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In 2011, drought hit Somalia hard, triggering a famine that ultimately killed some 260,000 people. Now, after a poor rainy season, the Food and Agriculture Organization is warning that the country could be on the brink of another famine.

To find out more about the current situation in East Africa, we spoke with Degan Ali, the Somali-American executive director of Adeso (African Development Solutions), a Nairobi-based humanitarian and development organization focusing on aid, education — particularly among nomadic populations — and community-based economic growth. Formerly known as Horn Relief, the organization was founded in the early 1990s by Ali's mother, Fatima Jibrell, in response to their homeland's devastating civil war.

Adeso works in Kenya, Somalia and South Sudan. Ali spoke with Goats and Soda earlier this month.

Let's talk about your homeland, Somalia. It's been three years since the devastating famine that struck in 2011. How are things now?

Somalia is just getting out of its second famine in recent years, the first one being in the early '90s. We still have a situation where there are millions of people in south Somalia and parts of the north who are food-insecure. There are still more than a million internally displaced people. So the message to the international community would be that yes, things did improve and we left famine conditions in 2013, but we still have an unacceptable number of people who are hungry and food-insecure. We need to start addressing some of the root causes of these problems.

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Children from southern Somalia lined up for cooked food at a distribution center in Mogadishu in 2011. Farah Abdi Warsameh/AP hide caption

itoggle caption Farah Abdi Warsameh/AP

Children from southern Somalia lined up for cooked food at a distribution center in Mogadishu in 2011.

Farah Abdi Warsameh/AP

What are some of those root causes?

In the north, it's cycles of drought and hunger that are linked to environmental degradation. Poor range land management and poor natural resource planning — because there was no government for 20 years — as well as larger issues like climate change are expanding the deserts in Africa and all over the world.

It was [my mother's] idea to start putting in these very low-tech physical structures — basically, strategically placed rocks — to harvest rainwater and move it in a way that it spreads out and regenerates the grasslands. We've had so much success with these rock dams since 2001 that the European Commission came to us a few years ago and said they wanted to work with us to scale it up. So now we're implementing a 14 million-euro program on that kind of physical rehabilitation of the range land.

What lessons do you think the international community could learn from Somalia's 2011 famine?

In Somalia, 260,000 people died in the famine, over a billion dollars was spent trying to save them, and now we still have more than 300,000 people living in refugee camps in Dadaab that we are spending money on every single day. If we had only spent half of that money on predictable cash transfers, a safety net program could have supported the same households, in their homes and villages, in the breadbasket of Somalia. That kind of social protection — predictable cash transfers — is very simple, but it requires a new way of thinking.

You think aid organizations should simply give people cash?

Yes, we believe that if the bottom 5 to 10 percent of society in Somalia had more predictable resources, they could make longer-term decisions that would rebuild their asset base and make them more resilient.

For example, say you're a Somali woman, a farmer, experiencing the drought of 2011. And you know that you can get $30 a month for two years for staying in your home. Or you could trek hundreds of miles, risking your children's lives, to try to reach a refugee camp that you think might exist somewhere out there. What would you do? Of course you would hunker down and try to get through the drought, surviving on your predictable $30 a month transfer.

Goats and Soda

Dust Bowls Aren't Just An 'Interstellar' Thing

But right now, aid interventions are very unpredictable, so people are not making good decisions. So what we're saying is, let's move from the unpredictable transfers and make them more regular, to build resilience in vulnerable populations.

What's wrong with just sending food to hungry people?

In many cases, it's not an issue of food availability. It's an issue of purchasing power and keeping the local economy going. And it's an issue of empowerment. That word gets used a lot by people who still want to maintain control and tell aid recipients what they need. But what it should ultimately mean is that the person who receives the aid is given as much dignity and control as possible.

But many of us face this dilemma when we see a needy person on the street. If we give them money, how do we know they'll really use it for food?

If you were in the same situation, wouldn't you want people to feel that you are a responsible person? And all the evidence suggests that most of the recipients of these cash transfers make very responsible decisions. All the monitoring and evaluation data indicates that people use the money to purchase not only needed goods and services, but also to pay off debts — which is really interesting. That means they value their social capital and are thinking about the long term, not just their immediate needs. The debt is for meeting immediate needs, which is the normal cycle for pastoralists: They purchase goods during the dry season for food and water on credit, but then they need to pay it back during the rainy season.

I noticed on your Twitter profile that you describe yourself as a "social justice activist, Muslima." How are those connected?

I think my religion heavily informs both my values and the work that I do. In Islam, there is a core principle of mandatory charitable giving called zakat. I think in English you call it tithing. Every single Muslim has to give 2.5 percent of his or her wealth — if they're not using it — to support orphans, hungry and needy people.

Wow, 2.5 percent. If all of us did that...

Exactly. There would be no hunger.

development

Africa

One look at the Brazilian flag and you think: This must be a space-age, high-tech country. That star-spackled orb in the middle glowing like a planetarium. The banner wrapped around it hailing "Order and Progress." Engineers must be rock stars there, right?

Unfortunately, no. And that's a big reason Brazil and much of the rest of Latin America are headed into a steep economic slump these days. The region's stubbornly low-tech ethos has come back to haunt it – and unless it purges that ghost, and fast, it may miss out on real development in the 21st century the way it did in the 20th.

Ronald Wieselberg knows that all too well. The Rio de Janeiro-born engineer is vice president for business development at Safety Pay, a tech company in Miami Beach that facilitates online transactions with and within Latin America.

Wieselberg still cares about Brazil, which is why he helps run a scholarship fund his engineer father recently set up back in Rio. Called JS3, it helps Brazilian students pursue mostly STEM-related fields – science, technology, engineering and math – that are chronically neglected in Brazil and throughout Latin America.

"We want people to study these things in Brazil," says Wieselberg, "and not just rely on the United States."

That sort of educational philanthropy is rare in Latin America — and the region needs it now more than ever. Brazil's economy, the region's largest, slid into recession this year, and Latin America's decade-long economic boom has suddenly turned south.

The main culprit: global prices for commodities like Brazilian soybeans and Venezuelan oil have collapsed like sand castles on Copacabana Beach.

"Brazil has taken a free ride on this commodity boom," says Wieselberg. "And that made Brazilians, especially the government, very complacent."

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Brazilian technicians assemble an aircraft at an Embraer plant, in Sao Jose dos Campos, north of Sao Paulo, Brazil, in 2007. Embraer is a relatively rare example of a high-tech industry in Latin America that has built an international reputation. Mauricio Lima/AFP/Getty Images hide caption

itoggle caption Mauricio Lima/AFP/Getty Images

Brazilian technicians assemble an aircraft at an Embraer plant, in Sao Jose dos Campos, north of Sao Paulo, Brazil, in 2007. Embraer is a relatively rare example of a high-tech industry in Latin America that has built an international reputation.

Mauricio Lima/AFP/Getty Images

A Dependence On Commodities

But if Brazil and Latin America want to reach the next level of development, they have no choice now but to wake up and ditch their dependence on raw commodities exports. From Mexico to Argentina, they have to start building more high-tech, value-added industry – like Brazilian jet-maker Embraer, which is a rare example.

Sounding that alarm has become something of a movement these days. Miami Herald columnist Andres Oppenheimer just published a book whose title is a not-so-subtle warning for the region: Crear o Morir! or Innovate or Die!

On the opening page, Oppenheimer asks why Latin America has yet to produce a tech visionary like the late Apple computer founder Steve Jobs. It's an especially apt question when you consider that a new, tech-hip generation of Latin Americans seems ripe for that mission.

"[Go to] any technology fair in Brazil and you see tons and tons of start-ups by 20-year-olds," says Wieselberg. "That has been a real game-changer in terms of how people [there] perceive themselves as enterpreneurs."

Problem is, the game has yet to change inside Latin America's power corridors, says Gabriel Snchez Zinny, an Argentine who heads the education consulting firm Kuepa.com in Washington, D.C.

"I don't even think the conversation today in Latin America among political leaders and business leaders includes, 'How can we increase or improve competitiveness?'" says Snchez, who is author of a new book addressing the region's tech deficiency, Educacin 3.0.

Paltry Patents

How far behind is Latin America? Consider this: Asia accounts for a full third of the world's research and development today. Latin America accounts for less than 3 percent.

So it's not surprising that South Korea alone submits 10 times more patents for new inventions than Latin America does as a whole.

"Latin American schools are not producing workers and professionals who can be successful in a knowledge-based economy," says Snchez. "It's about making human capital the center of development in Latin America for a change."

The region is finally starting to come around to that education imperative. The Brazilian government a few years ago launched "Science Without Borders," a program that hopes to send more than 100,000 students to universities in the developed world for STEM training.

Many of them are going to Florida. The University of Florida in Gainesville, in fact, has hosted almost 300 of those Brazilians, more than any other U.S. school.

Among them is Lara Nesralla, an engineering undergraduate, who says a big challenge is changing her country's attitude about what she does.

"If you're a lawyer or a doctor, people respect you," says Nesralla. "But if you are an engineer in Brazil or a research scientist, you're not so respected." Especially, she adds, if you're a woman.

Mexico recently started a program similar to Science Without Borders, and the number of Latin American students doing STEM studies in the U.S. is on the rise. What's more, they plan to return home for a change. Latin America could finally see brain gain instead of brain drain.

That, says Ernane Vieira Neto, a Brazilian Ph.D. student in ecology at the University of Florida, should create a virtuous cycle: "It will stimulate other people [in Latin America] to follow their steps and improve our science programs."

Tim Padgett is the Americas editor for WLRN in Miami. You can read more of his coverage here.

Latin America

Police in Hong Kong fired pepper spray and arrested scores of protesters overnight Tuesday into Wednesday as they cleared part of a pro-democracy protest camp, NPR's Frank Langfitt reports.

The Associated Press put the total number arrested at more than 116, including Joshua Wong and Lester Shum, highly visible student-leaders of the protesters.

Parallels

After 2 Months, Hong Kong Residents Want Protesters To Head Home

Hong Kong Protesters Make Solemn Retreat As Authorities Move In

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The camp being cleared was blocking a road in the Mongkok section of the city, a working-class neighborhood, The Associated Press reported, and local media said more than 4,000 officers were employed in the court-ordered removal, which had been requested by the city's taxi drivers.

The main protest camp in the city's downtown still holds more than 2,000 tents, Frank reports, despite the recent removal of a section of the camp that was in front of a major office building.

After two months and with little change, many protesters now agree with the majority of Hong Kong's citizens that the demonstrations should end, Frank reports, but a vocal minority is pushing the movement on.

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Protesters pack their belongings Wednesday ahead of an expected clearance by bailiffs and police at a pro-democracy protest site in the Mongkok district of Hong Kong. Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images hide caption

itoggle caption Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images

Protesters pack their belongings Wednesday ahead of an expected clearance by bailiffs and police at a pro-democracy protest site in the Mongkok district of Hong Kong.

Philippe Lopez/AFP/Getty Images

When a man drives by the strip at Lumley Beach in downtown Freetown at night, he'll probably hear a sharp hiss. That's not an unusual sound in Sierra Leone. People hiss instead of whistling — to get your attention, to call for the bill at a restaurant, to buy a bottle of water on the street.

But the hissing along a stretch of beachfront road at Lumley Beach has a different purpose. It's the sound prostitutes make, and they've perfected the hiss. That's why they're called serpents.

Transactional sex isn't unusual in Sierra Leone. Economic opportunities are slim and slimmer. I wanted to find out how these sex workers were faring in a country where Ebola is still surging.

I was nervous as my friend and fixer Umaru Fofana and I walked down from our hotel around 11 at night last week, fearing that the women or the men who stand nearby as pimps or protectors would be hostile.

Fofana is probably the most prominent journalist in the country. He publishes a twice-a-week newspaper called Politico, and files for the BBC and others. He knows this place like nobody else. All day long, as we run into cops or gas station attendants or politicians or nurses or poor folk in the street, they smile and greet him, "Fofana!"

Fofana was uncertain whether the hookers would talk with us. As we approached, a couple summoned us with hisses and come-ons. They flocked to us, wondering if we wanted sex.

I explained that we are journalists, we didn't want to pay for sex and couldn't offer handouts. I told them I wanted to hear their stories. They wondered if my little Marantz audio recorder shot video. No.

They hedged. At first, some wouldn't admit that they were prostitutes at all. They were friendly, but they didn't understand why I'd want to know what they thought.

Ebola is bad, agreed two of them, dressed in tight black tops and colored miniskirts. Ebola is real. Times are harder than ever.

"This Ebola thing is really causing big problems in this country," one woman told me. She had been a waitress and made money doing cleaning jobs up until spring, but those jobs dried up. She turned to the streets. She said more "girls" were out on the street now than before the outbreak.

Customers are hard to find, a slightly chubby 20-something in a low-cut red tank top told me, because the men fear catching Ebola from the prostitutes. HIV is a problem, yes, but not supercommon in Freetown. The girls know to use condoms, she said. She walked down the street to open up her mom's snack shop and came back with a couple of tall Carlson beers.

A gaggle of women and men argued loudly a few feet away. One skinny middle-aged woman kept insisting Ebola was bad, and could I help her with $20, and she doesn't like prostitution. We moved along 20 feet.

Two women leaning against a white sedan just down the beach looked up. Dolled up and gorgeous. "How you doing, baby?" one cooed. I told her about the journalism thing, and she looked bummed but started to chat. She said her name is Fatima. With clanking big bracelets and pink hot pants, she seemed uncomfortable talking about Ebola at first but started to open up. She was upset that the men aren't around as much because they fear Ebola. She agreed business is way down: "Life is not easy for us because of this Ebola."

She told me that some men are offering "small money" — knowing how tight things are, they're looking to take advantage of the situation. Earlier in the day, she said, a couple of Lebanese guys wanted sex for 35,000 leones each. The exchange rate is about 5,000 leones to the dollar. That's $7. Fatima refused.

She's concerned about catching Ebola. "What do you do to protect yourself against that?" I asked.

"When I go home, we wash. We drop chlorine in the water, and then we wash before we go to bed." She uses condoms for protection for pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, and she hopes the condoms will stop Ebola, too.

None of this, of course, will protect her if she sleeps with an Ebola-infected person. I think she knows this. Her friend, a hairdresser by day, said they can spot a sick person and avoid him. "I dunno," she said. Maybe people who are ill would feel too crappy to want sex.

Fatima said she has a lot of problems to solve, or she wouldn't be on the street. "I have to take care of my baby. My family is poor right now. My mother depends on me." Fatima has a 5-month-old daughter; her mom takes care of the baby. Fatima is the only one in the house with any income.

Some days, no one will hire her. In that case, she said, she goes home and prays, "Maybe next day, God will provide a customer."

Another streetwalker, Zaina, followed us as we headed back to the hotel. I explained what we were doing and asked if she'd talk with us about working the strip. She was so kind — disappointed that we weren't prospects, but, like pretty much everybody I've met in this country, smiling and generous with her time.

The normal price for sex before the outbreak would have been 90,000 leones for a black man — and for a white man, from 150,000 to 200,000 for a "short time," she said. Now, Zaina expects to get only 50,000 for sex with a black man and 100,000 from a white. That's $10 to $20 per trick.

According to the U.S. Department of State, 70 percent of Sierra Leoneans live on less than $1 a day. So I guess this is good money? Hard to fathom.

I asked Zaina if she could show me how the hiss thing works — for my recorder. She was confused. "The thing you do to call guys over — the hissing sound — what do you call that?"

We call it, "call men," she said.

"Can you show me?"

"Hisssssssss!" Flashing a smile, she turned toward the beach, "I'm going."

Back to work.

Sierra Leone

ebola

prostitution