The Blue Sweater: Bridging the Gap Between Rich and Poor in an Interconnected World (17 page)

"It is both, isn't it?" she answered sweetly.

I loved her calm manner, the way she would remind me that crime and poverty have been around since people started selling things to one another and that anger didn't help us in our work. "You must find a way to laugh whenever you can," she advised. "No one can hurt or kill when they are laughing."

"True," I said, "but we have to work on changing the whole game somehow, make corruption on all sides a source of greater shame-and reprimand those who are doing it." Mary, twice my age, smiled that I-wish-you-luck-I-really-do kind of smile I would come to know well.

Another challenge was eliciting truthful answers from women. "They've seen too many people like you come into their lives," Mary told me, "so why should they be honest with you? There might be some chance that you give them money if they answer your questions in the way you want to hear them."

What amazed me was how quickly the women learned the jargon of the development agencies and played it back to people like me. "How big is your market?" I would ask a group of women who were trying to sell their handicrafts.

"Big," they would answer.

"How big?"

"Oh, very big."

"And what did you use your grant for?" I would ask.

"For working capital," they would say, unable to explain what they meant. It wasn't that the women were hiding anything. Implicitly they seemed to understand the imbalance of power between us and used what they could to even the playing field.

I remember speaking to a group at the outer edge of a Nairobi slum about their goat-raising project, I was huddled in a hut in a light, cool rain, struggling with Swahili, stumbling over words, grateful that the women seemed to be listening, even if they looked confused. Finally, a brave woman asked me shyly whether I was talking about buzi (goats) or busaa (homemade beer). I laughed out loud, realizing I'd unintentionally been talking about the latter the entire time; the women chortled with me.

Thus began a conversation about the sale of changaa, or moonshine, one of the most profitable products the women could sell.

"Why can't we get a loan for our liquor business?" they asked. "The donors prefer giving us money to make baskets that no one wants," a woman joined in excitedly.

I responded that aid programs couldn't support something illegal. I had never tasted changaa, but I'd heard stories that in some villages its nickname had something to do with having your insides blown out and that people sometimes died from drinking from a bad batch. (As recently as 2005, the New York Times reported scores of deaths from people drinking the illegal brew, which has apparently become only more lethal over time.)

"But my best customers are government officials who drink all day," she responded. "And it is the only way I can earn enough money for my family to survive."

She had a point. Unless we could find something that could bring in a similar level of income, it was difficult to tell women they couldn't make the moonshine, especially when the "big fish" were their best customers.

Over our many visits, Mary and I came to understand the real process of government grant-making to women's groups. The local government department was divided into districts, each one run by a district officer, or DO, in charge of overseeing and supporting the residents in his or her area. Under the income-generating program, each DO was allocated grant money to disburse. Typically, the local DO would reach out to the women's groups in the district and ask for proposals for income-generating projects. Each group of 20 or so women would request $500 or $600 for their "projects." Once approved, the groups often would give the DOs kickbacks, or "fees," for their time and effort. Women told me it wasn't unusual for the "fee" to be 20 percent of the grant's total value. It didn't matter that the projects generated little, if any, income for the women involved.

Despite the failed systems, I saw great vitality and generosity in the individual women who survived whether or not they received donor support. The women would pool their money whenever a child was sick or a family member passed away. They helped one another laugh and sometimes just get by, which wasn't always easy.

One morning I walked past the corpse of a man who'd been "necklaced" the night before. Thugs had thrown a tire filled with gasoline around his neck and set it on fire. A group of men stood around the charred body, which smelled indescribably profane. When the body was removed, its image still remained scorched into the ground itself.

A few nights after the necklacing incident, I began writing our report for the Department of Local Government and UNICEF. A few nights later, I took a night off to go to the local cinema to see Cry Freedom, about the life of South African freedom fighter Stephen Biko, who understood that freedom is not just about political liberty, but also about economic independence and the power of choice. The women in the slums were operating under dependency, not freedom. If the donor community couldn't help these women liberate themselves, they needed to get out of their way.

ONE AFTERNOON, I REMAINED too late in Mathare Valley, one of Nairobi's most desperate slums, talking to a women's group until the darkening sky reminded me to leave. I crawled into my Volkswagen and sat for a minute, watching the slum dwellers run back and forth, setting up tables of dates and sweets and pitchers of water. It was the season of Ramadan. The neighborhood was coming to life again after the long, hot day as the Muslims got ready to break the fast and spend time with family. I was transfixed by the women's black veils flying, the children running, and a big purple cloud floating in the sky above. Day turns to night in an instant in Nairobi, especially when the rains come in one fell swoop.

With no warning, sheets of water began to fall, sending the women scurrying to their homes. As my car sank into the sludge, the wheels kept spinning but gained no traction. Tiny houses made of cardboard, mud, and coffee cans, with roofs of corrugated tin and plastic, seemed on the verge of floating away. Two girls wearing hihois-brightly colored cotton wraps serving as skirts-laughed as they carried huge woven baskets on their heads. The rain poured and poured, soaking the earth, turning dirt roads into rivers, and making it impossible to drive. Knowing it would be a dark, lonely return up the hill into town once the road was dry, I wanted to cry.

Suddenly there was a tapping on my window. I ignored it.

Tap tap tap again.

Standing outside was a slight, crooked woman with raisin eyes and a walnut face. She seemed to pay no mind to the storm swirling around her and motioned to me to come near, apparently offering the shelter of her little hut. I lowered my window, and though this was one of the most dangerous slums in the country, a place where I clearly didn't belong, there was something about her expression that made me trust her immediately.

`Jambo," I sighed. "Hello. How are you?"

"Nzuri sana," she answered in a scratchy voice. "Habari gani?" Very well, how are you?"

"I'm fine," I lied, irritated that we were exchanging pleasantries in the downpour.

She looked at me quizzically, then let a moment of silence hang as if she were contemplating my worth. Then that gravelly voice snapped, "Kuja." Come.

Without another thought, I took her small, leathery hand and followed.

Awkwardly, we skipped across a muddy path toward a metal door. Opening it slowly, the old woman motioned me inside to a dark, chaotic room measuring perhaps 8 feet by 9, where 10 or so women were dancing to the beat of a single goatskin-covered drum played by a wizened old man seated in a corner. His skinny legs were crossed, his eyes half-closed. He appeared to be in a trance, lost in a world ruled by the primordial beat of the drum. I could feel the beat in my stomach and heart, so much so that I couldn't help swaying, moving slowly to the rhythm, feeling like I'd fallen into an alternative version of Alice's Wonderland.

Around me, the women glowed with unbridled, exuberant life. White teeth flashed joyful smiles. Muscular brown legs shook and glistened with sweat. Brightly colored cloths in turquoise, fuchsia, orange, and lime shimmied around thick waists. Bare feet pounded the dirt floor, dancing wildly.

The women danced in pairs, each one facing another, bent at the waist and touching only at the cheeks. They shook their shoulders and hips in a frenzied motion, ululating all the time. I joined the dancing, attaching myself first to one woman's cheek and then another, shaking, laughing, losing myself in the darkness, the noise, the heat. My face, wet with sweat and pressed against my counterpart's cheek, was the only part of myself held in relative stillness. The rest of my body felt electrified, hyperstimulated by the constant beat of the percussion, the staccato pounding of the rain on the tin roof, the eruption of passion permeating the air.

A lithe young woman flew out of the hut into the rain without a word and returned wearing a necklace of tin bottle caps that rattled like a snake when she shook. Shshshsh tshsh tshsh tsh tsh tsh shshshsh tshsh tshsh- shs. The necklace swished as the drum pounded. Sweating, breathing, undulating, shaking, shimmering, dancing in the darkness and heat. For a moment, all the frustration and rage inside me disappeared.

"Woo hooo," I yelped, and the women laughed and laughed.

This was the secret: Dance with the women, scream with joy, let sexuality be defined on your own terms without even touching one another. Be gorgeous, free, ecstatic. It was one of the most extraordinary moments of my life.

The fury inside the hut continued for perhaps another half hour, maybe more. But just as quickly as the room had exploded into motion, it fell completely quiet. The sky had turned dark blue. Steam from the mud floor swirled gently. I realized I'd not yet said a word. I felt a profound shyness overtake me and awkwardly introduced myself in Swahili, shaking each woman's hand, thanking them for the dance.

Walking out of the hut into the night felt like leaving a New York City bar in the middle of the afternoon. The evening was soft but accusing; the narrow paths and roadways, empty. I climbed back into my little car and sat for a moment. My body and my big white skirt were drenched as thoroughly as if I'd been walking in the rain. I yelped one final time in homage to these women who had found respite, a moment of relief. With that, my car jumped to life, and I flew up the hills and into town.

The next morning, I approached my friend Monika, an expert in all things Kenyan, to relate the previous night's adventure. I needed a reality check. Hesitating and stammering, I finally told her about the experience.

Laughing, she explained that I must have come across a group of women from the Kamba tribe, for they are known for their great love of percussion and dancing. "Kamba women learn from a young age to dance and not to fear being sensual," she said. "And you can see it when they move. Oh, how lucky you were!" she laughed.

For the next several weeks, I spent most days and nights completing my report, to be submitted to both the government and UNICEF. I focused on the good intentions as well as the few successes and tried to state unambigously that the programs cost much more than they benefited people, but without alienating government officials to the point where they would disregard the report altogether. As Mary Koinange and I drove to the Department of Local Government to make our final presentation, I felt a great sense of anxiety. We arrived at the drab public sector building and went inside.

The deputy minister was waiting for us in his large office. He was beady-eyed and overweight and wore a black tie with white polka dots. Brown wingtips graced his feet, and on his pinkie, he wore a big gold ring. There were no papers on his desk and no phone, either, just a placard reading "Deputy Minister." We had sent him our report a week in advance, and I was surprised and pleased to find that he'd actually read it, even if he made it clear he hadn't liked the contents.

"The report is too pessimistic," he grumbled in a baritone voice. "Obviously, you didn't speak to the right people. I have seen miracles occur with those same women's groups." He ushered us out, passing us on to another official in a big, baggy suit, who drummed his fingers on his paper-cluttered desk in a dingy office. After a nearly identical conversation, we were shown to yet another tired official in another shabby office.

This one was lean and nervous and sat squeamishly in a wooden chair that seemed too large for him. "Yes, yes," he said finally, "lots of improvement needed, lots of work to do. But who will do it? Now you have told us what we are doing wrong; what will you do to make it right?"

I said I didn't think it was just up to us to make things right: The government had to decide that it wanted to see things done differently, as well.

I suggested that the aid money go directly to an NGO with the government's consent and that the NGO be held to strict accounting principles and regular reviews with a robust set of checks and balances.

"Yes, yes," he agreed, "checks and balances are very good. But government is the one who is accountable."

"To whom?" I asked. In fact, who was accountable anywhere in the system? If the donors had really examined those women's projects after a year, they would have seen how few successes there had been and might have already made the needed course corrections. They certainly could not have justified pouring millions more into the projects. It was too easy to be blindsided by the singing and smiles and the women's happy testimonials of the women.

If the women had been given the chance to borrow for a project they believed would generate income, they would have focused more seriously on the work. A market mechanism would have provided a better feedback loop for both women and donors. Instead, the system festered under low expectations and mediocre results.

The next week, I returned to Kigali, more sure of and humbled by the strength of individual women, more interested in market mechanisms, and certain that I'd become more savvy. But I was unprepared for my next adventure-being fleeced by a guy named Innocent.