Stuck in the Middle with You

I had one main goal this weekend, which was to not break the law. More specifically, Panamanian immigration law. This is a little more difficult than it sounds, because no one is really sure what the law says. (To illustrate: A coworker of mine went to the Office of Immigration to find out how long she's allowed to stay in the country. Their response? "No one here will be able to answer that.") However, it was pretty clear from the beginning that at some point, I was going to have to leave Panama for 72 hours and come back in, to avoid being in the country illegally. Some might call this a pain in the ass, but I prefer to think of it as a legally obligated mini-vacation. And so on Thursday night, I was off to Florida, halfway between home and Panama. For the first time in two months, I was going back to the U.S.

I'm going to keep this post short, because I think I'm about due for another mostly pictures entry. Especially after the peanut butter robot post, which was a little more serious than usual. So instead, here's the short list of things I realized or learned during my weekend stateside.

The List
1. It's nice to go for a run without having to dodge traffic.
2. According to my grandparents, giraffes, zebras, turtles, and frogs all look pretty much the same. Reason #4682 why my family is hilarious.
3. Jam-filled Italian cookies are evil. So evil, and so good.
4. It is extremely difficult to get into an innertube with bikini bottom in place. (I succeeded, but only through some incredibly ungraceful acrobatics.)
5. There is no one I have more fun with than Pulpo (see Carnival post for explanation of pseudonym).

One of the little lizards that suspend themselves from all Floridian surfaces

Hanging out on the balcony

Cool little beach building

Pulpo with the lions at the hotel

Tofu with black bean sauce at Hakkasan

Sunrise

Pulpo and I at the hotel

Building the Peanut Butter Robot

I came to Panama to figure out what I want to do with my life. Not in a deep, existential "Eat, Pray, Love" kind of way, but rather how to direct my career. While I had spent most of my graduate education studying the big international organizations, most of my work experience had been at small, underfunded, and understaffed NGOs. Coming to Panama and working for one of the big guys would let me branch out. And then I could make a decision. Do I look for jobs at the small NGOs or with the major players in global health?

I've gotten a lot of advice on this subject, most of it to the effect of "the bigger, the better." This is probably the result of two underlying assumptions:

1) All organizations designed to help people can be categorized into a perfectly vertical hierarchy, and the goal is to fight your way to the top (the top in this case being a corner office in Geneva). Consequently, all the best and brightest people are clustered at one level of the food chain.

And 2) It's impossible to make any significant impact at a small organization.

Though I'm still at the beginning of my career, the experience I do have tells me that both of these assumptions are a crock. Asking "Which is better, a locally run homeless shelter in Los Angeles or the foreign aid arm of the Swedish government?" is a bit like asking, "Which is more attractive, a moose or a cupcake?" It depends largely on who you're asking and for what purpose. And it certainly isn't a linear trajectory from one to the other. As for the best and brightest, the large-scale organizations do attract a lot of smart and talented people. It would be silly to deny that. But big orgs also attract big egos, and if you think that doesn't get in the way of the quality of the work, take a look at Congress. (Clearly, I base that opinion not on my time working in Panama, but on a lifetime in Washington.)

In terms of impact, as far as I can tell, it's hard to make a significant impact anywhere. Here's an illustration of what the work is like (or what it can feel like) at both types of organization:

Large international: You have $10 million and a team of 80 PhDs. In the next five years, plan a meeting so that 600 representatives from 180 countries can come together and discuss water for day.

Small NGO: You have a box of toothpicks and some peanut butter. Build a robot.

Obviously, both organizations have their advantages and disadvantages. It's easy to get buried in red tape in the UN system, and things move at a snail's pace. But they have so much money. And we've all heard of them. (Who didn't carry around that little orange UNICEF box on Halloween as a kid?) Small organizations have to fight for every penny and command less attention. But they can work faster, use resources more efficiently, and can work on vitally important issues that will never be a focus for an organization accountable to a messy kaleidoscope of members states, bureaucrats, and political interests.

It's really not a question of which type is better. We need them both, and they are of equal importance. The eradication of smallpox could not have happened without international coordination, a ton of resources, and yes, bureaucracy. But in the 1980s, when HIV/AIDS was still thought of mostly as a gay men's disease, local groups formed and took action long before the international, or even national, powers thought the disease was worth their time and energy. Doesn't it seem kind of ridiculous to say that someone who's spent his or her career at the Whitman-Walker Clinic is somehow more or less successful or valuable than someone who's spent decades at the WHO?

So really, the decision of where to take my career comes back to my own interests and personality (or rather personality flaws). More specifically, my soft spot for people and problems often overlooked by the mainstream, and a tendency toward impatience (arguably the worst of my many weaknesses). Nothing gets me more excited than working to help a group of people who never seem to be anyone's priority. Or on issues that don't get the attention they deserve. (Ex: Pneumonia kills more kids each year than HIV, malaria, or TB. Is there a Global Fund to Fight Pneumonia? No.) And it must be said, bureaucratic processes make me want to rip my hair out. There are glaciers that move faster than the UN. They make two-toed sloths look like speed racers. And for me, things like weekly departmental planning meetings are somewhere on a level with gangrene and experimental theater. I'd prefer to avoid them at all costs.

I'm learning a lot here in Panama, and the experience has been great. I'm very grateful for the opportunity. But mostly I'm glad I came, because now I have a pretty clear idea of where I'm going from here: I'm going to be building the peanut butter robot.

When Small Children Attack: A Carnival Story

By the time Carnival rolled around, I was thoroughly afraid. When I first got to Panama, I was excited about Carnival. Two days off from work for what is essentially a four day country-wide party? That's awesome. Who doesn't like parties? Then the advice started pouring in from my Panamanian coworkers. It started off mild enough . . .

"You just have to be careful you watch out for your belongings."
OK, I thought, it's a four day party, with some pickpockets.

"And you don't want to drive anywhere, because everyone on the roads will be drunk."
OK, so it's a four day party, with pickpockets, where I might be run over by a drunk driver.

"Actually, you shouldn't take anything with you. Hide cash in different pockets. Don't even wear your necklace."
OK, it's like a group mugging, with music.

"You shouldn't go anywhere alone. People are wild during the Carnavales. There are huge drunken fights and the men are crazy."
Ok, so it's like Sodom and Gomorrah, with a parade.

"You're going with your fiancé?! You're not supposed to go to Carnival with your fiancé!"
So basically it's like a big Roman orgy worthy of Caligula himself, full of pickpockets, swerving cars, brawling drunks, and neanderthals. On my list of things I want to do, I think that comes right after self-flagellation and listening to polka music while being waterboarded by the Fox News team. Remind me again why I get time off for this?

Thankfully, I did not have to go alone. My wonderful fiancé (and rugby-playing bodyguard) arrived just in time to share in the madness. Though I'm sure most of you know his name anyway, in the interest of not putting it on the internet, I shall refer to him only as Pulpo, in honor of one of the ten nouns he knows in Spanish (thanks to my obsession with the psychic octopus from the World Cup).

Pulpo and I went to the festivities on both Monday and Tuesday night, the latter of which happened to be his birthday. Even first impressions showed that there was a big discrepancy between the reports of Carnival and the reality. There were a lot giggling babies being toted around. The most threatening substances offered seemed to be warm Balboa beer and chorizo from a food cart. I was starting to get the impression that this was not going to be as scary as I thought, though we did run into a slight obstacle. To get in, you had to present an ID. Since the mugging, the only legal ID I have is my passport, which I refuse to take out of the apartment. After some rapid-fire explanations of my situation to the exasperated, camo-clad security dude, I was let in, with the understanding that next time I needed to bring my official police report to get in. Which I did on Tuesday. Yes, you can use a police report as a form of ID. (In fact, it's more detailed than a normal ID. In addition to my name and address, it also has my parents' names, my profession both in the US and Panama, my employer, the story of my mugging, what I typically carry in purse, and my declaration that I can speak and understand Spanish.)

Once inside, we didn't see any of the horrors I had been promised by my coworkers. Instead, there was something much worse. Something much more insidious. Small children. Armed with shaving cream. Silly string. And confetti. A trifecta of evil. They roamed the grounds in little ragtag militias. Some attacks were predictable. You would see a small kid looking at you with crazy eyes, like a shark, and you knew you were in for it. Other times, they used stealth attacks. Like when a little girl pulled on my shirt, yelling "Señora!," at which point I turned and inhaled a blizzard of confetti. Moving down the street was like running the gauntlet. Or being a plankton.

But aside from the lung full of paper bits, it was actually pretty funny. Especially since each attack was punctuated by Pulpo's demand for revenge. There's also something hilarious about the satisfied facial expressions five year olds get when they've just made a colossal mess. And it's not every day you get to walk into a nice restaurant covered in silly string and hole punch remnants without people looking at you strangely. All in all, not a bad way to spent your night, and despite Carnival's terrifying reputation, not in the least bit like a zombie movie. And yes, there was a parade.