Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Contradiction

Today marks one month since I returned to Phnom Penh. One month settling into a new apartment, my first full-fledged job, the rising heat of Southeast Asia. One month of fried rice and iced coffee and bicycle rides as my flimsy metal basket threatens to crash to the ground. One month more of a long distance relationship, of dependence on Skype, of exaggerated sign language as I desperately work to improve my Khmer.

The time has flown and crawled, and I am happy and sad. I revel at my fierce independence, purchasing kilos of fruit from the nearby Khmer market, the only white face in a pajama-clad crowd of women balancing half naked babies from their hips, carrying a dozen fresh eggs in their arms. I despair at my utter loneliness as I face a country alone, empty, void of the friends who carried me through my previous semester (all of whom had to return to their countries of origin to complete Master's programs or otherwise get on with their lives). I love the urban cry of roosters at 10 in the morning just blocks from my apartment; I loathe the urban cry of roosters at 3 in the morning just blocks from my apartment. I enjoy time alone, wandering through my thoughts with the careful aimlessness of undisturbed time. I fear time alone, left to my thoughts which consume me, frighten me, push me.

I read every day, I grow every day. I ride my bicycle calmly and fearfully through the streets, enjoying the sunny breeze of early spring and avoiding the motos as they race toward me in the wrong lane. I eat so many mangoes I fear stomachache, but all I really notice is the heavenly fragrance as juice rolls down my chin into the sink. I eat mangoes as if they're peaches in South Carolina in July, ripe, succulent, rich, creamy.

I write. I write all the time. I'm kept awake at night by my thoughts, urging me to sit with my paper, to reach for my pen, to scramble, to draw, to allow the ideas to stream forth like a gushing waterfall in Yosemite in June as the northern glaciers melt, tumbling from my fingers in an eager rush to become sensical and readable.

I am engulfed by the open camaraderie of my office department, eager to include me, yet suffering from an unmistakable divide of language and cultural barrier. I am one of them; I am different. I wear the uniform, but something is always wrong. Skirt is gray not black, belt is colorful, shirt is crisply tucked in.

I don't know if I am happy or sad, but I am learning. I am growing, undeniably, each day as I absorb one more Khmer vocabulary word, one more statistical analysis process, one more piece of software. One more route through the city, one more curry dish from my favorite Indian restaurant, one more Cambodianism. Wherever you go, there you are, they tell me. I am here, here I am.