Safari Awesomeness

After much lamenting and watching the calendar quickly eat up my remaining time left in Uganda, I decided to dip deeply in my wallet and go on a stereotypical African safari. The whole weekend, which included a game drive, a jungle cruise up the Nile, and rhino tracking, totaled $285- with lodging and all transport included. Quite the steal in hindsight, although handing over roughly close to 600,000 shillings almost caused a small aneurism at the time.

The safari was up in the north western corner of Uganda, miles away from where the Nile begins in journey down south in Jinja and up where it crosses the border into Sudan. The northern land we drove towards turned the landscape from green to yellow. Uganda is incredibly diverse; where the south is wet and lush, the north is dry and grassy. It allows rainforests and savannahs, lions and mountain gorillas, all in the same country. Which is probably why Winston Churchill coined it as the “Pearl of Africa”, something any Ugandan will proudly tell you.

I was about to pop with excitement the whole way up, bouncing in my seat and humming “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” remixed in my own fashion with “Akuna Matata”. Several times I turned to Nick and did the ritual: “Guess what?” What? “WE’RE IN AFRICA!!!” Sometimes moments like these just hit you like that and that’s the only conscious thought that arises, and with all the buzzing anticipation, indeed that was the only clear thought I could form.

The van lurched to a stop several times, allowing various monkeys and baboons to cross the road, sometimes hairy warthogs (hello Pumba!).
Once, there was a Black Mamba in the way- one of the most poisonous snakes in the world. Another time a 3ft lizard darted across; that time, I totally screamed. This was all so surreal!

That night we climbed to the top of the waterfall, where the Nile River gushes through 6ft and zigzags down several gorges, the sheer force of the falls sending mist spraying hundreds of feet in the air as crocodiles snapp at the foamy bottom. We spent the night in thick-skinned tents with a gas lantern flickering and casting shadows. We could hear the snapping and heaving padding of hippos grazing in the campsite; I wanted to go out and see them, but hippos kill more people a year than any other animal- don’t mess with the fat kid’s cake! You step on the grass that hippos planned on eating and you’re dead. So needless to say, me and my full bladder spent the entire night in the tent.

The next morning we headed out before sunrise for our game drive. The gorgeous orange and pink sun glowed over the savanna, kissing the earth and bathing it golden. Giraffes paraded around, picking the little trees clean. Gazzelles and hartbucks galloped around and waterbuffalo mozzied around with little white birds on their head to pick off their bugs.

Our driver’s cell phone clattered and after barked a few directives, he yelled at us to sit down and stay put. I popped my head back into the vehicle none too soon (seeing as I had been sitting on the roof to better see the baby giraffe) as the van lurched forwards at an alarming speed. We reached three other vans, all huddled around the dirt road, the occupants out with their binoculars. A lioness and her two cubs had just passed; we just missed them.

Our driver took one look at our crestfallen faces and told us to buckle up, threw the clutch in, and catapulted that van over the side of the road and into the unpaved wilderness. Over boulders and 6ft tall grasses he sped, daring the lion to run faster than he drove.

And suddenly, there she was. She growled in anger at having her habitat intruded, gathering her stumbling babies under her. The little cubs were so tiny! They could hardly walk in the tall grass and kept tripping over the tumbleweeds at which point the mom would look back and seemingly roll her eyes as she doubled back to push them faster. At one point, little Simba realized there were all these strange creatures looking at him, and he crouched, roaring a tiny roar that only scared the grasshoppers. Exasperated, the lioness shook her head and nudged the little guy forward so hard he did a summersault. So cute!

The definite highlight of the weekend though, was sneaking up behind two gianormous rhinos, watching them graze and turn huffily on us. Sheer terror. That’s what I felt: those things are huge! They’re almost as big as an elephant, only with a pointed horn that looks like it could shish-ka-bob me with an accidental sneeze. Looking angry and shuffling their feet, our guide yelled at us to stand back while calling out to the rhino, trying to calm it. I prepared to run- I wasn’t entirely secure enough to put my faith in a rhino whisperer.

In the end, they calmed down and we were able to get even closer to them, probably about 20 ft away. Rhinos were hunted out of Uganda and are now being bred back into the wild from immigrant rhinos from Kenya and the US. In fact, a Kenyan male and a US female had a baby rhino and the sanctuary named him Obama, which I thought was clever. I’ve never felt much fond feelings for the thick skinned beasts, and I can’t firmly say I now love them, but I at least respect them. It remained a very humbling experience to walk up so close to the animals.

All in all, the weekend was spectacular, money well spent. No matter how long I’ll live, I’ll never forget the smell of rhino breath, or the sound of a hippo crashing into the water. Sometimes I simply can’t believe I’m in Africa, after years of saving and working. I’m just so happy to be here :]

Computer Aid to Africa

This past week I’ve been dedicating every waking hour (and many fitful dreams) to one purpose: helping my SACCO convert their accounting system into the 21st century. I returned the other week to Baitambogwe to find Moses excitedly hooking up an ancient looking monitor to an even older computer system, yellowed with age and neglect. He explained he bought the computer second hand so that the SACCO could convert all of their member files into digital form, rendering more accurate accounting and easier monthly reports.

Sounds like a fantastic idea; what better way to connect the SACCO to better money management than to digitalize their system? Except for one small problem: the overall computer knowledge of the management team is about that of the average American second grader, leaving me with the monumental task of not only converting the files, but educating the SACCO as to how to maintain the records. Some of these men have never used a computer, let alone Microsoft Excel. Moses has taken a few classes, and generally knows his way around computer basics, but he’s completely lost when it comes to entering formulas. In fact, he’s completely lost when it comes to the algebra required!

The one mathematician of the SACCO has never used a computer; the one computer savvy member never graduated 6th grade. And now I’m supposed to change the entire system into a computer format, when I myself, haven’t used Excel since high school. I tried telling them I wasn’t the person to ask, that a large percentage of my computer knowledge consists mainly of instant messaging and uploading pictures…but the message was largely lost and the task of converting the files again fell firmly on my shoulders.

The overwhelming task and the pressure put on me to complete it all before I leave has sent me into fits of stress and tears. I know they’re expecting miracles, a brand new system that flawlessly works and calculates all their figures for them. I know they’re expecting something that will take care of all the mistakes and contradicting paperwork and allow them to run monthly reports at the click of a button. I know they think that I can do all of this (because they’ve told me) but the fact of the matter is I have never accomplished a project of this nature. Me? Accounting? Math? If they only knew I dropped honors pre-calc back in high school, flunked the physics test I prepared for two years for, and passed college algebra only because it was online and open book. My primary interest in microfinance is the human impact, the ability to change lives and empower woman. Hand me a calculator and force me to run the numbers of the business, and I’ll be more than lost.

Not that it would matter anyway; I’m still more qualified than them- scary as that is. I have little over two weeks to convert over 367 files and find a program that can connect each member’s records so that monthly and annual reports can be run without opening 367 different documents. I think Microsoft Access is the best program for this, although my knowledge on this program is even less than Excel. Thankfully, I have my dear step-father toiling over the project back in the states. I figure if I can at least implement a “locked” version of a member’s file, with all the correct calculations, then they can enter the data without me. I’m still unsure how we’ll connect all the files, but I have faith that something will work out.

I’m excited that I’ve been given such an opportunity to help. I really think Baitambogwe can accomplish some amazing things if given the right opportunity. The management team is very empowered to continually progress and better the institution. They all crowd around the computer, eager to learn, as I try to explain how a computer works, what the internet is, or how, when you push the keyboard, the letters show up “like magic” on the screen. They’re so excited! Hopefully I’ll be able to make a lasting impact by aiding them in bettering the SACCO and pushing the institution into the technological age. I feel like I’m giving them the tools to their own future, and to see the excited looks on their faces is truly very rewarding.

My last plea: I’ve decided I would like to give these gentleman a proper education on computers, especially on the accounting programs we’re implementing in the SACCO; Excel, Access, and even Word. It’s very difficult to dedicate my full attention on teaching them the basics when I’m working so hard to educate myself as to what would be the best program for the member’s files. Many of these gentlemen lack the very basic computer skills you and I take for granted; therefore I find myself an inadequate teacher. I have found a computer class in Jinja that teaches basic computer skills, and even more detailed courses on the above programs. The cost for these programs is USD $80.

I’m trying to find the money to be able to send Moses (the manager), the cashier, and the three loan officers to these classes. For them, the money is out of reach and the SACCO simply doesn’t have enough assets to provide them with the training. If anyone is interested in donating towards the cause, please contact me at Shalayne.Pillar@gmail.com or send checks to my family at 11433 E. Ramona Ave. Mesa, AZ 85212. They will ensure the money gets to me; I will pre-pay for the classes and give the management team money for transportation to Jinja.

I hope some of you out there reading this feel the need to help! I think it would truly empower them to succeed and better the SACCO. These men are quite remarkable and would devour the chance to become educated. Thank you!!!!

Penetrating the Impenatrable

Deep in the southwest corner of Uganda, bordering the dark mist of the Congo and the shadows of Rwanda, there’s a forest reminiscent only of Tarzan and Mighty Joe Young: the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. And impenetrable indeed, seeing as getting there took two days and five means of very sketch third-world public transportation to get there. Nothing could have been more trying, stressful, at times dangerous…and yet so unbelievably rewarding.

The forest is known for housing some the world’s last mountain gorillas and tourists flock from around the world to grab one of the prized $500 permits to allow them to track the primates. Unfortunately, I was just about $400 short of obtaining one of those permits so my poor ass decided it would at least be worth it to go and see a rainforest. I mean, I live in the desert; a bonafide rainforest, south of the equator is just too tantalizing to pass up. Little did I know that most of the world travelers who can afford a pass, can also afford a private safari bus that carts them up the mountain in cushy seated jeeps with AC- something else I not afford.

So early Thursday morning (and I do mean early since it was clearly still dark as night), I pealed myself off my all too comfy thin foam mattress to hop on a dirty matatu headed for Kampala. As the sun rose over the rolling green hills, I chugged behind sugar cane trucks that sputtered black smoke. Kampala traffic slowed our trip down considerably; that is until our driver proceeded to go off road around the lines of cars, narrowly squeezing between the stand still traffic and the edge of the cliff, dangerously tilting the entire matatu at a 45 degree angle. The unpaved road jarred the van as we sped past the law abiding cars on the road.

We stopped to fill up with gas as the driver left the van running, lighting a cigarette while leaning against a pole painted with the “no smoking” and “turn off engines” warnings. Images of Hollywood style explosions that catapulted the van sky high imploded in my imagination as the rumbling van gurgled with the injected petrol. Leg one of the journey couldn’t end quick enough for me as I thanked my lucky stars I survived.

The taxi dropped us off at the main park which covered itself in smog, hundreds upon hundreds of matatus squeezed into less than a square mile. It wasn’t more than two minutes of walking through that mess that someone pulled our arms “Where are you going mzungu? Where to?”

Well we wanted to go to Kihihi; from there the plan was to continue on to Bohoma, the district housing Bwindi Park. We thought this plan would be the best, although we were relying completing on our paperbacked guide books that we carried around like Bibles.

So our arm-grabbing leader (who gets paid under the table to direct people to their employers buses) dragged us across the street towards the parked coach buses where in broken English, we figured out that he had taken us to a bus that was indeed going to Kihihi. We overpaid but hardly cared as we sat exasperated in the back of the bus. An hour later it rumbled away from Kampala and towards the west.

Ten hours later, we were still not in Kihihi as the bus headed suspiciously more north than west. Passengers slowly emptied out along the way as Nick and I grew more and more nervous in the back of the bus, sun setting, and having no idea where we were. I had woken up covered in exhaust fumes that seeped through the floor above the emitting pipes. Slightly surprised I hadn’t died of carbon monoxide poisoning, I looked like I had been mining coal- not that Nick told me mind you; he preferred to laugh as I pushed my greasy hair off my sweaty forehead. My eyebrows ashy, my eyes glued shut with soot, I looked a complete, blackened, mess! No amount of babywipes cleared the black gunk out of my pores. Nick roared with laughter as I gave up and resigned to my filthy state. At this point, I just wanted off this stupid bus.

Finally the bus driver pulled up to a dusty town of unpaved roads. The driver got up and gestured to us in the back. “This is not Kihihi”, he yelled (no shit). “But I will give you to my brother. I will give him money. He will bring you to that place”. The driver waved some money and motioned for us to get our bags. We really don’t have too many options so we did as told and grabbed our bulky backpacks from the overhead, stepping down from the shaky bus onto shaky legs. Our next form of transport waited.

A rusty pickup truck jammed with 10 other people, a goat, and about 8 banana stems sat in front of us. I turned to Nick, laughing to keep from pretty much freaking out.

“Seriously? We’re supposed to fit in there?” I looked up towards the mountains, a switchback road barely visible as it disappeared into the golden clouds ahead. The whole truck looked like it was one good speed bump away from falling apart at the hinges, the bed visibly weighed down with the drunken men that now yelled towards us to come over. Nick shrugged and hefted his bag over the edge, pulling me up to the truck. We didn’t really have any choice if we wanted to reach Kihihi before dark.

We found a tiny spot to sit on the edge, our mzungu butts lacking the proper cushion to really make the seat any kind of comfortable. Lurching, the truck sped off. And I do mean sped. Despite the fact that everyone was balancing precariously on the edge of the bed, the driver proceeded to push 50 miles an hour as the truck fishtailed around the bends of the mountainous road. My knuckles were white from gripping the edge and even Nick lost his smile as it became clear this journey just got longer.

The drunken men yelled and jeered the driver to go faster, repeatedly asking our names and being all kinds of obnoxious. One man tried to put his arm around me to “keep me from falling”; another started stroking my leg that was squished against his. His putrid breath washed over me as he reached up to touch my hair, telling me I was beautiful.

“Does she belong to you?” he burped, motioning towards Nick.

Now Nick and I both are in solid relationships and the whole friendship couldn’t be any more platonic, but in the moment, I wasn’t about to protect my boyfriend’s ego at home.

“Yep, I’m his.” I cut in. Nick looked startled and I shot him a look that threatened to kill if he didn’t play along.

“Lucky man you!” Nick received a slap on the back and the once groping hands slowly retreated off of my leg. You don’t mess with another man’s property here, and for once, I was glad to be so protected by the fact that women are bought and sold like livestock.

Two and a half hours later, the sun long since set, the truck stopped. We literally had no idea where we were. They told us it was Kihihi, but how could we know? The unfriendly darkness held no promises of hotels or restaurants, our stomachs grumbling. Bohoma, we were told, was still three hours away. Our only option, other than staying in this darkened town unmarked on any map, was to hire a private taxi to take us to Botogota, a town outside of Bohoma, where in the morning we could then find some way to reach our final destination.

We were tired, hungry, and just a little bit on edge. Neither of us felt safe staying there as our guts warned us of approaching danger; thus the decision was made to hire a ridiculously priced private taxi to take us to Botogota. At least there we knew there were hotels and (fingers crossed) food.

Two hours later (it was now close to midnight) we dragged our swollen butts, bruised from sitting on the truck railing, into a shady little motel called the Pineapple Lodge. The only food they had was cold posho (corn dough) and a bit of meat, which looked like the spinal vertebrae off some underfed cow. I could care less and I completely crashed that night, still hungry.

The next morning Nick arranged two boda drivers to take us the rest of the way up the mountain, which far surpassed as the best form of transportation. Morning mist clung to the mountain as we circled up on increasingly narrower roads, stopping to let herds of cows and goats pass. Power lines ceased to exist as the reception bars on my cell phone diminished and the trees grew thicker. Looking behind I could see the patchwork of farmland covering the mountain. The sunrise beautified the whole picture.

The gratitude I felt at FINALLY reaching Bohoma and the little rest camp that nestled itself at the foot of the forest was indescribable. A taxi, coach bus, truck ride, private hire, and motorcycle ride later we were there. Two days later, the Bwindi rainforest stood before me in all its green glory.

It looked as if someone collected all the green crayons in the world, melted them, and poured the entire lot over the forest, leaving it dripping in the same shade of green that covered every rock and tree. The forest shuddered with life, dampened with daily rainstorms, reeking of adventure and begging to be explored. Whoever said moss only grows on the north side of the tree hasn’t been to Bwindi; great hangings of moss and vines encumbered our hikes as we cowered under the canopy. The sheer amount of life the forest held humbled me.

Indeed, I penetrated the impenetrable.

Let them choose…

This dividing line exists in most development projects here in Uganda: those who teach, and those who deliver. The teacher tries to empower the people to take apart of their own development, their own betterment. They don’t just give him a task, they explain why and how that task is to be carried out. These projects are long term, often small scaled, and focus on the means rather than the end. The theory bases itself on the old proverb of “give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach him how to fish, feed him for a lifetime”.

Delivery services however, fail to engage the people and in my opinion, poison the mentality of several generations by instilling the charitable notion. Ask the white man, he’ll give you money, or food, or set up all your schools and hospitals. Or even, well, we can embezzle our own country funds because the US will give us millions of dollars to help facilitate AIDs education. How healthy is this idea? The donations, the food drops, the charitable blankets sent by churches… they meet an immediate need, which is understandable. When a crisis arises, there is hardly time to set up a quilting loom and break out the sewing machine. But ultimately, the lesson learnt from these delivery oriented services effect the generations more than those lovely church ladies might think. And it’s not the blanket that lasts generations; it’s the cultural mentality.

I’ll illustrate two contradictory examples, one sustainable, one not. A great example of a participatory development project is the South Eastern Private Sector Promotion Enterprise Ltd (SEPSPEL). SEPSPEL was founded by the United Nations Development Project back in 1996 as a firm that would encourage entrepreneurship among Ugandans. UNDP funded it and largely ran the organization while they transitioned the power over to the leaders in training. During this transitional period, the staff went through accounting, computer, and other business classes so that when UNDP left, in 2000, SEPSPEL continued to run, now completely independent. SEPSPEL does not receive any economic aid from UNDP and generates all their own income while still implanting saving groups and free business classes to microfinance institutions across the country. They provide supplemented care for the poor at a discounted rate, while still remaining sustainable, which is truly remarkable.

SEPSPEL accomplished this by doing a couple of things: first of all, they run and operate several internet cafes along the eastern side of Uganda. These internet cafes all have generators, so when the power goes out (as it often does) they can beat the competitors as internet junkies flock to the only place in town with buzzing electricity. They also charge membership fees for organizations to be apart of their co-operative. Once a member of SEPSPEL, a SACCO can get passport books and other stationary in at a bulk price, which is another way to generate income. So while they once were dependant on a parent organization, they are now independently sustainable. A perfect example of what incorporating participation into development can achieve.

Alternatively, while SACCOS are self sustained, I often feel the loans we give out to people are given without appropriate education, thus dooming the loan to a short term impression. Research shows that most microfinance loans produce an extremely minimal increase(if any) in income, despite wild claims by the practitioners that the practice “eradicates poverty”. Ultimately, these members are not being taught to what to do with that money, making the profits obtained unsustainable. Development comes twofold: opportunity and awareness. Giving individual loans gives them the opportunity to make something of that money, but few have the awareness to do so. It’s the difference between participatory development and service provision. Sadly, I feel that a large percentage of the loans given out fall under the business banner, more apt to make the SACCO profit than to drastically change the income for the masses.

If people were given the opportunity to partake in business training, market research, and skill development courses (like SEPSPEL) there might exist a better opportunity for a greater difference. There will always be those few individuals that fully utilize and maximize the loan they were given, but there will also always be those people who simply are unaware of how to do so. Implementing courses would be timely and costly, but I feel that this would economically engage individuals more, in turn maximizing microfinance’s effects and ultimately, profit. I just need to get them to see that.

Last week I met this man who had taken out over 5 loans, totaling over 5,000 dollars. I asked him what he had done with that money, what improvements to his life and family were accomplished. He looked at me and shrugged. “I’m still poor” he said. Where does the money go? I asked. He told me he buys seeds for his land, but then the profits he makes from the harvest go entirely back into repaying the loan, so that next planting season, he doesn’t have enough capital to recycle. Maybe if he possessed some marketing skills he could generate a higher income. Or if he used the loan to procure more land or better pesticide so that more of his crops profited. Unfortunately, the SACCO doesn’t give that kind of direction. That’s not the intended purpose of microfinance, but his story is not unique.

The movement towards participatory development recognizes the innate ability a person to understand what they need; to believe in and promote participatory development is to believe in the intrinsic importance of self-determination. Ultimately, development that includes the people goes beyond meeting their requirements by constructing an environment where people can identify and address their own needs. Give them the power to govern their own ideas, and the root of development will grow deeper than if they were sown completely in foreign soil.

Mommy! You are so fat!

I still remember one of my first true “cultural shocks” in Uganda; I was shopping with my friend Alex in the market, looking at the bright and angular patterned fabric that lined the walls of the street side shop. I held a bolt up to my waist, noting what an amazing skirt this would make while Alex commented on another. The shop owner laughed, meandering over to us, and took the fabric from my hands.

“For you, you need two bolts. This is not enough for you- you are so fat!”

Wait…what did she just call me? Ok, I mean I know I’m not a stick by any means, and I definitely fill out my jeans (perhaps a little too much) but I am nowhere near FAT. Such a strong word…I prefer “curvy”. Maybe even “voluptuous” but even that’s pushing it. But I am certainly not fat.

I blushed, embarrassed to be called out like that. Alex quickly reassured me that indeed, I was not, and we both laughed it off.
But in fact, that moment really did speak something about Uganda. Drive though Kampala and you’ll see billboards full of bodacious women, double chins bobbing. Magazines advertising beauty products use the fullest figured women; celebrity’s have far more than the acceptable extra 2 lbs American celebrities are allotted. I once saw a music video where the dancers had jello-like stomachs, curvy and real, jiggling as they popped their booty back and forth- so unlike our videos where girls have virtual six packs that hardly move, let alone jiggle.

Two and half months later and I’ve finally learned that being called fat is a complement. It means your healthy and have enough money to eat. It’s a sign of vitality and life. But I will say, I am still not used to the one name I get more than “mzungu”.

Mommy.

I guess it comes with the ample hips, the non-so slender stomach. But men just assume that I’m a mother. In shops, on the street, on a taxi, all I hear all day is “Mommy! You come right here. Mommy, mommy, you need a ride?” Or my personal favorite: “Mommy! You look so smart!”. (Another cultural difference: smart equates to beautiful, or put together. Something like “you look very smart in that suit”, only the term is used across genders to indicate attractiveness or classiness).

Back home, my poor dear boyfriend just about got slapped the one time he lovingly told me I had “childbearing hips”. Enraged, I asked him what 20 year old wants to have hips wide enough to pop out a watermelon? Oh gee thanks, looks like I can pump out children in sneezes; I’ll chalk that right up there next to the fact that my breasts look like they’d be great milk producers. Wonderful, I thought.

But here, telling a woman she looks like a mother is a high compliment, noting age and wisdom. Being a mother is what every woman in Uganda aspires to and it denotes a coming of age when a girl has her first child- first of many. In fact, women strive to not lose weight they’ve gained from the pregnancy. They refuse to walk unless they have to and will eat mounds of food just so as to not “reduce”. In fact, when I told my host mom that I was going exercising, she looked at me like I was crazy. “You want to reduce? No, no Pillar. Do not reduce, it is not good for you.”. Then I told her I couldn’t eat so much oil and she really thought I was crazy.

It’s something I’ve come to adjust to. I no longer desire to flip off whatever poor guy calls after me, making loud squelching kissing noises and calling me mommy. I have never had so many men profess love to me, ask me to marry them, or just walk up to me and call me beautiful.

If any fat girl has a self esteem problem in America, I’m telling you, just send her to Africa.

Saving Gone Small

Last week I took off towards the Kenyan border, to a small district in eastern Uganda called Busia. A gorgeous little border town full of waving savannas and meandering giraffe, Busia holds place dear in my heart not for the landscape, but for the women I met and the inspiration they humbly imparted me with. What I learned from these women in one week, will change how I view development and microfinance forever.

Let me explain: I spent the week interning with South Eastern Private Sector Enterprise Ltd.; a former UNDP project that has since expanded to become a fully independently funded and operating development firm that works in Uganda. SEPSPEL largely focuses on small scale community projects that procure “sustainable human development” for underdeveloped groups, mainly women. With a staff of 13, they work round the clock going to the field on bumpy motorbikes to places no other projects dare go.

One of their key initiatives is a project called the “Village Savings and Loan Associations” which is actually a model project taken from West Africa. The VS & LA project wildly succeeds based on simplicity, community trust, and sustainability. The project creates small groups interested in saving, where members commit to saving a minimum amount every week; maybe 200 shillings, maybe 500. A member can save up to five times as much, but they must save at least one share.
Visit one of these groups and you’ll find 20-30 women chattering, catching up with the past weeks excitement as the women spread out banana fiber mats to sit on under the trees in the shadows of their mud huts. A metal box is brought out, grey and heavy, with three padlocks, ceremoniously placed in the center of the circled women. Three women stand, digging in their skirts and unwrapping a tightly wound handkerchief to produce a small key. Three keys, three locks, and the box is opened.

The meeting now called, someone starts calling names; one by one the women get up, digging in their skirts to find one or two coins, dropping the coins in a bowel while stating the amount out loud, for everyone to hear. She holds a small book filled with lined paper, covered in newspaper that she lays in front of a secretary who then dips a small stamp in purple ink, pounding the imprint into the book.

Next, next, next. The pile of coins grows as the women line up to have their books stamps, another woman counting the coins, another recording in a master book. The entire process takes about 20 minutes.

I sat quietly through the whole process, observing. Finally, I had to ask. Why the stamps? Why not just write the total saving amount instead of stamping per each share saved?

A woman smiled, slyly. “Dear, you know our husbands would get so mad if they know how much money we have. This way I can pay my children’s school fees, take them to the doctor, and buy food if I need to. Most husbands travel to the city to earn money, leaving us with no way to pay for family expenses. But this way, I hold the power to do what I please. And if he finds the book…he’ll never know the difference”. I felt like shouting “You go girl!”

After saving is done, the women look around and ask who is in need of a loan and a woman a stands, holding a brilliant colored mat. Through translation, I learn that she makes these mats for a living, but is in need of more grass to weave the mats. She needs 20,000 shillings to buy more grass. The women talk amongst themselves, and then someone calls a vote. All the women raise their hands, and 20,000 shillings is handed to the women with the mats. Smiling, she signs the group book signifying she took the loan.

Later I learned there are two different loans a member can take out: a welfare loan, which holds no interest, and a business loan, which accumulates 10% interest. A welfare loan can be taken out in the case of a sick child, broken roof, or any other personal emergency. The money is repayable in three months time.

The amazing part about the structure of this group means there are no administrative costs, no building rents, not electricity bills. Most groups meet under mango trees in the center of the villages meaning whatever interest they accumulate simply goes straight back the members. At the end of one year’s time the members disburse all the savings plus whatever interest they have paid. Not one shilling less.

There are no outside loans with heavy laden interest, no excessive interest that disappears into an administrator’s pocket. These 30 women meet diligently every week, babies tied to their backs, garden tools still in their hands. The community and trust built between these women is indeed a powerfully inspiration. Where most microfinance institutions take external loans, repayable with high interest that they then turn onto their members, these groups generate all their own capital. In one year’s time, some groups save as much as 10 million shillings- about 5,000USD.

I visited several of these groups, and each time I was floored by the level of transparency and community between members. These women empowered themselves. I asked countless women how they had benefitted and received countless answers. Some had expanded their gardens, built better houses. Others had started a business or expanded their production. Others looked at me and simply said they had gain independence, no longing required to beg their husband for money.

I will never forget one woman:
“I now know that I can do something beyond be at the mercy of others. I am an empowered woman and these are my best friends. We help each other with our gardens, we laugh and cry together. This group isn’t only about the numbers. It’s about community and trust. Because of this group, I am my own person.” The sincerity of the statement left me speechless.

Most microfinance institutions are based off of external capital, a philosophy based in the idea that an outsider must lend money in order to uplift the people. Yet here were these women, raising and saving more capital than any other institution would lend, and interest free! Perhaps the answer isn’t lending after all; perhaps the solution isn’t in anything external at all. Perhaps the answer is here, in the pockets of empowered women, were it was all along.

Marketing in Africa

Now half over with my internship, I have taken a few different opportunities to diversify my knowledge on microfinance and the economics of Uganda. So with Moses’s blessing, I said goodbye to Baitambogwe, for just a few weeks, and headed off to explore some unknown territory.

My first stop was a SACCO in the heart of urban Iganga called the “Elder’s District SACCO”. I picked a week to intern at this SACCO because, quite simply, this SACCO is doing everything wrong. They have over loaned the capital, squandered their member’s savings, and overcharged their members to try and recoup what they’ve lost. Their reputation spotty at best, this MFI needs some serious work.

Unfortunately, I’ve found the competitive drive to rather lack in the common business mentality in Africa. Instead, marketing skills dwindle and a general attitude of “acceptance” seems to proliferate where individuals become content with getting by; as long as they can buy supper that night, tomorrow’s lunch is far from thought. Bartering becomes trial some since vendors refuse to give you anything lower than a “mzungu price”, standing to profit none at all rather than sell fairly. I do realize I’m making a sweeping generalization, but this observation stems from my general experience thus far. Simply put, the business culture differs from Americans.

My first day at this SACCO I sat down with the manger to discuss the current situation of the business; the more I looked of the books, the grimmer the situation seemed. The SACCO possessed less than 12% in cash at hand for all the savings they should have held. Of the loans that were given out, about 50% were past due. With salaries, daily expenditures, and rent on the building, the overhead of the business exceeded the monthly income by 10%. They had over 300 members; 258 of which were inactive.

When I sat down they asked me if I would like some “morning tea and chapatti”. I looked at the manager in disbelief. “Have you seen these numbers? You can’t afford to give me tea Dennis. Quite frankly, if you don’t reform quickly, you’re headed towards a public upheaval as people discover their money is gone. I’m not sure what you’re doing here, but I can tell you this will be a very rough week for you. Forget tea. You can go hungry until you get your work done and can afford tea.”.

So much for pleasantries.

Product improvement and marketing topped the list of areas of improvement, especially when I found out that several of the board members of the SACCO were involved in lemon grass growing and distilling. Lemon grass presents itself as a truly amazing product; the oil can be used for fuel, the distilled water can be used in beauty products and soap, the “black” unpure water can be dumped down squatty toilets, and the left-over pulp is great fertilizer.

When Dennis took me to the field (and I do mean field) to show me all this, I stood there, calf deep in the murky rice patty water staring out over the acres waving grass. The rubber boots sunk deeper in the muck, the wind pushing little waves over the tops of my boots as I stood there, dumbfounded by his explanation. The smell of rotting fish and burning fields wafted in the breeze, filling the awkward silence. I suppose he wanted me to congratulate him in obtaining such success.

I cleared my throat. “Explain to me Dennis, why this product is limited to the leadership of the SACCO? You have members that own transporting businesses that could take the rural products into Iganga. You have members owning shops that could sell these products. And you have members with land, lacking income that also could grow this product to increase revenue. Why haven’t you utilized the entirety of the SACCO?”

His smile dropped as he stared as this overly forceful mzungu woman. Poor Dennis.

The rest of the week was spent devising just that. We took the products that some built and networked them with transport and shop owners to market the products. The powerful smelly “black water” that can be dumped down latrines made a particular “splash” with the women shop owners; orders topping 50 liters found their way to the farmers within a week!

I’m not sure I sincerely imparted any new knowledge onto the staff at the Elder’s District SACCO, but when I left, I felt I had at least made an impact. I kept reassuring them that this SACCO possessed so much potential, that they themselves could turn over new leaf and truly turn out some amazing work. As soon as anyone mentioned a reason why they quite possibly “could not”, I cut them off. “Nothing is achieved by recognizing the roadblocks guys. Just get up and move them for goodness sakes!”

Well, if nothing else, they’ll remember the strong willed white woman!