Money, Mercenaries and Poker (keepin' it real)

Another day, another dollar, but this time I got to see just how many dollars our bank actually has. Spending a bit of time with banking services allowed me to go into the vault where they keep all those US dollars and Tanzanian shillings we take as deposits and lend out. Holding $160,000 in hundred dollar bills is quite fun, I'd have posed for a picture if it wouldn't look so unprofessional, or maybe used one to light a cigarette. As for the shillings, years of inflation mean that a modest sum of around £200,000-worth forms a massive cube a metre long. My skills came in handy, as most of the cashiers are female and I could help by carrying their bundles of money for them, as a gentleman does.

Entertainment for the week was varied: a Saturday company sports day saw me playing football under the equatorial sun, and my side getting thrashed, though in our defence we had fewer players than the opposition and I could barely run ten metres without oozing sweat and wheezing like an old man. Then there was the night out at the flagship club night in Dar, a monthly event at a hotel by the sea shore and the most expensive night I've seen here at £8 entry. A fun crowd, and the music ranged from some fairly good but too brief tech-house to commercial shit-hop... ah I do miss a really good music scene. Yesterday, drinks on the beach, our party including a very interesting fellow who I'd met last time in a rum-soaked poker game on the roof of a friend's apartment building. In a genius move my friend installed a poker table on his roof, allowing games overlooking the bay, and this high-stakes game had a 10,000 shilling buy in (about £4).

This particular guy was a very large white Seuth Efrican in his mid-forties, rugby player build, seemed genial enough and he'd told me he worked in security. Yesterday I was mentioning a particular bar that I'd hung out in a couple of times, that I heard was full of hookers and mercenaries. The hookers are self-evident (knee high boots and short skirts, and the bar has the seedy feel of a Pattaya go-go joint), but when I told him which bar I meant he dismissed the so-called mercenaries as 'wannabes'. Pressed a bit more about the nature of his security business, I got a run down on what it actually involved: 'Basically I kill people for a living'. Head of a private security company, hired by firms (shipping and the like) and governments to neutralise threats including pirates, rebels and so forth, for which they possessed planes and helicopters. I mentioned the film Blood Diamond that I'd seen a few days before, but he wasn't a fan: 'It made us look very bad', being of the opinion that the private security contractors brought in at the behest of the Sierra Leonian government had helped end the civil war and defeat the rebels who were responsible for the atrocities. A pragmatic fellow, one might say. A friend of a friend, and genuinely seemed like a good bloke, though obviously not one I'd ever tangle with. Someone interesting to have a drink with, though I'm a little dubious about the ethics of his line of work, but after all... TIA.
This is Africa!

Carols and Confiscation (You come and go, you come and go...)

Rolled into work this morning, and everyone was in motion. Too many clients in arrears, too much money owed: the start of the month is always bad for this. Only one thing to do - a confiscation team was formed. They offered to leave me at the office, I didn't need to get involved. But what kind of hypocrite would that make me, hanging back from the harder side of the business? I'd never gone on one before, and it's my responsibility to see every side if down the line I'm going to be the one sending these teams out. Besides, the lorry is taken on confiscations, to take away the goods, and it has only three seats. Fortunately I have my big 4x4 so the other loan officers don't have to crouch in the back of the lorry for a couple of hours. So I tell them that I'm coming, and we pile in my car.

Six of us in my car, three in the lorry. The loan officer I'm attached to in the second branch sits in the front with me, a quiet and competent guy. He was once in the seminary, until he decided that a priest's life wasn't for him; now he plans to do a masters in finance. Cue Christ-Antichrist jokes. He brought some music along as per my request. The full car jolts along the rough dirt road at the rural edge of Dar, past banana trees and chickens, and the speakers blare out Karma Chameleon. I'm becoming used to surreality here. Everyone's talking and laughing, telling me that for appearances I'm the boss today - the foreigner come in to manage the move against delinquent clients. I'm a little apprehensive about what we face.

Confiscation is the final stage when a client refuses to pay, and is used as a last resort. All loans are secured by collateral at 150% of the loan, and if payment isn't forthcoming the collateral must be seized. Unlike a financial institution in the West, there's no division of labour into lenders and bailiffs - a loan officer is responsible for all parts of the cycle, including recovery. It's part of incentivising good lending practices, as a client that won't pay makes the loan officer miss targets and lose bonuses, so he or she doesn't want to lend to anyone who won't be able to afford repayments. That is how we can lend to poor people that most banks won't touch, and at interest rates much lower than they could receive from local lenders or the equivalent services (cash converters, pay day loans etc) that the poor in the west resort to, while remaining solvent as an institution. But to keep on doing it, the system has to function by pursuing those who won't pay. That's what sends us rattling down the road, to the door of client number one.

We stand around, knocking for a few minutes. The neighbour says that the client's in, but evidently they don't want to open up. With no way of gaining entry we eventually move on, the message hopefully sent out. Client number two's business (a tailor) is locked up, and we go to his home next. Chickens dart around, children sit and shyly smile. The scent of animal faeces. This house seems quite poor I note, not the best thing for rationalising... But he isn't there either. Perhaps he got word we were coming and departed. Two no-shows threaten to turn this mission into a farce, with just one more client to visit. I haven't had any breakfast, so it's with some relief that I'm directed to a cafe by the road, a good-sized place serving my favourite banana-based meat soup mtori.

As we sit down, I learn this is client number three. A textbook negligent client, he owes less than ten pounds on his last repayment, and has more than a hundred in hand - seemingly he didn't pay through lack of willingness rather than lack of finances. At any rate the nine of us spend more than half that on breakfast, and he does indeed cough up the money. Three attempted confiscations: two no-shows and one repayment. An easy ride of it, and I'm glad I didn't have to see anything worse. We drive back to Dar, Christmas songs about snow and mistletoe forming an unlikely accompliment to dusty roads and brightly-coloured buses, though the ever-pervasive heat is dampened by some seasonal rain. Ho ho ho.

I like driving in my car, it's not quite a Jaguar

Finally, mobility! No longer am I restricted to taxis and bajajis, trying to indicate a place with no address in broken Swahili while a bemused driver with a Man U sticker on his windscreen tries to figure out what I mean. Thick bloody Mancunians eh. My new car is here, well new is a bit of a stretch. It's 19 years old and as loud as a teenager to boot: the exhaust silencer has a hole in it. It's in need of some attention, but I got it cheap and with a bit of money and care I think it could be a pretty good car. It's a Mitsubishi Pajero, a full-sized 4x4 (none of that girly Rav4 nonsense) with space for at least 7, or 12 if I pack 'em in like the local buses. Used cars are pretty expensive here what with a 50+% tax on importing them, and 4 wheel drives are at a premium. One of the other foreigners has a little Toyota Vitz, how I laugh as I glide through the seas of mud which would drown his lesser car. Yep, I've become an asshole with a giant car, but at least I have need for it here; I can only imagine what our street is going to be like in the long rains in April, which are 3 times larger than the end of the year 'short' rains.

There's another good reason to have a giant car with cattle bars on the front: Dar driving. Nothing in the west could possibly prepare you. Someone with ten years experience on the mean streets of London being cut up and undertaken by Nigerian minicab drivers, Estonian haulage executives and Hampstead cycle-fascists (apologies to any London cyclists reading): they haven't even done an apprenticeship for this. Even Bangkok seems calm by comparison, though similarly congested and more motorbikes, however I'm assured that Delhi's just as bad. Between the 3 wheelers weaving on both sides, pushy dala-dala (bus) drivers charging down the wrong side of the road, aggressive humanitarian agency staff in even bigger Land Cruisers designed for war zones, and pedestrians with a powerful faith in the almighty (or a death wish), it's actually a relief that the roads aren't much better or we'd all be in high-speed pileups constantly. A popular bumper sticker reads 'Jesus protects this car!' - so that's why you're driving like you have superpowers? I read about when they upgraded a road through a national park, and a bunch of large animals (including lions, giraffes and elephants) ended up as road kill from impatient locals, a strange reversal of the usual chilled Tanzanian attitude to life. Short experience has taught me that you need to drive with absolute attention at all times to everything on every side, while behaving as if you're ignoring everybody if you want to actually get anywhere. And I thought I was an overly aggressive driver.

The last case I worked on in the head branch was an interesting one - a medical clinic, with a small testing lab and pharmacy. Quite a satisfying one to have approved, even though the £2 consultation fee already puts it out of reach of the poorest, but better health outcomes are positive no matter who the beneficiaries. I'm in another branch for a few days, in a poorer area surrounded by markets on a main arterial route out of the city, no longer the guilded headquarters. The contrast is interesting and perhaps gets closer to the micro roots of the bank's core - the head branch is in an unusually affluent area for microclients, many of whom own vehicles and even property. Yesterday was spent on promotional activities: walking round markets with a loan officer who talks to potential clients, finds out their needs and outlines our services. I find myself constantly greeted and waved to by curious locals in areas with very few foreign visitors, with children practicing a little English to say 'good morning'. More reminders of the friendliness of the Tanzanian people, who vie with the Syrians for frequency of using the word 'welcome' (ah poor Syria, hope Bashar doesn't last too much longer).

So, another week nearly done. If I survive the roads I'll check in next week, when the national day next Friday means a three day weekend and hopefully an out-of-town trip, maybe in my new lion-crusher. Note to parents: don't worry, I'll almost certainly survive!

Not a long-winded rant about politics and development, I promise

Mellow days, my friends. The power's back and the rain's not, for now. The job's gliding along and the sun is shining. Last weekend was good times, last night I drank at the finest bar in the city (the rooftop of the Hyatt Regency, with a view over the harbour to the palm forests of Kigamboni) - also the most expensive with drinks costing almost as much as an average London boozer. Yep, everything's looking sweet, so it's a great time to dedicate my blog post to criticising the political system. Y'know, because we wouldn't want to get complacent now.

Last night at the aforementioned bar I had a debate with other expats that became a bit heated, about the political situation in Tanzania. This country is in the process of celebrating 50 years of independence, hence why our big-eared, fuzzy-brained Prince and his horse bride made their appearance (a tad bitchy maybe, but off with their heads!) At first glance a rundown of the last half-century looks great considering the neighbourhood we live in and its history. Mozambique - civil war, DRC - regional war, Rwanda - genocide, Uganda - murderous dictator... history has not been kind here, a fact that can be attributed in a pretty large part to the manner in which the place was governed and partitioned by the khaki-clad British, French, Germans and worst of all those Belgians who no-one ever suspects of being capable of anything bad. Tanzania by comparison had no ethnic conflicts, a single war brought to them by Idi Amin... in a word, stability. Julius Nyerere, the great statesman who ruled for 24 years, is a controversial figure in the West but much loved here, and despite some major economic blunders I'm more inclined to take the local view. He was the first big African statesman of the modern age, a necessary part of gaining some post-colonial self-esteem in a downtrodden region. So, fast-forwarding from there, three more presidents rose from the same party, which has governed since independence. The party attracts a hefty majority of the votes and is very firmly entrenched. Here I have to declare a certain source bias, as much of my information comes from co-workers. One in particular, an intense and articulate man with a keen interest in politics and a strong support for the opposition, gave me his views - the party trades off the image of Nyerere, especially among the poor and politically illiterate, but where he opposed corruption they brought it to the highest level - one example he gave being the involvement of government ministers setting up front companies to essentially steal funds allocated for public works projects like building power stations. As an outsider it's hard to get a balanced view of the situation, but again the poverty of the place speaks for itself, especially considering its natural endowments.

The heated debate stemmed from this and my typically strident position against the political classes. I was accused of talking about issues that I didn't have the depth of knowledge to comment on, of talking only to a certain element of society (sure, my co-workers are relatively 'middle class' but by no means of the wealthy or business elite), and finally the point that particularly aroused my ire - that Tanzanian people were interested in areas other than material wealth, and were thus content with their state of development. In my mind this is almost equivalent to another view that I heard, that the Tanzanians are rather too lazy to make a good go of it and that this is a key part of their underdevelopment. The state of poverty that these countries find themselves in is not some kind of blissful alternative to a hyperdeveloped modernity. Tanzania isn't Bhutan, perhaps Bhutan isn't even Bhutan the spiritual idyll as it's portrayed by vogue-Buddhists of the vegan bourgeoisie. Poverty as it's found here means no access to basic medicine, means not enough nutrition causing infant mortality, means grinding hours of work every day just to get afford the basics for survival. It isn't an easy option that the lazy take, and it isn't a cushy or holistic alternative. And the most frustrating thing is that these people are rendered poor to a great degree by the machinations of international finance and by the corruption and poor governance of their own leadership, and not necessarily in that order. So I make no apology for wading in with comments based on what I observed and in conversation with a young, educated and frustrated minority who see the potential of their beautiful country squandered. Corruption is a fact of life in much of the world, in Thailand for example it's endemic, even in developed Korea it lurks in the background. The difference is, in Thailand the powerful take a big slice, here they run off with the whole cake and only brush off crumbs, and much of what people achieve is in spite of rather than due to their leadership.

So, rant over, and with chicken and rice in the belly I'm a lot calmer than with a double helping of Africafe which powered most of this entry. Plus it's far too pleasant outside to be shaking my fist over the internet. I think my best contribution to the forces of revolution in Tanzania would be to bring my music collection into work, and at 5pm when people start putting on a bit of Bongo Flava to wind down, I'll crank up some Rage Against The Machine and set fire to the bank.



PS if anyone I work with is reading this - I won't actually do that.

All I want is power

Power to the people! Specifically, the people of Msasani and the northern suburbs, as since a fire fried some big transformer on Tuesday we've had intermittent electricity with no power at night. Unfortunately we're one of the few households in the area without a backup generator, so while we get to enjoy the chorus of deep humming from nearby compounds, we lie sweltering without electric fans.

Now would be a good time to explain that despite my sketches of extravagant life for the wealthy and foreigners here, I don't live in some palm-shaded mansion with troupes of servants and a menagerie of rare animals (one might say that I am the 2% instead). Our house is a good size it's true, but doesn't have air conditioning, a fact that some expats see as bordering on masochistic, nor in fact glass windows. The window frames are instead filled with three layers: mosquito netting, a larger mesh for bigger creatures and debris, and the obligatory steel bars for the biggest creatures of the area, other humans. While it provides plenty of protection, what it doesn't provide is soundproofing, which means despite seeing little of the neighbours when the gates are closed, we get to hear everything. Locals shouting, cars revving, whooping of birds and booming of bullfrogs, and most intrusively the local mosque, which (as mosques do) calls out morning, noon and night. They have a backup generator. The sound these days doesn't disturb me unless my usuallywhirring fan is silent, which is why I'm so sleepy as I type this. Another quirk of our house is the need to pump water into the water tower before we have enough pressure to shower or use taps, which again proves a problem with the power out, but fortunately I have one emergency shower's worth of stored water for such occasions. Oh and staff-wise, we just have a maid, which anyone who's lived with me can attest is a great idea. Even washing up on the weekends, her days off, is quite onerous enough, and if my housemates let me I'd quite happily pile everything up in the sink until Monday morning - but Danes are tidy.

After Monday's baptism by fire, thrown into a recovery, work became a lot more pleasant the next day onwards. Tuesday involved accompanying my first assessment, a tall and smiley man named Brian. Brian at 32 owns a small shop employing a single assistant (making less than a pound a day), stocking goods like Africafe (my daily fuel) and Coca-Cola - the same as everyone else's little shop. He lives with three sisters in a small house nearby, and plans to rent another little shop near a university. We're likely to be able to lend Brian to the tune of about a thousand pounds, and first impressions suggest he can make it work from there. The decision gets made tomorrow, so if we're convinced after running through his figures, he gets the loan. Hopefully six months down the line I'll be able to pop by the university and get my crisps off a smiling Brian there. Unfortunately the way inflation's going those same crisps could cost a whole bunch more... ah dammit, I spoiled a nice human interest story with economics.

So that's it for now, I have a car to view and a dinner to get to. More to come next time. You love it.

Rains and recovery

Ah, the rains. Try as I might, I can't bless the rains down in Africa, as they turn my road (at the best of times resembling a snowless mogul field) into a muddy cascade. A queue of wealthy locals and a few mzungu slowly roll through in vast SUVs, trying to weave round the larger pools, or ploughing on through if they're feeling intrepid. The bajajis (tuk-tuks) have no choice but to skirt them if they want to keep their passengers' feet dry, and I'm constantly impressed with the off-roading skills of their drivers and what angles they can hold without tipping over. They are at times a hair-raising way to travel, but cheap and vitally able to dodge round the lengthy tailbacks due to their size and nippiness.

Between our disobedient dog Gino, bored and playful and primed to bolt out of the gate the moment it opened this morning, and the driver that I booked for 7.40 caught in heavy Monday traffic, I ended up having to hot-foot it to the main road to catch a bajaji. Consequently I rolled into work 20 minutes late, drenched in sweat and boots spattered in mud. Bloody mondays! A rude reawakening from an enjoyable weekend: the Friday a brilliant rum-soaked evening seeing my housemate's brother (Mzungu Kichaa, crazy white man) play his energetic reggae/bongo flava mix and singing in perfect Swahili that validated his 'I'm African' t-shirt, and a Sunday trip to nearby Bongoyo Island with a great swimming beach and restaurant serving tasty barbequed octopus skewers. On the practical side I bought a comfy rattan armchair with pimping zebra-patterned cushion (a snip at £25), and baked beans and eggs, beans on toast having temporarily become my signature dish until I can be bothered to get the ingredients to cook properly again.

My attachment to a loan officer has begun, a small and mild-looking fellow but a shrewd manager of 150 clients and the most successful officer in the branch. Needless to say I'm immediately weighing him down with my presence learning the ropes, and he has targets to make. After a rather dull time of sitting around reading files of procedures and sneaking onto Facebook, I accompany him and two junior officers on one of the less pleasant sides of the job: recovery, that is visiting clients that don't repay to recover the money. As a private firm with limited capital (donor and otherwise) to draw from, chasing up delinquent debtors is part of the job, else the whole edifice falls down and no-one gets anything. The number of clients that encounter these problems is pretty small (1 out of the 65 of one of the junior officers, for example) as otherwise we haven't been doing our job properly in the first place. As we lurch along the rough streets, the other officers ask me the usual litany of questions: who, where from, why, what football team. Each time they are somewhat surprised that I am not more bothered that things don't tend to work well over here. I've noticed the vestiges of an inferiority complex at times, particularly from the young and upwardly mobile, regarding the chronic problems of a low-development economy (about other aspects like the renowned friendliness of the people, they are more proud). I can understand their frustration. Tanzania has many natural advantages: its climate unlike that of countries in the Sahara/Sahel area is very conducive to agriculture and its tourism potential is enormous. Major national parks like the Serengeti charge $50 and up per day as admission fees to 'maintain' the parks, and 300,000 visitors come annually, often high-end tourists spending thousands to stay in luxury lodges in the bush. Where does that money go? Unlike much of the town, the roads in Mikocheni where the civil servants live are surfaced well, and wealthy importers and hotel owners live in mansions with clipped lawns on the Peninsula alongside ministers. Round the corner from my street of compounds is a shanty town. Of course, in this country, one may say that I am the 1% too.

So we go to chase this money: a man running a small bus company who owes around three grand (the upper end of the microloan scale), who doesn't open the gate to his rather nice house compound as we come knocking, and a woman running a local shop, spartan in layout but full of goods, who is more accommodating and promises to pay up. I stand back and watch, feeling slightly uncomfortable. We're there to nudge them, not intimidate, but if the bank is to keep operating and loans to be given out, there must be repayment and a credible threat of sanctions otherwise. We don't lend to the ultra-poor, and it is a relief to see the conditions of these non-payers are not dire. Had it been thin people on their knees begging, I don't think I'd be in this job for much longer: I don't have a loan shark bent in me. Some people reading this may nonetheless be appalled. To which I say: donate to organisations with vital functions in handing out food and medical aid to the poorest in society, it's a very worthy goal and an area I may be interested in working down the line. Ours is one of developing a self-sustaining, transparent and honest financial system that doesn't exclude low-income entrepreneurs, and thus help the economy as a whole and turn the restless energy of all those ingenious but unfortunate people into a force for development. By lending to them we're also offering employment that doesn't involve wage-slavedom to large corporations (when these meager jobs even exist), or joining the masses of street traders that wander through the exhaust fumes from car to car in the Dar traffic selling small items all day: pillows, toilet brushes, chewing gum. By all means give me a counterpoint; I'm avoiding the sugarcoat here, and you should do the same. Perhaps after all I've said in the paragraph before about the rich and powerful draining the society, you think I'm part of the same. Perhaps I'm yet to be sure myself.

So that was my first day in the field. It may get better, it may get worse. I'm pretty sure it stays interesting though.

Arrival: getting settled

This is Thai James signing on. Sitting here in Dar es Salaam and trying to weave a narrative through this strange course of events that brought me to a microfinance bank in Sub-Saharan Africa, preferably in such a way that I don't end up only talking to myself like a million other bloggers... Please do put my mind at ease and reply with something, anything, just so's I know you're paying attention. Oh and a note about the title - Bongoland is a self-administered nickname for Tanzania, not some derogatory epithet that I made up, in case you were wondering.

So, a week has passed in Dar; impressions have formed. Can I sketch them without recourse to a dozen stereotypes of sultry air on breezes from the Indian Ocean, palm trees, wafting smoke from a multitude of barbequed meat stands, the humidity, chaos and fumes of a large African city, the friendly people that greet you with 'Mambo' and a smile? Sadly no, but it's the best I can do. Perhaps I should stick with a list of facts: this sprawling city of more than 3 million lies on the coast by that vast bath, its yearly average high temperature is around 30 degrees, the concrete maze and dust of the extensive suburbs are bordered by white sand beaches. A five minute ferry ride from downtown reaches a languid backwater of palm forests and villages, and muzungu beach bars with Marley on the stereo and Maasai guarding the periphery, yet the centre consists of row upon row of dirty high-rises and a packed bustle extending all day and into the night. Not so much a mere city of contrasts as a vast human mish-mash, ultra-rich and horrendously poor, African, Indian, European and Oriental, no commonality or plan except that we're all thrown together at the edge of East Africa. Suffice to say, an amazing place, and I'm pretty excited that I'm calling it home for a while. Yet somehow it can't just be typecast as 'exotic' by anyone looking to tick boxes of the unfamiliar - the music is hip-hop (albeit the local Bongo Flava), the drink is Coca-Cola and beers named Safari and Kilimanjaro, the most frequent food barbequed chicken and chips. No less unique for that though, and no less enticing.

Yesterday I moved into a house with a friendly pair of Danish (by passport) girls, who speak Swahili and have both spent years in this city at various times in their lives, doing the international school to NGO circuit (familiar, anyone?). A handy bridge between expat and local, and we have the makings of a chilled household. We have a dog (in training to be a guard dog apparently, but seems a little too friendly for the role), but as yet little furniture save a deckchair and a pair of tiny stools - the rest is on its way. All importantly, fans and mosquito nets are already in place, as well as high walls and razor wire, an unfortunate necessity though Dar is one of the safer cities in the region. The friends of theirs I've met so far consist of a Tanzanian nature reserve manager and a mixed-race (and again international schooled) safari tour company owner. Not an expat bubble of culture, though necessarily a bubble of income.

Work started the day before, and here it gets interesting. My first couple of days have consisted of observing and participating in (as a trainee myself) the training of a new batch of loan officers for the credit department. These footsoldiers are to be sent out to find the microentrepreneurs in need of our financial boost, to advise them and check that our lending would be within their capacity to repay, and to monitor the repayments. They are an enthusiastic young bunch, although a bit older than their peers would be in the west; just graduated university but around 25-30 years old. The training has also allowed me to observe what the organisation presents as its ethics at ground level, uncensored for outside consumption. I'm pleased by what I see - the philosophy of the company, a private firm but with development principles (and capital) at its backbone; the stern emphasis on rejecting bribes, on giving honest assessments, on tending loans on the basis of the client's cashflow and capacity to repay rather than a lazy and destructive reliance on squaring up some juicy collateral to seize if it goes wrong. Perhaps if US mortgage lenders had been so proactive we wouldn't be wading through the murk of the worst economic crisis in eighty years. Still, this is the training; the reality will present itself next week, when I start observing the veteran officers in the field. I've been warming to my fellow trainees, the lucky few Tanzanians with decent career opportunities laid out before them. The entire class of 15 trainees combined make less than what I make, and they are solidly 'middle class'. Hearing their opinions on Tanzanian society, governance and the economy is illuminating: to sum up, a good deal of cynicism on the latter two. Everyone is well aware of the pervasiveness of corruption within government and anyone with power, public and private. An avowed part of this organisation's aims is to operate outside of that framework, and by doing so spread a different way of doing business. Good for the firm and good for society, if the principles can be put into practice. I know from others within the company that quite a few loan officers were discharged for not living up to this, so it seems to be more than empty words. I'm not here to be a cheerleader for the company though, so let's see.

That's all for now, boys and girls. I promise to try and post regular updates, and you in turn must promise to follow me and boost my ego. Deal?