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!