The 'journey' or the destination?

About 16 years ago I was feeling bored and unfulfilled with my life (I know, you’re shocked... me, a malcontent?!) so joined an overseas volunteer program and went to work in the wilds of Africa. Well, actually it was the capital city of the south-east African country of Mozambique.


Before I went I participated in a number of training sessions and briefings. We were told that things worked differently in developing countries: corruption could be rife and seen as the norm; and people had to struggle for necessities so their values and expectations may be quite different to our own.


Very importantly we were told that the working environment ‘could’ also be quite different. In our jobs here in Australia, we’re used to moving and working at breakneck speed. It’s all about achieving and outcomes. In the developing world - we were told – things can move slowly; there are competing priorities; and EVERYTHING is harder, and we should prepare for that. Our placements may well be more about the journey than the destination. So they said.


At that time I was working in community development, but studying for my Master of Business Administration to move out of the social/community sector. I’d had my ‘fill’ of that world and an overly-strong focus on ‘process’ to (I believed) the detriment of deliverables. I was tired of an all-talk and no-action world.


So, as I listened to the well-meaning, though experienced cross-cultural trainers I KNEW that I wasn’t going to be one of those people whose two years overseas achieved sweet fuck-all, but who learned a lot about themselves and the world. Nope. No siree.


Of course I arrived in Africa to discover that I was one in a long line of expats to work with the women’s non-government organisation to which I was attached. It was my first foray into international development and a useful lesson for me. The organisation itself had HUGE potential. The women (activists) working around the country (and being paid in beans, oil and rice from the World Food Program) had their hearts in the right places. But in central office, the women I worked with were paid fairly well (in comparison to others). Their focus was on getting more money to do the things they were already doing, rather than identify new needs or commence programs not in existence, such as those to address domestic violence. Essentially I was the tokenistic expatriate who was their ticket into the international and UN donor systems.


My colleagues didn’t spend a lot of time at work. They had a myriad of other commitments and everything took time. Each payday they disappeared for half a day to do their banking and an appointment anywhere took a day or two. Although I enjoyed the visits to the women’s groups around the country, meeting others working there and learning about what they did, I spent A LOT of time clock-watching. My working days dragged. I was bored silly, and worried I was de-skilling.


But... I loved it there. I loved the people and the place but I yearned for a job that would be more fulfilling. In the end I finished up my two-year placement just over 6 months early because another opportunity popped up. But I remember going to the same training sessions for my next placement (which was Cambodia). This time I joined in when the trainers talked about the work often being more about the ‘life’ we spent there, rather than our contribution to work outputs. Although I hate to admit it – and despite my fear of sounding like some wanky reality television show contestant – it was (at the time) very much about the journey rather than the destination.



In the years that I have passed, however, I have again become more cynical and pragmatic. I spent many more years in international development, but in a different context where I had opportunities to leverage more change.


And now, as a project manager and someone who’s managed a lot of reporting, for me it’s again more about the end products - the deliverables.


I’ve been thinking about this today having overheard a conversation on the train this morning. I blame the fact that I left my iPhone at home and having nothing to occupy my hands or mind during the 30 minute commute. As a result I looked out of the window (in a zen-like trance) and eavesdropped on those around me.


The conversation centred around this person’s child – who hadn’t finished some project they’d spent the weekend on. The mother claimed that the child had learnt a lot through the process... so believed that the teacher shouldn’t punish them for not completing the piece of work.


But like I said, I coordinate a lot of reporting nowadays and, frankly, I don’t want to hear about processes. I want to know what’s been achieved. Sure, sometimes the journey itself is important, but learning something along the way isn’t much good if you don’t actually achieve what you set out to do.


We learn a lot about ourselves when we go through change. I'm participating in a weight loss program at the moment. Each time I go on a diet, try to eat healthily, exercise, or challenge my behaviour and thinking in some way, I learn something new about myself. That in itself is a good thing. And it’s great that the very process of dieting and eating healthily gives us tools and resources to better-manage everything that is thrown at us. But... I want (and need) to get to the end point. I want to reach my goal.

Emerson says that “Life is a journey, not a destination...” That’s true. But if we don’t know where we are going; how will we know if and when we get there?

Great expectations

My current hometown of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, has just experienced record flooding.  And although many lives were not lost in the city itself, many homes and livelihoods have been impacted, some destroyed.

I believe the State and Local Government authorities have been amazing.  Providing regular updates and support during the crisis, and now in its wake mobilizing relief and rehabilitation.  Volunteers are being coordinated, bins scattered about the city for the destruction of perishables and kerbside pick ups arranged for debris and furniture needing to be removed from 20 000 flood-affected properties.  And yet, people are already complaining.  There aren’t enough bins.  Our suburb has received insufficient attention and support. Etcetera.

Record rainfall in Brazil has similarly caused flooding, as well as mudslides.  At least 600 people have been killed.  I’m sure their State and Federal authorities are doing as much as possible, but I can almost guarantee it isn’t as thorough or organized as the efforts of our governments.  I mean I am sure there will be blame games here in Oz about how on earth this could happen in such a prosperous and developed city and country.  Our policies in relation to dams, town planning, building requirements and the sustainability of infrastructure will all be examined.

There’s some adage about ‘the more we have, the more we want’.  But I think that ‘the more we have, the more we expect’ is more accurate.

Although not affected by the flooding in our State I feel nothing but sympathy for those who are.  But if I had been affected I’d like to think I would be grateful that the authorities are doing their best to help and I would try really really hard not to complain.  But perhaps it’s easier for me…. And no, not because I am an incredibly tolerant and generous person; but because my expectations are so very low in the first place.

In the mid 1990s I was in my mid 20s.  I had just paid off my first new car.  I was working in Local Government and commenced studying for an MBA.  I was also wondering if I should be starting to save for my first house.  But it all felt wrong.  It seemed pointless.  So, in an attempt to stave off my own quarter-life crisis and to seek some purpose for my own pathetic little existence I applied to an overseas volunteer program.

The Australian Volunteer Abroad (AVA) Program (like the American Peace Corps, or British VSO program) sends Australians to developing countries to work alongside partners in those countries.  Earning a local wage and living long-ish term in local communities, the program aims to be as beneficial to volunteers as those with whom they are working.

[caption id="attachment_425" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mozambican village (1995)"][/caption]

I worked as a volunteer in Mozambique and Cambodia.  The African experience was more life-changing as it came first (and was probably more of a shock). I loved Africa.  Until I returned home, I couldn’t imagine coming back here and certainly initially on my return I felt an extreme sense of culture shock and displacement.  Cambodia was different and I was only there for 7 months.  Security was in issue in both places, but while I was in Phnom Penh the post-UN power sharing agreement between the two Prime Ministers disintegrated until there was a coup d'état.  The city was on edge for months before the tanks appeared and fighting started.

In both countries I worked in local organisations and lived in local accommodation (albeit better than many of my work colleagues could afford).  Although I received very little money (in our terms) I still had savings and resources to fall back on and – well, quite frankly, I still had a ticket out of there any time I wanted to use it.

At the turn of the last century (ie.1999 – 2001) I also worked in East Timor.  By then I was with the Commonwealth Government and there on a diplomatic posting.  My lifestyle was quite different to that of a locally-paid volunteer.

In Mozambique’s capital, Maputo, I lived (like most people) in a high-rise building.  I think there was one other expatriate in the building, although he moved out just after I arrived.  No cause and effect there, but rather as a result of his being mugged at gunpoint on entering the building one evening and his suspicion that our building’s ‘guard’ was somehow involved. With two iron doors and a strong timber front door AND six floors off the ground, my own apartment felt quite safe. I had no hot water of course, bit quite often had running water and my electricity supply (as I lived near a large tourist hotel) was fairly consistent.  I had a telephone line although battled with operators who (pre-2000 Olympics) had never heard of Australia were adamant that I really wanted to speak to someone in Austria whenever I attempted to call home… a result of my poor Portuguese as much as geographical ignorance I suspect.

My biggest splurge in the 16 months I spent in Maputo was a TV/video.  Although television itself was limited to CNN, a local station, an Angolan station and Portuguese game shows, pirated videos were available for rent locally for about 20 cents.  I had befriended two other Australian Volunteers in town and, as they had a car, they took me shopping (for groceries, booze and possibly illicit-money changing) while I hosted video evenings.

[caption id="attachment_426" align="alignright" width="199" caption="Power pole on Norodom Blvd Phnom Penh (1997)"][/caption]

In Cambodia I lived above a local family in a little dirt street with no name.  My flat had no telephone and intermittent power.  I paid an exorbitant amount for the little power I did have, because it was the norm for neighbours to somehow tap into my supply and apparently expats paid more anyway.  Water was also in short supply, although it was my poor cleaner (ahem, ‘maid’) who lugged bottles to my flat each day.  Given that she demanded to work daily (even though I didn’t want or need her to), I suspect it gave her something to do.  Without access to transport I walked everywhere and travelling at night was not an option.  Most evenings were spent sitting on my balcony by candlelight listening to my Diskman on batteries recharged before the power went out.

Although I would not even consider comparing my time in these countries to that of my local colleagues and compatriots, it was – by developed country standards – difficult.  Corruption was rife in both countries.  Just when I thought my workmates were accepting me as ‘one of them’, they would hit me up for some money.  Meat was a rarity and I lived on potatoes or rice with sauces.  I spent exorbitant amounts of money on treats.  And pre-internet contact with family and friends was precious and rare. (In Mozambique, the minimum cost for my weekly fax to my parents was USD5.  On one occasion the line dropped out 3 times and the page cost me USD15.)  I expected little.  And was rarely disappointed.

Then I returned home.

Naturally I thought I would return this zen-like more tolerant person and… well, just grateful for anything really.

On some level this has been the case. I find myself more appreciative of what we have (in the developed world and particularly here in Australia) that others don’t; social safety nets and supports, and well-functioning governments (on the whole).  And every time I am frustrated with bus delays I remind myself how excited I was 9-10 years ago to come home to Australia and to our efficient (and well, existent) public transport system.

Several years before travelling overseas I worked in the social sector for Local Government.  People with a disability were (understandably) unhappy that some buildings in our local area were not wheelchair accessible and some existing ramps provided a challenge for their motorized wheelchairs.

A month or so later I was living in Mozambique (like Cambodia) hugely impacted by land mines.  By the time I worked in Cambodia many people had received artificial limbs.  But in Mozambique one of the first people I saw with no legs was slithering along the ground.  It wasn’t an uncommon sight.  If they were lucky they had rubber gloves. And if they were really lucky they had fashioned a skateboard to protect their bodies from the unrelenting surfaces of that country.

Shocking, yes.

[caption id="attachment_428" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me dancing in a church near Maputo (the man with the rooster is the Minister - and no, it wasn't sacrificed). We'd been there for an AIDS presentation"][/caption]

And, as I said, on one level this has made me more cognizant of what we do have and I am more grateful for our lifestyle.  Unlike many of my compatriots here in Oz, my expectations are generally pretty low.  I can laugh when people complain about our public toilets and I can shrug off the very rare power blackouts.

But I am far from being the more tolerant person I hoped would evolve from my experiences with ‘the less fortunate’.  So, although my expectations of life and others have changed, I did not emerge from my life-changing episodes changed.  As it happens, I am still me. For better or for worse.