Not  Your  Regular  Trip  to  Guatemala  
 
“at  the  end  of  the  day,  when  you  get  back  to  your  own  life,  its  impossible  to  correlate  
these  people’s  lives  with  your  own  life.  Don’t  even  try.”      -­  Bill  Abramson  
 
I  could  say  that  I  have  been  interested  by  micro-­‐finance  long  before  it  was  trendy,  
because  I  have  always  been  passionate  about  helping  the  impoverished.    I  could  say  
that,  and  it  would  be  a  complete  lie.    The  truth  is  that  I  fell  into  the  topic  by  accident.  
A  friend  decided  to  quit  his  perfectly  normal  NYC  life,  move  to  Buenos  Aires,  and  
start  a  non-­‐profit  dedicated  to  helping  small  businesses  and  worker  cooperatives  in  
Latin  America.      
 
When  someone  does  that  kind  of  thing,  you  have  to  take  notice.    When  they  show  up  
for  brunch  next  time,  months,  years  later,  you  have  to  ask  how  its  going.    
 
That’s  how  I  learned  what  a  worker’s  cooperative  is,  why  capitalism  in  Latin  
America  is  more  than  a  little  broken,  and  how  my  friend’s  organization  is  so  
amazing.  
 
In  the  uninteresting  process  of  helping  my  friend,  I  asked  one  too  many  questions  of  
Trickle  Up  board  members.    So  when  they  were  organizing  their  first-­‐ever  field  trip  
for  board  members  to  observe  their  operations  in  Latin  America,  they  invited  me  
along.      
 
I  knew  I  had  nothing  of  value  to  add  to  the  trip,  but  if  you  ask    me  if  I  want  to  drive  
around  on  dirt  roads  in  the  poorest  corner  of  Guatemala,  visiting  weavers,  bakers,  
and  chicken  farmers,  to  see  if  micro-­‐enterprise  can  make  a  difference  to  the  poorest  
of  the  poor,  I  say  yes.    At  least  once.    
 
Its  remarkably  easy  to  travel  to  developing-­‐world-­‐style  poverty.    You  slide  down  on  
some  Boeings,  walk  through  an  almost  completely  empty,  brand  new  airport  in  
Guatemala  City,  and  drive  away  in  important  looking  SUVs  with  hastily  laminated  
“Trickle  Up”  signs  on  the  dash.        
 
The  rural  poor  live  in  some  inconvenient  places,  so  we  spent  the  night  in  Antigua,  
the  old  colonial  capital,  at  a  simply  lovely  hotel,  Casa  de  Santo  Domingo,  built  in  the  
ruins  of  an  ancient  monastery.  Top  notch  amenities.  Wi-­‐Fi  in  every  room,  parrots  on  
stands  near  the  pool,  excellent  espresso.    Antigua  is  a  lovely  tourist  destination.    I  
only  had  14  hours  there,  and  spent  most  of  it  sleeping,  eating,  and  debating  with  
blissful  ignorance    whether  micro-­‐enterprise  can  help  bring  people  out  of  poverty.    
 
The  next  morning  we  rush  out  and  drive  for  a  few  hours  up  the  newly  paved  Pan-­‐
American  highway,  winding  through  lush,  low  and  steep  hills.  Then  a  sharp  turn  up  
onto  a  dirt  road.  A  really  windy,  bumpy,  back-­‐shattering  dirt  road,  switch-­‐backing  
up  and  up,  the  kind  of  road  where  you  are  sore  the  next  day  from  the  car  ride.    Past  
some  cinder-­‐block  buildings  with  ubiquitous  blue  “TIGO”  signs,    the  local  telecom.    
After  awhile  the  cinder-­‐block  construction  fades  to  weathered  mud  bricks.    
 
The  rural  poor  we  visited,  on  average,  tend  to  live  10  miles  away  from  a  paved  road,    
at  the  highest  point  of  whatever  geography  we  were  at.    Travel  time  on  the  dirt  road  
was  always  more  than  an  hour.    Isolation  is  of  course  part  of  the  charm  that  keeps  
them  so  poor,  and  makes  micro-­‐enterpise,  or  any  form  of  trade,  difficult.    
 
After    half  an  hour  my  ability  to  have  a  conversation  in  Spanish  with  Jorge,  our  
driver,  fades  away  and  is  replaced  with  two  thoughts:    when  will  we  get  there,  and,  I  
am  really  happy  to  be  in  an  SUV.      We  stop  at  a  random  spot  on  the  road.    The  rural  
poor  are  not  noteworthy  or  distinguishable  in  any  way.    You  can  pull  over  at  any  
random  place  and  find  them.    In  Guatemala,  4  out  of  10  people  live  in  what  is  called  
“extreme  poverty”.    Its  probably  not  a  coincidence  that  4  out  of  10  people  in  
Guatelmala  are  also  classified  as  “indigenous.”  
 
 We  were  traveling  to  a  particular  Trickle  Up  community,  one  of  800  in  Guatemala,  
one  of  1400  in  Central  America,  and  one  of  34,000  in  the  world,  growing  by  roughly  
11,000  each  year.      There  are  more  than  a  billion  people  who  could  benefit  from  
Trickle  Up  support,  or  any  support.    Our  random  stops  on  the  road  were  anything  
but  random:  we  were  stopping  at  needles  in  haystacks.      
 
“When  it  comes  to  helping  the  poor,  there  is  always  more    demand  than  supply”  –  
David  Larkin,  Trickle  Up  board  member.    
 
The  dozen  of  us,  mostly  gringos,  disembark,  and  start  walking  up  a  mud  trail  past  
small,  fragmented  corn  fields.    We  walk  by  the  bizarre  objects  and  structures  that  
are  typical  of  rural  areas  whose  purpose  are  indisernable  by  city  folk,  all  looking  
broken  and  unused.    Is  that  a  cistern  for  watering  chickens?    Or  a  pen  for  holding  
harvested  corn?  I  have  no  idea.  
 
It’s  a  sunny  bright  day,  but  not  buggy  or  humid,  as  we  are  in  the  highlands.  After  a  
short  flat  walk  we  get  to  Xesiguan  ,  a  set  of  mud  houses  with  thatch  or  corrugated  tin  
roofs.    Smoke  is  flowing  out  of  the  gap  between  the  wall  and  the  roof.      The  scene  is  
complex,  there  is  a  lot  to  take  in.    The  houses  decorated  with  laundry,  calendars,  
drying  corn  cobs,  toothbrushes,  and  other  things  that  I  would  eventually  take  for  
normal  exterior  adornments.    There  are  also  more  than  a  dozen  women,  standing  or  
sitting,  most  smiling,  some  old  women  scowling,  all  dressed  in  clean  and  colorful  
indigenous  costumes.    Of  course,  they  are  not  costumes,  to  them  it’s  clothing.    We  
learn  that  with  these  Kaqchikel  ,  at  least,  the  patterns  on  the  clothing  tell  you  about  
the  person:    stripes  for  a  married  women,  birds  and  flowers  with  stripes  for  a  young  
woman  looking  for  a  husband,  black  collars  for  widows.    There  are  more  widows  
than  you  would  expect.    
 
Why  can’t  we  have  this  as  part  of  our  culture?    Is  it  too  personal?    
 
Around  us  orbit  another  dozen  children  less  than  10,  unsure  whether  to  scowl,  
smile,  or  run  away,  so  they  do  all  of  that,  over  and  over  again.  
 
Benches  have  been  set  up  for  us,  and  partially  completed  weavings  are  set  up  all  
around.  The  women  sit  against  the  house,  against  the  dirt  walls  and  dirt  floor,  and  
we  get  down  to  business.  We  first  all  introduce  ourselves,  and  we  all  clap  after  every  
introduction.  It’s  a  slow  way  to  start,  but  helps  break  the  ice.    Despite  their  non-­‐latin  
faces,  and  non-­‐latin  clothing,  their  names  are  all  latin-­‐biblical,  as  in  Maria,  Francesca.    
Familiar  names.      
 
Here,  in  Xesiguan,  through  a  local  NGO,  Trickle  up  has  provided  seed  grants  to  16  
women  to  help  them  become  weavers.    With  Trickle  up  financial  support  and  
training,  they  create  products,  sell  them,  and  re-­‐invest  the  profits,  providing  families  
with  the  first  steps  towards  lifting  themselves  out  of  poverty.    If  you  really  want  to  
help  poor  people  not  be  poor,  helping  them  create  a  sustainable  business  strikes  me  
as  a  lot  smarter  than  handing  out  bags  of  rice.    Or  computers.  Or  eyeglasses.      
 
Trickle  Up  promotes  micro-­‐enterprise,  but  that’s  not  the  same  thing  as  micro-­‐
finance.    Trickle  Up  gives  grants  and  training.    They  don’t  collect  interest.    They  don’t  
collect  anything.  One  could  argue  that  in  the  places  where  Trickle  Up  operates,  it  
destroys  the  micro-­‐finance  market.    Why  get  a  loan  when  you  can  get  a  grant?    The  
reality  is  that  Trickle  Up  is  so  small,  and  the  numbers  of  poor  so  great,  it  simply  
doesn’t  matter.      
 
Besides,  where  Trickle  Up    operates,  the  people  are  so  poor,  have  so  little,  that  
without  extra  support,  extra  training,  extra  help,  micro-­‐finance  is  not  going  to  do  
squat.    These  women,  and  the  other  communities  we  would  visit,  are  not  business  
people  who  need  help  getting  on  their  feet:  these  are  people  who  never  thought  of  
themselves  as  being  in  business  at  all.    
 
After  the  clapping  and  introductions,  we  start  asking  the  women  questions.    What  
do  you  make?    How  much?    How  and  where  do  you  sell  it?    What  do  you  with  the  
money?      Typically,  the  questions  have  to  go  from  English,  to  Spanish  to  their  
indigenous  tonal  language,  as  most  of  these  women  don’t  speak  more  than  
rudimentary  Spanish.    To  my  ears  their  native  tongue  sounded  lovely,  with  pitch  
changes  and  a  mesmerizing  cadence,  it  sounds  like  singing,  but  multiple  translations  
are    a  painfully  slow  way  of  performing  financial  due  diligence.    Benjamin  and  
Penny,  two  Trickle  Up  board  members,  are  both  in  finance  and  are  ask  the  same  
questions  I  want  to  ask,  and  they,  like  me,  are  practically  jumping  out  of  their  skins  
at  how  hard  it  is  to  get  at  the  story.    The  story  that  slowly  emerges  is  truly  amazing.    
 
The  women  in  Xesiguan  used  their  grants  independently  to  buy  thread,  of  different  
qualities,  and  knit  different  products,  and  transport  and  sell  them  all  individually,  
which  we  find  unfathomable.    That’s  the  benefit  of  Trickle  Up:  it  lets  the  
communities  find  a  solution  that  makes  sense  to  them,  even  if  it  doesn’t  make  sense  
to  us.      
 
Xesiguan  has  formed  a  savings  group.    Access  to  emergency  capital  is  especially  
critical  to  the  very  poor,  where  any  setback  can  bump  you  back  to  ruin.    Creating  
local  financial  support  groups  is  another  part  of  the  Trickle  Up  program.    Like  
everything  Trickle  Up  does,  each  implementation  is  left  to  the  local  community  and  
local  NGO  partner  to  figure  out.  At  Xesiguan  ,  each  member  pays  about  a  dollar  into  a  
fund  each  month.      
 
Where  do  they  keep  the  money?    The  nearest  bank  is  several  hours  away,  irrelevant  
and  untrustworthy.    Knowing  what  I  know  now  about  institutions  in  Guatemala,  and  
how  they  relate  to  indigenous  people,  I  wouldn’t  trust  a  local  bank  either.    Then  
where  do  they  keep  the  money?    They  don’t  exactly  have  a  mattress,  and  with  
everyone  in  the  extended  family  sleeping  in  the  same  bed,  that’s  probably  not  a  
great  choice.  A  secret  nook  in  the  mud  wall?  Is  it  safe?  
 
The  answer  was,  they  don’t  actually  have  any  money,  at  least  not  any  cash.    The  
entire  fund  is  lent  out  to  the  members,  who  pay  5%  interest  each  month.    The  cash  is  
quickly  converted  into  goods,  like  thread,  or  weaving  tools:  useful  things  that  are  
not  useful  to  steal.  It’s  a  bank  without  a  bank.    
 
I  had  so  many  questions,  and  there  was  no  way  our  two-­‐step  translations  were  
going  to  keep  up.  How  do  they  keep  track  of  this?    Do  they  understand  percentages?    
Interest?  How  do  they  do  fractions?    Typically,  these  people  have  up  to  a  second  
grade  education.  What  happens  if  too  many  need  to  borrow?  Or  too  few?      What  did  
they  need  the  loans  for?    What  happens  if  someone  can’t  pay  the  loan  back?    For  the  
most  part,  these  questions  remained  unanswered.      
 
Getting  answers  to  our  intensely  myopic  questions  was  surprisingly  difficult.    
Questions  like  “how  much  to  you  make  in  profit?”  or  “how  much  to  you  spend  on  
thread  and  material”  didn’t  seem  to  make  any  sense.    
 
What  we  did  learn,  though,  was  that  becoming  financial  contributors  to  their  
households  has  an  enormous  empowering  effect  on  these  women,  an  effect  I  would  
have  discounted  without  seeing  it  in  person.    They  spoke  about  the  positive  
emotional  effects  producing  and  selling  weavings  had  on  their  children,  their  
husbands,  and  their  larger  community.    For  the  first  time,  they  said,  they  felt  like  
hard  work  was  paying  off  in  a  better  life,  for  themselves  and  their  families.    You  see  
this  in  their  smiles  and  warm  eyes  as  they  hear  each  other  tell  their  stories.      
 
They  discussed  the  hard  decisions  they  had  to  face.    Should  they  re-­‐invest  their  
earnings  in  thread  or  a  hand-­‐powered  sewing  machine,  or  buying  their  kids  paper  
and  pencils  for  school?    The  pride  they  had  at  even  having  these  choices  was  
palpable.    
 
When  our  big  discussion  is  over,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  carefully  translated  thanks  
and  commendations  both  ways.    The  women  offer  us  hot  cider,  with  bread  and  
cheese.  Or  maybe  it  was  butter.    I  try  to  look  very  thankful,  and  do  my  best  to  create  
the  illusion  of  consuming  it  all  with  gusto,  while  actually  just  tasting  it.    It  was  
extremely  generous  to  offer  us  lunch,  since  there  are  times  of  the  year  when  they  
have  a  hard  time  feeding  themselves,  but,  a  hot  water  beverage  in  rural  Guatemala?      
In  my  delicate  gringo  stomache?  
 
I  wander  about  their  homes,  noting  the  details.    They  live  in  closely  packed  mud  
brick,  thatched  roofed  single  room  rectangles,  placed  between  the  polygonal  corn  
fields  and  the  steeply  sloped  forest.    There  are  no  streets,  no  plan,  just  a  few  huts  
separated  by  a  meter  or  two  of  packed  dirt.    More  homes  are  scattered  up  the  slope,  
paths  snaking  through  corn  fields.  There  is  an  outhouse  50  feet  up  a  trail,  do  families  
share  that?    Its  hard  to  see  inside  a  dark  hut,  with  the  midday  sun  is  so  bright.    A  
door,  a  window,  a  dirt  floor,  a  single  bed.    Hardly  any  furniture.  Maybe  a  chair,  or  a  
single  low  table.    Corn  and  bundles  of  clothing  are  stacked  on  top  of  the  wall,    or  
hang  from  the  ceiling.      Smoke  rises  out  of  an  open  wood  flame  on  the  hearth,  
spilling  out  a  gap  between  the  roof  and  the  wall.    Some  houses  didn’t  line  up  with  
the  wind,  and  there  the  smoke  stays  in  the  house,    making  it  even  darker  and  
difficult  to  breath.    Do  they  really  want  to  add  lung  damage  to  their  list  of  
difficulties?  Don’t  they  know  about  chimneys?    Or  does  it  keep  the  bugs  away?    But  
we  are  6000  feet  above  sea  level,  the  air  is  pleasantly  cool  and  dry,  and  there  are  no  
bugs.    My  mind  keeps  racing  on  silly  tangents  like  this,  because  I  don’t  want  to  think  
about  the  important  things.    
 
We  all  know  that  more  than  a  billion  people  live  just  above  subsistence.    Maybe  two  
billion,  maybe  three,  depending  on  how  you  want  to  slice  it.    Knowing  and  walking,  
talking,  breathing  it  are  different,  though.    I  don’t  mind  the  dirt  floors,  the  cooking  
fires,  the  lack  of  indoor  plumbing.    I  could  imagine  getting  used  to  that,  if  the  
weather  were  nice.      I  might  even  get  used  to  the  lack  of  electric  lighting,  which  
limits  your  day  to  the  12  hours  the  sun  is  in  the  Central  American  sky.    
 
I  try  to  understand  what  the  world  is  like,  if  I  were  illiterate,  and  had  never  seen  
anything  other  than  the  nearest  town,  whose  language  I  can’t  understand.  This  
mental  isolation  is  simply  unfathomable.    
 
Less  tangible  concerns  tie  my  stomach  in  knots.    To  live  in  fear  between  harvests  
that  my  kids  might  not  get  enough  food.    If  someone  gets  sick  or  hurt,  medical  care  is  
essentially  unreachable.    Will  my  child  die  of  diarrhea?.    What  can  I  do  to  avoid….  
 
To  not  have  any  choices,  to  be  trapped  in  this  same  community,  same  life,  with  no  
hope  of  breaking  out,  no  hope  of  your  children  breaking  out,  because  they  are  
trapped  with  you.    Should  I  just  give  up  and  drink  myself  to  death  while  my  family  
starves?    Irrational  choices  start  to  make  sense  when  they  are  the  only  choices  you  
have.    
 
As  we  walk  down  the  path,  back  to  the  road,  our  bottled  water  in  our  SUVs,  and  
drive  to  the  next  Trickle  Up  community,  I  have  to  admit,  the  world  is  looking  much  
brighter  for  the  women  at  Xesiguan  .      With  a  little  bit  of  help,  they  are  able  to  make  
a  better  life  for  themselves.    In  fincancial  terms,  ignoring  the  hard  work  by  everyone  
involved,  it  only  cost  $100  per  family,  plus  $35  for  the  local  NGO  partner.    For  a  
single    $2000  investment,  16  families  are  on  a  better  path.  That’s  13  men  who  won’t  
have  to  leave  their  families  to  migrate  out-­‐of-­‐country  for  work,  and  thirty  or  more  
kids  who  have  better  odds  at  making  it  past  the  second  grade.    If  I  come  back  in  a  
few  years,  the  women  told  me  I  might  find  tin  roofs  instead  of  thatch,  maybe  
cinderblock  walls  instead  of  mud.    Not  a  bad  return  on  $2000.      
 
Does  it  mean  we  could  lift  billions  out  of  poverty  for  $100  per  family?  
 
The  debate  in  the  long,  bumpy  car  ride,  and  every  subsequent  one,  focused  on  that  
single  question.    Is  fostering  micro-­‐enterprise  a  sustainable  way  to  lift  the  poor  out  
of  poverty?    Is  Trickle  Up’s  program  scalable?    Is  it  applicable  to  every  community?    
Do  cultural  or  geographical  differences  determine  success  or  failure,  or  can  micro-­‐
enterprise  work  everywhere?    Is  every  poor  person  an  entrepreneur  in  the  rough,  
simply  in  need  of  a  little  help  to  bootstrap  themselves?    If  not,  is  there  a  process  for  
finding  the  people  for  whom  fostering  micro-­‐enterprise  is  worthwhile?    
 
I  was  expecting  a  lot  of  campaigning  from  the  Trickle  Up  staff  on  these  long  car  rides  
(did  I  mention  how  long  the  car  rides  were?  Why  can’t  the  rural  poor  live  closer  to  
an  airport  or  a  decent  hotel?)  ,  if  not  the  board  members.    There  was  none  of  that.    
Quite  the  contrary,  the  conversations  were  open  and  honest.    Trickle  Up  staff,  board  
members  have  the  same  questions  as  I  do.    They  are  smart,  motivated  people,  and  
they  are  working  hard  on  trying  to  figure  this  out.    They  will  tell  you  they  don’t  have  
the  answers.  Yet.  It  made  for  some  lively  debate,  in  between  the  switchbacks.      
 
Our  next  stop  was  Aldea  Quisaya,  up  an  equally  bad  road,  where  we  walked  up  a  
short  dirt  path  past  small  corn  fields  to  an  almost  identical  community  of  Kaqchikel  
women.    In  Quisaya,  Trickle  Up  has  provided  seed  capital  to  14  families,  all  of  whom  
are  also  involved  in  weaving.      
 
We  sat  in  on  one  of  their  first  Village  Savings  and  Loan  Association    (VSLA)  
meetings.    Despite  being  almost  identical  in  most  respects,  same  Trickle  Up  partner,  
same  ethnic  group,  same  micro-­‐industry,  same  number  of  families,  the  savings  
program  in  Quisaya  was  very  different  than  the  one  in  Xesiguan.    Women  in  their  
embroidered  bird  shirts,  some  with  black  hems  and  borders,  gathered  around  on  
benches,  while  the  VSLA  officers  brought  out  a  triple-­‐locked  box.    The  box  had  three  
separate  padlock  on  three  different  sides,  and  each  officer  had  a  key  to  one  of  the  
locks.  They  ceremoniously  opened  the  box,  took  out  their  records  and  handed  out  
savings  books  to  all  the  members.  One  by  one,  with  a  great  deal  of  ceremony  and  
official  counting,  everyone  contributed  5  Quetzal  (about  $0.80)  into  the  savings  
fund.    The  savings  fund  has  two  parts:  one  gets  paid  out  to  each  member  on  a  
schedule,  kind  of  like  a  bonus,  and  the  other  part  comprises  the  savings  of  the  bank,  
which  get  lent  out.    
 
Getting  the  details  on  how  this  scheme  worked,  and  why  it  was  so  different  than  the  
first  community  was  going  slowly,  so  I  started  playing  with  the  kids.    In  Xesiguan,  
there  were  only  little  children,  too  young  for  school,  and  older  kids,  past  the  third  
grade  or  so,  working  at  home.    Neither  group  wanted  to  interact  with  strangers.    
Now  it  was  later  in  the  afternoon,  school  was  out,  and  the  five  to  nine  year  olds  
hovered  around,  darting  under  bushes,  or  diving  into  dark  doorways,  squealing  with  
excitement,  if  you  turned  to  look  at  them.  
 
The  kids  are  distracting.    The  indigenous  groups  we  met  treat  kids  differently  than  
in  the  US,  or  anywhere  I  have  been.    Children  can  come  and  go  without  being  shooed  
or  shushed,  until  they  do  something  really  grevious.    Wherever  we  met,  if  there  
were  kids  around  at  all,  they  ran  around,  shouted,  wrestled,  grabbed  adult  legs,  
walked  right  up  to  someone  giving  a  presentation  to  an  entire  room  and  got  in  her  
way,  all  the  while  attracting  less  attention  from  the  adults  than  a  stray  cat  or  
chicken.    Its  something  I  had  read  about,  historically,  behavior  common  to  many  
American  indigenous  groups,  but  it  was  interesting  to  experience  it.    Oddly  
disconcerting.    Awkward,  sometimes.    What  do  you  do  when  kids  are  grabbing  at  
your  backpack  and  no  one  is  chastising  them?    
 
Despite  their  freedom,  the  kids  were  incredibly  shy  around  us,  especially  when  we  
started  pointing  cameras.    I  would  like  to  believe  that  they  are  worried  about  us  
stealing  their  souls,  but  there  are  enough  cell  phone  cameras  around  to  make  that  a  
silly  superstition.    The  real  answer  is  more  distressing:  they  associate  foreign  
cameras  with  baby  smuggling,  which  used  to  be,  and  maybe  still  is,  a  real  problem  
for  them.      In  2000,  in  an  area  we  would  later  travel  to,  a  bus  load  of  Japanese  
tourists  was  attacked,  killing  a  tourist.        
 
I  had  not  heard  of  that  incident,  yet,  and  after  seven  years  of  parenting  girls,  there  is  
nothing  that  gets  me  more  excited  to  point  my  camera  than  cute  little  girls  who  are  
smiling  and  giggling  and  running  away  from  my  camera.    
 
First  I  lured  the  girls  out  of  the  dark,  smoky  kitchen  (no  chimney’s  here,  either)  
where  they  were  hiding  using  a  rainbow  pony.    (Even  when  there  are  no  kids  
around,  rainbow  ponies  are  an  important  part  of  my  camera  gear.    They  can  be  used  
to  build  makeshift  tripods,  and  can  add  a  splash  of  color  to  landscape  shots.    Sic.  )  
Handing  out  rainbow  ponies  got  the  boys  eager  to  start  grabbing  my  backpack,  so  I  
distracted  them  with  some  crayons.    Penny,  the  Trickle  up  board  member,  handed  
them  some  paper  out  of  her  notebook,  and  pretty  soon    a  half  dozen  kids  were  
drawing  some  pretty  amazing  pictures,  and  happily  sharing  the  rainbow  pony.      
 
The  older  kids  were  willing  to  speak  Spanish  with  us.    The  kids  were  always  25%  
older  than  I  guessed,  which  was  also  true  for  the  adults.    Not  having  enough  protein  
ages  you.    The  mothers  never  seem  to  have  enough  teeth:    calcium  deficiencies  from  
having  lots  of  kids  starting  very  early  without  a  proper  diet.    
 
The  savings  and  loan  meeting  ended,  and  the  women  hand  out  woven  scrolls  
commemorating  our  visit.      Then  a  vaccum  cleaner    blares  from  the  nearest  kitchen    
and  we  break  for    a  party.    Turns  out  its  not  a  vacuum  cleaner,  but  a  blender.    
Imagine  a  mud-­‐brick,  dirt  floor  kitchen,  filled  with  smoke  from  a  fire  in  a  brick  basin,  
pots  and  pans  stacked  on  the  floor,  with  a  single  stool,  and  on  it,  two  women  
working  with  a  blender.    
 
They  have  electricity,  they  just  can’t  afford  to  use  it  very  much.    Due  to  an  odd  
subsidy  program,  where  the  government  hired  a  Spanish  company  to  build  a  rural  
electrical  grid,  rural  electricity  for  the  rural  poor  costs  three  times  what  it  costs  in  
town.      
 
This  is  a  special  occasion:  for  us  they  have  made  a  fruit  drink  from  blackberries  the  
size  of  my  nose.  I  have  a  large  nose.  Each  of  us  gets  a  bag  of  three  tamales.    Hoping  
the  blackberries  were  not  washed  before  hitting  the  blender,  and  betting  that  
nothing  can  live  in  a  freshly  steamed  tamale,  I  eat  and  drink  with  gusto,  saving  a  
tamale  for  Jorge,  our  driver.    
 
Under  a  late  afternoon  sun,  everyone  follows  us  down  the  path  through  the  
cornfields    to  our  cars.    We  wave  goodbye,  and  drive  off.    
 
Give  Them  Luggage  
 
It’s  a  few  hour  drive  to  our  hotel  that  night,  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Atlaitan.    
Panajacchel  is  a  wonderful  hippie  backpacker  town,  with  cheep  international  cuisine  
and  lots  of  trinkets  and  pipes  for  sale.    Views  of  the  lake  and  volcanoes  are  amazing.    
All  the  Nicaraguan  drug  traffickers  have  villas  there.      We  enjoyed  a  whole  9  hours,  
most  of  which  I  spent  sleeping.  Benjamin  found  time  to  swim  in  the  lake.  Then  we  
were  back  on  the  winding,  nauseating  road  to  the  highlands  of  northwest  
Guatemala,  in  HueHueTenango.  
 
Huetenango,  not  a  rich  place  to  begin  with,  was  especially  hard  hit  during  
Guatemala’s  thirty-­‐year  civil  war,  a  war  fought  mostly  over  the  intensely  unfair  
resource  allocation  stemming  from  the  conquistadors.    You  really  have  to  hand  it  to  
the  conquistadors.    Using  sheer  nastiness  and  brutality,  they  were  able  to  able  to  set  
up  a  long  lasting  system  where  a  few  families  control  most  of  the  arable  land  and  
most  of  the  wealth  for  the  entire  country.    They  had  the  help  of  an  accidental  germ  
warfare  program,  and  the  accident  of  20,000  years  or  so  of  genetic  isolation  of  the  
locals,  but  its  still  a  nifty  feat.    Any  attempts  at  reform  result  in  deaths,  or  coups.    
These  families  are  above  any  law,  even  being  able  to  elude  the  United  States.    Its  just  
like  any  other  Central  American  country,  just  more  so.    
 
After  a  particularly  long  and  unpleasant  drive,  across  rather  barren,  pine  and  scree  
covered    hillsides  we  arrive  literally  at  the  end  of  the  road:  the  community  of  Aldea  
Chelam.  
 
A  set  of  cinder  block  buildings  have  been  built  around  a  dirt  courtyard  by  some  
distant,  well  intentioned  aid  organization,  the  same  one  that  build  the  road.    Its  
unclear  what  the  buildings  are  used  for,  if  anything,  and  several  look  thoroughly  
unused.    Out  of  desperate  need,  I  head  towards  the  nastiest  latrine  in  the  world,  
perched  on  the  edge  of  the  soccer  field  over  a  mound  of  garbage,  that  spills  down  
the  hillside  into  the  cloud  forest.  
 
The  courtyard  fills  with  Mam.  As  they  collect  for  photographs,  pleasantries,  and  
discussions  about    their  micro-­‐enterprise  aspirations,  its  clear  these  people  are  
really  really  poor,  making  the  other  people  we  have  met  look  well  off.      
 
We  start  with  a  big  meeting  in  one  of  the  cinderblock  buildings,    us  on  stage,  
townspeople  filling  the  seats,  standing  in  the  back,  spilling  out  the  door.      I  breathe  
the  smells  of  concentrated  wood  smoke  and  dust.    Two  people  from  the  local  
partner  NGO  that  Trickle  UP  works  with  are  familiar  to  these  people,  and  lead  the  
show  with  all  smiles.    They  never  stop  smiling,  even  though  audience  is  mostly  
glassy-­‐eyed  and  vacant,  or  even  fearful.    One  NGO  worker,  a  native  Mam  herself,    is  
simply  captivating,  as  she  translates  Spanish  into  sing-­‐song  Mam  with  elaborate  
hand-­‐waving  and  an  amazing  smile.    
 
After  the  big  meeting,  the  Trickle  Up  troupe  breaks  into  two  smaller  groups  to  visit  
some  homes.      The  sky  is  dark  gray,  with  heavy  clouds  masking  the  mountain  tops,    
only  a  thousand  feet  farther  up.    Heavily  farmed  ravines  and  hillsides  stretch  below  
us.  We  are  at  the  top  of  where  you  can  live.  
 
 We  walk  along  steep  trails  into  corn  fields  that  were  probably    virgin  cloud  forest,  
before  the  Mam  were  forced  up  here  during  the  war,  and  now  are  unable  to  return  
to  wherever  they  came  from.    While  everyone  acknowledges  the  community  is  not  
more  than  30  years  old,    questions  as  to  how  they  got  here,  or  where  they  came  from  
are  not  answered.    As  always,  its  unclear  as  to  why  we  can’t  get  answers.    Do  they  
not  know?    Are  the  answers  too  upsetting?    Do  they  not  understand  the  questions?  I  
have  no  idea,  but  I  am  already  used  to  my  seemingly  simple  questions  being  
unanswerable.    
 
Aid  agencies  have  provided  Chelam  with  the  road,  a  building,  a  school,  tin  roofs,  
water  collection  tanks,  and  other  random  solutions  to  problems  aid  agencies  want  
to  solve.    Its  not  clear  that  these  haphazard  solutions  are  providing  real  benefits.    
While  every  house  has  an  new  plastic  cistern,  courtesy  of  some  Japanese  NGO,  I  only  
found  one  house  where  it  was  actually  connected  to  a  gutter  to  collect  rain  water.    
What  happened  to  all  the  extra  piping?  Did  it  not  arrive?    Did  it  get  cannibalized  to  
keep  the  single  home  working  with  an  accessible,  clean  water  supply?    Is  it  anyone’s  
job  to  keep  track  of  the  success  of  the  water  program?    Not  speaking  Mam,  I  didn’t  
get  an  opportunity  to  ask  these  questions.    
 
We  spent  a  few  hours  questioning,  or  rather  interrogating,  two  families,  both  
weavers,  and  both  recipients  of  Trickle  Up  aid.  One  used  a  mechanical  loom  to  
create  rolls  of  fabric  for  napkin  holders  and  table  runners.  The  second  used  a  hand  
loom  to  create  pants.    Benjamen  and  Penny  tried  to  analyze  these  businesses  in  
terms  of  inputs,  outputs,  costs,  marketability  of  products.  To  be  fair,  they  asked  all  
the  questions  I  would  have  asked,  but  I  already  knew  how  it  would  go.    Whether  it  
was  language  or  cultural  barriers,  trying  to  tell  us  what  they  thought  we  wanted  to  
know,  or  outright  deceit,  I  do  not  know.      
 
Suppose  space  aliens  landed  in  your  backyard  and  said,  “we  want  to  learn  about  
your  lives.  Please,  help  us  understand.  Where  did  the  grommets  of  your  shoes  come  
from?    Do  you  work  your  TV’s  remote  control  with  your  left  or  right  hand?    How  
much  does  it  cost  you  to  drive  your  kids  to  school?”    How  would  you  answer?    Could  
you  answer?    While  it  struck  us  as  odd  and  frustrating  that  these  stories  were  so  
unaccessible,  even  though  we  had  the  people  right  there  with  us,  I  reserve  
judgement  as  to  whether  there  was  any  outright  lying.    These  people  are  illiterate,  
have  never  read  a  book  or  a  newspaper.    They  speak  a  language  I  had  never  heard  of  
before  that  morning.    They  have  never  been  far  from  their  mountaintop.    I  have  no  
idea  how  their  minds  work,  how  they  see  us  or  our  questions.  Never  underestimate  
the  power  of  a  simple  misunderstanding.    
 
 Regardless  of  the  reasons,    our  research  into  Chelam  micro-­‐enterprise  did  not  make  
much  sense.    Units  did  not  add  up.  Inventory  did  not  accumulate  according  to  stated  
rates  of  production  and  sales.  Products  sold  did  not  equal  profit  gained.      
 
After  maybe  30  minutes  of  questioning,  we  did  figure  out  that  while  one  family  could  
make  4  pants  a  week,  they  had  not  actually  made  any  pants  for  some  time,  because  
they  were  unable  to  sell  pants.    Why  not?    Too  expensive  to  get  to  market,  to  pay  
someone  for  the  2  hour  truck  ride  down  the  mountain?    Or  no  one  wants  to  buy  your  
hand  made,  patchy  pants?  Or  you  do  not  speak  any  Spanish,  so  you  don’t  know  
either?      
 
I  listened  with  half  an  ear,  and  spent  my  time  giving  out  rainbow  ponies,  fighting  
back  tears,  and  shooting  video  and  photographs  of  sometimes  frightened,  
sometimes  rambunctious  kids,  who  probably  had  not  seen  a  foreigner,  a  real-­‐live  
Gringo  before,  much  less  played  with  one.    
 
It  was  getting  to  be  dark  as  we  left,  and  none  of  us  were  excited  about  driving  down  
that  road  at  night.  The  summary  for  Chelam  was:    those  people  are  just  F^@cked.    At  
Trickle  Up’s  request,  the  local  NGO  had  been  tasked  with  finding  the  poorest  groups,  
and  at  that  they  had  succeeded.  Yet  the  idea  that  Trickle  Up  or  any  organization  can  
use  micro-­‐enterprise  to  improve  the  lives  of  the  poorest  of  the  poor  had  clearly  
come  up  against  some  limits.  The  residents  of  Chelam  are  so  isolated,  
geographically,  culturally,  linguistically.    There  is  no  local  economy.    Sub-­‐subsistance  
corn  and  yucca  farming.  What  goods  can  they  create  that  they  can  sell  within  their  
community  at  the  top  of  a  mountain?  What  goods  can  they  create  that  are  worth  
selling  down  in  the  valley?    Other  than  collecting  more  aide,  what  hope  do  they  have  
at  all?  
 
To  paraphrase  an  old  Sam  Kinessen  joke,  Chelam  did  not  need  more  aid  of  any  kind  
to  help  them  preserve  their  community.    What  they  needed  was  luggage,  and  maybe  
subsidized  housing,  so  they  could  move  to  where  there  are  jobs  and  schools  and  
opportunity.      
 
On  the  drive  down,  clouds  stretching  between  hillsides  below  us,  we  debated  the  
value  of  keeping  the  Chelam  where  they  are.    Workforce  mobility  is  a  modern  
concept.    A  theme  in  helping  indigenous  peoples  is  that  there  is  cultural  value  in  
keeping  communities  together,  on  their  own  land.    Perhaps.    Chelam  only  seems  to  
be  there  by  accident.    Besides,  its  too  crowded  for  anyone  to  succeed.    My  great-­‐
great  grandparents  had  enough  the  second  or  third  time  the  Cossaks  messed  up  
their  woodworking  shop  in  the  Old  Country  and  hopped  a  boat  to  Ellis  Island.    That  
was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.    None  of  their  descendants  have  ever  regretted  that  
decision.    
 
We  spent  the  night  in  a  very  odd  cinder  block  hotel.    Benjamen,  who  is  a  vegetarian  
and  who,  as  far  as  I  could  tell,  had  been  fasting  for  several  days  now,  managed  to  get  
in  a  run    to  some  nearby  Mayan  ruins,  for  which  I  was  quite  jealous.    
 
Oh,  this  is  your  cousin’s  bakery…  
 
-­  paraphrased  from  “Troopers”  a  spoof  on  Star  Wars  storm  troopers,  where  the  
protagonist  says  to  a  Jawa,  “oh,  these  are  your  cousin’s  ‘droids…”  
 
At  Yerbabuena  ,    another  community  where  Trickle  Up  is  just  getting  started,  we  sit  
on  a  hill  and  talk.  It’s  sunny  and  cool,  high  up  in  the  hills  in  another  part  of  
Huehuetenango.    There  is  no  town  center.    The  community  consists  of  the  standard  
Guatemalan  mud-­‐brick,  thatched  huts  scattered  on  the  mountainside.      
 
The  community  just  gets  poorer  and  poorer,  and  more  and  more  men  spend  more  
and  more  time  working  somewhere  else,  Guatemala,  Mexico.  The  conditions  are  
heartbreaking,  the  wages  unacceptable,  but  there  are  no  other  choices.    
 
We  hear  how  there  is  no  livestock  in  the  community,  they  are  too  poor  for  that.    Yet  
1/3  of  them  have  cell  phones,  which  they  claim  only  use  to  receive  calls  from  loved  
ones  working  far  away.    As  we  have  this  big  conversation  on  the  hill,  the  phones  ring  
fairly  often,  until  someone  spreads  the  word  they  should  be  silenced.    
 
We  walk  past  eroded  fields  to  visit  an  open  air  bakery,  past  sheep,  goats,  and  a  cow.      
 
At  Yerba  Buena,  things  are  very  confusing.    Nothing  is  as  what  we  hear.  
 
There  are  some  very  nice  latrines  located  in  everyone’s  yard,  each  painted  with  a  big  
white  number.  Apparently,  there  is  an  NGO  focused  on  providing  rural  communities  
with  latrines.    They  have  done  a  spectacular  job  in  Yerba  Buena  .  
 
Erosion  is  very  apparent,  leaving  large  fields  of  volcanic  scree  on  which  nothing  
grows,  brilliant  red  against  the  verdant  green  of  corn  fields  and  pine  trees.    Its  
unclear  whether  the  people  realize  that  cutting  down  the  pine  trees  and  over-­‐
farming  is  destroying  the  top  soil,  and  once  it  washes  down  the  ravines,  the  land  is  
useless.    Even  if  they  realize  where  all  the  scree  is  coming  from,  I  doubt  they  have  
any  choices  to  make.    All  the  hilltop  land  is  utilized.    There  is  no  land  to  lie  fallow.  
You  need  firewood  to  eat  corn.    
 
Each  family  has  on  average  1/8  the  land  they  need  to  survive.  The  custom  is  that  
land  is  always  divided  and  passed  on  to  sons.  Which  means  that  the  next  generation  
will  have  less  land.    The  time  to  fix  this  was  a  few    generations  ago,  when  a  father  
could  have  said,  “Sons,  I  do  not  have  enough  land.    You  all  cannot  be  farmers.  One  of  
you  will  get  the  land,  and  you  others,  I  am  sorry,  you  have  to  move  elsewhere  and  
make  your  fortunes.”    A  hard  decision  to  make,  of  course,  but  having  1/8  the  land  
you  need  to  succeed  as  a  farmer,  but  still  trying,  is  that  any  better?    
 
Solutions  are  so  easy  when  you  can  drop  in  on  your  SUV,  look  around,  and  drive  
away.  
 
The  bakery  is  a  brick  hemisphere  beside  a  house  surrounded  by  corn  fields.      
 
At  the  community  meeting,  we  heard  there  was  no  bakery,  and  an  enterprising  
group  of  three  youths  were  pooling  their  grants  to  create  a  bakery,  because  their  
father  knew  how  to  bake  bread.      
 
So  we  were  confused  when  we  walked  up  to  a  fully  functional  open  air  bakery,  
tended  to  by  the  mayor’s  daughter  and  wife,  as  well  as  by  someone  hired  to  actually  
bake  the  bread.    After  more  questioning,    we  learn  the  three  youths  are  going  to  
expand  the  bakery,  hiring  people  to  do  the  actual  baking,  and  their  job  will  be  to  sell  
the  bread  in  town.      These  guys  are  kind  of  slick,  wearing  gold  chains,  and  something  
about  the  way  they  acted  showed  they  were  worldly  by  local  standards.  They  had  
probably  migrated  for  work.    They  had  seen  things  beyond  the  hilltops.    
 
How  much  they  can  sell  the  bread  for,  and  how  much  it  would  cost  to  transport  the  
bread  the  multi-­‐hour  trip  to  town?      Answers  were  vague.    They  never  stopped  
smiling.    And  why  is  the  bakery  located  at  the  Mayor’s  house,  when  he  has  nothing  
to  do  with  the  bakery?    
 
Deceit,  or  misunderstanding?    Very  difficult  to  say.      
 
It  was  clear  was  that  Yerba  Buena,  unlike  Chelam,  could  make  effective  use  of  micro-­‐
enterprise,  even  if  it  meant  pooling  their  grants.    The  bread  they  were  baking  was  
sold  locally,  to  schools  and  residents.    Could  they  be  successful  selling  bread  in  
town?    Was  the  whole  thing  a  scam  to  grab  a  few  hundred  bucks?    Was  the  local  NGO  
trying  to  game  Trickle  UP?    Or  does  it  just  look  like  that  to  an  untrusting  Gringo  
whose  suspicions  are  raised  when  he  can’t  get  answers  to  what  seem  like  simple  
questions?      I  don’t  know.      Unsure  if  it  matters.      
 
 
The  Land  of  People  Who  Wear  Purple  Shirts  
 
For  about  an  hour  along  the  dirt  road  to  Ixquilams,    another  ethnic  Mam  community  
in  the  mountains,  you  notice  kids  doing  their  homework  on  the  sides  of  the  road,  
rushing  to  get  it  done  before  dark,  and  women  weaving  in  doorways,  always  with  
dark  purple  and  red  yarn.  Everyone  is  wearing  the  most  amazing  clothes  in  purple,  
blue,  and  red.  Several  communities  we  visited  sported  some  interesting  garb,  but  in  
Ixquilams,    men,  women,  and  children  were  dressed  unanimously  spectacular.      
 
When  we  arrive  at  the  community  meeting  hall,  everyone  is  in  the  most  amazing  
purple  and  red  shirts.  The  design  in  unique  and  beautiful,  with  high,  rounded  
collards  and  folded  cuffs.    All  the  men  are  wearing  straw  or  pine-­‐needle  hats,  and  
these  wonderfully  vibrant  shirts.    
 
We  sit  on  stage  and  listen  to  them  speak,  poetically,  with  smiles  and  bright  shining  
faces,  as  to  how  they  will  use  subsequent  Trickle  Up  grants  to  become  potato  and  
chicken  farmers.      There  is  a  wonderful  sense  of  community,  equality,  democracy,  as  
anyone  who  wants  to,  men  or  women,  stands  up  and  talks  about  their  problems.    
 
Noone  wants  to  be    weaver,  and  sell  wonderfully  unique  and  beautifully  made  shirts  
to  Gringos.    
 
In  the  land  of  purple  shirt  people,  the  last  thing  they  think  is  valuable  is  a  purple  
shirt.    
 
Conclusions  
 
By  now,  this  trip  is  several  months  old.    My  memories  are  no  less  bewildering  or  
confusing.      
 
If  I  were  researching  the  effectiveness  of  micro-­‐enterprise  on  the  rural  poor,  I  could  
easily  have  spent  weeks  or  more  at  each  of  the  sites  we  visited.    Even  then  I  would  
probably  understand  very  little.      
 
Fostering  entrepreneurship  and  micro-­‐enterprise,  and  the  Trickle  Up  program  in  
particular,  providing  grants,  training,  and  expertise  to  individual  families  is  carefully  
selected  communities,  can  have  huge  positive  impact.    In  at  least  some  cases  a  very  
small  grant  has    had  huge  benefits  to  a  whole  family,  and  a  larger  community.    
 
It’s  also  clear  that  some  recipients  are  lacking  in  some  qualities  or  support  
structures,  without  which  its  hard  to  see  how  Trickle  Up’s  program,  or  any  program,  
can  succeed.  Maybe  the  qualities  have  less  to  do  with  the  recipients  themselves  than  
with  the  relationships  between  Trickle  Up,  its  local  partners,  and  the  communities.    
Or  perhaps  it’s  simply  a  matter  of  patience.  In  the  last  three  communities,    Trickle  
Up  was  just  getting  started.  
 
Trickle  Up,  from  their  website,  “works  to  provide  the  poorest  of  the  poor  their  first  
steps  out  of  poverty  through  microenterprise  development.”    It’s  a  worthy  goal,  and  
its  well  stated,  but  its  not  entirely  accurate.    I  question  that  the  poorest  of  the  poor  
might  not  be  the  most  successful  recipients  of  Trickle  Up  aid.    Trickle  Up  already  has  
a  set  of  criteria  to  exclude  some  really,  really  poor  people  who  are  unlikely  to  
succeed  in  the  Trickle  Up  program.      They  don’t  work  in  really  dangerous  places.  
They  don’t  work  in  refugee  camps.    I  think  Trickle  Up  will  figure  out  they  can’t  work  
in  some  other  places  too,  based  on  some  as  yet  undefined  criteria.      I  think  Trickle  
Up  will  decide  that  the  $100/person  grant  structure  does  not  work  for  all  groups  
that  they  want  to  work  with,  and  change  that  too.      
 
Trickle  Up  realizes  this.  I  think  they  will  figure  it  out.