Bishkek Bulletin #2 - Microfinance
Dear Readers,
Most foreign correspondents would only dream of an opportunity like this. Last week, your faithful scribe got the chance to shadow an elite team of Kyrgyz officials on an adrenaline-fuelled strike mission, weaving deftly through crowded bazaars and narrow alleys in search of elusive targets. Lagging only a few paces behind the team leader, your fearless correspondent risked life and limb with no goal other than the accurate capture and relay of details for your reading pleasure.
Well, I might be exaggerating a tad. Actually, this was not a military team of any kind. And when I say "officials" I mean only that they wore official-looking, laminated nametags printed on a home computer. These were, however, grizzled, field-hardened microcredit loan officers – a microfinance SWAT team, if you will.
Loan officers. They are the foot soldiers of economic development in a country like Kyrgyzstan , who are tasked with conducting visits to the innumerable homes and businesses of prospective borrowers. This might sound easy, but I assure you it is not. Try finding any specific house in a town of 50,000 with no street signs, white pages, or telephone. Or a particular stall vendor in the swarm of a massive outdoor bazaar, amid endless rows of fruit barrels, freshly-butchered meat, pirated DVDs and peach-colored underwear from China. Yet these loan officers seem to have some sixth sense for doing exactly that, routing out their mark like a truffle pig in the Belgian forest or a beagle at baggage claim.
Let me describe a typical home visit. Somehow, the loan officers divine the location of the house. The silver Niva, our transpo, whips around an unsuspecting corner and comes to a halt in a cloud of dust. The doors open and release a tidal wave of pounding techno music. Dogs start to bark. The music is likely coming from a radio station called шит-фм, pronounced by the deejays as "Sheet-FM". Literally, Shit-FM. And the name is spot on, since the music is horrendous. Kyrgyzstan seems to be the global market of last resort for bass-heavy, breathy vocal techno music from Europe, Russia, and Turkey. Exiled from its home country, Kyrgyzstan happily consumes this refugee musical product in massive quantities. At all hours you will hear it mercilessly pounding from cafes, taxis, and -
Wait, I've gotten off track. Let's start again.
Our silver Niva whips around an unsuspecting corner and comes to a halt in a cloud of dust. The doors open and techno music bursts out. Dogs start to bark. The driver rolls down his window and begins smoking a long chain of "American" brand cigarettes, which are suspiciously not sold anywhere in America. He slides back in his seat as three other people emerge from the car: two middle-aged Kyrgyz women with gold teeth – front teeth, mind you – and one slim foreigner of ambiguous ethnic origin, wearing wrinkled khakis.
We approach the modest house and knock. A loan officer states that someone in the household has applied for a loan and we have come to inspect. Our visit is intentionally unannounced, but no one seems to mind the intrusion. Perhaps this is some left over acquiescence from the Soviet days? In any case, whoever answers the door usually forces a half smile and nods for us to come in. We take off our shoes at the door and begin our examination.
Since these small loans do not have any formal collateral to back them, microfinance lenders gather as much information as possible about a new client's economic level and repayment capacity. On these visits, all household assets are meticulously logged and a digital picture is taken for the client's file. The refrigerator is duly noted and photographed. If there's a television, it is duly noted and photographed. Then we move to the back yard. Sheep and piglets are duly noted and photographed. One family claimed they had cows, but we cannot just take their word for this. Oh, no. We traipsed down the block to the grazing field with the eldest son, who whipped the reluctant cows out of the shade and into plain view – where they were duly noted and photographed. On the way back from the field we passed wide tracts of wild marijuana plants, which I mentally noted and photographed. No, you guys go ahead, I'll catch up!
After several days of these visits, I was exhausted. But I had gathered, among other things, all the information that I needed for my work. It was time to go home and let these professionals continue unhindered. In broken Russian I thanked the loan officers, Noorjamal and Ainagul, and flagged down the next marshrutka van that came bumbling down the highway. Pointing west, I asked, "Bishkek, da?" I climbed aboard and miraculously found a seat. Bishkek or bust. Back to civilization, mission accomplished.
Sincerely,
Your Correspondent, Moskva St, 8th Micro-region, Bishkek , Kyrgyzstan
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
Most foreign correspondents would only dream of an opportunity like this. Last week, your faithful scribe got the chance to shadow an elite team of Kyrgyz officials on an adrenaline-fuelled strike mission, weaving deftly through crowded bazaars and narrow alleys in search of elusive targets. Lagging only a few paces behind the team leader, your fearless correspondent risked life and limb with no goal other than the accurate capture and relay of details for your reading pleasure.
Well, I might be exaggerating a tad. Actually, this was not a military team of any kind. And when I say "officials" I mean only that they wore official-looking, laminated nametags printed on a home computer. These were, however, grizzled, field-hardened microcredit loan officers – a microfinance SWAT team, if you will.
Loan officers. They are the foot soldiers of economic development in a country like Kyrgyzstan , who are tasked with conducting visits to the innumerable homes and businesses of prospective borrowers. This might sound easy, but I assure you it is not. Try finding any specific house in a town of 50,000 with no street signs, white pages, or telephone. Or a particular stall vendor in the swarm of a massive outdoor bazaar, amid endless rows of fruit barrels, freshly-butchered meat, pirated DVDs and peach-colored underwear from China. Yet these loan officers seem to have some sixth sense for doing exactly that, routing out their mark like a truffle pig in the Belgian forest or a beagle at baggage claim.
Let me describe a typical home visit. Somehow, the loan officers divine the location of the house. The silver Niva, our transpo, whips around an unsuspecting corner and comes to a halt in a cloud of dust. The doors open and release a tidal wave of pounding techno music. Dogs start to bark. The music is likely coming from a radio station called шит-фм, pronounced by the deejays as "Sheet-FM". Literally, Shit-FM. And the name is spot on, since the music is horrendous. Kyrgyzstan seems to be the global market of last resort for bass-heavy, breathy vocal techno music from Europe, Russia, and Turkey. Exiled from its home country, Kyrgyzstan happily consumes this refugee musical product in massive quantities. At all hours you will hear it mercilessly pounding from cafes, taxis, and -
Wait, I've gotten off track. Let's start again.
Our silver Niva whips around an unsuspecting corner and comes to a halt in a cloud of dust. The doors open and techno music bursts out. Dogs start to bark. The driver rolls down his window and begins smoking a long chain of "American" brand cigarettes, which are suspiciously not sold anywhere in America. He slides back in his seat as three other people emerge from the car: two middle-aged Kyrgyz women with gold teeth – front teeth, mind you – and one slim foreigner of ambiguous ethnic origin, wearing wrinkled khakis.
We approach the modest house and knock. A loan officer states that someone in the household has applied for a loan and we have come to inspect. Our visit is intentionally unannounced, but no one seems to mind the intrusion. Perhaps this is some left over acquiescence from the Soviet days? In any case, whoever answers the door usually forces a half smile and nods for us to come in. We take off our shoes at the door and begin our examination.
Since these small loans do not have any formal collateral to back them, microfinance lenders gather as much information as possible about a new client's economic level and repayment capacity. On these visits, all household assets are meticulously logged and a digital picture is taken for the client's file. The refrigerator is duly noted and photographed. If there's a television, it is duly noted and photographed. Then we move to the back yard. Sheep and piglets are duly noted and photographed. One family claimed they had cows, but we cannot just take their word for this. Oh, no. We traipsed down the block to the grazing field with the eldest son, who whipped the reluctant cows out of the shade and into plain view – where they were duly noted and photographed. On the way back from the field we passed wide tracts of wild marijuana plants, which I mentally noted and photographed. No, you guys go ahead, I'll catch up!
After several days of these visits, I was exhausted. But I had gathered, among other things, all the information that I needed for my work. It was time to go home and let these professionals continue unhindered. In broken Russian I thanked the loan officers, Noorjamal and Ainagul, and flagged down the next marshrutka van that came bumbling down the highway. Pointing west, I asked, "Bishkek, da?" I climbed aboard and miraculously found a seat. Bishkek or bust. Back to civilization, mission accomplished.
Sincerely,
Your Correspondent, Moskva St, 8th Micro-region, Bishkek , Kyrgyzstan
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
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