Job transitions are weird and somewhat stressful times for people no matter what kind of work they do, but I’m beginning to think that global humanitarian and development professionals may have it worse than most. On top of the usual uncertainty and stress of changing jobs, the results of our interviews may mean that we may end up in any one of several different countries, even different regions of the world. Take me for example. In the next couple of months, I’ll be transitioning out my current job and into another. I’ve got five active applications out there for jobs based in the following locations: Lusaka, Zambia; Colombo, Sri Lanka; Islamabad, Pakistan; Washington D.C., USA; and Nicosia, Cyprus. Maybe if Antarctica were an option, I would have a more diverse array of location options.

The work in each location is, of course, varied, but it’s the diversity of locations that has my family and me a bit unhinged. Having a bit of uncertainly around what exactly I’ll be doing is not a big deal – it’s all related and within the range of my professional competency. But, I’ve got a wife and two young children, and the uncertainty around how we will live for the next three years looms rather large. So many variables in play: language, food, culture, security, weather, topography, availability of international schools, even simple details like the ability to drink wine or hold my wife’s hand in public. Changing jobs in this sector is not just about changing what you do for a living, but changing the way you and your family live.

Thankfully, we’ve done all this before, and it seems to get easier each time. My wife and I have happily stuck together through five moves in four countries and we’ve watched our kids with amazement as they’ve adjusted, made new friends, learned new languages, ate new foods. I feel like we’re raising adaptable and resilient global citizens. Of course, there are drawbacks too of raising ‘third culture kids’ – there is sadness in pulling them away from their friends, fear that they will be rootless and restless, guilt for not providing a stable sense of place and belonging, remorse for keeping them so far from their grandparents, cousins and other relatives. And all of this adds to the tension of the job transition.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just indulging in a misplaced sense of exceptionalism. I don’t want to play the martyr or invoke tiny finger violins playing satirical dirges on our behalf, but come on; this is atypical of most job transitions, right?

Many of my blog posts share lessons learned, teach knowledge gained, or otherwise contain advice. I think I’ll break from that pattern and turn this over to you, my small and patient readership. What advice would you share about making international job transitions or about raising global nomads?

(btw, a quick shout out to The Displaced Nation, a site that creatively explores many issues related to being displaced as an expat, repat, or TCK)

A Swiss man, looking for directions, pulls up at a bus stop where two Americans are waiting. “Entshuldigung, können Sie Deutsch sprechen?” he asks. The two Americans just stare at him. “Excusez-moi, parlez vous Francais?” he tries. The two continue to stare. “Parlare Italiano?” No response. “¿Hablan ustedes Español?” Still nothing. The Swiss guy drives off, extremely disgusted. The first American turns to the second and says, “Y’know, maybe we should learn a foreign language.” “Why,” says the other, “That guy knew four languages, and it didn’t do him any good.”

The butt end of a Joke

I’m writing this in rural Mali, where I’ve been working and traveling the past two weeks. I tried making my way up to Timbuktu after the work was finished, but there’s a bunch of mercenaries who’ve been run out of Libya up there with guns and money. I’ve been advised not to go with the reasoning being that a) they were on the wrong side of an American supported revolution and I’m American, and b) when the money runs out, they may start looking for new sources – i.e. kidnapping foreigners like me. (see update note #1)

Dogon Houses in Mali

Still, I’ve been able to see some amazing places (Dogon Country, Djenne, etc.) and to meet great people. But, I am acutely aware of being a foreigner here. Not only because there aren’t many white people here at the moment, but also because I don’t speak any of the main locally-spoken languages, including the colonial one: French. I speak just enough of this to greet people and then tell them in French that I don’t actually speak it. They think this is pretty funny. If they happen to speak a bit of English, I tell them this joke:

• What do you call someone who can speak three languages?
• They say, “I don’t know”
• A trilinguist.

(If they don’t speak English very well, we stumble around this for a few minutes until they understand what I’m saying and then, after a while, realize that it’s not the punch line and swallow their fake nervous laugh.)

• What do you call someone who can speak two languages?
• They get this one right: “a bilinguist?”
• Yes, and what do you call someone who can speak just one language?
• “…um, I don’t know.”
• An American!

Pause…wait for it…riotous laughter! Backslapping, broken ice, best friends, and free beer! A good joke can go a long way, especially when you’re essentially the butt of it.

My travel schedule for work this year has put me into over a dozen countries on six continents. If it weren’t for the amazing English language skills of local people, my work would pretty much be dead in the water in most of these places. My multilingual colleagues and translators allow me to utilize my skills in places where I would otherwise be unable to ask for a glass of water or place to poop.

Whereas in many places in the world, children grow up speaking 2-3 languages out of the starting blocks, I didn’t begin to learn a second language until high school. I learned German – und Ich habe fast alles vergessen – which came in handy as an exchange student, but for lack of use has all but disappeared from my linguistic tool box. I took up Spanish as an undergraduate, which proved more useful when courting my Bolivian girlfriend (now wife), although there were plenty of mistakes along the way, like forgetting that “to like” is a reflexive verb. The first time I tried to express how I was feeling, I ended up announcing to her great annoyance, “you like me, you like me a lot“.

I’m fluent now, which is nice because I can communicate directly with an additional 400 million people on this planet. “¿Me podrías dar un vaso de agua por favor? y ¿Donde esta el baño?” See, pretty damn useful.

When the butt makes an effort

I’m doing my best to learn French now. Actually, that’ a lie. I put a copy of Rosetta Stone French on my computer, so my pocket book is doing its best, but I’ve been too busy or lazy to really prioritize it, which has positioned me well to both entertain and offend when working in places like West Africa.

We expats and world travelers all have lots of really funny anecdotes of our language faux pas – being asked if married and replying “a little bit, but I should be better by morning” (confusing casado – married with cansado – tired), announcing we’re quite pregnant following last night’s drinking binge (confusing embarrasado – pregnant for vergonzado – embarrassed). These things happen. It’s dreadfully embarrassing in the best sort of way; it leaves you more humble but without lasting emotional scars – so long as you can laugh at yourself.

But, given the fact that most of us English speakers can find good translators in the countries we visit or live in for work, and given that it does kind of suck to announce your a pregnant man recovering from marriage when you’re trying to come off as a seasoned humanitarian professional, why should we even bother. After all, “that guy knew four languages, and it didn’t do him any good.”

Because language is a bit like food. People just love it when you make an effort to eat their food. I was in some remote village once in the middle of …where was that…Uganda? Chad? Any way, I was talking with some community volunteers who were recalling the last time they had an American visit their village from World Vision. “Hey, do you know so-n-so?” they asked me, a bit naïve to the size of my organization. But, in fact I did know this person. “He’s such a great guy!” they exuded. “Why do you say that?” I asked, curious. “He ate everything we gave him,” one exclaimed. And the rest all nodded vigorously and happily at this. “Do you know who this man was?” I asked, pressing the point a bit. They recalled that he was an American and from World Vision and again applauded his culinary enthusiasm. What they didn’t recall about this person was that he was the International President of World Vision.

What left a lasting impression on these folks was not the man’s position, but his willingness to lift his fork and dive into their culture. He embraced part of what defined them without hesitation or judgment. He received from them without turning up his nose at what they had to offer.

“Oh, hell no!” I’m neither that culturally sensitive nor that drunk.

I’ve got a rule when I travel – I eat or drink whatever is given to me by the communities I visit. I know that sometimes this will make me sick, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay. (I’ll spare you the details of my 12 hour bus ride yesterday from Djenne to Bamako.) There is no faster way to connect with people and build a small platform of trust than to share a meal – their meal – together. I have yet to break my rule in hundreds of towns and villages in over 30 countries – and I’ve put things in my mouth that would make Andrew Zimmern proud. Now granted, nobody offered me Balut last month when I was in SE Asia – a fertilized duck embryo that is boiled alive and eaten in the shell – that may have pushed the limits of my commitment to this rule.

Language is a bit like this. A willingness to learn and use even a few words demonstrates a willingness to be vulnerable and to make an effort to accept and use what is local. It recognizes that you are the visitor and honors your host.*

I once had to deliver the results of a month-long audit to a group of several hundred local workers in an East African NGO office. For reasons I can’t share, the future of this office was being staked on these results. The tension that had been building over the course of the month had reached an unbearable limit. The moment had come to find out whether they’d all be out of job or not. I rose from my chair and delivered a paragraph’s worth of good news in Swahili.

I had spent about 30 minutes practicing saying it with my translator so that it would sound just right. It just seemed proper for me to deliver such a verdict in their language, rather than mine. Several came up to me afterwards and confirmed that it had been a meaningful gesture.

Now, I know that I can’t learn much more than a handful of words in the local language in most places I go, and usually these are the ones that people take pleasure in teaching me – I can say at least one dirty word in over a dozen languages. It may take me another few years to speak French with any confidence, and I recognize that this will be my third colonial language, which allows one to communicate with a large portion of the World, but for most communities it’s still not really their language. Even so, I will continue to make an effort to embrace that which is local, be it food or language, if only to remind myself that I am the guest, that my language and food and culture are just ones among thousands of similar inherent value.

Update Note #1.

Since writing this, some friends that I made in Mali were in fact kidnapped in Timbuktu. I had been invited to join them, but explained that I had gotten some clear warnings from the WV Mali security team in Bamako. They decided to push ahead anyway, which is a totally valid decision – I probably would have joined them as well, but I actually had more fear of my wife finding out I had gone despite such clear warnings than I had of actually getting kidnapped. I stayed up to about 1:30 one morning with one of them, whose name I cannot share for the sake of his safety. He is described in the second article linked below – it is his wife who is now devastated. We talked about his life, his family, and plans for the future. I gave him a book I had finished reading. He and the others are good folks who took a risk to see the world and meet new people. They ended up being in the wrong place and the wrong time. Please keep them and their families in your prayers.

Mali kidnapping: One dead and three seized in Timbuktu – BBC

Mali kidnap: wife devastated

__________________________

*Except the French, of course. It really pisses them off for some reason when you can’t speak flawless French. But at least they’re consistent – they really don’t want us eating their food either. You can tell because they put frog legs and snails on your plate and say “bon a petit” with what seems like slight irony to me. … Wait, was that culturally insensitive? (I’m kidding!)

It was early 2006. I had been sent to conduct a results review of a large humanitarian organization’s response to the Indian Ocean tsunami. It was a sort of audit of the accuracy of the organization’s reports of what it had achieved in the first year of it’s multi-year response. On this day, I was somewhere along the southern coast of India, checking on a random sample of wells that had been reported as rehabilitated after being flooded with contaminated sea water. My schedule was tight as I still had a number of other reports to validate that day, including the provision of several thousand hygiene kits and mosquito nets, dozens of fishing boats, and scores of bicycles for fish mongers.

A group of fishmongers providing evidence. "Yes, we got the bikes. Thanks!"

I can’t actually recall how I came to be such a caricature of the professional humanitarian aid worker that day, but there I was arriving at people’s homes in a cloud of dust, stepping down from a white Toyota Land Cruiser with a clipboard in hand, decked in ExOfficio, dark sunglasses, and an American baseball cap, surrounded by an entourage of local colleagues taking advantage of the “learning opportunity”. I allowed myself to be led onto people’s private property without so much as a hollered warning or knock on the gate, where we proceeded to huddle around their wells and conduct our tests. What a tool.

At this particular home, a frail woman emerged from the shack near the well we were examining to inquire what we were doing. She seemed gracious as one of the district office leaders engaged her in conversation. When it seemed to me that he was laughing and saying “no” about something, I asked the translator what was going on.

“She has invited you into her home to share a cup of tea.”

“What did you tell her,” I asked.

“Suresh* told her that you are an important visiter from America and that you are very busy working on the tsunami relief project. It is impossible for you to accept.”

Temporary shelters and playground

And that’s when I wanted to punch myself in the side of the head. Not a year had passed since I’d published “Staying for Tea: Five Principles for the Community Service Volunteer,” in which I explained that the first principle of good work in a community is staying for tea. I figured that if you couldn’t or wouldn’t accept an invitation from a community member to share tea with them (or whatever the local cultural equivalent would be), then something was either wrong with you personally or with your organization.

After shedding the local retinue, I returned with my translator and the local worker. I apologized and asked if I could humbly accept her offer. We entered her home. As she prepared the tea, we began talking about the tsunami. I explained what I was doing and what my organization had been doing. She began to tell me about her experience. As we sipped tea, she produced two photographs. One was obviously of her husband. It was framed and had been hanging on the wall. She explained that he had been working that day and was never found. The second photo she pulled folded from some hidden pocket. It was of a beautiful young woman, perhaps in her teens. As tears began to stream down her face, she told me how they had been together when the tsunami came and how their grip on each other had failed. I took the photo in hand and began weeping with her.

For a brief time, we shed our superficial roles defined by my work and became just two people, sharing grief over a tragedy, equal in our humanity, sharing together with generosity and grace.

From then on, my work got a lot slower. We spent more time walking from home to home. We knocked and explained what we were doing before marching onto people’s land to look at “our” projects. I accepted multiple invitations for tea. I began carrying around photos of my family as well as my late wife to reciprocate the sharing of personal stories. Work days went from 10-12 hours to 14-16, but I felt like a human again, and not so much like an hypocritical ass.

I still make mistakes and have to check myself from time to time, but I’m getting better at avoiding the worst abuses of my own principles. I don’t tell this story as a confession nor from feigned humility – it’s just that these things happen and we have to learn from them. It’s a good story for me to remember and retell.