Slum micro-financing venture goes sour

‘I will pay you back...one day.’

That was Wan, the slum grandmother to whom I loaned thousands of baht so she could kick-start her noodle business.

Her first repayment date had come and gone, and she was as skint as the first day I met her, when I peered into her slum home from the alleyway and despaired of the plight of its inhabitants.

Wan raises three children, two of them under 10. They are the offspring, one each, of her three adult children, all of whom have new partners. They decided they no longer wanted the children they bore from previous relationships, so dumped the kids with Wan.

Wan has raised them all since they were babies, and with the exception of the middle child, hardly ever sees their parents.

When I met Wan a couple of months ago, the eldest child, Jean, was expecting a child by her jobless boyfriend, who spends most of his days rattling around Wan’s slum home.

’I have no money to help her raise the child,’ Wan complained miserably.

‘Her boyfriend’s parents give me some money, but it’s not enough.’

I asked how she made a living, if no one at her place was working.

'I sell cordial drinks from my home, which fronts into the alleyway and serves as a small shop. I used to sell noodles, which did well, but lack the capital I need to start it up again.’

If she was able to start selling noodles again, I thought, she could bring in a regular income, and everyone in her shabby household would benefit.

Wan’s neighbours – a rough lot who spend their days gambling and gossiping – noticed I liked talking to Wan, and decided I was interested in her romantically.

‘Here comes your boyfriend,’ they would call as they saw me approach her place.

Wan probably thought the same thing, which might explain why she took such a casual attitude to repaying my loan.

I decided to lend Wan some money to get her noodle venture up and running again. We agreed terms: she would repay me B1,000 a month, starting this month, until the debt was discharged.

Before handing over the money, I sounded out the neighbours, including a Thai woman who lives with a farang nearby. She knew Wan, though not well.

I also asked a friend in her 30s, just down the alleyway, who has a small family of her own.

Pin, who is married to a husband who works, supplements the household income by selling fried chicken and sausages to passing slum traffic.

She was reluctant to say too much, but suggested I would be better helping them with small amounts of money first.

‘I feel sorriest for the kids,’ she said.

Pin lives just 50m down the same slum alleyway, but unlike the malingerers at the top end of the slum where Wan lives, is prepared to work to make a living.

When I told her several days later that I had lent Wan money, she was shocked.

‘I don’t fancy your chances of getting it back,’ she said bluntly.

A month later, I realise she was right.

I passed Wan’s place almost daily for weeks, but rarely saw her selling noodles.

One day, I saw her gambling with friends, and pulled her out of the gambling ring to demand an explanation.

‘I didn’t lend you that money so you could gamble it away!’ I said.

She walked away angrily. ‘Are you mad? I have put every baht aside for my family,’ she said.

A week later, in another bad sign, she admitted she had spent B2,000 of the money not on capital for her noodle venture, but on paying outstanding rent.

Three weeks ago, I walked past her place one morning to find two men from the water company outside. They were unscrewing her water mains, to cut off supply to the house.

Wan was not at home, but a tatty-haired friend in her 50s pleaded with them not to cut off her water.

‘I will vouch for her...you can’t leave them without water, a baby is inside!’ she exclaimed.

The water company workers carried on with their task as if they didn’t hear her. When I spoke to Wan a few hours later, she still had no water supply, and was trying to raise from friends the B2,000 she needed to get her mains reconnected.

‘Why didn’t you pay them for me?’ she asked.

‘You’ve blown your chance. You owe me money, but by the looks of it I won’t get any of it back,’ I said miserably.

For days, I cursed myself for having been so stupid as to lend money to someone I didn’t know. She was not willing to help herself, even when given the chance to make a new start. Day after day, I would walk past her place to find her smoking or gossiping with her slum friends.

On good days, I might find her helping Jean care of her baby, who was born about three weeks ago.

Jean and the boys greet me as if I am a family friend. That helps me feel better, but lingering over everything was an unpleasant suspicion that I had been deceived.

Last week, I pulled Wan away from her slum friends to ask her why she didn’t put more effort into restarting her business.

‘I go jogging across the way every day, and can see your place from where I run,' I told her.

'I saw you open your place to sell noodles half a dozen times at the most. Most days, you are closed, and rarely open before midday.

'If you are serious about selling noodles to make a living, you have to get up early, not sit around all day. What are you thinking?’ I asked her bluntly.

Wan looked unperturbed.

‘’Every time I sell noodles, I lose money. Since developers bought the land next to the slum, and put up a wall around it, foot traffic has died.

‘No one enters the slum anymore, so the only customers I can rely on are the people who live here,’ she said.

’But I will pay you back,’ she said hopefully.

A week has passed since her first repayment day. I no longer hold out hope of getting back my money. Wan and her family are thinking of moving to a cheaper place outside the slum, along the main main road where I am unlikely to see much of them.

Trucks roar past all day, which will make their living conditions unpleasant, but I can't help thinking that she is getting what she deserves.

I have not told boyfriend Maiyuu about my forlorn venture into slum micro-financing, as I do not want to be scolded for free.

My friend Pim, to whom I have drawn closer thanks to this loan saga, is helping me come to terms with my financial loss.

‘Regard it as making merit. You performed a good deed, because you wanted to help people in need. That’s enough.

‘Next time, however, you might want to think more carefully about which causes you choose to support,’ she said tactfully.