One of my favorite parts of work in Zambia are the trips to the field, installing or fixing hardware in rural clinics. We install a low power computer system for data entry, and train people how to use touchscreen computers that utilize the cell network to transmit data. Half of the sites that we work in are off the grid, and require a solar power installation. We also give community workers cell phones and a custom application, so that data can be passed between them and the clinic. Working with my hands, seeing tangible benefits from a days work, and the 'thank you's' make the job rewarding.
I've just come from one of the remotest of the sites in which we are working. There is no cell coverage. There is a small hill a half an hours walk away where you can get half a bar of service, sometimes, on some phones - but that isn't going to help our data connection at the clinic. Using the cell network to transfer information thus far has been relatively easy and affordable. However, this option wasn't available this time. After surveying a number of options, the time vs money vs schedule dilemma forced us down the path of satellite internet. This wasn't just the shotgun approach, but the golden-plated shotgun approach. Furthermore, the community health workers, without good cell coverage they can access, are given phones with a wifi connection which they can bring to the clinic and connect through the satellite internet to send data.
Think about this for a moment. Rural Africa. Mud huts with thatched roofs sparsely populate the only access to the clinic, a bumpy dirt road. Naked children running around barefoot. Water comes from a river a 45 minute walk away. No electricity. Most people here don't have a cell phone because the service is so poor. The Zambian team I'm working with jokes that the people here aren't even Zambian - they don't know who any of the last four presidents have been. If government services never reach a remote location, that location isn't given any say in the government, and not much has changed since 1) independence 50 years ago and 2) since the country was arbitrarily drawn by colonists a few centuries back, I don't know if I would consider myself a Zambian in that situation either.
But I digress.
Go back to the picture painted of rural Africa. Now add solar panels and a computer. Not too bad. We installed a few light bulbs as well. Now, add a satellite dish and a wifi hotspot. Is this sustainable? Is this the right use of resources? I went home after beginning the installation feeling that no, this wasn't quite right. Yes, the data arm of the project is a main support for the medical intervention that is aiming to drastically reduce mortality rates. A slightly inebriated local regaled me during a work break:
'We need help. we need water, cell coverage, medicine. Can you help?'
'I am trying to help'
'No, we need help. Can't you just send in an application?'
'Um, to who?'
'Just send in an application. We need help.'
Ah yes, just send an application to Bank Mzungu, and all your problems will be solved.
Most of the clinics I have been to have had solar power installations before. None of them work anymore. A cousin decided to plug in his TV and DVD player. Lightening struck the inverter. They ran out of light bulbs. They plugged DC items into AC circuits or vice versa, stole the batteries, abused the inverter, or threw rocks at the solar panels (haven't seen this one personally, but have heard LOTS of stories).
Upon returning to the clinic the next day to finish up, the in-charge was back to complain that we were only installing a few lights, and not lighting the entire clinic or providing electrical outlets. I tried to explain that the system we were installing was minimized for price and functionality. The wiring for lights and sockets had already been installed and at one time they worked - this was the DVD abuse case. After the inverter broke, the battery was stolen, and the system fell into disrepair. When taken to a dingy, dirty store room, there was a 6kVa UPS still in plastic, donated by an NGO. This is used to take AC input, clean it up and store it in a battery, and plug fancy electrical equipment into it, which can be powered for some time after the AC input dies. This was the biggest one I had ever seen, by far. There is no AC input and no fancy electrical equipment. This single piece of equipment is probably worth tens of thousands of dollars - and is sitting, unused, unable to be used, in its wrapping in a corner of the Zambian bush. The jungle will overtake it sooner or later. Then she showed me a large generator, also sitting in a room. She also mentioned that she had eight solar panels sitting at her house if we wanted to wire them for her. Ah yes, and when a woman came into the clinic in anaphylactic shock from a scorpion bite, they didn't have the proper medicine to treat her.
I wired the clinic to run off of the generator, taking the burden, and hopefully the temptation, off of our solar equipment. I was satisfied to see visible progress. The lights and the sockets will now all work - as long as the generator can be maintained and fuel provided (not too much of a hassle, actually). We parted ways, and as we left the clinic, I spied the egregious satellite dish. All I could do was sigh, and shake my head. On to the next clinic.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Nearly Half in the Bush
What better way to spend a hot, clear, Saturday morning than running through the bush? Yesterday a group of around 50 Zambians and Mzungu's made the trek out past Kafue town, and started running from the highway, up the surprisingly good tarmac road, towards the Kafue Power station 10.7 miles away on hilly road, involving 2000 ft of elevation gain (nearly a half marathon). It was a hilly and challenging course, to say the least.
Elevation profile of the run. Notice the first 4km offer a nice, unrelenting climb.
The run contrasted sharply with the last organized long run of mine - the Boston marathon ala 2005. Both well organized sporting events, one slightly larger than the other. Instead of the sidelines packed with cheering, merry-making individuals, were tall, green, silent trees. The occasional bunch of cattle stared at runners passing by, but with less wonder and bemusement than the few locals, who looked on, incredulous. Some greeted us with smiles, some with blank stares. There were no energetic crowds of friends jumping onto the race course for small stretches, or oodles of screaming girls at Wellesley College, halfway along, offering kisses to runners. Instead, five foot tall bags of charcoal lines a few parts of the road, waiting to be bought to heat homes and cook food, like soldiers at attention. A buddy of mine and I 'bandit' ran in Boston, hopping on after all the registered runners started, but were cheered on with the same enthusiasm and excitement. I had 'Looking' written on my chest, and my buddy had written 'Good' in nice big letters. Depending who was cheering for us, we were either Looking Good, or Good Looking, both of which kept continual smiles on our faces and urged us on to the end. Yesterday, the trees stood in silence, but the rolling hills and landscape provided endless views of rural Zambia, hardly developed, lush, and expansive.
A blast from the past. 'Looking' and 'Good' cruising in the background, surrounded by a shirtless crowd of friends that had joined us for a half mile or more near Wellesley College.
The small group of runners strung out quickly. I ran the majority of the race myself, contemplating the events of the week past, and gearing up for the challenges of the week upcoming. I would pass five and six year old Zambian children, often carrying loads of goods, miles from home, on their own, with not a worry in the world. A race organizer told a story about leaving her own children to man a water table last year. After driving away and realizing what she had done, she noted that her children were plenty old to be left alone in the bush by Zambian standards, but in the US, custody of her kids would likely be revoked.
I wish I had pictures to post here from the race - but was too focused on finishing to bother carrying a camera. And oh, the Zambian contingent smoked the Mzungu's, with the lead runner finishing in an hour and five minutes on the challenging course.
Elevation profile of the run. Notice the first 4km offer a nice, unrelenting climb.The run contrasted sharply with the last organized long run of mine - the Boston marathon ala 2005. Both well organized sporting events, one slightly larger than the other. Instead of the sidelines packed with cheering, merry-making individuals, were tall, green, silent trees. The occasional bunch of cattle stared at runners passing by, but with less wonder and bemusement than the few locals, who looked on, incredulous. Some greeted us with smiles, some with blank stares. There were no energetic crowds of friends jumping onto the race course for small stretches, or oodles of screaming girls at Wellesley College, halfway along, offering kisses to runners. Instead, five foot tall bags of charcoal lines a few parts of the road, waiting to be bought to heat homes and cook food, like soldiers at attention. A buddy of mine and I 'bandit' ran in Boston, hopping on after all the registered runners started, but were cheered on with the same enthusiasm and excitement. I had 'Looking' written on my chest, and my buddy had written 'Good' in nice big letters. Depending who was cheering for us, we were either Looking Good, or Good Looking, both of which kept continual smiles on our faces and urged us on to the end. Yesterday, the trees stood in silence, but the rolling hills and landscape provided endless views of rural Zambia, hardly developed, lush, and expansive.
A blast from the past. 'Looking' and 'Good' cruising in the background, surrounded by a shirtless crowd of friends that had joined us for a half mile or more near Wellesley College. The small group of runners strung out quickly. I ran the majority of the race myself, contemplating the events of the week past, and gearing up for the challenges of the week upcoming. I would pass five and six year old Zambian children, often carrying loads of goods, miles from home, on their own, with not a worry in the world. A race organizer told a story about leaving her own children to man a water table last year. After driving away and realizing what she had done, she noted that her children were plenty old to be left alone in the bush by Zambian standards, but in the US, custody of her kids would likely be revoked.
I wish I had pictures to post here from the race - but was too focused on finishing to bother carrying a camera. And oh, the Zambian contingent smoked the Mzungu's, with the lead runner finishing in an hour and five minutes on the challenging course.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Shifting from Fifth Gear to First
I've always had a sick desire to downshift to reverse o
r first gear while cruising down the highway. Thankfully, part common sense, part weeny has kept me from attempting it. Would you hear a crunch and feel a bump as the transmission dropped out the bottom and you slowed to a stop? Would it be like slamming on the front brakes of your bike, sending you a** over tea kettle, lurching over the handlebars - in other words, would your car do a forwards flip, emitting billows of black smoke at the same time (for the coolness factor, of course).
Well, if this week is any experience, it feels like a really, really bad hangover. No, I didn't downshift from fifth to first, not even in the rental car I had in California. But after back to back red eye flights, ten time zones, and an entire weekend on an airplane, I feel its the most apt description of my current situation.
The analogy works on so many levels.
I was just driving on palm tree lined, six lane wide, smoothly paved highways with intermittent views of the Pacific. Now, I'm riding in old, busted cars on old, busted streets, where 50 mph feels like warp speed - if you have the magical combination of car and road that can achieve it. Even more fitting, riding 10 mph on my 50 pound, single speed, creeky bike because I don't even own an old, busted car.
How about going from the land of time management, efficiency, and a go-go-go pace to, well ... the opposite. From fast food to not much of anything that can be called fast. Do you remember what dial-up internet feels like - yea, that one fits here too. Its not dial-up, but it feels like it a little too often.
This guy is no weeny...
I was curious enough to google what would happen if you did shift from fifth gear to first or reverse. 'A lot of pressure and noise.' Lame. That's not nearly as exciting as a car doing a forward front flip with smoke effects, or dropping the tranmission like a bad habit. Ah well, as it is, a few days of napping and sucking it up - and I feel like a normal person again. Still adjusting to the small things, but at home in Africa once again. I don't think any major body parts fell off in the process, and I have never been talented enough for acrobatics.
Next time though, it may be wise to apply the brakes first.
r first gear while cruising down the highway. Thankfully, part common sense, part weeny has kept me from attempting it. Would you hear a crunch and feel a bump as the transmission dropped out the bottom and you slowed to a stop? Would it be like slamming on the front brakes of your bike, sending you a** over tea kettle, lurching over the handlebars - in other words, would your car do a forwards flip, emitting billows of black smoke at the same time (for the coolness factor, of course).Well, if this week is any experience, it feels like a really, really bad hangover. No, I didn't downshift from fifth to first, not even in the rental car I had in California. But after back to back red eye flights, ten time zones, and an entire weekend on an airplane, I feel its the most apt description of my current situation.
The analogy works on so many levels.
I was just driving on palm tree lined, six lane wide, smoothly paved highways with intermittent views of the Pacific. Now, I'm riding in old, busted cars on old, busted streets, where 50 mph feels like warp speed - if you have the magical combination of car and road that can achieve it. Even more fitting, riding 10 mph on my 50 pound, single speed, creeky bike because I don't even own an old, busted car.
How about going from the land of time management, efficiency, and a go-go-go pace to, well ... the opposite. From fast food to not much of anything that can be called fast. Do you remember what dial-up internet feels like - yea, that one fits here too. Its not dial-up, but it feels like it a little too often.
This guy is no weeny...Next time though, it may be wise to apply the brakes first.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Bank Mzungu
I met with a pastor for coffee a month back in Lusaka. The topic: business. I helped him flesh out a few ideas to provide skills trainings and services for his church community. After helping him brainstorm, the real reason for our meeting slowly dawned on me. 'How are you going to seek funding?' I asked. 'Well, with your help. You know people, have friends and family back home, right? Can't you mail them asking for money?'
I thought of all the emails I have ever received in the States asking for a bank account number for some get rich quick scam.
'No, I don't really feel comfortable doing that.'
I'm sure liar wasn't too far from his vocabulary at that point.
I tried to explain that charity, especially the handouts he was seeking, aren't sustainable. Even if I was to collect money on his behalf, it would eventually run out. He and his church would be back to square one. A more sustainable, entrepreneurial spirit was needed - micro-finance to secure upfront capital, skills workshops to collect small funds or donations, selling the crafts made at the workshops, taking a small commission on the products sold by those trained to fund the center. As I was talking, I realized how much harder one method sounded than the other. Handout versus hard work. Ease versus the risk of failure. As much as I tried to relay the I was happy to help in any number of ways, I'm afraid I was only able to convince him that I was not going to be a funding source, that I wasn't his Bank Mzungu.
This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Its easy to feel like a walking dollar sign rather than a person in Africa.
These encounters may be microcosms of the larger aid industry. If you are at all interested in the theme, I would highly recommend 'Dead Aid' by Dambisa Moyo. She talks about aid to Africa over the last 50 years, and how it can be viewed as one of the chief mechanisms that has actually held Africa back from development. She is a Zambian, and her point of view is refreshing and insightful, providing a needed counter-argument to the typical Western arguments about the success or failure of foreign aid.
"Since the 1940s, approximately US$1 trillion of aid has been transferred from rich countries to Africa. This is nearly US$1,000 for every man, woman and child on the planet today."
That is A LOT of money. And where has this money gone? Has it reached the people who need it most, to help develop African societies, provide healthcare and education? Not necessarily, and definitely not efficiently.
"Foreign aid props up corrupt governments – providing them with freely usable cash. These corrupt governments interfere with the rule of law, the establishment of transparent civil institutions and the protection of civil liberties, making both domestic and foreign investment in poor countries unattractive. Greater opacity and fewer investments reduce economic growth, which leads to fewer job opportunities and increasing poverty levels. In response to growing poverty, donors give more aid, which continues the downward spiral of poverty."
"In most functioning and healthy economies, the middle class pays taxes in return for government accountability. Foreign aid short-circuits this link. Because the government’s financial dependence on its citizens has been reduced, it owes its people nothing."
Like charity, these handouts are for short term survival with little thought of the long-term. Aid is typically given with some conditions, but rarely ended or taken back if those conditions aren't met. The money continues to flow. Many want to alleviate poverty in the developing world by increasing the flow of aid. Maybe this is the wrong approach.
Winston Churchill is quoted in the book saying, "We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give." I don't want to discourage giving on an individual level. Americans give much more than the majority of Westerners, and much of that money does go to good causes. But is it the best way to help the developing world develop?
"Deep in every liberal sensibility is a profound sense that in a world of moral uncertainty one idea is sacred, one belief cannot be compromised: the rich should help the poor, and the form of this help should be aid."
But...
"There is no incentive for long-term financial planning, no reason to seek alternatives to fund development, when all you have to do is sit back and bank the cheques."
But how to change? For the government, it is almost easier to leave the status quo of a dysfunctional system of aid rather than shake things up. This is a controversial subject, and I don't have the answers. I do know, however, that I don't like being treated as a Bank Mzungu.
I thought of all the emails I have ever received in the States asking for a bank account number for some get rich quick scam.
'No, I don't really feel comfortable doing that.'
I'm sure liar wasn't too far from his vocabulary at that point.
I tried to explain that charity, especially the handouts he was seeking, aren't sustainable. Even if I was to collect money on his behalf, it would eventually run out. He and his church would be back to square one. A more sustainable, entrepreneurial spirit was needed - micro-finance to secure upfront capital, skills workshops to collect small funds or donations, selling the crafts made at the workshops, taking a small commission on the products sold by those trained to fund the center. As I was talking, I realized how much harder one method sounded than the other. Handout versus hard work. Ease versus the risk of failure. As much as I tried to relay the I was happy to help in any number of ways, I'm afraid I was only able to convince him that I was not going to be a funding source, that I wasn't his Bank Mzungu.
This isn't the first time this has happened to me. Its easy to feel like a walking dollar sign rather than a person in Africa.
These encounters may be microcosms of the larger aid industry. If you are at all interested in the theme, I would highly recommend 'Dead Aid' by Dambisa Moyo. She talks about aid to Africa over the last 50 years, and how it can be viewed as one of the chief mechanisms that has actually held Africa back from development. She is a Zambian, and her point of view is refreshing and insightful, providing a needed counter-argument to the typical Western arguments about the success or failure of foreign aid.
"Since the 1940s, approximately US$1 trillion of aid has been transferred from rich countries to Africa. This is nearly US$1,000 for every man, woman and child on the planet today."
That is A LOT of money. And where has this money gone? Has it reached the people who need it most, to help develop African societies, provide healthcare and education? Not necessarily, and definitely not efficiently.
"Foreign aid props up corrupt governments – providing them with freely usable cash. These corrupt governments interfere with the rule of law, the establishment of transparent civil institutions and the protection of civil liberties, making both domestic and foreign investment in poor countries unattractive. Greater opacity and fewer investments reduce economic growth, which leads to fewer job opportunities and increasing poverty levels. In response to growing poverty, donors give more aid, which continues the downward spiral of poverty.""In most functioning and healthy economies, the middle class pays taxes in return for government accountability. Foreign aid short-circuits this link. Because the government’s financial dependence on its citizens has been reduced, it owes its people nothing."
Like charity, these handouts are for short term survival with little thought of the long-term. Aid is typically given with some conditions, but rarely ended or taken back if those conditions aren't met. The money continues to flow. Many want to alleviate poverty in the developing world by increasing the flow of aid. Maybe this is the wrong approach.
Winston Churchill is quoted in the book saying, "We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give." I don't want to discourage giving on an individual level. Americans give much more than the majority of Westerners, and much of that money does go to good causes. But is it the best way to help the developing world develop?
"Deep in every liberal sensibility is a profound sense that in a world of moral uncertainty one idea is sacred, one belief cannot be compromised: the rich should help the poor, and the form of this help should be aid."
But...
"There is no incentive for long-term financial planning, no reason to seek alternatives to fund development, when all you have to do is sit back and bank the cheques."
But how to change? For the government, it is almost easier to leave the status quo of a dysfunctional system of aid rather than shake things up. This is a controversial subject, and I don't have the answers. I do know, however, that I don't like being treated as a Bank Mzungu.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Deja Vu
As I sit in Orange County, driving on familiar streets, eating at familiar restaurants, and surrounded by familiar faces, I wonder if the last year really happened. Did I really see the splendid Victoria Falls, or go camping amidst the larger mammalian species on this planet, the ones that have no problem eating you? Were all those visits to rural clinics, and the impressions they continually made on me a fiction? What about the friends I have made in the past year? The potholes I have become intimately acquainted with? The culture? The people? My home?
Sipping a Chai Latte, hearing airplanes cruise overhead and cars drive by, Africa seems a world away. I work in a familiar office, driven by all too familiar goals. All those experiences of afar seem - well, far away. I know they are there, not too deep below the surface. They have been internalized, and shaped my into a slightly different version of the person I was when I was last here.
I am here in Southern California, halfway through a three week stint as a contractor for Boeing. My old boss gave me a call, and was convincing enough to drag me out of Zambia. Is my time in Africa done? Far from it. I go back in a little over a weeks time. My aim is to work part time for both companies, and see if that lifestyle is sustainable. I can have my cake and eat it too, can't I? That luscious cake of convenience, sushi, cheese and ice cream in America, sprinkled with a bit of adventure, challenge and culture in Zambia. I hope it tastes as delicious as it sounds.
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