Sylvia's Journal

The strategic planning process wasn’t entirely finished when my part of the contract had been completed. It’s hard to estimate how long something will take, as being stuck in the mud can take 15 minutes or two hours. And then there was the bi-continental arrangement and the technology challenges. On my departure day I was kept busy until the last minute to keep the process moving, but even so we weren’t done. The board and staff had some weighty things to discuss.

I did the fastest handover ever of the methodology I used the last two days to one of the board members who had the most intuitive understanding of what I was trying to do and had been my ally throughout. I had no doubt that she would bring the process to a satisfying closure.

Then it was times for a round of hugs and off to the airport with one of the drivers. I had interviewed him on my first day about his vision for the organization and the obstacles he saw to that vision. He was very articulate and had an intuitive grasp of organizational dynamics. Yet he was the driver and had not completed high school. I urged him to get his secondary school diploma and maybe even pursue a management degree. 

On the ride to the airport I learned that he and his wife had made a CD. They sing together. I had heard Zambian singing earlier on the radio and it reminded me of the four part harmony songs during long road trips in South Africa, eons ago. I bought two CDs, one for the board chair who had put so much faith in me after our initial interview when he hired me (although he admitted to being lost a few times during the retreat), and one for myself.

I asked the driver where he had gone to school. He was ‘from the village,’ as so many Africans would say, which meant he had gone to a rural government school. Schools in many African countries often have two shifts due to infrastructure limitations and teacher shortages. In Zambia the early morning shift started at 7AM.  I asked him what shift he was in (morning) and how far the school was. It was a 10 km walk. He had to get up at 5AM and then walk for several hours. During the rainy season he’d hunch over his books in a plastic bag to keep them dry – he would arrive soaking wet at school. Some kids lived in rented rooms near the school but his parents were too poor.

I thought about how easy my school years had been in comparison. In the first couple of grades I would take the bus and, after I had earned my traffic diploma, by bike. I would get soaking wet too but we had radiators where we could hang our wet sweaters and pants (girls were not allowed to wear pants except under a dress, so we could take them off and still be decent).It was humbling to think about how easy everything has been for me and what enormous sacrifices the majority of the world’s kids (and their parents) make to do the things we take for granted. I counted my blessings as I started my long way home.

After two very intense days I am humming John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet plane as my bag is (being) packed. It is early morning and the first rains have come. Raindrops stampede onto the corrugated metal roof. It took me a while to realize it was rain. Rain in Africa sounds so very much different than rain in Manchester by the sea. It sounds more violent, like a horde of people pounding on a big metal gate to be let in.

The two-day bi-continental strategic planning meeting is over. It was quite a rollercoaster ride. I have never used the ICA methodology bi-continentally with one team sitting in rooms in Lusaka and one team in Harpswell Maine. On the floor in our Zambia room there was a mess of cables and cords, speakers and computers and black boxes. Harpswell looked a little more organized but of course we couldn’t see the floor. They were sitting snugly, windows frosted, cold drizzle outside, cradling their cups of coffee to wake them up at 6:30AM their time while we were sweating it out in un- or poorly air-conditioned rooms at 1:30 after lunch. I don’t think I can imagine a bigger contrast.

On day one it took us an entire hour to get the connection right. On day two we did better although often either audio or video disappeared for a while.  Add to this that I was using a methodology with a group of people used to deductive planning, and needing a physical wall on which to put pieces of paper with ideas, then engaging with the group to move pieces of paper around as the participants discus the meaning and placement of all these pieces of paper. As we did our final reflection round at the end, with a marker as a talking stick, many people commented that there were times that they felt lost.  This is where my white hair helps – if I had been young I am sure they would have started to tinker with my process, or een take over.

Although I never felt lost, I knew what we were doing and where we would end up, I wasn’t altogether sure I could pull it off in the allotted time and given the bi-continental constraints. There were many times that we got stuck in the mud – I know there are always mudflats when you do strategic planning (usually people are surprised by those). It’s a discovery journey in my book which means there are rivers to cross, raging currents to bridge and oh so many places where you get may get stuck in the mud, or simply stuck. These muddy places are usually where the members of the organization are not aligned on something. In a traditional (deductive) strategic planning process where you start with the very abstract, mud places are camouflaged because of the vague general language people use. Later after the plan is finished and implementation starts they get tripped up when the different understandings of the vague language surface. In my view such a process does little to create energy and confidence among the staff lower on the ladder, especially when you have a dynamic of wise old elders (the older American board members) and young(er) local (Zambian in this case) staff.

I have once again surpassed the number of days that I contracted for, I was contracted for only Monday and Tuesday, even hough the retreat was planned for four days. There were limits to the time I could be engaged for. Since my flight is late on Wednesday (day three), and we didn’t get everything we wanted done, it was no surprise that I was asked to facilitate continued conversations until the time of departure for the airport.

This is the second time I have contracted for less than I am used for – I am resolving this, once again, by donating the surplus, if possible, as a tax-deductible contribution to this organization, health kids/brighter future. I do that happily as it is an extraordinary young organization with a passionate staff and passionate board, and no egos anywhere in sight. So very refreshing! Although my contract was a one off arrangement, I hope I will have more contact in the future. Now getting ready for the very long ride home.

It was my first trip to Africa in half a year, a hiatus I had not had for decades. I forgot things, not stuff, but information. After two long plane rides I arrived at 10PM in Kenya. I had booked a guesthouse room that was , supposedly, near the airport (Airport Homestay), for 36 dollars. I figured it was pointless to spend a lot of money on a fancy hotel room at the airport for a very short night as my plane to Lusaka required my presence at the airport the next day at 5AM.

The driver wasn’t there with the sign with my name, as agreed in my communication with the guesthouse. A friendly taxi driver called the guesthouse on his phone and was told the driver was there. The taxi driver hovered around me, concerned but also hoping he get the ride. Another, this time female taxi driver approached me as well, to help. I was by now one of the few people standing in front of the arrival hall and it was now past 11. Finally, the driver was spotted with a crumpled sign that had my name (defensively and cryptically saying that he had been there all along but had stepped away). I shook hands with the helpful taxi driver who must have been disappointed. In hindsight it would have been hard to find the place as it was hidden away from the highway in a gated apartment complex. I don’t think we would have found it.

My 36 dollar room was a bedroom (with bathroom) in a regular house tucked inside a fence tucked inside a gated apartment complex. Not quite as close to the airport but to no too far either, a 20 minute ride. I was welcomed by Lilian in her tiny living room. She pointed me to the bedroom right next to it. It contained a bed, a mosquito net, towels and bottles of water. Everything I needed and nothing more. I fell into a comatose sleep, instantly.

The next morning everything was dark. I called out in the hallway to Lilian but no peep. I opened the door and was faced with a fence that was locked. There was no guard and Lillian was clearly fast asleep. How was I going to get out with my luggage? I looked at the possibility of climbing over the fence with its sharp points – no way. I banged on the large metal gate until I recognized the voice of my driver. He had been there at the appointed time but had no key to open the fence – I had been tired when I arrived to consider this possibility of locked behind a gate. I did not have a working phone (a big handicap) but the driver had, and he woke Lillian up. She came down the stairs sleepily and full of apologies. The gate was opened and we made it to the airport in a short time. Everything went smoothly from then on. A few hours later I landed in Lusaka. 

The smooth ride continued. Going through immigration was a synch – no long lines, no forms to fill in, no finger printing or photo taking, just 50 dollars. And then the thought occurred to me what if there was no one to pick me up – as I know these things happen fairly frequently.  I didn’t have the phone number of the driver, and I didn’t even know the name of the guesthouse, the latter more problematic.  It was Sunday and I didn’t even have the address of the organization’s office.

Indeed, the driver didn’t show up. I found myself at a loss, and really stupid that I hadn’t written down the name of the guesthouse. The airport in Lusaka doesn’t have internet, so an email or Skype chat was out of the question. What now?

I had noticed a woman with a Dutch passport standing behind me in the immigration line. I asked her about the taxi fare into town and then she offered to give me ride to where I was staying. Her driver was helpful and eventually helped me find the phone number of a friend of a friend who had worked at Save the Children where one of the senior staff of my client organization used to work. He took me to the mall where I might be able to find a café with internet connection so I could try other options.And so we were sitting at the Mug & Bean at a Mall, sipping my Capuccino when the Board Chair and the organization’s president found me – it had been two hours since I arrived, no longer lost in Lusaka. Thank God for small cities and a well connected middle class that works in the health field. I learned my lesson: get the driver’s phone number (he had mixed up AM and PM), and the name of your lodgings. I am clearly out of the habit of traveling in Africa.