How the “3rd world” prepared me for the “2nd”

I’m going to take a moment to explain that I do not agree with the labeling of countries as if they are all attempting and should attempt to attain the same things as the United States. Similarly, I dislike the term “developing” versus “developed” when referring to countries. Nevertheless, this is how many people understand and categorize countries of the world, because it is easy and because the US and Western Europe dictates what is "right" for countries. This entry is not meant to say that Uganda is worse than Panama which is worse than the United States. I hesitated a long time to write this blog because I did not want to give such an impression. Rather, I want to explain how my experience living for 4 months in a culture and a country very different in so many ways from my own was essential to my ability to now live in another foreign country, that is not so different, but foreign nonetheless, for almost a year.

There were a lot of factors that went into my choice to go to Ghana for 2 months and Uganda for 4 while I was in college. I could fill many a blog with my interest in the Sub-Saharan area of the continent, but instead I will link you to my blog I kept while in Uganda.

If I could give advice to anyone thinking of traveling abroad it would be:

1. Go somewhere you would never go on your own

2. Go somewhere where you will be a minority.

Both of these aspects of my study abroad experience were difficult and trying, but they pushed me and taught me in ways I could never anticipate or learn in any other way.

I won’t lie, living in Ghana for 2 months and Uganda for 4 was hard. My bad experience in Ghana, however had more to do with the American organization I was with, so I will focus on Uganda, which is where I spent more time anyway.

In Uganda I went through most every stage of culture shock, which is basically the 7 stages of grief. I would say it was only in the last 2 weeks I was there that I reached a sort of acceptance/acclamation stage. Before that, every day was a struggle to adapt and learn. I spent far more time thinking of home than I would care to admit. We on the program would call it “cutting”, “food cutting” was when you would obsess over something like tacos from taco bell, “relationship cutting” was when you talked over who you may or may not have to look forward to when you came home, as almost all of us were in some sort of limbo with significant others back home.

Living in Uganda, we learned to live without a lot of what was commonplace back in the states. We learned, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t miss it. More than a few of us had dreams about having washers, as all of us hand-washed our clothes.  An unhealthy tactic I developed when going out or on trips was not to drink very much water, as the bathrooms were few and their sanitation was typically atrocious. I began to prefer the outdoors or even holes in the floor to actual toilets.

Public Restroom as a Kampala Gas Station

Still some things I really did adapt to and enjoy. I got used to the smell of the city, which many times included trash, sewage and livestock. I accepted that sometimes my food might have an ant or two in it. Though I desperately missed things such as raw vegetables and ice cream, I started to look forward to matooke and gnut sauce, and I still miss Obama chapatti. I enjoyed the public transportation including the motorcycle taxis.  I liked only using a cell phone ever-so-often and I enjoyed the focus and intensity given to me by having limited access to the internet and TV.

Most important to my current work, Uganda taught me how to network and how to present myself as a legitimate professional. I admit that my status as a US citizen gave me much undeserved credibility. I was able to interview high-ranking officials and arrange interviews with organizations on the spot. Not that I could have never done this in the US, but I would never have thought to try before.  

Uganda gave to me a “why not?” attitude and a confidence within my own ability to enact change. Another wonderful skill my experience gave me was an ability to wait, which is truly a gift. “African Time” runs slower than we expect in the U.S. and I learned to anticipate and be ok with that. (A big help was to stop wearing a watch). I also learned to go with the flow and to improvise. By the time the group of us left Uganda, we knew that if something went wrong on our connecting flights and we couldn’t make it home on-schedule, oh well, we’ll get there someday.

So how does this translate to Panama?

I have begun to judge this in many ways against remarks I have heard from expats here, travelers in the hostel, or even other Panamanians. Essentially I feel like I can one-up any of the experiences I have had here so far.

“The service here is so poor”

On several occasions in Ghana I was told that I could not have two different menu items simply because “they do not go together”.

“The traffic is horrible, no one can drive”

In Uganda there is a saying “If you drive in a straight line in Kampala, than you must be drunk”. Here there are very few motorcycles and I have yet to see a cow or a goat in the middle of the road. 

“I feel like I stick out so much here”

Someone's adopted in this family...

 Panama is a city of immigrants with a long history of colonization and intermixing between native Panamanians and Spanish. If I don’t open my mouth and dress right, I can go relatively unnoticed. NOT the case in Uganda.

“Nothing starts on-time”

I would estimate Panama time is 15-an hour late at most. Uganda : 1-2  hours, Northern Ghana: 2-3 hours

Living in this city, I am never want of the necessities: water is clean out of the tap and electricity is dependable.  And I have all of the niceties: I have wifi  and a washer in my apartment and ice cream is within walking distance. Yes, I still get homesick, but it is always for people, not things. That being said, I chose to live more simply than I have in the states. I have yet to buy new clothes, and what I buy is typically the cheapest off-brand I can find. Yet, my life here is more than comfortable and it is comforting to know that I can live with a lot less.

A blog for another time is the recognition that I SHOULD live with a lot less.

Would I were a Man:

 A few days ago, I was walking my normal route to the main street by my apartment to catch a cab. The route takes me in front of a small hospital and through its back parking lot. On this route I usually pass a security guard, a couple nurses, and a few patients. Additionally I pass by a part of the hospital under construction where I inevitably hear  “pssst!”  and that universal cat-call whistle.  I focus, eyes straight ahead, and I keep walking.

On this particular day, as I rounded the front of the building, my stomach took a little turn. In my path was a group of 4 men circled around, talking. One was one of the security guards and the others were construction workers. But for all I care they could have been 16 year-old boys; I did not want to have to walk through them. But I had no real choice. Eyes glued to the ground, I felt myself tense up, trying to disappear into myself. If they were looking at me, I didn’t want to know, and I tried not to listen to anything they were saying in case it was meant for me.

I passed them and, of course, nothing happened. But it got me to thinking; if I were a guy, I wouldn’t have thought twice in that situation. I might even have looked those men in the eyes and given them a hearty “Buenas,” the customary greeting here.

Another incident last night added to my frustration. There was an event in the park by my apartment. I walk there most every morning and run around the park. It’s only about half a mile away along a busy street, so it’s perfectly safe during the day. I was supposed to go with one friend, then a group, but nothing worked out. But I’m in Panama! And I’ll be damned if I spend the whole time locked away in my ivory (more yellow) tower! So I went, alone, after sunset.

No problems at the park. I sat along on a blanket I had brought and I listened to the baritone and soprano duets while gazing at the stars. While sitting there I happened to glance over and caught a guy looking at me. I didn’t think much of it, just that we had happened to be looking at the same place at the same time. He was young and also sitting by himself.

I decided to head home before it got too late, so I packed up my stuff and started walking out of the park about halfway through the performance. I would normally never be at the park after dark, but on account of the concert, there were police and families everywhere. Several hundred meters away from the stage, I heard a soft “Disculpame” I turned, and my stomach did another one of those turns. The guy was right behind me. The rundown of our brief conversation was that he wanted my email and I told him no, I had a boyfriend.  I walked faster, caught up with other pedestrians and made sure he wasn’t following me. Walking back to my apartment I continued to be plagued by the idea that maybe he was following, to the backdrop of horns and “pssst!” coming out the window of passing cars.

Family friends have told me never to go out alone and to invest in some mace. Yes, I agree that it is always safer in pairs, and that self-defense is key.

But I hate it. I hate that in this day in age I am still so hindered by my identity as a woman. Problem is, I didn’t come as part of a pair, and my friends have their own jobs and lives to lead. I want to take advantage of this beautiful country, but I am restricted a great deal to exploration within the city during the hours of daylight. Even then, as I have mentioned, I still feel like a walking side-show.

How would this be different if I were a man? Here are just a few ideas:

I would walk past other men without worrying what they might say, or worse, do.

I could look people in the eyes rather than stare at the ground to make sure I avoid any possible unwanted stares.

I would walk down the street without being hissed at. That piercing sound that carries farther than you can get away from, no matter how fast you walk.

I would go out at night by myself without worrying about losing something worse than my wallet if accosted

I would go couch-surfing

I would plan a camping trip without thinking about what time of the month it lands on

I wouldn’t wish that I had someone of the opposite sex to walk with me on every-day outings

I wouldn’t think twice about taking a taxi in a foreign city

I wouldn’t worry about catching diseases from public bathrooms

I wouldn’t worry about sitting next to a man on a bus

Ladies, I know you probably have additions to make to this list, let me hear them. Men, I would love your perspective on this.

How is the Research Going?

...An excellent question, to which I know I have given some unsatisfactory respuestas. So let's try it here.

As I explained to one friend, research is like trying to move a big boulder: I'm pushing my project and throwing emails left and right, and starting to get some budging, but it takes a while to get the metaphorical rock going. Within the next few months I expect it to feel something like this.

Method
Right now, my method is to email people and organizations that have any tie to, or might have any interest in, my project. I explain, in Spanish, that I am a Fulbright researcher (that's right, name-drop!) from the U.S. who is here to continue a project begun in Uganda on persons with albinism. Early on I name-drop mutual contacts or high profile people I have spoken with who this person may know. Just to add to my legitimacy, I will usually include a link to the paper I published on albinism in Uganda, and a link to a spanish blog written about my work (The blog is a translation of an article originally written in english by Barry Comer).


The purpose of this email is to hopefully score a face-to-face interview. I am currently afraid of phones because mine has a poor signal and I pay by the minute. Additionally, it is VERY difficult for me to understand Panamanian spanish when I cannot see the person (or more likely, when they cannot see the confused look on my face that is universal for, "Slow down and please pronounce all of the words in their entirety!").

The Meetings
The meetings I have had are partially informal interviews, but mostly just a continuation of the introduction process. Through these interviews I get a vague idea of what the person's expertise and relevance to my project will be plus their personal understanding of the issue. It also allows me an opportunity to employ the method of "snowballing". This is a term in research that essentially is me asking, "So who else can you get me in contact with?"

The Contacts
Rotary Club: I began my face-to-face meetings by attending a meeting for the Panama City Rotary Club who is currently working on a project entitled Ibegwa, that addresses the medical needs of Guna's with albinism. This meeting led me to some very helpful people, but primarily to...
Dra. Gioconda: The Good Doctor, as I am now calling her, is a dermatologist who has been working with Guna's with albinism for decades. She has graciously welcomed me into her home and will hopefully be allowing me to assist her with her work in San Blas, Guna Yala. Additionally, she has put me in contact with some of her friends, namely...
Fanny: Fanny is an Guna activist for environmental and women's rights. She also has a granddaughter with albinism, which makes her personally interested in the social and medical issues surrounding the condition. Fanny has met with me and spoken at-length (and in-spanish) about the issues that Guna's who have albinism face beyond medical concerns. She and Dra. Gioconda are working on putting me in contact with Diwirgui Anastacio Martinez, the head of the local organization, SOS Albino.

Awiber: Awiber is a Guna man with albinism who manages a school for Guna kids in the city. Originally I got in contact with him through a woman by the name of Elisa Julia, who has worked extensively with Jeambrun Pascal, the only person I know so far who has done an extensive investigation into Guna's with albinism.

Captain Kevin: I met the Captain while staying at Luna's Castle. He heads sailing tours in Guna Yala along with his wife. I got to speaking with him about my research and it piqued his interest. He has many connections with different Guna communities and he has offered to take me on a tour of the less touristy islands where I would get to specifically speak with people who have albinism and would get to talk to the Guna about spending extended periods of time there.

Importance
It is critical that when I go into the Guna communities I have a sort of ambassador to vouch for me. That is why making these connections is so important. I can't just show up in Guna Yala and expect anyone to want to talk to me. Kevin has a long history with these communities, as does Dra. Gioconda, even though they are both Wagas, or outsiders. Awiber and Fanny are both Guna, and so have connections to other communities as well as different insights.

Preliminary Results: Contradictions
I obviously have nothing definitive to say, but already the informal interviews have been enlightening. I have two different opinions regarding the social aspect of albinism. Awiber and Captain Kevin both remarked about the seamless integration of persons with albinism into Guna society. Sometimes their condition even grants them a preferred status in society. Meanwhile, both Dra. Gioconda and Fanny tell me stories of ostracism and familial rejection of persons who have albinism. This mirrors the information I found in my preliminary research before coming to Panama: whether or not persons with albinism suffer any social rejection varies greatly depending on the author. However, there is agreement that before the mid 1900s, the killing of babies with albinism was commonplace.

The Big Questions
These preliminary interviews have led me to 3 major questions:
1. What changed around the mid century to end these killings?
2. How MUCH changed regarding the Guna acceptance of this condition?
3. Why is there such a contrast in opinions regarding #2?

More and more this paper is becoming anthropological, however, there will still be a political aspect of the study. As a comparison to my paper on Uganda, I must determine whether or not the condition of albinism is considered a disability and whether or not there is a need for such categorization under the law.

Thank you all for your interest in my work. It is wonderful to be able to share my interest with so many people around the world.

Why Did The Chicken Cross the Road?

A picture is said to be worth a thousand words. Unfortunately I did not have my camera with me today when I saw the image of the day:

Sweating and reaching the point of fatigue when the muscles just begin to start shaking and struggling, I slow my run to a walk as I exit Parque Omar. Though I usually try to run the final half-mile to my apartment, I resign to walk it today. I have gotten up too late and the tropic sun pounds its rays upon my northern hemispheric body. While the verdant park provided intermittent shade and relief, there is little shelter from the sun as one enters the concrete city center just paces outside this oasis. Its force has not yet reached full-blast, but by 10am the sun has already warmed the surrounding air to a nice 90 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s about 32 Celsius for you non-U.S. ers).

Walking out of the park, I follow a two-way side street lined by middle class homes and their walled-in courtyards. There are a few small shops and people sitting and chatting or walking to and from wherever.

Directly in front of me, a proud rooster places his right talon into the road. I have seen this rooster before; he is trying to get back to his courtyard that lies across the way. The rooster stands tall and proud. His plump body is healthily covered with impeccably groomed feathers. The feather bases are white but fan out to golden tips, as if someone had gilded this rooster, because white would be far too plain for this regal bird.

Strong and confident, he begins his clichéd journey. But he has not yet reached the yellow line before a sputtering truck comes speeding down the next lane over, honking a warning to this brazen fowl.

For a split second, he thinks he can make it, but quickly his head jerks, left, right, leftrighleftright, left and causes him to decide it best not to abandon his kingly character to make a frantic run.  He pivots instead to return to the curb.

I kept walking through this event, passing the rooster as he returned to his originating corner. A few paces down the road I glanced back to see the pompous poultry gathering his composure to attempt his daring feat once more.

(+138 words)

We're Not Racist in Panama, But...

"If you want to have a conversation about politics, talk to the taxi drivers of the world." 

                                        - Michelle Jackson (fellow Fulbright Researcher)

How true I have found this quote to be: taxi drivers, much like hairstylists, love to talk. And who can blame them? Especially when these poor folks have to spend so many hours in gridlocked traffic. But perhaps because the chances of seeing the same customer more than once is lower than with hair stylists, taxi drivers seem to have even less of a filter. The rules about never mentioning religion or politics fly right out the window that you had to manually lower with a makeshift handle made out of pliers.

Sometimes I am content to sit in silence, and taxi drivers here in Panama seem willing enough to replace conversation with talk radio. But I must say that I have enjoyed most every time that I have ventured to start a conversation with a taxi driver. The times that I have not enjoyed, have still been informative. For instance, the time I tried to haggle with a taxi driver. He lectured me for the next 20 minutes (the entirety of the ride) on his personal method of calculating exactly what the fare should be while displaying his clearly hurt feelings that I would insinuate he was trying to overcharge me for being a tourist. I apologized and calmly remarked that I understood, but that I had paid 1/5 less of his price to go the exact same distance with another cab driver. To this, he interestingly enough had less to say.

One of my favorite conversations happened the first week I was in Panama. While I will not pretend that cab drivers are the unofficial spokespersons of their country, nor can a sample size of one provide any statistical proof of a cultural mindset, I do find that the candid nature of many cab conversations can provide an enlightening starting point from which other interactions might be illuminated.

(The following conversation happened 2 weeks ago in Spanish so I will paraphrase):
Taxi driver: "Where are you from?"
Me: "The U.S., from the state of Kentucky"
T: "Ah with the fried chicken! Where is that?"
M: "It is in the southern part of the U.S."
T: "Ah yes, there is a lot of racism there"
M: "Yes...is that a problem here in Panama"
T: "No, not here. Everyone is such a mixture, there is no difference, except those blacks in Colon, but it is their fault they are so bad off, because they are lazy and don't want to work, only party.

About a year ago, in one of my classes on race at Beloit College, we read, "I'm Not a Racist, But..." This book was meant to reveal the problems with that statement, namely that it is always followed by a racist statement. (An interesting read, but ironically enough, I found the book to be actually pretty racist).

I asked the taxi driver if racism was a problem, not because I naively thought that maybe Panama had escaped years of colonialism and slavery followed by U.S. occupation unscathed, but because I have already witnessed and heard of the issues of race in Panama, and I wanted to see how he responded. Panama, like many countries, especially in the Americas, is a color-conscious society. Put simply, the lighter the skin and the more European the phenotypes the more well-off the person is. Of COURSE  there are exceptions to this, but it is no secret that indigenous persons and those of African descent are disproportionately represented in the lowest rungs of Panamanian society.

I chose to punctuate the run-on sentence of his the way I did because it truly seemed that in the same sentence, this taxi driver both denied the existence of racism and discrimination in his country, and made a racist assertion.

It is interesting to me, how quick I have heard people of other countries be to condemn the U.S. for its issues of race, while assuming perfect ignorance of any forms of discrimination within their own country. France frowns on any acknowledgement of separate races within its borders, while its banlieues rip at the seams with racialized tension. Ghana chastises us for our history of slavery while largely ignoring the internal tension between north and south rooted in the roles of slave capturer/trader and slave, respectively. Norway tries to rise above it all without acknowledging how homogenous their population has historically been, or the current tensions arising as the immigrant population rises. I am not saying that the U.S. is better than any of these countries. We have a horrific history of discrimination and racism and it is nowhere close to becoming a thing of the past. But these experiences I have with people from around the world have made me thankful of one thing at least the South of the U.S. has: acknowledgement that discrimination still exists. It's not pretty, and it doesn't mean we are better people, but it seems to reiterate the main point behind my college thesis, which is the necessity for acknowledgement in order to have dialogue, which I believe is the step towards action and eventually, improvement.