Your 30s are a strange age to be an aid worker, it seems as if it’s the middle age of the profession, and not necessarily because I expect myself to die from an accumulation of tropical infections at 60.
I find myself trapped between two seemingly more dedicated demographics. There are the young and newly recruited, fresh out of university, in the field for only the first or second time, hellbent on saving the world, damn the donors. These are the ones Skyping the boss to say that the only way to get a project done right is to exceed the budget by at least 200%, and if they don’t agree, then they’ll have blood on their hands.
Also, they like to drink. A lot. Only in a developing country can this level of alcohol consumption be afforded on a volunteer’s stipend.
On the other side of the spectrum are the old humanitarians. Some have been around for decades, kidnapped and/or shot at a few times, got that cushy UN job, and still secretly agree with structural adjustment, but would never say so out loud. Others have recently had an altruistic impulse to apply to be an area coordinator in some forgotten war-torn corner of the world, after having made their money and left their mark as middle-management salesperson of the year. Some are married, but not many. There’s always that one older man in his mid-50s who haunts the local bar whom I assume is there for something more salacious than the happy-hour drink specials.
The 30s however, is where I am. I heard from friends and family that most thirtysomethings with traditional careers are looking for stability: getting married, buying houses, having babies (though not necessarily in that order).
While I don’t think I’m ready to leave the humanitarian world for civilian life just yet, I have started weighing my options up – do I still want this?
I’m good at my job, and 37% of the time I like it. Although I now more regularly ask myself questions like: Will the mosquito nets we gave away be used for the nine-month-old or is it going to be traded to a fisherman for palm wine? I still like travelling to places my grandparents can’t be bothered to look up on a map. I won’t die of a rare tropical disease because I’ve been vaccinated against 90% of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s neglected tropical diseases, sometimes through injections but mostly through natural means. I’d like to get a post somewhere on the same continent as my girlfriend so we can see one another more than one week every six months.
I’ve also been through enough mission-born-but-eventual-long-distance relationships that have failed because of my ‘passion’ to continue helping the world’s children (read: spending hours in a sweltering office staring blankly at excel spreadsheets to fulfil student loan obligations) that I can’t help but laugh at the naivete of my lustful 24-year-old colleagues. But at the same time, I can’t picture myself in my forties or fifties in a small village with bucket-showers and movement restrictions that force me to take a car for the 100 metres between my house and office so I can have lunch.
But it’s hard to question your life choices when the majority of the people you spend time with are diehard humanitarians, whose how-could-you-even-think-about-not-doing-this face puts a sharp end to any further discussion of my doubts.
I know there are others who feel like me (my girlfriend for one), but then there are colleagues and temporary field friends that seem to not question these things. There are others around my age that love this life and wouldn’t want anything else. They are usually married and maybe have kids that go to the local French school at some exorbitant price. I am not sure if I’m jealous of the stability they maintain while changing countries every year, or if it’s the (assumedly) blind love of the work and lifestyle, but for whatever reason I hate them just a little bit.
So what are my options?
A) I can keep doing this with all my uncertainty and just hope the wrong strain of malaria will make these questions null and void before the depression becomes unsustainable.
B) I give up and get a job at HQ and try to forget everything about working in the field so I can efficiently ignore field staffs’ comments, questions, and requests on Skype.
C) I can leave humanitarian work and start over with a job in a city doing something I know nothing about, but at least the coffee will be of better quality (ie not off-brand instant coffee and powdered milk).
D) I can accept that this was what younger me wanted, try to hold on to what remains of my youthful passion, and attempt to change the system for the better ‘from the inside’.
Whatever choice I make, I know that I don’t want to be that 50-year-old guy just trying to have a beer after work without some 30-year-old jackass silently judging him.
Comments
Post a Comment