February 23

This last Thursday was a Buddhist holiday called Mahka Bucha, and since our school is seemingly 90% Buddhist and government affiliated, we got the day off. I went with Heather to Monument Books, and after that to Toul Thom Poung with Liz, so she could buy some new clothes. I've have been low on cash ever since my trip to Thailand, so I stayed outside to kill some time and avoid the temptation of extra spending. I had skipped lunch, so I got some noodles from a street vender, when a beggar approached me, like they always do. He put his hat out in front of me, "som mah-roy" (could you spare 100 reil?) he said. I slipped a bill in his hat and he thanked me and left. The problem with street venders is that their isn't a place to sit, and the problem with Toul Thom Poung, is that on all sides of the street are obnoxious abrasive men, hoping to sell you something, take you on their moto, or strike up an intrusive conversation. I open the bag, standing up, eating quickly with my chopsticks when the beggar approaches me again, speaking in Khmer. I told him I didn't speak Khmer, so he started to speak in English. "When I see you eat like this, on the road, I think you're like me, Khmer. I live on the streets, I sleep outside. Why not eat inside with the rest of the foreigners? They have a nice table for you there, you can pay after you eat." His english was perfect. "Yeah, but I have no money," I say. "Why have you come to Cambodia, hoping to find work?" "I work already, I teach English." "Did you come here all alone? Why are you alone?" he asks. "I close my tray of noodles. "No, I am waiting for a friend, I think I have to meet her now..." I lie and walk away.

Not that I don't love teaching English, or feel that my work here is not gratifying and useful, but something about this conversation strikes painful epiphanies. This man speaks perfect English, yet what has it done for him? He still sleeps on the streets. I was talking earlier to my brother, about if I would return as a missionary after I finished school and what I would do, and I told him I'd like to do more along the lines of work that ADRA does, or maybe something medical. I don't favor the mystery of not seeing the immediate benefits of my service abroad. Many of my kids might grow up and stay in Cambodia, where there is no tourism or need to speak English. Anne was telling me about the work they do for ADRA. They go out to all the provinces and teach the women about proper healthcare, cleanliness, how to properly care for their infants, then instruct the women to teach others and keep paying the knowledge forward. Those women are hired, thus creating jobs for the locals, fulfilling an immediate need. And so I asked myself, why am I bending over backwards, at my best still poorly educating children on irrelevant topics (like nursery rhymes and the ABCs), when so many other areas scream need and desperation, in the form of disease and death, hunger, violence. Am I really benefitting this country, these children by teaching them English? I am planting a seed, sure, creating somewhat of a possiblity or an opportunity for the future, maybe. But what if it makes little or no difference? Does it?

February 17

The weeks seem to get shorter, go faster, but I’m beat. My exhaustion seems to lapse and relapse into the subsequent weeks. I get sick a lot. I often feel I'm just barely scraping by. My work never ceases and I still manage to feel behind. My workload (with class size and absence of help) is actually unlawful to take on in the states, and it’s really starting to take its toll. I’m homesick. Lonely. I miss youthful communicative normalcy. I miss my family and friends. I miss English-speaking people.

I’ve been reading Ecclesiastes, in search of truth, freedom, balance, contentment; been really discovering what is both futile and vital in my life. When I figure things out, I’ll let you know. And while this wisdom may never transpire, I’m learning it’s okay. Maybe there is no right answer. Nothing is sound. Nothing is right side right.

February 11

unwarranted knowledge
Random fact: prolonged constipation can lead to, no matter your physical size or frame, a big arse, colossal sized poo-poo. You might ask yourself why I feel the need to pass on this information, yet if you walked a day in my shoes, you’d see that this is all too mundanely the contents of my life. After Lasa moved away, Chamrong filled the shoes, as the smallest kid in the class. He has little round cheeks and a squeaky voice, and skinny little frog legs that look so cute and sprightly as he jumps rope.

Anyways, this morning he laid his head down the desk, eyes blurring warmly with tears, “Teacher,” he said, barely looking up at me, “Call mother, go to home me.” We started for upstairs to the office, and he could barely stand up straight. “My stomach,” he said. He stopped midway, bending at the waist, his face and lips got white as if he were in deep concentration. I picked him up and then felt his bottom, warm and mushy. I quickly put him down, alarmed, “Rong, did you poop?” He nodded weakly and waddled to the bathroom, squatting, holding his stomach. I led him inside, and as he started to unbutton his pants, the most gigantic poop, from any size man, fell out his pant leg. It lay in a clump on the floor, and for a moment, I stared in disbelief at the size of this thing, that it was physically possible it could have come out of a child so small. It was greenish brown, and if it had been randomly placed in an open space with no clues of its origins, I’d assume it came from some sort of large wild animal, a horse, cow, maybe an elephant.

I instructed him to take off his shoes, then socks, then pants, then shorts underneath, and then he bent over, stark naked from the waist down and shivering, as I showered him down with the hose. “More coming,” Rong said, as it started to drip down his legs and onto the floor once again. I brought him to the stall, and Faye came in from the library to help me. She got a roll of toilet paper and attempted to pick this poop off the floor. It was too big to go down the hole, so she started hacking at it with a toilet brush, explaining that he must’ve been constipated for an extended amount of time until he burst, and how she was worried this might clog and break the whole CAS plumming system. I rinsed out his shorts, rung them out, put them back on him, and his mom just dropped him some new pants and he returned to class. So these grotesque situations probably don’t need to be retold or recollected, but they do remind me, I’m more ready than I ever planned to be for motherhood. Not just because of the poop thing, but you know? I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.

February 9

you hear that, bangkok?
A moment of honesty: I love Asia. I love that I’m Asian. Everyone in Bangkok is beautiful: the wealthy rotund teen at Siam Paragon in the Chloe dress and leather flats, the school girl in white and navy, clad the tiniest blue pleated mini skirt and stilettos, the Australian business man on the Sky Train. Even the young lower middle class street people wear skinny jeans with unique washes and avant-garde graphic tees. It’s a milder, more chic and placid Tokyo, a magical, au courant, stunning metropolis. And I’m here. I’m here.

Thursday, we wake up late, grab coffee from a street vender, and take the Sky Train to Lumphini Park, where gigantic is still an understatement. It has green trees and grass, a full playground, and a giant man-made lake in the center. It is infamous for its lively mornings, full of Tai Chi doers and street venders selling everything from food to snake blood. But we arrive about noon, and it’s quiet then, only filled with families or couples sitting underneath the shade of the trees. We rent a little yellow pedal boat, and Liz steers us directly under the spray of the fountain, we laugh and scream, as the park employees irately watch from the shore.

We continue to wander the city, bask in its miscellany. Liz hates the city, she’s from Montana, and says they overwhelm her. But I’m in love, entranced, enthralled, ecstatic. We get lost in search of a Wat in Ekkamai, watch a little bit of Chinese New Year celebration parades, and go see an exhibit in the Thailand Center of Design and Creativity. Jeane (our SM director at WWU) is here for a convention, so we give her a call and meet her for dinner at the Ambassador Hotel. Jose Rojas joins us, and we just recently watched this DVD series he preached at the mission, everyone loves him there, and we’re minorly star-struck. We catch up with Jeane, reminisce about WWC, talk of other SM calls, culture shocks, taboos. And then we catch a movie at the Emporium, a great movie, (American Gangster), but I’m so exhausted, I fall asleep in the middle.

Friday, Phil came back from Chiang Mai around 5 am, and as always, it was nice to spend time with him. We decided to take the midnight bus and travel all throughout the night instead so we wouldn't have to pay for a place to stay overnight (yes, broke backpackers are we). So instead we went with Jeane, Phil, and the group on a boat tour (which WWU payed for, we're such moochers) ate at the food court at MBK, and spent the afternoon chilling at Benjasuri Park. Thailand is beautiful, the people are friendly, less pushy, more helpful. Getting ready to leave, I’m almost sad to return to my destination, devoid technology, cleanliness, wealth, and luxury. Yes folks, I live in a 3rd world country, (Cambodia is not like Thailand). But then I remembered why I’m here, why I do what I do, what fulfills me, whom I serve, and why I wake up every morning. I love my life. I love it. And I’m truly blessed by the opportunities and experiences I am able to have. I can't wait to get back to my kids. But a vacation every now and then feels great.

February 6

sawatdee kaa from thailand
Spontaneity has its moments of backfire, yet for me, planning seems to have, more often, this effect: so after we had a somewhat chaotic trek to Thailand, due to persistent crooked lying salesman, obscure source references, ignorance, and a funny yet fickle roommate whom I have to nag continually to commit to anything, we ended up in a city I’d never even heard of, and lovely it was. The boat that was supposed to take us all the way to Ko Chang, was double the amount in price we were told it was going to be by our Phnom Penh sources, and only dropped us at the border, Koh Kong. After we stepped off the boat, where we had ridden on the roof with live chickens and produce, fallen asleep, gotten sunburnt, green about the gills, we found that at the border it was even more expensive to take a small van to our actual desired destination than the ridiculous boat ride, way over the amount we had planned to spend. Suckered again. Sick of traveling, disoriented and lost in translation, I received an e-mail from my friend Phil in Bangkok saying he had to leave to get his visa stamped the same day we were planning to arrive, the appointment forcibly moved up a couple days. He had to go 10 hours north to Chiang Mai. We didn't want to be so far from Bangkok, so spur of the moment we bought tickets to a beach city just 2 hours outside of the capital called Pattaya. The lady asked us where we would like to be dropped off, and we had no clue. She named all of these parts of town and we just sort of looked at each other blankly, until a man who had spend the last 3 years living in Pattaya referred us to the backpacking district, Soi Buahkoa. He had quite a temper and after he picked a fight with the equally ornery driver with a glass eye, he got kicked out of the bus, leaving us with a eccentric late 20s horndog backpacker from London. After the driver demanded an extra 50 baht to bring us to a guesthouse on top of the excruciating 800 baht we had already painfully shelled out, the 3 of us found ourselves at the corner of the street in the middle of downtown, confused and dizzy in the midst of Thai’s wild and blurry night life. We finally took a taxi to a decent guesthouse, and fell asleep in front of the TV, flipping between pipemasters and rap videos.

The next day we perused the city, got breakfast, ate fresh fruit on the beach, got lost in the mall, had our first starbucks in over 5 months (Cambodia doesn't have it), and instead of going out to the bars or clubs or discos at night like normal youngfolk, the boring mellow us (Liz and I) bought chicken and rice from a street vender and watched a movie and were perfectly content. The beach wasn't amazing, unlike the more secluded beaches in southern Thailand, nonetheless we were fried from falling asleep on top of the boat the day prior, and I was just stoked to be in a developed city with great food, and wonderfully friendly people. (ps. to the potential asia traveler, the people are much nicer in Thailand than Cambodia) We took the bus to Bangkok this morning, and meandered through the gigantic malls, upset because we had no money to buy anything at all when we wanted everything. Phil brought us to the bookstore, Kinokuniya, which was enormous, it had the biggest arts and graphic section i've ever seen, which is the current trend (according to Phil) in Thailand. It was full of so many mind-blowing art books, I was so happy I could've cried. This thriving metropolis is a torrent of creativity, inspiring just to walk its streets. Now I'm here, just picking up somebody else's wireless, looking forward to all the chaos and adventure tomorrow could hold.

February 3

Mankind is like dogs, not gods. As long as you don't get mad, they'll bite you. But stay mad, and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow. [jack kerouac]

I'll admit to one frustration: life is Cambodia is often disconcerting. In this world, I believe hope is real, relevant, and attainable, but the more that I see of it, the more I realize my own diminution; and the more I've come to realize, accept, and understand its perverse survival mechanisms. I've been here 5 months, and everyday I encounter deception and swindle, from the motodope to the waffle vender, a man to his neighbor. Everyday we falter, everyday I ask for certainty, and everyday I am saddened by man's broken and entropic state.

Buechner says, "God calls us to the place where our deep laughter and the world's deep hunger meet." How do we get there? How do we achieve balance? How do we emerge pragmatism, optimism, sorrow, hope?

February 1

For those of you who ever watch Project Runway, Udom reminds me of Austin Scarlett. The boy daydreams on a whole new level, and I sometimes look at him, doodling on the back of his assignment papers, longing for him to drag me, if only for a few moments, into his wild imagination. This was evident, the first week of school, when I asked them to draw their homes for Social Studies class. Udom drew a 3-story mansion, with a full playground and a giraffe in the front yard. Judging from his lunches containing only a small scoop of fried rice in a styrofoam take-out-tray, I have my doubts that his housing situation was accurately depicted.

Sometimes, I look at my kids, think of their possible futures, and the cynic (or realist) inside of me, ties my stomach and heart into horrendous knots. I know that sounds inauspicious. They have so much potential. If anyone believes that to be true, it’s me. But I have this ill-fated voice (screwtape) inside of me that makes me believe history could only too easily repeat itself. Chard’s father, Ly, says he believes Chard (at 7 years old) to be the hope of the family. His older brother Soum On just got kicked out of the dorm for shoving a huge metal table at the dean who is 6 months pregnant, who asked him to simply please take his jewelry off. And as she shielded her stomach away in fear of the health and wellbeing of her unborn child, he proceeded to swear at her. They can't afford a place outside the dorm, so he’s going back to live in the province with his mother. Rithy (his uncle) was upset for days, saying, “Living in the province, what do you think his future will hold?” Apparently, education is poor in Cambodia, especially schooling provided by the government, and especially in the provinces and away from the city, where even with an education, it doesn't guarantee a job or any stability. I cannot be naïve enough to try and believe it’ll be promising for everyone here that I love, maybe I’ll just have to stay forever, or at least til’ they’re all grown up, enough to make sure and fight for the future of these children. My children. As horrible as they sometimes may behave, I don’t think I could love them any less.