In the christmas spirit of excessive and unhealthy nibble grazing, I would like to take the opportunity of introducing my new favourite snack; delectable grass hoppers fried in their own belly fat . "Ensenene" as they are called in the local lingo, were in ripe and crunchy season just as I left Kampala in early December. Naturally high in protein, equally fatty, and exponentially delicious, they are dished up in small cones of newspaper reminiscent of the austerity packaging of UK fish and chips in World War II.
The ensenene season is accompanied by a 24 hour song: the jingling bells of daily sellers and the rustle of their flimsy shells being tossed around in tuppawares to attract buyers, and the nightly chorus of hundreds of thousands of grasshopper wings careering into hypnotic street lights. Leaping irratically around these lights, the small critters are collected en masse, often through innovative traps involving corrugated metal, for cooking and selling/eating.
The legs and wings are snapped off, their bodies fried, and voila: grubs up! The point at which the grasshopper dies is a flexible one around which no specific practises have been developed, in reflection of their lowly insect status. Kosher, or ethically slaughtered they are not, but free range, in demand and highly profitable they may be. One of the most expensive snacks to be bought locally, Ugandan diaspora and eccentric entomologists with cravings are also known to have paid premiums of up to $90 for an ounce. For those prepared to farm them and sell them out of season, soaring profits could be just a hop, skip and a jump away.
While academics work away, producing carefully crafted and thoroughly and systematically researched papers on current development issues, this work is failing to inform the practise of many NGOs and development projects. Overstretched and understaffed, many NGOs can be seen to operate reactively to challenges, rather than actively anticipating those challenges and taking preventative measures. However, even these reactive measures could be made more effective by drawing on the wealth of best practise knowledge available. By failing to systematically and regularly consult the advice, tools and support available, NGOs find themselves continually attacking time old, and arising issues from scratch.
I found this broken sculpture in the office. I think of it as an apt visual representation of two NGOs doing exactly the same thing, failing to collaborate, and not even having the head to notice.
It is hard to identify the exact point of disconnect. Certainly, much academic work is inaccessible to implementers organisations. This can be literally so, when access requires expensive subscriptions to academic journals and portals. Time constraints and the need for clear,concise and to the point recommendations can also rule out the helpfullness of longer, more theoretical papers. Where to begin looking for information on a particular topic is a mindfield in iteself. Clusters of small, ill coordinated and patchily informed fora and "platforms" have mushroomed up to encourage information sharing and collaboration. However, in duplicating one another they run the risk of becoming part of the problem, rather than the solution.
A quick google search identfied a Ugandan CSO forum here http://www.civilsocietyforum.org/about-portal which offers a more inclusive directory of CSOs according to thematic areas. However, the listing itself is neither exhaustive nor particularly informative. Some clarity on what a Civil Society Organisation actually is might also help matters, and work to exclude currently included international NGOs (INGOs) like ActionAid (which work with CSOS rather than being one), from the list. Hello uganda fare better in providing contact numbers and a more comprehensive listing service http://hellouganda.com/listing/index.php?id=3 but have no provision for searching under thematic areas. As a source of best practise and recent information, Eldis http://www.eldis.org/ is a pretty good bet, allowing searches by country and by thematic area. However, the search tools are basic, and can't take one into specifics beyond a broad area such as '"health" or "HIV &AIDS." There is no provision for, example, specifically searching for information on the use of SMS technology among community health workers in HIV and AIDS. You just have to scroll through the recently added articles list to see if anything comes up.
There doesn't seem to be a one stop shop for NGOs or DPs seeking development information and technical case studies and info that could be used to inform their own current and future practise. It is not just labyrinthine sources of information that foster this situation of stubborn ignorence . NGOs themselves lack a culture of consultation and exchange with others. True collaboration often excludes the competitive and is therefore unpopular among NGOs who are continually fighting to maintain a competitive edge. In the quest for income, the business of development can be an unpleasant one. What is perhaps most frustrating is that while weak businesses are weeded out by market forces, NGOs are immune to these. Lack of vigorous monitoring and evaluation of real project impact, rather than just outputs, and weak accountability requirements that are directed towards donors, rather than those they claim to serve, can lead to a proliferation of ineffective organisations that continue unchallenged.
Fortunately, relevant research does trickle down into organisations which dont have a budget for a research team, or which have a budget for an eneffective research team. This tends to come through the working groups that have been established around particular areas like HIV&AIDS and in whose meetings really valuable information and research based changes in policy changes is disseminated and shared. For those operating on the fringes of these networks howwever, or those that have no internal process for consulting, or responding to information shared, re-inventing the wheel is commonplace.
Driving down to Kabalagala from the office, a noticeably odd looking and exceptionally tall white girl gangled across the road, dressed in the classic Africa attire of sagging cargo pants, a pink, flustered face, and a droopy vest. The driver shook his head, and with an exclamation of AH ah!, turned to me and said, “you are not like these other Wazungu (basic translation: white folk): you are smart!” He proceeded to complain about how white people tramp around the city centre, as if they are on safari, and how previous volunteers had come to work dressed in the same way, taking no care over their appearance and looking unprofessional.
Generally speaking, Ugandan’s in Kampala are really quite a chic lot, coordinating their outfits with precision and care. I asked Brooke how the women sludge through the busiest bus park in Africa across the pot holed, trash strewn churned up earth, in rainy season, and still manage to look immaculate. She said a lot of it has to do with handkerchiefs. Looking down at my encrusted sandals the other day, on the way to a meeting, a NACWOLA driver indeed offered me a wet handkerchief to speedily rectify the situation.
Style is really valued here and even those with very little money invest it in keeping up appearances .I am referred to by one of our volunteers as “the designer,” which I assume is a compliment, unlike “designer lady” which actually means prostitute, or refers to those women who entertain older moneyed men for the handbag benefits. Of those women, there are two types-small c’s who are rewarded with chips, chaps (meat patties) and coca cola, and capital Cs who aim for the bigger guns of cars, cash and cell phones. My usual response to compliments on my outfit is “thanks, I got it at Owino,” which always raises a giggle. According to one of a drivers, the ability to make low cost clothing look expensive is a god-given blessing, that should be praised.
Owino market in old Kampala is the place to go to sort through the bales of second hand clothing that get delivered to Africa as the last stop on their retail journey. Some of the clothing here has made its journey via Eastern Eurpean scam agencies who collect the clothes under the guises of charity, and sell them on at a profit (or even steal sacks for other charities: see here). Other clothes are apparently imported mainly by Indian businessmen. It isn’t exactly a relaxing place to shop, particularly due to the apparently east African custom of sharply shoving those who are in your way, out of your way. Bales are delivered on Monday and Thursday mornings, when shopkeepers arrive around 5.30 am to get first picking of the goods to take back to their stores and sell at a mark-up of up to 500%. Sharp elbows are required.
If you can artfully avoid the clothing stands near the chicken coops (smell coups), the experience is vastly improved. Clothes pulled from the bales coming in are sorted into categories of first, second and third, which refer not to first or second hand (new and old), but rather the quality of the goods. Items are usually shipped with others of their kind, so each vendor will have a different speciality-shirts, trousers, skirts etc. To select clothes, you can choose a vendor, who will lift up their pile of stock and start throwing the items at you one by one to “sort”, or alternatively start tossing the clothes up in the air with the energy of a kid at a ball park. If the vendors had even the slightest idea of what you might like (ie, probably not a polyster catsuit, with cockroach snacked holes in the crotch, or a pair of curtains fashioned into equally grotesque trousers), it would really be shopping heaven.
Wandering through the labyrinthine paths, there is absolute vintage gold to be found. 80s wedding meringue dresses hang ghoulish from the rafters and many of the stands display what I can only describe as 90s floral curtain cladding to swaddle middle aged women. Admittedly, as much of the stock is 90s stuff it isn’t quite old enough to be considered vintage. However, 50s tea dresses emerge from the churning piles of clothes, as do 60s shifts, the odd Yves Saint Laurent skirt and other designer items. These items nestle among a host of stuff from Primark, Next and other British high street stores.
These newer items often come complete with charity shop and value village tags, which state an amount in dollars which is often less than what they retail at in the African market. Second hand clothes from UK, Europe and the US are often referred to collectively as clothes from “that place,” “your place,” or simply, “there.” The clothes from “there” are valued much more than the new clothes exported from China for reasons of quality,style and durability. This is reflected in the price.
The surprising thing about about Owino is how people emerge from its chaos with the most excellent outfits. Aaron and Christmas cardigans are bought and worn by boda boda drivers, teamed with helmets and wrap around shades for added street cred. Men wander around in ankle skimming turn ups, deck shoes, 1980s adidas tracksuit jackets and glasses frames from the 50s. The market has produced a city of accidental hipsters who wouldn’t look an inch out of place in Dalston. Wazungu meanwhile continue to walk around in clothes that no discerning Ugandan (with the money to choose) would be seen dead in.
Three weeks ago was my first day at the NACWOLA office where, if all goes well and I secure funding, I will continue to work for the next six months. The office is based on a leafy compound, serene and quiet but for the ibis’ deafening shrieks that invariably start up as soon as something important is being discussed. The office is based far from a main road, down a long and tumbling dirt track. Boda boda riders (motorbike taxis) bump up and down the road, dodging potholes and long horned cattle. Meetings are held outsider under a thatched roof in the compound, and the atmosphere is generally relaxed. NACWOLA members and small crowds of children stop by to speak to Judia, one of our lovely volunteers, who offers psychosocial support and does a bit of washing up. Peter, another volunteer, takes on the duties of compound keeper. Both volunteers receive a pitiful remuneration for their efforts which doesn’t even cover their lunch. Unless someone buys them lunch, they don’t eat it. Resources are scarce at NACWOLA. Salaries are low to the point where many staff see the work they do as partly a charitable contribution. The staff are skilled and professional people who could get far better paid jobs elsewhere, but they choose to work with NACWOLA because of what Judia calls “the NACWOLA heart.” This heart is an attitude of professional and personal motivation to make a difference and is borne of peoples own experience of living with HIV&AIDS among themselves, their families and their communities.
NACWOLA HQ, Kampala
While we thrilled to have secured funding from major development partners, it comes as project funding, rather than core funding. Current conditions are resource scarce; there is chronic toilet paper and soap insecurity. There is one towel, so on the day it is washed, there is no towel. There are no provisions for staff tea and coffee. Drivers stash their sugar pots in secret cubby holes and accuse each other frequently of helping themselves to one anothers supply. I bring in tea and sugar for the volunteers and have had to have words with a particular M&E person who has been ordering the volunteers to fetch him that tea, which he then slurps, blissfully. I had no idea hot drinks could be so political. Lunch was being bought for staff at one point, but that was stopped, presumably because of tight finances. There is no mineral water to drink-instead chlorine tablets are put in big tankards of tap water. The tap water is so full of heavy minerals that I now have rust stains on my clothes. I have heard there is a lot of lead in the water. We don’t have a hired cleaner-that is left to Judia, the volunteer on ART therapy who walks miles to the nearest taxi/matatu stand to come to work for no salary, and is given no soap to clean with.
Spot the sugar...
Extreme measures: A driver mixes salt into his sugar to give any potential thieves a fright. He doesn't mind it himself.
The office spaces are lively; people buzz in and out of each others rooms sharing updates, documents, and jokes, while mice run frantic relays behind the desks. An open door policy allows for free and easy exchange , and working relationships are presented more in terms of team work, than subordinate and supervisor hierarchies. The office with the heaviest traffic is that belonging to the finance, HR and admint co-ordinator, unsurprisingly as cash flow is the life blood of any NGO. Unfortunately this seems to have dried up even more during the last week. The director of the organisation is currently on leave in the US, but due to bureacratic challenges, the transfer of financial control to the acting director was not completed successfully. While attempts are being made to rectify this untenable situation, permission continues to come from the US, as and when the director has a chance to check emails and process requests. However, as the director is on sabattical this must be extremely invonvenient for her, and so isnt really happening in the most timely and coordianted manner. This has led to the recent absence of soap in the toilets and the fuelless vehicles sitting paralysed in the compound. Senior management are having to lend staff money to top up the phone and to refuel the vehicles, at a time when fuel prices have increased sharrply to UGX 3500 per litre (£0.98). We finished a big proposal for project funding which needed to handed in as a hard copy to an office out of town. Without fuel in the vehicle this meant lending money to one of the drivers to take more than a days worth of time, a bus, a taxi and a boda boda to get there...and the same back.
My desk in the resource centre, complete with miscellaneous unclaimed files, and a tupperware of fried crickets.
The NACWOLA heart is not a pampered one, and is not incentivised by the comparitively lavish salaries, buffet lunches and biscuit breaks provided by many international NGOs. But as the electricity in the office cuts out, the phone and internet dies and salaries are delayed due to cash flow blockages, the NACWOLA heart beats fiercely on.
Saturday was moving day. Had a lie in, a leisurely breakfast, and some time to reflect on the news Brooke had told me the former evening; that she had been offered a job with another agency, to do the research project I was developing with NACWOLA, but for Marie Stopes. (MSU) So, while I had been away on the field trip, discussing the research ideas that we had presented on the last day of the workshop (to do a situational analysis of the use of community health workers in Uganda, to identify opportunities for collaboration and strengthening of community systems), this agency had been thinking along similar lines. What baffled me was the apparent decison to duplicate this research without officially informing, or discussing this with the NACWOLA team. This was a confusion shared by Brooke. I was unsure whether to take my exclusion from this advancement and the possibility of funding to do the research as a personal slight, as a symptom of some kind of NGO rivalry, as a result of having so clearly aligned myself with NACWOLA through the course of the workshop. I hoped it was the latter.
Talking about the isse later, the CD agreed it made sense to collaborate, but I was unsure of how this collaboration would work if one party were getting paid to do it as a full time job, while the other was doing it on a voluntary basis, and alongside other projects. I had already considered concedeing defeat and handing over my purpose for being in Ugandas to Brooke, as she had already secured the fubnding to do what I had planned to do. I felt pretty disheartened and confused by the conversation. However, it later transpired of course, that I had put 2 and 2 together and gotten 20, envisioning that both research projects would evaluate the system nationally. In reality the respective projects, for NACWOLA and for MSU would be a first step towards this, by evaluating each NGO system respectively. Possibilities for collaboration and further research would perhaps arise after this first step. I had lept from stage 1 to stage 10 in my thinking, and so got my wires crossed unecessarily.
We packed up and at around 4, the country director of Marie Stopes came and picked us up. We have the good luck of being able to live there for the next 6 weeks or so as house sitters and dog feeders. On top of this, the CD was good enough to pick us up in the car, and to swing by the supermarket on the way home. The supermarket was full of local produce that was impossible to find in Ghana and most of West africa-there was fresh milk, cheese, flavoured and plain yoghurt and west nile honey. The vegetables were good, varied and cheap. The highly inflated costs of imported food like pasta and rice that I was used from Ghana (where you paid at least double what you would in the UK) were non existent here. There was even dairy milk chocolate! I got quite excited that I wasnt going to be reduced to a diet of beans and matooke on my shoestring budget. Brooke and I stocked up and clambered back into the car which chuffed around and up the very steep hill to the house.
Cranking open the gate we were met by Bobo and daisy, the two guard dogs, who were clearly interested but unsure of us at first. As the CD had described, Bobo is a big baby who jumps at you and wants his tummy rubbed whereas Daisy is smarter but with yellow eyes and with a flash of wolf in her that snarls from time to time. They had a good sniff as we unpacked warily.We met the friendly guy who looks after the compound and does the gardening etc. He was pleasant, but for a marked body odour issue. The house was beautiful-like a bug Scandinavian summer house, but decked with rich teak floors; a veritable colonial palace. Brooke and I had a room each, and adjacent bathroom. Living here would be far from slumming it. and we were both delighted. We deposited our bags, the CD shackled the dogs up to their leads, and with one in each sturdy hand led the way for a walk around the hill.
Canine tryptich, part 1: tension mounts
Part 2: Bobo attempts to mount, tension is released
Part 3: all is calm
The path was rough, and the slope from the house down onto it even more precarious, the loose stones on the surface sliding underfoot like on a spree slope. We picked our way down gingerly, relieved that we weren’t the ones holding the dogs. The view was, like from the house, utterly brilliant, and as we walked round we could trace the humped backs of the surrounding hills gently undulating on the leafy horizon. The area was beautiful, serenely quiet, but pretty far from town; the Kampala equivalent of Chislehurst. Transport, particularly at night, was going to be an issue.
We arrived home a bit sticky. Brooke and I set about making pesto and pasta, with fresh basil from the garden while the CD packed. Over dinner we discussed the logistics of the house, how to deal with inevitable water and power cuts, the location of the key, noisy neighbours, organisational politics and the trials and tribulations of being an expat. Later we headed out to a party I had been invited to nearby, arriving to find the LGBT community letting loose in the safety of the compound belonging to the self names "fag-hag of Kampala." A dapper guy in a tilted flat cap started a conversation with me about vaginal douching while his friend in a skin-tight wastecoat, flared jeans and stacked mules, puffed out his chest and danced /pranced circles around himself to lady gaga. He had been bold enough to leave the house dressed like that despite the homophobia here that recently made the headlines due to Uganda's proposed anti-homosexuality bill. If passed this would have criminalised homosexuality and made it punishable by death. Read more about it here: http://www.gayrightsuganda.org/ The guy finished the conversation with a "toodleoo, must dash dahling..." , and accompanied jazz hands. Rather than asking for each others numbers (so last year), the question was always "what's your facebook?" Fabulous people, fantastic party.
The country director invited us for a late lunch; a kind offer that was much appreciated by all. Arriving at a restaurant we agreed after some time to each order a plate of chicken stew with the standard collection of carbohydrates. We made polite conversation until the food came: plain boiled chicken, plain boiled rice, plain boiled sweet potato and matooke (a type of savoury banana/plantain that is steamed for hours in leaves). As I have discovered, Ugandan food is often a neutral palette of cream, beige, mustard yellow and off white, occasionally brightened by a splash of miscellaneous "greens", and tomato. Flavours are equally neutral, with Ugandans tending to eschew any use of spices and seasoning beyond salt, in favour of unadulterated blandness. The waiter brought us each a small bowl of salty vegetable broth of the type my great grand mother used to prepare. "Is this chicken stew?" I asked, wanting to know so I could avoid ordering it again. The driver laughed, and said she was happy because she didn't like stew anyway-too spicy. The CD was back to business of one of his three mobile phones (It is not uncommon to have multiple phones here, with a sim for a different network in each phone to reduce call charges) . We finished up and travelled to the district health office to try and gather some more information on infection rates in the area.
I asked the CD if the information was collected centrally by a demographic health survey (DHS) and accessible from Kampala. He explained that invariably one would be passed from office to office on a wild goose chase and that the breakdown per district would not be available. He noted that the last DHS had been conducted in 2005, and at last I understood his eagerness to get at least an idea of what the current infection rate stood at. As the others disappeared into an office to hunt for numbers, I stayed outside, and introduced myself to the team from JSI who had just pulled up. JSI are NACWOLAs donors on the STAR EC project-strengthening HIV&AIDS and TB response in central/eastern Uganda. JSI themselves received funding from USAID and then subcontracted the actual implementation to local partners like NACWOLA. Ideally NACWOLA should be able to attract large grants directly, but they currently lack the M&E systems and management capacity to make this happen. I introduced the possibility of working with NACWOLA to develop an M&E strategy, and the specialist from JSI said he would be glad to offer technical assistance to the process.
I relaxed a few moments on the step, in the sun, before the others emerged and we set of back to Kampala at around 4.30pm. We tucked into the bananas given to us by the psychosocial support group leader. Irene made the (subconscious) connection between our visit and that of politicians, saying that when she travelled as a journalist on a political campaign, villagers would present far more than they could possibly afford to politicians in the hope of increased support. The politicians would return to Kampala with goats, chickens and great sacks of maize, only to deliver nothing. We all agreed that a bunch of bananas was probably acceptable, but that when people offered more, clever ways of turning the offer down without out rightly refusing needed to be exercised. Suggestions for such excuses included being unable to strap the goat to a bicycle that you intend to travel part of the way home on.
We passed the time in the traffic home, discussing the universal challenge of encouraging men to access health care services in general, and not just for HIV&AIDS. Irene spoke of how you could treat woman for a sexually transmitted infected but that unless her male partner was treated too, she would repeatedly reinfect herself and return for services indefinitely. We identified the need to reach out to more men, and to target men more with sensitisation. We discussed the big cultural ceremonies at which community sensitisation, for men in particular, could be conducted. Irene talked of the male circumsision season in western uganda, where almost everyday you could see small boys getting their foreskins "chopped" in full view of the audience gathered. Sensitisation and HIV education activities had at least already increased the use of a fresh blade for each boys procedure. We spoke of the silent HIV epidemic in Iganga, and the practises among most at risk populations, including plantation workers, long distance drivers, sex workers, men who have sex with men.
We talked about the problems of polygamy for HIV prevention, and how the taboo nature of talking about sex that makes discussion of HIV&AIDS transmission& prevention and family planning an extra sensitive issue. We talked about the possibility of streamlining family planning into the information and support provided by community support agents. We talked of better partnerships between organisations working with community health workers and village health teams, and the serious need to identify opportunities for collaboration, to reduce overlap, and to fill in gaps. Irene and I discussed that I (NACWOLA) and possiibly Marie Stopes could at least look at the other organisations and government involved in Iganga district. We saw a great need for these organisations to partner up, to try and streamline activities and resources, and to provide better, fully co-ordinated outreach services to the poor. A national strategy for the use of community health workers loomed as a gaping gap that we began discussing how best to fill.
We dropped the CD at home with a big thankyou and a vigorous wave. It was brilliant that he had come, and that he was genuinely interested in engaging more with the realities of what was going on at the community level. His interest and genuine offer of support will no doubt be of great help to NACWOLA in the coming months. As we wound up and down and across the hills of Kampala, to the other side of town, the dusk quickly tuurned to darkness. Each black mound was sporadically illuminated with the warm glow of houses and the snaking lights of heavy traffic. The driver dropped us at the hotel, Irene drove home, and I settled happily onto the veranda of the hotel with Brooke, the fellow anthropologist, and a beer.
We left the hospital for our next engagement: a psychosocial support group meeting being held under the canopy shade of a wide flat tree. As we drove up, excitement ruffled through the group, and a crowd of school children in yellow and brown uniforms scampered around the car. We introduced ourselves, took a seat on a wooden bench that had been set out for us, and rather than sitting in and observing a psychosocial support group, the ceremonials began. We sat in a row as an audience to their full attention, and listened to a welcome and background story given by a male community support agent (CSA). Much of what was said was lost to lack of translation but some prize bits of information were relayed to me in English. The groups name translated as “People living with HIV take care of ourselves.” A truly voluntary group, unsupported by lunch provision and transport allowances, this group formed to offer one another psycho social support and to conduct income generating activities. As they have no land they pool their resources collectively to hire the land which they now farm on. They also do bricklaying to earn money for the group. International HIV/ Alliance presented the group with a cow last year to use for ploughing the land. That cow has since given birth and they are training the calf to plough too so that they can lease the wee beast to others.
The CSA explained that they provide nutrition advice, follow up those who have not been attending the services they referred them for, support anti retro viral therapy adherence and refer pregnant mothers to prevention of mother-to-child transmission services etc. He also mentioned that he teaches against witchcraft as a cause of illness. At that point however he also mentioned the importance of believing in God. As far as I know missionary services are, like reproductive health services, yet to be streamlined into the community support agent model. The latter is something I hope to work on over the next 6 months. The CSA repeated the phrase “a tug of war” in relation to getting men to join groups and access services. One of the reasons he attributed this hesitance to was the self stigma that men with HIV attach to themselves. This particular psychosocial support group tries to set an example to others by revealing their HIV status and showing others how to live positively. It was all very positive.
We asked how the group thought men could be encouraged to access services. An old woman suggested that women should not be treated unless their husbands come to the clinic with them. In response to this it was noted that this approach had been tried and that it failed miserably, resulting in far fewer women being treated, and no more men. No more suggestions were offered. I asked how the group was started and was told that it was thanks to a nurse who had put three HIV positive people in contact with one another, and supported them to begin a group in absence of formalized services.. She arranged for them to attend CSA training with NACWOLA. While NACWOLA aims to bridge the gap from the community to the health service provider by starting at the community, many persons at health service providers have begun bridging the gap from the opposite side, as the nurse did here.
On asking the group how being part of this group made them feel , some bold and confident women stood up to share their answers. Their answers attributed this new found confidence to psychosocial support which offered them feelings of unity, a new life, shared experience and knowledge, joy away from the stigma of HIV and empowerment through realising that the power to prevent the spread of infection begins with themselves. We thanked the group for their time, and turned to leave, but not before being presented with a fanned out hand of miniature bananas. The CD handed over UGX 20,000 (about £6). I wasn't sure which was worse; to reinforce the stereotype of "donors" arriving in white 4 by 4s,spending a pitiful amount of time before handing over cash and disappearing for ever more, OR to challenge those expectations and break the stereotype by not giving any much needed and well received petty cash. It had been a private donation borne of the generosity of the Country Director, but arriving in the branded vehicle that Irene had (fortunately) arranged to use through hr own agency, changes the context of everything you do.
We piled back in the car and set off down a rough dirt track, flanked by lushly planted fields sprouting avocado, jack fruit, maize and cassava among other crops. The CD requested to be dropped en route so that he could pray in the mosque. We arrived at the site of a home visit that the CSA with us was due to make, and followed him into the house. We greeted the young girl (maybe 14), her tiny baby and her grandmother who lived there, accompanied by 5 other aids orphans. Once seated on the sofas, a rakishly elegant man stooped down and up into the house through the low entrance. Dressed in a long flowing white tunic and an islamic cap, he bent to shake the hands of all of us in the room, greeting people in the local language, before reaching me. At that point, he took a dramatic pause before exclaiming 'Good Morning!' in a comical voice that induced a long laugh from the room.
The CSA looked to us for guidance as to what to do next. I suggested that he continue to do as he would if we weren't there, if that was ok, and that we would just observe quietly and conspicuously. We learnt that the CSA had been passing through the village when he saw that the girls baby had been looking ill. He had taken a measurement of her upper arm and referred her to the clinic. It was unknown whether the baby had been ill from HIV, poor nutrition, or more likely, a combination of the two. The girl had run away to "the island" and returned pregnant. It was therefore suspected that the father was a member of a fishing community who characteristically have very high HIV infection rates. After receiving treatment and services the baby was in visibly better health. As we sat talking, the driver rang Irene's mobile repeatedly. She was hungry and the CD had finished praying. That was our summons to leave. I avoided being completely rushed though, and dawdled a few extra precious mins to talk with the women and take photos.
Travelling back in the car we passed the absurd site of a man sitting on a low stool in the middle of a field in a smart suit and tie. It was the country director. We reversed, picked him up and all had a good laugh.
