January 31

wanderlust
I sit cross-legged on the 3rd floor of the Cambodia ADRA building, holding a globe I dust off with my fingertips, conversing with a Sri-Lankan refugee named Sathees about travel in SE Asia. He knows everything from government, visas, religion and taboos, to fees, fares, sights, and transportation, and speaking of Sri-Lanka, I just read in Action Asia magazine, that the Southwest, is one of the best surf spots in Asia, and from the pictures it looks hypnotically beautiful (plus Sri-Lanka is currently in need of your business!). Anyways, he advises me to take the bus to Kampoung Soung, then take a boat to Ko Chang, Thailand where their is supposed to be some great reef and dive spots, where we can stay in a Bungalow for cheap, and then take the bus a couple of days later to Bangkok, where Phil has promised me the perfect Shwarma.

I've had a nearly perfect week, and I have no idea why it's been so wonderful. My kids are the same as ever. Silim has been helping me all week because half the staff has been away in the countryside. I love her. A dog bit me on my way to school today, attacked me in the knee, scraggly hair that was bare in patches, sharp teeth, ripped my favorite pair of black slacks. Don't laugh (although it may be funny). Prior to my relocation to Asia, I didn't get rabies injections, though it was doctorally suggested. They were too expensive, and while it didn't bleed too much, we called a doctor, the wife of church member, and she said if it broke beneath the surface, I should be put on antibiotics. Bleh.

The newest news is that i'm officially going to Europe. 3 weeks in September, with 3 of my closest friends. The plan is to hit 8 countries on the most frugal of budgets, and I feel ecstatic and so privileged. I'm off to bake a birthday cake for Thyreach, this cake bribed my students into behaving all week, and if this year I don't make them smarter, it's guaranteed I'll make them fatter.

January 30

nostalgia
It's the middle of the night, and once again, I can't sleep. It is months past the rainy season but tonight it rains, and pours, and thunders. The streets are flooded, and I go out on the balcony, hands in the pockets of my brandless track jacket; standing alone in the darkness. There are dim lights on top of the gate guarding the house next door, which reflect in the mucky puddles on the street. The continual beating of the rain creates movement in the water, causing the light to dance across its surface like a kaleidoscope. And something so ugly and foul, like the streets of Phnom Penh, become strangely and enchantingly beautiful. I am restless and discontent and everything sort of feels surreal. I am displeased at such solitude; there is no one to share this with. I read a poem in English my junior year of high school, I don't remember the title or the author, but just that it was about a man who felt his bones detach from one another and float haphazardly in his body, and this is how I feel: out of place and sorts. The whole country is slumbering, and everyone I care about feels hopelessly distant.

January 23

I've been sick, behind in work, and feeling a little burnt out lately. Just taking it one day at a time. Each day no longer holds surprise, and the monotony of it all brings comfort. I was finally clearing the bulletin board of pictures the kids drew for Christmas, and I found a picture Chard drew of him and I around the Christmas tree. We both sort of looked like middle-age men, in stick-figure form, but I knew whom it was of, because he drew arrows and labeled our names. I smiled inside. I want to go to Psar Thmei and buy Naro a new pair of shoes. He wears a pair of imitation Pumas that are 5 sizes too big for him, but they’re all he’s got. Someone gave them to his older brother, who gave them to him, and he’s sort of cute and funny, as he shuffles around in (on him are) gigantic clown shoes, the sound of them scuffing the floor a whimsical prewarning he's about to enter the room. His father is the night guard and his mother sells cakes in the marketplace, but its not enough to pay the school bills and the rent for their 7 children, and send them much to eat for lunch. His once white shirt is brown, he always smells endearingly unbathed, and the button on his pants has been broken for weeks. He’ll tie them with reeds or string he’s found on the floor, but sometimes his junk’ll fall out all over the place when he’s jump roping in PE. So he needs new shoes and a new school uniform, and it’s less than $10 to buy him all of these new things, so I plan to.

I also plan to go to Thailand in about a week and half. Liz, and I. Maybe around 8 days of it, half spent in Bangkok and the other in whatever island or coast that sounds most appealing at the moment. I’ve read into several cafes, discos, cinemas, music clubs, aquariums, night markets, zoos, and other such fun. It’ll be a nice change of pace. I can't wait.

January 20

twenty reasons to live in cambodia
1. it's sincerely debatable that anywhere else in the world has food so cheap and produce so fresh
2. a flood of pirated movies, music, tv, computer software, sweatshop-made clothes by Western culture's top brands are snuck out of the shops and sold for a 1/10 of the price they are in the states, it's all blurry shady corrupted beauty
3. the prevalence and utility of bamboo, the practacality of wicker, the city's biggest buildings painted yellow
4. everything's busy and out in the open, congested with fruit and meat stands, market-goers, bustling with life and color, almost devoid tourism; it's a risky, smelly stroll down the street
5. the never-ending sun
6. public transporation, on the back of a stranger's motorbike, so close you're bumping legs with the commuter next to you, the wind blowing through your hair
7. gigantic woven baskets balanced on the top of women's heads, filled with bread or fish as they walk down the street, wild chickens tied and bunched together with rope, strapped to the back of a motorbike, straining their necks to turn and look your direction
8. wild mean monkeys in the park with the worst of reputations, elephants in the park at Wat Phnom, giant lizards and frogs on the staircase up to our apartment, the common nonchalant presence of all these
9. street food venders that make you sick, waffles at Psa Mnong that always taste sweet and soft and cooked with sand, over-styled clothes, side of the road tailors, sweetened soy milk
10. Asia's seriously great and trendy packaging design, even the gas brands (only I would love or care about this), green tea juice boxes that you buy just because they look rad
11. Jars of clay coffee shop, Rajana, and other NGO charities and businesses that empower the poor and just produce beautiful things
12. Khmer fruit shakes, Thai hot soups
13. Psar Toul Thom Poung, and the markets I could visit everyday, with vintage jewelry, great clothes, leather sandals, stacks and stacks of silk and pashminas, Buddhist carved statues, and so many beautiful things
14. a way too big bag of greens and fresh vegetables for significantly less than 1$ US
15. the simplicity and pace of life
16. plumeria trees grow far and wide, and their flowers fall and litter the sides of the freeway
17. internet overseas calls (airfone) to home are amazingly cheap
18. warm rain, cool nights and cool mornings
19. strong coffee with condensed milk
20. monks on the streets clad orange wraps, with matching orange bags and umbrellas

[1] on the Mekong [2] Bayon temple [3] starface Ker San Sotha
[4] Wat Phnom elephant [5] coconuts sale [6] from top of Sorya
[7] fruit stand [8] motodopes [9] grilled octopus on a stick

January 12

the difference between here and there
Here is an (often overlooked) question in any foreign culture: what behavior is safe and appropriate? I’m not talking about religion, dress, or even taboos, but more about things you do or don’t regarding safety. For example, women and children in Cambodia don’t go out past dark, especially not alone. And why is this? As a 19 year old American (from a small beach town) with reoccurring good luck and security, I had comfortable delusions that I was invincible. But if anywhere and anything will shake you to fear and paranoia, it’s living alone and naïve, and female, in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A couple of weeks ago, I was running late to a couple of errands, so late in fact, it was after dark on a Saturday night. I wanted to quickly check an e-mail I was supposed to receive from my father. I had just gotten back from a NGO woman’s club Christmas program at the Intercontinental Hotel and was wearing my best black dress. I rode my bike through the quiet unlit streets of my neighborhood, my green purse slung over the left handlebar. The shop by Anrok Davy that I usually go was closed, so I rode farther into Toul Kork (but still within a few blocks of home) and arrived upon the first shop with the light on. Outside middle age men sat shirtless with their cigarettes, slouched and smirking, shady and horny. They blew smoke in my direction, raising their eyebrows, as I ran into the shop, only filled with more men. It then hit me, the incongruous way I fit into this culture. I threw a couple hundred riel at the man at the desk and ran out. The streets were deserted and dark and ominous. I was just one turn from home, less than 100 yards from the gate of the mission, and the sound of a moto revved behind me. Its lights were dim, but I could hear it coming, and like a scared fool, I peddled as fast as my legs could carry me. The man slowed down to where I was, he did not want my money, it was all to easy to grab my purse, but instead he reached right past that, putting his right hand below the black satin ribbon on the waist of my dress, grabbing me between my legs. I continued peddling, aiming my wheels to the right, in attempts to break free from his grasp. I then hit the dust and the dirt where the pavement ended. The roads in Cambodia are cracked and unfinished and dusty, filled with trash, shattered glass bottles, rocks, and bricks, and it was there, that I fell. The moto fortunately sped off in the dark, the only thing I could see was the back of his shirt blowing in the wind, and I, petrified, got right back up on my bike, and sped home. I slipped past the guard, blood dripping down my legs, rocks imbedded in my kneecaps. I ran into the bathroom, knowing my roommate would only reprimand me (and sure enough, she called me stupid, several times, including many euphemisms expressing only the same redundant idea), cuts on my arms, legs, and even in my armpits. I slipped off my dress and took a shower, until my other (nicer) roommate Liz helped me clean the wounds, rubbed antiseptic on them and helped me bandage them up. Unlike America, scars and cuts don’t prove your tough, instead they’re something ugly and meant to be hidden. And after being told numerous times that I was no longer beautiful, I wore my longest skirts day after day, in best attempts to hide the damage.

Monivong Blvd, Phnom Penh

If you wanted to send me the perfect package:
p.o. box 488
phnom penh, cambodia

it would contain:
1. a mix cd
2. lemon pepper
3. almonds
4. a moleskin journal
5. a new book you read and loved
6. granola bars
7. anything that smells like grapefruit
8. an arts/culture magazine
9. a sock monkey
10. a handmade card with a very long note


goodbye Lasa

January 6

The first thing we do every morning before classes begin, is line up at the flag and sing the Cambodian National Anthem. The students line up in 2 lines, one for boys, one for girls, according to size and age. When I first came to CAS, the first thing I saw, in the front of my line of boys, was my little Lasa. I whispered to Liz, this first day, as I ran my fingers through this boy's hair, "I know I shouldn't pick favorites, but this is it." His hair is brown, not black, due to malnutrition, his parents were rumored to be very poor, he is 7 years old, although he doesn't look like he can be a day older than 4 years old. He's has sweet black eyes, and a squeaky little voice, just like a baby. He was my baby. When school began, I had the hardest time getting him to say anything at all, he sat quietly in his seat, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his open palms, he wrote in his notebook quietly, and rarely even smiled. His grades were less than adequate, he wrote so slowly, I tried my hardest to keep him caught up with the class, but the more time went on, the more he fell behind. But the more the year went on, the more I fell in love with this boy, he warmed up to me, played games, made jokes. After Christmas break, I brought my students all back a book and a stuffed animal, and the one I picked out for him now lies indolent on my desk. I was informed that his parents couldn't afford to send him to school here anymore, and so, this boy, so quiet and young and small, is going to move to Siem Reap and live in the dorm at an orphanage school. Please keep him your prayers. He'll be missed.