Full Circle

Well folks, the posts about Cambodia are going to continue. After two weeks of travel and a month home, I'll be back here for most of 2012. As a wise man has said, "Life is unpredictable, but one thing leads to another, and in the end, everything connects."

In the meantime...

Top Five Things I'll Miss from Cambodia:

1. Monks on motorcycles. In the midst of tuk tuks and motos zigzagging in a chaotic dance that resembles the courtship ritual of honeybees, two or three monks perch on the back of a motorcycle. Their neon saffron robes make them easy to spot, and they always look so serene and calm as they hug one another with their knees, their collection pails swinging with every turn. Some benevolent motorist has offered a ride to improve his karmic balance. Not to discriminate - I will also miss seeing five or six monks crowding into a tuk tuk.

2. Elephant crossing street signs. These aren't as common as monkey warnings and obscene Engrish, but the rural provinces sport bright yellow XING signs depicting an elephant or two rather than the usual deer and cattle.

3. Chess. Every Saturday afternoon, I lose a game or two of chess to the tuk tuk and moto drivers that hang out on my street. (I'm convinced they only let me play because they know I'm not a threat.) It's different from American chess - strategy is looser but the sense of urgency is overwhelming as pieces violently attack one another.

4. Fried everything. The food in Cambodia is delicious, and no wonder! A typical meal will include fried rice, fried eggs, fried chicken, and fried morning glory. A little bit of oil makes everything mouth-watering and savory, and I frequently find myself chasing the last grain of rice across my plate.

5. Living the life of luxury. My lifestyle in Phnom Penh is regal. Don't get me wrong - I save my pennies, and I chart my spending. For about $5, I can have two cups of coffee, a croissant, and a sandwich delivered to my door. I have my own tuk tuk driver eager to provide front door pick-up and carry me in his cream-colored chariot. I spent my Sunday afternoons lounging by a pool that resembles an oasis. I live in an apartment larger and newer and fancier than my sad little house in Baltimore. Every day, I catch myself marveling at my life of luxury - so simple, so grand, so chic. I want to soak in every royal moment, and I fear that I will lose all humility (can you BELIEVE the cleaning lady was late??).

I find that I am looking forward to returning to the US, and I am looking forward to returning back to Cambodia.

Daily Tai Chi

I walk home from work around the same time every day, following the same route. I enjoy my walk, right as dusk fades into evening and the tie dyed sky melts into a thick violet velvet.

It's not a serene walk. No, I'm surrounded by honking cars and motos and furious cyclists all eager to return home to a steaming plate of noodles after a long day in the office. The roads are more congested and chaotic than at any other time of day, and crossing the street on foot is a near impossible task. Fruit vendors wearily beg me to purchase an apple, a kilo of bananas so they too can end the day with a profit. Even the fuzzy street puppies, who stumble drowsily through the day, awaken and bark and scatter, running from door to door and nipping my heels.

I ignore all of this though, and hum along with the victorious melody of the ice cream truck instead.

Before my last turn, I pass a row of three story houses with beige gated garage doors and droopy hanging orchids. Atop the end house, I always see a grayed septuagenarian calmly practicing the art of tai chi. She stands on the flat roof with her eyes closed wearing a dark, cotton pajama set while her arms and feet are in constant motion. Though I am many meters away on the street, I can tell she is at peace as she harnesses the earth's energy. She is smiling with the wisdom of a woman who has seen many good days and many bad days and has learned to find balance. The street around me seems calmer when I pass her as if she is the center of a field of serenity. It is a soothing moment in my day.

A few paces later, I reach another hectic street crossing.

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words...

Traffic in Ho Chi Minh City.

Clarke Quay shopping/restaurant district in Singapore.

Fort Canning Park, Singapore.

Jungle trekking in Cameron Highlands, Malaysia.

Cameron Highlands, Malaysia hill station.

Life on a graph

When students study abroad, their first lesson inevitably focuses on the emotional ups and downs that will assault them throughout their semester. This process has been repeatedly mapped out in graph format, and every student is expected to follow the same pattern, albeit at their own individual pace. As much as I hate to admit it, this proved true when I was in both Senegal and India. The novelty of a distant and foreign land full of adventure was displaced by the frustration of constant sweat and mud and unbearable heat. And then we took an upswing - travel was great, my language skills were noticeably improving - and then back down when I missed eating pizza and had eight hours of class on Thanksgiving day. The ups and downs of a predicted emotional roller coaster were sudden. I learned to chart my progress objectively with the understanding that "this too shall pass". Some lows were really low, and some highs were really high, until I began to find equilibrium just before jetting off and beginning the process again.

So I believed it would be safe to expect the same process to occur here in Cambodia. Except this time, something is different. I began on a low - frustration with my housing situation, a total vacuum of information about my requirements for work, and the return of constant sweat. "This too shall pass", I told myself during my first week of chaos and confusion and helplessness.

Halfway through week 2, I noticed my ascent on the gradual upswing of an early abroad experience. I arranged for my own reliable transportation to work! I provided dinner for myself! I met some interesting people! And the upswing continued, expanding to include specifically Cambodian aspects of my life. I fell in love with moto rides and fried noodles. I set up a hammock, from which I can enjoy the cacophanous music of street vendors and ice cream motos. I spent an hour sitting, chatting with a monk, and I played chess with the old men sitting on my corner. The upswing continued, but I was wary. "This too shall pass." I wondered when I would fall back to the reality of living in the developing world on my own. Another week of bliss passed, and then another. I continued to climb higher on the emotional graph - I visited the temples of Angkor, I swam in a pool with an ocean view at Kep, I made plans to go to Singapore and Malaysia (yes, that is happening). I ate fried rice and onion soup, and I took my first Khmer lesson. I found myself falling in love with the easy pace of a peaceful Cambodia. I enjoyed my work, and tested the fantastic Phnom Penh restaurant scene (Indian! French! Chinese! Mexican!).

The weeks have continued to pass, and here I am now. About six weeks after I noticed my upswing, I am still up. I am still happy! Sure, there are moments (the smell of Thanksgiving, an old John Denver song in a cafe, the everpresent sweat) that bring me down, but these are always short-lived temporary falls. How long will it last? I ask myself, afraid that my fairy tale might end. Or, I tell myself optimistically, perhaps I have broken the cycle.

Restaurant Etiquette

I like to think that I lead a quiet life here, but really I am shrouded in a strangely conspicuous anonymity.

I go to lunch alone, thinking that I am a Strong and Independent woman. As I enter the Khmer cafe I am greeted by the sensuous dance of ginger and lemongrass and garlic. The staff snaps to attention, suddenly straight-backed and busy. I notice that all eyes are on me as I walk to a quiet, well-lit corner. A petite, uniformed waitress follows one half-step behind with a placid smile and a laminated twelve-page menu. A third of the dishes have halfhearted English descriptions, but most are accompanied by identical images of fried rice and fried noodles.

This menu is complicated and nearly unreadable, and I struggle to find any difference between "Khmer fried noodle with chicken" and "fried noodle with chicken Khmer". Diligently, I wade through the murky options reading page after page of soups and entrees. The entire time, my eager waitresses stands just beside my shoulder, watching, waiting. I feel rushed to decide quickly and place my order.

I point to an image of chicken and rice, and my waitress cheerfully scampers off.

When it rains, it pours

I love the monsoon's daily downpour.

Two droplets of water hit the ground in near slow motion as a warning to don the raincoat and run for shelter. Moments later, the blackened sky opens and torrential rains hail upon the unfortunate pedestrian. The wind howls through the office hallway, rattling the framed map of Cambodia. Moto drivers pull on bright yellow and pink and purple polka dotted ponchos without even slowing down, and tuk-tuk drivers unroll forest green waterproof flaps to protect their passengers. A schoolgirl tries to shelter her Barbie backpack. The parking attendant at a popular lunchtime cafe chases after a customer, fruitlessly trying to cover her with a broken black umbrella. An older gentleman sits on his doorstep under a small awning wearing nothing but plaid boxer shorts. He smokes a cigarette, closes his eyes, and inhales the scent of earth that is only present after the fumes from car exhaust have been washed away.

The roads turn to mud and recently repaid potholes disintegrate back into murky ponds. The water falls on the tin roof of our office gazebo with the steady rata-tat-tat of the snare drum in a military parade. Rain is rhythmic, peaceful, and (usually) predictable.

Disconnect

I just spent the entire evening speaking only in French with three girls from Japan, Romania, and Germany in an Indian restaurant in Cambodia.

The Cambodian Countryside

Scene from the drive between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh.

Integration?

I wonder a lot about the degree to which I'm immersing myself in Cambodia. I am living with expats, working with expats, and I find myself comparing my Cambodian experiences to theirs. Am I more authentic or less? Am I doing enough?

Is it wrong for me to choose a chicken and guacamole panini at the French-style cafe for lunch, when only yesterday I had fried noodles with seafood (in this case, "seafood" meant squid). Do I offset my cereal purchases from the expat supermarket with the dragon fruit I bought from a vendor on the side of the road? Have I learned enough Khmer to justify a three or four-month stay, or should I be more aggressive about language acquisition?

I ride in a tuk-tuk, but then I wonder if that is because I hail from the West. I don't trust the unhelmeted motorcycle drivers, but is this wrong? Do I cling to my American habits because I am afraid or because they are habits?

I wonder about things like "social responsibility" and "acceptable immersion", yet I don't think I can quantify my experience here. What is the real Cambodia anyway?

And yet, I AM an expat living here. I cannot escape the fact that I am American; I am a foreigner living here for just a semester's time. I can never integrate fully, especially not in such a short period of time. I can only do my part to experience and celebrate this country for what it is.

The Market

Today, I went to the market. I’m not talking about Lucky Supermarket which caters to the expat community here. No, I was the only Western face wandering through the dank corridor of vegetable stands, passing giggling Khmer venders and shoppers. Less than two blocks from my apartment, this massive labyrinth of produce appears unexpectedly. From the street, I only notice one or two vendors selling apples imported from New Zealand, tangerines, dragon fruits, and litchis. I wonder how they came across the apples in the first place.

As I purchase a few fruits, I realize these vendors are merely the gateway to an extensive network of produce sellers and fishmongers and vendors of eighteen different kinds of cooking oils and single-use packets of shampoo. The deeper into the market I wander, the darker it becomes, sunlight blocked by the crowded stalls covered with low-hanging burlap tarps. I am overwhelmed by the smell of dried fish and roasting garlic. A vegetable vendor grins at me, thrusting forth knobby green bitter melons with her gnarled fingers and soliciting my business in Khmer. Peanuts and cashews in tiny plastic bags hang like Christmas tree ornaments, swaying as a motorcycle bumps into the stand in his irrational attempt to drive through the narrow space.

One stall over, an entire family lounges on a raised platform wearing pajama suits and playing cards.

I look to my right just as a woman dumps a bucket full of live fish, splashing relentlessly as they beg to be returned to the river. Her sister removes the scales from this morning’s catch.

A little further, the squawk of an angry chicken announces my entrance to the meat section of the market. Shoppers can choose between the plucked, naked chickens swaying like broken wind chimes and the stack of freshly killed birds that resemble a pile of feather dusters. Just beside their dead cousins, a crate is packed with a dozen clamoring chickens who seem aware of their fate. Across the narrow path, a series of pig organs hang from the stall. Pig feet are lined in a neat row along the table.

I reach the end of the market and turn around to head home. A Khmer woman turns to her friends and says something loudly. I pick out the word ‘foreigner’ and glance sharply to my right. She shrieks with laughter and directs her Khmer chatter at me. I pretend to understand and laugh, which is apparently the correct response.

I return home with my little bag of fruits and vegetables, and I feel strangely accomplished. I have succeeded! I have purchased three apples at the Khmer price! I bought an onion! I am amused at my own pride.

Phnom Penh

Every morning, my friend the tuk-tuk driver arrives at my doorstep at 7:45 am, eager and ready to take me to work. I sit on the plush beige seat of this Cambodian rickshaw while he adjusts his helmet and climbs onto the attached motorcycle. The rusted red rim separating us is adorned with faded photographs of Phnom Penh's most famous destinations - the Royal Palace, the Silver Pagoda, the rifle range.

The next thing I know, I'm bouncing over potholes as we fly down the street at nearly 20 miles per hour. In moments, we leave my residential enclave of housewives and gated homes and meet the hustle of city center. Hundreds of gallons of exhaust pumped into the city each day by unregulated vehicles have dulled the streets, giving it the illusion of a 1950s discolored photograph. Dozens of tuk-tuks and motorcycles and Lexus SUVs challenge each other for space on the aged road, making tight turns to any space that may open. There are no lanes; it is a dance of worker bees returning from an expedition to the fields. Droves of motorcycles lead the pack since they have the clear advantage. In addition to their space saving capacity and ability to squirm through the smallest of openings, the patrolling policeman turns a blind eye as they shift onto the wrong side of the street. (It's more efficient, after all.) The rare pedestrian must summon a blind faith in God to cross the street unharmed.

On either side of me, Phnom Penh awakes as children walk to school in their immaculate plaid uniforms an shop owners reset their window displays. Each store is specialized and random - wooden doors, hubcaps, and silverware. "Lucky" seems to be the most popular descriptor here. I pass Lucky Supermarket, Lucky Burger, and Lucky Dental Clinic, to name a few. I see a family selling clams by the bushel beside a fruit vendor marking the ripest of spiky jackfruits with a spray painted red X.

Beside me, a family of four atop a motorcycle pulls up and peers in. "Hello!" the young daughter shrieks, eager to practice the English she learns all day in school. Though she can't be older than seven, she sits in front with her hands calmly gripping the steering wheel. Her father sits behind her, his hands flanking hers as he controls the bike. He wears the sole helmet and a nonchalant expression. His son, a few years older than his sister, simply stares at me, gaping, as if he must absorb every intricate feature in the twelve seconds we are stopped by traffic. His back leans into his mother who wears a full set of brightly colored pajama pants that look like a Lucky Charms advertisement or the scrubs you would find in the waiting room of a vet clinic. Next they zoom off to gather with the other motorcycles ahead. I notice older man on a pink and silver scooter with a fifteen pound bag of rice between his knees. Beside him, three college age boys are so desperate to be cool in their Genuwyne Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Impatient, they drive onto the sidewalk approximation to circumvent the out-of-place Range Rover.

To reach the office, we must drive to the "suburbs" of Phnom Penh, where suddenly the air becomes clean and the streets become colorful. As we cross the abandoned railroad tracks, I notice a young mother washing her son in a bucket of water and soap while her laundry drips in the breeze. Another five minutes down the dusty dirt road, over the creek, and around the puddles from yesterday's rain, and we reach the office. May another day begin.