The Thing About Umoja Foundation!!!!!

So it's been a few months now of us blathering on and cracking lame jokes when we have the time and you reading our blathers and laughing politely. But we realized recently that we haven't yet told you about our foundation. Designed to fill in the gaps left or overlooked by pre-existing NGOs, the Umoja Foundation Without Borders (Umoja for short) has been on a ground-breaking innaugural microcapital injection tour since early March.

Umoja is based on a few simple principles that guide our basic actions and development work.
1. A hands-off policy towards development that doesn't bog down progress with bureaucracy, lofty goals, specific skills, or actual work.
2. A conservative approach towards capital investment recipients, whereby basic business structures remain unchanged and adequate returns to investment are stringently evaluated.
3. A comprehensive grassroots approach that covers diverse avenues of investment.

These principles translate into some key day-to-day interactions and activities that demand full commitment from the founding fathers and primary donors. A typical day involves multiple street-level capital injections to entrepreneurial recipients with culinary leanings (ie. big mommas). Collaboration is always encouraged between recipients (avocado hawker plus bread monger equals sandwich delight). In the transportation sector (ie. motorcycle taxis), a small amount of available funds are often aggressively bid on leading to a highly intensive interview process to determine the recipient that will provide the right rates of return to donor investment. One large daily investment is also reserved for the enterprise in the hospitality sector (brothels excluded) that adequately demonstrates a low-overhead business model.

Quotes from the founding fathers:
"I like to start my daily injections off with a 500CFA minimum donation to the cafe with the best hot spaghetti." - D
"It's important not to be disillusioned with the impact we're really having in these communities. I go to bed every night feeling great about the numerous lives I've changed that day." - P
"As has been clearly demonstrated in other development programs, too much capital investment can be just as detrimental as not enough. I always make sure to get the right price for the fair amount of goods and services." - E
"There's no way it costs that much for a ride across town. I'll give you half that or we'll find another recipient." - D
"This FanIce [ice cream in a bag] is not up to Foundation temperature standards. Do you have a colder one?" - P
"What's your cheapest beer?" - E

If you're inspired by everything you've read today and think that Umoja provides realistic, sustainable solutions to real microeconomic development problems, you may consider a small financial donation. Alternately, the organization is run on a volunteer basis with both 6- and 4-month placements. If you would like to apply for a future project or donate, please send pertinent information and three relevant references to umojayes@gmail.com. We also accept both blank and filled-in cheques.

The thing about Umoja Foundation is, what did you think we were doing here?

The Thing About Stilts....

In southern Benin there is a town like no other. Monkeys hump kittens, the streets are paved with water, stilts are a form of currency, and kids run the show.

In the 17th century, while the Beninese kings were busy making a mint from the slave trade, a small group of people decided that slavery wasn't for them. Led by Kevin Costner, they took to the water in rusty sea-doos, creating a town, called in the ancient tongue, "Puuure Wataaa Werld". Things worked swimmingly, literally, as the king's slave hunters were land dwellers, forbidden from going on water because of religious principles.

The village grew from the ground, or water, up, based entirely on Big Bamboo (RIP) stilts. The streets, were therefore H-2-O, and the well, well, there wasn't a well. Indeed.

Now, for some reason unkown to anyone, only the children prospered. And what remains today is a town completely run by kids. While three-year-olds at home are about as useless as Kevin Costner in Waterworld, in Ganvié, 3 is the age when you take to the water to seek your fortune. Most modern fortunes seem to be found selling inch-long fish, or just asking for cadeaux from tourists. Everywhere in the town kids in boats go about their daily business, paddling small canoes, punting larger craft, and tending to their tasks. At night things don't slow down. There's just a lot more crashes.

Furthermore, during our stay, we encountered quite the enthusiastic couple; an odd couple of sorts. One small monkey, named Chumpie, and one small kitten, named Humpie. Hilarity of the indescribable sort ensued. Chumpie seemed to like to grab a hold of Humpie from behind. And, well, you know. Check the pictures. Cuteness and Cuteness (Hi mom).

The thing about stilts is that sometimes you walk on them and sometimes you live on them. Also, sometimes you're 3 and the captain of your own lake freighter.

The Thing About a Good Posse.....

Mmmmm Togo! It's great to be here. A funny thing happened on the way though - did you read the last post. But seriously folks, we'll be here all week.

After lengthy bus rides and too many matches and double beers to count, it was the perfect time to see some sights. But this is Togo, more of a do-it-yourself vacation spot. The supposed highlight of northern Togo is the mysterious cave dwellings inhabited by long forgotten savages. But in order to get there we had to choose our own adventure. Go to page 17 (the next paragraph) if you wish to visit the caves. Or skip to page 25 (the bottom of the post) if you just want the thing about.

Over the course of our adventure we hire a taxi driver named Capitain, are forced to hire two local guides, and baksheesh the local chief. As soon as word gets around that some white guys are paying for a visit to the caves, everyone and their baby pig gets involved: 14 local slingshot-toting children, a flock of sheep, the aforementioned piglet, 5 shirtless teenagers, a guy with a speakerbox tied to a stick, a cow, and the guides we actually hired. We assume that, collectively, this crowd will come together to unravel the unknowns of these long-forgotten, recently remembered caves.

Our hike included beautiful maize and sorghum fields, a steep sprint up a ravine, and then a descent through a metal ladder to the cliffside caves themselves. Our posse led us on a tour through the caves, which actually turned out to be cereal storage facilities built in the 19th century to avoid the taxman. Turned out not to be savages at all. And no one really lived in them. Another mystery solved. Turning to our next mystery we commence our search for Toucan Sam and are led on hands and knees into a narrow bat cave oozing with hantavirus. Probably. However, despite our best efforts, we couldn't locate any Fruit Loops or Trix. We emerged to wash off the hantavirus in a trickling cascade and beautiful views over the surrounding plains tasted better than a bowl of Count Chocula and strawberry milk.

The thing about a good posse is, "C'mon everyone! Some white guys are paying for a trip to the caves! Bring your animals! Someone call Speakerbox!" But no rabbits because Trix are for kids.

The Thing About Game Day....

Sorry for yet another post about border days but it seems as though, no matter how hard we try, things don't go smoothly.

Leaving the town of hot Tamale in northern Ghana, we decide, based on African Time and previous experience, that arriving at 0715 for the 0700 bus would give us only two hours of wait time. Plus, with only 240km to cross into Togo and get to the nearest town, even a Cote d'Ivoire fiasco-like crossing would still leave us with time to catch the blockbuster 1400 match between Argentina and Germany. We pulled into the station at 0704 to find that our bus had left four minutes ago. Dang.

Luckily, the 0800 bus was only forty minutes late and we arrived in the town of Yendi with plenty of time to spare. Only 70km to the border, the timeline looked good - we were still hopeful. With decent directions in hand, we start the walk from one station to the next and are told, 'it'll be on your left, you can't miss it.' Trudging past an empty lot filled with garbage, peeing children, and pregnant goats, our focus is diverted by the unfortunately common attention-grabbing kissy noise and we turn to find a man gesturing to the adjacent lot. This is the station. Oh sweet.

We take a seat in the small hut 'station' and play the waiting game. We're good at that game. "The bus will be here any minute. Don't stray too far. Don't eat any meals. Don't explore the town. Don't go to the bathroom. Okay pee on that goat. He deserved it." We're paraphrasing a bit but FOUR HOURS! This wouldn't have been so bad had we been expecting it but the constant reassurance that the bus was seconds away made the situation far more aggravating. Finally a rumbling off in the distance signified the approach of our converted-cargo-van bus and nearby women frantically grab our daypacks, aggressively toss them into the back window and motion for us to do the same. Clambering up the side of the bus, Pete's shorts come out of the exchange the worse for wear. He is now permanently flying low. A pair of inconspicuous boxers he does not own.

The sun is low in the sky as we arrive in the 'border' town of Tatale just in time to find out Germany has trounced a Messi Argentine squad 4-0. Dang. Asking around, reports as to the actual proximity of this town to the border vary widely from one mile to twenty miles, taking between five minutes and two hours to walk, depending on who we talk to. Polling the audience was always the worst lifeline. What the hell? Seriously? You live there! If we can't trust you then who can we trust? Ourselves? We opt for the latter, and decide it's within walking distance. Tough break. A crusty, dusty, blusty hour later we still haven't made it. Double dang.

Now in these parts, there's a local expression: when the going gets tough, Mohammed gets going and the man himself appears as if on a cloud. Okay that was just black smoke from his trusty taxi-moto, the Obamacycle. Now we know what you may be thinking: three boys, three bags, one Mohammed, and only one motorcycle. The above expression held true and we all mount Obama. Four in a row and bags on the side. No problem. Let's just say we haven't been that close since that time in Freetown.

The actual border festivities were surprisingly smooth and decidedly less cramped than our ride. As the sun set over the beautiful jungle hills of Togo, we sped off down the road, dodging potholes and chowing on bugs. Our arrival in Kara at 2100 was a triumph of human spirit and endurance. Ultimately, we watched neither match that day. Dang.

The thing about game day is you win some, you lose some, and sometimes they take forever.

The Thing About the Hunt....

The sound of insects is almost deafening. Nothing stirs except the slosh of our Wellingtons and sweat slowly slides down the brim of our pith helmets. Trudging through the muddy, sparsely treed grassland, we are on the lookout for the hardest prey to track - Man. Just kidding - the Mighty Elephant. Senses heightened, suddenly Evan stoops and spots a scuff mark in the dirt, clearly caused by an oversized upper incisor (photo 1). Quickly looking around, Dan locates gargantuan footprints leading off into the distance (photo 2). We put our f$#@ing game faces on. We're now in the Green Zone. The hunt is afoot.

Rushing off at a breakneck pace, startling bush buck and kob, we are in hot pursuit of our ivory-tusked payload. For such a large animal, Elephants are surprisingly adept at evading the untrained hunter, but for seasoned safariists such as ourselves (photo 3), their attempts are pitiful. We are soon on the scene of an Elephant smorgasbord. Risking life and limb, we leave the treeline to approach our quarry.

Alerted by a disturbed flock of birds (and perhaps our noble stench) the Elephants flee on all five limbs. But not before we got a few good shots at their retreating rumps. Point Umoja. Game over?

A sound sleep followed the previous day's triumph and we were awoken by a soft snuffling outside our window. Quickly donning our finest hunting garb - fruity briefs and parachute boxers - we throw open the sash and behold! The hunters had become the hunted. Snuffleupagous maximus? No! Warthogius smellnostrainus? Never! Redassimus baboonicus? Not a chance! Just feet from our balcony, our stealthy opponent had us hemmed in (photo 4). Point majestic Pachyderm.

The thing about the hunt is, despite our safari skills and pith helmets, we're still no match for nature's big boys. Dan's lost three monocles this week alone. Evan's snuff box is dangerously low. And Peter is awaiting the next steamer to London town.