I agonize about the imperfections of my skin. I brood over all of the emails that I needed to send. I stress about figuring out my life plan. I fret over scoring well on the LSAT. I stew that John Mayer was coming to town the day after I leave for school. I panic about changing my major. I distress about driving 350 miles down to Richmond when gas is almost $4 a gallon. I begin thinking that the glass might actually be half empty. Can’t a girl get a break?
The moment these negativities enter my head memories of things seen, heard, and smelled immediately counter my bad attitude. At least I have means to afford something as simple as face wash. How can I complain that I have emails to send? Not only do I have my own computer, but my unlimited wireless access virtually puts the world at my fingertips. What’s so stressful about having options for my life plan? I can be whatever anything my imagination dreams up, within reason. And it’s not like the LSAT is a one-shot deal. Honestly missing John Mayer’s concert is not a life or death situation so clearly that’s ridiculous to be upset over. Changing a major isn’t that big of a deal because it won’t have too great an impact for graduation. And sad to know that gas is so expensive. But really, how bad can life be when you have a car and the opportunity to attend a university six hours from home? I guess when you frame things in this manner the glass is more than half-full; it’s just about to overflow.
It’s amazing the perspective that I’ve acquired living and working in Cambodia. One of my biggest fears coming home is losing that perspective, a fear far more founded than the other concerns that have recently been on my mind. I know that I’ve been blessed in more ways that I can count, but it’s exhausting to constantly have the overflowing attitude all of the time. Perhaps this is culture shock manifesting itself in the lenses I use to view the world. Through my old lens these problems seem legitimate; it doesn’t seem ridiculous to be a little self-conscious or worried about the future or doing the right thing or being able to pay credit card bills. But the new lens I acquired in Cambodia puts all of these concerns, annoyances, road bumps, and worries in an entirely new light: they’re glowing in frivolity.
After returning from such a unique experience it seems as though my life before Cambodia was merely paused. Now that I’ve returned things resumed where they left off; the music is playing again where it stopped three months ago. I’m still worrying about the same things, thinking about the same things, working on the same things. Nothing seems to have changed; I have not grown as a person, and I have not become more aware. The more that I become absorbed in the way things were before I left, the more quickly my perspective is disappearing because the noise from my previous life is drowning it out. All of the lessons learned and revelations revealed seem to have crystallized into my Cambodian past, immobilized and inaudible. But maybe all hope is not lost.
The other day a pause allowed my Cambodian lens to put things into focus while I rinsed off the dishes. I wondered why I needed to wash the dishes twice, once in the sink and again in the dishwasher? The water I used to rinse the dishes alone surely amounted to enough clean water for an entire Cambodian family for a day or perhaps longer. Even now it doesn’t seem right that I can thoughtlessly use more water for dishes than a family might have for a week. Although I don’t know what to do about the dishwasher, I do have affirmation that my Cambodian lens is not completely downed out, and it’s not crystallized. It’s just undergoing culture shock.
While I figure out a plan to conserve water and stay open to the thoughts that culture shock places in my head, I’ve decided to be proactive about making sure that my Cambodian lens stays in focus. I cannot let it crystallize into my memory alongside fried rice noodles with chicken and vegetables, biking around on an orange pushbike, discovering the wonder of the Angkor Empire, mispronouncing Khmer words, seeing hundreds of smiling faces at Amelio School almost every morning and afternoon, or smelling like citronella every hour of the day. Preserving my perspective not only helps me to grow, but it provides me a means to share my experiences with others in the hope that they, too, will want to become involved with Cambodia in one way or another. This is where the Caring Chains come in.
Caring Chains is a new, easy way to get involved and support CFC. The idea came to me while I watched some of the girls at Amelio School make macramé bracelets, a skill they had learned from a group of Belgian volunteers. The students really seemed to enjoy making the bracelets, and in very little time they were able to make bracelets that resembled the one that I’ve been wearing since I bought in Guatemala over a year and a half ago. The entire summer I’d spent time brainstorming about “the next big thing” that CFC could use to raise awareness; I wanted to come up with something that would become as well-know as the LIVESTRONG bracelet. While Caring Chains might not be made out of thin, stretchy rubber, but they certainly have a similar effect and they come in many different unique styles. The $10 from each Caring Chain has a huge impact supporting the children and teachers involved with CFC. It can pay one English teacher’s salary for 2 days, buy 2 school uniforms, feed one child rice porridge breakfast for 390 days, or provide 20 toothbrushes to ensure the children’s dental health. Most importantly each Caring Chain sold provides a sense of hope through education.
Even though life pressed play and this series of globetrotting stories has come to an end, I’m going to stay dedicated to helping Caring for Cambodia’s efforts. If you’d like to contribute by raising awareness about the situation in Cambodia please share the things that I’ve shared with you. You can also purchase one of the Caring Chains that was made by one of the students at the Amelio School; the entire $10 donation will go back to Cambodia through CFC and used in the way that it is needed most. And last but not least, I must thank you all for your continuous support. I could not have gotten through everything with all of the love and encouragement that you infused in me to take a change and make a difference.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
It's About Time
ESOL: Time Unit. Time change. Eastern time zone. Phnom Penh: UTC = 07:00 hours. Time crunch. Timely manner. Only time will tell. Where did the time go? Time-consuming. Timing is everything. Time’s up. Excuse me, what time is it please? Another time. I don’t know the time. I have no time. Time is of the essence. We’re out of time. It’s time to go. It’s about time.
I think it’s about time to share my experiences working with Caring for Cambodia, time to be a tourist and not a teacher, time to move up, time for things to reach their culmination, time to learn, time to come home, and time to reflect. I started writing this as I sat aboard the crowded Paramount Express double-decker bus between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, but I am no longer coasting along National Road 6, sitting in my compact seat on the overcrowded bus traversing bumpy two-lane highway. I’ve been home just over a week now, so I guess that means it really is about time.
My last official day interning with CFC was Monday, July 21. After spending one week assisting with the administration of Rosetta Stone assessments at the other CFC schools, Bakong and Kong Much, I returned to the Amelio School for one final morning with Kimchhoeurn. This time I supported Kimchhoeurn as she modeled for the other CFC English teachers, Sinat and Chandra, how to teach the ESOL: Time Unit that I had written and we had taught together at Amelio School. The English for Students of Other Languages unit proved more difficult to write and create than I imagined. Now that it is written, bound, and shelved alongside the other CFC resources, I admit that I’ve come to appreciate teachers’ planning periods. Teaching proves time-consuming work, particularly when you’re teaching for over seven hours each day like the teachers do in Cambodia, six days each week no less.
After hand-drawing clock faces on twenty bingo cards, making three color-coordinated sets of the time concentration game, cutting out clock faces into fraction pieces that further explain the concepts of half and quarter hours, laminating pictures of watches and cutting up watermelons, I think that it is safe to say that the ESOL Time Unit was a small success. If you question any of the children, grades 3 through 6 at Amelio School: “what time is it, please?” or “what time do you study Khmer?” I believe that at least 80% of the students would be able to answer both accurately and more importantly, with confidence. It may not seem like a big accomplishment, but teaching about the time itself took time; it was no small task. The students began by learning different instruments of time such as “wall clock” and “watch.” They then learned to distinguish between digital time, the “one with the numbers,” from analog time, the “time with the face.” Once the students had mastered that, we focused on counting to 60 and then counting by 5s, understanding how the numbers corresponded with different places around the clock. Once almost all students understood those concepts, the long and short hands were introduced separately, only put together to “make time” when the students understood the difference between them. The children practiced telling and making the time using their personal paper-plate clocks, playing the time concentration game, and quizzing one another with the time bingo game. They learned fractions like “half-past three” and “quarter to six,” which the students put to practical use in sets of time questions and answers: “when do you go to school?” “I go to school at _ _ : _ _” and “when do you eat breakfast?” “I eat breakfast at _ _ : _ _ .”
Writing such an ESOL Unit, or any teaching unit for that matter is neither my forte nor my area of expertise. Although I’d worked with lesson plans last summer as a Team Leader, adapting them to fit the interests and strengths of my students each conference, I’d never formally written a lesson plan. Under the direction of one of CFC’s master teachers, Kaye Bach, I was able to come up with something that was both manageable to teach from an educator’s standpoint and both interesting and practical for the students. Just as rewarding as working with the students to learn “time” was modeling with of Kimchhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. I learned countless things from interacting with the children and writing lesson plans, I know that I learned just as much working with Kimchhoeurn. While we come from opposite sides of the Earth, we have more similarities than meet the eye. We are both 21 years old and continually asking questions, being curious, and trying to becoming better so that we might be able to find our places in the world. I know her words were genuine when she said that I taught her a lot, but I hope that she knows how much she taught me and how big of an impact she has improving the lives of so many children through education.
When I wasn’t working with Kimchhoeurn modeling the Unit, administering Rosetta Stone assessments, showing interactive DVDs about basic hygiene, working with volunteers from Belgium, acting as a guide for visitors, introducing Soy Sophea to new English words through conversation, or teaching Sarik to make statistical graphs on Excel for the Ministry of Education on CFC’s behalf, I was engaged in conversation with Savy. Savy works as the CFC Country Director and Superintendent of all of the CFC Schools; he oversee basically all of CFC in Cambodia. Despite his constantly busy schedule, Savy provided me with “go-to” support for everything- obtaining teaching supplies, answering questions about day trips and visas, taking me around to health clinics when my eye swelled, and everything in between. He was more than my “boss,” he and Mom, his wife, became my good friends. During my last few weeks in Siem Reap, Savy and I did a good bit of talking about CFC, Cambodia, and the current situation of both the organization and the country. Throughout our conversations we tossed around new ideas and brainstormed ways to get more people involved with CFC, how to teach English in a more conversational way, and strategies to make the CFC’s new shop at the Night Market stand out above the others, all in five minutes time. And that’s only a snippet of our conversations about Caring For Cambodia. Our other discussions could have gone on for hours, and at times they did.
When I began writing this particularly entry on the bus to Phnom Penh, my mother, her friend, and myself were overcrowded on account of the upcoming elections. The elections, which began in 1993, happen once every 5 years; they were scheduled for Sunday, July 27, causing all Cambodians to return to their home province for the weekend in order to cast their votes. Even though we weren’t returning to Phnom Penh to cast our votes, it was exciting to know we were in the capital city when the historic voting was taking place. Two days following the election, waiting to board my Tokyo-bound plane towards home, I read in Singapore’s newspaper the “Straight Times” that CPP, the Cambodian Peoples’ Party, had won the election in a landslide victory. This came as no surprise to me. Despite the emergence and increased popularity of other political parties the CPP has maintained its control of the Cambodian government. I saw CPP campaign parades that stretched kilometer after kilometer down the streets of Siem Reap and onto the roads around the temples within Angkor Thom and beyond. I heard rumors. Four journalists were killed before the election for the information they had shared with the public. Perhaps time will change things?
It is precisely this sort of situation that both discourages my hope for a better tomorrow all the while affirming the work that I have done with CFC to help educate the children. In our conversations, I would continually ask questions because I could never understand how anything could be accomplished when things appear corrupt. Why is it that millions of foreign aid dollars seem to disappear? Why is it that there are people living, and dying, in extreme poverty? Perhaps there is a disconnect between the people, their needs, and the millions of dollars of aid? I think that is a conversation for another time. While this situation portrays the situation in Cambodia as almost hopeless, it gives me hope that an organization such as CFC, working to promote the education of Cambodia’s children, can really make a difference. Perhaps when it’s their generation’s turn to lead the country, the children sitting in classrooms today will be able to harness their knowledge to direct both Cambodia and its’ resources exactly where they are needed most. But only time will tell.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Shades of Meaning
I used to consider independent and self-reliant synonymous; in my mind they were equivalent terms. After residing in Siem Reap for six weeks, however, I realize my almost error in diction and definite error in thinking. Even though there are similarities between these two words, their fundamental differences hidden beneath their shades of meaning prevent synonymy.
What is it that characterizes someone as independent? The lexicon authority, the dictionary, attributes the following to an independent person: someone who lives their life “free from outside control, [is] self-governing, not influenced or affected by others, not depending on another for livelihood or subsistence, capable of thinking or acting for oneself, not depending on something else for effectiveness, freestanding.” My personal definition echoes the dictionary’s in that I characterize an independent person as one who is stubborn, stays true to personal ideals and values, and is not so paralyzed in the thought of risk or failure that they their convictions. I also viewed independent people as such because they rely on their own actions to accomplish the things that they deem valuable and necessary. Perhaps, then, an independent person is also self-reliant?
The authority on words defines self-reliance as “reliance on one’s own powers and resources rather than those of others.” While self-reliance is defined in a fraction of the words of independent, my experiences in Siem Reap have taught me that conciseness does not reflect ease, because while independence has multiple facets, something concise like the definition of self-reliance may take longer to understand and employ. Although there are allusions to self-reliance within the rhetoric of independence, their shades of meaning differ just enough to make all of the difference.
Before jet-setting over twenty-four hours aboard four separate aircraft to live in the shadowy remains of the Khmer empire, I considered myself to be independent. Am I stubborn? Without a doubt. And although I do have fears of rejection and being judged, I strive to live by my values by using them to guide the decisions I make every day, no matter how big or small. When I live by my values, I know that I will feel at peace. So I guess the fact that I’m interning alone in Siem Reap for seven weeks is a bit of a testament to my independence. That seems fair. So now the question remains, if it embodies independence does it embody self-reliance? I no longer think so.
By reflecting on my reactions to the sights I have seen, the sounds I have heard, the funks I have smelt, the people I have touched, and the thoughts that have crossed my mind, I’ve come to the realization that I am not self-reliant. I have not yet found my own power and resources. While I embody independence in some ways, I continue to thrive on the power infused in me by those who surround me with their love, their care, and their friendship in the little ways that I cannot find words to describe. So can I characterize myself as someone who is self-reliant? No, and while I may have a different answer in the years to come, this might just be who I am, and I think that I’m ok with that.
To be perfectly frank, this blog seems to epitomize exactly what I’ve been trying to explain. I have literally been pondering and typing away at this entry for a week now, and it’s as though I’m afraid to post because I haven’t had enough time to explain my ideas in a succinct way. It’s not as though I haven’t had time to write it after school or while relaxing on my day off… it’s just that at those particular moments the little connections that infuse love and care made themselves salient to me through emails, skype messages, facebook pokes, and even via excited voices on the other end of late-night skype/cell chats. And maybe it’s not a bad thing that I get my energy and inspiration from the people that surround me. While it’s tough to live without them in a world geographically opposite from their own, things are not as different as I often think. While thousands of miles and time zones stand between physical proximity, I know I remain in the thoughts of those who inspire me even while I’m here doing my thing in Cambodia because no matter how small those little connections mean the world to me.
And I realize that I shouldn’t have the attitude that I can only be sure that people care when I receive their text message or email or facebook wall post. Because even though a random message as simple as “hey how are you?” can completely turn the day around, what’s been truly heart-warming is learning that I don’t need constant reminders of the importance of my friends and family within my life. Their support and hope and love are much too big to be captured and adequately expressed within an email; the power and zeal for life that they infuse in me is much more powerful than anything that can be put into written words or an electronic box on the computer.
In understanding the difference between independence and self-reliance, I’ve learned the shades of meaning in my life spark from the people who surround me, those who influence me and inspire me. Even though I’m independent, I know that the power derived from their care and love is something so powerful that I will never be able to generate it on my own, let alone live without, because it’s something that I value more than I can say. The people in my life have created opportunities for me to become a better person, to make better decisions, and have helped to mold my values. I have to thank them all for making it all that it has become. To those who have infused your care and your love into my life, even if it was via an endearing smile, a warm hug, a friendly text, a long-winded email, a fond memory, or most importantly, in simply being in my life, you continue to create my shades of meaning, shown in the actions that I’ve chosen to take and the person that I continue to become. I cannot thank you enough.
Miss and love you all!
What is it that characterizes someone as independent? The lexicon authority, the dictionary, attributes the following to an independent person: someone who lives their life “free from outside control, [is] self-governing, not influenced or affected by others, not depending on another for livelihood or subsistence, capable of thinking or acting for oneself, not depending on something else for effectiveness, freestanding.” My personal definition echoes the dictionary’s in that I characterize an independent person as one who is stubborn, stays true to personal ideals and values, and is not so paralyzed in the thought of risk or failure that they their convictions. I also viewed independent people as such because they rely on their own actions to accomplish the things that they deem valuable and necessary. Perhaps, then, an independent person is also self-reliant?
The authority on words defines self-reliance as “reliance on one’s own powers and resources rather than those of others.” While self-reliance is defined in a fraction of the words of independent, my experiences in Siem Reap have taught me that conciseness does not reflect ease, because while independence has multiple facets, something concise like the definition of self-reliance may take longer to understand and employ. Although there are allusions to self-reliance within the rhetoric of independence, their shades of meaning differ just enough to make all of the difference.
Before jet-setting over twenty-four hours aboard four separate aircraft to live in the shadowy remains of the Khmer empire, I considered myself to be independent. Am I stubborn? Without a doubt. And although I do have fears of rejection and being judged, I strive to live by my values by using them to guide the decisions I make every day, no matter how big or small. When I live by my values, I know that I will feel at peace. So I guess the fact that I’m interning alone in Siem Reap for seven weeks is a bit of a testament to my independence. That seems fair. So now the question remains, if it embodies independence does it embody self-reliance? I no longer think so.
By reflecting on my reactions to the sights I have seen, the sounds I have heard, the funks I have smelt, the people I have touched, and the thoughts that have crossed my mind, I’ve come to the realization that I am not self-reliant. I have not yet found my own power and resources. While I embody independence in some ways, I continue to thrive on the power infused in me by those who surround me with their love, their care, and their friendship in the little ways that I cannot find words to describe. So can I characterize myself as someone who is self-reliant? No, and while I may have a different answer in the years to come, this might just be who I am, and I think that I’m ok with that.
To be perfectly frank, this blog seems to epitomize exactly what I’ve been trying to explain. I have literally been pondering and typing away at this entry for a week now, and it’s as though I’m afraid to post because I haven’t had enough time to explain my ideas in a succinct way. It’s not as though I haven’t had time to write it after school or while relaxing on my day off… it’s just that at those particular moments the little connections that infuse love and care made themselves salient to me through emails, skype messages, facebook pokes, and even via excited voices on the other end of late-night skype/cell chats. And maybe it’s not a bad thing that I get my energy and inspiration from the people that surround me. While it’s tough to live without them in a world geographically opposite from their own, things are not as different as I often think. While thousands of miles and time zones stand between physical proximity, I know I remain in the thoughts of those who inspire me even while I’m here doing my thing in Cambodia because no matter how small those little connections mean the world to me.
And I realize that I shouldn’t have the attitude that I can only be sure that people care when I receive their text message or email or facebook wall post. Because even though a random message as simple as “hey how are you?” can completely turn the day around, what’s been truly heart-warming is learning that I don’t need constant reminders of the importance of my friends and family within my life. Their support and hope and love are much too big to be captured and adequately expressed within an email; the power and zeal for life that they infuse in me is much more powerful than anything that can be put into written words or an electronic box on the computer.
In understanding the difference between independence and self-reliance, I’ve learned the shades of meaning in my life spark from the people who surround me, those who influence me and inspire me. Even though I’m independent, I know that the power derived from their care and love is something so powerful that I will never be able to generate it on my own, let alone live without, because it’s something that I value more than I can say. The people in my life have created opportunities for me to become a better person, to make better decisions, and have helped to mold my values. I have to thank them all for making it all that it has become. To those who have infused your care and your love into my life, even if it was via an endearing smile, a warm hug, a friendly text, a long-winded email, a fond memory, or most importantly, in simply being in my life, you continue to create my shades of meaning, shown in the actions that I’ve chosen to take and the person that I continue to become. I cannot thank you enough.
Miss and love you all!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Everything Happens for a Reason
There seem to be infinite ways of making sense of the world: religion, theories, laws, formulas, love, karma, yin and yang, faith, traditions, knowledge, wives tales, predestination, reincarnation, evolution, what goes around comes around. It’s almost overwhelming to conceptualize even an abbreviated list. When I was growing up I made sense of the world through the traditions and beliefs of my family, largely based upon Catholic teachings. While I still consider myself of Catholic faith, I’m at that point in my life where I need to find my own answers to the fundamental questions that lie at the core of personhood: who am I and what do I stand for? I know that the things I am seeing and experiencing with every waking moment here are helping me to answer these questions, although I’ve only been able to affirm one mantra thus far: everything happens for a reason.
Does everything happen for a reason? It certainly can seem that way when luck is on your side, when the chips fall into place, or even when things are smooth sailing. But what about the occasions when things are so-so, not-so-good, or downright bad? Those things certainly don’t happen for a reason, do they? Why would suffering or pain happen on purpose? I don’t know the answer to those questions, but even when the going gets tough, I truly do believe that the things that we experience, whether or not they happen out of chance or luck or design by a higher Being, they happen for a reason. Only when the door in front closes can the pale light from another room down the hall be noticed.
I can’t say that there’s one exact experience that has lead me to believe that everything happens for a reason because I know that it’s a cocktail of the good and the not-so-good. I would be lying if I said that none of it was a challenge to get through and I never questioned my own mantra, but I do know that it makes me who and what I am. If I could go back in time I don’t think I would change anything that has happened because then I wouldn’t be myself. One of the not-so-great, makes-you-a-little-doubtful experiences came and went quickly just last week here in Siem Reap. Last Tuesday morning at school I was more tired than usual because my neck had been sore the night before and had kept me awake for some of the night. I also had a large, swollen bug bite on my arm that did not quell from the usual Benadryl itch stick. When my right eyelid started to swell rapidly around 10 am, I became unnerved and decided to take the rest of the day off. After some coaxing from a concerned friend I decided to call my supervisor and see the doctor, an activity that I dread even in the States.
Within 48 hours my eyelid was back to normal, the soreness in my neck was gone, and the bite looked like an average mosquito’s feast. The doctor attributed the whole situation to an allergic reaction of some kind, and prescribed anti-inflammatory and anti-allergy medications, which I started taking the very same afternoon my eyelid, had swelled. While the swollen eyelid, swollen gland, and swollen bite did not prove to be life threatening, I guess that one can never be too careful here because you run the risk of “Cambodia catching up to you.” I do not know if this “situation” was so not-so-good that it forced me to question the validity of my mantra, although it’s not something that I would choose to occur on a regular basis, neither here nor in the States. Looking back on the whole incident a week later, I have a good idea why the reaction and subsequent scare happened, and as a result I’ve been able to learn from it. I can’t let my guard down, and I need to make sure that I’m taking care of myself: physically and mentally. While it was a nuisance and proved a bit of a temporary scare, that little allergic reaction happened for a reason, and those few swollen bumps helped to affirm my mantra in the end. However, something even that small has the potential to detract from such a belief, particularly while they are occurring. I certainly didn’t feel the situation affirmed my belief until I was healed.
And while little things like that can initially create doubt and skepticism, some things that happen are so powerful that they come close to shattering even shadows of doubt that things do happen for a reason. All of my doubts were nearly shattered just over a week ago when I ran into a group of women whom I now refer to as my adoptive Oregonian aunties. Their names are Shari, Jill, Marylou, Alice, Susan, and Dorothy; they were all from Oregon and were in Cambodia working through Women of Vision, part of the World Vision organization. By chance, or perhaps by the design of a higher Being, they were staying at the Villa, my guesthouse here in Siem Reap. They happened to be checking in while I was coming home for lunch on Saturday. Hearing American English and seeing US addresses on their luggage in the lobby prompted me to inquire where they were from. I didn’t think that much would come of the question beyond my standard “oh, I’m from Pennsylvania” response and the faint chorus of “It’s a Small World After All” playing in my head. Truth be told, I could not have been more wrong; the moment that Shari and I began speaking in the lobby, my weekend plans were transformed, as was my take on the Khmer culture and its’ rich history.
The six Oregonian women welcomed me into their group with open arms, and asked me to spend lunch with them before heading back to school for the afternoon session that Saturday. They also invited me to venture with them to the temples the next day, which I had yet to see. I cannot thank them enough for their openness, their friendship, or their interest in not only in my work with CFC, but in me as a twenty-something girl spending seven weeks alone in Cambodia. Not only did I enjoy a refreshing banana smoothie over lunch while listening to a sampling of their amazing stories, but I gained their friendship, which in turn enabled me to share with them the awe-inspiring experience of the Angkor temples.
After taking in the aura of the temples of Angkor Wat, Ta Prohm, and the Bayon, I can understand why people travel from the opposite ends of the Earth to see such wonders of the world. These temples were built almost a millennium ago at the heart of the Khmer empire’s capital. Think of DC only a thousand years ago. Also consider that such marvels were constructed in old-fashioned ways; these structures were not built with cranes and cement, but by systems devised using elephants, the current of the river, and interlocking pieces. Even after four years of utter cultural and historical destruction the temples that surround Siem Reap cannot be described in any other way except indescribable. They’re just one of those things that you need to see to believe they even exist in such awe-inspiring form. Their sheer existence after all of the time that has passed and all of the events that have occurred in this world of ours epitomizes the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words.”
Not only was my temple experience magical to say the least, but it was something unforgettable because of the company that I shared it with. Jill, Susan, and I climbed the steep steps “towards heaven” of one of the temples close to Ta Prohm, along with Brett, Shari’s 18-year-old stepson who had been brave enough to travel with six women for a few weeks. The eight of us arose at 4:30 in the morning to see the temples at sunrise, and we watched the sunset in the sky while sharing dinner and one another’s company over an exquisite dinner at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. We even had some laughs and good fun while bargaining at the night market, chatting away with some of the stall owners, and doing some shopping at the Artisans of Angkor workshop, before toasting to our acquaintance with one last beer on Pub Street. They left the next day, Monday morning, while I was still at school. Although they were exhausted from their travels, they all made it down to breakfast so that they might wish me well and thank me for a wonderful time in Siem Reap.
I still do not know the significance of our meeting, me and my six adoptive aunties and adopted cousin. Perhaps we crossed paths to share in the wonders of Angkor, creating memories that I doubt I will forget for many years to come? Or perhaps our meeting was more than an amazing day-and-a-half in Siem Reap? The answers to these questions will only come with time. For now all that I can know for certain is that everything happens for a reason, including surprise visits from six aunties that I never knew I had.
Does everything happen for a reason? It certainly can seem that way when luck is on your side, when the chips fall into place, or even when things are smooth sailing. But what about the occasions when things are so-so, not-so-good, or downright bad? Those things certainly don’t happen for a reason, do they? Why would suffering or pain happen on purpose? I don’t know the answer to those questions, but even when the going gets tough, I truly do believe that the things that we experience, whether or not they happen out of chance or luck or design by a higher Being, they happen for a reason. Only when the door in front closes can the pale light from another room down the hall be noticed.
I can’t say that there’s one exact experience that has lead me to believe that everything happens for a reason because I know that it’s a cocktail of the good and the not-so-good. I would be lying if I said that none of it was a challenge to get through and I never questioned my own mantra, but I do know that it makes me who and what I am. If I could go back in time I don’t think I would change anything that has happened because then I wouldn’t be myself. One of the not-so-great, makes-you-a-little-doubtful experiences came and went quickly just last week here in Siem Reap. Last Tuesday morning at school I was more tired than usual because my neck had been sore the night before and had kept me awake for some of the night. I also had a large, swollen bug bite on my arm that did not quell from the usual Benadryl itch stick. When my right eyelid started to swell rapidly around 10 am, I became unnerved and decided to take the rest of the day off. After some coaxing from a concerned friend I decided to call my supervisor and see the doctor, an activity that I dread even in the States.
Within 48 hours my eyelid was back to normal, the soreness in my neck was gone, and the bite looked like an average mosquito’s feast. The doctor attributed the whole situation to an allergic reaction of some kind, and prescribed anti-inflammatory and anti-allergy medications, which I started taking the very same afternoon my eyelid, had swelled. While the swollen eyelid, swollen gland, and swollen bite did not prove to be life threatening, I guess that one can never be too careful here because you run the risk of “Cambodia catching up to you.” I do not know if this “situation” was so not-so-good that it forced me to question the validity of my mantra, although it’s not something that I would choose to occur on a regular basis, neither here nor in the States. Looking back on the whole incident a week later, I have a good idea why the reaction and subsequent scare happened, and as a result I’ve been able to learn from it. I can’t let my guard down, and I need to make sure that I’m taking care of myself: physically and mentally. While it was a nuisance and proved a bit of a temporary scare, that little allergic reaction happened for a reason, and those few swollen bumps helped to affirm my mantra in the end. However, something even that small has the potential to detract from such a belief, particularly while they are occurring. I certainly didn’t feel the situation affirmed my belief until I was healed.
And while little things like that can initially create doubt and skepticism, some things that happen are so powerful that they come close to shattering even shadows of doubt that things do happen for a reason. All of my doubts were nearly shattered just over a week ago when I ran into a group of women whom I now refer to as my adoptive Oregonian aunties. Their names are Shari, Jill, Marylou, Alice, Susan, and Dorothy; they were all from Oregon and were in Cambodia working through Women of Vision, part of the World Vision organization. By chance, or perhaps by the design of a higher Being, they were staying at the Villa, my guesthouse here in Siem Reap. They happened to be checking in while I was coming home for lunch on Saturday. Hearing American English and seeing US addresses on their luggage in the lobby prompted me to inquire where they were from. I didn’t think that much would come of the question beyond my standard “oh, I’m from Pennsylvania” response and the faint chorus of “It’s a Small World After All” playing in my head. Truth be told, I could not have been more wrong; the moment that Shari and I began speaking in the lobby, my weekend plans were transformed, as was my take on the Khmer culture and its’ rich history.
The six Oregonian women welcomed me into their group with open arms, and asked me to spend lunch with them before heading back to school for the afternoon session that Saturday. They also invited me to venture with them to the temples the next day, which I had yet to see. I cannot thank them enough for their openness, their friendship, or their interest in not only in my work with CFC, but in me as a twenty-something girl spending seven weeks alone in Cambodia. Not only did I enjoy a refreshing banana smoothie over lunch while listening to a sampling of their amazing stories, but I gained their friendship, which in turn enabled me to share with them the awe-inspiring experience of the Angkor temples.
After taking in the aura of the temples of Angkor Wat, Ta Prohm, and the Bayon, I can understand why people travel from the opposite ends of the Earth to see such wonders of the world. These temples were built almost a millennium ago at the heart of the Khmer empire’s capital. Think of DC only a thousand years ago. Also consider that such marvels were constructed in old-fashioned ways; these structures were not built with cranes and cement, but by systems devised using elephants, the current of the river, and interlocking pieces. Even after four years of utter cultural and historical destruction the temples that surround Siem Reap cannot be described in any other way except indescribable. They’re just one of those things that you need to see to believe they even exist in such awe-inspiring form. Their sheer existence after all of the time that has passed and all of the events that have occurred in this world of ours epitomizes the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words.”
Not only was my temple experience magical to say the least, but it was something unforgettable because of the company that I shared it with. Jill, Susan, and I climbed the steep steps “towards heaven” of one of the temples close to Ta Prohm, along with Brett, Shari’s 18-year-old stepson who had been brave enough to travel with six women for a few weeks. The eight of us arose at 4:30 in the morning to see the temples at sunrise, and we watched the sunset in the sky while sharing dinner and one another’s company over an exquisite dinner at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. We even had some laughs and good fun while bargaining at the night market, chatting away with some of the stall owners, and doing some shopping at the Artisans of Angkor workshop, before toasting to our acquaintance with one last beer on Pub Street. They left the next day, Monday morning, while I was still at school. Although they were exhausted from their travels, they all made it down to breakfast so that they might wish me well and thank me for a wonderful time in Siem Reap.
I still do not know the significance of our meeting, me and my six adoptive aunties and adopted cousin. Perhaps we crossed paths to share in the wonders of Angkor, creating memories that I doubt I will forget for many years to come? Or perhaps our meeting was more than an amazing day-and-a-half in Siem Reap? The answers to these questions will only come with time. For now all that I can know for certain is that everything happens for a reason, including surprise visits from six aunties that I never knew I had.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Break? Or brake.
This post is long overdue, as are quite a few others, but it seems almost appropriate since I have been thinking a lot about time, progress, stress, and their relationship. Is it possible to only have one at the expense of another? Does progress take time? Does progress produce stress? Does stress result from lack of time? Is it just a vicious cycle that we come closer to grasping with each passing day? Clearly I still have not found an answer.
This afternoon I actually decided to stay back at the guesthouse and finish up the ESOL (English Students of Other Languages): time unit that I’ve been co-teaching with Kim Chhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. The whole unit, from brainstorming ideas to putting them on paper, from making the ideas come to life in the classroom, to ensuring their comprehension, has been more work than I anticipated. Despite my lack of time to even post a blog, I would say that it has definitely been worthwhile. It just seems funny because I don’t even remember if I’ve mentioned much about the progress the students have made in understanding time, or whether I have even mentioned the unit at all. I know I haven’t mentioned that I went to the temples with a bunch of American women from Oregon, or that I cycled to Tonle Sap lake, the largest freshwater source in southeast Asia, with an English girl also named Laura. I guess that I just haven’t had much time? So the cycle continues.
I was thinking about titling this post something like “everything I ever needed to know I learned while peddling my bike” which, in some respects, is true. Spending over an hour pedaling to and from school provides ample time to ponder, and while that seems obvious, having time to think through things is a luxury for me. I simply don’t have the time. School makes it at least appears that way because I struggle to find the time to get more than four hours of sleep each night. It seems ironic that I would be able to do the least amount of thinking while attending university. School. You know, the institution where you’re supposed to expand your mind through thinking? Thank goodness for summer break… a time to think things through. I’ve thought so much about things here in Siem Reap that I actually planned out this entry on the back of the envelope I received containing the receipt for extended visa. I may have written the rough outline almost five days ago, but I simply haven’t had a break to expand on those ideas that cover the envelope I have next to me.
Going back to the importance of the bike, I was taken aback the other day while I was riding home for lunch. Just a few hundred meters from the gate of the Amelio School, near to the divot where I had the mud bath, stood ten children on the side of the road. I couldn’t figure out why they were just standing there; the students are usually like horses through the gate at the start of a race when school is out. When I stopped to survey the situation, I noticed they were having some trouble with their means of transportation: bicycles. In my twenty-one years of life, I have waited for car batteries to be jumped, I have been on airplanes that have needed a few repairs before takeoff, I have waited hours for buses, and I have sat in construction for six hours while twelve men patched up six small patches of road. I have even been on trains that couldn’t move forward because of protesting students sitting on the tracks. Never, however, in all of my years of getting around or being held up, have I experienced a broken-down bike.
On this particular Thursday the chains of two students’ bikes had come off, most likely while they were traversing the divots in the dirt road created from heavy traffic flow (read: the occasional car) after torrential rains. It is, after all, the rainy season. These “potholes” are so big they span portions of road so large that they make Pennsylvania roads look like they were paved smooth out of ice by a zamboni, not out of asphalt by PennDOT. These holes are some serious holes, and if you sneeze when you’re steering clear you might as well take a bath in the mud. If not you might also consider being stranded on the side of the road, broken-down on your bicycle because the chain has come off of the track. While putting chains back onto bikes doesn’t require a certified mechanic, the situation of these two students came close. The porous terrain left the students’ bikes in such shape that the chains wedged themselves between the spokes and the gauges, but the chains were not simply stuck. They wouldn’t budge. Not with yanks, pulls, sticks, bricks, wires or axes. While I mentioned that I haven’t had much time lately, I decided to make time for these students having two-wheel troubles. Even if I wasn’t the one with the solution, the wrench, I felt that moral support was more important than getting back into the air-con for lunch. Forty minutes later I took the opportunity to positively contributed to the situation by handing out handy wipes for all involved: grease-free fingers and good habits just in time for lunch.
It wasn’t until later that day that I really thought about the significance of the broken down bikes, after Kim Chhoeurn asked me about the word “break.” While I explained the situation, she asked for clarification on the word break. Could I spell it? I replied by writing it on the white board in front of us. Break: b, r, e, a, k. As I spelled the word out on the white board I remembered that there is another word that sounds the same but is spelled differently: brake. Same same sound, but different meaning. A break is like a pause, and a brake is something that stops suddenly. Only on my way home, thinking about the day’s events, did I realize this coincidence that is the homonym break/brake.
Both break and brake seem to involve a stop or a pause of some sort. A break can be a pause from work, from school, or even a stop from something like bad luck in the sense of a lucky break. It can also be used in the sense of “breaking a bone;” perhaps that could be considered a pause in the bone’s continuity. It will be back together some day, but for now, the bone is broken: the continuity is paused. Brake, like break, has to do with a pause, but in a more abrupt sense. When you use your brakes, you might think of slamming them for an immediate stop. Brakes halt motion suddenly.
I am still sorting through the meanings and significance of this little homonymic coincidence. Although, it seems as though life happens, at least when things start to get busy and stress rears its’ ugly head, because of a series of brakes. Without the sudden halts we make to achieve certain things or deal with others, it is possible that we would keep on going, no stops, forever. Stressed, with no time, and absolutely no breaks until a brake. A forced stop. And while that might be fulfilling in the sense of making progress, does this type of lifestyle produce stress? And when is the stress worth it? Is it possible to take a break before you have to slam on the brakes?
I know that my 40-minute break for roadside bike assistance certainly helped me to think through some things, particularly regarding time and how sometimes schedules must be fluid instead of crystallized. While I slammed on my brakes to pause and scope out the scene, I decided to take a break from my preconceived schedule and offer a hand of support; I allowed my schedule, and my life, for that morning to be more fluid. I had more options. If I hadn’t put on the brakes and stuck to the rigid schedule I have fallen into, I would have never taken a break to offer any roadside assistance… but should it be that way? Should we create such schedules that force us to resent slamming on the brakes rather than enjoy the breaks, no matter what the circumstance like helping out someone in a bind, or in this case a serious wedge? If I ever figure this one out, I’ll be sure to make the time for a break to pass along my findings. I just hope that I don’t have to slam on my brakes first.
This afternoon I actually decided to stay back at the guesthouse and finish up the ESOL (English Students of Other Languages): time unit that I’ve been co-teaching with Kim Chhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. The whole unit, from brainstorming ideas to putting them on paper, from making the ideas come to life in the classroom, to ensuring their comprehension, has been more work than I anticipated. Despite my lack of time to even post a blog, I would say that it has definitely been worthwhile. It just seems funny because I don’t even remember if I’ve mentioned much about the progress the students have made in understanding time, or whether I have even mentioned the unit at all. I know I haven’t mentioned that I went to the temples with a bunch of American women from Oregon, or that I cycled to Tonle Sap lake, the largest freshwater source in southeast Asia, with an English girl also named Laura. I guess that I just haven’t had much time? So the cycle continues.
I was thinking about titling this post something like “everything I ever needed to know I learned while peddling my bike” which, in some respects, is true. Spending over an hour pedaling to and from school provides ample time to ponder, and while that seems obvious, having time to think through things is a luxury for me. I simply don’t have the time. School makes it at least appears that way because I struggle to find the time to get more than four hours of sleep each night. It seems ironic that I would be able to do the least amount of thinking while attending university. School. You know, the institution where you’re supposed to expand your mind through thinking? Thank goodness for summer break… a time to think things through. I’ve thought so much about things here in Siem Reap that I actually planned out this entry on the back of the envelope I received containing the receipt for extended visa. I may have written the rough outline almost five days ago, but I simply haven’t had a break to expand on those ideas that cover the envelope I have next to me.
Going back to the importance of the bike, I was taken aback the other day while I was riding home for lunch. Just a few hundred meters from the gate of the Amelio School, near to the divot where I had the mud bath, stood ten children on the side of the road. I couldn’t figure out why they were just standing there; the students are usually like horses through the gate at the start of a race when school is out. When I stopped to survey the situation, I noticed they were having some trouble with their means of transportation: bicycles. In my twenty-one years of life, I have waited for car batteries to be jumped, I have been on airplanes that have needed a few repairs before takeoff, I have waited hours for buses, and I have sat in construction for six hours while twelve men patched up six small patches of road. I have even been on trains that couldn’t move forward because of protesting students sitting on the tracks. Never, however, in all of my years of getting around or being held up, have I experienced a broken-down bike.
On this particular Thursday the chains of two students’ bikes had come off, most likely while they were traversing the divots in the dirt road created from heavy traffic flow (read: the occasional car) after torrential rains. It is, after all, the rainy season. These “potholes” are so big they span portions of road so large that they make Pennsylvania roads look like they were paved smooth out of ice by a zamboni, not out of asphalt by PennDOT. These holes are some serious holes, and if you sneeze when you’re steering clear you might as well take a bath in the mud. If not you might also consider being stranded on the side of the road, broken-down on your bicycle because the chain has come off of the track. While putting chains back onto bikes doesn’t require a certified mechanic, the situation of these two students came close. The porous terrain left the students’ bikes in such shape that the chains wedged themselves between the spokes and the gauges, but the chains were not simply stuck. They wouldn’t budge. Not with yanks, pulls, sticks, bricks, wires or axes. While I mentioned that I haven’t had much time lately, I decided to make time for these students having two-wheel troubles. Even if I wasn’t the one with the solution, the wrench, I felt that moral support was more important than getting back into the air-con for lunch. Forty minutes later I took the opportunity to positively contributed to the situation by handing out handy wipes for all involved: grease-free fingers and good habits just in time for lunch.
It wasn’t until later that day that I really thought about the significance of the broken down bikes, after Kim Chhoeurn asked me about the word “break.” While I explained the situation, she asked for clarification on the word break. Could I spell it? I replied by writing it on the white board in front of us. Break: b, r, e, a, k. As I spelled the word out on the white board I remembered that there is another word that sounds the same but is spelled differently: brake. Same same sound, but different meaning. A break is like a pause, and a brake is something that stops suddenly. Only on my way home, thinking about the day’s events, did I realize this coincidence that is the homonym break/brake.
Both break and brake seem to involve a stop or a pause of some sort. A break can be a pause from work, from school, or even a stop from something like bad luck in the sense of a lucky break. It can also be used in the sense of “breaking a bone;” perhaps that could be considered a pause in the bone’s continuity. It will be back together some day, but for now, the bone is broken: the continuity is paused. Brake, like break, has to do with a pause, but in a more abrupt sense. When you use your brakes, you might think of slamming them for an immediate stop. Brakes halt motion suddenly.
I am still sorting through the meanings and significance of this little homonymic coincidence. Although, it seems as though life happens, at least when things start to get busy and stress rears its’ ugly head, because of a series of brakes. Without the sudden halts we make to achieve certain things or deal with others, it is possible that we would keep on going, no stops, forever. Stressed, with no time, and absolutely no breaks until a brake. A forced stop. And while that might be fulfilling in the sense of making progress, does this type of lifestyle produce stress? And when is the stress worth it? Is it possible to take a break before you have to slam on the brakes?
I know that my 40-minute break for roadside bike assistance certainly helped me to think through some things, particularly regarding time and how sometimes schedules must be fluid instead of crystallized. While I slammed on my brakes to pause and scope out the scene, I decided to take a break from my preconceived schedule and offer a hand of support; I allowed my schedule, and my life, for that morning to be more fluid. I had more options. If I hadn’t put on the brakes and stuck to the rigid schedule I have fallen into, I would have never taken a break to offer any roadside assistance… but should it be that way? Should we create such schedules that force us to resent slamming on the brakes rather than enjoy the breaks, no matter what the circumstance like helping out someone in a bind, or in this case a serious wedge? If I ever figure this one out, I’ll be sure to make the time for a break to pass along my findings. I just hope that I don’t have to slam on my brakes first.
Friday, June 20, 2008
That Stare.
This is another one of those posts that I’ve been thinking long and hard about, and I don’t even know how or where to start. This sentence actually marks my third attempt at an appropriate beginning. I initially wanted to title this post something witty like “Dorothy We’re Not in Kansas Anymore,” and talk about how I feel like so much of an outsider here. It seems as though even if I wanted to just fit in, I never could or would. Maybe this is how Dorothy felt in the mysterious land of Oz? I’m not pedaling around wearing a blue-and-white checkered dress, but sometimes I feel like I am. Here in Cambodia I’m the strange girl who’s taken up residence on the locals’ terrain. While Dorothy is the only girl in Oz who comes from Kansas, and I am the only girl at the Amelio School who comes from a different country, or perhaps even a different town. Here I am the only.
Why does being the only warrant blank stares almost everywhere I go from almost everyone that I pass, from cyclists to tuk-tuk drivers to those sitting on the side of the road? Yes, I have light, curly hair and blue eyes so you’re probably correct if you guess that no, I’m not Khmer. I understand that we’re different, but does that make me less of a person? I don’t think, and while you might not either it certainly seems that way from the look that you’re giving me. It’s just that your stare makes me feel so small. There really is no need to stare at me like that. Ok?
I’ve given much thought to these looks and their effects on my sense of belonging, so I’ve hesitated to post anything until now. Even as I’m writing ideas go in and out of my thoughts. How many other people are made to feel this way, small and belittled, in one way or another every single day? Not only for a six-week period but for a lifetime? I cannot even imagine how difficult that must be. The looks from being the only are something that I’ve experienced for a very short time, and although I do not enjoy them, I know that they will end. At this time I cannot begin to comprehend what it must be like to experience similar looks and sentiments every single day. This is where this post stops being about my feelings and focuses on something that is out of my realm of understanding: the stories behind the Khmers’ blank stares. After enduring the trauma of the Khmer Rouge, the American bombings, and the forced re-entry from refugee camps by the Thais, I believe that each blank stare is actually an untold story. Why? Because I realize that the whole Khmer population, has experienced the unthinkable.
Before I arrived I was quite uninformed about the Khmer Rouge and the plight met by the Cambodian people in the mid-1970s and beyond, which is astonishing to me because it is estimated that almost 2 million people died under the Khmer Rouge in addition to the hundreds of thousands who perished from the US bombings related to the Vietnam War in northeastern Cambodia. That marks almost 25% of their population. How is it that we’ve heard about the genocide in Kosovo and in Germany, but not a thing about what has happened on the soil that I’m now living on? In order to learn much about Cambodia, it seems as though you almost have to be here to gain the exposure and the former sense of destruction. In the market, in restaurants, and on the street, I cannot escape the articles about the Khmer Rouge in the papers, the magazines, and even the books that mine victims sell so that they can put food on the table and clothing on their backs.
The current articles critical of the Cambodian tribunals prosecuting Brother Number 2 and other seniors Khmer Rouge leaders, as well as the statistic finding 25% of the population still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder are astounding. Yet, although they are astounding, I was unable to comprehend their magnitude and the level of suffering endured until I finished Theary Seng’s account of her childhood under the Khmer Rouge in Daughter of the Killing Fields. The people of Cambodia have felt small for decades, or at least that’s how it seems. First the Khmer Rouge broke them down and made them feel less than human; next they stripped the Cambodians of their culture, their families, their freedoms, and eventually their lives. Their neighbors next door, Thailand and Vietnam, belittled them further. The Vietnamese soldiers appeared peaceful in their invasion and occupation of Cambodia compared to the Khmer Rouge, but that’s only a comparison and look who they’re up against. The Thais forced fleeing Khmer refugees back across the border into the Cambodian mountains strewn with mines at gunpoint. If the Thai soldiers didn’t shoot them, the mines often accomplished the soldiers’ intent. While physical safety finally came for the Khmers as refugees in countries such as the States and France, it did not guarantee complete safety. Being a refugee in an at-peace country did not shield the Cambodians from the stares and strange looks they met, adding to the infinite emotional scars.
After considering all of that, I feel that I can hardly get upset about my situation here in Siem Reap. Sure it’s tough to be the only, but it cannot even be compared to the history of the people with whom I’m living alongside. Seng recalls a conversation with her Aunt Ry about her Aunt’s mindset under the Khmer Rouge: “You know, during the Khmer Rouge years, the expectation was death. During the four years, I was only waiting to die… I only came under extreme shock the evening we were scheduled to die. The day before when we dug our own grave, I had little reaction” (260). Keeping Aunt Ry’s words in my thoughts, I can’t help but question myself: so what if I’m the only? Surely it cannot be that bad. I might be talking to someone who remains the sole survivor within their family. The blank stares that I see originate within the two black eyes looking through me. But those two black eyes staring in my direction might actually be giving the only look they know how: an unresponsive, blank stare. After all they’ve experienced, who am I to know what they see now or have seen in the past?
Why does being the only warrant blank stares almost everywhere I go from almost everyone that I pass, from cyclists to tuk-tuk drivers to those sitting on the side of the road? Yes, I have light, curly hair and blue eyes so you’re probably correct if you guess that no, I’m not Khmer. I understand that we’re different, but does that make me less of a person? I don’t think, and while you might not either it certainly seems that way from the look that you’re giving me. It’s just that your stare makes me feel so small. There really is no need to stare at me like that. Ok?
As you read please do not take that dialogue the wrong way; not everyone looks at me in that way. In fact some people offer me their smiles, directing friendly “hellos” and accompanying waves in my direction as I ride to and from school. I just felt compelled to write about why I don’t like the animosity. I do not want to be made to feel small from the sets of staring eyes that give me those looks, but it just seems to happen. I also need to express the difficulty in knowing that here I’ll never fit in, no matter the language I speak, the work that I do, or the currency I use. In Cambodia I will never simply be; I’ll always be from or that. That girl, that snob, from America.
I’ve given much thought to these looks and their effects on my sense of belonging, so I’ve hesitated to post anything until now. Even as I’m writing ideas go in and out of my thoughts. How many other people are made to feel this way, small and belittled, in one way or another every single day? Not only for a six-week period but for a lifetime? I cannot even imagine how difficult that must be. The looks from being the only are something that I’ve experienced for a very short time, and although I do not enjoy them, I know that they will end. At this time I cannot begin to comprehend what it must be like to experience similar looks and sentiments every single day. This is where this post stops being about my feelings and focuses on something that is out of my realm of understanding: the stories behind the Khmers’ blank stares. After enduring the trauma of the Khmer Rouge, the American bombings, and the forced re-entry from refugee camps by the Thais, I believe that each blank stare is actually an untold story. Why? Because I realize that the whole Khmer population, has experienced the unthinkable.
Before I arrived I was quite uninformed about the Khmer Rouge and the plight met by the Cambodian people in the mid-1970s and beyond, which is astonishing to me because it is estimated that almost 2 million people died under the Khmer Rouge in addition to the hundreds of thousands who perished from the US bombings related to the Vietnam War in northeastern Cambodia. That marks almost 25% of their population. How is it that we’ve heard about the genocide in Kosovo and in Germany, but not a thing about what has happened on the soil that I’m now living on? In order to learn much about Cambodia, it seems as though you almost have to be here to gain the exposure and the former sense of destruction. In the market, in restaurants, and on the street, I cannot escape the articles about the Khmer Rouge in the papers, the magazines, and even the books that mine victims sell so that they can put food on the table and clothing on their backs.
The current articles critical of the Cambodian tribunals prosecuting Brother Number 2 and other seniors Khmer Rouge leaders, as well as the statistic finding 25% of the population still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder are astounding. Yet, although they are astounding, I was unable to comprehend their magnitude and the level of suffering endured until I finished Theary Seng’s account of her childhood under the Khmer Rouge in Daughter of the Killing Fields. The people of Cambodia have felt small for decades, or at least that’s how it seems. First the Khmer Rouge broke them down and made them feel less than human; next they stripped the Cambodians of their culture, their families, their freedoms, and eventually their lives. Their neighbors next door, Thailand and Vietnam, belittled them further. The Vietnamese soldiers appeared peaceful in their invasion and occupation of Cambodia compared to the Khmer Rouge, but that’s only a comparison and look who they’re up against. The Thais forced fleeing Khmer refugees back across the border into the Cambodian mountains strewn with mines at gunpoint. If the Thai soldiers didn’t shoot them, the mines often accomplished the soldiers’ intent. While physical safety finally came for the Khmers as refugees in countries such as the States and France, it did not guarantee complete safety. Being a refugee in an at-peace country did not shield the Cambodians from the stares and strange looks they met, adding to the infinite emotional scars.
After considering all of that, I feel that I can hardly get upset about my situation here in Siem Reap. Sure it’s tough to be the only, but it cannot even be compared to the history of the people with whom I’m living alongside. Seng recalls a conversation with her Aunt Ry about her Aunt’s mindset under the Khmer Rouge: “You know, during the Khmer Rouge years, the expectation was death. During the four years, I was only waiting to die… I only came under extreme shock the evening we were scheduled to die. The day before when we dug our own grave, I had little reaction” (260). Keeping Aunt Ry’s words in my thoughts, I can’t help but question myself: so what if I’m the only? Surely it cannot be that bad. I might be talking to someone who remains the sole survivor within their family. The blank stares that I see originate within the two black eyes looking through me. But those two black eyes staring in my direction might actually be giving the only look they know how: an unresponsive, blank stare. After all they’ve experienced, who am I to know what they see now or have seen in the past?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
It's the Little Things
Today was one of those days. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, certainly not. It was just one of those days that happens once in a while, filled with occurrences that make you laugh and make you sigh when you’re recounting them in your head a few days later. What was it about today? Oh well it was lots of things.
I fell. Twice. Once going up the stairs after breakfast with laptop in hand, and once in the mud. The serious mud. The mud that covers your whole leg, and bike, and jacket. Oh yes, I wiped out about 50 meters from the entrance to the Amelio School while rocking out to Katy Perry on my Shuffle. Who knew that the sides of giant puddles are slick and don’t hold traction of little pushbike tires? At the school gate a chorus of children greeted my mud-covered self in the “hello!!!” fashion per usual, which quickly erupted into a chorus of chuckles. As much as I like to think they were laughing with me, I’m almost positive their laughter was directed at me. No worries, though… a little bit of dirt only adds character, right? Even if the mud permanently added nice brown stains down the sides of my sole pair of pants, I guess it is what it is.
When I went to town during lunch searching for a book and a flash drive and things seemed to be looking up. I mean, after you fall in the mud you can only go up from being that low, at least to the ground, right? Besides the morning had gone well; Kim Chhoeurn and I had worked together proctoring the Rosetta Stone progress tests, and although some of the students were really struggling, our cooperation made me really excited for the weeks to come. Back in town everything was smooth until a stranger told me that I smelled. After he saw my look of astonishment he clarified his assertion, explaining that I was smelly because I rode a bike instead of taking a tuk-tuk; he was, of course, a tuk tuk driver himself. I told him that it wasn’t nice to tell complete strangers that they smell, but thanks anyway and I rode off on my orange bike.
At the next corner another tuk-tuk driver greeted me and started speaking to me in French. After about thirty seconds of conversation I joked that his French was way better than mine, which it was, but he did not hesitate to whole-heartedly agree. In fact, he wondered why it was so bad? Looks like I’m not catching a break after all. On my way home I stopped at every internet café I saw in search of a flash drive, and at last my search had ended: flash drive spotted. The only problem was I knew that the man at the store jacked up the price as soon as I pulled up. He didn’t have a price listed to begin with so he could conceivably charge almost anything depending upon who pulled up. After a few minutes of failed bargaining I paid the $10 and went on my merry way back to the guesthouse for a quick lunch of peanut butter and banana sandwich. After guzzling the sandwich I made another failed attempt, this time at washing out my pants. In my haste to get back to school, I threw on a pair of shorts sans bug spray. Much to my dismay I forgot about the fact that shorts don’t protect you from mosquitoes like pants do; I now have six bites the size of quarters to remind me not to do that again.
It might sound as if I was having a pretty bad morning, or perhaps even a bad day. And while I don’t know if I’d choose to fall in the mud every day, I have to admit that yesterday was a pretty fantastic. In fact, it might be one of the best days that I’ve had since I’ve been here in Siem Reap. Why? Because of the little things. I went to the bookstore over lunch and bought a “Colloquial Cambodian” book, as well as a book about the Khmer Rouge written by a Frenchman. It’s the little things like knowing that even though the tuk-tuk driver said I was smelly, biking for almost an hour every day means that I’m getting some exercise and gaining some independence. And although his French was better than mine, the French-speaking tuk-tuk driver started speaking to me in French because he thought I was from France. Sounds like the good old days. Another little treat was finding out that there’s no school tomorrow. It’s actually the King’s birthday and a state holiday, so students and teachers get the day off. I’m certainly not complaining because now I’ve got double the weekend! At the end of the day I joined some of my fellow teachers for a celebratory can of Crown Beer before hopping onto my bike and heading into town for dinner.
For dinner I enjoyed some pasta primavera. It was pretty good, and service seemed to be pretty smooth so I didn’t anticipate any problems with paying the bill. Not so, however, especially since it was just one of those days. The restaurant refused my $20 bill because a piece of one of the corners was missing. Seriously? Even my money isn’t good enough around here? But instead of going off annoyed I asked he server why and found out that here that’s just the way it is here in Cambodia. Fair enough, and I’m just glad that I asked so that I know to watch out next time. Before heading home I made a few stops. First I went to Boom Boom Music, and then I stopped at the Ivy Bar and Guesthouse to say hello to my Australian friend Megan while she was working. We made plans to take advantage of the day off and go to some galleries around town. As I was getting on my bike, the French tuk-tuk driver spotted me and we started chatting once again en français. On my way home I discovered that Hotel de la Paix has some fantastic pastries, and after 8pm they’re half price. After chatting with a really nice Khmer girl behind the counter, I took my croissant aux amandes chez moi and enjoyed it thoroughly while watching TV5Monde, the French TV station.
Was today really great because of the savory taste of the almond croissant, or the fact that I purchased a few books at the bookstore? Yes, but not exactly. It’s more like today was great because it made me realize that noticing all of the really good things in life, no matter how small, really make all of the difference. The little things give you something to be excited about; the little things are the ones that make you smile to yourself so that when people look at you, they wonder what you’re smiling about. The little things are the pick-me-ups after you fall in the mud, and the falls in the mud are things that you look back on and laugh. The falls in the mud also make the little things more savory themselves. Considering the day’s events, I regret only one thing: I have no pictures that can attest to my mud bath because frankly, I think it would give you quite a laugh. I mean, I’m still chuckling about it.
I fell. Twice. Once going up the stairs after breakfast with laptop in hand, and once in the mud. The serious mud. The mud that covers your whole leg, and bike, and jacket. Oh yes, I wiped out about 50 meters from the entrance to the Amelio School while rocking out to Katy Perry on my Shuffle. Who knew that the sides of giant puddles are slick and don’t hold traction of little pushbike tires? At the school gate a chorus of children greeted my mud-covered self in the “hello!!!” fashion per usual, which quickly erupted into a chorus of chuckles. As much as I like to think they were laughing with me, I’m almost positive their laughter was directed at me. No worries, though… a little bit of dirt only adds character, right? Even if the mud permanently added nice brown stains down the sides of my sole pair of pants, I guess it is what it is.
When I went to town during lunch searching for a book and a flash drive and things seemed to be looking up. I mean, after you fall in the mud you can only go up from being that low, at least to the ground, right? Besides the morning had gone well; Kim Chhoeurn and I had worked together proctoring the Rosetta Stone progress tests, and although some of the students were really struggling, our cooperation made me really excited for the weeks to come. Back in town everything was smooth until a stranger told me that I smelled. After he saw my look of astonishment he clarified his assertion, explaining that I was smelly because I rode a bike instead of taking a tuk-tuk; he was, of course, a tuk tuk driver himself. I told him that it wasn’t nice to tell complete strangers that they smell, but thanks anyway and I rode off on my orange bike.
At the next corner another tuk-tuk driver greeted me and started speaking to me in French. After about thirty seconds of conversation I joked that his French was way better than mine, which it was, but he did not hesitate to whole-heartedly agree. In fact, he wondered why it was so bad? Looks like I’m not catching a break after all. On my way home I stopped at every internet café I saw in search of a flash drive, and at last my search had ended: flash drive spotted. The only problem was I knew that the man at the store jacked up the price as soon as I pulled up. He didn’t have a price listed to begin with so he could conceivably charge almost anything depending upon who pulled up. After a few minutes of failed bargaining I paid the $10 and went on my merry way back to the guesthouse for a quick lunch of peanut butter and banana sandwich. After guzzling the sandwich I made another failed attempt, this time at washing out my pants. In my haste to get back to school, I threw on a pair of shorts sans bug spray. Much to my dismay I forgot about the fact that shorts don’t protect you from mosquitoes like pants do; I now have six bites the size of quarters to remind me not to do that again.
It might sound as if I was having a pretty bad morning, or perhaps even a bad day. And while I don’t know if I’d choose to fall in the mud every day, I have to admit that yesterday was a pretty fantastic. In fact, it might be one of the best days that I’ve had since I’ve been here in Siem Reap. Why? Because of the little things. I went to the bookstore over lunch and bought a “Colloquial Cambodian” book, as well as a book about the Khmer Rouge written by a Frenchman. It’s the little things like knowing that even though the tuk-tuk driver said I was smelly, biking for almost an hour every day means that I’m getting some exercise and gaining some independence. And although his French was better than mine, the French-speaking tuk-tuk driver started speaking to me in French because he thought I was from France. Sounds like the good old days. Another little treat was finding out that there’s no school tomorrow. It’s actually the King’s birthday and a state holiday, so students and teachers get the day off. I’m certainly not complaining because now I’ve got double the weekend! At the end of the day I joined some of my fellow teachers for a celebratory can of Crown Beer before hopping onto my bike and heading into town for dinner.
For dinner I enjoyed some pasta primavera. It was pretty good, and service seemed to be pretty smooth so I didn’t anticipate any problems with paying the bill. Not so, however, especially since it was just one of those days. The restaurant refused my $20 bill because a piece of one of the corners was missing. Seriously? Even my money isn’t good enough around here? But instead of going off annoyed I asked he server why and found out that here that’s just the way it is here in Cambodia. Fair enough, and I’m just glad that I asked so that I know to watch out next time. Before heading home I made a few stops. First I went to Boom Boom Music, and then I stopped at the Ivy Bar and Guesthouse to say hello to my Australian friend Megan while she was working. We made plans to take advantage of the day off and go to some galleries around town. As I was getting on my bike, the French tuk-tuk driver spotted me and we started chatting once again en français. On my way home I discovered that Hotel de la Paix has some fantastic pastries, and after 8pm they’re half price. After chatting with a really nice Khmer girl behind the counter, I took my croissant aux amandes chez moi and enjoyed it thoroughly while watching TV5Monde, the French TV station.
Was today really great because of the savory taste of the almond croissant, or the fact that I purchased a few books at the bookstore? Yes, but not exactly. It’s more like today was great because it made me realize that noticing all of the really good things in life, no matter how small, really make all of the difference. The little things give you something to be excited about; the little things are the ones that make you smile to yourself so that when people look at you, they wonder what you’re smiling about. The little things are the pick-me-ups after you fall in the mud, and the falls in the mud are things that you look back on and laugh. The falls in the mud also make the little things more savory themselves. Considering the day’s events, I regret only one thing: I have no pictures that can attest to my mud bath because frankly, I think it would give you quite a laugh. I mean, I’m still chuckling about it.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Sorry Won’t Fix It
Well, I learned a tough lesson the other day, and it’s something that I won’t forget any time soon. Before I get into it, here’s a mini update on a few of the goings on here in Siem Reap.
I have yet to enjoy the takeout from the Italian restaurant that imports their ingredients from Italy in the humble Treehouse, and I probably won’t any time soon seeing that I moved out. The Treehouse, although very cute, was actually located about ten minutes by tuk tuk outside of the town’s main area, and across the Siem Reap River. Not only did the verdant tropical location look cute, but it welcomed mosquitoes to feast upon my legs. It also made getting into town somewhat of a challenge since at the time I had got only my two feet to get around a city full of crazy moto bike traffic. Turning my frown right side up, I’ll be residing downtown in the Villa Siem Reap for the rest of my time in Cambodia. Victory! What this means is that I can actually explore downtown on foot, or better yet via the pushbike that Savy and I purchased this morning. I think that I’m finally getting the courage to venture out of my “comfort zone.” Last Thursday I scuttled over to the supermarket, Angkor Market, where I bought Skippy to make PB and banana sandwiches for lunch. Maybe I will get even more adventurous and try dinner on the town or even a meditation class with me, myself, and I? We’ll just have to see. Well that’s about it for the update. I’ll write more about the weekend at a later date, but for now I’ll stick to the story I’ve wanted to tell since last Thursday.
I finally ventured out of my comfort zone, not only to the supermarket but also to a restaurant downtown for lunch. At the Khmer Kitchen I sat drinking my Coca Light and reading Daughter of the Killing Fields, perfectly content awaiting my chicken curry. As I sat at my table, situated at the front of the open restaurant, people started to approach me. First they would ask me where I was from, and after I responded “the US,” they would rattle off facts about the United States, everything from population to the fact that George Bush is our president who “no one likes.” I may have chuckled at that one. But getting back to the story, two little girls were selling packets of post cards and bracelets for $2 each; a teenage boy came by with several books about Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge, the mines, and the killing fields. A man walked up to my table with a basket of similar books hanging around his neck; since he couldn’t speak much English he had posted a sign written in English on the front of his basket. The sign spoke for him; after loosing both of his hands from land mines we was hoping I would be kind enough to support him and his family for $8. Even though he was a proud man, his situation prevented him from finding work and he had no other means of income.
I feel so bad for having turned them all away. I know that they could all use the $2 or the $8, while I could afford to spare it. The $2 the girls were requesting would most likely equate to a substantial portion of their monthly school fee, charged to pay the teachers’ salaries. Me? I could probably find that much change lying around in parking lots in the States in the same amount of time that it took them to complete their sales pitch, sad as that is. Picturing the man affected by the land mines puts my stomach in a knot. I felt as though if I gave money to one, I’d have to give money to them all. I know that sounds, and is, absolutely horrible, especially considering how blessed or even spoiled I am; I lead such a privileged life. I have a loving family, amazing friends, I attend an amazing university, I have a beautiful house to live in, food on the table, and I’m free to pursue any dreams that I can imagine. I don’t think that’s anyone’s fault exactly, although it seems so wrong when people who’ve faired unfathomable atrocities like those committed under the Khmer Rouge approach me and I dismiss their pleas. Maybe it’s not so bad if you consider it like this: giving them money is a short-term solution. I’d be giving a handout, not a hand up; in the long term they may become more dependant instead of independent.
While I do believe it’s better to help through slow, gradual change, giving hands up like the long-term plans CFC has developed, the two little girls continue to give me a guilty conscious. I did not want to offend them or any of the others by saying flat-out “no thank you.” I now know that phrase is the best way to handle such a situation, but in order to be less harsh I said “maybe later” and went on with my reading. The little girls stuck around my table while I waited for my lunch, enjoyed it, and paid the bill, a process that took almost an hour. When I was getting into the van to go back to school, they approached me and asked me why I had I not purchased a set of bracelets and postcards? I replied that I had only said maybe and had to get back to school. I do not view “maybe” as a guarantee but a possibility of sorts. To these girls, maybe means something more. They have already overcome so much adversity in their young lives, “maybe” is a promise. For them had I broken a promise, and they did not hesitate to let me know. The girls stood at the doorway of the van as I climbed into the seat. One of them looked me straight in the eye and declared, “sorry won’t fix it.” Back at the Amelio school I tried to be excited about making a difference for the children sitting in from of me, learning important lessons about hygiene, but I couldn’t get the two girls out of my mind.
Sorry won’t fix it. The phrase echoed through my head. That little girl was completely right and possessed the wisdom that comes only through hardship. Considering the tragic past of Cambodia and the atrocities that occurred here, sorry won’t fix it. It hasn’t in the past, and it will not in the future. Nothing can ever fix the fact that the Khmer Rouge massacred the Cambodian people and their culture, particularly a phrase like “I’m sorry.” It almost sounds facetious. While I still have a guilty conscious about being so selfish, the little girls on the street taught me an invaluable lesson. If you don’t feel right about something or anticipate regretting it later, don’t rely on “I’m sorry” because often times sorry just won’t fix it.
I have yet to enjoy the takeout from the Italian restaurant that imports their ingredients from Italy in the humble Treehouse, and I probably won’t any time soon seeing that I moved out. The Treehouse, although very cute, was actually located about ten minutes by tuk tuk outside of the town’s main area, and across the Siem Reap River. Not only did the verdant tropical location look cute, but it welcomed mosquitoes to feast upon my legs. It also made getting into town somewhat of a challenge since at the time I had got only my two feet to get around a city full of crazy moto bike traffic. Turning my frown right side up, I’ll be residing downtown in the Villa Siem Reap for the rest of my time in Cambodia. Victory! What this means is that I can actually explore downtown on foot, or better yet via the pushbike that Savy and I purchased this morning. I think that I’m finally getting the courage to venture out of my “comfort zone.” Last Thursday I scuttled over to the supermarket, Angkor Market, where I bought Skippy to make PB and banana sandwiches for lunch. Maybe I will get even more adventurous and try dinner on the town or even a meditation class with me, myself, and I? We’ll just have to see. Well that’s about it for the update. I’ll write more about the weekend at a later date, but for now I’ll stick to the story I’ve wanted to tell since last Thursday.
I finally ventured out of my comfort zone, not only to the supermarket but also to a restaurant downtown for lunch. At the Khmer Kitchen I sat drinking my Coca Light and reading Daughter of the Killing Fields, perfectly content awaiting my chicken curry. As I sat at my table, situated at the front of the open restaurant, people started to approach me. First they would ask me where I was from, and after I responded “the US,” they would rattle off facts about the United States, everything from population to the fact that George Bush is our president who “no one likes.” I may have chuckled at that one. But getting back to the story, two little girls were selling packets of post cards and bracelets for $2 each; a teenage boy came by with several books about Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge, the mines, and the killing fields. A man walked up to my table with a basket of similar books hanging around his neck; since he couldn’t speak much English he had posted a sign written in English on the front of his basket. The sign spoke for him; after loosing both of his hands from land mines we was hoping I would be kind enough to support him and his family for $8. Even though he was a proud man, his situation prevented him from finding work and he had no other means of income.
I feel so bad for having turned them all away. I know that they could all use the $2 or the $8, while I could afford to spare it. The $2 the girls were requesting would most likely equate to a substantial portion of their monthly school fee, charged to pay the teachers’ salaries. Me? I could probably find that much change lying around in parking lots in the States in the same amount of time that it took them to complete their sales pitch, sad as that is. Picturing the man affected by the land mines puts my stomach in a knot. I felt as though if I gave money to one, I’d have to give money to them all. I know that sounds, and is, absolutely horrible, especially considering how blessed or even spoiled I am; I lead such a privileged life. I have a loving family, amazing friends, I attend an amazing university, I have a beautiful house to live in, food on the table, and I’m free to pursue any dreams that I can imagine. I don’t think that’s anyone’s fault exactly, although it seems so wrong when people who’ve faired unfathomable atrocities like those committed under the Khmer Rouge approach me and I dismiss their pleas. Maybe it’s not so bad if you consider it like this: giving them money is a short-term solution. I’d be giving a handout, not a hand up; in the long term they may become more dependant instead of independent.
While I do believe it’s better to help through slow, gradual change, giving hands up like the long-term plans CFC has developed, the two little girls continue to give me a guilty conscious. I did not want to offend them or any of the others by saying flat-out “no thank you.” I now know that phrase is the best way to handle such a situation, but in order to be less harsh I said “maybe later” and went on with my reading. The little girls stuck around my table while I waited for my lunch, enjoyed it, and paid the bill, a process that took almost an hour. When I was getting into the van to go back to school, they approached me and asked me why I had I not purchased a set of bracelets and postcards? I replied that I had only said maybe and had to get back to school. I do not view “maybe” as a guarantee but a possibility of sorts. To these girls, maybe means something more. They have already overcome so much adversity in their young lives, “maybe” is a promise. For them had I broken a promise, and they did not hesitate to let me know. The girls stood at the doorway of the van as I climbed into the seat. One of them looked me straight in the eye and declared, “sorry won’t fix it.” Back at the Amelio school I tried to be excited about making a difference for the children sitting in from of me, learning important lessons about hygiene, but I couldn’t get the two girls out of my mind.
Sorry won’t fix it. The phrase echoed through my head. That little girl was completely right and possessed the wisdom that comes only through hardship. Considering the tragic past of Cambodia and the atrocities that occurred here, sorry won’t fix it. It hasn’t in the past, and it will not in the future. Nothing can ever fix the fact that the Khmer Rouge massacred the Cambodian people and their culture, particularly a phrase like “I’m sorry.” It almost sounds facetious. While I still have a guilty conscious about being so selfish, the little girls on the street taught me an invaluable lesson. If you don’t feel right about something or anticipate regretting it later, don’t rely on “I’m sorry” because often times sorry just won’t fix it.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Differences Can Be Made in One Day
Well, this is yet another unexpected post meaning that school and life lessons are still on their way. I am quite certain however, that the lesson I learned today is equally important, just in a different way: it’s a lesson in perseverance.
Friday night I was elated at having met some really interesting people whom I introduced to you promptly on Friday night. I was hoping to meet up with some of them for dinner and drinks last night, but that wasn’t in the cards so I stayed in a watched some French tv… which was great. I was even feeling pretty good this morning when I slept in until 8:30am. It wasn’t until after I’d digested my buttered toast and English tea that it really hit me… or I really hit it.
What did I hit? I don’t know if you’d call it a wall, but it was something that caused a breakdown or something like it. Questions started to flood my mind, and when I skyped my parents the questions turned into tears that flowed from my mind onto my keyboard. I didn’t expect to cry, but it was the moment I started talking with my Dad that I realized that I was no longer excited to be here. In fact I was almost resenting the fact that I decided to uproot myself from the familiar and live on a continent that I’d never been to, in a country that spoke a language that I’d only just heard of, and in a town stricken with problems that I can’t fix. Why wasn’t I just in DC? There I could be living with sorority sisters working the 9-5 and having the rest of the time to pal around, see the sights, and have some fun. Or better yet, why did I give up my opportunity to travel Europe and get paid with some of the most outrageous people I know? (Yes LeadU staff, I am sure that you are excited to have that prestigious honor!).
My conversation with Mom and Dad did help a bit; they reassured me that I’d get through it and that things would turn up. Deep down I knew that they were right, but when things are bad, they’re bad. And this morning, they were bad. I told them that I didn’t feel like I was helping anyone at the school, and that I didn’t like Siem Reap. In the past week I left the guesthouse to go to the grocery store, but that was the extent of me having a life and going out and meeting people. The only person I “met” at the grocery was a man in the wine isle, and he was grumbling about the price of the wine. I kind of wanted to say, “Hey man, you should just look outside,” because that might have shut him up. Either way, we didn’t become friends anyway, which has been tough for me because as you probably know, I like to be around people all of the time. While this is great when you live in a dorm or in a house full of little sisters, it’s a weakness when you live by yourself in a foreign country where their native language is Khmer. What is even more ironic is that I felt the same way when I began my semester in Paris. I now know, however, that I had it easy there since I had the language skills (how good they were makes no difference because at least I knew the alphabet and could say more than “thank you” and “hello”) as well as the accompaniment of Ms. Katie Pendery virtually everywhere I went.
Persistence. At least that’s what my Dad called it. He said that it was one of my strengths and that I could get through this because I was persistent. Like I said, I knew that I would make it somehow, but I was in a serious slump. Even the phone calls, texts, and emails that I sent to the few people that I’d met did not provide me any hope since they either gone unanswered or unable to go through. So instead of going out and seeing Siem Reap, I found alternative ways to occupy my free day. I made peanut butter and banana sandwiches and spent the entire afternoon glued to my Mac practicing French (I’m sure that you also know I’m a huge nerd). I figured if I’m going to waste one of my very few day offs, I might as well do something productive!
Things turned up around 4 pm when I got a text message from Savy who I consider to be my boss here. He’d been meeting all day with Kaye Bach and her husband George all afternoon. Originally from New Zealand, Kaye and her husband have lived in Singapore for eight years and have been involved with CFC for quiet a while. After helping with the Teacher Training program on and off for a few years, Kaye quit her job at the Singapore American School and decided to work for a year full-time with CFC. Thus, she came to Siem Reap to work out details with Savy and finalize things for the next year.
Not only did their presence provide a few additional friendly faces; Kaye and George were my guardian angels. Everything happens for a reason, and the fact that they were in town today is no exception. After touring the town searching prospective apartments for Kaye, the three of us ventured out for dinner. On the way Kaye and George provided me with the most useful information I’ve received since I’ve been here… not only did they know where to eat, but they had great ideas about everything you can imagine, including how I could get more involved with CFC. I’ll elaborate more a bit later, but if all works according to plan I will be helping to develop programs targeted to increase the students’ conversational English skills. It’s just remarkable what a few good ideas, some great people, a burrito, and mango margaritas can do for one’s spirit.
I called Mom and Dad after we returned to the guesthouse from what I consider my first real adventure out on the town. They continued to support me and tell me what a difference one day can make, and while I couldn’t agree more, I had to remind them that I had called in tears earlier this morning. Oh the difference that can be made in a single day. I’m just lucky that my guardian angels have quick response time!
Friday night I was elated at having met some really interesting people whom I introduced to you promptly on Friday night. I was hoping to meet up with some of them for dinner and drinks last night, but that wasn’t in the cards so I stayed in a watched some French tv… which was great. I was even feeling pretty good this morning when I slept in until 8:30am. It wasn’t until after I’d digested my buttered toast and English tea that it really hit me… or I really hit it.
What did I hit? I don’t know if you’d call it a wall, but it was something that caused a breakdown or something like it. Questions started to flood my mind, and when I skyped my parents the questions turned into tears that flowed from my mind onto my keyboard. I didn’t expect to cry, but it was the moment I started talking with my Dad that I realized that I was no longer excited to be here. In fact I was almost resenting the fact that I decided to uproot myself from the familiar and live on a continent that I’d never been to, in a country that spoke a language that I’d only just heard of, and in a town stricken with problems that I can’t fix. Why wasn’t I just in DC? There I could be living with sorority sisters working the 9-5 and having the rest of the time to pal around, see the sights, and have some fun. Or better yet, why did I give up my opportunity to travel Europe and get paid with some of the most outrageous people I know? (Yes LeadU staff, I am sure that you are excited to have that prestigious honor!).
My conversation with Mom and Dad did help a bit; they reassured me that I’d get through it and that things would turn up. Deep down I knew that they were right, but when things are bad, they’re bad. And this morning, they were bad. I told them that I didn’t feel like I was helping anyone at the school, and that I didn’t like Siem Reap. In the past week I left the guesthouse to go to the grocery store, but that was the extent of me having a life and going out and meeting people. The only person I “met” at the grocery was a man in the wine isle, and he was grumbling about the price of the wine. I kind of wanted to say, “Hey man, you should just look outside,” because that might have shut him up. Either way, we didn’t become friends anyway, which has been tough for me because as you probably know, I like to be around people all of the time. While this is great when you live in a dorm or in a house full of little sisters, it’s a weakness when you live by yourself in a foreign country where their native language is Khmer. What is even more ironic is that I felt the same way when I began my semester in Paris. I now know, however, that I had it easy there since I had the language skills (how good they were makes no difference because at least I knew the alphabet and could say more than “thank you” and “hello”) as well as the accompaniment of Ms. Katie Pendery virtually everywhere I went.
Persistence. At least that’s what my Dad called it. He said that it was one of my strengths and that I could get through this because I was persistent. Like I said, I knew that I would make it somehow, but I was in a serious slump. Even the phone calls, texts, and emails that I sent to the few people that I’d met did not provide me any hope since they either gone unanswered or unable to go through. So instead of going out and seeing Siem Reap, I found alternative ways to occupy my free day. I made peanut butter and banana sandwiches and spent the entire afternoon glued to my Mac practicing French (I’m sure that you also know I’m a huge nerd). I figured if I’m going to waste one of my very few day offs, I might as well do something productive!
Things turned up around 4 pm when I got a text message from Savy who I consider to be my boss here. He’d been meeting all day with Kaye Bach and her husband George all afternoon. Originally from New Zealand, Kaye and her husband have lived in Singapore for eight years and have been involved with CFC for quiet a while. After helping with the Teacher Training program on and off for a few years, Kaye quit her job at the Singapore American School and decided to work for a year full-time with CFC. Thus, she came to Siem Reap to work out details with Savy and finalize things for the next year.
Not only did their presence provide a few additional friendly faces; Kaye and George were my guardian angels. Everything happens for a reason, and the fact that they were in town today is no exception. After touring the town searching prospective apartments for Kaye, the three of us ventured out for dinner. On the way Kaye and George provided me with the most useful information I’ve received since I’ve been here… not only did they know where to eat, but they had great ideas about everything you can imagine, including how I could get more involved with CFC. I’ll elaborate more a bit later, but if all works according to plan I will be helping to develop programs targeted to increase the students’ conversational English skills. It’s just remarkable what a few good ideas, some great people, a burrito, and mango margaritas can do for one’s spirit.
I called Mom and Dad after we returned to the guesthouse from what I consider my first real adventure out on the town. They continued to support me and tell me what a difference one day can make, and while I couldn’t agree more, I had to remind them that I had called in tears earlier this morning. Oh the difference that can be made in a single day. I’m just lucky that my guardian angels have quick response time!
Friday, June 6, 2008
Not-Deep Stream of Consciousness
Well hello there. So I have to admit that I started on my second entry last night about a life lesson that I will not forget anytime soon. And I’m not scrapping that idea to say the least, I’m just putting it on hold for now since I’ve kind of had a crazy night in the sense that this would is SO small. And I just wanted to share and figured that’s what this blog is for: sharing my experience. So, hang on if you want to hear about school and life lessons because while this is a bit shallow, I promise those deeper thoughts will be coming your way in a few!
So I actually kind of had a downer-ish day at school, and I was really looking forward to going out to dinner with myself after arriving home to the guesthouse around 5:30 pm (I’ve since moved out of the treehouse… more later). When I opened the Macbaby, however, I was approached by one of the really nice Cambodian girls who works here. She said that Fiona and her husband, Anthony, the owners of the guesthouse, would be meeting me at ten of seven. I had no idea why, but as I thought about it I remembered that she had mentioned the opening of a new art exhibit at a hotel down the street and that she and her husband said that I could tag along.
I think tonight was more like providence than the opening of a sculpture exhibit. I even had fun getting “all dolled up” in my sundress and trying to look nice, since I’ve been pretty much covered in dust since I showed up at school on Monday. But that wasn’t even the best part. When Fiona, Anthony, and myself show up at the event, the opening of a new sculpture exhibit, they are offering free wine. The red was delicious, of course. The white? How would I know? I don't touch the stuff! And the appetizers: classy. In fact, stepping into the Hotel de la Paix hotel was actually like stepping out of Cambodia. Almost everyone in the room looked like me, meaning that there was a decent chance that I’d be able to strike up a conversation easily with almost anyone in the room, be it in English or en français, which is something I now know that I always seem to take for granted.
Finding good conversation was not difficult as I actually stumbled upon a great conversation when I had only been in the door for less than a minute. I started talking with Meaghan who as actually from Philadelphia! She and her husband were just great, and I hope to hang out with them sometime soon so you’ll hear more about them later. Just a heads up on their experiences: she’s finishing up a Peace Corps assignment here, and her husband is a volunteer pediatrician at the children’s hospital. Meaghan introduced me to some really great people as well, including an Irish artist who has an exhibit opening today in London. Deidre’s exhibit is of men’s shirts with lining dyed with flowers to symbols such as peace and empathy. The idea that she’s toying with is whether or not someone can buy a shirt that, when they wear it, allows them to become more peaceful or empathetic. Pretty interesting, eh? She too volunteers at the children’s hospital. Meaghan’s boss was also a really fun Australian lady, and we chatted for quiet a bit. She's going to Europe in three weeks... for five weeks. Naturally I told her I was a bit jealous, per usual.
The most startling conversation I had, however, was only about ten minutes long and occurred as I was on my way out the door seeing that I have school tomorrow at 7:30am. I was ecstatic when Meaghen introduced me to Françoise… finally a real, live French person that I could chat with! I had heard there were a number of French people here, but I had yet to encounter one. Francoise was actually from Paris. Ironic, I know! Oh wait… Françoise was from the 15e, the same one that I lived in. Oh yea, and her metro stop was one away from the one that I used to use all of the time… Volontiers! Ohhhhh the green line... mighty number 12 that often fell victim to the greve.
So I don’t know if God just wanted me to have a pick-me-up, or if this whole French thing or even the whole evening means something more. All I know is that running into someone from Philadelphia and someone from literally 5 minutes from your Parisian residence does not just happen randomly. In Siem Reap, Cambodia for that matter! I’m not complaining, though… because although it might have been surreal, it was exactly what I needed ☺
So I actually kind of had a downer-ish day at school, and I was really looking forward to going out to dinner with myself after arriving home to the guesthouse around 5:30 pm (I’ve since moved out of the treehouse… more later). When I opened the Macbaby, however, I was approached by one of the really nice Cambodian girls who works here. She said that Fiona and her husband, Anthony, the owners of the guesthouse, would be meeting me at ten of seven. I had no idea why, but as I thought about it I remembered that she had mentioned the opening of a new art exhibit at a hotel down the street and that she and her husband said that I could tag along.
I think tonight was more like providence than the opening of a sculpture exhibit. I even had fun getting “all dolled up” in my sundress and trying to look nice, since I’ve been pretty much covered in dust since I showed up at school on Monday. But that wasn’t even the best part. When Fiona, Anthony, and myself show up at the event, the opening of a new sculpture exhibit, they are offering free wine. The red was delicious, of course. The white? How would I know? I don't touch the stuff! And the appetizers: classy. In fact, stepping into the Hotel de la Paix hotel was actually like stepping out of Cambodia. Almost everyone in the room looked like me, meaning that there was a decent chance that I’d be able to strike up a conversation easily with almost anyone in the room, be it in English or en français, which is something I now know that I always seem to take for granted.
Finding good conversation was not difficult as I actually stumbled upon a great conversation when I had only been in the door for less than a minute. I started talking with Meaghan who as actually from Philadelphia! She and her husband were just great, and I hope to hang out with them sometime soon so you’ll hear more about them later. Just a heads up on their experiences: she’s finishing up a Peace Corps assignment here, and her husband is a volunteer pediatrician at the children’s hospital. Meaghan introduced me to some really great people as well, including an Irish artist who has an exhibit opening today in London. Deidre’s exhibit is of men’s shirts with lining dyed with flowers to symbols such as peace and empathy. The idea that she’s toying with is whether or not someone can buy a shirt that, when they wear it, allows them to become more peaceful or empathetic. Pretty interesting, eh? She too volunteers at the children’s hospital. Meaghan’s boss was also a really fun Australian lady, and we chatted for quiet a bit. She's going to Europe in three weeks... for five weeks. Naturally I told her I was a bit jealous, per usual.
The most startling conversation I had, however, was only about ten minutes long and occurred as I was on my way out the door seeing that I have school tomorrow at 7:30am. I was ecstatic when Meaghen introduced me to Françoise… finally a real, live French person that I could chat with! I had heard there were a number of French people here, but I had yet to encounter one. Francoise was actually from Paris. Ironic, I know! Oh wait… Françoise was from the 15e, the same one that I lived in. Oh yea, and her metro stop was one away from the one that I used to use all of the time… Volontiers! Ohhhhh the green line... mighty number 12 that often fell victim to the greve.
So I don’t know if God just wanted me to have a pick-me-up, or if this whole French thing or even the whole evening means something more. All I know is that running into someone from Philadelphia and someone from literally 5 minutes from your Parisian residence does not just happen randomly. In Siem Reap, Cambodia for that matter! I’m not complaining, though… because although it might have been surreal, it was exactly what I needed ☺
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
It’s a Small World After All
If I’ve learned anything since leaving the US a week ago, it’s that this world is small. Not to discount the fact that it took 23 odd hours in flight to get here, Siem Reap, but really, it’s something that continues to play over and over in my head like on the Disney ride… or something like that!
Maybe it was the fact that the man sitting next to me on the 13-hour ride from DC to Tokyo was actually from Pittsburgh, too (Peter’s Township to be exact). Or perhaps it was the RBS logo I spotted on an ad while in the line for immigration when I arrived in Singapore. The logo immediately caught my eye and reminded me yet again, that if I wanted to take money out from one of their ATMs in Singapore it would probably cost less than it does for me to get cash in Richmond, Virginia. Why you ask? Because RBS, the Royal Bank of Scotland, backs my little tri-state area bank, Citizens (take that Bank of America!). And getting back on track, I’m convinced that the fact I’ve been watching the French television station FR5 via satellite non-stop since arriving in Cambodia might have something to do with it. If not that, it was seeing a Cambodian girl ride past on a moto wearing a red AARP shirt.
What point am I trying to make here? The point that... even though I am in Cambodia, the world seems to be shrinking every day. In fact, I almost ordered delivery Italian food, made from 100% imported ingredients from Italy, to “the tree house,” my humble abode in Siem Reap. While I’m sure you’re very excited to hear about it, I’d best mention a few things about Singapore and then hit the hay for fear that this blog sets a precedent of being monstrously long!
Singapore. Also known as Asia for Beginners according to many seasoned experts, including my Uncle Bill and Aunt Jamie. Despite the fact that their labels seemed to be in four languages, Singapore’s official languages are English, as well as Mandarin Chinese, Malay, and Tamil. It’s situated at the southern tip of on of the Malay Peninsula and is one of the coolest places that I’ve ever been. When I say cool, please keep in mind that it’s regarding the “awesome factor” and not the weather, which was probably 30+ Celsius (86 Fahrenheit) and 100% humidity. I think that it rained at least once every day that I was there, but the showers weren’t for long, and within a few minutes the sun would be back out and the puddles all dried up. For being such a small, little country of about 700 square kilometers (270 square miles) it certainly has quite a few people… almost 5 million!
But that’s enough about the facts; here are a few stories from my experience! I arrived chez Amelio late on Wednesday night after a driver picked me up to the airport. Because my body clock was so off I managed to wake up before 7am to see Bronson and Riley, Uncle Bill and Aunt Jamie’s little guys, to their bus! Shocking, I know. Afterwards I went for a walk in the Singapore Botanical Gardens, which are literally a hop, skip, and a jump from their house on Nassim Road, also known as Embassy Way (the Russian Embassy was across from their house!). Walking through the Gardens was absolutely amazing, because not only did I enjoy the company of three-year-old Avery, their youngest daughter, but Mana, their helper. She is so much fun! We saw beautiful orchids and fed the largest goldfish that I have ever seen; they were probably at least 3 feet long! The rest of the day was spent hanging out with Avery and the gang, going swimming in the pool, and watching Uncle Bill’s ping-pong lesson. He’s looking to take down a few colleagues at their next business meeting, and wanted to sharpen his skills.
Friday was quiet the day! I went shopping with Avery and Aunt Jamie, who had just arrived to Singapore the day before because she’d been trying to get visas for their two Cambodian daughters. This summer she emerged from Phenom Penh victorious with the amazing news that Chery and Rathana would be able to join them for vacation in Austin, TX! While we shopped on Orchard Street we stopped for lunch at a cute little place that served really delicious mushroom soup. Yum. After lunch we took Avery home to play with her bubbles, her newest acquisition from a successful trip shopping, while Aunt Jamie treated me to reflexology. Reflexology reminded me of getting a pedicure only skipping the pedicure part because they rub your feet for an hour, focusing on ensuring that the body is healthy as all body parts are represented in some parts of the foot.
Throughout our pamper day together, Aunt Jamie told me all about Caring For Cambodia, the non-profit that she founded in 2003. Her passion came through not only in her words, the manner in which she spoke. I know that I’m truly lucky to have the opportunity to work with CFC for six weeks here in Siem Reap! Here’s the cliff notes version of CFC: Founder and President, Jamie Amelio has a passion for helping the Cambodian people that started after her trip in 2003. While the beauty of the temples touched her, she was touched even more by the Cambodian children who approached her for money for their tuition. Wanting to do something to help she came back with her husband, Bill, and that’s when things took off. I’ll write more about CFC later, I promise!
To finish up Friday in Singapore, I had dinner with Aunt Jamie and Uncle Bill and they gave me life advice, which I have committed to memory since they are such great role models! On Saturday we went to Bronson’s baseball game, and I window-shopped on Orchard Street while Aunt Jamie took Avery and her friend to see Dora the Explorer. To close out my time in Singapore, Aunt Jamie, Uncle Bill, and I went to dinner with two women who started a foundation that raises money for good causes called Grapes for Humanity. Wine and doing good? They were right up my alley!
I’ve actually been writing this blog for about two days now, and it’s doing no good sitting here on my computer. So, I’m going to post it now before I go to school, and I’ll write more about Cambodia and my time at the schools a bit later… pictures included! Hope all’s well! I’d love to hear how things are going for you!
Bisous from SE Asia!
Laura
Maybe it was the fact that the man sitting next to me on the 13-hour ride from DC to Tokyo was actually from Pittsburgh, too (Peter’s Township to be exact). Or perhaps it was the RBS logo I spotted on an ad while in the line for immigration when I arrived in Singapore. The logo immediately caught my eye and reminded me yet again, that if I wanted to take money out from one of their ATMs in Singapore it would probably cost less than it does for me to get cash in Richmond, Virginia. Why you ask? Because RBS, the Royal Bank of Scotland, backs my little tri-state area bank, Citizens (take that Bank of America!). And getting back on track, I’m convinced that the fact I’ve been watching the French television station FR5 via satellite non-stop since arriving in Cambodia might have something to do with it. If not that, it was seeing a Cambodian girl ride past on a moto wearing a red AARP shirt.
What point am I trying to make here? The point that... even though I am in Cambodia, the world seems to be shrinking every day. In fact, I almost ordered delivery Italian food, made from 100% imported ingredients from Italy, to “the tree house,” my humble abode in Siem Reap. While I’m sure you’re very excited to hear about it, I’d best mention a few things about Singapore and then hit the hay for fear that this blog sets a precedent of being monstrously long!
Singapore. Also known as Asia for Beginners according to many seasoned experts, including my Uncle Bill and Aunt Jamie. Despite the fact that their labels seemed to be in four languages, Singapore’s official languages are English, as well as Mandarin Chinese, Malay, and Tamil. It’s situated at the southern tip of on of the Malay Peninsula and is one of the coolest places that I’ve ever been. When I say cool, please keep in mind that it’s regarding the “awesome factor” and not the weather, which was probably 30+ Celsius (86 Fahrenheit) and 100% humidity. I think that it rained at least once every day that I was there, but the showers weren’t for long, and within a few minutes the sun would be back out and the puddles all dried up. For being such a small, little country of about 700 square kilometers (270 square miles) it certainly has quite a few people… almost 5 million!
But that’s enough about the facts; here are a few stories from my experience! I arrived chez Amelio late on Wednesday night after a driver picked me up to the airport. Because my body clock was so off I managed to wake up before 7am to see Bronson and Riley, Uncle Bill and Aunt Jamie’s little guys, to their bus! Shocking, I know. Afterwards I went for a walk in the Singapore Botanical Gardens, which are literally a hop, skip, and a jump from their house on Nassim Road, also known as Embassy Way (the Russian Embassy was across from their house!). Walking through the Gardens was absolutely amazing, because not only did I enjoy the company of three-year-old Avery, their youngest daughter, but Mana, their helper. She is so much fun! We saw beautiful orchids and fed the largest goldfish that I have ever seen; they were probably at least 3 feet long! The rest of the day was spent hanging out with Avery and the gang, going swimming in the pool, and watching Uncle Bill’s ping-pong lesson. He’s looking to take down a few colleagues at their next business meeting, and wanted to sharpen his skills.
Friday was quiet the day! I went shopping with Avery and Aunt Jamie, who had just arrived to Singapore the day before because she’d been trying to get visas for their two Cambodian daughters. This summer she emerged from Phenom Penh victorious with the amazing news that Chery and Rathana would be able to join them for vacation in Austin, TX! While we shopped on Orchard Street we stopped for lunch at a cute little place that served really delicious mushroom soup. Yum. After lunch we took Avery home to play with her bubbles, her newest acquisition from a successful trip shopping, while Aunt Jamie treated me to reflexology. Reflexology reminded me of getting a pedicure only skipping the pedicure part because they rub your feet for an hour, focusing on ensuring that the body is healthy as all body parts are represented in some parts of the foot.
Throughout our pamper day together, Aunt Jamie told me all about Caring For Cambodia, the non-profit that she founded in 2003. Her passion came through not only in her words, the manner in which she spoke. I know that I’m truly lucky to have the opportunity to work with CFC for six weeks here in Siem Reap! Here’s the cliff notes version of CFC: Founder and President, Jamie Amelio has a passion for helping the Cambodian people that started after her trip in 2003. While the beauty of the temples touched her, she was touched even more by the Cambodian children who approached her for money for their tuition. Wanting to do something to help she came back with her husband, Bill, and that’s when things took off. I’ll write more about CFC later, I promise!
To finish up Friday in Singapore, I had dinner with Aunt Jamie and Uncle Bill and they gave me life advice, which I have committed to memory since they are such great role models! On Saturday we went to Bronson’s baseball game, and I window-shopped on Orchard Street while Aunt Jamie took Avery and her friend to see Dora the Explorer. To close out my time in Singapore, Aunt Jamie, Uncle Bill, and I went to dinner with two women who started a foundation that raises money for good causes called Grapes for Humanity. Wine and doing good? They were right up my alley!
I’ve actually been writing this blog for about two days now, and it’s doing no good sitting here on my computer. So, I’m going to post it now before I go to school, and I’ll write more about Cambodia and my time at the schools a bit later… pictures included! Hope all’s well! I’d love to hear how things are going for you!
Bisous from SE Asia!
Laura
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