Mr. Fix-It

When you're going to be working in a country you don't know well, most journalists will hire what we call a fixer. I don't know how the term came about but I assume it's because they make stuff happen.

They are always locals who know the country and speak the language, and usually have some understanding of what's newsy so they can help. They do everything from use their contacts to find out how to reach sources to help you get a local sim card so you can do your job more smoothly.

I've had great luck with the fixers I've had on this trip.

Joachim, in Tanzania, does a lot of work with Farm Radio International and happened to be working with a colleague of mine from CBC News who was in Tanzania at the same time as me. Joachim is a young guy with big plans. I was told Tanzanians always have two or three jobs on the go, and he's an excellent example of that: he fixes electronics, as well as fixing for journalists, and he teaches Swahili. That was an excellent way to pass the time on our four-hour drive to an interview.

Marc, in Haiti, reminds me of one of my uncles - a tall, lean photographer with a hint of a smoker's growl to his voice. He was born in Haiti but spent years in America, so he knows a lot about his country, as well as having a sense of what I want to understand better about it. He also seems to know at least every third person we run into, whether it's at the Canadian embassy or out and about in the area around Port-au-Prince, and he's been a field producer on a number of documentaries and news stories so he's got deep knowledge about weirdly specific stuff.

Both Joachim and Marc have translated interviews for me, found me decent hotels outside of major cities and taken care of whatever snags come up (which has, of course, so far included negotiating with immigration officials.) Both have saved me money by knowing what to ask for and how to ask it. I really wish I could have a fixer for every-day life (I suspect in politics that person is known as a chief of staff).

A few people have asked how you find a fixer. I had no idea until this trip, but the Travers Fellowship website has a good article about it by the Toronto Star's Michelle Shephard (who has far more experience reporting outside Canada than I do, in that I had none until now and she is a superstar). I simply asked other journalists and they connected me with Joachim and Marc. And I'm happy to pay it forward: these guys are great, so get in touch if ever you need someone like them.

Haiti photos

I arrived in Haiti on Tuesday after a day and a half stop in Ottawa to unpack, do laundry and repack. It's been another whirlwind but here are some photos to keep this blog fresh while I ponder deep and important thoughts, which of course I'll save for the pieces I write anyway rather than blogging them.

Community health workers discuss vaccination and nutrition with women in Terre Neuve, Haiti. (Laura Payton)

Petion-ville. (Laura Payton)

The hills of Port-au-Prince. (Laura Payton)

Adventures with immigration officials

"Can you find me a Canadian wife?" 

The immigration official with possession of my passport seemed intent on making his way from Tanzania to a much colder climate, but presumably one in which he saw himself being more successful than East Africa. He was the second official in half an hour to press me on whether I could get him to Canada. I had made it through two waiting rooms and one office before being ushered into a second office where I handed over $US 200 to get an additional visa for my trip.

I'd already had to battle, through my translator, for several hours of negotiations two days earlier with immigration officers who stopped us at a roadblock in northern Tanzania, on a highway that led toward Nairobi. We hadn't been stopped at all on the way to Tarime, a town near the border with Kenya, but were stopped five times on the four-hour drive back to the Tanzanian business hub of Mwanza. Twice to check my papers and three times to check the driver's.

As it turned out, I didn't have all the paperwork I needed. I'd gotten the $US 500 temporary press pass I apparently needed to operate in the country. A bargain, really, considering if I had been making a television news story it would have cost $US 1,200. And the high commission in Ottawa had issued me an "other business" visa, and had copies of my project synopsis and a letter of invitation from one of the NGOs whose projects I was visiting.

But they had neglected to mention that I also needed to get myself a temporary work visa known as a CTA, and I didn't see any mention of it anywhere I'd searched for entry requirements. It's easy enough to get at an immigration office, but I didn't know I needed it - neither did several of the NGOs who I later asked about it - and was then forced to spend an afternoon dealing with officials who were willing to let me go for a discounted price if I moved along without getting the actual $US 200 stamp that I needed.

I suspect I stupidly drew attention to myself by taking an iPhone video along the highway, trying to capture - ironically for my own use, not for my project - the breathtaking scenery on the way back from Tarime. I have a detachable handle and lens on loan from work, but it makes the iPhone look a lot more like a professional camera. I was later told that region tends to favour the opposition politically, and combined with being on the highway from Kenya, a white chick in a private car drew too much attention.

Despite the initial half-price offer by the officials from the highway, I didn't want to risk being stopped again if indeed I didn't have the paperwork I needed. Back to the negotiating table, and a decision to meet the next morning, a Saturday, at the office so I could pick up the visa. But a third official who they said was needed to issue me a receipt didn't show, so they let me go catch a plane to Zanzibar with a promise to pick up the CTA there.

It was at the office in Zanzibar that I encountered two immigration officials who really, really wanted to go to Canada.

"Can you bring me to Canada?"

No, I'm sorry, my husband wouldn't allow that (I'm not married but it's just easier to tell them that).

"Do you have a sister?"

Yes and she's also married (another lie, but one I think she would support).

I was directed to a third waiting room, where I tried to look neutral. My passport had gone back to the first office with an official, and the $US 200 was in the second office, and I had no idea whether I would lose either. I repeated "soft eyes," a refrain from my yoga class used to relax my face - to avoid further annoying them by looking impatient.

In the end, it took only about 45 minutes to get in and out with my stamp. I wasn't stopped again on my trip to Tanzania, but at least the gauntlet of immigration officers gave me another story to tell.

Creative complications

Edited to update: yay for early-rising Tanzanians! The maintenance man arrived at 6:45 a.m. the next morning and freed my gear, and I didn't miss a beat on my daily schedule. I'm never again locking up my notebook. It travels with me.

Of all the things that could affect my gear which I worried about before I left--theft, rain, batteries, just plain breaking--I never contemplated this. My gear, including my notebook, is locked in my hotel room safe, and the safe is broken. I can't get to my laptop, my mic, my cash or my bank cards. The only thing I have on me is my iPhone.

The notebook is the stupidest part. In a fit of Dar es Salaam paranoia, I locked it in, thinking I couldn't bear to lose it if someone decided to really clean out my room. It's usually in my purse but tonight I threw it into the safe. And now I have two hours that I'd set aside for transcribing, and I'm just worrying about whether the repairman will get here before my 730am departure for a site visit. Less than 12 hours from now. Argh.

Yes, all of this fit into one safe. My gear at an earlier stop. 

I'm sure we covered this in journalism school...

On Thursday I stared straight into the face of a standard ethical dilemma and was completely taken aback by my indecision. 

I interviewed a group of women who overcame substantial obstacles and now work together as seamstresses. The organization that set me up with these women had broached the idea of paying them for their time and reimbursing them for meal and transportation costs. I balked, since journalists don't pay for interviews (or shouldn't, in my opinion), and the organization backed down.

After we did the interviews, the women asked my translator for "chai money." I asked if that was standard, and he said another organization he works for sometimes - when pushed - gives interview subjects about 3,000 Tanzanian shillings if the interviews take over four hours. That's about $2. We spent about an hour interviewing them.

I stuck to my guns, more or less, but didn't flat-out say no, debating it with my translator, and eventually one of the women said "BYE MUZUNGU!" and we left (that's the Swahili term used for white people).

As soon as I shut the car door, emotion took over reason and I started crying. They are so poor. It was nothing for me. Why shouldn't I give them money? Why is it any less ethical to give money to some women who need it for food or high school classes than to give cab fare to someone who wants to take a cab to a studio interview? Or to buy a beer for a source to try to make it more of a social occasion than an interview, and thereby ease the path to getting intel for a story?

The counter-argument is that it's not good to set the precedent of exchanging money for access to an interview, but for people in that kind of poverty, it doesn't seem to be as clear-cut as it would be if one were paying to gain an advantage like an exclusive interview. Maybe it should be the precedent, or at least an option. Who am I to decide that my ethics apply in a place where people can't afford to go to secondary school? Who then can't get decent jobs and can't afford to send their kids to secondary school either?

When I was in Rwanda nine years ago, a lot of organizations would give money to journalists who covered their press conferences. They claimed it was to cover expenses like transportation, but they also sent shuttles to pick up people from their newsrooms. I was shadowing someone and followed her into line, signed my name in a register and came away with...I think about the equivalent of $10. I was so horrified that I immediately donated that amount to a charity. I think that memory coloured my reaction the other day, firming my resolve. Later on, sitting in my lovely hotel room with a double-bed and electricity, and listening to a thunderstorm outside, that resolve washed away and left only guilt.

All of the colour

I was going to write an actual post, but it's late (okay, 9:30 p.m. local, but for some reason in Tanzania I function like I'm 70) so instead I offer some photos of my recent trip to Tabora region. It's a relatively rural area with the country's worst indicators. Despite that, it struck me as less impoverished than Singida - the houses I could see from the roads we travelled seemed sturdier and larger, fewer people seemed to be just hanging out or standing around, and most people's clothes were cleaner and in better condition. I'll have to do a bit of digging to find out which region actually has the higher income to see if those observations are born out in fact.

On a totally unrelated note, thank you to those who have been asking about my dad. He got out of the hospital soon after I left and he is doing really well. He had great care.

Before I get to more of the loveliness...behold the bathroom I had for the past two nights.

There was a showerhead...which was rusted over and didn't work. 

I now have much improved accommodation in a much bigger centre. Never has a lukewarm-to-cold shower made me as happy as today's.

I'm on the road again tomorrow to do more interviews, and trying to cram in one or two on Friday, but I'm starting to sort of hope they fall through so I have some time to transcribe and just gather my thoughts a bit. I have transcribed most of the first two days of interviews, but I have another three days' worth to do, nevermind what I gather tomorrow. Plus I should be blogging! The internet situation the first half of this week didn't help with that.

Anyway. Loveliness abounds, even steps away from that bathroom.

I have not screwed with this photo in any way. The light is just magical here. (Laura Payton)

Me with a Care Canada community health worker in Tabora region.

Members of a village savings and loan program. (Laura Payton)

This is where we had lunch yesterday. (Edited to add: the food was delicious. But I'm not sure how hygienic it is). (Laura Payton)

Singida region photos

A World Vision Tanzania official watches a community health worker instruct a woman on breastfeeding. (Laura Payton)

Patients wait at the only hospital in a district of 272,000 people. (Laura Payton)

A woman sits next to her newborn baby. She shares this room with three other new moms. (Laura Payton)

Bowls of water line the wall in a maternity waiting home, where women can spend days awaiting delivery rather than trying to travel hours over rutted roads to the hospital when they're in labour. There is no running water in the building, and the women sometimes sleep two to a bed due to overcrowding. (Laura Payton)

A clinic vaccination room. (Laura Payton)

Apologies for the graininess of the photos - reposting these from facebook until I get home to my laptop.

I'm here!

It's the end of my first work week in Tanzania and I have to keep reminding myself that I've made it. It's been a blur so far, mostly because I got right to work due to the schedule of one of the NGOs whose project I was visiting.

I arrived in Arusha Tuesday night and left Wednesday morning for Singida, a rural region with the main town about a five-hour drive south-west of Arusha. Most people there depend on farming for a livelihood, although it sounds like it's mostly to feed their families: I was told a few times that "My husband doesn't have a job, he's a farmer."

It was a quick re-introduction to how differently people live than the majority of Canadians. One woman close to my age has six children and primary school education. When I told her we were about the same age, she laughed like I was making a hilarious joke. Once I started interviewing, I realized there was more than a Swahili-English language barrier: the words and concepts used in international development have very little meaning to someone with almost no education who likely hasn't travelled outside her region.

I visited several sites for the World Vision Canada project in Singida, which ended at the end of March (the staff have been kept on for a few months to wrap it up). Unsurprisingly, the people I spoke to want it to continue for at least another two years. While the doctors I interviewed have relatively pricey requests like a new operating theatre, other health workers hope for more simple items. One nurse said she'd really like a light for the exam room so they can insert IUDs (a form of long-term birth control) there rather than trying to get into the district's only operating theatre. A community health worker said he'd like some rain gear or even an umbrella because when he visits families during the rainy season, his materials get soaked.

The first visit has me energized and raring to go to the next location. More photos to come next week.

Hurdles and hospitals

This afternoon I left my father, smiling proudly, in his worn blue hospital gown so I could continue finish packing up gear for my trip.

My parents were visiting when my dad started to have some heart troubles. We're still not entirely sure what the problem is, and because I leave very soon for the fellowship, I will likely take off for Tanzania without knowing exactly what's wrong. I'm incredibly torn about whether to go, but my dad is doing well right now. It's been very strange to visit with him in a hospital bed - he seems totally normal aside from the setting and the nice men and women in scrubs who keep coming by to see how he is.

This is so much bigger than any of my previous, now piddly concerns - fears about whether my visa would be processed in time, having to switch countries at what felt like the last minute.

My parents are adamant that I go. The first words out of my mom's mouth were "You are GOING to Tanzania," and my dad looked at me (over the oxygen mask and four ambulance attendants) and fretted over adding to my stress level (yes, this is where you can stop and wonder at what thoughtful, committed parents I have).

At the same time, it's a difficult time for my family. Had something like this happened when my parents were at home, I would want to fly back home to be with them. Instead, it happened in my town and they are here for the foreseeable future, and I am flying to the other side of the world. 

Full speed ahead.