It’s a bluebird day, high in the Himalaya, sometime in the late ’90s. The air is bracing, but the morning sun is warm on my skin. The North Ridge of Mt. Everest glistens on the skyline, and there is a village in the distance so perfectly placed that it seems an essential part of the landscape. Everything’s beautiful, and my friend Bill and I are standing in the sand outside our Land Cruiser, yelling at each other.

Bill was the founder of an organization with a cool idea about how people in these high mountains could thrive on their own terms in the face of modernity. We’d spent the better part of three weeks roaming the region. I’d gotten to know—and admire—the senior team members, and I’d seen their work in a bunch of different villages. We’d hiked behind yaks into stunning hidden valleys, downed endless cups of butter tea, and talked into the night with grizzled village elders. We’d come upon a snow leopard kill at the base of a mile-high mountain wall and stood in awe looking at ancient murals in remote monasteries. It was one of the best trips of my life.

On the last day, we stopped to bask in the light and scenery. I was stoked, and Bill knew it. He turned to me and asked: “So what do you think? Are you going to fund us?”

Taken aback, I sputtered. “I dunno, Bill, I haven’t seen any numbers yet.”

Things went downhill from there. I had the qualitative stuff. I understood the work and context. I’d heard the stories, and I’d met many of the protagonists. Now I needed to fill out my understanding with the quantitative stuff, with all the numbers that communicate the quality of implementation and what changed as a result of their activities. Bill was more than a little annoyed. After all, I’d been privileged to see and do, why didn’t I believe him? Didn’t I trust him?

Well, sure. I understood the work and believed it had great potential, but the project was already a few years in, and it seemed like Bill should have some implementation and impact numbers—first and foremost for himself and his organization. Bill didn’t take well to hearing this from some guy who’d never built anything himself, and he didn’t hold back. I didn’t either, and so there went a perfectly good bluebird day.

Things didn’t get better in subsequent conversations. It was back at the dawn of “venture philanthropy,” there was a wave of new funders whose reach exceeded their grasp, and perhaps doers were more irritable about funders than usual. Eventually, Bill got so pissed off that he sent a letter to my board “terminating the funding relationship.” I was mortified. The board was mostly puzzled.

The whole thing sounds kind of silly now, but at the time it was quite painful. Bill remains, to this day one of the most creative and accomplished people I’ve known (and of course that’s not his real name). This wasn’t our first trip together, and he’d become a friend and a mentor of sorts. I take friendships seriously and felt it keenly when it all went to hell.

We eventually patched things up—we even funded him, in the end—but my obsession with metrics (and Mulago’s) has its roots in this squabble, and in what it revealed. For me, one of the most important roles that metrics— numbers—can play is to nurture and maintain solid and satisfying relationships. There’s nobody I like and admire more than those who’ve taken on the work of making the world a better place. It’s a joy to spend time with them, and I’ve always hated the idea that my role as a funder precludes friendships with those we fund (or don’t, for that matter). But here’s the thing: A healthy friendship requires a shared reality, and in the case of social entrepreneurs, that means a shared reality in terms of the work, and that requires both qualitative and quantitative knowledge. You need to see the work, understand the ideas, and hear the stories, but the achievement of a shared reality requires metrics that capture delivery and impact.

Read the full article about trust-based philanthropy by Kevin Starr at The Conversation.