MicroFinance and the Varanasi Kerfuffle

After dinner my Dad got in a car to the airport and I went home with the P--- family. Tuesday I went off to work with the Hyderabad office of Generic Big Bank (GBB) (whom I had met the previous week in Mumbai – they had only arrived back Monday night, which is why I had the day off). Much to my chagrin, I was set down with – you guessed it – more reports to read. I “worked” until about mid-afternoon, when S--- came to pick me up.

The next day was a visit to an MFI (that’s Microfinance Institution) called Nirantara that GBB was considering lending money to. I was picked up at a quarter to six a.m. (with a huge bag of snacks, fruits etc from the P--- family and strict admonishments to touch no water etc that I was offered) and we (myself and the Hyderabad team) started the three-hour drive. We drove from Hyderabad in the province of Andhra Pradesh to the area around Bidar in the province of Karnataka, where the MFI is located. We got there around nine, and after preliminaries (exchange of business cards, which the Indians seem to adore) went to our first centre meeting.

See, this is how the so-called “Grameen model” of microfinance works. You get between 5 to 20 women together in a so-called Self-Help Group or SHG in the lingo. The Microfinance Institution (MFI, remember) then lends smallish amounts of money to the women. A first time loan is typically around 10,000 rupees – 150Euros, 1000 Dkr or around 200$ Canadian. The women are then supposed to use the money to find a micro-enterprise - usually buying a buffalo for milk, a sowing machine, a rickshaw, a grocery store or the like. They then pay back the principal loan plus interest in small weekly instalments – typically around 160 rupees. Once they’ve paid back their loan, they can apply for another, larger one, to reinvest, and so on. The women in the SHG cross-guarantee each other, meaning that if one defects or can’t pay her instalments, the others will make up the difference. This serves two purposes. The first is obviously to lessen the risk of the MFI (most are run as non-profit businesses, and need demonstrably low levels of portfolio at risk in their loans in order to lend money from banks themselves – trust me, no-one’s getting rich off of this). The second is that this means the main mechanism to ensure the correct handling of money is peer pressure (odd how something we all think of as negative can be good, eh?). The other women might pay back a defaulter’s loan, but they then won’t let her take out another one, since they see a higher risk of losing money again. The MFI collects these weekly instalments at weekly (hard to guess, eh?) so-called “centre meetings”, where an employee of the MFI come to the village or district or whatever and collects the money. It’s all highly formalised with documents and so on (most centre meetings I’ve been to even open and finish with prayers).

Anyway, we went to our first centre meeting, in an urban slum in Bidar. It’s a predominantly Muslim area, and all the women were wearing burkhas which they removed once they steppe inside. The meeting was held in a clients’ home, and we all squatted on the floor while the Centre Manager (the MFI employee) and the Group Leader (a woman appointed collectively by the SHG to keep the group’s documents safe and act as the mouthpiece of the SHG) went through the accounts etc. After the formal business was done, the head of Nirantara asked whether the women would mind staying and talking about the programme for a while. Most of them stayed the CEO introduced my coworker, explaining that he was from GBB, and that they lent to Nirantara in the same was that Nirantara lent to the women. Coworker asked all kinds of questions, as did I (through Coworker of course. My lack of Hindi is becoming a bigger and bigger problem), including what business they did (many were involved in beef shops, seeing as this was a Muslim area. Another had a bakery, another a shawl-knitting business, and so on). They then asked a bunch about me. They’d been curious from the moment I walked in the door, pale thing that I am (another thing, this paleness business. I’m white as a ghost since I haven’t had any chance to tan, and they all seem to think it’s fabulous. Me, not so much) and asked all kinds of questions, from where I’m from to whether I was married (and why not? When was I getting married?), how long I’d been in India, etc etc etc. After the meeting we went to see a few of the businesses, and then on to a second meeting, which was much of the same. At this meeting however, there were several husbands hanging around, looking distinctly displeased. I asked why and Coworker answered that they weren’t pleased that their wives were showing their faces (not even their hair, mind you) to the men from Nirantara. One in particular was known to be a drunkard, and was mad that his wife was keeping the money from her grocery shop from him in order to pay for her children’s schooling. He felt that as head of the household he should have charge of the money, and be free to do with it as he pleased. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s unemployed. I’m not even going to comment on this kind of thinking, which is very, very common as far as I can tell.

Anyway, after a morning of centre meetings we went to lunch (I had a south Indian Thali, which is a big metal platter with various curries on it. So freakin’ spicy) and headed back to the office, where we were shown Nirantara’s bookkeeping and computer system. Coworker went over it with a fine-tooth comb, in discussion with the Branch Manager, and since it was all in Hindi I’ll admit my interest wavered slightly. I can now say with absolute certainty that I will never become an accountant. Whew, dodged a bullet on that one. We then spent a while with the CEO in the evening, going over their (somewhat ambitious) extension plans, and the GBB team pointed out weaknesses in the system that they’d found. We drove back to Hyderabad, and arrived home at around midnight.

The next day was more reading in the morning, and in the evening I went out with S---, her mother and her aunt to do some Sari-shopping. Now, you all know I have a thing for pretty clothes and getting gussied up. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that my tastes in Salwar Kameez and Saris is decidedly old-fashioned and stayed. I wanted simple fabrics with only a minimal amount of decoration, preferably combining no more than two colours, or one with a metallic finish. The fashion taste in India, in contrast, runs strongly towards wild multicoloured ensembles, crazy embroidery, and enough stitched sequins to make Liza Minelli’s heart beat faster. I finally found an affordable Sari I liked (so pretty! iridescent green and red with a gold thread finish), and was measured for the blouse, or choli. Once again, I betrayed my uncool-factor by requesting slightly longer sleeves (that is, about an inch above the elbow), which I’m told are matronly. I did apparently make up for it while they measured my chest area, quipping that that I didn’t mind showing off!

The next day was more reading in the morning (I know, I was as bored as you are now), and in the afternoon S--- took me to Golconda Fort, a huge ancient fortress (a bit like the Alhambra, actually) just outside the main city. It was stunning, especially the detailed stone carvings etc that I have a marked weakness for. It was the kind of place you with you had a few days and a sketchbook to appreciate properly. The only think that marred the experience were the renewed stares. In fact, one group of young guys took to following us (S---, our guide and I) and snapping pictures of me. For the first time in my life I wished I was Muslim, and could retreat behind the comforting veil of a burkha. My opinion on those has really changed drastically.
In the evening S--- and her Mum dressed me up in a red and gold Sari of theirs, since mine was still at the tailor’s, and we went for a scrumptious dinner at P---’s club. The next day I got up early and flew to Varanasi via Delhi.

Here I’d better report on what I'm calling the “Varanasi kerfuffle”. I am staying with the CEO of Generic Microfinance Institution (GMFI) in Varanasi, a Mr. T--- and his wife (they live in a residence in the GMFI building, and there’s a guest room for GMFI people). I was scheduled to arrive on Saturday. Friday morning there comes a communiqué that wires had somehow gotten crossed, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. T--- would in fact be in Varanasi until late Sunday evening, and would it be possible for me to come on Monday/Tuesday instead? I was told this, and my immediate thought was “why change the flights when it’s such a hassle? I’ll go anyway, find myself a nice hotel and do my own thing for a few days!” I called my Mum, who concurred. Why make everyone go into overdrive to change my plans a day in advance when I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a few days? Not only did I not want to be an inconvenience, I’ll admit that I relished the prospect of being in my own for a few days. The families I’ve been with have all been extraordinarily nice, but staying with strangers continuously, however sweet, for two months at a time is a little trying. I called the secretary who was going to rebook me and said not to worry, I’d figure it out. She sounded a little surprised, and asked whether she should find me a hotel. I again said no worries, and that I was going to pick one from my Lonely Planet guidebook. I thought then that the matter was settled.

Later that day, while at Golconda fort, Maneesha from the Mumbai office called to “talk” about my planned two-day vacation. She said they were all very worried about me, they’d have to send someone to go with me, it wasn’t completely safe, did I want to stay in the GMFI compound and wait for the T---s, why would I want to go to Varanasi on my own, et cetera, et cetera. I was polite, but very firm (I’ll admit I was surprised at this reaction – I had agreed with my parents on what I was going to do, why was this woman from an office I had left calling and trying to interfere with my plans?), and simply said I wanted a few days on my own, that I thought it too much of an inconvenience to them to have them change my flight, that I promised I would be safe, stay in a reputable hotel etc etc. Seriously though, I did not (and still don’t) get the fuss (nor, as I would later find out, did I grasp the full extent of it). I’m nineteen years old, overly cautious, as many of you know, have a full pocket of money and a phone connection to not only my parents but a full company’s worth of people willing to mobilise should I get myself into a scrape. Plus, Varanasi is one of the biggest tourist-areas in India, since it’s such a holy city, and I was confident of being fine. I flew to Australia on my own at 12, fercrissake! Surely I’d be able to handle two days in a nice hotel. So I politely declined any help, and did my best to assure Maneesha that my mangled body would not be found floating in the Ganges a week hence by promising an airport pick-up, not to go out after dark, not to talk to stranger etc etc, and thought no more about it.

Then later (you can see where this is headed, can’t you?), I get a call from my mother, saying she received an email from M--- (who at this point was in Europe on an Another GBB (the guys who bought the original GBB) top-brass meeting, and really had better things to think about) saying that her team was all in an uproar and basically wtf was going on. I couldn't believe she'd had to be dragged into all this drama! My phone call had apparently done nothing to calm them, and instead they’d started emailing with Varanasi, Mr. T--- etc etc to try and figure out how to stop me from staying my own. I think at one point they were trying to get Mr. T--- to come back early. This is where I got W. T. F. and a little angry. (you probably can tell I’m still irked by the whole affair – I’ve never felt so babied in my life) Thank God for my parents, since they were both on my side in this. My mom wrote a lovely email to both M--- and the whole team, apologising for all the fuss, stating that we’d only wanted to cut down on inconveniences to them, and how sorry we were that we’d instead created even more. But she was sure I’d be fine on my own, blah blah blah. Thank God I had no email access; since I’m not sure I’d have been able to be as sweet and calm about it. My mother is truly angelic.

Anyway, after this stir probably earned me the dislike of the Mumbai team (I later called and sincerely apologised to the team, and M--- as well. I did feel terrible that this had created so much inconvenience, precisely the thing I’d tried to avoid), I set off for Varanasi. I was booked into a Heritage hotel called the Palace on Ganges in the inner city, next to the (you guessed it) Ganges, and had arranged for a car to come and pick me up from the airport. My purchasing power in India is off the hook (the exchange rate is around Rs.65 per Euro, but the PP is around Rs.20 a Euro), and I’ll admit I was excited at the prospect of living so far above my usual means for a few days. I didn’t know the half of it. I arrived at the hotel, which was fine, and quickly got changed into my new Sari. I then asked for a taxi and went to… The Taj. Yeah baby. You see, my Lonely Planet guidebook stated that the restaurant in the Taj is amazing (and good value), and the small hotel bar is both named after and decorated by John Prinsep, who illustrated the Ghats beautifully. Imagine my disappointment when I got there and was told the restaurant was closed for a private function, their alternate restaurant wasn’t open yet, and neither was the bar. I sighed, but decided to make the best of the situation and at least exchange some currency while I was there, since amazingly hotels have much better value than most high-street exchanges.
I was exchanging money and chatting with the clerk when he asked me my room number. I sheepishly admitted that I wasn’t a guest, just there for the restaurant, and joked that the Taj was too expensive for me. He asked me where I was staying, what I was paying and whether I was alone. I told him, he went off to consult the manager, came back and said “Ma’am, we can offer you a room for Rs. 3000” (about 46 Euros, and only Rs.500 more than I was paying at the Palace on Ganges). HELL YEAH!
I stammered my thanks, reserved my room and dashed back to the Palace on Ganges (which, though nice, was no five-star hotel) to get my bags. I couldn’t believe it!
My stroke of luck was actually seriously well-timed, since I got sick on Sunday, and the nice surroundings made it a lot easier to bear.

That's all for now, tune in next time as I move to the GMFI compound and discover just how fond the Indians are of the present continuous!
Hugs, Knus,
Gitte

P.S. Y'all are seriously boring when it comes to comments on my blog. Not only have they been seriously lacking, but no one's offered any suggestions for the new poll. Boo.
I want news from you all, and the problem with blogging is that it's seriously one-sided. So pretty pretty please drop me a line telling me about your summer.

P.P.S. Also, a pre-plug for my brother, who hass just started off on his Interrail tour, which will take him and his friend Støtt through the depths of Eastern Europe (I'm still not happy about the planned excursion to Kosovo, guys). I've been promised a blog, and this is my public way of shaming it into existence. Get on it!
Knus