijenge is hoping to expand its outreach and grow its portfolio – but at a sustainable pace. In 2009, Tujijenge intends to open a second branch in Mtwara. Just north of the Mozambican border, Mtwara is a rural area where there is little or no access to credit.

When speaking with her, Winnie stressed the importance of being a transparent and honest MFI. To Winnie, working for a transparent and honest organization is more important than anything else. When I heard this, I immediately thought about the importance Kiva places on transparency. Perhaps this underlying principal of transparency is why Kiva and Tujijenge Tanzania are such great partners!

To see loans currently being fundraised by Tujijenge Tanzania, click here.

I’m going to make a bold statement: microfinance is the land of minute incremental change, and joy resulting from massive professional achievement is rare here.  Afterall, one loan of $125 does not take a family from impoverished to middle-class, and three months in the field does not illuminate the solution to eradicating global poverty.  As a result, any goal achieved feels like an immense victory, and yesterday, victory was mine.

Several weeks ago I spent three weeks traveling north to train 7 of BRAC Tanzania’s branches on how to implement Kiva (for a synopsis, see summaries, part 1 and part 2). Yesterday, I finally saw the fruits of my labor. Allow me to give you some background:

BRAC Tanzania has more than 65 branches throughout the country, and that number is constantly growing. Right now, only a handful of those branches actually “do” Kiva. What that means is that only a select number of the branches have been trained on what Kiva is and how to produce the business profiles that are found on the Kiva website. When I travelled to 7 of the branches in September, I did so to train the Community Organizers and Branch Managers at those branches so that they could begin to produce Kiva business profiles. The goal was that after I left, they would be self-sufficient in the Kiva process and able to complete business profile templates with their groups and take the accompanying photo.  An added bonus would be if the pictures were interesting and the forms contained more detail.

For those of you unfamiliar with BRAC on Kiva, a picture like this has been the norm:

Typcal BRAC Kiva Business Profile Picture

In addition, the descriptions are historically brief and lacking in colorful details.  After arriving here I realized there’s very good reason for that: BRAC has more than 100,000 clients throughout the country, and more than 2,300 groups on Kiva.  The staff is extremely busy and has a lot of paper work to fill out, of which the Kiva Business Profile Template is just one piece.  When I first arrived here, I spent quite a bit of time ascertaining how l could create a template that produced more interesting profiles for Kiva lenders without demanding more time from the BRAC staff.

What I came up with were a few multiple choice questions and a bit of clarification on existing questions.  I tested the forms in the field to see where the staff got confused (the forms are in English but the level of English spoken by each CO varies), which questions clients had difficulty answering (for example, listing the ages of their children is no easy task), and which blanks were likely to be filled by something generic (i.e. the loan will be used “to expand her business”).  I revised the BRAC-Kiva template based on all of these observations, and I still consider it a work in progress.

Waiting to receive the first batch of profiles from the branches I trained has been like waiting to receive exam results; I was dying to know how I’d done.  To see their finished forms and photos would be my only guage of success or failure.  Yesterday, my waiting finally came to an end as I received profiles from 2 of the 7 branches.  The elation I felt at seeing pictures like this made those three weeks on the road fully worthwhile:

A new-and-improved Kiva Business Profile picture from BRAC Tanzania

Look at the depth, color, and action!

As I hurriedly looked over the forms they completed I was happy to see very few questions left blank (possible if the staff forgets what the question means) and a lot of great, thorough information.  I left the office eagerly looking forward to coming in this morning to begin adding them to the Kiva website.

Unfortunately, the pictures above will never make it to the Kiva website.  What I viewed as a major professional accomplishment turned into a disappointment as I made a frustrating discovery: many of the pictures were not correctly matched with their accompanying form.  During training I tried to convey to the branch offices how important it was that we know which picture goes with which form, but it remained a difficult task.  I explained how to find the picture number on the camera and there were nods of understanding all around, and even demonstrated understanding as I stepped back and watched the staff complete the Kiva process on their own.  But alas, I now have brilliant photos and thorough templates that will never see the light of day.

For an evening, I thought victory was mine, but it seems I did miss something afterall.  This is not a fatal error nor is it irreconcilable.  After a few hours of trying to make sense of the picture numbers, I admitted that I’d have to chalk these ones up to a loss.  I got on the phone with the branch and tried to re-explain the picture number concept, and this time I think I got some traction.  Happily, not every business profile had this issue and I’m hopeful that the next batch I receive will not have this same problem.  To see if my optimism paid off, check out Kiva’s currently fundraising BRAC Tanzania loans.  Now, if I could just find out what happened at those other five branches . . .

8 days and 4 continents later I find myself in Tanzania as Kiva’s newest fellow in the field.  Previously I was doing a 3.5 month work rotation in Australia, followed by a 1 week long whirlwind trip home to North America prior to disembarking to Africa via Europe.

I am here in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania to be one of the fellows working at SELFINA (Sero Lease and Finance Ltd.) which was founded by Dr. Victoria Kisyombe in 2002 with the goal of providing Tanzanian women, many of whom are excluded from land and asset ownership due to local customs and traditions, with access to micro-credit.

After a 24 hour journey from San Francisco to Heathrow to Nairobi to Dar Es Salaam, I am greeted by an unfamiliar humidity, but more importantly the also unfamliar but friendly face of Daudi, SELFINA’s driver.  I am actually pleasantly surprised to be met by a neatly dressed man wearing a collared polo and a warm smile with a computer printed sign with my name on it who greets me and guides me to a nice 4wd vehicle.  In all honesty if Freddy Kreuger was waiting for me with a scribbled sign and a broken down car I would have more than happily jumped in after such a long journey.  But I discovered later that the “Freddy greeting” was how it used to be just 2 months ago (minus Daudi looking anything like Freddy Kreuger!).  It is with the help of another volunteer, Claude, that SELFINA is going through some change management to make SELFINA a more welcoming place for customers and visitors.  This is just one of the many changes that SELFINA is working on and I am hoping to learn more about these changes/goals and help in any way I can.

After my bags were placed in the car, we drove through what is to be my new home for the next few months.  Dust, dirt, and dilapitation are prevalent but more surprisingly are the people.  People are everywhere!!  From men seeking refuge under the shade of the trees to brightly dressed women carrying baskets of bananas on their heads alongside the road to children patiently waiting by the corregated metal bus stops to women sweeping the dust on the road with no more protection than the bright orange vests they wear to boys selling everything from water to newspaper to machetes at every intersection to seeing daladalas (mini buses) shoved to the brim with people.  Like I said…people everywhere!

During the “drive,” which really seemed to be a dodging game of sorts from potholes to the crazy daladalas that cut every which way in traffic, I kept mostly quiet as I was transfixed with my new surroundings.  Daudi would interrupt the silence every so often to point and teach me a new word in Swahili.  Our communication was a bit limited as he knows only a little bit of English and I basically only know hello, thank you, and goodbye.  But my favorite interuption was when he asked me if I liked music.  After I replied yes, he more eagerly asked if I liked Ken Rodgers.  After I replied sure, he excitedly popped in a Kenny Rodgers cd and started to sing along to it.  I couldn’t help but smile as I listened to Kenny Rodgers and Daudi as I gathered my first glances of Tanzania, my new home.

Hello Kiva Fans,

A little more than a week ago I was sitting on the plane for the last hour of what had been a 36 hour journey – Boston, New York, Zurich, Nairobi, Dar es Salaam.  I watched as the computer generated plane tracker moved across the Kenya/Tanzania border and tried to steady myself for the new circumstances I was about to enter.

This week, I want to share some of the pleasant surprises – of which there are many.  One of the unfortunate unintended consequences of the dogged, and at times heroic, efforts of many to highlight to suffering on this continent is that it has come to define the African brand.  This is not in any way to minimize the hardships of many, indeed witnessing and hopefully beginning to understand their struggles is in large part why I am here.

The first surprise has been how safe I have felt.  Considering I was dropped quite literally half way around the world, with no arranged ride and only the address of a hotel from a guidebook – this was a welcome discovery!

A past fellow to Tanzania, Alec Lovett, posted two blogs on “You Know You’re in Tanzania When…” I’ve posted the links to his blogs and added volume III with my own observations. Enjoy!

Volume III

1. They say “Hakuna Matata,” which is actually Swahili but it’s still funny.

2. The water stops running in the middle of your shower. (This only applies if you are lucky enough to have running water).

3. You meet someone with a pet monkey.

4. You spend 10 minutes just with greetings.

5. The children point at you and yell “mzungu”.

6. Someone passes you his or her baby to hold in the dala-dala.

7. The dala-dala won’t leave until its full, which means the person on your lap has someone on his or her lap.

8. Half the channels play Bollywood films, which are actually addicting.

9. Women wear crazy colored kangas (traditional fabrics) that don’t match at all.

10. People order beer warm.

As the next round of Kiva Fellows finished their training, Nabomita, Zack, and Julie (KF5) met for a weekend getaway in Mombasa, Kenya. During our reunion, we came up with some words to live by both for successfully completing your fellowship and for happily taking a respite from the rigors of life at an MFI. Read on, for our pearls of wisdom.

1) Don’t let the signs fool you; greasing an Immigration Official’s palm can buy you entry into a foreign country

After 8 hours on a bus from Dar es Salaam, Nabomita and Julie reached the Kenyan border only to face the reality of parting with $50 each to enter the country (the equivalent of 250 delicious breakfast chapatis.) Luckily rules in Kenya—even those pertaining to immigration status—are flexible. After a few minutes of talking to the official who was clearly looking for some sort of entertainment (evident through his use of different cartoon voices for each passing visitor) he indicated that he might be willing to help us get into the country if we could make his Ramadan feast a nicer one. Watching him sip on a Fanta Orange at 3:30pm, we were naturally skeptical that he, in fact, had an Iftar in his future, but we decided to let it slide. We were able to buy our visas for $30 each and he even gave us his email address should we confront problems trying to reenter Tanzania. It was difficult to fathom how we would be able to use this address to solicit his aid if stopped at the border, but he handed us the post-it note with such gusto that it almost made us believe it wasn’t worthless.

2) Don’t be afraid to use your muzungu status to sneak in to 5-star resorts

On our first morning at our dodgy “cottage” down the beach, we felt the call of the resorts farther north and tried to wash the dirt out from under our fingernails well enough so that we could pass as luxury vacationers. The resort staff welcomed us suspiciously to join their exclusively European, golden-anniversary-celebrating clients. The only issue arose as we tried to maintain our tight $5-per-day budget while sipping on a glass of their $8 juice. Eventually we resorted to the only food there we could afford: a fresh coconut, the milk of which quenched our thirst while the meat sustained us until we got back to our side of the beach. The lesson here is that while you might be able to get in because of your status as foreigner, it does not necessarily mean you can afford to be there.

3) Don’t let the bottle fool you—spray on sunscreen still needs to be rubbed in

Julie—the palest member of the trio—made the tactical error of spraying herself with SPF 15 sunscreen without rubbing it in in an attempt to spare her hands from yucky sunscreen residue. Believing it would air dry, Julie looked down five hours later to see that she resembled a leper (no offense to lepers). The pattern of the sunburn was so random that it made one wonder if someone had taken a paintbrush to create sunburn abstract art on her legs and stomach. The next two days resulted in Julie’s new-found modesty as she alternated between applying soothing aloe and trying to hide the offending legs in long pants at the beach.

4) Thieves are not only found walking through bustling markets. They can enter your room, and they don’t even have to be evolved

After a breakfast of champions (Nutella and crackers), the trio wandered the 50 meters to the beach while leaving their cottage door ajar. Upon returning a few minutes later, we walked in on 5 monkeys boldly making away with a yet unopened package of crackers from inside the room. That the monkeys knew the crackers were to be found under Zack’s moldy clothing demonstrates that they had been spying on us through the windows all morning and awaiting our departure. In an attempt to win his crackers back, Zack set peanut butter and biscuit traps but the monkeys knew better and stayed away to enjoy their feast. This was a harbinger of things to come (raw unedited monkey battle video forthcoming)

Stealthy monkey and the stolen crackers (he even has a cracker hanging out of his mouth)

5) When using your guidebooks keep in mind that they probably haven’t been updated in 5 to 10 years

Reading about the only Mexican restaurant in East Africa led the fellows to salivate over the thought of margaritas and guacamole for the five hours leading up to dinner. After taking three matatus, one ferry, and two tuktuks we finally arrived at the anticipated source of our greatest meal in Africa. Perplexed by the void where the restaurant should have been, we asked some loitering locals where we could find our enchiladas. After a few minutes of confusion as to what we were asking, the locals informed us that said restaurant was not only closed, but had closed in 2003, never to reopen. Having eaten nothing for the previous five hours in preparation for the grand feast, the ravenous fellows exclaimed in despair at the revelation. Unable to think clearly through the hunger we started wandering until we came upon an immaculate seaside restaurant—the kitchen of which was closed. Sure we would collapse before our blood sugar levels were restored, we made our way to the middle-school hangout of upperclass suburban Mombasa to satiate our hunger with bagfuls of movie popcorn and paneer pies. Never put your life or your stomach in the hands of Lonely Planet.

6) Just because you’re taking some time off does not mean you get to escape the hassles of Africa

After months of solo travel, the group discovered that even strength in numbers does not deter drunken suitors. Walking through Mombasa, Julie and Nabomita were berated by an incoherent local for being “thieves” and “robbers”. Despite being impressed that he knew both of those words in English, they sped up their pace. Undeterred, he followed them all of the way to the ferry, volume and rage-level increasing. “If he touches either of us, I’ll break his hand,” Julie affirmed to Nabomita. Her deadpan indicated that she might even be looking forward to having a violent outburst. Stepping up to play his role as Man of the Group, Zack tried to place himself between the offending man and the ready-to-pounce women. Unfortunately, Zack’s strategic positioning made him the victim of an ill-aimed blown kiss as the drunk man landed one right on Zack’s shoulder. Julie lunged, ready to fight, but Zack wisely told her that she need not jump—he liked it a little bit. At this point, we remembered that Africa’s hassles are typically as harmless as butterfly kisses.

7) You’re not alone; whatever bizaro experiences you’re having, one of the other fellows can probably empathize

From the moment Zack, Nabomita, and Julie met up, there was no lull in the conversation. Having experienced so much in our completed months in Africa, it was refreshing to tell our respective stories and find that even though we’d gone through them alone, many were shared experiences. From daily hassles to minor victories, work-related questions to poverty alleviation philosophizing, talking to people who could truly understand the work we’d been pouring ourselves into was incredibly therapeutic. If you connected with fellows at karaoke, the conference room, or the comfy sofas at Kiva headquarters, do what you can to stay in touch—and even better, take a long weekend to regroup. You’ll need it.

Much love,
Nabomita, Zack, and Julie

Dala-dalas are Dar es Salaam’s form of public transportation. They are buses that run all over the city, charging about $0.30 per ride. There is no set schedule, and they typically only leave once they are full.

Although several Tanzanians warned me about taking dala-dalas during rush hour, I figured it was no big deal. So I would be squished and sweaty, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I took one from work to the city center and I even got a seat! At that point I was thinking, “Why did everyone make such a big deal? This is totally fine.” Then, as we pulled into the main bus station, I finally understood. A group of 20 people or so were running alongside the bus, hanging on by a few fingers and trying to squeeze through the closed door. Seeing what we were up against, everyone on the inside stood up immediately and headed towards the door. Once we finally slowed to a speed of 5 mph, the door was forced open and people pushed their way in as we attempted to push our way out. When it was my turn (and that’s all relative), I sort of leaped out of the bus. There were so many people trying to get on that I stayed perched in mid-air. One of my flip-flops managed to reach ground but I continued to float. A few words were thrown around, including Mzungu, and I finally managed to make a safe landing. But I wasn’t done yet. I was ready to do almost anything to get on the rare Masaki route dala-dala. When I saw it pulling in I ran with the rest of the crowd, throwing elbows and pushing my way through. I made it in the bus but wasn’t lucky enough to get a seat. I was told to sit on the ledge behind the driver, and with my leg in the crotch of the man across from me, I was feeling pretty comfortable and accomplished. But as the engine roared and we took off, I realized my butt was super hot. Not surprising considering I was sitting on the engine of a decrepit bus that my sister, Risa, wouldn’t dare enter due to safety reasons. It took about an hour with traffic, and although happily on the bus, sweat was dripping down my face and I worried my versatile gaucho pants were bound to be singed.

As I walked to work the next morning, I saw a fight go down on a dala-dala. People were yelling, punches were being thrown, arms were flailing – it didn’t look pretty. As men in collared shirts and ties climbed out of the windows, I realized my hot buns and flying experience was nothing in comparison.

To see loans currently being raised by Tujijenge Tanzania, click here: http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&partner_id=87&status=fundRaising&sortBy=New+to+Old&_tpg=fb

(To see what happened during the first 11 days, see Part 1)

Day 12 (Warning: slightly disgusting content. Do not attempt to read while eating):
I just finished rubbing my heels with sandpaper for the last hour. It’s a long story how I got to this point, but it involves exclusively flip-flops/sandals and very dirty/dusty/sandy roads for 6 weeks. Basically, I gave up trying to wash or in any way care for my feet a few weeks ago. They were just always dirty. Even when I get home there’s just dirt everywhere so I gave up on my feet. The plan worked out fine until yesterday my right heel began to hurt whenever I put pressure on it. A problem because I do a lot of walking. So I decided to look at my heel (probably the first time I’ve done this in 6 weeks) and saw not only tons of seriously dead skin but also some major cracks—I’m talking into the depths of my flesh—in my heel. There was one in particular that stood out—just a huge crevice where my skin broke running the length of probably a half inch. So today I go to a pharmacy having no idea what the word in English is for that thing you scrape on your feet (like a nail file for your feet) and certainly not knowing the Swahili word. All I have going for me was the Swahili word for “foot” which also happens to include the leg so it is sufficiently vague. When I walk into the pharmacy and decide to scan for an item in the same family as my desired object, to my glee, I spot just the thing I am looking for! Glorious! I’m pretty sure the pharmacist has never seen anyone so excited about a foot-scraper. So I just spent nearly an hour soaking and scraping away the layers and layers of dead skin in the hope that it will ease the pain that the cracks are causing me. There’s still much more work to do there, but a girl can only touch her feet for so long in one day before she has to call it quits. I’ll get back to it tomorrow and hopefully this new hygiene regimen will prevent future fault lines in my feet. (Be thankful I forgot to take a picture of my foot in its most heinous glory or else I’d be posting it right here.)

Day 14:
After a 2.5 hour bus ride from Shinyanga, I arrive in Mwanza and decide to walk around the city. I turn onto a street that is amply occupied with other pedestrians only to have a man walking towards me reach for my face to rip off my sunglasses. Some would let it go at that (afterall, I really don’t even like those sunglasses) but unfortunately my animal instincts kick in and without thinking I begin fighting back for my glasses. We have a standing tussle during which he scratches up my arm and I commit to crushing the glasses in my grasp so long as it means he doesn’t win. All the while, the crowded street freezes to watch the muzungu woman wrestle her attacker. No one steps in to help, but they all watch. In the end I do win and walk away with all of my possessions intact (my brute strength didn’t even cause me to crush my glasses) and only minor injuries to my right arm. As strange as the attack is, so is the reaction I receive from local people to whom I mention it. One accuses me of lying, telling me that the city is safe and that would never happen. Another says that if a thief is caught in the act, everyone in sight will pummel him or her and retrieve the belongings then continue beating the culprit perhaps until death. I ask why, then, did no one step in to get him away from me after he grabbed my face. Unsure how to answer, he says that the man is probably a known drunk or crazy person who does this type of thing all the time so no one wanted to bother. Comforting. I decide not to mention the incident to any more locals.

Day 15:
Today I learned the effect that isolation has on me. Though there have people around me all of the time and I’ve met different BRAC staff every day, it wasn’t until today when I reunited with a fellow Kiva Fellow here in Mwanza that I realized the hole there had been in my communication. Glorious friendship, camaraderie, English language, and mutual understanding. Thank you, Nabomita! To celebrate, we are eating the biggest tilapia I’ve ever seen straight out of Lake Victoria (the source of the Nile River). I’m barely able to stop talking long enough to get the food to my mouth, but when I do it’s well worth it. I’m now fully convinced that the only way to eat fish is with your hands. As a person who never ate fish prior to my move here I don’t think I’d know how to pick out the bones (or eyeballs) using a fork and knife.

Day 16:
I’ve spent each of the previous two weeks training two branches in each region on how to begin using Kiva and generating Business Profiles for the Kiva website. In Mwanza, I am to train three branches in five days. I’ve gotten into a training rhythm and like the two branches in five days regimen, but I’m a little worried about how I’ll pull off three. What I’ve been doing is spending one day with a branch to go to the field and get to know the COs and branch manager. In the afternoon, once everyone has returned from the field, I launch into a presentation and training discussion on Kiva. Then the next day I go into the field with as many COs as I can and visit as many groups as possible to begin filling out business profile forms and taking pictures for the website. I plan on spending two days like this at each branch and then I have the fifth bonus day to spend a little more time with whichever branch I feel needs it. Part of the struggle this week will not only be making it to each branch on two different days (at the very least one afternoon to do the training followed by one morning to go to the field) but also locating the three branches and getting from place to place, as the three branches are spread out on all different sides of the city. It’s doable but there’s not much of a buffer should one of the mornings or afternoons not work out. If I weren’t in Africa the schedule I’ve created for myself would be totally doable, but it turns out I am in Africa and timing absolutely never works out a) as you expect; or b) as you need it to. In my perfect world, my week will go as follows:

Monday—morning: Branch 1; afternoon: Branch 2
Tuesday—morning: Branch 3; afternoon: Branch 1
Wednesday—morning: Branch 1; afternoon: Branch 3
Thursday—morning: Branch 2; afternoon Branch 1
Friday—morning: Branch 3; afternoon: Branch 2

The way I see it, if the week even goes 80% as planned I’ll still complete all of the trainings. Fingers crossed.

Day 17:
A car wearing a bumper sticker declaring, “This Car is Protected by the Blood of Jesus” is simultaneously driving straight into opposing traffic at full speed and coming within inches of hitting multiple pedestrians. It is as though his faith that he is protected by Jesus permits him to drive recklessly, as no harm could find him. What about the pedestrians? What if they’re not protected by Jesus’ blood? Faith is one thing but watching it embolden this country’s drivers is a scary incarnation of religious devotion.

Day 18:
It’s a rainy day in Mwanza and I need to get from one branch to another to begin training another office. Rain wouldn’t be catastrophic except that the Regional Manager is here today and he’s offered me a ride to my next location on the back of his motorbike. We wait for the rain to pass enough for us to be able to take to the streets and after two hours we decide to go for it. We make it through ten minutes of the 30-minute ride when he pulls over and tells me he’s going here (as he points vaguely at the nothing that is next to us). By now it is raining again and we are well outside the city. In shock that he would leave me on the side of the road in the rain in the middle of nowhere I hesitate. Does he really intend for me to get off the bike? He does. He quickly pulls away further off the road and I have no choice but to begin walking in the general direction of the city. I look down to realize I’m covered in mud and filth that’s been kicked up by the motorbike and I’m getting even wetter as the rain comes down harder, but there’s no where for me to take cover. Eventually I make it to a daladala stand where a man ushers me under a shelter and asks me where I need to go. Thank you, my Swahili, for being advanced enough to allow me to talk about directions and destinations fluently! He gets me onto the proper daladala and tells the driver where I need to go. I hate being helpless but my dejection at my soaking state and abandonment allow me to resign myself to it and follow instructions. We reach a stop at which point the daladala driver tells me I should get off. He points to two students whom he says will lead me to my next daladala. In the end it takes five people and one hour to get to the branch. It would all be worth it if it weren’t for the fact that by the time I reach the branch, the staff has gone home as the work day is nearly over. All for naught.

Day 19:
As I said, I need the week to go at least 80% as planned. I knew that something would go wrong but there’s always a strange excitement as I wake up each day not sure exactly what it is that will disrupt my attempt at a plan. The good news is that if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that I need to remain only loosely committed to my plans, as any greater attachment will result in frequent disappointment. Today, Branch 2 is a problem. The Branch Manager has resigned so the branch is in turmoil. I’m wondering if I’m bad luck, as last week both a Branch Manager and a CO resigned on the day I was to train the branch. The Area Manager tells me I should not take it personally as turnover is not uncommon. It’s amazing the difference a solid Branch Manager makes. Without that authority figure to impose a sense of order and routine, things falls apart. COs still attend their meetings and collect their payments but air in the office is more chaotic. Clients coming to receive disbursements get into yelling matches with each other and the COs. The flow of the staff in and out of the office is constant so no one ever knows how to find anyone else. When I try to locate a particular CO, inevitably I am told that “there is a problem, she had to go.” I don’t even know what this means, but I’ve heard it numerous times. Of all of the things Branch 2 has to worry about, I’m not convinced that I can elevate Kiva on their list of priorities. I’m worried that the situation here might consume more than 20% of my plan and leave me unsuccessful, with perhaps 2 or 2.5 branches trained.

Day 20:
“What do you think of the way we collect loan payments?” It feels like a loaded question so I pause. I say something vague to which the Branch Manager responds “do you think it’s safe?” Ahh that’s what she’s getting at. And she has a good point. The method that BRAC employs to collect installments on loans is through weekly meetings at the Group Leader’s home that the CO attends. There, she collects payments—sometimes more than 1 million Tanzanian Shillings in a single day (equivalent of $1,000—a lot of money by local standards)—to bring back to the office. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the COs are women between the ages of 20 and 30 (per BRAC policy) and they make these collections alone. For the Branch Manager to bring it up echoes the concerns I have had as I repeatedly watch COs roll up wads of cash and stick them in their purses, in plain public view and seemingly vulnerable to any bystander should he or she decide he/she wants that money. In addition to safety concerns, the Branch Manager points out that these women do not make in one month nearly the amount of money they collect in a single day. What is to stop them from running off with it?

Day 21:
I am beginning this 16 hour bus ride with a woman more or less sitting on top of me. This would be totally predictable (afterall, what’s an African bus ride without a stranger sitting on your lap?) except that the seat next to her is empty. Why, I beg of you WHY, do you insist on sitting right up on me when there is a perfectly good and empty aisle seat right next to you??? Two hours later, we make a stop and someone sits in the empty seat which finally stops me from gazing longingly at the empty seat trying to will this woman to move. Every 4-5 hours we pull over on the side of the road in the middle of no where. These are bathroom breaks. As one may expect, it’s almost exclusively men who take advantage of these rests (the terrain is desert with no trees or high shrubbery to shield a person) with only the occasional extremely desperate woman partaking. Me, I strategically drank no water for two days so as to avoid this very situation. Wildy unhealthy? Perhaps. Was it worth it? Definitely.

As the clock strikes ten the bus enters familiar terrain. Dar es Salaam is upon us. After 16 sweaty hours, 2 of which were unpaved, and no real food or drink to speak of, we arrive at the bus terminal. As I disembark, to my shock and amazement two of my friends with whom I live are waiting at the door and waving and yelling excitedly. What a fantastic homecoming!

On August 24th I left Dar es Salaam for a 3-week trip to central Tanzania to train BRAC branches on Kiva in three other regions. Here’s a glimpse into the first 11 days of my 21 days on the road:

Day 1:

Seven hours on the bus from Dar es Salaam to Dodoma has kicked off with a traveling saleswoman making her pitch for soaps, toothpastes, and aloe vera at full volume to the entire bus for at least 30 minutes. Perhaps I would mind her hard-sell less if I were able to understand more than 1 out of every 12 words (I do learn, however, that “aloe vera” is the same in English and Swahili. Good to know). When I arrive in Dodoma I discover that the method used by the bus company employee to match bags to owners is to write in permanent marker on the front of the bag the seat the owner is sitting in. F-1 will forever be a memorable place for me.

The Branded Backpack

Day 2:

During an evening battle with hoards of mosquitoes I get to talking with the Dodoma Area Manager, a Bengali beginning his 5^th month of a 3-year commitment in Tanzania. He comments on the number of mosquitoes here and compares it to the mosquitoes in Bangladesh. I mention that I am trying to avoid malaria and am taking medication at which point he interrupts me—there is medication for malaria???? At first I think he’s joking (after all, there is malaria in Bangladesh) and then remember I’ve never heard him make a joke. Attempting not to appear shocked, I try to explain that there are these things called prophylaxis that one can take while in a malaria-infected area to try to prevent contracting malaria. Unconvinced by this idea, he maintains a puzzled look on his face and says “malaria is not so bad. I’ve had it many times.” After our conversation ends I walk into my room and promptly take my Malarone.

Day 3:

After a successful training for one of BRAC’s Dodoma branches, it’s time to head into the field to begin collecting Business Profiles for the Kiva website with some of the Community Organizers (CO’s). As we prepare to leave, one CO asks me with little optimism if I know how to ride a bike. I respond that I do. The entire staff finds this extremely amusing (I’m not exactly sure why, but one week later I will have the same effect on another branch office when they learn I know how to ride a bike). Within 50 meters of beginning our journey in the abandoned, desert-like neighborhood, locals come out of no where to call in wonder at the muzungu on the bike. A muzungu on foot is one thing, but on a bike is a true novelty. Fifty meters later, I break the chain on the bike. Way to look like a bike-riding expert!

Day 4:

I spend the day visiting groups in a region more remote than any I’ve seen. The uproar my presence creates amongst children and adults alike is a distraction from the meetings we attempt to hold. Our first stop is at the home of a client next to an elementary school. Within five minutes of my arrival, the elementary school has emptied and stands outside of the house. Trying to be sociable, I go outside to say hi to the children who are eagerly trying to sneak a peak, but I miscalculate. The entire student body runs away in fear at my approach. With the help of some local women I coax them back and am able to speak with the kids a little, but none want to come within five feet of me, unsure what will happen. The awe at my presence continues as we walk to another client’s home. A small child sees me and asks if I am higher than God. Not sure what to make of a white person and having never seen one before, this particular child isn’t sure if I am worthy of worship. The Branch Manager and I quickly assert that I’m just like him and not to be worshipped.

Day 5:

Have you ever wondered what happens when you go through your closet and donate bags full of old clothes and shoes to charities? Well I have your answer. They go to Africa to be sold by small-business owners. The second lives of these clothes often come with a very different owner. The line between men’s and women’s clothing is erased as I see manly laborers spitting and pulling up their sagging pants, only to look at their shoes and find they are purple flip flops with sparkles and flowers. Men wearing women’s jeans is also a common occurrence. Other unexpected items have cropped up reminding me of home and making me wonder where the original owners are. Today it’s a BRAC client in a Harvard University t-shirt. Then one of the CO’s creates a stir in the office while we debate whether her new shoes are men’s or women’s. This is the first I’d heard any recognition that there is a distinction. When called upon to state my opinion on the white loafers I realize that they do look a little like men’s shoes. But then again, what’s the difference?

Day 6:

The contrast between the types of businesses BRAC’s clients own is illuminated. Visiting one business I am confronted with a fruit and vegetable stand brimming with every variety of both. I next visit a client’s vegetable stand that is located in front of her house and consists of no more than four tree branches supporting two planks of wood and shaded by a potato sack. She has some tomatoes and five bunches of bananas for sale.

Veggie Stand, V.1

Veggie Stand, V.2

Day 7:

Hit with a stomach bug, I do little poverty alleviation today. I have spent my week in Dodoma in a guest room at one of the BRAC branches here. On this, my last day before moving to another city, the entire branch staff comes into my room every few minutes to see how I am feeling. Unconvinced that constant company is the best way to rest and recover I want to be frustrated but can’t help but appreciate that there are people concerned about my well-being. Us lone-travelers rarely expect anyone to know or notice if something is amiss. In this case, the week spent with this staff has fostered a close bond. That, and I think they are a little freaked out seeing a foreigner sick. They try to convince me to go to the hospital, in part because no one wants to have my death on her conscience. The cook is particularly concerned as he frantically tries to feed me more food, despite that he is deathly afraid that his food is the cause of my problems.

Day 8:

Another bus ride—this time from Dodoma to Shinyanga. The bus departs two hours late and the ride lasts 7 hours. I begin panicking at the end of hour number 1 when we hit unpaved road. Fearing this means 6 more hours of intense bumpiness and massive wafts of dust attacking us through the windows (which we had to leave open or else we would roast to death) I trick myself into falling asleep during the most uncomfortable part of the ride. I wake up two hours later when we rejoin paved road and am thrilled that I’ve found such a constructive way to kill physically uncomfortable time.

Day 9:

It’s the subtle differences from region to region that reveal variances in inhabitants’ standard-of-living. Some generalizations based on my experiences: group meetings of the 20 individuals in a large group are all held at the home (or more specifically, in the yard) of the group chairperson. In Dar es Salaam, we attend group meetings where all members are seated on chairs in a circle. In Dodoma, the group chairperson brings out a large, immaculate woven mat on which all 20 members sit. In Shinyanga, groups squeeze onto tattered tarps not large enough to fit them all. Differences in the dress of the clients bear similar contrast. In Dar, it is not uncommon for the members to arrive in dresses, both western-looking and locally hand-made. In Shinyanga many women wear a combination of Kanga (local inexpensive died fabrics) and discarded t-shirts from America. There is a relationship between mat-style, dress, and the monthly income for each of these women. As we complete loan descriptions to be posted on Kiva’s website we ask what their monthly profit is prior to receiving a loan. In Dar it’s almost always above 150,000 Tsh (nearly $150) and even goes as high as 500,000 Tsh. In Dodoma, the women I meet typically earn a monthly profit of between 50,000 Tsh and 100,000 Tsh. In Shinyanga, most women I meet do not earn more than 20,000 Tsh per month (or $20).

Day 10:

“How old are you?” the CO and I ask one small group leader in Swahili. She confidently declares “31.” We proceed. “How old are your children?” Pause. Blank stare. Women sitting around the small group leader begin to try to puzzle through with her to identify the ages of her 8 children. She takes a guess at her oldest: 23. I let it slide for now, even though it seems quite unlikely that both of the ages she has answered could be correct. From there she tries to remember for how long she was not pregnant before having her next child: “21.” Then she says “19.” She pauses for a moment and asks how many she’s listed. Several minutes later, eight ages have been listed ranging from 4 months to 21 years. I hate to harp on this obviously difficult question but Kiva and its lenders find it implausible when they see ages listed that require the mother to have been under 10 years old when first giving birth. So I ask, “how old were you when you gave birth to your first child?” This she knows. “18” she says confidently. Ah, “so are you 41?” Hmmm. She’s unconvinced. She looks around. The women around her remain engaged in helping her deduce the answer. Finally a light bulb goes off as one of her friends says “yes, you’re 41!” Mystery solved.

Day 11:

When first looking up BRAC Tanzania clients on Kiva you may be struck by something: almost every picture is a group of women standing indoors against a blank wall looking miserable. I came here wondering why this is so universally the case for BRAC’s clients, and today I’ve found my answer. I’m training my 5^th branch and for the 5^th time, I see that the CO’s have never before held a camera. I’m trying to illuminate the nuances of making the subjects smile and arranging them outdoors so that they look more natural, all the while the COs can’t for their lives figure out how to get in the viewfinder the portion that they are hoping to photograph (I guide their hands to tilt the camera up slightly). Natural-looking pictures will have to wait—for now I’m more concerned with the heads of the clients making it into the shot.

Now, onto the next 10 days!  To see all of BRAC Tanzania’s currently fundraising loans, click here.