Microfinance has never received as much attention from as many diverse sources as it has in this past month.

The 2006 Nobel Peace Prize to Professor Muhammad Yunus and Bangladesh’s Grameen Bank is the highest and the most prestigious honour received by the microfinance community to date. Professor Yunus and the Grameen Bank deserve overwhelming congratulations for having been the face of microfinance for decades and spread the message far and wide that access to credit should be a human right.

While Professor Yunus and the Grameen Bank were the official recipients of the award, the positive recognition has rippled across the entire microfinance industry. This award is a great recognition of the important work done by hundreds of thousands of people the world over to bring financial opportunity to millions of poor people.

Furthermore, by awarding the Nobel Peace Prize the Nobel Committee has also ignited a debate in the wider global community about the nature and relationship of financial services to peace and prosperity. However, as microfinance found its way into the editorial pages of The Economist and the New York Times it did so in less flattering light than would be expected from those more familiar with microfinance and its potential.

The Economist was chiefly concerned that the Nobel Peace Prize has lost its “lustre” and is simply being given to individuals who are worthy of praise, if not specifically praise for creating a more peaceful world. The newspaper urged the Nobel committee to withhold the prize for a few years so that the purpose of the prize is not confused or diluted. While The Economist should be lauded for its bravery in suggesting that the prize be given to the deserving or withheld, the editors seem to have such a narrow interpretation of peace that they missed the fact that poverty is perhaps the greatest cause for violence. Professor Yunus and the Grameen Bank are deserving of the Nobel Peace Prize because peace is the fruit that is borne from improving human lives and increasing their self respect and hope for the future. While one cannot say that microfinance directly leads to a more stable and therefore peaceful society, by awarding the prize to Professor Yunus and the Grameen Bank, the Nobel committee showed that resolving active conflicts is only one kind of peacemaking. Today’s wars, whether characterized as clashes of civilizations or struggles for land or self determination, have a poverty of opportunity, capital, self respect, and hope at their core. Microfinance addresses this poverty before it is exploited to instigate people to take up arms.

The more debateable critique came from the pages of the New York Times in which John Tierney argued that Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, had done more to encourage development than Professor Yunus, based on the number of manufacturing jobs Wal-Mart stimulates in developing countries. He argued that for many people in developing economies, a manufacturing job that takes them out of the field or away from a micro-enterprise provides an increase in income and living standards that microfinance is not able to achieve. While more analysis on the claim that manufacturing jobs create a step-function increase in income that microfinance cannot match is surely due, at its root, Tierney’s commentary is concerned with microfinance’s chief limitation: achieving scale. Wal-Mart is quickly becoming the world’s largest retailer of goods and services. It has mushroomed from a small regional store into a massive corporation that has no true retail equal in terms of geographic reach, market capitalization, or the polarization of public opinion. Microfinance institutions could indeed learn from the best of Wal-Mart’s ability to scale and serve millions of customers across 15 countries.

These are just two examples of the kind of attention microfinance has generated in the past few weeks. The increased press coverage and discovery of microfinance the world over will increase MFIs access to capital from diverse sources including a larger percentage of governmental international development budgets, NGOs, and social investment funds. This increase in funding comes with an increase in pressure for further and more rapid capacity building on the ground. Innovative, mainstream solutions focused on adapting lessons from leading businesses in all sectors should be applied to microfinance to both help absorb the increased funding and the need to rapidly reach greater scale. As part of these efforts, it is also crucial that MFIs’ governance structures and processes are either put in place or refined so that they can both absorb additional capital and accelerate their outreach efforts. As many observers have stated, if scale can be efficiently and quickly reached then the next time microfinance is considered for a Nobel it will be for the prize in economics.

This is just to add to the insects that I've seen. This is a moth found outside the elevator in my apartment building; about 4 inches across.

Religion permeates almost everything in India. There are cigarette shops named after gods. From my friend’s roof you can see a mosque, church, and temple; all within about 150 feet. Almost every business has some small shrine to one god or another; just a small thing with some candles, incense, and recently placed garlands.

So when my company moved to a new location I was told that we would have to have a pooja. What is that, I asked. It’s where the office gets blessed. Oh, ok.

The separation of church and state is pretty solid in the US (pledge of allegiance, 10 commandment statues, and federal funding of religiously motivated social organization’s aside). If a US company brought in a Priest, Rabbi, or Witchdoctor to bless a new office I am sure that pandemonium and law suits would breakout everywhere.

So it was with great interest that I took off my shoes, walked quietly into the conference room, and sat cross-legged on the floor with my colleagues. In one corner sat our managing director with his wife and two young children in front of a picture of Ganesh adorned with flowers, candles, bananas, rice, coconuts, candy, and incense. By the time I entered the ceremony had already begun so the Hindu priest was chanting the same verse over and over while individually calling up each male member of the staff, tying a thin red rope around his wrist, and applying red paste and rice to the center of his forehead (see picture).

When it was my turn there was a faint murmur of chuckles given the odd cultural juxtaposition and the intense sincerity written on my face. I kneeled down and the priest tied the string and applied the dot and I was done.

When all the men had been done the women went up, but he wouldn’t apply the paste to their foreheads, he would only give it to them on the end of one of their fingers and they would have to apply it themselves (I later learned this is because the “bindi” (the dot) should only be applied by a women’s father or husband). They also didn’t get any rice pushed into their forehead.

So then I sat there as the rest of the office was blessed. Every once in a while a red piece of rice would fall of my forehead while I squirmed to find enough floor space to accommodate my increasingly inflexible legs.

Once everyone had been blessed we all had to go in front of the shrine and hold the bowl of burning oil and spin it in three circles. While we did this some of the older women, our managing director’s mother and her relatives, I believe, reached out for the smoke and motioned it over their heads.

When it was all over they broke out a few boxes of sweets (in line with the recent New York Times article on diabetes in India) and we went on with our day.

I knew that it would inevitably happen. I would call a US 1-800 number and get the distinctive Indian accent telling me “Hello, thank you for calling Citibank, this is Gary.” There are numerous oddities to this interaction.

The strangest is that Sanjay or Rahul or Piyush or Santosh or Anurag have been asked to say that they are Steven, Richard, Peter, Sam, or Andrew. I wonder if they let them choose their western names. I probably wouldn’t have to search very far to find the answer to that question.

I understand that these companies are concerned that if Bob Jones hears that Sanjay will be processing his credit card payment he’ll go into a blind, Lou Dobbs-fuelled rage against the outsourcing of America. But I wonder if these companies have weighed that against the fact that I find it insulting to Sanjay and insulting to me that we all have to play this charade. I wonder when we, and by that I largely mean Americans, will grow up enough to be comfortable talking to someone half the way around the world and allow him to use his own name. I mean it seems that it is the least we can do for someone who has stayed up until 3:00 AM to field our call about some unknown credit card charge.

“Thank you, Gary, up front I want to tell you that I am calling from Hyderabad and so this ‘toll-free’ number is quite expensive for me. Can you tell me where you are located as I imagine there may be a less expensive way for me to talk to you?”

I think Gary may have been a little hurt that his American accent “cover” was blown, but he said, “Yes, Mr. Mitchell, I am here in India, please hang up and call our international collect call number and the call will be free of charge.”

Fair enough.

For those of you who know anything about Hyderabad is probably that it is second to Bangalore in the IT and outsourcing boom, but to be honest I really don’t see that side of the city very much (as evidenced by the fact that I don’t know if Rahul can masquerade as Robert, Richard or even Zachary). One of the reasons for this is that when I am leaving work they are just starting.

This phenomenon creates some problems. My neighbour has a son who has been working US hours. When I leave for work I see him come back and he looks unnaturally exhausted. I think humans have a seriously difficult time completely separating their sleep pattern from the environment around them. The outsourcing lifestyle also causes serious problems for married couples (usually newly married, since most of the outsourcing call center people are quite young); when she’s going to work he’s going to bed and the only time they can see each other is on the weekend when one of them is in a semi-jetlagged state.

So, Bob Jones, calm down, let Sanjay be Sanjay, and appreciate that he’s sleep deprived, he rarely sees his wife, and he’s just working to put food on the table just like you.

These posts are getting a bit more sporadic for a few reasons: work has picked up and I'm now on a project conducting a high-level review of three Microfinance company's investment potential for a large international investment group. Social investing may have as much of a focus on social returns as on financial, but the work that needs to be done to vet the investment seem to be just as arduous as that done for "normal" investments. I've also been traveling a bit. I went to Mumbai and Sri Lanka and hope to write up those trips eventually. I've also realized that blogging is really for those who have either a lot of time or a lot of dedication or both.

That aside, there is something worth mentioning going on in Hyderabad (and the rest of India) the festival celebrating the God Ganesh. If, like most Westerners, you know that Ganesh is the God with the elephant head, well done. If you happen to know that he is the son of another god who had his head chopped off and then replaced by that of an Elephant because this was the closest animal and that he is very fond of food, then you are likely Indian or have an atypical interest in Hindu mythology. Over the past few days I have asked my colleagues and friends about Ganesh and started heated debates between people who have been told different stories about his origins by their grandmothers. On one level it is great that this oral tradition is getting passed down, but on another (as many of my friends pointed out to each other) these oral histories are not being passed down complete and they are not sure they will be able to share the stories with their kids and grandkids as well as the previous generation.

Nevertheless, the festival is very much alive. As far as I can tell the festival involves almost everyone buying garishly colored, clay Ganesh statues from all over the city and placing them in their houses or at work for the duration of the festival. The most amazing ones are made by entire streets who must have banded together to buy a large (6 to 8 feet usually) statue which is then decorated with all colors of Christmas tree lights (sorry, I couldn't think of a non-denominational name for them). The neighborhood gathers around these statues at night and burns incense, plays music, and offers the statue food. Two night ago I was taken to the largest Ganesh statue in Hyderabad (and, as a result, the entire state of Andhra Pradesh). There is definitely some serious competition and keeping up with the Jones' (here maybe it should be Gandhi's???). Anyway, the road leading to the two-plus story statue was lined with vendors selling plastic Ganesh masks, sweet corn, ice cream, trinkets, balloons, and all other kinds of carnival items. The statue itself is surrounded by people and other statues. Religious Hindi music is blasted from what seems to be a neighborhood-wide PA systems and little kids swarm around our legs (I went with another 6 foot-plus white American guy) pulling on our hands and arms asking us for change.

Here are some pictures which should give you a good sense of what we saw.

Since I have arrived, I have been “sick” exactly 7 times. This is roughly once a week. It is tricky to write about this without being graphic, but I will try.

I have had Delhi Belly four times. This experience has involved intense stomach cramps, the requisite familiarity with the toilet, mild fever, and the fear of being caught in the back of an auto rickshaw stuck in jam-packed traffic with truck exhaust fumes flowing over you at the “wrong time.” As of now, knock on wood, that has not happened. Also luckily, humanity has created something of the Gatlin gun to take care of this experience: Cipro. The first time I had “an upset stomach” (a euphemism, if ever there was one) I took this and was fine within 6 hours. This is quite remarkable and can easily be abused.

As a result, the second time I became sick I did not opt for the cure, as it seems that broad spectrum antibiotics should really only be used in the most dire of situations. So I suffered through the symptoms and three days later came out all the better for it.

There is a futile and funny (as in both odd and comical) game that accompanies each bout of “the belly” as I have taken to calling it. The game involves trying to guess what has caused this suffering: was it the few drops of water in the bottom of the glass at the restaurant or was it the flies that were landing on the food at the outdoor BBQ? This is really the most useless effort, as one can hardly track what makes them sick and even if they could, they would be foolish to attempt to change their diet based on this speculative digestive sleuthing.

The other times I have been sick, such as two weeks ago, I had a fever. This seems pedestrian enough, but when you are not taking anti-Malarial pills (apparently the liver, kidney, and/or gall bladder don’t take well to a constant dosing of the medicine) a fever can be the first signpost to a serious bout with an age-old killer. This is, of course, overstating the case significantly, but I can’t lie and say that every mosquito bite I get sends a shudder of hypochondriac worry throughout. Of course, if it isn’t Malaria then it could always be Chikungunya (written about earlier, but here is a quick summation: high fever accompanied by rash and debilitating joint pain that leaves most sufferers in bed for anywhere between one week and three months).

There is no cure or prevention for this mosquito-born virus (though there is a healthy homeopathic “preventative” that has made its rounds throughout the southern areas of Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu. As an aside, the “preventative” comes in a small vial with about 40 or 50 tiny little round white pills. The directions suggest that you take 5 pills throughout the day and “avoid contact with those who have Chikungunya.” This last piece of advice is sound since the virus is transmitted by mosquitoes that bite people who are infected with the virus and then bite those who are not, however, one has to question the ability of a preventative that isn’t very confident of its ability to stop you from getting the virus if you are around those with the affliction. Anyway, I digress.

The fevers aren’t that intense, but they are odd since I had only had one fever in 10 years prior to coming to India. I guess that there are no shortage of new bugs and viruses for my body to adjust to, so the roller coaster of health (or sickness) acclimation continues.

Luckily, I have gone two whole weeks without any kind of health problem. Each bout of “the belly” is less intense than the last and the fevers have stopped. My daring when it comes to the foods I eat now knows no bounds as I have even had an Indian delicacy called Pani Puri. This is a small hard shell filled with sweet and spicy flavoured water. This is daring because water is the main culprit in about 80% of stomach issues and because this is really street food (I’ll let you imagine all that this name entails).

So I am happy to report that I am getting better and my stomach is getting less temperamental.

So it is 8:58 and I had invited people over for drinks "around 8:00." People have told me about how Indians take fashionably late to new levels, but this seems ridiculous. Needless to say, to fill the time I thought I’d write this entry, but can I really think that my first guest will be fooled by my seeming nonchalance?

I wonder what it would be like if all appointments were so loosely adhered to…you would go to the dentist and he’d show up an hour or two after your appointment time. Scaled up, doctors would tell expectant mothers that their baby is due sometime between March and November.

I’m also a little anxious about bothering my neighbours. They have literally taken me in as one of their own; giving me tea to drink in the morning and never failing to offer me dinner in the evening. If I plan to cook for myself I have to lie to my “Auntie” and tell her that I ate between the office and home. That is how persistent she is with her offer of food.

On Sunday she insisted that I come over for something to eat. She apologized profusely that she only had mutton curry, rice, sambal, curd, and Indian sweets to offer me; obviously more than a complete meal. My Auntie, her daughter, and her two nieces proceeded to give me serving after serving of delicious, spicy curry and white basmati rice. At the outset she asked if I wanted a fork. Again, “when in Rome”....

“No thank you Auntie, I should eat Indian style.”

My confidence has been growing as I get used to eating curry with roti (flat Indian bread), but curry and rice was an entirely different prospect. I used my thumb, forefinger and middle finger to mix a bit of the curry sauce with the rice (I’ve seen Indians do this so I thought it was a pretty safe move). Of course, Auntie and her three relatives are standing over me as they watch me do this, heightening the awkwardness to levels I have not yet experienced. [Parenthetically, it is 9:10 and there is no one here].

I take a bit of meat and try and get it to stick to some rice before I shovel it into my mouth with my forefinger and middle finger. This action brings a number of grains of rice onto the plate (ok, not a problem), the table cloth (whoops), my shirt (D’oh), and finally my chin. The looks on their faces as they watched this perfectly straddled humour and horror.

Again my auntie asked, “I will get you a spoon, no?”

“No, I want to learn to eat Indian style,” I say with more than [okay so people arrived at around 9:20 and I had a great night with my “closest” friends of the past four weeks] a hint of obstinacy.

“Ok, no problem” she says sympathetically.

On the upside, the food was some of the best that I’ve had in India. This was true up to a point. After having the curry, sambal, chutney, and rice in several small servings, she insists that I end the meal with a delicious mix of rice mixed with buffalo milk skin.

I knew that buffalo milk is more popular that cow’s milk, “more fat,” she says with pride. “Cow’s milk is for health.”

I, of course, think about the buffalos I have seen being herded through the streets. They are huge, wide beasts, with the curled horns that look a bit like a 1960s perm. They are also spattered with their own muck, which seems to be the overriding impression as I sit there about to enjoy their redirected milk.

She skims off the top layer and plops it on top of my rice. She then motions for me to mix it in with my hands and to add some salt and pepper. As I have learned from a young age (mostly from watching my older, pickier brother when he was kid) when confronted with a situation like this the most important thing is to have a full glass of some liquid that is preferably very flavourful. So I put my glass of water (damn, I wish I had some mango juice) in my left hand and started to mix the milk skin and rice together. The faintly musty smell of the buffalo milk just hit my nose as I took my first bit, pushing the milky, wet rice into my mouth with my middle and forefinger. Unfortunately the smell was an accurate introduction so I made sure to not breath through my nose and took a huge gulp of water to send the rice down.

“Hmmm, that’s very different, very good.” I say, trying rather pathetically to hide my cringing.

“Good, have some more,” she says as she puts more of the milk skin on my plate.

I should have known that was coming, so I insist that I am getting very full and can’t possibly have any more. She reaches to serve me more and I physically cover my plate.

“No, Auntie, thank you so much, but I will only have what is on my plate.” I say, trying to perfectly balance a firm but appreciative tone.

I get the rest down, and luckily, there is a delicious Indian sweet to follow: a this triangle of cashew paste with edible silver on one side. At this point eating silver doesn’t really phase me and I know that silver doesn’t really have any objectionable flavour, if any at all.

I get up and wash my hands. “Thank you so much, Auntie. That was wonderful. Delicious food. Thank you.”

Some pictures, as promised. For those of you who have read below these images should help fill in some blanks.