Posts filed under ‘Uganda’
After a little snag, safe in Kampala!
After years of international travel riddled with complications, I think that I have just experienced my most dramatic journey yet. About two weeks ago, I left Boston to travel to work with Pearl Microfinance in Kampala, Uganda. I had planned to land in Nairobi on Tuesday and then spend three days in Nairobi before traveling to Kampala Friday evening.
All went as planned. As I have lived in Nairobi before, my time there was spent visiting old friends and meeting all the new babies! Despite my happy time in Nairobi, as I headed to the airport Friday evening I was thrilled to finally be on my way to Kampala. I boarded the plane and sat down next to one of the heroes working on AIDS in Africa; listening to his story made the plane ride go by very quickly.
About 10 minutes before landing, I began to pour sweat and a sharp pain in my stomach began that scared me, despite all my years of stomach ailments from travel. After landing, and some chaos on the jet way, I met my waiting, and now very worried host family, who rushed me to the hospital.
Thus began a long night in a hospital with cockroaches in the bathrooms, ants under the beds, and staff who seemed unconcerned about me, and my insect company. Somehow, despite my lack of local currency and a phone that let me make international calls, I spent the night wide-awake on the phone with Kiva, our wonderful medical insurance program MEDEX (who had a doctor from the US consulting with my doctor within an hour), and my increasingly worried family.
The following morning, I was medically evacuated to a hospital in Nairobi where a series of tests revealed that I had had a cyst on my ovary that had twisted causing the severe on set of pain. However, it seemed to have untwisted, and I was feeling better – the pain had subsided over the day and my spirits has been revived by the awesome experience of being medically evacuated. (First, I rode in an ambulance with no lights and no sirens, which they compensated for by continually beeping – and then, I was put in a little tiny airplane where I was tied down to a stretcher, my IV bag was clipped to the light socket, and I had so many machines attached to me I felt like Dr. Octopus from the Spiderman.)
After determining that I would not need emergency surgery, the doctors sent me home with a friend of mine who is currently living in Nairobi. I rested for a week, went back to the doctor a few times for various tests which eventually showed that the cyst had dissolved, and after being given the go ahead – planned my trip to Kampala for a second time.
This time during the landing, my only stress was that the location of the airport in Uganda is such that you are quite sure you are going to land in Lake Victoria! You lean forward in your seat hoping that your forward momentum will encourage the plane to stretch a little further.
So far, Kampala has been wonderful – it is a bustling, hot, friendly place, that is clearly filled with adventures waiting to be had! I have only been at Pearl for about a day and a half, and so far, my days are filled with meetings with very impressive people, reading amazingly organized manuals, and other tasks that go along with the first days at a great new job. I head to the field tomorrow to meet with some borrower groups. I hope to have more news of microfinance soon!
During all my chaos – Grace, the Kiva coordinator here, was working tirelessly to prepare borrower profiles! Watch in the upcoming week for new loans from Pearl Microfinance!
The Road to Success
For the alleviation of poverty in Uganda, Microfinance Institutions are in the pilot seat by providing micro loans to the poor. The areas of operation depend on an Institution’s Vision and Mission, and like at Pearl Microfinance, financial services are provided to the economically active population of Uganda sustainably.
MFIs’ operations can not go on without the recognition of credit officers, a position that requires a lot of dedication, hard work and trust. The credit staff should have good people skills for if not, institutions would lack who to lend the money to or worse still, the existing clients are bound to fly over since they have many Institutions to choose from. They manage many lending groups and it is their duty to monitor each group for timely disbursements, loan repayments and trainings in better business skills. However, they face hardships like heavy rains leading to slippery and muddy roads, dusty roads with the scotching sun that mercilessly burns their heads. And actually our obligations at Kiva largely depend on the credit staff since they organize, train and disburse loans to the various groups that are known to us all; after which they ensure that the groups make their repayments on time. Kiva is doing a very commendable job in funding clients through the website just like the clients ensure that whatever amount disbursed is repaid on time.
The same recognition also goes to the hard working and devoted client’s that are very much willing to put their trust in the mutual relationship we have with them.
Take the example of Namulindwa Suzan, a 10 year old client with Pearl Microfinance in Gakuweebwa munno women’s group in Lugazi. She has a business of selling new clothing to daily markets called “mubuulo” which she buys from Kampala. Such markets are a collection of many entrepreneurs with various merchandise with a hope to sell to the customers who constantly flock the shopping stalls in the demarcated market areas as some markets reoccur weekly or bi-monthly and amazingly, no one concerned ever forgets the day and date and will always look forward to their next shopping whose prices are considered lower than shop prices.
To reach these markets, entrepreneurs like Suzan come together and hire a truck to take them with their merchandise to the market and pick them up after the day’s sale. And since the daily markets are never booming in the morning hours, Suzan has ample time to prepare her children for school, prepare the day’s meal and serve her husband before she sets foot only to return home after 9pm.
The saying, “when good character and hard work find opportunity, wonderful things happen” comes to terms with Suzan since with the help of loans, she has been able to increase stock of the clothes she sells and this has enabled her to pay school fees for her 4 children plus 3 relatives in her care, she has bought herself another plot of land, she has two cows, one giving her milk and she has hopes of more developments.
Figure 1: A typical wednesday market in Njeru County in Jinja.
Very true, women are instrumental in the poverty eradication process; take the example of Babirye Eflance. She had never thought of joining any lending group not until a day she was sent packing by her husband. It all started when she gave birth to her 5th born Sarah. At the age of 3 months, Sarah developed some abnormalities like having a loose neck, rolling eyes with a generally very weak more like a borne less body. She took her to the various clinics and hospitals with no solution to her sickness and this prompted the husband to send her packing with the rest of her children. Having no where else to go, she headed back to her parents’ home who managed to set apart some little money for her as capital to start a small retail shop.
Figure 2: Babirye Eflance with Sarah, her daughter.
After a few months, and by word of mouth, she was introduced to Pearl Microfinance and since then, life has never been the same. She has been able to include the sale of charcoal, mukene, tomatoes, pineapples and many others hence increasing her savings each day. As a result of her persistence and hard work, she has been able to educate her children of which 2 are now secondary school teachers, 2 are managing their own businesses while Sarah is able to access her medication, her life’s dependency. Eflance has asked for another loan through her lending group with the hope to restock her retail shop with more products like sugar that will bring in more income. This is not a story of sympathy but to show how she has managed to pull herself out of sheer poverty. In every development, we are supported by others and it takes one with a big heart to sacrifice the little they have for some one else’s big achievements. Good Luck.
Posted on behalf of Grace Natoolo, Pearl Microfinance
The Ovarian Lottery
I’ve been in Uganda for a week and a half now, working for a local MFI here called PEARL microfinance. During this time I’ve seen more action than I would have seen in 3 months back home. I’ve gone on a death defying motorcycle ride during a thunderstorm deep in the jungle, skidding through mud in 45deg declines and inclines (literally). I’ve witnessed the breathtaking beauty of the countrysides of Uganda — scenery that takes the cake from any other that I’ve seen in my 25 years, including Yosemite. I’ve gone on exciting adventures in the city with dozens of expatriates here similarly affected with a chronic restlessness and need for adventure.
But through it all, there is just one thing that stands out at the end of the day; something that occupies my mind during those quiet, solitary times in the evening just before going to bed. Its not the breathtaking views, the adventures in the city, or even the near death experiences on my motorcycle. It’s the faces of the locals here. The friendly shop owner and Kiva borrower who I pass by and say hello to on my way to work everyday; the entrepreneurs I’ve met with and interviewed at their broken down homes; the extremely well spoken, energetic and confident credit officer who made a lasting impression on me during one of our borrower meetings.
Any one of these people could be tremendously successful in America (economically speaking). Maybe a CEO of a prominent company, or a hotshot lawyer who wears a two-thousand-dollar suit to work everyday. But they arent. And the only reason for that is because of where they were born.
I think about it this way: suppose there is a barrel with 6 billion tickets, and before you’re born, you pick one at random. The ticket identifies what you will be when you enter this world, for example, rich or poor, black or white, retarded or bright, male or female. The title of this game is “the ovarian lottery”*. It’s a game we all played when we entered this world.
I won the ovarian lottery. I am a US citizen; got a good education; enjoy great health; and came equipped with a “engineer” gene that allows me to prosper in a manner disproportionate to other people who contribute as much or more to society. I’m in the top 1% of the entire population of the world.
Kiva, to me, is simply a way for those of us who drew the best tickets in the ovarian lottery to help those who drew less fortunate ones.
*The “ovarian lottery” concept was taken from a speech by Warren Buffett, the world’s richest person who recently committed a staggering $31B to philanthropy
Kesho, Nitaenda! (tomorrow, I will go!)
Hello Kiva Supporters! My name is Stephanie Koczela, and I am ecstatic to be headed to Uganda to spend three months with an MFI called Pearl Microfinance Limited. I am writing to you today from a bus traveling from New York to Boston. I am amused to be writing to you from this bus as it is running on a smooth road, has plugs for computer cords in each seat, and even has high speed wireless internet – it seems a far reach from the conditions I imagine I will be living in the upcoming months…
I am traveling back to Boston, where I currently live, to finish up a few last packing chores. I take off Monday to head to Nairobi, Kenya connecting through London. I will spend a few days in Nairobi and then travel to Entebbe, Uganda where I will be greeted and taken to Kampala by a wonderful family that has agreed to host me during my stay.
Despite the looming unknowns, I find myself very ready for this adventure I am setting off on. I think credit for the ready feeling must be given to the wonderful training that the Kiva Fellows are given in preparation for our department. Before taking off, I wanted to share with you my reasons for being delighted with this opportunity.
Two years ago, with a group of women from Mathare Slums in Nairobi, a friend of mine from Chicago, and two community organizers, I started a small fair trade bag company called Witethye. This business was possible because of a $40 loan that my grandmother sent to us. When the group began the women could barely ensure access to meals each day for their families – now, two years later, they are able to send their kids to school and some have moved out of the more standard slum housing (iron sheet roofs on top of walls make from mud and sticks) into apartment buildings made from cement. This business has shown me the power of a little bit of money when put in the hands of entrepreneurs in the developing world.
Naturally, my experience with this business led to an intense fascination with the idea of alleviating poverty by investing in small businesses in developing countries — thus the discovery and love affair with Kiva. Working with Pearl Microfinance Limited will be different than my own small company, because I will get to meet and interact face to face with dozens of business men and women all over Uganda. Not only will I get to meet them and hear their stories, but I will get to increase the connections that you all have with entrepreneurs in the developing world.
I can’t wait.
Join Pearl Microfinance Limited’s lending group on the Kiva website to connect with others who are excited about the entrepreneurs in Uganda!
Working with a Kiva Fellow
This is a blog from Grace Natoolo, the Kiva Coordinator at PEARL Microfinance, as part of an occasional series on reflections from the field. Grace worked most recently with KF6 Bill Brick to continue to grow PEARL’s partnership with Kiva:
WORKING WITH A KIVA FELLOW
Working as a Kiva coordinator for a Microfinance Institution is an interesting and fulfilling obligation especially for one that has the interest and capacity to do so. In most cases we get the chance to do what we are supposed to do, interact with clients, take photos, write stories, and make these experiences known to the world through posting them on the website; yet again we keep our lenders posted on the progress of the businesses they have supported and how this affects the social lives of the entrepreneurs. It’s an interesting bit really.
Another interesting bit about working with Kiva is being in close relations with the Kiva Fellows that are assigned to the MFIs. Surely I wish to copy their courage because in almost all instances, these Ladies and Gentlemen come to the country only knowing the name of the Institution they are to work with plus knowing that they have to visit clients in some rural places but they are always together like they have been here for long and it’s only those in close contacts with the fellows that can explain this to the rest; Ooops!!
On the look of things, the duties of a Kiva Fellow are largely undefined to allow for maximum flexibility once they arrive at their respective MFIs. At least for the Kiva Fellows we have had so far, and probably wherever else they have been, our relationships with Kiva are as smooth as never before and we are grateful for this. Unless you know that the Kiva Fellow came in yesterday, or last week, you might believe that they have been here long enough to know every one and everywhere even better than us the natives. I have come to believe that a neighbor or friend can know your home better by paying attention to those things that you might call minor, and will beat you at your game.
I have had a great experience working with Kiva Fellows; not to forget Douglas Buser, the first fellow to work with Pearl Microfinance from Kiva. I did not have an opportunity to work with him for long but the little time I had to interact with him opened my world to Kiva and what I had to do as I stepped in his shoes. Douglas is remembered by all our staff as a free and hard working person, with a connection to every body. After him came Adam and Genevieve, and as a person, their coming gave me a lot of thought like;
• Will they cope with the situation at hand?
• How about our transportation means of mostly using Taxis and motor cycles (boda bodas)?
• moving deep in the villages in search for a story and a picture,
• having late or no lunch due to the time factor plus
• having a busy schedule through out the week for the whole time we have to work together
But time has made me believe that some people are born managers and will utilize the available resources for their comfort.
Working with Bill Brick, our recent fellow at Pearl Microfinance Ltd., has been a great opportunity for us as an organization and for me as a Kiva Coordinator, my personality and my career. Bill came with a lot of development, hard work, courage and commitment that we at Pearl feel more pleasured to have him around.
Bill met with Elda, Juliet, Grace and Lillian all Staff at Pearl Microfinance during one of the decentralization training programmes for Kiva.
Can you imagine, whenever we had to visit a group in the field, all he needed to know was which side of the country we had to take and in an instant his map that he would pull out from his bag would enable him familiarize with the journey and that was all.
In almost all our movements, I have heard to feel pity for the fellows especially on dusty bumpy roads, hot days, and even when it has to rain, though they like it, so they tell me. I remember one time we had to visit a group in Mpigi where we took a taxi from the New Taxi park. At first we enjoyed the comfort of a tarmac road, until a certain point when we reached Nateete through a dusty bumpy road until we reached Kasanje, our destination. Surely as a native, there are some things you consider normal and would not be bothered at all when they come your way not until when you realize that the person you are moving with is uncomfortable but again you are already set and surely you can not turn back.
I personally hate rain on my day out in the field but I came to realize that the rains brought a bright smile on Bill’s face hence washing away my fears of ever soaking a muzungu all smeared with dust, with no where to turn for shelter. Operating in such places is why Pearl Microfinance exists to provide financial services to the economically active population of Uganda and we take these services right to our Clients’ sitting rooms; unlike most Commercial Banks.
I will use this opportunity to commend my friends for the sacrifice they made working with Pearl Microfinance and me in beating deadlines to the point that I have had to make them move late in the night in the hands of over speeding taxi drivers; their ability to meet all their costs for the sake of the people who need financial services, and above all, we at Pearl Microfinance are grateful to Kiva for always availing an extra hand at no cost to help MFIs realize their visions. We shall always remain indebted to you.
No Ordinary Day
Not long ago, I was trapped in a mind numbing corporate cubicle, devoid of spirit, trading my time for money. I fantasized about days like this. Well, not exactly.
Grace didn’t tell me we were going into the field today. I was wearing my best clothes – navy blue slacks, a pressed white shirt and shiny black loafers, prepared instead for a day in the office. Naturally I was excited to join her and seized the opportunity without hesitation. “Nkokonjeru,” Grace replied when I asked her where we were going, “it’s not far.” She didn’t intentionally mislead me. Besides, it sounded like a lovely rural village. That much at least was true.
Old Taxi Park
Our saga began in Kampala’s old taxi park. The old taxi park is a chaotic, densely packed and altogether disorienting entanglement. I try to avoid it at all costs. That’s hard to do since all routes leading out of the city center originate at the taxi park and routes into the city terminate at the park. Even routine movement from say my guest house on Namirembe Hill on the southwestern perimeter of the city to my office in Kamwokya in the north central (about 6 km as the crow flies) requires a frustrating connection and a long delay through the taxi park, turning what should be a short commute into an hour-long journey that tests the limits of one’s patience and tolerance for discomfort. The Ugandan taxi system is not designed for the comfort and convenience of the passengers it serves.
The routine goes something like this: locate your taxi (white Toyota minivan, aka matatu) in a sea of thousands of identical others in a labyrinth of shouting barkers, hawkers and pedestrians. The taxi park is not ordered neatly into rows or equipped with clearly-marked signs or parking stalls, and there are no set schedules. With luck, you’ll eventually zero in on your van through a process of trial and error. Matatus, however, do not leave until they are full – a literal determinant not open to subjectivity: thirteen out of fourteen occupied seats is not full. If you arrive early, as Grace and I did on this unbearably hot day, you grab a seat, start sweating profusely and wait. And wait. And wait. We baked for nearly 40 minutes to medium-well until gleefully accepting our fourteenth victim. While this poor soul was lucky enough to avoid the long wait, he got the most uncomfortable seat – a fold-down jumper that he had to share with the conductor – all the way to Nkokonjeru. Either way, the taxi park exacts its price in misery.
Kampala’s notoriously bad traffic was especially awful this day. I craved movement, not for progress but for the breeze; instead, we roasted in agonizing stillness. We didn’t escape the grip of gridlock until Mukono, well outside the city limit, but freedom was fleeting. We immediately left the paved road (not to be confused with smooth) and joined a bone-jarring dirt road. Each time we hit a rut, or swerved to avoid one, I was bounced around painfully and frequently whacked my head. The van sounded like it was being ripped apart by the fissures, with deafening bangs. Seeking comfort on the “cushioned” seats was wasted energy. The driver, like most, was hard on the throttle and brakes, and the van’s suspension system was on strike. My legs grew fatigued from trying to brace myself – hard to do with my knees in my chest and unable to apply leverage.
Worst still was the dust from two weeks without rain. Constant clouds of thick blowing dust left no choice but to close all the windows. Lacking fresh air, the temperature inside the van sweltered. Closing the windows proved futile as plumes of dirt billowed in through holes, cracks and unsealed windows. I could barely see the front seat of the van as we raced down the abusive road. The limit of my endurance was being teased and I urgently needed relief. So I slid my window open. Big mistake! The other passengers, all Ugandan, shot me an aggravated look in unison while shouting at me in Luganda. I interpreted their response to my (obviously stupid) action as objectionable, and complied by closing my window. Grace thanked me. I couldn’t even access the water I had the foresight to bring – it was like trying to take a swig on a tilt-a-whirl.
Nkokonjeru
I was a physical mess and in wretched spirits when we finally arrived at Nkokonjeru. After being smashed incessantly against my cranium for two hours, my brain felt like one of the blended fruit smoothies a hawker tried to sell me upon debarkation. Dirt permeated everywhere – my eyes, nostrils, ears, teeth, hair, clothing and pretty much everywhere else, as I would find out later. My pressed white shirt was filthy brown and un-tucked and stuck to my reeking body. My blue slacks looked like some kind of hideous disco-era fashion. My shoes were no longer shiny or black. I was dehydrated from the unrelenting dry, dusty heat. In short, I was disgusting. “Not that far, huh Grace?”
But at least the torment had ended (for now). I was nearly euphoric to be out of the van, standing upright and breathing fresh air.
I’ve gotten used to being greeted as something of an enigma in remote rural villages, which of course, I am. I’m always welcomed as an honored guest; I’m usually chased by laughing school kids screaming “mazungu!”, and I’m frequently stared at cautiously and inquisitively by town elders, like I’m an unfamiliar predator. On this day, I was looked upon with horror, pity and comedy. One woman offered me a dirty rag to clean my face with. Another apologized – it’s the dry season, she reminded me. Several were laughing uncontrollably. I took no offense; I must have been quite a sight. They knew from a lifetime of experience what I had just endured. I think they were laughing with me, in empathy and camaraderie – a reminder that sometimes you just have to let go, accept the situation and enjoy the moment. Another powerful lesson learned in the field, of which I tried to heed.
When our meetings ended, Grace determined it was better for a soft, middle-aged mazungu (eg, me) to take a motorcycle taxi to Lugazi, seven miles away, where we could catch a taxi home on pavement and thus avoid reversing our hellish route. Grace got no opposition from me!
I had never been so happy to be on the back of a motorcycle. I enjoyed the smooth and comfortable ride, if even on dirt. Mainly, I treasured the freedom. A fine consolation, I thought, for the afternoon’s effort. The Mukono countryside is undeniably beautiful. The rolling hills to Lugazi wind through Elysium fields of sugarcane, tea and banana. The air was almost sweet and by now it had cooled comfortably. The fresh breeze was as rewarding and rejuvenating as a cool shower after hard labor. An ominous thought.
Without warning, the blue sky turned dark and we were overtaken by a tropical thunderstorm. Yes, the rain felt wonderful but the irony mounted. In the middle of nowhere, with no shelter to be found, I was helpless to resist. I reminded myself of the lesson the laughing ladies of Nkokonjeru taught me earlier, and I embraced the moment unconditionally and with laughter, in what could be one of life’s cherished moments. Certainly beats the heck out of an oppressive cubicle! We pressed on to Lugazi, where I arrived soaked to the bone and muddy. And, strangely, happy.
The return trip offered little respite. I was filthy, my clothes were saturated, and I was absolutely uncomfortable in the 3rd row of the battering matatu. When we passed the Kampala 15km sign, we came to a dead stop and sat motionless for over an hour. With daylight waning and no indication of impending movement (and a completely fatigued body and mind), I decided to complete my journey on a boda boda. Normally, I reserve bodas for rural backroads and short, relatively safe hops in the city. But this was not normal circumstances. I coveted hygiene and comfort, at any cost. Still, fifteen km on a boda was an unsettling acceptance.
After weaving in and out of opposing lanes of traffic, diverting onto sidewalks and popping wheelies for several km’s, the driver skidded into a petrol station and told me to give him money for fuel. I paid him the fare we agreed upon. He didn’t look to his right, the direction of oncoming traffic, when he pulled back out into the derby. The next thing I heard is the last thing you want to hear on the back of a bike: screeching car tires. How we avoided an inevitable collision, and worse, is a mystery. I think we jumped over a curb and slid into a power pole sustaining only minor scrapes and scratches.
Later that evening over a badly needed beer, I wondered if the effort and risk and suffering were really worth it, just to interview a couple of borrowing groups.
The answer is a resounding yes. I share this folly not just to humor and entertain you, but to illustrate a day in the life of a Kiva Coordinator, whose ordinary day is decidedly unordinary and who delivers extraordinary results.
Kiva Coordinators are a vital link that connects Kiva Lenders to Borrowers. They endure days like this one to bring Uganda’s rural poor into your living room and to put a face and personality on a funding request. Their work is exhausting, demanding intellectual and physical capacity. They travel near and far, and they work under tight deadlines and bear large responsibility. I found this one day in the field to be Blog-worthy; this is Grace and Gina’s everyday reality. After “scooping” stories in the field all day, it’s not atypical to find them writing up their interview notes well into the evening and on weekends so they can post them onto Kiva within deadline. Working hard for the poor.
Grace
Kiva Coordinators are unsung heroes. Grace (Pearl Microfinance) and Gina (BRAC Uganda) are talented, intelligent women – both attended top universities on scholarship. Their purpose, like most poverty workers I’ve met, drives them to excellence, regardless of the commitment and personal sacrifice asked of them. It would be a lot easier to stay seated at their desks. But ordinary wouldn’t suit Grace or Gina or any Kiva Coordinator. They thrive because they know that are a playing a unique role – there are less than a few dozen Kiva Coordinators in the world, and Grace and Gina represent two of them (the few, the proud). Kiva Coordinators hold a critical responsibility for attracting lenders by writing compelling borrower profiles, and retaining lenders by writing social and economic impact updates (eg, journals). Watching lenders on the Kiva website from all over the world react to “their” loan excites them, and witnessing first-hand how that loan transforms lives invigorates them further. Grace and Gina are changing the world, one long, hot trip over fiery, dusty, battering roads in afflictive matatus at a time. Their profit is pride and the dividends they receive far surpass the distress they withstand. I hope my slapstick tale helps bring them out of the shadows and into recognition. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things.
Gina
I commend BRAC Uganda and PEARL Microfinance for their vision and their commitment to Kiva. Kiva Coordinators are full-time salaried staff resources and, therefore, a long-term investment in their partnership with Kiva, and a further embodiment of their unwavering commitment to poverty alleviation.
It’s truly my great privilege and pleasure to work with Gina and Grace – two remarkable young ladies that I will miss when I return home. I’m proud to call them colleagues. Each one approaches her craft with professionalism, dedication and good cheer, and delivers the results expected by all stakeholders. Their energy inspires me. They are a reward of progress and I’m indebted.
A Ghost Called Specioza
They seem to always be where you are, which is to say everywhere, as repellant and inescapable as a maelstrom of gnats. Step around one and you bump into another. You politely wave them off and mumble “no, thanks” with a disingenuous smile. Making eye contact might suggest interest or intent; or worse, invite confrontation. So you learn to ignore them. Faceless, nameless, spiritless ghosts you look right through and beyond. They don’t appear in travel magazine teaser shots or in the imaginations those publications sell. Their sole purpose, it seems clear, is to detract and annoy and chip away at an otherwise fine day. You wish they would just go away and leave you alone.
In actuality, their purpose is survival and the well being of their children. I don’t imagine anyone aspires to be a street vendor, or enjoys the profession once it becomes them. Hawking is the exclusive domain of peasants. It is not a particularly dignified or satisfying means to an end, but one mandated by necessity. Hawking requires no training and little skill, except perhaps pushy persistence and physical endurance – this is a 14- hour-a-day, 7-day-a-week job. Hawkers own nary a thing of value – no shop, no land – just the bag of goods on their back which, in itself, is practically worthless. I can imagine few jobs more miserable.
In fairness, Uganda’s street vendors are not a nuisance; to the contrary, they are the most passive and unobtrusive hawkers I’ve experienced anywhere. They truly are ghosts – they are present and ubiquitous, but one hardly notices them, except for the sidewalk congestion they create. They are certainly not assaulting. Like all Ugandans, Kampala’s hawkers are respectful and courteous. Their presence adds color and energy to the city.
Kiva Fellows witness difficult things every day and we could easily fall prey to indifference. My job would indeed be easier if I could be purely analytical. But I can’t be. Instead, I’ve developed some tools for coping. One is bedside manner, which enables me to connect more personally and deeply with clients as they walk me through circumstances which are inevitably more wrenching than mine. Another is shifting my notion of ordinary, which of course is a relative state of being. What is ordinary half-way through my Fellowship would have seemed sensational six weeks ago. It’s easier to deal in ordinary. And finally, balance. Empathy is fundamental, but emoting pity is condescending and counterproductive. It’s almost always a delicate trade-off.
Still, interacting with borrowers in a dignified manner without falling apart is sometimes challenging and often depleting. Take Florence, a Pearl Microfinance borrower I interviewed last week. Florence is a 45 year old widowed mother of seven children who recently lost her small grocery shop, her only asset and sole source of income, to a senseless and random act of arson. As I prompted her to describe how she’s depending on Pearl to re-build her life, tears streamed down her cheeks and at times she was too choked up to speak. I found it difficult to push through the interview, but my task had a noble purpose and I came with my toolbox.
Some stories are even more difficult.
Specioza is an attractive and demure woman, not five feet tall. Her face is gentle and soft, almost youthful, and it does not reveal decades of hardship. She is soft-spoken and shy; yet she’s inexplicably inviting. She is pleasant and polite and gracious. The members of her BRAC borrowing group admire her – Specioza is one of its elected officers. She is dignified and commands an understated respect, not through her words but how she carries herself. Her strength, I sense, emanates from a lifetime riddled with loss. There’s a depth in her eyes not found in innocence and her smile signals anguish more than peace. Specioza is the kind of person you would want as your friend. I wanted to know more about her and felt cheated that time would not allow for such pleasantries.
Specioza is also a ghost.
Like most women in Uganda, she married young and began having children immediately. At the time, she and her husband were farmers in Mbarara, a town in rural southwestern Uganda, not far from the Rwanda border. There must be something fertile in the water in those parts – Specioza delivered an astonishing four sets of twins! One boy and one girl in each set, none of them identical. That same fertile water, however, must also be toxic – she lost half of her twins at birth and nearly perished herself during one particularly difficult delivery.
Uganda’s civil war was in its fragmented twilight shortly before Specioza’s youngest surviving twin was born. The family farm was doing well and Specioza and her husband wanted a way to help refugees in their country’s war-ravaged northern regions. They joined a program administered by the UN where they sold crops to the World Food Program for distribution to IDP camps in Gulu and surrounding districts. Occasionally, her husband would accompany the WFP on the 9-hour drive to Gulu and help distribute the supplies. On one such trip, he never returned.
When his convoy of WFP trucks arrived at Gulu, it was ambushed by LRA rebels in a well-orchestrated and bloody attack. The LRA was intent on preventing aid from reaching the people it was determined to eradicate, and it wanted the provisions to fortify its own forces. Like the parents of the orphans he was trying to keep alive, Specioza’s husband died a brutal and unceremonious death on the side of a road in an act of unthinkable savagery (the LRA’s use of inhumane and gratuitous torture is legendary).
When a wife loses her husband in Uganda’s rural villages, the late husband’s family – by a mystifying and disturbing tradition – excommunicates the widow from the family (and often community) and seizes the family assets. Women have no value unless attached to a man. So that she wouldn’t also lose her children to this twisted fate, Specioza fled Mbarara and left behind the only life she had ever known. She migrated to Kampala where the best prospects for work and her children’s education existed. She arrived with just the clothes on her back and her 4 children – scared, broken hearted and broke. She had never been to the city before. She was disoriented and terrified.
Specioza’s farming skills were useless to her in the city. In desperation, she took up hawking as her only viable and immediate source of income. The entry barriers are nil, requiring no land, machinery or skill and very little capital. She bought her first bail of used clothing at the Owino market near the public bus station the day she arrived, using borrowed funds from a money lender. Money lenders are legal loan sharks. They require full repayment within a few days and they charge exorbitant interest rates. Specioza sold that first bail in time to repay the money lender, but had barely enough left to feed her family. She didn’t like hawking, but figured it was only temporary and the most practical means to an end under the circumstances. She had no sales experience. Promoting her wares and competing against armies of peddlers made her uncomfortable.
In time, she learned where to find the most buyers and how to optimize her selection of used clothing items. As her sales climbed, it became easier to repay the money lenders and more was left over for family expenses. Eventually she could afford school fees, although it was always a struggle and frequently caused her to forego eating so that her children could. Not once did she accept charity.
Her first break came sometime later when a BRAC Uganda credit officer came to her village conducting a survey to identify new recipients for its poverty alleviation programs. Specioza fits BRAC’s profile: she is very poor but she’s economically active with a stable track record and she comes recommended from her community borrowing group. The latter is not insignificant. Since each borrower in a group is responsible for the total repayment of the group’s obligations, a recommendation is a vote of confidence by one’s peers and a testimony to their character and abilities. With the help of small loans from BRAC (300,000 Ush or $170), Specioza can now avoid money lenders. This improves her profits, which enables her to keep her children in school without sacrificing meals. It also gives her a buffer for bad sales days. Perhaps most importantly, she has the support of her group and the world’s largest microfinance NGO has her back. For the first time in many hard years, Specioza has hope.
I don’t want Specioza to go away. She is not a parasite. She’s just a very hard-working mother trying to raise her kids and help them thrive under profoundly difficult circumstances. She has a face – a beautiful face, and a name and a soul. She, like all co-called ghosts, is a living, breathing human being who’s doing her level best with the bad cards she’s been dealt. She has purpose, hopes, dreams, thoughts and feelings and a voice, just like you and me. Perhaps she’s selling something I want to buy; if not, she would certainly offer a smile. But if I treated her like a transparency, I would never know and I would forfeit a unique opportunity to connect with a wonderful human being.
Specioza is not trying to annoy anyone; she’s only trying to eat. Ultimately, we’re all selling something, whether trying to convince others of our ideas or get people across the room to notice us. Trade connects people across continents and cultures. Supply would not meet demand efficiently without promotion of goods and services and, thus, markets would not work. It makes no difference to me if sellers are pedigreed “suits” sitting behind desks in San Francisco skyscrapers or uneducated peasants like Specioza trying to survive on the bustling streets of Kampala. Hawking may not be the most dignified profession, but successfully raising a family in the context of Specioza’s life is the most honorable thing I can think of.
I’m thankful to BRAC for recognizing Specioza’s needs and supporting her determination. And giving me the opportunity to meet her.
MDG3
Poverty is a riot of inconsistencies and mysterious shades of complexity. Today, after a long week in the field, I’m wondering how anyone could possibly work their way out of the despair they inherited with birth when so many forces conspire against them, especially women.
Poverty is defined as a condition of unacceptable material deprivation, according to a particular society’s standards of what’s acceptable and what’s not. Poverty is widely acknowledged to be a multi-dimensional condition; however most efforts to measure its extent and severity focus on income poverty. Income poverty is measured in relation to a level of income or consumption designated as the minimum needed by a household to avoid poverty. National poverty lines differ by country. Low-income countries like Uganda typically set their poverty lines at the estimated cost of physical subsistence – a bare-minimum diet, plus a modest addition for necessities other than food. The causes of poverty are numerous but a significant root cause is gender disparity; specifically the ability and access that women have to productive assets and services.
In 2000, every country in the world and all leading development organizations agreed to eight Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) to halve world poverty by the year 2015. The eight MDGs are:
- Eradicate extreme poverty and hunger
- Achieve universal primary education
- Promote gender equality and empower women
- Reduce child mortality
- Improve maternal health
- Combat HIV/AIDS, malaria, and other diseases
- Ensure environmental sustainability
- Develop a global partnership for development
Many believe MDG3 – equality for women – is the most important MDG. Empowerment of women is not just about justice or being nice (which I naively assumed). All other MDGs depend upon MDG3: unless the situation of women is purposefully and radically shifted, achieving the other MDGs will be impossible. Women are the key to reducing poverty. World Bank studies show that agricultural production would increase by 20% if women had the same access to resources as men. Investing in women makes economic sense and is a prerequisite for development.
Uganda experienced rapid economic growth over the past two decades. Real gross domestic product (GDP) increased an astonishing 6.5% per annum on average since 1990. Yet, over the same period, 32% of Uganda’s households remained in poverty and 20% are chronically poor. Moreover, 11% of the poorest households moved into poverty for the first time, and there was no measurable increase in the middle class. The country’s population has doubled to thirty one million since the mid 1980’s, the median age is fourteen.
The national planning framework that guides public actions to eliminate the incidence of poverty in Uganda, consistent with the MDGs, is called Poverty Eradication Action Plan, or PEAP. Among a host of human and economic development strategies, PEAP acknowledges the strong correlation between gender disparities and economic progress, and sets forth policies to eliminate gender gaps under the Uganda Gender Policy (UGP). In addition to PEAP and UGP, the national government has enacted strategies to perpetuate its growth and economic development with programs to empower women, improve transportation infrastructure and utility services, and promote rural access to financial services.
The challenges are immense. Take infrastructure as one obvious example. Traffic control systems are non-existent and the roads are very poor – only main roads are even partially paved. Most roads even in the capital city of Kampala are dirt and driving on them is difficult and slow. Traffic is constantly choked and frequently stopped motionless in utter logjams (which, incidentally, seem to always occur at the apex of the day’s heat). Traveling even short distances often seems like an odyssey. Many of the borrower groups we meet are in villages that are only ten or so kilometers outside the city limits, but visiting them can take well over an hour even in a private vehicle and much longer on public transportation. In Uganda’s non-urban areas, the supply of electricity is fragile. There are no ATM’s or Internet. No running water or sewage systems. At night, its pitch dark except for the ambient light of kerosene lanterns and cook stoves. Imagine the effort required just to go to the bank each week, as MFI borrowers must do to safeguard their earnings from thieves and inflation. Transportation and infrastructure are obvious impediments to economic development.
The statistics on gender equivalency are even more disturbing and consequential:
§ Sixteen percent (16%) of women are married by age 15 and 53% by age 18. The average Ugandan woman is married at age 17.
§ Sixty percent (60%) of women aged 15-49 experience physical violence and 39% suffer sexual violence. Sixteen percent (16%) of the violence occurs during pregnancy. Over 40% of women have suffered domestic violence.
§ Social norms and values condone gender discrimination, perpetuated by low levels of education and limited access to information. Abuse of rights is socially acceptable.
§ Fifty five percent (55%) of MFI borrowers are women; yet women constitute 72% of commerce. More men than women are successful in credit applications and women usually receive smaller amounts, restricting their ability to acquire and control livelihood assets and resources such as land, information and technology, business skills and financial capital.
§ Thirty two (32%) of the overall population lives below the poverty line. Higher proportions of women-headed households are chronically poor and more move into poverty than male-headed households and are more likely to sell assets to avoid moving into poverty.
§ An estimated 13%, or 1.8 million children, are orphans. Forty percent (40%) live in poverty.
§ Eighty three (83%) of women are engaged in agricultural production, yet only 25% control the land they cultivate. Women own only 16% of the registered land. The majority of women only have use rights determined by the nature of the relationships they have with a make land owner – her father, husband or brother.
§ Women suffer very high time burdens in pursuing their livelihoods. Women work an average 15 hours a day compared to men who work only 9, and women bear the brunt of domestic tasks. The time and effort required for these tasks, in almost total absence of even rudimentary domestic technology, is immense. This has negative consequences on food safety, household income, children’s education, participation in community life, health and productivity.
§ The overall illiteracy rate is 32%; 24% of men are illiterate compared to 38% of women.
Clearly, women in Uganda are at a measurable disadvantage. Fortunately, Kiva works with three exemplary partner MFIs in Uganda that are attacking poverty using methodologies consistent with the MDGs and PEAP. BRAC Uganda, Pearl Microfinance and MCDT Sacco each employs an entirely different approach, but they share three common and significant distinctions: (a) focusing on the lower half of the economically-active poverty spectrum, (b) delivering financial services to rural areas, and (c) providing programs designed predominately for women.
Their programs are working. With the help of Kiva and its local MFI partners, some remarkable people somehow find a path to prosperity, despite overwhelming and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Meeting them is like receiving a gift. Magdalena is one such person. The enormity of her disadvantage and the context of her life are difficult to comprehend, but it’s impossible to not be amazed and inspired by what she’s accomplished.
Magdalena grew up in an orphanage, abandoned by her biological parents at birth. She lived there until she was 14, when she was required to go out into the world on her own. Imagine being alone in the world, penniless and partially educated, at the tender age of fourteen. Not long after leaving, she was married and starting a family of her own. When asked about her husband, she replies only that “he’s around somewhere”. She is reluctant to share more. He seems to be an uncomfortable topic for her, so I don’t inquire further. In addition to her other hardships, could Magdalena also be a victim of domestic abuse? It’s statistically probable.
A typical boy's quarter
Ten years ago, she lived in poverty in a small, cramped “boy’s quarter” with her four children. To make ends meet, she rented space in a friend’s nearby clothing boutique, and offered alterations and tailoring for the shop’s customers. Her dreams at the time were to complete her children’s education, establish a business of her own and build a family home. They would seem like pipe dreams, given her situation.
Around that time, Magdalena took out a small loan from Pearl Microfinance and a purchased a used Singer sewing machine. Soon, using her savings and another loan, she opened her own small studio. Over the years she steadily built her business and today has established herself as the premier clothing maker in her village. Her studio is attached to her home and is stocked with a wide selection of fabrics, patterns, buttons and threads. She has four sewing machines, two employees and a large and loyal clientele that she has earned through superb craftsmanship and her friendly, honest customer service.
Some of her clients come from as far as Kampala for her fashion designs. Magdalena’s studio is not easy to find, despite sitting less than a hundred yards off the main highway. It sits on a narrow, rutted dirt track, tucked behind a primary school, and there are no street markers or signs advertising her business. But that doesn’t impede her customers from finding her.
Magdalena at work in her studio
She proudly shows me a Gomese, a traditional Ugandan dress, she recently completed and explains the profit model to me: the fabric costs about 35,000 UGX, the buttons and thread another 10,000 Ush (in total, about $23) and requires over 4 hours to make. Her profit margin is 20,000 Ush ($11). Not all her items are this expensive. Her typical profit is 5,000 to 7,000 Ush for everyday garments like school uniforms and skirts. Her backlog is extensive. She keeps a ledger for each order, accounting for costs, fabric, style, materials, client name, measurements and completion date.
In the ten years Magdalena has been a microfinance borrower, she has never missed a single loan payment or failed to pay school fees. She borrowers between 400,000 and 1,000,000 Ush ($216 – $541) depending on the current business cycle, and invests her loans in materials, fabrics, thread, machine repairs and maintenance, employee salaries and improvements to her studio.
Magdalena's beautiful new home
After years of dedicated hard work and vision, and with the loyal support of Pearl Microfinance, Magdalena has achieved unprecedented happiness, pride and success in the face of a lifetime of adversity that would render most people hopeless. All four of her children have completed their college education and are working professionals. Magdalena now cares for two disabled orphans, giving them the loving, nurturing childhood that eluded her. Her clothing business is thriving. She has money in the bank. And, her dream of building a lovely new home where old one-room buy’s quarter once stood is now a reality.
Magdalena embodies entrepreneurial and microfinance success. Hers is a story about the delicate balance between triumph and tragedy. She proves that hope, persistence and a helping hand are common threads that connect us all, and that lead us to our dreams. Magdalena’s life has woven through extremes in suffering, adversity and achievement. For me, she is an enduring symbol of inspiration on the sublime tapestry of humanity. For all of us, Magdalena illustrates the significance and importance of MDG3. She helps me see that the friction which opposes my life’s ambitions is insignificant by comparison and thus gives me the perspective to find my way forward. That is Magdalena’s gift to me, for which I am thankful.
I encourage you to look at Kiva’s partner page to learn more about Pearl Microfinance, BRAC Uganda and MCDT Sacco. You’ll discover amazing organizations staffed with teams of intelligent, purpose-driven, devoted people who are attacking MD3 and truly changing the world. Like Magdalena, they inspire me and give me hope that poverty will one day be a human condition of the past.
One Rung Up and Flat
We exited the main highway to Jinja, somewhere between Lugazi and Njeri. It’s an obscure and easily missed unimproved road, and not one I would guess leads anywhere. The dirt track is peppered with fissures and ruts and undulations, and winds slowly through countless hectares of banana and pineapple trees. Uganda is blessed with fertile soil and an abundance of rain; here, things grow fast and big – and apparently everywhere. Except for the brown dirt road we followed, there’s nothing but endless fields of tall green as far as the eye can see. I’m riding in back, in the open bed of a pick-up truck, sitting on a bag of charcoal next to a large bunch of green bananas, enjoying the air. I’m thinking how lovely this country is, away from the hustle and bustle of Kampala; that this must be the “real Uganda.” Occasionally, we pass a peasant farmer on foot or on bike, always wearing flip-flops, carrying large loads of palm thatch or bananas or firewood. Back home, this would constitute backpacking or mountain bike riding. No such recreational diversions here. In Uganda, these are just modes of transportation; people serving as their own beasts of burden. I feel guilty whizzing past them in the relative ease of a vehicle.
This is where Pearl Microfinance works. Its niche is serving Uganda’s economically-active rural poor, the most neglected sector of the economy and almost entirely overlooked and excluded by the financial services industry. It’s simply too difficult and costly to deliver services in remote areas like this. Difficult enough on dry soil, I doubt even passable during the torrents that arrive each afternoon. Despite coming here weekly, our driver stops more than once to get his bearings. No road signs, no visual cues – just miles of disorienting tropical flora.
Main Street
I’m joining Pearl’s Jinja branch manager and credit officer into the field to meet some Kiva borrowers to learn how micro loans have impacted their businesses and lives. Grace is also with us. She’s Pearl’s Kiva Coordinator, whom I work closely with in Pearl’s main office in Kampala. I’m excited to hear first hand accounts of real people struggling through the despair of poverty with the aid of Pearl’s microfinance programs and achieving ever-growing levels of new-found prosperity. At least that’s my hope.
That hope soon vanishes. Poverty is like an onion: you peel away one layer only to find many more beneath it. Indeed, the more I learn the less I realize I know. What I learn this day is that the methods of evaluating success sometimes need to be turned upside down and examined from an entirely different perspective.
The perspective I brought with me, the one taught to me in school and reinforced in practice, is that market economies are fueled by consumption, and specifically the growth in consumption. Organizations are valued in great part by how quickly and consistently they produce increasing profit. Investments are intended to spur further growth and are gauged by their ability to create or accelerate growth opportunities. Progress is a measurement of growth, and growth is the intended end to the means. Flat revenue and earnings, therefore, are bad; and if they persist, utter failure.
It’s natural, then, to wonder how small loans to the rural poor have improved the growth prospects for their businesses, personal savings accounts and family lifestyles. This I wanted to know.
Nothing suggested our arrival into the village. No sign, no traffic signal. Main Street is more like a poorly maintained driveway. I wonder if this village has a name or a postal code. I ask my colleagues but they don’t know. It is little more than a one-block strip of mud and block structures cut into the jungle. There’s a hardware store that advertises auto parts and electrical supplies and think it must be in jest: electricity doesn’t supply this outpost and the only vehicles are a few scattered bodas. And I fail to see any value in advertising. It is, however, a nice village, quiet and peaceful and nestled in a pocket of breathtaking beauty. It must see few visitors because within seconds of stopping, we’re surrounded by throngs of excited, laughing adolescents, all boys, wearing orange school uniforms. Most are barefoot. They appear from out of nowhere, and they seem fascinated with…me. Perhaps this is their first encounter with a muzunga. Maybe it’s just that visitors come seldom and white skin marks not only the arrival of something out of the ordinary, but of good fortune.
School Boys
Meeting borrowers is perhaps the greatest joy and privilege of being a Kiva Fellow. Here, I met with four borrowers, all women, each hospitable and gracious with her time. My questions were centered on assessing the financial and social impact of their microloans. I learned that their struggles are not that different from ours, except in magnitude: earning a livelihood, raising and educating their children and managing finances, including loan obligations. In this small village, bankruptcy is not a financial strategy; it’s a certain means to starvation and illiteracy, a punishment far more dooming than a poor credit rating.
My library of potential questions is extensive and explores a range of topics to help me understand the entrepreneur and her business, the context of her life and how the loan(s) contributed to her business and personal ambitions. One of these topics is to gain some indication of growth: for example, was the business constrained before receiving a loan? And, how has financing boosted revenue and profit?
This was not my first day in the field, so I had some hint of what to expect. And this was not the first day the inspirational and heart-wrenching stories they shared with me of deprivation, sacrifice and hard work was tempered by some degree of disappointment. In a majority of the cases, the initial loan(s) did indeed provide an initial shift up in economic status, by helping to establish a business and get it to scale (eg, steady-state operations). But there is often little, if any, noticeable expansion that follows. Further, MFI’s don’t use growth as an underwriting factor when extending subsequent loans (although Pearl and others do have a compulsory savings requirement). Many micro enterprises receive loan after loan; yet never expand commensurately, if at all. At first blush, it appears to be an endless cycle of debt which leads to no measurable performance improvement.
The problem is that in the context of microfinance, scale is an irrelevant notion, especially in rural villages like this one that are very small, very poor and geographically isolated. This is not an expanding economy and likely never will be, and growing a market is therefore impossible. These entrepreneurs are merely servicing their friends and neighbors with inexpensive subsistence items, and there’s no room for competition, innovation or profit maximization. Money, then, is nothing more than a necessary medium of exchange, more convenient to trade or barter. It’s not an instrument of wealth.
Of course, metrics are not tracked in this sector of the economy. People don’t speak in terms of period-over-period performance, ROE or operating margins. They talk about well-being, happiness, health and self-sufficiency. As we bounced our way slowly back to the highway, I couldn’t reconcile my disappointment. Positive, beneficial things are happening in this remote little village. These women are proud and happy, and their children play as children do. They feel productive and useful and they are contributing meaningfully to their households. There’s dignity in that, and I felt it when we spoke. They talk about their shops, their customers, their loans, the business skills they’ve acquired, what they want to do with their next loan and their vision for their futures, all with great enthusiasm and passion.
So is microfinance working in this poor rural village? I can only speak anecdotally. Every borrower I’ve met so far has told me, in their own words, that they are better off now than they were before. They are happier and they feel more secure. With added income, their families are healthier, less hungry, better clothed and in school – some have graduated college. They’ve built homes and can afford medicines and the occasional luxury. Perhaps they will never climb another rung on the economic ladder and will forever languish level. Perhaps the loans they continue to use will do nothing more than sustain them at a marginally elevated plateau of subsistence. But isn’t that better than the alternative? Isn’t the world a better place because Pearl Microfinance endures the difficulty and cost to drive out to this little village every week to meet its clients?
A joyful...and successful Robinah
I’ve cast my concern and disappointment aside. In this charming remote community in rural Uganda, assessing impact and measuring success have nothing to do with the incorrect criteria I arrived with. I think the individuals themselves are the best judge, not me. I’m just some muzunga with an impossibly different perspective. Robinah summarized it best when she told me, her emotions palpable, wiping tears of gratitude from her cheek, “Pearl has helped me so much. I’m so grateful. For the first time in my life, I can see possibilities for my dreams.”
Public Transport in Uganda: Be aware!
I came across a flier this morning that I found as humorous as I did frightening. I wanted to share it with you, perhaps deepening your insight into just one of the many day-to-day rituals of being a Kiva Fellow in the field. This is a sequel, of sorts, to my earlier blog. I promise to move away from (no pun intended) the transportation theme!
I paraphrase:
Public Transport in Uganda: Be aware. Be very aware!
Over 2,000 people are killed each year on our roads. In terms of all fatalities and injuries, 42% are passengers, 33% are pedestrians and 14% are motorcyclists.
Your choices for public transportation include:
1. Matatu
A Matatu is a minibus, which holds up to 14 passengers. Matatus operate long a fixed route, stopping anywhere along the way to pick up passengers. They are almost always in poor condition, recklessly driven and without insurance cover or a licensed driver and don’t value their lives. Matatus are one of the primary contributors to the increasingly unsafe road conditions in Uganda. They are characterized by*:
§ Overloading of passengers – ü
§ Driving above the speed limits – ü
§ Swerving between traffic – ü
§ Disregard for other rnotorists and traffic laws – ü
§ Driving on pavement – ü
§ Driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs – ?
§ Inexperienced drivers – ?
(*Note: items followed by a ü are ones I’ve personally experienced after just a few days.)
If you choose to use Matatus:
§ Wear a seatbelt
§ Get out if you don’t feel safe
§ Tell driver to slow down
§ Avoid overloaded taxis
2. Boda Boda
A Boda Boda is a motorcycle taxi, typically a Honda 50 and is often in poor condition with no helmet for its passengers. Although they are a cheap and quick form of transport, Boda Bodas are renowned for their reckless behavior. Common examples*:
§ Riding through red lights – ü
§ Riding too fast – ü
§ Riding on the wrong side of the road – ü
§ Riding on sidewalks and road islands – ü
§ Often bike is in bad repair – ü
§ Swerving between traffic – ü
§ Complete disregard for other motorists – ü
(*Note: items followed by a ü are ones I’ve personally experienced after just a few days.)
If you choose to use a Boda Boda:
§ Wear a helmet
§ Choose a bike in good repair
§ Tell driver to slow down
§ One passenger per bike
The flyer then goes on to list emergency numbers and location of hospitals and clinics.
I’ve been to New York many times and have some legendary taxi stories. Yet, I’ve never seen a flier like this in NYC. New York cabbies are mere plebes compared to these guys in Kampala…
A Wet Ride on a Boda Boda
The 41 km road from the airport in Entebbe to Kampala is an endlessly spreading slum, the road choked with traffic and with boda-bodas and minibuses that serve as public transportation and which obey a vague set of driving rules. The banks of the road are littered with broken-down vehicles and garbage, and burning piles of garbage, and with ramshackle-looking developments. I can’t tell if they’re incomplete or if they’ve been left to deteriorate; every structure has heaps of sand and rocks and blocks surrounding it. The warm equatorial air is thick; the sun filters down through perpetual ground strata of dust and emissions. More people travel on foot than on machine, usually burdened with great loads of fire wood, fruit or large bags of rice. People appear busy; yet there are no obvious signs of commerce in the endless succession of convenience stores, restaurants, barbershops, clothing boutiques and other roadside kiosks roofed with umbrellas. This slum, like slums everywhere, carries the acrid smells of hydrocarbons and garbage, and unpaved roads lined by tin-roof concrete shacks with dirt floors. I’m reminded of Indonesia, Nepal and Bolivia. We pass a handsomely dressed woman urinating behind a road sign, and a desperately thin dog sniffing for scraps among the garbage – it appeared more vermin than companion. A ball gets away from a couple of children and I watch it bounce through an open sewage gutter and out onto the road. Vehicles don’t stop for kids, maybe they honk without slowing.
I feel viscerally puzzled and disturbed. The Africa of my imagination is a vast expanse of lush jungles and open savanna teeming with the continent’s iconic creatures. I knew Uganda was impoverished; afterall, that’s why I’m here. But here, poverty is as much a part of the scene as the banana trees and cumulus clouds. Africa is poverty. Breathing, smelling, feeling; indeed, being among poverty is an assault on my sense of humanity and morality. It’s shocking and difficult to confront, let alone absorb and process. I lose myself in philosophical and conflicting thought: How does this happen? Is this a product of exploitation by wealthy nations and, if so, the result of the comfortable lifestyle I enjoy? I’m thankful, if not guilty, that I won the lottery of life at birth being born in America. Why did I elude such a miserable fate? Am I just lucky or do I hold an obligation? I question my reason for wanting to be here and wonder if I can endure three months. Surely I can last 12 weeks, these poor souls are serving a life sentence. Most have never left their village. At this moment, I realize my life was easier when I was unaware and unconcerned with such things as poverty. It’s impossible to get that back.
Suddenly panic strikes. I haven’t yet arrived in Kampala and I realize the scale of poverty here is far beyond my capacity to effect. I came to learn and experience, yes, but I came mainly, perhaps naively, to make an impact, to help alleviate poverty, to make lives better, to try to equalize the gross misallocation of opportunity. There can’t possibly be anything I can do — I feel like a doctor must if called to treat an epidemic with only a single vial of penicillin.
But I must try.
I look for inspiration and courage in a book called “Mountains Beyond Mountains”, the wonderful story of Dr. Paul Farmer who has devoted his life to providing free health care to individuals in absolute poverty, the poorest and most neglected. Surely, the central plateau of Haiti, where Farmer works, is much worse that Kampala. If he can live there year after year, then I can certainly manage a few months here.
In reality, it’s not all misery. After all, this is the Pearl of Africa. I strolled by Namirembe Cathedral this morning. It’s an imposing but beautiful structure. It sits atop a lovely and well-manicured hill overlooking most of Kampala. It is Sunday and worship services are in progress. I couldn’t help but peek inside. It is packed with worshipers adorned in their Sunday best, men wearing ties and coats and women in colorful floral dresses and matching headdresses. These are proud and dignified people, and devoted to their faith. Here is the finest choral group I’ve ever heard. Absolutely beautiful, mesmerizing and soothing. I reluctantly begin to see value in faith. Perhaps it gives answers and strength and hope to those who are suffering, and a sense of community. An usher invites me warmly to join the congregation, but I decline; I’m in bush clothes and a 4-day beard – it would seem disrespectful.
I discover a few other unexpected pleasures my first day in Uganda: one, peanut sauce over rice, matoke (mashed plantains steams in banana leaves) and coffee. Delicious! Two, mosquito nets. There’s something romantic about them (think “Out of Africa”); I find it conspicuously satisfying to see a mosquito buzzing around me, but powerless to strike!
Shortly after settling in, I took a motor taxi (“boda boda”) to try and locate BRAC’s office. I could see on a rudimentary map that it was not far. Riding shotgun on a motorbike is a cultural experience; today, a rather unsettling, in fact, terrifying one! My driver, Eric (the name he gives us “mzungus” so we can pronounce it) is a friendly guy, 28 years old with a wife and young daughter. I wonder why he takes such unnecessary risks, swerving repeatedly into the lane of oncoming traffic, avoiding head-on collisions and certain death by mere inches. Within minutes, the sky darkens and opens up with a dramatic display of thunder and lightening. We take shelter under the corrugated tin roof overhang of a roadside convenience shop. I’m relieved to be off the bike and in relative safety. I’m captivated by the torrent; I’ve never seen rain this hard. The street is flooded within minutes. I then take notice of the store’s proprietor. She’s an attractive young woman with her adolescent daughter in tow. I ask if I can buy water, but she doesn’t speak English and I see she doesn’t have any anyway. Her store must cater to locals. She sells subsistence items like soap, flour and canned goods. I wonder if she’s a microfinance borrower. Naturally, then, I want to know her story. How’s business? What did she buy with the loan proceeds? How has the loan impacted her and her daughter’s lives? Her store has a concrete floor and a metal roof, it’s clean and well-stocked. She and her daughter wear nice clothes and shoes. They don’t appear to be ill or malnourished. I wonder how far she has come, and how far her daughter will go. It’s with this thought, looking in this young girl’s eyes, that the hope and meaning of my Fellowship is restored. I don’t need to solve global poverty, but maybe – with luck – my presence here will help just one person triumph in her struggle over poverty and reach a day that holds greater promise than this one.
I wonder what my days in the field will be like. Its the rainy season in Uganda.
From KF6 Training in San Francisco: a practice blog
Everyone is this is room is an experienced traveler. Collectively, we’ve ventured to the farthest corners of the globe. Most have spent time in the developing world. Yet, the excitement level is off the charts as we prepare for our adventures. I’m humbled by the extraordinary company I find myself so privileged to among. The learning challenge surpasses my expectations; there’s so much to learn! This the type of volunteer challenge I’ve been seeking. One that satisfies a profound social mission while providing a meaningful life expereince and a rare opportunity to get under the skin of an entirely different culture. Like any adventure, I have goals but little concept of what to expect. Things will unfold as they will. But I must say that JD (our exceptionally talented trainer) and team are doing an amazing job turning us from civilians to capable Kiva Fellows — these guys are he real deal! What an impressive organization!
I’ll be traveling to Uganda on October 1 to work BRAC. My excitement is tempered only by stress caused by the long list of things I still need to get done before leaving for 3 months. It seems every item I cross off my list of things to do, 2 or 3 new ones are added. It’s endless! Visa’s, vaccinations, lodging, research, PA2 practice, waterproof ziplock bags, extra batteries, etc – ugh!
I hope I will be a great Fellow. I hope I will advance the ball, if just a bit, in the war against poverty. I hope I will return a better man – wiser, more humble and compassionate and with greater clarify as to my purpose and priorities. 
And I hope I can find a job quickly in January!
In haste. My next blog entry will come from Uganda, sometime in the first half of October. I’m tryinig to imagine what that will be like ….
My First Ugandan Fight
Yesterday I was not in a fight, but rather saw my first fight in Uganda. This fight was over a woman – me. However, it was not between jealous lovers. Rather, the fight was between two taxi drivers vying for my fare.
In Kampala, if one doesn’t have a car or is too scared to drive (me), there are two other forms of transportation to get around. One option is to take a boda-boda which is a motorcycle. The other option is to take a matatu which is a shared van that is licensed to carry 14 people, but usually has upwards of 16 people crammed into the small van.
At MCDT, we usually travel via matatu as this is the cheapest form of transportation. Loan officers and I catch the matatu at the taxi stop by the Kampala branch. Yesterday, Rose and I headed to the taxi stop to catch the Jinja Road/Kampala Road matatu. These matatus show up constantly, and there are usually at least two waiting there upon our arrival like there was yesterday. At each stop they wait in hopes of filling up their matatus with passengers before heading to the next stop – this wait can be anywhere from 30 seconds to 10 minutes.
Matatus love muzungus (white people) as they tend to not know the proper prices (there are no real set prices – one just needs to know how much to pay) and can be pressured into paying higher prices. When I travel on matatu, I go with a loan officer who doesn’t let the conductor (the one in charge of collecting passengers and money) overcharge me. Rose, being the ever-conscious loan officer she is, not only protects me from being charged too much, but also bargains to ensure she can save MCDT even the smallest amount. Yesterday was no different.
As we set off on our way yesterday, we headed to the taxi stop and stood there with a look of not caring in an attempt to get the conductor to lower the price. Two conductors were vying for our business until finally one conductor offered us the ride for 300 shillings rather than 500 shillings. We immediately boarded his matatu and Rose was very satisfied with her powers of persuasion. Unfortunately, the matatu conductor that lost our business was not impressed.
Immediately after we boarded, the matatu conductors started arguing and the one whose we did not board began sliding our van door closed so no one else could board, clearly angered by our decision not to ride with him. Our conductor was getting more and more annoyed with this behavior but mostly ignored him and kept opening the door and acquiring passengers. The other conductor got even more angered by this and then started pushing our matatu driver. The pushing was not to be tolerated and the two drivers exchanged more heated words and harder pushes. Through this entire altercation, people barely watched as apparently this is “normal” behavior for matatu conductors.
Finally, our conductor boarded our van and our driver started the engine intent on moving onto the next stop. The other matatu conductor would not have this and stood in front of the van, not allowing us to pull into the two lane traffic. Our driver, used to the treacherous driving conditions in Kampala, was amazingly able to maneuver around the angry conductor trying to standing front of our van. However, seeing that our driver was heading onto the street and away from the angry conductor, the driver of the other matatu (and apparently the partner-in-crime of the angry conductor) then pulled into the street and positioned the van horizontally so that both lanes were blocked and no traffic could pass.
Eventually, all passengers including Rose and I got off the matatus and boarded other vans. These matatus and the other traffic started passing the feuding matatus by driving on the sidewalk. I have no idea how long the vans stayed feuding and basically blocking traffic, but what I realized was something more personal: In the 8 weeks I have been here, little now surprises me and my patience has increased incredibly. I now know I will eventually end up at my destination, I just have no exact idea how or when.
http://www.kiva.org/app.php?page=businesses&partner_id=112&status=fundRaising&sortBy=New+to+Old_tpg=fb
Tororo, Uganda
Each morning before heading into the field, I read the New Vision, a daily newspaper in Kampala. A few weeks ago there was a special article about a town in Uganda in which the men do nothing but drink, gamble and nurse their hangovers while the women work and tend to the house, children and their needy husbands. The article speculated that the men needed therapy to deal with their lack of motivation resulting from the extreme poverty they are living in.
Upon mentioning the article to my associates at work, they said that one of MCDT’s branches, Tororo, suffers from a similar situation and that I should go visit. With that, I found myself making the three and a half hour drive to Tororo from Kampala for a visit.
My first impressions left me with two questions as follows:
1. Why did we pass the town of Tororo forty minutes ago and we haven’t yet reached our destination?
2. Why have we passed two infectious disease trucks?
My visit provided me with the answer to both of these questions.
During our drive I noticed many things that were different from the Kampala slums I visit. First, instead of motorbikes that are extremely popular as a source of transportation in Kampala, there were mainly regular bicycles and almost no cars. Then I noticed that the majority of the people, from adults to the school children, didn’t have shoes. Finally, there was the realization that these people didn’t live in brick or even wood houses but rather in huts made of mud with grass roofs that leak when it rains. Even the slums in Kampala could not compare to the slums I saw in Tororo.
But, we weren’t exactly in Tororo as MCDT is the only microfinance institute (MFI) that serves the villages in the bush outside of Tororo (why we drove over 40 minutes from the center of Tororo to the first site). The centers are so spread out that it would take at least a day to walk from one end of the MCDT district to the other. It is truly incredible that MCDT even has the capacity to serve these people as many other MFIs have opened branches, but then closed them due to the high costs of serving these villages that are so spread apart.
Once we reached the first center, I was greeted with singing, hollering, dancing and hugs. The women were so excited to see me and I was quite embarrassed being the center of attention! This continued through all three center visits and I continued to turn red with embarrassment each time.
The women were just as amazing as was their singing and dancing. They face so many obstacles beyond husbands who do not pull their weight including domestic violence, HIV/AIDS (hence the infectious disease trucks) and famine. The woman are subject to a high level of domestic violence in this area due to lack of food and high incidence of alcoholism, for when their husbands come home after drinking and are hungry, they are often upset with the lack of food and beat their wives. However, with the MCDT loans, the women are better able to provide for their families and therefore MCDT has seen a decrease in the incidences of domestic violence.
The drinking and subsequent alcoholism has also caused the increase in HIV/AIDS infections as there is a high level of casual sex. The ramifications are horrendous as one woman mentioned she cares for her brother’s children who are infected as he and his wife have passed. In addition, a large number of the women are infected and even have children who have passed due to the disease. The loans help these women get access to the drugs that lengthen their lives and the lives of their children and grandchildren.
In addition to the domestic and health problems, the women also face a yearly drought that causes a famine. Unlike Kampala and its immediate surrounding areas, the soil in Tororo is sandy. The combination of this and the lack of rain make it difficult to grow the vegetables and fruits that are so abundant in Kampala. Therefore, the women must purchase their food, making the act of providing essential nutrition a huge hurdle.
Yet, despite this, the women are happy and motivated. When I asked them how they are able to get up and work each morning, the women explained that it is difficult, but with the loans from MCDT, it is easier as they have seen an improvement in their lives. Before MCDT, the only jobs available were digging and even then the pay was infrequent and extremely low- never enough for school fees. Now the women can bring in their own money and help support their families.
Despite the many differences between the women in Tororo and the women in Kampala, there is one very striking similarity: like the women in Kampala they work so that they can provide their children with an education and hopefully a better life than they have had. Although they know they will not be able to send their children to university or even senior level schooling, they hope that by providing some education, the children will be able apply their knowledge of carpentry and agriculture to their own businesses and support their families. In addition, the women hope their children will care for them when they are older as they have cared for their children in their young age.
Upon returning to MCDT’s offices in Kampala, I relayed my experience to the women who work in the main branch. And after hearing about my experience, they asked me the question they face – How could we leave these women? I said the only thing I felt – You can’t.
To see currently fundraising loans from MCDT on Kiva.org, please click here.
Three Things..
So much has happened since I last wrote that I feel it is necessary to cover three topics in this entry. For my friends who have inquired about Kampala, I wanted to speak more about the city. In addition, I have officially started work and have been in the field on several occasions, piquing my interest and desire to share information on both the loan officers at MCDT and the amazing women I have met. Please bear with me…
Kampala has completely surprised me. I realize now that unlike my last trip to East Africa, I was not mentally, emotionally or probably physically prepared for this trip. Kampala is quite metropolitan, sits over many hills (seven I think) and has three (and probably more) different types of areas that I have seen thus far. The downtown area is where the taxi parks (for matatus – shared vans in which 14 people cram in) are in addition to about 1000 market stalls. It is crowded and yesterday I even got in a human traffic jam. They sell everything under the sun and more (all mostly plastic) here as people are constantly coming into and out of the city. Then there is the “other downtown” (I obviously don’t know the correct names yet) where the hotels and many businesses are located. Here you will find nice paved streets with matatus and boda bodas (motorbikes) as well as private cars but also beautiful shrubbery and space to breathe and walk. Finally, there are the hills where many people live. Looking up, the hills look green and are specked with houses with red tiled roofs.
Traffic in the city is horrible. At home when I would be in traffic and had my exit in sight, I would think if everyone just moved forward a few feet, decreasing the distance between each car, I could get to the exit. Well, in Kampala that is exactly what they do. I cannot even fit between 2 matatus in traffic as they are almost (or are) touching. The driving is even worse than the traffic as I have only seen two actual stop signs and one traffic light. Needless to say, I will not be driving.
In addition to the traffic there are cows, goats, chickens and dogs running around. Apparently everyone knows which animals are theirs and it is completely ridiculous for someone to kill and eat another’s animal. In fact, from talking to some Ugandans, that could be one of the worst things one can do. I find the idea quite nice and at the same time a bit fascinating since I am used to the western world, where many people have the idea that if it is on my property, it is mine.
I have been able to garner much of this information from the wonderful Ugandan woman who I live with and indulges all of my questions. We have discussed my job as well, and it is through these discussions that I have also learned that there are different levels of slums. As I mentioned above, many people live in the hills. I believe this is due to the fact that there is a rainy season and the hills probably act as protection, providing drainage. There are some slums in the hills, but the slums that MCDT serves are in the valleys slightly outside the city. My friend once asked me if they were “slum-slums.” After I didn’t understand, she explained that the worst slums are those in which the houses are actually just one room and have dirt floors, the kids run around barefoot and half-naked even though they should be in school and sewage runs through the walkway between the houses. Indeed these are the areas MCDT serves.
When I venture into these areas, I am always with an MCDT loan officer. Most recently, I have been paired with Rose. She is 24, recently finished her studies at Makere University and has only been with MCDT for 2 months. She, like all the loan officers get into the office at 8am and don’t leave until 8pm – they are truly amazing. In addition to that, MCDT has a requirement that all loan officers are first hired on a volunteer basis for three months without pay (they receive lunch each day during the week), then the loan officer is put on probation for six months where he or she starts receiving a salary, then after another round of interviews, the loan officer is hired on as a full employee. It is quite remarkable that each loan officer goes through this difficult process, especially Rose whose father has passed and whose mother doesn’t work as she must stay home to look after her sister who has mental problems. So, in order to work at MCDT, Rose must forgo a salary for these few months and pay for her bus ride into town in hopes of getting full-time employment.
Yet, each day Rose takes me to the field and I am so very grateful as with her guidance (and translation at times) I get to meet these wonderful women (MCDT serves mainly women who are put into groups of four or five people. They are each responsible for one another’s debt should one person fail to pay). The other day I got to meet Mwanje Florence, a hard-working woman who speaks wonderful English. She so eloquently told me that she works, “very hard to make just a little” since she goes to bed at midnight and wakes up at 4am to start working again.
Mwanje Florence went onto explain how the loans have empowered the woman as they are no longer beholden to their husbands to ask for money for food or school fees. MCDT’s training helps these women learn about the loan process and by the end, each woman is at least able to write her name, something many could not do before, and keep a loan book. In addition the groups, according to Mwanje, allow the women to meet and discuss their problems because they all understand and can support each other; they are able to help each other with their loan books and answer one another’s questions.
There are many women like Mwanje Florence and it is always so enlightening to meet each one of them. My living and working experience has shown there is a vast difference between those that live in the hills in nice houses and those who live in the slum-slums. For the people in the hills, the Bank of Africa advertises loans for weddings and furniture and for the women who live in the slums and work only to send their children to school there is MCDT and their amazing loan officers.
The Smell of Africa
Upon arrival in Entebbe (the airport for Kampala is actually in Entebbe, the old capital city which is 45 minutes from Kampala), I knew I was definitely back in Africa. It wasn’t because as a white woman I was in the minority, but rather it was the smell. On the drive to Kampala and my hotel, I was trying to figure out how to describe the smell and all I could come up with was the following: the smell is akin to driving in the country past a bonfire in which the burning scent fills your car and your nose. Yes, Africa smells like a bonfire.
As much as the smell is somewhat of a homecoming, it is also a reminder of the many troubles facing Africa as Uganda, like many other countries in Africa, burns its garbage in order to manage its waste. But, this isn’t about the environment or ethics, but rather my “welcome home.”
My previous experience in Africa was in Tanzania, mainly as a tourist operating out of Arusha, a small town near Kilimanjaro. In comparison with Arusha, which had dirt roads, no hi-rise buildings and only one supermarket, Kampala is the exact opposite. The center of Kampala is at the base of several hills which are actually different neighborhoods. The city has a number of hi-rise hotels and office buildings, paved roads, private gardens, a mall and a movie theater (which is currently playing Indiana Jones and Sex in the City). All this modernization adds to the complexity of the city, which in turn has left me trying to figure out how to get around!
However, my confusion and apprehension have been abated by the friendliness of the Ugandans. The smiles of Ugandans I meet on the street are quite welcoming as are the many greetings I have received of “you’re welcome” upon entering a restaurant or any place for that matter. This definitely helps combat the bit of homesickness I am currently suffering from – missing my family, friends and of course my adorable cat, Maddie (my support network).
I realize, however, that these smiles are not without strife. For example, my taxi driver last night spent much of the ride talking to me about Kampala, telling me about all the amazing restaurants (I am a gourmand) and overall sharing his love for the city and country. He then explained that his two children want to go to school but he cannot afford to send them as it costs around $3000 US dollars each year per child, even more for some occupations such as law. His daughter is very driven and scored a 22 on her tests (not sure what that is out of) but, the cutoff for government financial aid is a 24 leaving her without financial support and therefore unable to continue school for this year. My driver is hopeful, however, that next year she will be able to return. Unfortunately, her brother who struggles a bit more with his studies (he scored a 15) will not be able to return to school as the family can only afford to send one child and his performance does not show as much promise as that of his sister.
My cab driver is just one of the many people I hope to meet during my tenure here. It is also a reminder why I chose to come and work here – to help those who have a vision and a drive to succeed, but may not have enough available capital to do so. I just hope that as I start work later this week, I can also start to make an impact.
So, as I begin each day smelling Africa I know I am not at home in the US, but am assured that I am here for the right reasons and that through the friendliness of the Ugandans this will hopefully soon feel like home!
Ruth
The first week I came to MCDT, Justine, my supervisor, and Olivia, her supervisor, were looking at pictures of borrowers they were preparing to post to the Kiva website. They called me over to look at one person in particular, standing in the middle of a group of five and said, “You must meet Ruth!” They told me she was the embodiment of the entrepreneurial spirit and a real survivor. They told me how she’s living with AIDS and lost her husband to the disease 10 years ago. They told me how she as at least 5 businesses. I didn’t know quite what that meant until I went to visit her earlier this week.
Justine and I walked down the hill from the MCDT office to Kamwokya, the slum area where MCDT gave out its first loans. Walking through the narrow alleyways and jumping over a few gutters, we reached Ruth’s home. We went into the most cluttered house I’ve seen here in Uganda, but it was cluttered for a reason: everything would be used for some business purpose or another.
There was very little light in the house because huge bags of charcoal were stacked up around the outside (business #1). Inside, a woman sat on a stool waiting for Ruth to return to finish braiding her hair (business #2); next to that stood an ironing board with an iron heated with charcoal for Ruth’s laundry business (business #3). In the inner room, even darker than the first, with just a little light coming through a gap in the corrugated metal roof, Justine and I sat on a small sofa while Ruth sat on a mat she had woven and brought out other mats she had made and sells (business #4). She could have brought down one of three kerosene lanterns she keeps on top of a wooden breakfront that she rents out to people (business #5). In the lower right hand cabinet we could see several phones that she has used as pay phones, but the person she had employed to help her with that was unavailable. She was waiting to find someone to do that so she could start the payphone business again (business #6). To our right was a stack of baskets she had woven that she not only sells, but also rents out to people who are making a formal presentation to bridal families (business #7).
After a short visit, we went outside again to see Ruth’s grocery (business #8). Immediately to the right of the grocery is a small hut which is Ruth’s pub (business #9). We went into the pub, which is about 8’ X 10’ or thereabouts, where Ruth displayed her wares. (I asked if she had any waragi, or local brew, an alcohol made from sugar cane. She held up a bottle. Then she pulled out a plastic packet of vodka and said, “Mazungu waragi.” Yes, indeed.)
The first picture heres show Ruth standing between her grocery business and the entrance to the pub. You can also see the charcoal at her feet. The second picture shows her sitting in her pub.
As we left, Justine told me about some of Ruth’s struggle to make sure she pays her loans on time. She gave me this story as an example. Ruth travels out to the country to see to each shipment of charcoal, wanting to make sure to get good chunks rather than charcoal dust. One time, one of the coals was still burning and the whole shipment of charcoal burned before she even got it home. Because MCDT offers group guaranteed loans, Ruth could have said she simply couldn’t pay that week and depended on the other group members to pay for her. Instead, she got sugar cane on credit, chopped them into bite-sized pieces and bagged them, putting them out for sale near her pay phones (business #10). Somehow, she was able to scrape enough money together to pay back her loan each week on time. The dedication and integrity she has shown is simply remarkable. Goodness knows not every borrower is like that, but the fact is there are borrowers like this, and it is a real honor to meet them and know that these loans are making a difference when taken in conjunction with ability, spirit and will.
Kampala or Bust!
Here it is: my first blog entry! As I write this, I am putting the finishing touches on my packing and realizing I truly have no idea what to expect! I am in the phase of packing in which I second guess my second guesses and start throwing the unnecessary items back in – I think this can be referred to as panicking! What it comes down to is that no matter how much I have been reading about Uganda and Kampala, I have no real idea what to expect.
However, to say that I am unprepared is a bit preposterous. I recently got back from a (very long) week of training at the Kiva Offices in which they put each fellow through boot camp repeatedly going over what to do and what not to do. However, no matter how much poor acting we did in an attempt to recreate scenarios, the reality is that we were still in San Francisco, with sodas, clean bathrooms, tons of junk food and a nice breeze. I have a feeling Kampala will be slightly different!
So, as my list of “to-dos” dwindles down and I decide to repack that lightweight down jacket and an extra book, I realize I am not losing extra space in my suitcase, but rather gaining some feeling of security – security that I have prepared to the best of my ability and am ready for the adventure that lays ahead even if I do not know what it looks like! I will see you again in Africa….
An interview
These past couple of weeks at MCDT, my primary task has been interviewing women who will be getting their first Kiva loan (though not their first loan) in order to write up the brief introduction posted on the Kiva website. Keep an eye out for them! They’re terrific people and a terrific organization and I’m excited to be helping them get these loans.
I’ve been hearing so many stories doing these interviews, as you can imagine, it’s hard to select any particular one to share. But there was one yesterday that got to me and I thought I’d pass it along.
Fred, the loan agent, and I had gone to Lugala, a rural district near the western border of Kampala, where we met a group in a wooden shack that also served as a classroom. I interviewed six women, using a standard format, asking age, marital status, number of children, whether they are in school, along with a description of her business, her plans for a loan, and her goals.
My last interview of the day was with Christine who runs a grocery business. She is 27. She is married. She has six children. The oldest is 14.
Throughout the rest of the interview I kept looking at her, trying to find signs of how she felt about her life. Was she frustrated? Content? Angry? Resigned? I couldn’t tell. She answered everything in a dry and factual manner without a trace of emotion that I could see. But then, it’s not really an interview that lends itself to emotional outpouring. I am going to read into it, though, that when she said that her goal is to have enough money for all her children to complete their studies that she might be saying a little something about herself.
A Ugandan bus journey…
Warning: The following is a simple account of an event in Uganda. It is not intended to offend. It is not criticising anything, but merely some observations of the events of that day. There is some sarcasm, tongue-in-cheek comments, laughing at myself and others around me and is supposed to be read in a light hearted comical manner…
Trying to get a bus out of town from Kampala’s central bus park is an interesting experience. The large buses operate in a similar way to the smaller minibus taxis in that they don’t leave the station until they are completely full. There are almost 100 seats to fill so this can take anything between five minutes and five hours, depending on public demand. The long distance buses in Uganda have five seats on each row arranged in a three and a two with an aisle between the two that’s barely wide enough for Flat Stanley, never mind the huge bottomed African ladies.
If you’re one of the first onto a bus then you get the pick of the seats but you may be waiting hours to set off. If you’re one of the last few to arrive than you’ll be on the back couple of rows. All though you won’t be waiting long to leave, the lack of rear suspension on all of these buses means that you’ll more than likely arrive at your destination with bruised buttocks, compressed spinal chord and minor whiplash. A lengthy departure delay is usually preferable!
Last week we got on bus that was around three quarters full – usually this is the ideal moment to board as the bus will be leaving soon (ish!) and we managed to avoid the agony inflicted by the back row. The two of us chose to sit in a triple seat – the window seat was missing its back and so we thought we could put our bags there to keep an eye on them. The bus started to fill up – the broken window seat next to two muzungus was clearly not high on most people’s order of preference. However, I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to sit on a backless seat for a few hours. There were other seats next to windows that were missing their glass and even though the passenger would have had to put up with a gale force wind blowing in their faces for the entire journey, these seats still filled up before the one next to me. I’ve been told that the African’s think that muzungus’ body odour is just as revolting as theirs is to us. Being a muzungu who’s had to endure lengthy bus journeys under the armpit of a local man standing in the aisle I know which type of body odour I’d rather suffer. Maybe it’s an acquired taste – like Vegemite or Guinness – but a strong smell of B.O. for me, at this early stage of my life on the continent, is something that absolutely repulses me. I’ve never smelt anything like it. It’s repugnant. It makes me feel immediately queasy. It’s actually much worse than vegemite! I really don’t think there’s any comparison that can be made. I don’t know what it is. If it’s due to the food they eat or maybe the soap they wash in, but the smell that some of these locals exude is truly amazing. Certainly not for the feint hearted.
Neither Genevieve nor I were particularly stinky that morning but the spot next to me just happened to be the only one remaining. It must have been the lack of back on the seat. I suggested to the conductor that we should go and leave this space vacant as it’s not fair to charge someone to sit on broken seat. There was no way he was going to leave now and miss out on a fare. We waited for another person to come and he was shown to the seat next to me. When he sat down I hinted that he shouldn’t have to pay full price for half a seat. We all paid 12,000 shillings and I suggested he should tell the conductor that he is only going to pay 6,000 for half a seat. He didn’t understand what I was getting at. His opinion, and also that of all the other passengers, was that if you’re on the bus then you have to pay full fare.
At the moment a newspaper seller came past our seat. I bought a Daily Monitor for 1,000 shillings and took the middle 20 or so pages out and offered it to the man next to me for 1,000 shillings. He laughed at me saying “Why would I buy half a newspaper for the full price?” Only then did it become clear to him as to what I was saying about his seat! He started explaining the newspaper analogy to all the other passengers. They were amazed by his insight. It was like twenty light bulbs all turning on at the same time. I’d started a revolution. Never again would anyone in Africa pay full price for a sub-standard level of service.
The conductor came to take the money of the last passengers to board. The man next to me told the conductor, in Luganda (the local language), that he wasn’t willing to pay the full price for the ticket. He said he’d pay half. The conductor laughed. The passenger laughed. The word “muzungu” was used quite a bit. Everyone around us laughed. We laughed. The man ended up paying 10,000 for his seat.
So now every seat was full it was time to set off. Not quite. Apart from the bus companies there is also a whole host of mobile market people operating in the bus park. I’m not sure exactly how it works but it seems that in return for being able to run a bus business the owners of the bus station require that the market people are given ample opportunity to sell their wares to full buses. I suspect that the owners of the bus park also take a percentage of the market takings. So even after all the seats on the bus are occupied, the passengers still have to experience the hard sell of various mobile market men and women as they walk up and down the aisle on the bus. The variety of goods available to purchase is just staggering. If someone can carry it then someone is selling it. You name it…
Television aerials, 20 litre pesticide back pack spray, hot plates of fried chips and vegetables, AM/FM radios, watches, meat samosas, glucose biscuits, single boiled sweets, pens, handbags, muffins, baby clothes, and fake football tops, loaves of bread, sunglasses, jewellery, bags of maize flour, fluorescent camping lamps and beard trimmers (always comes as a pair).
There’s more… cold drinks, ladies dress shoes, newspapers, belts, gas lanterns, cutlery sets, silver windscreen sunshields, floor mats, sandals, plastic food storage containers, cakes, children’s toys, mobile phone airtime, wellington boots, photo frames, handkerchiefs, socks, toothpaste, pain relief balm, table cloths, footballs, cotton suit jackets, men’s vests, photo albums, leather wallets, note books, bibles and worm treatment (in both the tablet and cream variety).
Each market person, apart from the men selling fluorescent camping lamps and beard trimmers has a specific single product to sell. So for each of these items there is a separate salesman that tries to convince you that it would be good to buy from him. It wouldn’t be so bad if you had to tolerate each of these sales pitches once. But for some reason the same sellers come onto each bus at least five or six times while the bus and its passengers are waiting to go. I suppose the repeat hard sell of the pain relief balm could be a good idea for the seller. The first few times you don’t need it but by the eighth time of asking you’ve developed a stress headache that you’d like to relieve. The persistency with the food items is also understandable. At the first time of asking you’re not hungry but by the time they’ve come back for a sixth time a few hours have passed and your desperate for a cold meat samosa.
But for most of the other items?! Gee let me think! I didn’t want to buy that pesticide spray the first, second or third time I was offered it but now the seller is asking me for the seventh time, I’ve just remembered the locust infestation on my vegetable patch – I’ll take two please!
And if the relentless bombardment of sellers inside the bus isn’t enough as you’re sitting waiting patiently to leave the bus park after three hours of waiting, there’re always the sellers that hassle you from outside your window. It’s amazing that the same person who you’ve already told four times that you don’t want to buy a loaf of bread can stand below your window smiling up at you, hoping that you’ll think his bread is somehow different when he’s outside the bus. You have to admire their persistency.
There are certain products which the sellers are not allowed to bring onto the bus and they have to try and sell to you through the windows. These are usually the hot food items such as goat meat on a stick, eggs, grilled bananas, and chickens.
The chickens are still alive. The seller usually has a few of them tied up by the legs hanging upside down. The chickens seem resigned to their fate. They just hang out (literally) without complaint as the seller swings them around trying to convince people to buy a bird. When someone does buy one he’ll release the chosen chicken from his bond and pass it up through the window for the customer to stuff it under their seat. It stays there, clucking occasionally, for the entire journey with very little fuss. It’s like the chicken has seen it all before. How do they so calmly accept their destiny? The elder chickens of the community must tell the youngsters that there’s no point fighting it. “You’re all going to end up as soup – or if you’re really lucky, alongside rice in a delicious curry.”
I’m not sure if all the egg sellers either had the same idea at the same time, all work for the same employer, or just follow each other like sheep. They all carry salt to accompany their hard boiled eggs. And for some reason it’s always offered in a recycled and cleaned out yellow 200ml motorcycle brake fluid container! What’s that all about? What’s wrong with a simple salt cellar?
The same strange methods apply across the board. All sellers of a particular product use the same sales techniques and present their wares in an identical manner. The grilled banana sellers all have their bananas in small baskets of either five or ten, and they give it to you in old newspaper. There are only two kinds of drinks on sale – mineral water and a bottle that contains the most brightly coloured orange juice that I ever seen – it practically gives off light. It must be radioactive. The drinks sellers always carry six bottles at a time in a cardboard tray.
There’s no one minding their own business on a bus in Uganda. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. The person sitting next to you always knows what you’re doing, what book you’re reading, who you’re talking to on the phone, what you’re eating, and certainly what you just bought from a market seller. So, I wondering what kind of person would buy worm treatment cream on a bus? You’d be basically announcing to 100 people all at once, “Hello everyone, I’ve got worms!” I don’t think it’s the kind of product that would sell well on a bus in the UK or Australia but the Africans just seem so much more relaxed with each other in public. It’s clearly not a problem to buy worm treatment from a man on a bus, in the same way it’s ok for a mother to leave her young baby with a total stranger while she gets off the bus to find a toilet. They share their food, their problems, their emotions and even their children.
Meanwhile the bus had been full of passengers for over an hour and was still sitting in the bus park. The engine had been running for half an hour but the market sellers that moved around don’t even flinch when they breathe in the black smoke from the exhausts. How does it not affect them? I suppose in Uganda, with a life expectancy in the fifties, something else is going to kill you before your body begins to feel the effects of breathing in pollution.
I turned to the man sitting next to me on half a seat. I suggested that it would be better for the bus companies and the passengers if this bus had set off three quarters full, three hours ago. It would have reached its destination by now and be filling up for a return journey. The bus could go back and forward four times a day rather than two and the remaining quarter passengers can be picked up on the way so there’s no loss in revenue – in fact there’s a doubling of revenue. I think the man was starting to think that I was some kind of Martin Luther King character planning on bringing radical change to the entire continent.
He lost his train of thought as the bus finally started to move. There were still quite a few salespeople on the bus and they didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get off. They’d seen it all before. The slow edging forward by the driver was just a clever way of letting people that haven’t yet boarded know that we’d soon be leaving. Even though the seats were all full there was still standing room to be sold – still at 12,000 shillings a ticket! A few standing passengers got onto the bus and we edged forward a touch further. The market people were still peddling their wares, unperturbed by the movement of the bus. Painfully slowly, we crept towards the exit of the bus park, the market sellers finally realising that their time was running out. Last minute panic buys took place both on the bus and through the windows from the outside. Maybe the prices get cheaper once the bus starts moving.
A few more standing passengers boarded and the last of the sellers got off the bus just as we left the bus park. The bus park in Kampala is conveniently located right in the middle of the busiest part of the city – also where the town planners very cleverly put both the old and the new taxi parks. It’s absolute chaos – gridlock all day, every day. After sitting in the bus park for a few hours going nowhere it’s not unusual to then sit in traffic jams for another hour or so before the bus finally frees itself from the city tangle and glides through the rolling green hills that make up Uganda’s countryside.
I use ‘glide’ in the loosest sense of the word. The buses here have long past their sell-by-dates. When new, these buses are used in developed countries until their more stringent rules require them to be taken off the roads. The buses are then adapted to be able to carry more passengers and transported to countries like Uganda to be sold to their bus companies. The Ugandan bus companies will literally run their buses into the ground before they take them out of service. I prefer not to use them but there are many buses here, struggling along pumping out thick black clouds of smoke, many windows missing, others cracked, seats missing, others torn, windscreen wipers held on with rubber bands. The engines are probably held together with gaffer tape. They’re not safe but the drivers insist on driving them as fast as possible, racing around corners, clearly in a hurry to get home.
Speeding is a real problem in Uganda. There are no road side speed cameras and when the government tried to introduce handheld cameras it was rumoured that they render the user impotent! The rumour mill is very strong in these parts – the police simply refused to use the cameras! To crack down on speeding the only way is to physically prevent vehicles from being able to travel quickly. Every road in Uganda is lined with speed bumps in various guises. There’s the huge single speed bump that you have to go over at an angle or come off the road entirely to avoid the underside of your chassis being scraped. There are those that are made up of four small speed bumps in very close succession. If the vehicle goes over them too quickly a violent shudder goes right through the car and its passengers’ spines and necks. At slow place however, these mini-speed bumps can come in handy for making milk shakes and cocktails.
The ironic thing about the speed bumps in Uganda is that the old roads are now so uneven and completely littered with huge pot holes that the speed bumps are actually the smoothest part of the road!
So after ‘cruising’ in the countryside for maybe ten minutes the driver pulled over and told the passengers that if they want to relieve themselves, now would be a good time. In Uganda they call it the “short call”. Considering that all the passengers have been on the bus for four or five hours already, drinking mineral water and luminous orange juice, it’s not surprising that the majority of the 100 passengers take the driver up on his offer. After the toilet stop the bus continued on its journey. By this stage we’ve probably covered a grand total of 20 miles of our few hundred mile journey. Patience is an important quality to have in Uganda!
After another hour or so the bus stopped at the nearest market town. The market vendors see the bus approaching from a good distance and were all ready with their wares as the bus came to a standstill. At these small market towns the sellers all wear identical blue jackets with a unique number on. There are somewhere in the vicinity of 60 or 70 sellers that swarm round the buses – at these towns the transaction takes place through the bus window. For some reason though there is very limited choice at these markets – usually only goat skewers, drinks and grilled bananas. They all sell their identical food for the same price and seem to be in direct competition with each other. If a passenger expresses even the slightest interest in, say, a grilled banana he will have at least ten banana saleswomen at his window all holding up their identical bananas to the prospective customer. It’s absolute madness. They’re pushing and shoving each other to get their banana under the nose of the customer. I have no idea why these people don’t all come together, have one market with their three products, with all proceeds being pooled and divided amongst the sellers.
It doesn’t happen this way though – it more closely resembles a rugby scrum combined with a Worldwide Wresting bout with all the sellers fighting each other over the next 500 shillings. It seems wrong but I’ve come to realise that the words “Uganda” and “logic” don’t often go hand in hand here.
The bus journey usually carries on along a similar vain – stopping every hour or so for a short-call and shortly after that to stock up on provisions. These people eat a lot. They definitely aren’t the starving people of Africa that we had to think about as kids when we left a morsel of food on our plates and certainly not those highlighted by Bob Geldof in 1985. In Uganda they live in a land of plenty – everything they need does literally grow on trees. They may not have the variety in their diets that we enjoy in the developed world but the vast majority of their food is grown locally and travels by foot to their plate where it is eaten. Compared to most westerners it’s a considerably more environmentally conscious way to eat. Let’s just hope the Ugandans don’t discover cheaper ways of growing avocados, mangos or bananas in China.
After five hours on the road and a total of eight or nine hours in the bus we finally pull in to the bus park of our destination town. I can’t say that I feel fresh and invigorated by the journey but the experience has been so much more rewarding than sitting on the high speed train from Leeds to London in silence not interacting with any of the other passengers, shrinking into my own little world. My body may be tired but even the simplest of journeys in Africa rejuvenates the mind and soul.
Car horns, dogs, cockerels & muezzins…
Warning: The following story is not supposed to suggest that I think every African is noisy and offensive! It may seem that I am complaining about something very trivial and some sections of society will read this and say “If you don’t like it them leave”. To them I say… I am not asking anyone here to change – I love it here – merely writing about the fact that I haven’t managed to sleep through a night since coming here. I love the life and energy here and wouldn’t want it any other way (god, these white church-going middle class Americans are a really difficult audience! Like I’m doing this for them!) There is some sarcasm, attempts at light hearted comedy, tongue-in-cheek comments and even a bit of poking fun at myself (would you believe it from an Englishman!)
I’ve been in Uganda for over two months now and even though we’re living in one of the quietest parts of town, I’m pretty sure that I haven’t managed to make it through an entire night without being woken.
I’m getting used to it now – I’ve stopped expecting to get a solid night’s sleep. The locals here not only have much smaller personal spaces (if none at all), but they also have less consideration when it comes to making noise at night. There’s never a question of “I’ll be quiet now, some people could be sleeping” – even at two or three in the morning. It’s not uncommon for someone to return to their home in their car from their evening activity at some point after midnight and repeatedly honk their horn or simply hold it down until their night watchman opens their security gate for them. Even in the quiet of the night it doesn’t occur to them that a simple tiny hoot – or better still, getting out of their car and knocking on the gate – would be more considerate to their neighbours. Maybe it does occur to them but waking others out of their sleep is not considered rude here.
Maybe it’s because that even if they don’t wake me up with their horn they know that the Islamic call to prayer will be upsetting me at four or five in the morning. Even though Uganda is a Christian country the small minority of Muslims seem to have strategically placed their mosques so that it’s simply not possible to avoid the wailing call to prayer – five times a day! I can deal with the screeching tones coming from the muezzin at three o’clock in the afternoon but to be woken by “Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar” at four thirty in the morning is starting to get a little bit annoying. Maybe it would be alright if the muezzin actually had a decent voice and I could enjoy his song. Oh no. Our local muezzin not only has possibly the worst voice in the entire world but he insists, as so many of them do these days, to unashamedly broadcast his call at full volume via a sub-standard amplifier and speaker system. So not only does the singing sound like it’s coming from a donkey’s arse, it’s also cranked up to max volume and pumped out through a system that’s probably failed quality control at the Panashiba factory in Taiwan. Put it another way, even if I was the world’s most devoted Muslim I’d still be offended by this guy’s attempts to entice us all to mosque.
Even if by some miracle, none of the neighbours returned late incessantly blasting their car horn, there was a power cut and the mosque’s back up generator has failed the pack of homeless dogs that roam our streets at night would find a way of interrupting my slumber. It doesn’t take much to start them off – usually a car horn or the muezzin does the trick! And they just don’t know when enough is enough. They’ll continue to bark, howl, yap and wail until about quarter of an hour before my alarm is due to go off. Why is it that noisy dogs keep you up all night with their relentless barking – for hours and hours, completely unrepentant – and then suddenly go all quiet only a few minutes before you were going to wake up anyway? And then just as you’re finally nodding off the beep-beep-beep of your alarm comes crashing through the beautiful silence, reminding you that you need to leave for work in half an hour. Just perfect!
There is the hope (although it’s not good for the state of the dirt roads in the morning) that it rains heavily through the night. This forces all the dogs to look for shelter and forget about their need to bark for no apparent reason all night. So, on a rainy night when the mosque’s power cuts out and the neighbours all stay home I might just be able to get a decent night’s kip. If only it wasn’t for the cockerels!
Even without the muezzin, the car horns and the wild dogs, you can guarantee that the day always breaks and the dark turns to light. It’s the signal for the cockerels to stretch their vocal chords, mark out their territories and have a crack at wooing the hens. How can any female be even slightly attracted that that repulsive noise? I know it doesn’t do much for Genevieve – but poultry’s not really her thing I suppose. So, from around six o’clock every morning, without fail, the cock-a-doodle-dooing starts – in 5.1 surround sound.
There’s no real solution to my sleep deprivation problems. The neighbours won’t understand that I think it’s selfish to beep their horns in the early hours of the morning. It’s a different culture – there’s no point even trying. There’s a fine balance between wanting a storm to rage all night to shut the dogs up, and not being able to sleep through the thunder. If the rain’s not heavy enough the dogs don’t hide and if it’s too heavy the roads become an impassable mud-bath in the morning. There’s no simple resolution to this complex dilemma!
Maybe, if there’s an extended solar eclipse during the normal sunrise hours, the cockerels would miss their cue to crow? It’s unlikely that I’ll ever get to find out. Solar eclipses are rare enough for me to be waiting for one to happen at sunrise in Kampala! Anyway, I’m starting to think that the time of day bears no relevance to the timing of the cockerels’ calls. I hear them going off in the middle of the afternoon, a few hours after sunset and even in the middle of the night. This idea that they act as nature’s alarm clock and go off with the rising sun is very dubious.
So what about the off-key shrieking muezzin? Last week, I went to the mosque to find him. He wasn’t there but I asked the imam if they had electronically amplified calls to prayer in Muhammad’s day (praise be upon him). He didn’t understand the sarcastic tone to my question and told me that the prophet Muhammad was around in the 15th century – well before the joys of the electronic age. Ok, I had to be more direct. I asked him it was possible to turn the volume down for the 5am call. He was shocked! He says he gets many complaints about the early morning call. I was happy to hear that I wasn’t in the minority. I turns out that I was! Apparently all the other complaints have been grumbles about the volume not being loud enough, causing them to not hear it and miss their prayer. He also saw nothing wrong with the fact that there are literally thousands of people living in the near vicinity of the mosque and only a handful of them are devout Muslims. He told me that the Christians also like the early morning call to prayer because it acts as their alarm clock. Surely they have cockerels for that!? I was clearly fighting a losing battle.
Just as I had given up the struggle and made peace with my broken sleep, right there at the mosque with only the Imam and Allah as my witness I had an incredible epiphany – earplugs!
Lost in Translation
Last week I had a heated discussion with a minibus taxi conductor. The locals that witnessed this event rarely see anyone losing their temper, let alone raising their voice in public. Genevieve and I have been using the same bus route for a number of weeks now and, while at first we paid slightly more than the locals, it’s now obvious that we know the price and all the conductors charge us appropriately.
I was having a bad day, I shouldn’t have let myself get frustrated in this way, and I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The argument went something like this:
“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”
“Yes, 700 Shillings”
“700? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 300”
“It’s 700 now”
“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 300. Can you let us on please?”
He obstructed our path.
“If you come on this bus you pay 700”
“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 300. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 700?”
“If you don’t pay 700 you can’t come. We are leaving now”
He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.
“Hang on. We’ll do it for 400. Come on – be fair”.
“700 or you stay”
We were meeting people in Bugolobi and we’re already late for them. It would take around half an hour to walk or three minutes on the bus. It was dark. There were no pavements for pedestrians along that road. It had been raining. We really didn’t want to have to work but we also didn’t want to have to pay extortionate prices. We’re volunteering here. We’re not earning an income – it was actually more than we could afford.
“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 500. Let us go please”.
He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.
“You will pay 700”.
“No way are we paying 700. We’ll pay you the fair price, 500. OK?”
“700 or we go now?”
We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.
We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra 200 shillings he wanted us to pay.
Our friends were waiting for us at the restaurant. No-one expects anyone to be on time here – not even close to being on time. Anything with an hour of the time planned is deemed to be “on-time”. A delicious pizza topped with creamy feta and Italian olives, and a couple of cold Club Beers later and we couldn’t even feel our wet trousers and had forgotten all about the nasty con tricks of the minibus conductor.
A few days later I remembered back to the argument and actually thought about the amount of money that we were arguing about and preferring to put ourselves through the annoyance, rigour and sweat over.
I went over the conversation we had with the conductor, this time converting the shilling amounts into English pounds…
“Are you going to Bugolobi Market?”
“Yes, 20 pence”
“20 pence? You’re joking. We use this route every day and it’s always 9 pence”
“It’s 20 pence now”
“We’ll pay the same price as everyone else. 9 pence. Can you let us on please?”
He obstructed our path.
“If you come on this bus you pay 20 pence”
“We’ve been in Kampala a while now, we know the price. It’s always 9 pence. It’s not even far to Bugolobi. How can you charge us 20 pence?”
“If you don’t pay 20 pence you can’t come. We are leaving now”
He signalled to the driver by tapping on the roof of the minibus twice with the palm of his hand. The bus started to edge away.
“Hang on. We’ll do it for 12 pence. Come on – be fair”.
“20 or you stay”
“We’re late and you’re making everyone else late. We’ll pay 15 pence. Let us go please”.
He double tapped the bus again and they edged off a little further.
“You will pay 20 pence”.
“No way are we paying 20 pence. We’ll pay you the fair price, 15 pence. OK?”
“20 pence or we go now?”
We refused his attempts to con us for the final time, shaking our heads as the minibus pulled away from us.
We walked in the dark, along the wet, busy and polluted road for 30 frustrating minutes, dodging truck headlights, treading in puddles of sewage and generally wishing we could have afforded to say yes to the extra five pence he wanted us to pay.
Absurd isn’t it?!
Muzungu, Muzungu, Muzungu…. Muzungu bye!!
Almost everywhere we go it feels like we’re the centre of attention. Most often we’re the only white people around amongst a sea of locals. The attention isn’t bad – it can’t be classed as harassment like we receive in India, Morocco and certain other countries – but we’re aware that all eyes are on us. We’re just different – we look different, we move differently, we wear different clothes, we sound different, we’re doing different, possibly interesting things.
For the small kids, as we walk through their small communities, nestled onto the lower slopes of the small hills that rise from the city’s flats, they are ecstatic just to see a white person. If we walk passed a hundred kids in a community I’d be surprised if more than a couple of them managed to resist the temptation to shout “Muzungu”. Many of the kids will come up to us wanting to hold our hands or touch the skin of our arms. As the first few more daring kids are reach us and hang off our limbs it creates a signal to the rest of the kids in the community that we’re open to being used as climbing apparatus. Within a few seconds there might be twenty or thirty small kids, most of them no higher than our waists, holding our hands, grabbing our legs, clinging onto our arms, all squealing with excitement about the fact that they are in contact with a white person. The kids that are more reserved remain in the close proximity of their mothers. They’ll still shout “Muzungu” and most normally wave, again getting very excited when we wave back. “Muzungu, bye”, is their usual reply.
The older kids that have started school take the conversation to the next level. “Muzungu, how are you?”, they will shout as we approach. They can see us coming for miles. It’s as though we’re shining white lights, glowing bright as we approach their neighbourhoods. You can hear the excitement building amongst the kids as we draw nearer. One kid may spot us coming a long time before we’ve seen him. He’ll light the metaphoric beacon where he stands with a quick excited outburst of “Muzungu”. For the other kids within earshot, who may have been playing with the same half of a plastic bottle or stick on a rope or, if they’re very lucky, an old rubber bicycle tyre for the past few hours, the quiet whispering of the word Muzungu pricks their ears, they see if they can spot the white person approaching and the “beacons” are very quickly lit throughout the entire community.
“Muzungu, muzungu, muzungu”. “Muzungu. Bye”. “Muzungu, how are you?” When we reply to their question it’s more than often greeted with a very quick “I’m fine”, followed by an even quicker retreat to the safety of their front doors. On the occasions where Genevieve is surrounded by hoards of overexcited children I may pull the camera out of my bag to snap a quick photo. The appearance of the camera only leads to more kids coming out from the confines of their home turf to get close to Genevieve for the photo. Yesterday evening, for the first time, I showed the photo that I had just taken of the kids to them all on the camera’s screen. The reaction was immediate. All the kids ran off in the same direction, waving their arms in the air screaming ecstatically, jumping into the air. These are the happiest children I have ever come across. They have next to nothing. Their family homes are one room, built from mud bricks, wooden poles and corrugated iron roofing. They have no kitchen or bathroom.
The mothers do all the cooking on the street out the front of their homes. Most have a speciality dish that they have become known for. One mother will make chapattis, another fried bananas, another matoka. Some will fry pigs trotters, others boil eggs or fry chipped potatoes in huge pans of boiling oil. The community clan is one huge family. The food is exchanged between the mothers so each family has a variety of food for their meals.
The kids’ bathroom consists of a plastic washing up tub half filled with water which has been warmed on the fire and placed next to the front door. The adults must wash in the privacy of their homes.
The homes have no running water. All the water that they use is carried to their homes from the local pump in ten litre plastic yellow petrol containers. Light in the home is provided by the sun and at night, by fire from candles. The community does have electricity, but only for a few communal rooms. The bar is lit at night and pumps out music as the locals play pool amongst the goats. There is a separate big screen which shows movies or, more often than not, English Premiership football. The Ugandans are crazy about football. They’ve never had a strong national team but they all have strong support for teams from England. Liverpool, Manchester United, Chelsea and Arsenal are followed by 99% of the locals. I did see one poor delusional man wearing a blue and yellow striped Leeds United top from 1993. Maybe he doesn’t know? Maybe the die-hard loyalty that Leeds fans have doesn’t stop at the English based supporters? Maybe he really does know – that, one day, Leeds will be back, bigger than ever and he can say that he stuck with them through thick and thin, the highs and lows, the ups and downs He is proud not to be one of the masses that jumped on the Manyoo bandwagon in 1999 or joined the Russian Revolution at Chelsea or the French croissant eating aristocracy at Arsenal in even more recent times.
Anyway, back to the hillside community and its smiling happy shiny people. The young adult men that approach us usually have a story to tell. They tell us the recent history of their family, their sons and daughters who have died, their nephews and nieces in their care due to the early death of their parents, their struggle to earn enough money to provide all their children with a school education. They don’t want our money. They want us to give them a job.
Rich muzungus in Africa can come across as lazy abusers of the cheap labour that the locals can provide. While some may view the fact that a white man has a driver, a personal shopper, a daily cleaner, someone to cook for them, a nanny for their kids, two security guards, a house keeper and someone to give extra tuition to their children as unnecessary, the reality of the situation is that he is giving his staff a good income, directly supporting all of their families and distributing the money he has around the local community. While we are all capable of washing our own dishes and changing and cleaning the sheets on our beds, a muzungu can do much more for the community to pay someone to do these tasks for them.
It’s even better if a muzungu has a business here in which he can employ locals. It’s just a shame that we’re volunteering here and when young bright eyed men approach us asking for work we have to put out their fires by telling them we don’t have a business or anything we can offer them. Still, they’re too proud to plead and beg and they quickly turn the conversation towards pleasantries about the day.
But it’s the children that have had the biggest effect on me so far. It’s just incredible how happy they all are in their villages. If a small child has one toy it will keep him entertained for hours on end. There might be a small gave of football between some of the slightly bigger kids – I’m yet to see a football being used that has any air in it! Still, they seem to be able to control a fully deflated ball as well as most of us can use a pumped up ball. It’s not uncommon to see two or three babies of no more than 18 months old, sitting down together, communicating with each other while pointing to a few bottle tops that they are amusing themselves with. The kids are left alone for long periods of time, the parents perfectly happy that they are safe to wander round anywhere within the community.
They all seem so content with their lives. They have next to nothing.
My Muzungu Man
We entered the wooden hut that served as the meeting room for Rubaga Women’s Group, desperate for some respite from the Kampala sunshine. It was much cooler inside, despite the absence of windows and surprisingly, the thin gaps between the planks of wood let in a cool breeze. So we sat down and were grateful that the women were able to make enough room for us to squash between them. Our sense of personal space has been altered since we came to Uganda and we no longer feel uncomfortable to be pressed up against smiling strangers on buses, in queues at the check out counter in the supermarket, or anywhere really.
There were ten or so women, ranging in age from mid twenties to late forties. When you consider that the average life expectancy for a Ugandan is 51, you realize that the older women were actually senior citizens. Not that anyone acted or looked old. There was so much teasing and laughing that it could have been a group of school girls. They were all mothers, many of eight or so children. And the woman who had only one child, was scolded light-heartedly that she should be working on having more. Incidentally, she was also the one with the largest and most successful business. But more on the link between family planning and economic advancement another time.
As we worked our way through the list of names and interviewed these lovely women, a pattern emerged. It’s a familiar story here. A woman has several children with one man – who is often her husband but sometimes not. He leaves her for a younger woman, and the responsibility for childrearing falls entirely on the woman’s shoulders. A variation of this theme is that the man dies, often of AIDS, leaving her with several children to raise on her own. Add to this, the fact that many also take in orphans, nieces and nephews whose parents have died of AIDS. So we seemed to be in a nation of incredibly hard-working, resilient women who are bringing up the next generation single-handedly in the harshest circumstances.
But you wouldn’t guess that life was so very hard. There were infectious smiles and laughter and sense of dignity and pride that was inspiring. But we were sweating in that wooden hut, still recovering from the dusty journey to this part of town. So Adam offered to buy some sodas – for me, and after half a second’s thought, for all the other women here. It’s a small gesture, but it was much appreciated by all. Especially the one whose shop it was where Adam where made this bulk purchase. We could see how this sale would be helpful, when many of the clients have told us they make the equivalent of five dollars a day.
When Adam left the meeting hut to buy the drinks, the women all turned to me to chat –the way women chat with each other when there are no men around. They all said “Look how lucky you are. You Muzungus, your men stay with you and help you. Ugandan men have babies with us and leave us for younger chicks. Or they die and leave us alone”. We went around the table and counted the number of widows and single mothers. They were by far the majority. So this is why the women were so touched by Adam’s gesture. Not only did he offer to buy drinks, but he also got up from his seat, walked out into the heat of the day and fetched them for us all.
Our visit had shown these women something that was so foreign to them. We were a couple who spend all our time together (neither of us are planning to leave anytime soon!) and a man who is kind and generous and willing to get up and do something for his wife and the other women around him. But I just couldn’t feel smug. My blessing felt merely bitter sweet. It seems so unfair that my experience of marriage is something these women can only dream about.
So I guess we can add that to the long list of inequalities in this world…
Sunday at the tombs
Man, it seems like the Ugandan fellows have taken over the blog! I probably should wait my turn but I wanted to tell you about an encounter I had last Sunday.
One of the great sites in Kampala is the Kasubi tombs where the Buganda kings are buried, and so on Sunday in search of touristy adventure, I went.
It’s not a very big place overall, about the size of a baseball field (to use a comparison comfortable to me), with a few huts in it. The largest is where the kings are buried behind a fig bark cloth hung from the ceiling in a place referred to as the forest. I had to wear the skirt for my individual tour, which was led by a young man named Nicholas.
I learned about the 52 pillars in the hut, representing the 52 clans of the Buganda; I learned about the table and two chairs sent by Queen Victoria which caused such an uproar when it was suggested that the king and “the” queen should sit in them, as the king had I can’t remember how many wives. I saw the preserved remains of the leopard that had been the pet of King Mutasa (I believe), but had gone wild after his death.
Nicholas told me all of this, informed and placid, and as we approached the end of the tour he asked me what I did. I told him about Kiva and about microfinance and Nicholas became tremendously animated. “I make juice,” he said, “And this is just the kind of thing I need!”
We sat down in the front office as I passed along the names of the MFIs that I knew about in Kampala, since Life in Africa isn’t offering loans at this time. He gave me his phone number and email address and then took me on an entirely additional tour of the Islamic School right next to the tombs where he sells the juice he already produces.
Nicholas seems to me to be just the kind of person microfinance is around to serve: an entrepreneur with drive but not quite the capital he needs to do the job. He showed me some of the juice packets left lying around empty and introduced me to the headmaster who showed me around: boys dorm, girls dorm, classrooms, and the school building that used to be a mosque: the first mosque in Kampala.
Talk about microfinance opening doors! I didn’t know it meant that quite so literally!
The picture shows Nicholas (left) and the headmaster in front of the first mosque of Kampala.
Fire…Fire…Fire!!
A few days ago we had just finished some shopping at the Uchumi supermarket at the newly built Garden City Mall. As we left the mall and walked through the car park we noticed the commotion of hundreds of people watching smoke billowing from the roof of the six story Standard Chartered Bank building. A few of the workers had made their way onto the roof and were removing tiles to allow the smoke and heat to escape. The roof of a building that’s on fire is possibly not the safest of places to be but quite a few workers seems very happy to be up there, being watched by the huge crowd that was gathering on all the mall balconies and car park levels. As the smoke continued to grow some people decided the safest place to be was as far from the mall complex as possible. The cars queued to leave via the only exit which, incidentally, is also the only entrance! The two lanes provided for entrance and exit were both fully clogged up by cars leaving the mall. At that moment the fire engine arrived. Or at least it tried to arrive – it couldn’t get into the entrance of the car pack due to the cars trying to flee the scene. There was a huge panic as officials tried to get the cars that were trying to leave to back up. The same people that were desperately trying to flee the scene of a six-story building potential about to burst into a flaming fireball were being forced to reverse back down the ramp towards the smoking bank. It was clear that there had been little planning for the eventuality of a fire within the mall. Eventually a route was cleared for the fire engine to drive to he outside of the ground floor of the bank. There was a ramp to the right which allowed vehicles to drive up and around to be outside the 3rd story of the building but they chose the ground floor level.
The smoke was still rising out of the roof and the bank workers were still frantically pulling up roof tiles to allow more heat to escape. Meanwhile the six or seven members of the fire engine crew were busy trying to get the ladder off the fire engine’s roof rack. The ladder was in three parts and it took all of the crew a good few minutes to assemble. Only when they put it in position on the floor and leaned it against the wall did they realize that the ladder only reached up to a point midway between the 2nd and 3rd story of the building! They dismantled the ladder, placed it back on the roof rack of the fire engine and drove the vehicle round the ramp and parked it outside the 3rd story of the building. The ladder assembly process began again. They managed to put it together slightly quicker than the first time – practice makes perfect! Unfortunately, even from the 3rd story, ladder did not quite reach up to the roof of the building. There was a balcony on the adjacent building to the bank where a large group of people had gathered. One of the firemen realized he could go inside the mall, up the escalator and onto the balcony where the people were standing. Four of the other firemen then started to climb the ladder at the same time, each holding a separate part of the hose, aiming to pass it from the fire engine up to the fireman who had reached the balcony.
Meanwhile the bank workers on the roof were still pulling up tiles and the smoke was still rising through the holes – although it seemed to have been dying down a little. The hose reached the fireman on the balcony who was now only one story below the roof. He stood prepared with the hose in his hand aiming up at the roof of the bank. The fireman closest to the tap turned on the hose. Only then did it become clear that the hose had not been used or checked for some time. It was completely ridden with holes and almost all of the water from the tap leaked out of the holes in the hose before reaching the end with the nozzle. Everyone in the vicinity got soaked through before the firemen turned off the tap. They had run out of ideas. Fortunately the smoke had completely stopped and it seemed that the fire had somehow put itself out.
I think the moral of this story is to really try exceptionally hard not to leave a chip pan unattended on your stove while preparing dinner in Kampala.
A conversation to ponder
Yesterday, while walking home from work, my husband and I fell into a rhythm that kept pace with a young man who was walking in the same direction. In the big city I come from, people tend to avoid making eye contact when they chance upon strangers in the street. In a country town, people tend to acknowledge each other with a friendly nod or brief smile. Ugandans will smile openly, say hello and ask how you are. They will even wait for your reply and expect you to enquire the same of them. And then, if your Luganda is good enough, or if they speak English, a light and friendly chat will take place. So of course when this happened yesterday, it came as no surprise. Nor was it unusual that the Joseph, as the young man introduced himself, was gently spoken and so very polite. I should point out now that Uganda appears to be an incredibly safe country, where we can walk without fear along most roads – knowing that the laptop in your bag would prove to be a curiosity rather than a potential windfall. So we feel very comfortable ignoring our mothers’ advice about talking to strangers here.
We told Joseph that we were on our way home from work and asked him if he was doing the same. He was well dressed, with perfectly polished shoes, so it seemed to be the logical assumption. Joseph was in fact going to his brother’s house, where he was staying for a while until he found work. He explained that his brother had a job, but was struggling to support his own wife and children so he could only impose on them a while longer. Joseph told us about his home town in the east of Uganda. How beautiful it is, and how he plans to stay in Kampala for a few years to make some money and then return there to start a family.
While he told us his story, Joseph spoke positively, with the confidence that he would find a job soon. His hardship was simply a fact of life in Uganda and nothing to be pitied. In fact, Joseph said that he was very lucky to be blessed with the ability to read and write English well and the strength to do many physical jobs. He also had the good sense to make the most of this chance meeting with two Muzungus – Joseph asked if he could give us his phone number in case we came across anyone who might be hiring staff. I couldn’t think of a more reasonable request. And that’s the Ugandan way – gentle and honest, with no hint of aggression.
This is not the fist time a Ugandan has asked if we know of anyone who can give them a job, but it is the first country where I have heard this request so many times. And I find this quite incredible. In one of the world’s poorest nations, we are not swamped with beggars or children demanding pens or sweets, or by people eager to show us their medical conditions in the hope that we will pay for their treatment. Just the dignified request for an honest living.
Something to ponder anyway…
The Leader, Brother Colonel Gaddafi
Yesterday we were on a mutatu coming back from Ggaba (around seven miles away on the shores of Lake Victoria). We covered the first five miles in good time – in fact at the precise moment that I was thinking how quick the journey had been we hit a jam. We didn’t move an inch for over half an hour. No one else on the mutatu batted an eyelid. We waited for another ten minutes before a few people chose to get off the bus and walk the rest of the journey. The major roads are not the most pleasant of routes to walk along. Every vehicle pumps out an incredible about of black smoke from their exhaust pipes which more often than not are directed at the pedestrians walking alongside. The pavements are strewn with holes – some of them large enough to swallow up someone who steps in it unexpectedly. It’s easy to be distracted. There’s quite a lot going on when you walk around the streets. People shouting questions at you; Boda-Boda drivers pulling out in front of you on the pavement offering their services; hopeful locals taking your hand and asking you for a job; mutatu drivers attempting to entice you into their vehicles. It would be very easy to lose concentration on the actual pavement and drop into an open man-hole. Scary thought. On this occasion we chose to stay in the mutatu and sit out the traffic jam.
Another few minutes passed with absolutely no movement and our patience broke. We got out and started walking and coughing. When I first got to Kampala I held my breath when a dirty truck drove passed filling the air with black soot and poison. After a while I found that I was holding my breath for considerably more time than I was actually breathing. I’m now resigned to the fact that it’s not possible to walk around the streets without breathing in the toxins. It’s one of the most disappointing elements of Kampala for me so far. Anyway, so back to walking through the traffic jam that we’d been sitting patiently in for so long. We walked no more than a couple of hundred yards when we came to a large roundabout where the police had blocked all traffic in all directions. Not one vehicle was moving. All of the pedestrians that were trying to walk to their destinations had also been prevented from passing. We had to wait.
Two of the streets had been cleared of all traffic and a few of the pedestrians along the streets had large placards adorned with the photo of Colonel Gaddafi. Suddenly there were sirens coming from our left. Two police cars sped past along the emptied street. A third police car approached the bend at high speed and came to a skidding screeching half spinning stop right in front of the amassed crowd. My first reaction was that the car almost killed a group of innocent by-standers. The innocent by-standers first reaction was to cheer and clap. The car did a wheel spin, throwing a huge amount of dust and dirt into the air and all over looking crowd – still cheering! Seconds later a convoy of at least 20 SUVs came hurtling passed, most of them accompanied by sirens or holding their horns on continuously. Then a sedan car with the man himself in the back seat, flanked by body guards, waving and smiling at the crowd – of which the vast majority hadn’t come to see him but had in fact just been caught up in the wrong part of the city at the wrong time. Nevertheless, Colonel Gaddafi sped past what I’m sure he thought were streets lined with his adoring supporters. Once Gaddafi’s car had passed another 20 or so SUVs sped by with people inside who clearly did love the man.
I couldn’t help but thinking why does a man holding no public office or title have the right to hold up an entire city and it’s people for over an hour. Can’t he get on a mutatu like the rest of us? Has he forgotten his peasant family upbringing? Who the hell does he think he is? Since the day he arrived in town the newspapers have been full of stories and photos of the colonel. Streets around the university have been renamed after him. It’s been reported that he’s frequented numerous lap dancing bars, having the entire female staff perform for him while the usual patrons are locked out on the street. Nice man.
Early thoughts from Uganda
Arriving in Uganda was as welcoming as my wife (Genevieve) and I had expected. We had heard and read such glowing reports of the country and its people. After only a few days in the country my first impressions of both the locals and the city of Kampala are extremely positive ones. As we left the arrivals area at Entebbe airport and stepped outside in Uganda for the first time we were greeted by a large advertising board for Barclays Bank. It says in hugely proud letters “Enjoy Africa’s friendliest country”. The people are among the friendliest people I have had the pleasure of spending time with – not only in Africa, but worldwide. I’m not sure if it’s because the locals are all aware of this label that they have and make the effort to live up to the hype or if it’s because they are simply incredibly friendly. But which came first – the chicken or the egg? It doesn’t matter, from my experience so far, it’s been a pleasure to be here amongst the Ugandans. Unlike the locals of many other developing countries, they genuinely want to make sure that their overseas visitors are made welcome, feel comfortable and at home in Uganda. They offer to help at any opportunity and, surprisingly, are rarely looking for anything in return except a thank you and a warm smile – and the opportunity to shout Muzungu (“White man”) at you. This is purely an observation. Apparently, the locals refer to each other as such things as the brown one, the fat one and the blind one so their use of the local word for “White man” isn’t supposed to be racist in any way. This kind nature is not only reserved for foreign visitors, it is also their way with each other.
My first experience with a local minibus taxi (called a Mutatu in the local language) highlighted this. There is space for 13 people in the taxi. All seats were full with 12 passengers and the conductor seated next to a serious looking man in smart business attire. I presumed we were full but we stopped to pick up a market woman. There is no space for standing on these taxis but there was absolutely no problem with the conductor sitting on the businessman’s knees as we carried on along our way. The Ugandan people have such a gentle nature. They are softly spoken and I am yet to hear someone raise their voice in anger. They all seem to have genuine consideration for each others feelings. If someone drops what they are holding and it breaks, everyone around will say “sorry” – and they mean it. One minibus taxi I was on drove passed the scene of a lady who had fallen off her bicycle and was being helped by a few locals. Almost in unison, all the passengers on the bus said “sorry”. They say it in such a heartfelt manner that you can’t help but be taken aback by their compassion for one another.
Their positivity is apparent through their beaming smiles – from small children through to the frailest of old men. Almost everyone I have seen looks well and healthy. They have an abundance of naturally grown produce, available cheaply in the local markets. They have a low fat and low sugar diet – their teeth are all great (so my Genevieve tells me – she’s a dentist!). In the respect of living in a lush, green, plentiful country the Ugandans have a lot to be happy about. Their climate allows them to grow an abundance of fruit, vegetables tea, coffee and also sugar. The country now exports some of these products and the government is hopefully using the revenue to improve the country and the welfare of its people.
It seems that the tremendous weight of the Idi Amin era seems long forgotten and the country is moving forward positively. While I have spent most of my few days here in Kampala I have also been fortunate enough to visit two separate groups of people in rural communities in Jinja and Mukono. The people here are also progressing nicely. The Micro finance institutions based all around Uganda are able to offer loans and other financial products as well as training to a wide section of the population, at more affordable rates than local money lenders. This relatively recently introduced form of money lending is allowing those not previously able to apply for bank loans, able to afford the extortionate money lender rates or live in too remote a community to have been reached in the past to receive financial support. Their small businesses are starting to thrive. Individual brick-makers now have four or five full time workers and are dreaming of buying land and building homes and services for their village. Families who previously owned one cow now have a few cows and a handful of calves and can sell milk in their village market to the locals at a more affordable price. Women who used to buy a handful of bananas and sell them on the roadside now have a stall at the town market and are able to buy and sell in much larger quantities. Rural families are able to send all their children to school and many have hopes of going onto further education and becoming professionals. People are building themselves new brick homes. Drainage channels are being dug and paved alongside the roads to manage the rain water flow. Roads are being re-laid. Construction is everywhere. The companies in charge are employing large numbers of locals to help with the manual labour. A few mobile phone companies are competing for the market, offering affordable communication for all. It is not uncommon to see a family living in a mud brick house to have a few mobile phones between them. There is wireless internet all around Kampala. These are exciting times for Uganda.
Everyone has a great sense of pride in their appearance. They all dress immaculately and it is an insult to them to not wear appropriate attire. A muzungu who goes around in ripped pants, flip flops and a collarless t-shirt is considered to be showing disrespect by not dressing according to how he or she can afford to dress. While outward appearance shows a prosperous and healthy nation the bitter fact that so many Ugandans are infected with HIV AIDS, malaria and cholera are widespread and the Ebola virus is once again starting to spread in the west of the country. There are public notice adverts on huge billboards urging people not to have cross generational sex. Power cuts across Kampala are extremely common and often lengthy. The vehicles on the roads are mainly old, emitting black smoke, making large areas of the city dirty and polluted. The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), a guerilla movement, allegedly supporting the Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), operates in Northern Uganda and Sudan and is accused of widespread human rights violations. They are in armed rebellion against the Ugandan Government in what is one of Africa’s longest conflicts. This is a nation not without its problems – and some very serious ones at that.
It’s clear that there are many western organizations here to help. Although, a few of the locals we have spoken to about this, are under the impression that most westerners are here to make money and reap the financial benefits of being here. The NGOs are here to do good for Uganda and its people. Many of the expats here live very comfortable lifestyles – in securely walled apartment blocks or houses, with round the clock security, daily maid service, buying imported food from the modern supermarkets, frequenting expat-only bars, being chauffeured around by personal drivers in huge 4-wheel-drive SUVs. Having said all that, most expats are here to contribute to the country; they spend their foreign money here and therefore support the Ugandan economy.
My wife and I are here to volunteer with PEARL Microfinance. It’s an organization that provides financial services to those people that are not able to use the regular banking system due to their remote location or lack of equity to put up against a loan. It’s unfortunate but unavoidable that companies like PEARL have to charge higher interest rates than the bank to enable them to cover their costs and be self sufficient. While the interest charged is around 30% per annum when you consider that inflation is around half of this amount, it doesn’t seem so unreasonable. The recipients of the loans that we have met so far are all happy with the way the money has helped with their businesses and also their private lives. We have heard some interesting stories about the small businesses that the loan recipients own. They include such businesses as brick-making operations, banana sales, general stores, scrap metal collection and sales, milk production, sugar cane farming and restaurants. The locals tell us about their businesses and also about their family situation. Many of them are women, married with five or more children and are also supporting the children of their brothers and sisters who have died young. Yesterday we met a young lady who was holding back the tears telling us how her youngest child recently died of AIDS and how her eldest child now has the HIV virus. The medication is available but the costs of the drugs have forced her into making the decision not to give them to her daughter. When you consider that these drugs cost less than a dollar a day it’s just incredible to think that it’s not an affordable option for many families here.
So after hearing and writing the stories of all the people we meet the next challenge is to upload the info to the Kiva website. It’s hard to describe to someone that has only ever accessed the internet from a computer in a developed country. Everyone can remember dial up speeds before they had the luxury of broadband. Even the snail pace of the very first dial up connections was made to feel super-speedy when compared with the dial up access we have to deal with in Uganda. I’ve just spent the past four hours trying to set up an online bank transfer between two of my online accounts. Back home I’d complete this task in a few minutes at the most. Not here. It took me all morning. Lost connections, website time outs, page not recognized, unexplainable errors, power cuts, computers crashing. Maybe 30 attempts later, the money had been transferred. Our job involves uploading stories of local businessmen and women to Kiva’s website. The target to collect and upload 15 stories per week sounds like an easy one when you consider it takes five minutes to collect a story, tens minutes to write it up and, in theory, one minute to upload it. Simple! Meet a large group of entrepreneurs on Monday morning, interview 15 of them in the space of a couple of hours, return to the office and spend the afternoon writing and uploading all of them, have Tuesday to Friday free to do other things for PEARL and Kiva. Things just happen much slower here. Patience is a key attribute for everyone to have – and lots of it. The journey to the field which is planned to start from the office at 9am doesn’t leave until 1pm. The “45 minute journey” takes three and half hours, most of the time sitting in “jam”, or stopping at a kiosk for 20 minutes to buy a bottle of water. Don’t ask my why it takes so long to do such simple tasks. It just does. There’s no point trying to speed things up – it won’t happen and people won’t understand why you’re in a hurry. The quick interviews with the entrepreneurs each take five times longer than anticipated due to everything having to be translated back and forward through an interpreter.
Processes simply aren’t as efficient here. I have to lower my expectations of everything and everyone. If I expected to be able to do the same things here as I can back home in the same space of time then I would spend all day every day incredibly frustrated. It’s much easier to say this than put it into practice but I have to try to laugh at certain situations rather than let them get to me…
Uganda – Great Expectations
I thought I knew what to expect when we arrived in Uganda. We’d been to Africa before – to Tanzania, Malawi and Zambia – for six weeks as part of a round the world backpacking trip. I fell in love with the continent then, and vowed to return. Next time, I promised myself, I’d do something worthwhile there, rather than just appreciate Africa’s beauty with the eyes of a traveler. It took a year, but my husband, Adam, and I have returned. And that worthwhile thing we’ve found is to become Kiva Fellows at Pearl Microfinance in Kampala, Uganda.
So after spending a week here, and only three days at Pearl, what surprises have I had? Do I dare share my insight after such brief exposure to both the country of Uganda and my first glimpse of microfinance in action? I do, I do, but with the disclaimer that things will be turned on their head soon enough. With every new experience, no doubt I will deepen my understanding of Uganda, the Ugandan people and the reality of microfinance in the field.
First Impressions
I could write reams about the wonderful landscape of Africa. The lush greenery and gentle golden light are part of the reason I am drawn here. And coming from the harsh land of Australia, all sun burnt and drought-stricken, the intensity and number of different shades of green and the rich red soil, this really is paradise found. But Kampala is a bustling city of one million people, so would it be fair or sensible to expect it to live up to my glorious expectations? Well, yes and no. The city centre is bumper to bumper cars, trucks and buses, most of which pump out huge plumes of black smoke which look and smell like they’re instantly reducing your lifespan.
This heavy traffic is known in Ugandan English as ‘jam’, an abbreviation of ‘traffic jam’. Obvious, you say. Well, not so clear to this Muzungu (white person), who is only just starting to tune her ear to the different African vowels and new words that pepper the English spoken here. So not only will we attempt to learn Luganda, but we’ll be learning Ugandan English while we’re here too. One word which I have heard many more times than I expected was ‘sorry’. Ugandans have broadened its meaning so that now it is used as an expression of concern and sympathy. It’s been said to me when I’ve dropped something or slipped, to a barman who smashed a glass, and as a outcry when our mini-bus taxi drove passed a car accident. What a lovely adaptation of a word that so many of us have so little time for is our busy western lives.
So yes, there is traffic and pollution in the city centre. Yet the people in the streets are all smartly dressed, with their clothes pristinely clean and perfectly pressed. They certainly put our wardrobes to shame! And cleanliness is a thing that requires much work here. Kampala is covered with fine red dust that gets into everything – eyes and ears, under finger nails, into computer keyboards, cell phones, you name it, there’s that red dust there. The dust has even found its way to the peaceful suburbs which lie a mile or so to the north of the city center. But there it only seems to add gentleness to the landscape, tempering the stark blackness of the bitumen roads. Here, there are gentle hills (which prove to be much less gentle when navigated on foot in the heat of the midday sun), and beautiful views over the city center as well as other equally picturesque hills which make up this part of town. And this is where our microfinance partner is located, which I must admit did come as a surprise. I had hoped to be able to walk to work, but never had I dreamed it would be along paths which meander around hills covered in dense greenery, with the busy city center of Kampala at their feet. We are lucky enough to have found an apartment (with minimum of fuss), which is half an hour walk from Pearl Microfinance, so we wake up to a most pleasant amble past smiling, friendly faces on our way to work. It hasn’t really rained since we’ve been here, so I’m not sure I’ll find the journey as much fun in the mud slides that are bound to result. So I’ll cling on to my fantasy a while longer.
We’ve been out of Kampala on two field visits, to the town of Jinja, at the source of the Nile and to Mukono, which is about 30 miles away. The drive took us through the most vivid green landscape, through forests and plains, with that vast African sky always overhead. When we stopped to buy some water and grilled bananas, we were descended upon by a swarm of vendors, who stood as close as they could to the car windows, gently presenting their goods. There was no pushing or aggressive selling you might expect with such a horde, but the Ugandans appear to be a most polite and considerate people. Not once have I heard a raised voice, or seen anything other than consideration for others. Not on crowded 14 person mini-bus shared taxis, on streets jammed with cars while motorbikes navigate the traffic around pedestrians side-stepping open man-holes. There seems to be enough room for everyone, never a need for a push or a shove. There’s even thoughtfulness from the motorbike taxi (boda-boda) drivers, while touting for business. Ok, so pulling up on the pavement right in front of where we’re walking isn’t the most polite way to get our attention, but when we decline the offer of a hair-raising ride through traffic sans helmet, we’re simply smiled at, and allowed to walk on in peace.
Ugandans are softly spoken and hushed even in a crowd. But that quiet countenance lights up as you greet someone in the street. Not necessarily with a simple ‘hello’, as we greet each other in the west, often passing by before waiting for a response. Ugandans seem to ask “How are you?” and show genuine interest in the response. They will wait for your reply before continuing on their way, and reward you with a huge smile if you ask them yourself. I feel as though it is a culture that times itself on a more human scale than we do in the west, so things take as long as they take (which is usually longer than we’re used to), but in a way that the human element is not ignored. I think we can learn much from this, and perhaps it’s something that the ‘developed world’ has forgotten on its quest for, well, development.
I had expected a strong sense of modesty and propriety that I’ve experienced elsewhere in Africa. So of course, I packed modest clothes and planned to behave myself. But the Ugandan sense of physical modesty seems to concern itself with legs and not shoulders or even breasts, as I had expected. While the long skirts were an obvious choice, I am thrilled to know that I can wear sleeveless tops in this hot and humid climate, but slightly less pleased that I didn’t actually bring any. The greater surprise, where correct behavior is concerned, is the way a husband and wife can interact in public. Not only are public displays of affection perceived as mildly pornographic, but hand-holding or even just close proximity to one’s spouse may cause offense. Not that anyone has actually told us that they’re offended, or reproached us in any way. We’ve just been met with nervous giggles and down turned eyes when we’ve commit such a faux pas. I discovered this first when we squashed into a shared taxi, with four of us expected to share three seats. The obvious solution (to me at least) was to squash up next to my husband and sit almost on his lap. Surely this would be less awkward than cuddling up to the stranger next to me? That’s when I experienced 13 embarrassed Ugandans giggling uncomfortably at us two inappropriate Muzungus. It was a gentle, yet effective way to tell us we had crossed over that imaginary line.
Encounters with microfinance
So was our first trip into the field – our first window into the reality of microfinance – what I had expected? Yes, on first glimpse, it is just as I had imagined. We met a group of 31 men and women in Jinja, each of whom runs their own business, who were receiving their group loan on the day of our visit. We were greeted by a round of polite (and gentle, always gentle!) applause. We were the Muzungu face of Kiva, the source of their much needed funds, which have found their way across the globe to their group in Jijna.
These were hard working people, many with several businesses but still struggling to meet the rocketing costs of school feels for their children. So many of them care for nieces and nephews who have been orphaned by AIDS, in addition to their own children, and it was not uncommon to learn of 15 people living in one house. Everyone we spoke to was determined that all of their children, as well as their other dependents, complete school. And school fees are incredibly expensive here, so this seems to be a key reason why they’re seeking loans. We asked some of them what they did in their spare time and were met with blank faces. When I’m not at work? I’m asleep of course. And we think we have it tough with our annual leave and public holidays! Yet they were positive about the future and all had dreams for their children to find professions they enjoy and live an easier life.
So has my first glimpse of Uganda shaken my preconceptions, my high hopes for a land of beauty and a warm and gentle people? Incredibly, I can say that the experiences of my first week in Kampala have been overwhelmingly positive. No doubt there will be people and events that will challenge my idyllic view of life here, but today I am so delighted to be here.
And what of our purpose here – of microfinance and Kiva in action? So far, I can say that It’s most certainly worthwhile and it really is changing people’s lives. I feel so privileged to be able to meet with these strong and hard-working people, to talk with them and learn about their experiences. It’s not something that can really be done as a traveler and I’m excited to be able to share it with the Kiva lenders.
