Millenials, donations and philanthropy.

Hello! It has been far too long since last I wrote. For a long time (4 years to be precise) I found that I no longer needed writing as an outlet for comprehending my life experiences. I lived, studied and worked in the Netherlands for 2 years and then moved to Lesotho, Southern Africa, to work for a tiny paediatric HIV care facility (and met Prince Harry in the meantime!). I lived in a mud hut and my life was very simple yet unfamiliar and extremely challenging. That's a whole other story, one which I will perhaps tell another time. But I've now returned to London and work for another charity and I've found I've a lot to say. Namely on our nature of giving. It niggled away at my conscience in Southern Africa (countless white northerners visiting and leaving with a satisfied smile on their face because they'd left a handout) and I see it all the time here. Hand outs don't change people's lives. Monetary donations to charities/non profits can catalyse change. Donation of products can assist in the short run. But what people need to prosper and change is education, opportunity and work. That's what we need to be focusing on as consumers: putting pressure on companies to fulfil their corporate social responsibility with just that.

I'm a millenial. That is how I'm generally classed, having been born in 1990, and I accept that. I'll take it. So here's my voice, as a millenial (damned or otherwise) - I resent our cynics. Yes, we may spend far too long on mobile devices and yes, we've lost a lot in the art of face-to-face communication. I don't know if we're to blame for that.. it's the world you left for us and it moved so fast we didn't know how to keep up with it and old values. But one thing I can say for my generation is that we care about social good. Our generation’s billionaire just donated 99% of his wealth to charity. Just 6% of consumers believe the singular purpose of business is to make money for shareholders. 80% of young people want to work for a company that cares about how it impacts and contributes to society.

This explains the rise of for-profit cause brands like TOMS, Warby Parker, OneHope, FEED, and thousands of other consumer companies that channel a percentage of revenues to non-profit partners. The most effective of these, TOMS and Warby Parker, use the “One for One” concept to clearly illustrate to consumers what each product they buy does in the world — these brands package an easy-to-understand donation with a purchase.

OK, so now for something controversial, especially since (full disclosure!) TOMS Capital is an investor in Laxmi: donating free stuff is among the least effective ways to help the poor. Free stuff rarely moves people out of poverty, with the possible exception of medical devices donated under very specific circumstances. Food banks and feeding programs are better than stuff, but still a stopgap rather than a root solution.

This is heresy to many people in philanthropy.

Isn’t giving away stuff noble? Doesn’t it make the giver generous and kind?

Sure. Giving things enriches the giver. But whether those things enrich the receiver, the person we’re really trying to help if we’re truly behaving altruistically, is another story. Famously, Western food aid to Africa — one of the biggest donation programs in history — turned out to have an awful long-term consequence: dumping cheap grain made it untenable for millions of African farmers to sell their food in local markets. Big American agricultural companies subsidized by US taxpayers profited from these contracts, leaving local farmers without a sustainable source of income and perpetuating poverty around the continent. Now, several big NGOs are lobbying to end the tyranny of agricultural subsidies in the US Farm Bill (including one whose board I serve on, CARE).

Many now protest this kind of “big aid” run by governments, and yet they do just the same thing when they buy One for One products.

I’m not saying we should avoid buying One for One-type products. These are far better than doing nothing, especially in the case of health interventions like safe birth kits, eyeglasses (Warby Parker’s partner VisionSpring is an innovative charity that employs low-income people to distribute the glasses), mosquito nets, or food, water and sanitation. But even health interventions are most powerful when they are market-driven — when local people have enough money to purchase the services they need, or to be taxed and thus contribute to funding for services at the government level.

We can do better than One for One. If we really want to make the world better, we have to listen to the people who need our help, and heed the results of research. A preponderance of recent evidence suggests that the best way to help poor people is to give them cash, which they can use to purchase their own goods and services independently of donors, governments, or other institutions. Overwhelmingly, when poor people have cash, they spend it on things that enrich the health, education, and resilience of themselves and their families.

And what’s the most sustainable way to give poor people cash? Employ them. This seems so obvious, and yet we don’t think about poverty alleviation as an employment exercise. The best way to help those who need shoes, or clean water, or eyeglasses? Give them a job. A job pays for school fees, visits to the local clinic, mosquito nets, and anything else we can imagine a poor person may need. Jobs create a healthy check on power, too — when people start paying taxes, they start reinforcing a social contract between the government and its people.

Jobs > Taxes > Expectations About How Taxes Should Be Spent > Accountability to the People

When governments get their revenue from foreign donors via aid programs, this accountability dissolves. Accountability is the only reliable way to build strong people, communities, and nations. And accountability arises when poor people have an income.

Aid, including free stuff, is paternalistic, and a trap — it keeps people poor by depriving them of the chance to make their own decisions about what they need. So let’s demand more. Let’s ask the companies that use One for One models to take their social impact one step further and employ the poor directly, in the supply chain. This may make their products more expensive. It may make their supply chains more complicated. But it will build incredible loyalty among workers and customers. In the long run, governments should provide tax benefits to companies that behave this way and “impact source” from communities in need. And in the short term, let’s demand an end to One for One. Let’s demand of the companies we love to Give Work instead.

Living in Lesotho

Winter my arse! I'm sweating buckets and it’s only 8.43am. Mokhotlong had better be cold or my big winter coat will be very unhappy.

I'm moving to Lesotho for a year. Six months ago, I had no idea Lesotho existed let alone that it was a country. Neither did I know anything about HIV or AIDS, other than what I'd seen on TV adverts and documentaries. I had a lot to learn. I have a lot to learn and there's no time like the present to dive on in and take note!

Day 1: Flights and First Impressions of the Big Capital of Lesotho!

Flights passed without much drama. They were long and tiring, 25 hrs of transit to be exact. I flew from London to Dubai, Dubai to Johannesburg, Johannesburg to Maseru. However, I can't complain as Emirates were sen-frign-sational. It was like travelling on a floating hotel. The in-flight entertainment was great, and the food fab (especially the butter chicken and chocolate brownie!) but the free alcohol was the deal clincher. Unlimited small bottles of wine make sleeping on planes a lot more doable. The flight attendant on the South African Airways 36-seater jet took her job incredibly seriously. I’d made a Swiss friend and we weren’t allowed to sit together because our tickets didn’t say so (despite the fact there were only 8 people on the flight in total.) The attention to detail in her safety instructions was out of this world. She’s going places. The flight was only 40 minutes and we had an apple juicebox and a very full packet of BBQ corn crisps to keep us happy. Can’t complain.

My first impressions of Maseru are a bit muddled. First off, it’s a lot poorer than I’d imagined. Quite a few small buses are whizzing around but very few personal cars. Lots of people walk along the main roads, not able to fit on the groaning and puffing public taxes. There are lots and lots of shanty shacks littering the road side, selling everything from bananas to car tyres. There are random houses which, when you look closely, are actually hairdressers or butchers. I haven’t yet seen a restaurant, unless you count the half-built brick building which claim to be grills or public bars.

However, my first impression of the people couldn’t be better. So very friendly, humble, hospitable and keen to know you. The lady at customs asked me to marry her son, which is always nice. Fallback plan, sorted. Everyone was honking or waving at each other as they passed by. Especially my driver, Mike. He seems to know everybody!

So, overall, it’s a pretty mixed reaction but mostly positive in the areas that matter! Just waiting for Jules and Nthabeleng. Let’s see what today brings!

India at 15

A few extracts from the diary I kept in India when I was 15...please excuse the profanities and pretentious sentiment...I was 15, trying to be cool..


"I've never felt anything like altitude. You get breathless from walking 10m on a straight road! Every bone in your body tingles with a painful numbing, you feel light headed every time you stand up accompanied by the WORST head rush in the world. My muscles are groaning all over my body with unbridled exhaustion. I never thought it would be this hard. If I had, I wouldn't have bloody signed up. It's 6am. I'm cold. I'm frign freezing. I've never felt so weak, I have absolutely no energy..can't even talk to anyone. We all just collapsed when we got to a good rest site and have been lying here like overturned turtles on our sacks, unable to move. Ce, Daniella and I have been sat in our tent motionless and soundless for god knows how long. I'm scared right now. This is the first day and I feel like this...17 more to go. Jesus Christ."

"It's day 14 of the trek and I am going to punch someone in the face. No. Not just someone...everyone. They're my friends.. How annoying can they really be? Well, I tell you, spend 14 gruelling days walking up 6,000m mountains and other mountains FOR BANTER and you'll be struggling to remember anything you liked about them at the start. They whine, they push you when you don't want to be pushed, they're always there and then, just when you want to moan and be upset about how tired and in pain you are, they turn round and tell you how ungrateful you're being and..ugh, I don't know, blah frign de blah. Hate everyone. They smell because we haven't washed in days. Ugh. Hate this. I want to go home." 

"I don't think I've sweated so much in my whole life. Buckets of water cascading from face, boob and thigh right now, I feel like I'm melting. Maybe I am. How is this place habitable?!!? Walking from the airport was like walking into a sauna.
    We had to cross a main road and it was like a game of dodgeball...dodgeball extreme where life and limb were at risk as you close your eyes and just run for the other side, through the 7 lane traffic of Delhi's streets.The rickshaws are hilarious, painted green and yellow and driving on road, pavement or wall to get by."

"I was left with a baby today. Yep. Left...with a baby. It started off as a great day. We woke up early to the sun shining down, encouraging an irridescent wave of colour to shimmer down the river towards Hadimba Temple which was our destination for the day. On our walk to the temple we saw monkeys, an elephant, snakes, yaks and absolutely loads of donkeys and cows. We hadn't anticipated that we'd turn out to be the main tourist attraction for all of the other tourists visiting the temple that day. They formed lines to take pictures with myself, my ginger friend and my blonde friend...felt like a celebrity...not guna lie, I loved every second!! Anyways, we let them take photos and then one family gave us their baby in preparation for a photo. We look up after cooing over how cute the baby was...to see the bloody parents running for the hills!! We sprinted after them, baby screaming and all, but they'd buggared off into the thick of the trees and were nowhere to be seen. Sound...stuck with a baby....casual. What the hell do you with a frign baby?!"


"I hate the men here. They stare, they spit and they lick their lips and its disgusting. I'm 15!!!! Young enough to be their granddaughter....rank."


"Today was AWESOME!!! Best day so far on the trek. We bathed, we ate, we relaxed and then a bunch of us went in search for a nomadic tribe to see if we could trade some goods with them. We ended up only having to walk a short (but very uphill) distance to a nearby village. It was amazing. They welcomed us into their house, we all looked at each other just a liiittle bit scared coz we'd been told these people were cannibals but we decided to go in anyways. It was like a home you see in museums, from the Viking times. Although it was only around 2pm the whole house was pitch black inside. There was no electricity, natural light or gas. We walked in through the front foor to be confronted with hammers, snow shoes and knifes hanging from the ceiling and straight ahead was a stone base covered by a wooden seat, constituting a toilet. The smell was intoxitating but alluring. It was so smokey, a very very musky apple wood type smell. We passed a beam of light striking from the ceiling onto a trap door, and then plunged back into the delicate darkness. On our left a door slid open and this OLD Tibetan woman was standing there with a huge, toothless and incredibly wrinkly smile mushing out "Joule, joule!"...

More on a Summer in Spain

The Alcazar, Sevilla.

I now truly know what it feels like to fall in love at first sight. The Alcazar is one of the oldest palaces in Spain and it is wonderful.
    Nothing, no part nor function has disintegrated with time. The natural spring fountains still gurgle with water, the mosaics still liven the place with colour and a cool convection of air. Big windows overlook the beautiful gardens, cascading water and bird song meditate a feeling of utter tranquillity as you float around this intricate maze of a palace. All the buildings are decorated with incredibly delicate Arabic decor and painted in deep reds, oranges, golds and terracotta. Again, it’s hot. The kind of heat that is truly impossible to describe because, well, I can’t find the words to do the power and strength of sun justice. My mind can’t connect to the pen.  It feels like my blood is slowly congealing and I am slowly, ever so slowly, turning into a statue unable to move at all.

Ronda

I’ve just arrived in Ronda and the first word that comes to mind to explain this place is “underwhelming”. I say that for two reasons: I have no plan whatsoever, I was just hoping to arrive and have a historic route laid out in front of me but alas, getting off at the bus station held no indication or sign of where to go or what direction to head in. Secondly, I was expecting an ancient, picturesque and ornate little city on the top of a mountain. Instead, the old ancient city has been swallowed up by a modern metropolis. Swallowed up, reconstructed in concrete and regurgitated- meaning that you only come across historic gems by chance and by surprise. But hey, I’ve only been here for thirty minutes. Perhaps with more exploration and with the city rousing from it Sunday slumber, I will change my mind.

      As I had hoped, Ronda is truly spectacular. The Plaza De Toros is historically stunning with its beautiful Arabic red stone, its hidden passages and its catholic ideology adorning every curve. As the pamphlets boast, the bullring is recognised as the first purpose-built space for fighting bulls in the world and also one of the most picturesque. The Churches are impressionably stunning. Wealthy, and not afraid of a little ostentatious display, the buildings are draped in gold and silver furnishings and the sheer size of the structure and icons are enough to dwarf anything by comparison. But the most impressive of the lot is El Tajo (the bridge adjoining two cities either side of the gorge). The pure magnitude of the arches under the bridge, which scale at least 200ft, is just unequivocal. The art in the ironwork of the barriers and the seating places display breathtaking workmanship.

     I love that all the buildings in this pueblo are reminiscent of the colonial times, just like those in major cities of South America. They are brightly coloured and have exquisitely crafted wooden shutters on the windows, as well as  ornately moulded iron bars cradling the composition.

Granada

     This is Dante’s paradise.  A different legend etched into every stone of this monumental Arabic fortress. Mystical waterfalls burst through every wall, over trees and over paths worn out over the years which provides the visitor with a tantalisingly tranquil soundtrack to the day.
    The long and drawn out battles of 1492 echo from every room of this place- the celebratory cries of the triumphant Catholic Kings and the sorrowful woes of the surrendering Moors.

    “Impressionante.” Really, the only word I can possibly think of right now is impressive- in every sense of the word. The colours and smells of the flowers, the citron scent spiralling from the orange trees roasting in the sun, the impeccable attention to detail in the sculpture work, the symphony of cascading water that accompanies your every move within the city’s walls. The water tumbles through trenches made in the banisters, cascades from beautiful fountains and surges through the trenches in the ground that network through the palace and its grounds. Ready for you to scoop up whenever and freshen yourself from the blistering 40 degree heat. It’s incredible. Outstanding and impressionable.

     I’m literally sat here under a tree, on a beautifully aged oak bench, protected from the sun somewhat by the shade of an orange tree. I’m cooling myself further by dangling my feet into the flowing river that cuts through the walkway. Serenity fulfilling a manmade definition.

     I’m now in a courtyard of the Palacio de Navarros. The walls are painted a deep, blood orange. The arches cutting through the walls are defined by an Arabic flair. Lining the quadrant are mature orange trees groaning heavily with ripe fruit. The centrepiece is a simple fountain which, again, sets the tranquil melody of the day’s compilation disc as the echoes of the falling water rebound against the stone walls.      
    Diamond shaped shrubs encompass beautiful lilac flowers and to finish off, the eucalyptus trees set the scent of the moment. It is so hot that you can taste the simmering air. Eucalyptus mixed with citron slows the blood pressure as you stroll ever more slowly through this beautiful haven. 

Romanticising a Summer in Spain!

Sevilla

LOVE IT! People dancing and singing in the streets; clapping away to the rapid and ornate rhythms of the Spanish guitar. It’s simple. Clap fast, strum fast, move fast, think fast, twirl fast and wiggle your bum like it’s infested with ants. All the music is heavily influenced by the Arabic infused gypsy flair. It sings a very strong rhythm that you just can’t ignore. Your hips move without permission, your arms spring up into the air as if responding to a sergeants order. It’s hot. It’s insufferably hot. You lose all focus, you lose all control over stance and movement- you simply float aimlessly through this gypsy dream which hurries past you alive in colour and rhythm.
    I think I’m sweating from every pore possible. I don’t even know any more. All I’m wary of is that I feel I’ve been locked in a sauna and am rapidly proving the theory of osmosis.

The floor burns, the water of the river literally bubbles from the heat. There’s simply no escape, but you kind of accept that and throw yourself fully into the flames. The rhythm of the music carries you, like a feather over turbulent water kick-starting you back to life every time the chorus starts.

I love how summer nights really are a family investment. By family I don’t just mean in the traditional sense of the blood-family unit but also the society and people of the town as a whole. Everyone contributes, everyone participates and nobody stops. The suffocation of the sun’s heat goes to bed and everyone comes out of hiding to celebrate. They exploit the night and all it’s cool glory. The wind escapes from its captivity and clears all the cobwebs collected through the day. Summer is when it all happens. I can’t imagine what life is like in the winter when apparently the city hibernates. I imagine a ghost town haunted and taunted by the echoes of a vivacious and musical summer.

It slightly reminds me of Peru. The Semana Santa celebrations- the streets lined with food and beer stalls, the streets lively with kids playing and people dancing and warbling. But, there are yummy and cheap mojitos and there’s a kind of seriousness to the way in which people sing and dance here. Everyone joins in but at the climactic point of the song, the accompaniment stops and leaves the sound of guitar resonating in the echoey silence. The people stop, hush to a silence and clear the space for the obvious professional. In this particular instance, it’s an old dude from the bar. He wears Ray Ban sunglasses, black polo shirt and khaki shorts. He looks up slowly with torero grace, grins and then...his hands burst into action, quickly following by his feet, his bum and then his warbling voice. Everyone respects him. Nobody smirks. Nobody giggles. Nobody exchanges awkward glances. They appreciate him, they respect him, they idolise him- the maestro. For that moment, with the twiddle of the guitar, it’s all about him and what he can do. He communicates with everybody there as his grace sweeps the dance floor and catches everyone’s attention. 
     I love how people can define a moment and time and yet have no idea that you even exist. I will never forget that moment and, in that small way, that old man will live forever in a stranger’s memory. Freaky? A little bit. Should he be afraid? Probably. Maybe a little flattered? Probably not..just scared.

   One added extra that may ascertain any ideas that I’m crazy- the legendary lady in the fringe gold dress. She fluttered into my life for all of forty seconds but, I love her! She walked past the restaurant singing gypsy music, walking like a flamenco and artistically fluttering her fan. She wasn’t doing it for show, simply because she felt like it. Legend. 

Trapped inside a Peruvian prison cell...

Have you ever really considered how different circumstances and different social situations awaken different sides of your personality? Every day we immerse ourselves amongst society’s norm, we wear multiple masks that define us for that given moment in time. Our thoughts, our actions, our words, our movements: we allow ourselves to conform to whatever the given social group expects from us.. whether it be the leader mask, the courageous mask, the studious mask, the parental mask, the child-like mask... the list goes on.

I have had to recount this story a billion times since returning home. It’s become a source of gossip. It’s gained an air of hype and hysteria, a platform from which the story twists and turns every time it is recounted. Everyone comes up with their own version of events to fit their own fantasy. I just want to say this from the start- it isn’t a myth, it isn’t a fantastical story. This is the living reality of millions of women and men today. The lessons I learned will hopefully stay with me and guide me through the various and inevitable tributaries of life. I cried a lot. I learned a lot. I learnt about the varying considerations of what is and isn’t socially acceptable in different cultures, about how different people react to and live in a small and confined space, about how different personalities react to unfortunate circumstance, how universal comedy tastes are, how different people react to and establish authority within social groups. Most importantly I think, I realised how resilient human nature is to disaster.

It will probably shock most people to know that in Ayacucho prison alone, there were 5 other white women: two Americans, one Belgian and two Australians. When white people get caught up in foreign legal affairs, like the fictional character Bridget Jones for example, quite often it gets documented enough to propel the story onto a world stage. But more often, it doesn’t. If that person has no-one that would recognise their absence, there’s nothing that person can do to negate his/her sentence.

The men wolf-whistle every time you walk past. They grab, they spit, they lick, they masturbate... vile is the only way I can think to describe them. But the women and the men’s prisons are interlinked so that when a woman needs to see a lawyer or a visitor or the social worker or make her way to the kitchens- she must face walking through that animal cage, one of which she is prisoner, on show to be taken advantage of by the audience.

The 8x8ft rooms consist of two bunk-beds, precariously balanced one on top of the other. There are stained sheets hanging down for you to pull across for your own privacy. Other than that, there is a 1x1ft hole in the middle of the room (or the “casita” as the children call it) into which one can defecate. Gates lock at 19:00hrs, lights out at 21:00. If you’re lucky or rich, one is fortunate enough to have a window to the cell, which allows natural light and oxygen to air out the dark, damp and dank room. This is the delightful home of some 750 Peruvian women for the next 25 years of their lives. The rooms encompass a large outdoor quad area where the women can gossip, scheme, work, exercise, play with their children, cook and play games.

They need to look at why these women are in prison; what the core root of the problem is. If my investigation results are right (and I am by no means claiming that they are, but there are no records to certify the exact cause for all women’s sentencing) more than ninety percent of the women inside Ayacucho Prison were there for drug smuggling crimes. I interviewed many of these women, asking the simple, but loaded, question- “Why?” Why smuggle drugs when they know the repercussions are so severe, if caught. The question was always met by the same amused and slightly condescending smiles: “Because already we were prisoners of poverty. We had nothing to lose. At least here we have a roof over our heads and a bed to sleep in at night.”

Nice and light.

Peace out. Hasta luego. Ciao. In a bit

Harriet xx

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending

I grew up around the world, meaning that my personality and beliefs are influenced by a variety of different societies and cultures from around the world. I have travelled independently and I have studied and worked in the UK, NL, Spain, Peru and Lesotho. I'm now an adult. I define adulthood as being capable of controlling situations, being able to get out of sticky situations and being able to create and do whatever it is you want to do. It's taken me a while to master all points of being an adult: I've been to prison, trekked the Himalayas, couch surfed around Europe, scaled the Andes, studied for 20 years, skydived, swum with turtles, cycled the South of Spain and peed next to a rattle snake in the Rockies. I'm 24 and I've ended up working in Lesotho, Southern Africa, working to mitigate the effects of HIV/AIDS and TB in OVCs.

SO..what's to be expected from my blog? What's the point in it all? I'm going to use it as a way to reminisce on my travels around the world.

I'll try to keep it as unpretentious as possible but keep it interesting and concise.

Peace out everyone. Hasta pronto. Ciao. In a bit

Harriet x