I went on my second slum tour the other day, to BR Pura. It’s actually some sort of much larger name, but it’s abbreviated and spoken as BR Pura. The Indians may have really long names, but they aren’t shy about abbreviations and initials. Some famous actors and politicians are simply known by two initials and a last name.
Anyway, this one was much closer than Channapatna, so Sanju just dropped me off at it. Again, I was on the back of a two-wheeler, this time with a 250-300lb woman up front in place of Mr. Kumar. Sanju said this would’ve made the perfect profile shot for Facebook, but sadly, I wasn’t thinking of that. We headed off and wound around some country roads before arriving at the first house.
These slums in BR Pura weren’t really even slums, though, which was sort of anticlimactic. Channapatna was definitely worse. Of the five houses I visited, at least 3 had TVs, and one seemed nice enough to live in, with a washing machine to boot. The houses this time were all well-molded concrete, rather than the lumpy, slanty clay of Channapatna. There was even a school. At about 1:00, the streets were full of kids in uniforms, and one of the meetings was right next to the playground during recess for, I’ll say, 3rd or 4th graders. Several women were late to the second meeting because they were stuck at their jobs. Whereas in Channapatna I had no idea what people did with their time, these women (not dressed all in black this time) had what seemed to be stable jobs.
So this wound up being more of a neighborhood tour than a slum show. But I actually really appreciated that aspect of this. I don’t know what any of these women were actually using the money for, but it could’ve been a lot of things. Most of us think of microfinance as lending to women to buy a sewing machine, but here a lot of it is just basic household loans. Some use the money to send their kids to school, and I was told of at least one person who’d bought a two-wheeler with Ujjivan providing the credit. Which is, really, exactly what we’d use loans for. Most Americans are repaying loans, be they student loans, car loans, or a mortgage. Access to credit is a necessity. Microfinance just brings that access to the destitute, as in Channapatna, and the lower class, as in BR Pura. It is somewhat jarring to think that even somewhat well-to-do, employed people can’t get credit, even in a country with a state bank. You could make a pretty good argument that the poor stay poor just because they can’t borrow at reasonable rates, and that access to banking services is one of the third world’s most critical needs. Think of all that we can do because of loans that we couldn’t otherwise do. Think of how many rungs we would drop on the social ladder if we had to pay cash up front for college, housing, and cars. That’s how many rungs we can raise people through loans.
The women at the last meeting apaprently really wanted to talk to me, but we had nothing close to a shared language. One was able to yell “sir! Hello!” at me, which worked. Couldn’t exchange many ideas that way. Honestly, I wanted to ask them why the hell they like the Chicago Bulls so much, since I’d seen more motorcycles in BR Pura with Bulls stickers on them. For a country that plays no basketball, they do like the Bulls. Maybe they’re just into surplus 90s memorabilia. My mom speculates that it's a Hindu thing, what with the cow worship and all. Could be right.
When we were done, we stopped at a small... convenience store food stall thing... to split a pack of biscuits and some juice. Don’t worry-–it was a juice box. The guy behind the counter started talking in Kanada, and I picked out Obama. He saw me and mentioned about Obama coming to visit India. A couple days later, I was with some friends here, and one was unaware of Obama’s coming visit. So he’s beaten on current events by... the biscuit/juice guy in BR Pura.
On the way back, I couldn’t find a rickshaw to take me all the way to Koramangala, our neighborhood which is on the opposite end of town. I was able to, however, get one to take to MG Road (super bonus points if you can figure out what MG stands for... don’t overthink it). MG Road is a sort of downtown, although this town has many. It’s near the Tibetan Marketplace where I bought my phone, and is a haven for beggars who have no qualms with leaning inside your rickshaw and touching you (I carry sanitizer, don’t worry). From MG Road I got another rickshaw back to Koramangala, all for about $3 US. That’s pretty much all the way across Bangalore. Meat and milk are expensive in this country, but sweet Jesus are the services cheap.
Note: To repeat, I’m not working in microfinance. Sanju used to work for Ujjivan and set up these tours for me. That’s my only connection to this industry.
Showing posts with label Economics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Economics. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Lost in Suburban Bangalore, Part 2: Channapatna
I spent the day in a Karnataka slum, Channapatna, the toy capital of India. This trip involved disembarking a bus at a stop somewhat akin to the Prairie Stop, running across four lanes of highway traffic, riding around a slum on the back of a two-wheeler, and eating food I probably shouldn’t have.
Sanju had the bright idea to send me to Channapatna alone while she got other work done. So she dropped me off at a bus station, made sure I got on board, and I was off on an hour-and-a-half bus ride to rural Karnataka. The scenery was beautiful, even through the smudgy bus windows. Huge bluffs, palm trees everywhere, occasional Coke signs at roadside dives. Great stuff.
The problems began, though, when Sanju’s directions fell apart. She told me it was about 15-20 minutes after a really busy bus station. Unfortunately, the only really busy bus station we pulled into was Channapatna itself. Making things worse, she had told the bus driver to announce Channapatna, which he didn’t. So I missed the stop, only realizing it when I saw signs saying “Thanks for visiting Chanapatna, come back soon.” (“Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor.”) Which raised serious red flags. I asked the conductor, and he motioned backwards, then walked to the front. I was prepared to just hike the kilometer or so back to town, but the conductor instead motioned for me to cross the street to catch a bus that was heading the other way and waiting for me. People are constantly running across traffic here, so I figured “when in Karnataka.” After a 3 Rupee fare, I was on my way back to Channapatna, only moderately late.
I called “Mr. Kumar” and he arrived on his 2-wheeler. I hopped on the back. Two people on a motorcycle is nothing here, though. I’ve already seen a 5-person family on one bike. If you’re a guy, you sit on the back perpendicular to the road, like the driver. If you’re a woman, though, you sit with both legs hanging off one side, parallel to the road. This is done, I think, because this country is much more uptight about opposite-sex contact in public than with same-sex. I’ve honestly seen guys on the back seats hugging the drivers to stay on, something which is actually common in the US when it’s a woman on the back. I elected not to hug Mr. Kumar, though, and instead just held onto the back handle.
We stopped off at Ujjivan’s office, then went out on the first call of the day, a meeting with about 20 Muslim women, all in black, but in various degrees of cover-up. Some looked about my age, all the way up to quite old. They laid out a tarp in front of one of their shacks, and we sat down facing them. Ujjivan lends to individuals, but in groups. Everyone’s loan in separate, but with co-signers, and the meetings are conducted to groups. I found out later that if you miss a meeting, the group is assessed an Rs.5 fine, which I guess they collect from you later. Money seemed to be handed over in one large wad for everyone, though, suggesting they were really functioning as a group.
The next meeting was in a different slum, and this time was inside a clay house. The entry room had been cleared out for the meeting, with some rugs laid out. It was painted pink, and there was molded into the clay walls, but if there was any furniture, it had been moved. This was the same deal–about 20 Muslim women of varying ages and in varying cover-up. Again, a big wad of money being paid, and again, it was all in Kanada, so I understood only as much as I did during Endhiran.
As for the slums themselves, they were pretty ugly. No paving, drinking from plastic jugs and suspicious taps, and all shanties were slanty. There did not appear to be plumbing, aside from the large public taps, so I don’t know what they did about sewage. But this wasn’t some Sally Struthers infomercial either. Nobody was starving, nobody was looking around with big doe-eyes on the verge of crying. The meetings were upbeat, with people joking. Nobody stared at me, suggesting that white people aren’t unheard of there (I thought I saw one white guy on a bike, but it turned out he just had a raging case of vitiligo). There was a real community in Channapatna, even if it’s one that would appal by American standards. The one thing that did jar me was that none of the children were in school, and that’s a real problem. That isn’t a matter of local standards or moral relevance–that’s a severe handicap for those kids, and results in them going nowhere near their potential. Of all of India’s issues, schooling is the most pressing, in my opinion. You can’t have children spending their days running around a slum.
When we were done with the second meeting, Mr. Kumar drove me to the shack of a “third year customer,” which was still kinda iffy, but was a real, private shack with one family and a small yard. They’d clearly done well for themselves through the loans. Before I left for the bus station, the Ujjivan office forced food on me, and chapati roulette worked out in my favor, as I didn’t throw up. Everybody uses bottled water here, and I sure hope they used it in that chutney.
Sanju had the bright idea to send me to Channapatna alone while she got other work done. So she dropped me off at a bus station, made sure I got on board, and I was off on an hour-and-a-half bus ride to rural Karnataka. The scenery was beautiful, even through the smudgy bus windows. Huge bluffs, palm trees everywhere, occasional Coke signs at roadside dives. Great stuff.
The problems began, though, when Sanju’s directions fell apart. She told me it was about 15-20 minutes after a really busy bus station. Unfortunately, the only really busy bus station we pulled into was Channapatna itself. Making things worse, she had told the bus driver to announce Channapatna, which he didn’t. So I missed the stop, only realizing it when I saw signs saying “Thanks for visiting Chanapatna, come back soon.” (“Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor.”) Which raised serious red flags. I asked the conductor, and he motioned backwards, then walked to the front. I was prepared to just hike the kilometer or so back to town, but the conductor instead motioned for me to cross the street to catch a bus that was heading the other way and waiting for me. People are constantly running across traffic here, so I figured “when in Karnataka.” After a 3 Rupee fare, I was on my way back to Channapatna, only moderately late.
I called “Mr. Kumar” and he arrived on his 2-wheeler. I hopped on the back. Two people on a motorcycle is nothing here, though. I’ve already seen a 5-person family on one bike. If you’re a guy, you sit on the back perpendicular to the road, like the driver. If you’re a woman, though, you sit with both legs hanging off one side, parallel to the road. This is done, I think, because this country is much more uptight about opposite-sex contact in public than with same-sex. I’ve honestly seen guys on the back seats hugging the drivers to stay on, something which is actually common in the US when it’s a woman on the back. I elected not to hug Mr. Kumar, though, and instead just held onto the back handle.
We stopped off at Ujjivan’s office, then went out on the first call of the day, a meeting with about 20 Muslim women, all in black, but in various degrees of cover-up. Some looked about my age, all the way up to quite old. They laid out a tarp in front of one of their shacks, and we sat down facing them. Ujjivan lends to individuals, but in groups. Everyone’s loan in separate, but with co-signers, and the meetings are conducted to groups. I found out later that if you miss a meeting, the group is assessed an Rs.5 fine, which I guess they collect from you later. Money seemed to be handed over in one large wad for everyone, though, suggesting they were really functioning as a group.
The next meeting was in a different slum, and this time was inside a clay house. The entry room had been cleared out for the meeting, with some rugs laid out. It was painted pink, and there was molded into the clay walls, but if there was any furniture, it had been moved. This was the same deal–about 20 Muslim women of varying ages and in varying cover-up. Again, a big wad of money being paid, and again, it was all in Kanada, so I understood only as much as I did during Endhiran.
As for the slums themselves, they were pretty ugly. No paving, drinking from plastic jugs and suspicious taps, and all shanties were slanty. There did not appear to be plumbing, aside from the large public taps, so I don’t know what they did about sewage. But this wasn’t some Sally Struthers infomercial either. Nobody was starving, nobody was looking around with big doe-eyes on the verge of crying. The meetings were upbeat, with people joking. Nobody stared at me, suggesting that white people aren’t unheard of there (I thought I saw one white guy on a bike, but it turned out he just had a raging case of vitiligo). There was a real community in Channapatna, even if it’s one that would appal by American standards. The one thing that did jar me was that none of the children were in school, and that’s a real problem. That isn’t a matter of local standards or moral relevance–that’s a severe handicap for those kids, and results in them going nowhere near their potential. Of all of India’s issues, schooling is the most pressing, in my opinion. You can’t have children spending their days running around a slum.
When we were done with the second meeting, Mr. Kumar drove me to the shack of a “third year customer,” which was still kinda iffy, but was a real, private shack with one family and a small yard. They’d clearly done well for themselves through the loans. Before I left for the bus station, the Ujjivan office forced food on me, and chapati roulette worked out in my favor, as I didn’t throw up. Everybody uses bottled water here, and I sure hope they used it in that chutney.
Friday, October 22, 2010
“We talk of growth.”
All of my posts about the orphanage, specifically, will have to remain private. We just want to make sure we don't wind up burning bridges if someone sees this stuff. So I'll have several posts that are just titles, and if you want to read them, just shoot me an email. I may come up with some sort of distribution list or something. We'll see.
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