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by Angie Brenner
If you educate a boy
You get an individual
If you educate a girl
You get a community
- African Proverb
Sometime between the reception and podium, Greg Mortenson, author of the New York Times bestseller Three Cups of Tea, slips off his shoes and stands on the stage of the Point Loma Nazarene University’s Brown Chapel in stocking feet. This big midwestern football player and mountain climber looks oddly comfortable with the audience of more than 1800 people. The event venue had changed three times due to increased interest in Mortenson’s highly publicized book.
Kathie Diamant, the MC for the evening from San Diego’s National Public Radio Station, KPBS, tells how Mortenson’s book was chosen as this year’s One Book One San Diego − a sort of a book club for the entire city.
“Some men climb mountains,” says Diamant, after mentioning that San Diego State University has made Three Cups of Tea mandatory reading in next year’s curriculum. “Other men move mountains.”
Actually, Greg Mortenson does both.
In 1993 bad weather thwarted Mortenson’s climb to the 28,267-foot summit of K-2 in Pakistan’s Karakoram mountain range. He became disoriented and ill before being led by his guide into the tiny village of Korphe. The failed attempt to reach the peak hit Mortenson hard. This climb was to honor his younger sister Christa who had died, and the opportunity of a lifetime was missed. Or so he thought.
While recouping in Korphe, Mortenson became friends with the village chief, Haji Ali. “As the guest in the village, I was told that the first cup of tea offered is to the stranger, the second is to a friend, and the third is for family,” Mortenson tells the audience. “And, for family, they will do anything. When I left, I asked them what was most needed in the village. Haji Ali, himself illiterate, said that the children needed to be educated; they needed a school. They were scratching out math problems with sticks in the dirt.”
Mortenson returned home, sold his few belongings, and while living in his car, began to raise money to build a school for the children of Korphe. “I typed out letters on a manual typewriter at night,” he says. “The only response was $100 from Tom Brokaw. But it gave me hope. I went to Westside Elementary School in Wisconsin where my mother is the principle and spoke to the students. Six weeks later they presented me with 62,342 pennies. That began the Pennies for Peace program, now promoted by my eleven-year-old daughter.”
The first substantial benefactor, Jean Hoerni, gave Mortenson $12,000 to return to the Pakistani village to build the school. “When I walked into the village, Haji Ali just shook his head. He never expected to see me again. “‘You can not get materials to the village unless a bridge is built,’ Ali told me. So I returned home once again to find more money to build the bridge.”
Journalist David Oliver Relin found Mortenson’s story of school building so compelling that he worked two years with him to write the story.
“My publisher wanted the subtitle, One Man’s Mission to Fight Terrorism and Build Nations,” says Mortenson. “‘Greg, only 12% of non-fiction books make money, and terror sells,’ they told me. So, I agreed with their title for the hard cover release if they agreed to use my sub-title for the paperback publication should hard cover sales not do well,” As it turned out, the hard cover sold a dismal (by New York publishing house standards) 20,000 copies. “The paperback version of Three Cups of Tea has been on the NYT’s Bestseller List for nine months now.”
We can see Mortenson’s wide grin twenty rows away.
The story is remarkable on so many levels. It’s a story about compassion and trust, and believing in a goal and not letting it go no matter how the odds are stacked against you, and how to fight terror and hate through peace and education.
Mortenson talks about the two Fatwas against him that ordered him to stop teaching girls and ordering him leave the country. The Council of Mullahs would determine his fate. Inside the Imam Bara Mosque, Mortenson joined eight stern-faced, black-turbaned men and expected the worst. Syed Mohammad Abbas Risvi greeted him and placed a red velvet box that contained the decree on the carpet in front of him and opened the lid.
“We direct all clerics in Pakistan to not interfere with your noble intentions,” read the Mullah.
Mortenson believes that his refusal of all U.S. government contributions (and millions of dollars have been offered) helps his credibility in both Pakistan and Afghanistan. “They might think I was a spy if they learned that I took money from my government,” he says.
“I just returned from a speaking engagement at the Pentagon,” he says. “They purchased 5,000 copies of my book.” Again, Mortenson’s signature broad smile illuminates his face.
The building of schools near terrorist training camps in Afghanistan, with the resurgence of the opium trade and Taliban, proves to be even more of a challenge. Recently, one of his schools was threatened by the local Taliban despot who said that they would kill students if the school wouldn’t stop educating girls. The local authorities intervened, made arrests, and stopped the Taliban before anyone was hurt.
Building schools in two of the most politically charged and dangerous countries in the world, and encouraging that more girls attend, always puts Mortenson at risk.
When he’s not overseeing the building of a new school, Mortenson travels the world fundraising for his organization, CAI (Central Asia Institute). Already he has had 140 speaking engagements this year and just returned from an event in Florida where President H.W. Bush, Barbara, and their son Jeb, listened to him speak and offered a contribution.
He tells of the e-mails he’s received from an army captain stationed in Afghanistan who candidly says that this war can not be won by bombs, only education can create peace.
“I’ve come to realize that the Pentagon has no idea about this part of the world,” says Mortenson. “The captain stationed in Afghanistan says that he has no problem ordering thousands of dollars worth of bombs to be dropped on cities, but can’t get $4,000 to help rebuild a school.
The speaking engagements are working. Mortenson now has sixty-four schools under his belt, and 25,000 students being educated, many of them are girls. And, he’s adding to the success stories.
Mortenson receiving award from Muslim girl scout
“One of the first girls I saw in Korphe was writing in the dirt with a stick. Even with much taunting and ridicule from boys, she has since graduated from high school. We paid the $800 for her medical training. Now she has returned to her village in Chunda, Pakistan, and with her medical skills has reduced the morality rate of women during pregnancy from about twenty a year to zero.”
Mortenson admits that he creates his good luck by building relationships based on trust and patience, and he takes the time for the third cup of tea.
Mortenson will carry his message again during his many San Diego speaking engagements, including the Camp Pendleton Marine base.
“You can not get peace through politics,” he says in closing. “You can only get peace through people.”
Web Links:
www.threecupsoftea.com
www.ikat.org
by Joy E. Stocke
Michelle Obama in Tampa, Florida - December, 2007
In early December, 2007, I traveled with a group of Latin American trade and policy experts through Ecuador as part of a delegation accompanying Nobel Laureate, Muhammad Yunus (See WRR, January 2008, "Opening the Gates of Capitalism."). At a luncheon honoring Dr. Yunus, I sat next to Frank Sanchez, a public policy expert and former Assistant Secretary of Transportation for the Clinton Administration.
We were guests of Ivonne Baki, President of the Andean Parliament, an old friend of Sanchez's from their years together at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard. In the mid-90s Sanchez had worrked with Baki as part of a team that brokered a peace deal solving a 53-year-old border dispute between Peru and Ecuador; and later as advisor on trade policy to the Ecuadorian government.
He was as gracious as his credentials were impressive, so when he told me he was now an advisor for Barack Obama's presidential campaign, I set down my glass of wine and began asking questions. The most obvious, "Why Obama?"
Sanchez didin't hesitiate with an answer. "Because Obama has the intelligence and guts to go into uncharted territory.He doesn't doubt that his mission is to be of public service. People don't realize that he has twelve years experience in public office in the Illinois and U.S. senates. That's longer than Senator Clinton."
I was intrigued. During conversations with friends across the political spectrum, when the name Obama came up, the discussion often turned to Obama's youth and a lack of experience compared to Senators Hillary Clinton and John Edwards.
Sanchez went on to say that Obama's wife Michelle was a political force as well, intelligent, as well-educated as her husband, and supremely articulate.
"I'm hosting a fundraiser for her next week," he said. "Would you like to come?"
*
A week later, I stood on a runway with Sanchez and fundraising organizers waiting for Michelle Obama's plane to land. It was just two weeks before Christmas and she was coming from Iowa where her husband and Senators Hillary Clinton and John Edwards were in a tough race.
Campaign dollars mattered, and Sanchez and his team had managed to organize a sold-out event. When her plane landed, Obama gave no hint that she was anything but prepared to go the distance with her husband. The weekend before she had appeared with her husband and Oprah Winfrey at a rally in South Carolina, a crucial state in the early primaries. Tonight, she would have the opportunity to court a crowd that included black, white, and Hispanic voters.
She did it with ease and an engaging oratory style tailored to a crowd, many of whom, including myself, wanted to know as much about her children as her husband. She carried a notecard, but barely used it, opening her speech with these words:
"No matter where I go, what people want to know most is, how are the girls doing. And I want to let you know that they’re doing just fine. They are fourth graders and first graders, and they don’t care about anything but Santa right now.
But it’s interesting because I think this is becoming more of a reality for them as well. I had this interesting conversation with my nine-year-old that ranged from what college did I go to? What college did she want to go to? And, what was terrorism and where was Iraq? Interesting, there’s a level of paying attention and not paying attention.
When I asked her, "How would you feel if your father won the presidency?" - she said she was excited and scared at the same time. And the fear was that she’d have to move and go to another school.
I said, "That wouldn’t be the worse thing in the world."
So we’re holding it together pretty well.
We had a great weekend with the lady, Oprah Winfrey. That was amazing, even for all that we‘ve done. She was terrific and has been from the time we first met her when she had Barack on her show after the Democratic Convention. He had just published his first book, Dreams for my Father.
She was already an Obama supporter and said it right there on the show. She has an insight, an ability to see through the noise and identify what she sees as good leadership. She has been a good, solid friend, stepping out in a way she doesn’t have to. You know, when you are a billionaire, you don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to support anybody, let alone travel to the four early states and speak on their behalf.
So it was a wonderful experience and the enthusiasm and the energy was indescribable. They couldn't get everyone under the strucure and when Barack walked out, there were crowds lining the streets for a block, and they were cheering and waving.
It reminded me of a trip Barack and I took to Africa two years ago, the level of excitement that we saw in that country, the hope that people had just in the sheer presence of Barack Obama, a Kenyan, a black man, a man of great statesmanship who they thought could change the world..."
*
In Ecuador, at the end of our conversation, I asked Sanchez about the rigors of fundraising.
"First we've got to get through the early stages,: he said. "I'll continue to raise money and take a larger role in Hispanic outreach. If things go really well for us - and we'll know by mid-February - we're only at the beginning because this race could be contested right up through June."
To be continued...
by Dale H. Cotton
The mummers will once again descend on Broad Street in Philadelphia for their annual parade and competition on New Year’s Day. Local clubs gather in secret throughout the year to prepare elaborate costumes and practice the teetering mummer walk, affectionately called the “Mummer’s strut.? Its roots go way back, some say to mid-17th century, but its “blue-collar? forerunner could even be the Roman festival of Saturnalia, circa 400 B.C.E., when Latin laborers marched in masks through a day of satire, gift exchange, and a mock reversal of the social order—where the powerful (masters) exchanged places with the powerless (slaves).
I stumbled upon this parade back in 2004, when I was photographing using analog film for my series on spectacles. I plan to head back this year with digital in hand, and aim to add to my collection of photos of outlandish costumes and peculiar personas. How can you resist strutters in diapers, devils with umbrellas, or Iraqi dictators, as well as fancy costumes, choreographed dances, and crowds of adoring people?
www.hingephoto.com
Devil performs the Mummer's Strut.
Elvis the Pelvis rides a float with a stone-age crew.
Saddam lives in the minds of many.
Micro-not-so-Soft complete with bugs.
"Men" in diapers bring in the New Year.
Butterfly float floats down Broad Street.
May the bluebirds of happiness take off.
PART ONE
by Joy E. Stocke and Angie Brenner
Waiting for the Shaman
by Joy E. Stocke
"Did you know shamans live in Otavalo?" says Mohammed Baki, son of Ivonne Baki, President of the Andean Parliament, when we tell him we're staying in Ecuador a few extra days to visit the Northern Andes.
We are having dinner after one of Muhammad Yunus's talks about his Grameen Bank in Bangladesh. He had discussed how he had negotiated with the Imams of the local mosques.
"As leaders of the village," Yunus had said, "The Imams had control over how women lived their lives. And so I needed to gain their trust. This took time and patience."
We continued the discussion in relation to how micro-lending might work with the indigenous tribes of Ecuador, and how it might work in a Catholic society.
Ecuador is 95 percent Catholic. Indigenous people make up 25 percent of the population. Sixty-five percent of the population is mestizo, people of European and indigenous descent. And four percent, are Afro-Ecuadorian. Only six percent of the population is European.
On the drive to Otavalo, two hours north of Quito, we ask Victor, our taxi driver, if he knows any shamans.
He doesn't hesitate to say, "Yes, there is a shaman in nearby Cotacachi where my family lives. Would you like to go?"
Our search for the mystical has led us to Shiva Temples, dervish ceremonies, sweat lodges, churches, and mosques. But neither of us has visited a shaman.
And so we make arrangements to meet Victor's father (also a taxi driver) at his taxi stand in Cotacachi, then drive to see the shaman.
Victor brings us into the courtyard of a whitewashed, adobe house. Several people sit on a ledge against the wall, including a beautiful Afro-Ecuadorian girl about twelve years old, and a man who looks to be her father. The previous night, Barry Featherman, President and CEO of the Inter-American Economic Council, told Joy about the Esmeraldas, a region in Ecuador's northwest coast where many Afro-Ecuadorians live, and where their ancestors arrived in the 1600s on Spanish slave ships.
While we wait our turn with the shaman, Victor brings us into a small room in the back of the courtyard dedicated to the Virgins <em>del el Quinche and Rosario. There are several pictures of the saints and a large glass case housing an image of the Virgin del el Quinche. Several candles placed in sand burn on a metal table in front of her.
Shrine at Cotacachi
by Joy E. Stocke
The door to the shaman's room opens and another Afro-Ecuadorian man exits. Behind him, a short man appears with sparse, tangled, jet-black hair, wearing brown trousers, sweater, and a short necklace.
"That's Joaquin, the shaman," says Victor.
We had expected to see a medicine man smelling of sage and tobacco.
"Angie," says Joy. "I think this shaman practices Santeria."
Joaquin the shaman
by Joy E. Stocke
Part II
By Angie Brenner and Joy E. Stocke
Shaman's Tools
by Joy E. Stocke
Victor motions for us to enter the room he calls the shaman's laboratory, while he steps outside to negotiate the price of our ritual cleansing with the shaman.
In the cool white-washed room, a small, wooden block dripped with candle wax, a wooden box decorated with saints, and an ebony-black spear surround a red plastic lawn chair. Unable to resist peering into the shaman's box, we take a peek at his tool-box containing sticks, leaves, and several smooth earth-colored and black stones. Joy quickly snaps a photo and we sit down on a bench against the opposite wall.
Shaman's Stones
by Joy E. Stocke
The shaman, enters carrying a spray bottle of clear a liquid that we assume is holy water, and sits in his chair, followed by Victor who gives us white candles, keeping one for himself.
He motions Joy to stand in front of the shaman, and then he and the shaman begin a discussion. We don't speak Spanish and Victor speaks little English, so he gesture the shaman's request that Joy remove her blouse.
Uncomfortable with the suggestion, she shakes her head, and says, "No."
More discussion ensues until an agreement is reached where Joy can remain clothed.
"Las mujeres creen," says Victor, "The women believe."
And that seems to satisfy the shaman who smiles at us.
And we do believe. Since we've both been baptized in the Catholic faith, the idea of invoking the spirits of ancestors and saints is familiar to us. The trip has been a whirlwind of people, inspirational thoughts, and new beginnings. Our individual yoga practices have taught us to keep our focus and let go of anything which does not serve the better good. If the shaman can conjure forth spirits, then we're perfectly willing to let those spirits, through his intercession, remove any negative energy from our minds, hearts, and bodies.
The shaman takes the candle from Joy, lights it, and asks her profession.
"Journalist," she says.
"Periodista," Victor translates.
Joy closes her eyes and concentrates on removing any negative energy that would get in the way of reporting all that she has seen and experienced during the past week.
The shaman nods as if he understands, and the ritual begins. She hands him the unlit candle which he rubs over her body, front and back, and then over face, forehead and hair. Then he hands her the black spear, having her grasp it with both hands, repeating the procedure he initiated with the candle - front, back of body, over face and hair.
She hands back the pole, which he sets against the wall. He picks up the spray bottle and makes a grimace to indicate that she should squeeze her eyes tight. Before she can close her eyes completely, he sprays the holy water directly into her face.
Angie glances toward Victor. With a look of shock and disbelief, he covers his mouth to suppress a laugh.
Joy, however, is not laughing. The solution that the shaman is now spraying and rubbing under her shirt, arms and hands stings her eyes like hell and smells like an herbal, alcoholic beverage. Tears fall from her eyes as the shaman sprays her hands with the mixture and asks her to rub it over her hair.
The process continues now in rapid motion. Chanting an incantation, the shaman plucks first one smooth stone from his box and rubs this over Joy's body and under her shirt. Then another and another, before rubbing her face and arms with a shorter black stick. Finally, the candle is blown out and the ritual is over. The shaman and the saints have completed their work.
Joy sits down on the bench rubbing her eyes, whispering, "So this is Santeria."
Over four-hundred years ago, African slaves brought the practice of Santeria "La Regla Lucumm" to the new world via the Spanish slave trade routes, first to Cuba and then the Caribbean. By integrating their religious beliefs with Catholicism, they were able to create a thriving faith, keeping it alive and secret at the same time.
The Yoruba people of West Africa overlaid characteristics of their Orisha - a spiritual being or presence that is interpreted as one of the manifestations of God represented in stone deities - onto Catholic saints, the very saints who are manifested in the shaman's black stones.
Now, it's Angie's turn for the cleansing and knowing what awaits her, she concentrates on being present in the moment. Yet, when it comes time for the spray to the face, she's unprepared for the burn and sting to the eyes. Tears flow out like pouring water. Maybe, like life, pain is part of the process of Santeria.
Finally, the shaman nods at Victor who gamely removes his shirt and stoically goes through the motions. He winces only once while being doused with the alcohol mixture. Later, we learn that this is his first visit to the shaman, too.
Out in the sunlight, the world seems to glow, making us believe that all things are possible. We retreat to the small sanctuary to deliver our candles to the saints, and then return to Victor's taxi for the drive out of Cotacachi, the little town that UNESCO has declared a World Heritage Sight.
by Victor Penafiel
by Joy E. Stocke and Angie Brenenr
by Joy E. Stocke
Midnight in Quito and we’re in the midst of a week-long celebration leading up to December 6 honoring the day Quito was founded by the Spaniards in 1534. The first week in December is also known as bullfight week celebrating a tradition imported from Spain more then three hundred years ago.
This morning Muhammad Yunus left Ecuador for Paraguay, and we left Guayaquil for Quito, planning to travel north into the Andes to Otovalo known for its crafts and shamans, one of whom we were planning to visit. But that would have to wait a day.
Before our tightly knit group began to disperse, we were invited to meet for a late lunch at Bolivar, a restaurant that celebrates the bullfight. Every afternoon during this celebration week, women dress up and men often wear the traditional Ecuadorian fedoras (commonly know as the Panama hat, but actually originating in Ecuador). They come to meet friends and watch their favorite torero. Like a football game the socializing begins early. Because many in our party planned to attend today's bullfight, we chose to stay and meet them at the restaurant before saying goodbye.
Bullfighting is big in Quito. So big that you can't miss the advertisements showing handsome young men in a pas de deux with a bull. All week long we’ve had conversations about the moral implications of bullfighting. Is it a blood sport whose time has past? Clearly, many Ecuadorians share this thought. But as we got ready to meet the rest of our group for a post-bullfight dinner, we never thought we’d find ourselves sitting next to Ecuador’s best torero Guillermo Alban.
Alban, compactly built, with blue eyes the color of sea-glass, fielded questions from us as we tried to understand the psychology of bullfighting and why it still exists as a sport.
With a degree in business management and applied economics from Cornell, he is thoughtful and clear. Bullfighting for him is a metaphysical experience.
Guillermo Alban, Torero
by Angie Brenner
Correia means killing the bull. I think that bullfighting is a very strong activity. I understand that people say, 'I don’t like to see the blood. Or humans don't have the right to kill another species.'
But, once you’re in the ring, the only friend is your bull. He’s your companion. He’s your partner in a death dance. You can get very badly gored. Nowadays, few toreros die not because it’s less risky, but because medicine is so good. We have doctors ready to clamp your arteries if you get gored. In the days before antibiotics many toreros died or lost a leg.There’s a statue in the Las Ventas bullring in Madrid, Spain in honor of Dr. Fleming who invented penicillin.
I’ve been gored twice, but not very badly. It’s more out of luck. Once a bull knocks you to the ground, or once he throws you to the air, you are no longer in control of the situation.
Sometimes the bull just touches you. And you are bruised and battered and you think, oh, he didn’t gore me. I think it’s luck that I haven’t been gored. There must be some protection, something looking out for me. As time goes by, I get so much more convinced of that. I am 36, and 15 years I've been trying to find an explanation for this, but I don’t.
What bothers me the most about these comments is that bullfighting gets attacked by people for being cruel. But, in modern society, we exploit animals every day. Just because we don't see the cow going to the slaughterhouse doesn't mean it didn't suffer.
I would like to ask people who are against bullfighting why a person in whatever city of the developed world has a right to eat a lobster or crab, putting a live creature in boiling water with no thought how it feels? But we are omnivores and when you eat a piece of meat, are you eating it because it's right or because you need it?
Killing a bull is probably the part of bullfighting that satisfies the least. I try to kill a bull with dignity. Quickly, efficiently, with the least pain. You face the bull and do not stand behind its back. For a moment, the bull sees you and you see the bull. It is a spiritual connection. I think it's much sadder to send a bull to a slaughterhouse and send him down a dark, narrow corridor to be killed.
When I stand in the ring, I begin a dance that has a long history. In Crete during the Minoan period, bull dancers came to Knossos and performed many feats on top of the bulls. We, in modern society, want to deny death. A bullfighter shows how real death can be. You could say the blood of the bull is a symbol of the sacrifice thousands of animals make every day so that we can live.
by Joy Stocke and Angie Brenner
Muhammad Yunus and Hassan Becdach traveling from Quito to Guayaquil
by Joy E. Stocke
Traveling with Nobel Laureate Muhammad Yunus has its advantages. Our group of assistants, business people, interpreters, journalists, and photographers (among others) are part of the entourage surrounding Professor Yunus and the people responsible for organizing his itinerary: Ivonne Baki, President of the Andean Parliament; and Hassan Becdach, Executive President of HJ Becdach Marketing Inc.
Today, we are rushed by motorcade to the Quito Airport, given tickets, and led into the executive lounge for refreshments before the short flight to Guayaquil in southern Ecuador. Dr. Yunus is scheduled to speak on the city's Malecon, followed by a grand lunch at Ecuador's oldest private men's club - Club de la Union - two more speaking events, and then to the hotel for another banquet. At each event, local businessmen and women will have the opportunity to hear Yunus's message and have their photos taken with him.
by Angie Brenner
The reality of constant attention, paparazzi, tight schedules, long days and nights can exhaust anyone, let alone a Nobel Prizewinner. But watching Yunus deliver his seventh talk in three and a half days at the Guayaquil Catholic University shows how determined he is in his quest to rid the world of poverty.
We have a brief opportunity to interview him as the motorcade speeds from the luncheon to the university, but the luncheon had been long and Yunus is tired. He prefers to talk about his daughter, Monica, an accomplished soprano who performs with he Metropolitan Opera in New York City, and is the founder of Sing For Hope, singforhope.org, "which maintains a roster of compassionate, world-class artists who donate time and talent to the humanitarian causes that inspire them."
Laptops closed, tape recorders off, we ride in friendly silence so Yunus can prepare for his speech. This will be the fifth time we've heard him speak and one of numerous times we've followed him through a gauntlet of photographers. But once he reaches the podium, he immediately connects with the students making us believe that we are hearing his story for the first time:
"I come from a country that started as probably the poorest in the world. Poverty everywhere. You didn't see a symbol of prosperity any place. That’s where Bangladesh began as an independent nation. During the Nixon era, Henry Kissinger called Bangladesh a "basket case." Meaning it could not survive. It would disappear.
So you can imagine what it was like to be living in that country and going through every day. But we were very enthusiastic about our future. Despite all the problems around us we never gave up hope. We continued to work. To see how to change all of that.
Back then, I was teaching in one of the universities in Bangladesh. Usually a university teacher doesn’t mix with the people next door. We broke the norm. We said, "Let’s go and talk to the people who live next to us, and see if there’s anything we can do. What good is all that knowledge if we're not good to the neighbors outside the campus?'
Everybody said it cannot be done. We went to the bank to persuade them to give money to us. Banks do not give money to the poor. We broke the rules. We gave money to the poor. We didn’t hesitate to do that. After a while, after we did it, people said, 'What a daring thing. How can you do that?"
But at that time we didn’t care. We weren’t exactly sure what we were doing, but we wanted to do something that worked. We broke the fundamental principle of banking where the more money you make, the more money you can get. We shattered that to pieces. We reversed it. We said, 'the less you have, the more you get. If you have nothing, you get the highest priority.'
And we meant it. Not only did we go to the poorest. We went to the poorest women who never had anything in their lives. Women were literally nowhere in the banking system. We destroyed the whole idea of collateral.
We said, 'We don’t need collateral. No guarantees. No lawyers.'
I’m not against lawyers, only we don’t need laywers in our work. They’re useful somewhere else. Because banks are afraid that you will take their money and run away. That’s why they bring the lawyers to tie you up so you can not run away. The law will pick you up wherever you are.
Imagine doing banking without collateral, without any legal tying up. Our bank is based on trust. People said, 'It will never work. Trust is something which never existed anyway. You can’t even trust your own brother.'
I said, 'We’ll try. We’ll build the bank.'
We've been making loans for the last 31 years and we've never had a second thought."
by Angie Brenner
Joy E. Stocke and Angie Brenner
"There's a spirited presence beyond charisma. An inner peace that emanates to others. That's the extraordinary part about Professor Muhammud Yunus. His message reaches out and lifts people up."
Barry Featherman, President and CEO of the Inter-American Economic Council
by Angie Brenner
We feel like royalty as we stand on the balcony of Quito's Presidential Palace and watch a crowd gather below in the Plaza Grande.
Nobel Prizewinner Muhammad Yunus, Ecuador's President, Rafael Correa; Vice President, Lenin Moreno; newly elected President of the Andean Parliament, Ivonne Baki, delegates and cabinet members crowd the balcony to watch a marching band parade through the square. The band stops and the crowd grows quiet. When the band begins the national anthem, "Salve mi patria, mil veces!" the dignitaries above and people below join voices, then cheer when the flag is raised above the palace.
We've just left a dedication ceremony in the palace's opulent salon where President Correa has presented Yunus with Ecuador's highest honor, the Ecuadorian Peace Prize. We ask ourselves, what does all this pomp have to do with micro-lending and helping the poorest of the poor?
The answer comes in the evening at the 10,000 capacity Ruminahui Colliseum where Yunus is about to speak. In Vice President Moreno's introduction, he speaks directly to Yunus's challenge to eradicate poverty worldwide. "We want security, basic services and, above all, happiness," says Moreno. "We have to find special leaders like Mahammud Yunus working on behalf of the poorest of the poor."
But when Baki steps forward, she takes the microphone from the podium, moves toward the crowd, and sets the tone for the evening. "Better not to have any barriers between people," she says.
*
This is the second time we've heard Yunus speak and what impresses us is that he remains true to his fundamental goal of eradicating poverty worldwide.
"Looking back at what we did 31 years ago in Bangladesh, it looks like something unusual, something big," says Yunus. "We never felt this. We had no idea what it would lead to. I had no action plan."
He describes how he successfully created Grameen (Village) Bank, which currently has seven and a half million borrowers, 97% of whom are women, with an almost flawless return rate.
In 1972, after Bangladesh gained independence from Pakistan, Economics Professor Yunus returned to from the U.S. to be a part of his country's future. "Soon our dreams turned into nightmares. A famine left hundreds of thousands of people destitute and suffering," he says. "I decided to forget about books and go into the village. "My university education never taught me what to do to help people. I found that if I could help by doing a little, that I felt good."
The turning point for Yunus came when he realized that it would only take $27 to help 42 poor people get out from under the hands of the local loan sharks.
"I was shocked," he says. "An economics professor talks in millions. All these people needed were a few pennies. I thought that if $27 can make so many people so happy, shouldn't I be doing more of it?"
by Joy E. Stocke
...to be continued
Joy E. Stocke
“One has to be very stubborn to build a company and start from zero.?
Dr. Muhammad Yunus, speaking to Ecuadorian microlending organizers in Quito.
by Joy E. Stocke
What is clear on the first day of Professor and Economist Muhammad Yunus's visit to Ecuador is that his message is simple: Shifting consciousness to create a sustainable world where poverty no longer exists is not only a priorty, but a moral duty.
Dr. Yunus's solution is microfinance: Helping the world's poorest people escape poverty by giving them collateral-free loans and other financial services to support income-generating businesses. As each loan is repaid, the money is redistributed as loans to others, thereby mulitiplying its impact.
Galvanized by what he saw as a deep chasm between those who have access to credit and those who do not, Yunus made his first loan in the village of Jobra in his native Bangladesh with 27 dollars from his own pocket.
Yunus and Grameen Bank, which he founded in 1983, operate on a revolutionary philosophy: Grameen Bank does not require any collateral against micro-loans and does not require borrowers to sign any legal document.
More than 95 percent of loans are to women with no collateral and who have never had access to credit. The banking industry is set up to lend money to people who already have money, but contrary to naysayers, nearly all of the women who have received loans have paid them back week after week in small, steady increments. (More on Grameen's philosophy about accountability in a future blog.)
The question that Wild River Review poses regarding microfinance also explains the reason we're here: How can wealthy, developed nations understand true poverty? Why does it matter? And what can we do about it?
We begin in a conference room at the Swisshotel, where according to representatives of Red Grameen, Ecuador - a cooperative of microlenders modeled on Yunus's Grameen Bank - thirty-eight percent of Ecuauadorian people are at the poverty level. Twelve percent are at the extreme poverty level. Red Grameen is working against serious odds to change that. (More on that when Wild River accompanies Dr. Yunus to visit the President of Ecuador.)
Quito lies about 15 miles (24 kilometres) south of the Equator in the spectacuar Andes Mountains where the play of shadow and light and sun and cloud can mesmerize first-time visitors. It's easy to get lost in the highlands where shades of green become so gorgeous you grow hungry just looking at them. This luxurious landscape is also home to the world's largest rose-growing industry.
One example of Red Grameen's progress can be seen in the rose industry. Most roses that we, in the north, buy during the holiday season and into the new year, come from tracts of land with greenhouses situated in the valleys surrounding Quito. Pesticide use is heavy and workers who handle pesticides face serious health risks.
Yet, the markets for roses, such as the U.S market, depend on a steady supply of perfect long-stemmed roses and very low prices. Neighborhood supermarkets and florists seek the lowest prices at the highest volume. So what's a small country to do? Pay substandard wages. Allow pesticide runoff that flows into the numerous streams that course through the gorges of mountain passes. Look the other way when workers develop rashes or get cancer.
One of Red Grameen's programs uses micro-loans to allow those below the poverty level to get financing to grow pesticide-free roses. Dr. Yunus is here to help the organizers expand their program (which encompasses other industries as well) and develop long term goals.
What remains daunting is the fact that banks run on a for-profit, bottom-line model. And governments often get in the way of what, in effect, works like a Mom and Pop operation, where, loans of less than 100 dollars, sometimes much less are given to people who have no assets. In other words unsecured credit. Except that nearly all the people who receive loans from Grameen repay their debts and reinvest in their communities.
Where Yunus more than earned his Nobel Prize is in his unwavering belief that if you help the rural poor, especially women who do most of the day-to-day work in addition to bearing and raising children, you empower them to create a stronger community.
Yunus, who calmly and generously navigates between the people "on the street" and those who live "in their ivory towers," touches both deeply. In his ability to show empathy at all levels, and his willingness to share his expertise in economics, those around him are motivated to do work they might not have believed they could do, to act on a single goal of eradicating world poverty.
by Joy E. Stocke
by Angie Brenner
Less than twenty hours back in Quito and already I miss the self-contained, eco-world of The Black Sheep Inn in Ecuador´s Central Andian Highlands. While there, my lungs struggled against hiking in high altitude air (some 10 to 12,000ft), in Quito they must also work to filter out clouds of black exhaust expelled by an endless stream of buses.
When I booked the Black Sheep, there was no way of knowing that it would turn out to be a geo-political, eco-tourism mecca. Due to the Black Sheep's remoteness - midway on the Quilotoa Loop in the tiny hamlet of Chugchilan - I'd expected to be by myself most of the time. I was wrong. Hikers, vegans, adventurers, volunteers, an NGO worker, and Canadian Vice-Consul poured through the inn during my four night stay.
Chugchilan sits on the Ecuadorian paramo, the high, harsh, grass and scrublands that soak up mist and rain and brings an abundance of water to the many small, traditional farmlands in the lush green region. Outside my cozy, well-appointed room (one of several individual buildings stratigically placed for the best views) clouds part to reveal the almost vertical hillsides planted with potatoes, beans, and corn - staple crops of the thin erodied soil. The snowy peaks of the Ilinizas peaks, green plateaus, and deep canyons stand out like a diaorama against the clear blue sky. The seven hour bus ride to this shangrila, over a bumpy dirt road, seems worth the struggle and a good excuse to linger a bit longer than only a couple nights.
One can understand why the owner-operators, Michelle Kirby and Andres Hammerman, an American couple, who chose to stay on and buy the land to develop the eco-friendly inn. Their dreams and persistence, not to mention 24 hours a day of work, have paid off. The Black Sheep has won many Eco-awards and Outside Magazine voted listed them as one of the world´s top ten ecolodges.
Everything here is about sustainability, mindfulness of the land and culture. From the easy to use compost toilets that efficiently transforms human waste into rich garden compost, to saving the tea wrappers to use as scratch paper, nothing gets tossed into a landfill.
"Firewood," says Andres, "is from non-native pine and eucalyptus trees and should be used sparingly, if at all."
The Black Sheep treads lightly so as to be a part of the solution to Ecuador´s serious environmental problems of poluted water, soil erosion, illiteracy, over population, and cultural degradation.
Michelle who seems to prefer being behind the scenes, teaches a weekly English and computer class at the local school. Andres hires locals to staff the inn and as hiking and tour guides and drivers. Since setting up the inn about twelve years ago they have seen gradual changes in attitudes.
"There are now two other backpacker hostles in town run by locals that help with the overflow of guests," says Andres, the gregarious, 41 year old host who hails from Chicago. "At first I was angry that they were copying us. Then I realized it was a good thing. I raised our prices and now guests have options and the local people are benefiting. That was part of our goal, to create a sustainable community to help build and reforest the land." He says that now the community has trash bins throughout town for Organic and Non-Organic trash.
"Sustainability is the new word for Ecuador," says another fellow guests, Marc-Andre Hawkes, one of the three Vice-consuls to Canada in Ecuador (versus over 200 people with the U.S. Embassy in the country). "There´s talk about gold mining in Southern Ecuador near the Peruvian boarder, and how this will impact the land and people,' he says.
Another guest, an English woman, Claudina Nagiah, who works with the organization, CRACYP, a reforestation NGO, is here for a rest from her agricultural work in Southern Ecuador. "It´s a stuggle to teach and sustain methods to move poeple from subsistance living to a sustainable environment," she says. "CRACYP has also started a micro-credit lending bank similar to Muhammad Yunus´s Graneen Bank in Banglhdesh."
Three other young women (two from London, and one from Montana) show up at the Black Sheep doorstep one night after finishing several months of work in Ecuador´s jungle regions helping other eco-tourism facilities find their way. They paid for the opportunity to clean out cages for wild animals in need of rehabilitation and helped host tourists. "It's party week in Quito," says the woman from Montana, clearly ready for a break from the good-will jungle tour.
In Eucador aulturism has taken new heights. Never have I seen a country so ripe with people ready help a culture sustain itself. I wonder, however, whether anyone is asking the people what they ultimately want their country to look like. Do they want flourishing eco-tourism or to be left alone to farm and live as their ancesters, or is sustainable tourism an opportunity of the western mentality?
From the Swiss Hotel with Wild River Review Editor-in-chief, Joy Stocke and photographer Gabriel Cooney, members of the Andean Parliament, and numerous delegates, we await Muhammad Yunus who will arrive at four. It will be interesting to meet with him and hear him speak as he discusses whether his sustainable solutions against poverty can be integrated into the Ecuadorian culture.
by Angie Brenner
Ah, the tiny La Casa Sol Hotel, colorful yet a bit sad in that it's on the fringe of a 'bad' neighborhood in the Marascal District. The cheery breakfast room looks across the street at green metal warehouse doors filled with graffiti....FUCK OFF, SKINS, SKINS!, PUTAS, and other such obscene comments I can't decipher. Just the sort of place Paul Theroux would love to hate. Me, too, as a matter of fact. However, the staff is congenial and accommodating.
After many warnings about theft in Quito, this morning I carelessly walked through the Old Town with my small camera slung on my wrist for easy access. The first photo op was a man on the corner of Avenue Guayaquil peeling coconuts. No sooner had I clicked the shutter and dropped my hand to continue walking (rather than opening the backpack and sticking the camera inside), than I felt a slight tug at my wrist. I turned just as a man snapped the camera from its thin strap, and ran.
Stunned, I watched him speed away, a squat male in jeans and navy windbreaker. When he turned up Avenue Galapagos, I felt the anger rise and took up the chase, no easy feat considering Quito's 9,000 ft elevation. I began to run up the hill and stairs leading into a Mercado and spotted him ducking into the market place. I wanted to catch and pummel him. THAT would be the story I'd tell my friends later. He wasn't that fast and had I not had the "deer in the headlights" moment, I might have caught up with him. But, he was long gone.
A few women who had watched the event sympathized with my plight, "Bandito,"one of them said, and pretended to beat him up with a pole. As I continued on my way to see the obligatory churches of the old city, I spotted a couple of policeman. THEY should at least know what happened two blocks away. How are tourists going to visit with this threat hovering?
Soon, I was whisked away in a police car with two male officers and one female officer back to the scene of the crime. They didn't seem to understand that it was faster to walk the two blocks back, so they insisted on driving. They drove around through traffic until finally the woman suggested that we walk the marketplace. She lead us down dreay alleys lined with oily car and machine parts and tools. "This is where they come to sell cameras," she said.
Wow, wouldn´t that be a great story, I thought, to catch the guy selling my Olympus. Finally, like me, she too decided to give up the hunt. With her Asian features, she looked like a model in the dirt brown, uniform of slacks and bombardier jacket and military style hat, the kind that looks equally dapper perched square on the head or carried under an arm in Top Gun fashion. She seemed relieved when I declined to "go to the station" to make an official report.
It occurred to me later, under the shadows of spires, bell towers, and church domes, while passing shop after shop selling religious paraphernalia of crosses, Jesus pictures, and every possible version of Mary, that Catholicism can be very cloying. And, if everyone is so religious, why is crime an epidemic? Is it the devastating poverty? Or, like the US, perhaps drugs play a factor?
But on my first day, still disoriented from a long journey, I wonder, How many Hail Marys for my camera?
By Angie Brenner
November 8, 2007
Marguerite Eliasson stretches her long legs out on the wicker table over looking a yard of cool green grass. Beyond the veranda of the small one bedroom house are two large corrals. “That’s Turkoman,? she says and looks out at the black horse in the corral on the left. “He’s a sweetheart, over twenty years old and still one of the best breeding stallions we have.? Beemer, Marguerite’s square-jawed rotwieller tries to heft his hundred and ten pound body into my lap and lick my face. “He does that when he’s stressed,? says Marguerite. I push him down gently and keep a calm demeanor; the last thing I need is a nervous, unpredictable rottie in my face. “The stallion that belongs in this corral lost fifty pounds while he was confined to a barn stall.? She points to another expansive, empty arena with part of the fencing blown over from the winds. “Once we put him out in an open space he calmed down immediately.?
The EA Ranch, a 927 acre estate that breeds, boards, and trains thoroughbreds reminds me of a movie set (something between Falcon Crest and Seabiscuit), a mountain top with four or five houses, seven barns, countless corrals, and a racetrack. The long road leading into the ranch is lined with pepper trees and winds past an elegant arched barn with chandeliers and an upstairs office decked out in oversized Spanish furniture. There’s a small pool with ducks and turtles, and another that’s left dry due to drought. The ranch owner’s Spanish style house sits above the corrals and racetrack. The smaller house, where we sit, is used by one of the owner’s daughters and her husband when they visit the ranch and will be where Marguerite lives temporarily.
We watch a silhouette of horses graze on a western hill backlit from the setting sun, and I try to imagine how this picture might have been different. If not for Marguerite’s loyalty, commitment, and determination to stay and fight off the raging fires that two weeks earlier surrounded and encroached the ranch and ultimately razed her two story home, this entire estate and the horses might have all been destroyed.
Marguerite's house
“It was a nightmare,? says Marguerite. “Because the fire started on a Sunday, only four of the twenty-three workers were on the ranch. When we saw smoke, we had to get the horses (a hundred and eighty high-spirited thoroughbreds) into the barns.? Marguerite and I hop into her white jeep for a drive around the ranch, and it becomes obvious that even the gathering up of the horses must have taken several hours. The barns and fenced pastures reach every edge of the ranch. “I left that white mare in the middle of open dirt fields with a few yearlings. She’s a calm horse and I knew they would be safe. We’re treating one yearling for a corneal ulcer from an ember, otherwise there were no injuries.? The tranquility of the mare and a half dozen yearlings munching hay is a long stretch from the chaos they must have endured during the fire and wind storm.
"For a day and a half we fought with hoses and shovels.? She tells how the 100,000 gallon water tank had drained due to a melted PVC pipe. This required her and one of the men to drive down to a smaller water storage tank to fill five gallon buckets by hand, then drive to each barn to water the horses. “They would drink the water as fast as we filled up their buckets,? she says. “We must have made a hundred trips until my jeep finally ran out of gas.? The logistics seem overwhelming. She shows me the palms of her hands buffed smooth as glass from hours of flattening haystacks inside barns to keep embers from landing on them, and tells me how she jumped on stacks of packaged stall shavings piled around barns for the same reason. At one point during the fire, she drove to an area of small corrals near the racetrack that are shaded by several oak trees. “I beat out a fire that started from an ember landing on a small haystack with a board. I didn’t want to lose the trees,? she says.
Hay Barn
“I had one man working the barns non-stop to put out flying embers that might ignite hay or the shavings in the horse stalls using a shovel and sand, and left two men to fight off flames down by the water tank. When I went back to the water tank and found the men sleeping, I told them, if you sleep, you will die.? Later, she shows me one of the barns where the winds tore off part of the metal roof and ripped off the sliding door. Fire ravaged two huge hay barns. “It took two days to burn $70,000 worth of hay,? she says. I tell her that I’d heard that winds had been clocked at 110 mph during the blaze. “I believe it. There was so much sand and smoke that we could barely see the roads. I kept pouring saline solution that I use for the horses into our eyes.? Time has become somewhat of a blur. She doesn’t quite remember when it was that two fire engines drove in to escort some cars out and advised everyone to evacuate, or when and who dropped off their horses at the ranch. “There are about five horses still here that we’re caring for, but I don’t know who they belong to.?
Marguerite Eliasson
I hadn’t realized until our conversation that the 2003 fire had also threatened the ranch, but it was a different fire to fight, and while flames overtook hundred foot trees there weren’t the high winds shearing the landscape like a giant blow torch. “During that fire they (the CDF) dropped hot shots (fire fighters who parachute into terrain unreachable by vehicles and begin to cut brush and make fire breaks), and one fire engine came in to help,? says Marguerite.
A fire captain who drove into the EA Ranch last week to secure smoldering areas around the estate had said that he had taken one look at the fire the day it started and told his guys to go get some sleep and come back the next day. “There’s nothing you can do when the winds are blowing off roofs,? he said. “You can’t fly planes or send in hot shots and trucks. You just have to wait until it blows through.?
Eventually, our conversation shifts to Marguerite’s personal life. While she fought to save the ranch and horses, her house burned down. Yet when we walk to the ashen property with an almost three hundred and sixty degree view where she has lived for the more than twenty years that she has managed the ranch, it is not to show me what has been lost, but to fill numerous bird feeders and water containers for wildlife now left without their habitat. We move around hoses to drip water on charred oak trees that had already been stressed by years of drought. She picks through brittlebush and rosemary bushes to determine what might come back in the spring, and ignores the 10X10 patch of burnt nails, all that’s left of a gazebo. I asked about her mate of the past sixteen years, knowing that it had been a relationship with many ups and downs, and I learn that though he had lived with her, he worked as caretaker for a Rancho Santa Fe property. Where was he during the ordeal?
“Oh, he was here at the ranch during the fire,? says Marguerite. “But he couldn’t handle the stress of it all and stayed in the office and slept.? I’m more than a little shocked. He was here but didn’t do anything to fight the fire? Marguerite shakes her head. “He isn’t like me, and he did what he could, he made sandwiches for us. He tried his best, but just couldn’t handle the situation or understand why I wouldn’t leave when told to evacuate. After he left the ranch, his employer found him a home close to his work and gave him money. Our house where we lived and all our belongings burned. I told him there was nothing left to come back to.? Marguerite’s competent façade begins to crumble, just a bit. “I know that I’ve let the ranch consume my whole life, and I can’t expect my partner to feel the same. I’ve made mistakes in the relationship too and trying to learn from the past and move forward, even if it means that after the end of the day I’m here alone.?
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by Angie Brenner
November 4, 2007
Lani, owner of Julian's Soups & Such restaurant, sat behind the counter eating wheat pancakes under a mound of fresh fruit. She called out our orders to her husband and chef, Ibrahin, without leaving her perch."Aren’t you tired?" she says. "I'm exhausted." - a sentiment I have felt throughout the post-fire week as I move through my daily routine in slow motion. The fact that internet DSL connections were down throughout most of this community and the San Diego County administrative offices, helped to slow us all down.
Even tough-skinned rancher Ray Meyers looked beaten down yesterday while he ruminated over the events of the week from his fruit and vegetable stand. Ray always stays to protect his property and was a hero in the 2003 fire when faced with flames which overtook old oak trees in his back yard. He managed to keep the flames from jumping the highway and burning down houses along the road. The fact that he wasn't challenged to repeat this event hadn't lessened the anxiety.
My Saturday morning yoga class was grateful for the abbreviated, beginner class that helped ease the stress from our bodies. Lying in savasana (corpse pose), we felt tensions evaporate. Choosing ways to deal with PTSD (post traumatic stress Disorder) whether minor or major has become a way of life here. Free acupuncture sessions were made available at one of the local fire stations, and while I can’t picture Ray Meyers with needles poking out of his temples, there’s no doubt that we've come a long way in accepting new techniques in stress management.
Many of us ran into friends at the library since librarian Colleen Baker rallied to keep the community connected to the web by obtaining a Microsoft van equipped with computers. On Saturday, Julie and Rob Weaver were there scouring the net to price out lost antiques and household items for their insurance company. Teenagers zoned-out by playing online video games. Our schools, without the internet for the week, returned to old fashioned teaching methods.
Low-tech seemed to prevail during this fire when cell phones were blocked in order to keep emergency lines open; rotary dial phones (most kids today don't even know what these look like) or plug-in landline phones worked best. Without phones, television, and internet, we have learned that disseminating information and sharing our stories between neighbors by word-of-mouth has given us quality information (difficult to get in emergencies), and a closer connection on a human level.
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