Monday, September 22, 2008
The Rains of the Orient
I have seen the rains fall in this country like no other place on earth. They come suddenly on clear, sunny days, or when dark looming clouds containing patches of sunlight can be seen in the near horizon. When it rains, it pours so much that you might think you were stuck inside a washing machine. Cambodians believe that you will be sick if you are caught in the rain for too long, and the family I live with always asks me if I have a good raincoat. When the rainy season comes, it fills the Tonlé Sap River with enough water to burst beyond its banks and spill into the neighboring rice fields. When you first arrive in this country, you wonder why most of the houses you see are built on stilts. Then the rains come, and you know exactly why.
The farmers in these parts abandon their oxen carts, and move around their land in long, skinny, wooden boats. I remember seeing one man stood at the back of his boat and propelled himself with only a single oar. He wore black with the exception of a cone-shaped straw hat that was painted blue. The skinny white cows that are always causing traffic jams on the dirt roads wash themselves frequently in this water during the rainy season. They simply immerse themselves, and their caretakers come along to tend to them.
I remember sitting in a plastic chair on the upstairs porch of my Khmer teacher’s house one afternoon during a lesson, and watching the rains come through in the afternoon. The sheer torrent of water that the skies emptied upon us was absolutely staggering. The yard in front of the house turned into a lake, and the road beyond the yard turned into a river. I strained to hear my teacher explain the ordering of Khmer consonants, but the rain had a much more powerful voice. It was deafening, but the sound was marvelous at the same time. It roared as it battered on the swaying coconut trees and on the roof of the house. A nearby crack of thunder was heard, and the wind blew the spray onto our notebooks and bags. One of the seams in the dark-brown wooden planks above us opened up, and let the water stream onto the whiteboard. It erased the lesson notes that my teacher was writing, and nearly drenched the man as well. A fifteen-minute rest was declared to wait until the rain passed. I started laughing.
“Lok cru, Kampuchea mean ruck duhl wüt sah?” (Most respected teacher, did you say that Cambodia has a wet season?) I ask.
“Bat, Adrian. Kampuchea mean” (Yes, Adrian, Cambodia has a wet season). He bears his teeth, squints his eyes, and begins to laugh as well.
At four o’clock, the lesson was over. The other trainees and I stepped out into the cool, moistened air as we rode our bicycles home. I passed through the market, and saw that the rain had transformed the central paths into giant pools of mud. If you were not careful as to where you placed your foot, it would sink into one of these black, sticky, and oozing pits that were often filled with trash. When the sun set that evening, the sky cleared just enough to allow the red and yellow light to shine brilliantly as it reflected on the clouds. It lasted only half an hour, and after that it was dark. It was time to eat, and sleep until the sun got up again.
The rains came again the next day, as they always do.
The farmers in these parts abandon their oxen carts, and move around their land in long, skinny, wooden boats. I remember seeing one man stood at the back of his boat and propelled himself with only a single oar. He wore black with the exception of a cone-shaped straw hat that was painted blue. The skinny white cows that are always causing traffic jams on the dirt roads wash themselves frequently in this water during the rainy season. They simply immerse themselves, and their caretakers come along to tend to them.
I remember sitting in a plastic chair on the upstairs porch of my Khmer teacher’s house one afternoon during a lesson, and watching the rains come through in the afternoon. The sheer torrent of water that the skies emptied upon us was absolutely staggering. The yard in front of the house turned into a lake, and the road beyond the yard turned into a river. I strained to hear my teacher explain the ordering of Khmer consonants, but the rain had a much more powerful voice. It was deafening, but the sound was marvelous at the same time. It roared as it battered on the swaying coconut trees and on the roof of the house. A nearby crack of thunder was heard, and the wind blew the spray onto our notebooks and bags. One of the seams in the dark-brown wooden planks above us opened up, and let the water stream onto the whiteboard. It erased the lesson notes that my teacher was writing, and nearly drenched the man as well. A fifteen-minute rest was declared to wait until the rain passed. I started laughing.
“Lok cru, Kampuchea mean ruck duhl wüt sah?” (Most respected teacher, did you say that Cambodia has a wet season?) I ask.
“Bat, Adrian. Kampuchea mean” (Yes, Adrian, Cambodia has a wet season). He bears his teeth, squints his eyes, and begins to laugh as well.
At four o’clock, the lesson was over. The other trainees and I stepped out into the cool, moistened air as we rode our bicycles home. I passed through the market, and saw that the rain had transformed the central paths into giant pools of mud. If you were not careful as to where you placed your foot, it would sink into one of these black, sticky, and oozing pits that were often filled with trash. When the sun set that evening, the sky cleared just enough to allow the red and yellow light to shine brilliantly as it reflected on the clouds. It lasted only half an hour, and after that it was dark. It was time to eat, and sleep until the sun got up again.
The rains came again the next day, as they always do.
First Impressions
The following three stories are based upon the visit I made to my permanent site in Cambodia during the week of September 8th, 2008. They are told from the perspective of the people I met while I was there. In doing so, I intend to give a voice to those who may or may not be able to write in English. I also wish to shed some light on the culture in which I am living, and in writing these I hope to gain an understanding of why these people think and act the way that they do. No detail was added for the purpose of embellishment or shock. The only element of fiction here is what my own limited imagination has recreated to be the consciousness of those who interacted me.
I. The Barang
I first saw him when I was working in the front of my shop. He was walking on the paved road that leads to Siem Reap, if you follow it long enough, that runs past the roadside shop where my family and I sell fruits and vegetables. This man was wearing a white t-shirt, black pants, shoes, and a green tilly hat that hung by a string over his neck. He was looking at the road in front of him, and I was staring at him. His skin was so white! It was the color of rice. I wondered where this man could have come from to have skin like that. I have often heard my grandparents talk about a pale skinned people that ruled Cambodia a long time ago, and I thought this man could be one of them. The old people called these foreigners barangs, and it seemed possible that this man was a barang. What was he doing here? He disappeared down the road soon, and I talked to my mother about the strange sight that I had seen. I described to her what this man looked like, and she agreed with me that he was indeed a barang.
When I saw the man for the second time, I was counting crates in the back of my shop. He crossed the mud puddle on the side of the road, ducked under the low hanging, corrugated roof that covered the porch, and approached the storefront. Baskets of my fruit were in front of him, and he greeted me in Khmer as soon as I noticed that he was there. I stood there dumbstruck. He continued to speak, and asked me how much it would cost to buy a kilo of limes. I shouted to my husband and his friends who were across the road, “Hey there, this barang speaks Khmer!” The red kromah that I had wrapped around my head nearly fell off because I was so excited. Everyone quickly rushed over, and soon people young and old surrounded the man. The barang took one step backward, but did not seem perturbed by the sudden attention. He continued to ask me how much a kilo of limes would cost. I told him that it would cost him 5,000 riel. He said something that I did not understand followed by the word kilo. He said it three times until I understood that he wanted a half a kilo of limes. I remember meeting some people who lived in Phnom Penh a long time ago, and I noticed then and there that he spoke like they did. His accent and that way in which he phrased his Khmer words had a similar sound. I measured out half a kilo of limes on the scale, and asked him for 2,000 riel. He paid in exact change, and said thank you in Khmer. I smiled and said nothing. He nodded and continued walking. Everyone stared as he walked down the road towards the high school, but it did not seem to bother him in the slightest.
How strange it is that a barang would come to my shop and buy limes!
II. The American
I first met the American when he walked into my electronics shop one morning. A Cambodian English teacher, who teaches at the high school here in Anchor, accompanied him and greeted me when I looked up from my desk. I pulled up some plastic chairs, and we sat down together near the front of the shop on the concrete floor. Behind us were racks of television, radios, and speaker equipment, and wires hung from ceiling. The American introduced himself to me in Khmer, and said that he would be teaching English at Anchor High School for two years. I smiled when he spoke Khmer, and I told him that I spoke English. He smiled when I spoke a few words of it to him. It must not be something that he hears often in Cambodia. He said that my English was very good, and he asked me where I had learned it. I began to tell him my story.
“I used to be an English teacher, but now I sell televisions. Many years ago, I taught at the high school during the day, and carried a gun at night as a soldier. The Khmer Rouge was still here, and sometimes there was a lot of shelling.” The American listened attentively, and his eyes grew wider as I told my story.
“Now I am studying to be pastor. A few years ago, some people from Australia came and told me about Jesus. Do you know Jesus?”
The American nodded his head and stared at the floor.
“Jesus loves all, and all should love Jesus.”
The wife of a local policeman walked into the shop at this point, and sat down with us. She asked who the American was, and I told her in Khmer that he would be here for two years to teach English at the high school. She asked me to translate a question for her, and I said to the American, “Are you married?”
“Mun toan riup kah té,” (I am not married yet) he replies to her in Khmer. She then asks him if he wants to marry a Khmer girl, and he says no. He explains in Khmer how a Khmer girl would not know how to speak English, and that as a result the marriage would not be happy. She replies to him, “Rien Khmay!” (So study Khmer then!) We all laugh again, and say to one another that this American is funny. The Cambodian English teacher looks at his watch and says to the American that they should get going. They both say goodbye to us, and leave.
I cannot understand why anyone would think that marriage with a Khmer girl would be unhappy!
III. The Counterpart
This is the story of how I met the counterpart.
I know why my school director picked me for this task. I am the only English teacher currently teaching at our high school right now because all of the others are leaving to work at other schools. We are getting a volunteer from an American organization named Peace Corps, and this man will teach English with me and the other teachers. My school director told me that there was a conference with Cambodian English teachers and American volunteers in Kampong Chnang. Someone needed to go there, meet him, bring him back to Anchor, and introduce him to the community. This someone had to be me.
I arrive in Kampong Chnnang, and there are lots of Cambodian English teachers from all over the country at the high school where we are gathering. So many teachers! All of them are standing or sitting with at least one barang. I am frightened and nervous to even be here. I want to improve my English, especially with a native speaker, but I am so scared about meeting this barang. I see him for the first time when he and another American approach me suddenly. He is wearing black pants and a white shirt that is tucked in. His face is white and his hair a light brown. He introduces himself and greets me in Khmer. I giggle, bend over, and avoid his gaze. I cannot help it, I am so nervous. I look at his blue eyes, and say, “Hello! Nice to meet you.” The other Cambodians are calling their barangs “counterparts.” I have no idea what this word means.
One Cambodian who works for the Peace Corps as a Khmer teacher asks me how old I am during this morning of introductions. I say that I am twenty-five, and that I have one year of teaching experience. He laughs, and says that I look like I am fourteen. I laugh, but only because I am embarrassed.
We have two days of meetings with the Americans and with the other Cambodian English teachers. We learn how we are supposed to teach together, how we are supposed to interact together during the two years that we will be together, and how we will improve the English skills of our departments. This barang, this “counterpart” keeps talking to me, and I have only the slightest idea of what he is talking about. My English is not very good, and he speaks so fast! I tell him to speak slower, but sometimes I still cannot understand him.
After the conference, we go to Phnom Penh by taxi, and then to Siem Reap in the north of the country by bus. I have never been to the capital of Phnom Penh before. I want to see the actresses and actors who live there! I tell my counterpart and the other barangs that I want to see them. They laugh, and I laugh. I think that they have been here many times, but I have never been. I try and sleep on the way to Siem Reap, but the bus is so bumpy. I vomit several times, and my counterpart looks horrified. I ask him to move to another seat so that I can lie down on two seats. The bus ride is a blur, and the other teachers are laughing at me periodically along the way.
After six hours, we reach the town of Siem Reap. I take my counterpart by the hand, as friends do in Cambodia, and lead him to a tuk-tuk (motorcycle rickshaw). We negotiate the price to go to Pourk, which is where my school director will pick us up in his car. The counterpart looks tired and wide-eyed as we pass through the town of Siem Reap. I explain to him that there are many expensive hotels in this city, and he nods in agreement. We leave the paved road, and the counterpart bumps up and down in the tuk tuk with his big, blue backpack. After twenty minutes, we arrive at the central market of Pourk. The director is there, and I introduce the two men to each other. The counterpart greets the director in the formal way that Cambodians meet each other for the first time. He bows and says, “Choom reep suah,” as he places his big blue backpack inside the car. We drive though the rice fields to Anchor Chum, past the herds of cows and the pagodas, and I have to translate everything that the barang asks the school director. There are brief pauses of silence along the way.
We arrive at the house where the barang is going to stay during the two years that he is here. He meets his family, and greets them with a nervous expression on his face. The school director, the barang, the family, and I talk for a few minutes before the barang puts his gear in the big concrete room at the back of the house that will be his bedroom for the next two years. I put my things down there as well. We visit the school where we will both teach together. He is lucky that the school is across the road from his house because many teachers have to travel a long way to get where they have to work. We cross the road in front of the house and enter the grounds of the school through the big blue steel gate. The muddy, dirt path that we follow is lined with trees on either side, and we pass the soccer field on the right that is almost completely submerged in water. The barang makes a joke about the rainy season. I laugh, but only to be polite. Many places fill with water during this time of year, why should he think it is funny?
I show him the school offices in the first yellow, one floored building that we come to. The barang says that this school resembles the school that he taught at in Kampong, only that it has fewer buildings. I show him a classroom, the pond behind the school, and the dormitories where I and some other teachers live during the week when we are not in our homes. I introduce the barang to another teacher, and we chat for a few minutes. I speak with the teacher in Khmer for a few minutes, and the barang strolls off few minutes later. When I turn to look at him again, he is looking at the view over the pond and he has a vacant expression on his face. I hear him muttering something under his breath as I approach him. “Are you bored?” I ask.
“No no…just thinking about something,” he replies. I do not know what that means exactly, but I smile at him. It is getting late in the afternoon, almost time for dinner. “Are you hungry?” I ask him.
“Bat, khynm klien chiran,” (Yes, I am very hungry) he replies in Khmer. I laugh. This barang always wants to practice his Khmer. Every time I hear him speak our language, I think it is hysterical. “Yung neam bai nul pteah neak,” (We are going to eat dinner at your house) I say. He nods his head quickly, and we begin to walk back to his house. Before we leave, the school director comes and finds me. He asks to stay with the barang for one night so that he does not feel lonely. I say ok. The barang has a big bed in his room, and I am sure he will not mind sharing it.
We go back to his house. The barang washes in the bathroom while I talk with his host family. When he appears in the fresh and wrinkled clothes that he has pulled out of his backpack, it is time for dinner. We sit around a stone table underneath a straw roof outside of the house and eat our meal of rice, potato soup, and beef cutlets. I translate a few questions from the barang, but he mostly sits in silence as I joke with the boys in the family. I laugh a lot while he seems content to simply sit there in polite silence. After dinner, we pour ourselves some cold water out of the glass bottles that are stored in the kitchen cooler. Although the barang did not seem hungry at dinner, he greedily drinks down glass after glass of water when I offer it to him. “Neak s’rai dtuck?” (Are you thirsty?)
“Bat, khyom s’rai dtuck” (Yes, I am thirsty). The boys of the family and I fall over laughing while the mother and father giggle. We cannot help ourselves. Sometimes we see barangs on television, but we never hear them speak Khmer. This person is like a comedian who you cannot tire of. It is almost like a white, paper cartoon has come alive to teach English in Cambodia.
The barang excuses himself from the table, and says that he is going to bed. I ask him if it is okay if I watch television for a few minutes. He looks confused, but says that he does not mind. I watch with the family for a few minutes before I go into the barang’s room. I use his bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face while he is reading a book with a flashlight under the mosquito net. When I am done, I go over to his bed, lift up the mosquito net, and crawl into bed with him. The barang looks shocked. He asks me nervously why I am not sleeping in my room at the school. I respond in my best English.
“The school director asked me to stay with you one night so you are not bored.”
“Bored?” he asks. “Do you mean lonely?”
“Yes.” I think that this is what he wants me to say.
The barang seems uncomfortable, and moves as far to the edge of the bed as possible. Why does he do this? I do not want him to be lonely. I put pillow next to his and move over as well. I put my hand on his thigh and rest my head on his shoulder as a sign of friendship. My brothers and I sleep together like this at my home, and I expect that he should welcome it. Something, however, is wrong. He arches his back like a terrified cat, and gently pushes me away. I am struggling to understand why he is doing this. He turns to face me, and states that he very uncomfortable. He explains that he knows that Cambodian men touch each other, but that American men do not. He asks me to move to the other side of the bed. I am sad that he has rejected my sign of friendship, but I move to the other side of the bed. I look at him one last time before I fall asleep. His eyes are wide open, his arms are at his sides, and his head is facing upwards. When I wake up in the morning, he is lying in the same position. I do not understand what I did to cause this reaction.
After a few days here, the barang leaves to go back to his home in Kampong. I know that I will see him again in another month, but I wonder what the next two years are going to be like when he and I are both living here. I want my English to get better so I can have a better job, possibly one in a hotel in Siem Reap. I hope this happens, and I hope that he can help me make this happen. Until then, life continues in Anchor without any foreign influence. Perhaps, so much the better.
I. The Barang
I first saw him when I was working in the front of my shop. He was walking on the paved road that leads to Siem Reap, if you follow it long enough, that runs past the roadside shop where my family and I sell fruits and vegetables. This man was wearing a white t-shirt, black pants, shoes, and a green tilly hat that hung by a string over his neck. He was looking at the road in front of him, and I was staring at him. His skin was so white! It was the color of rice. I wondered where this man could have come from to have skin like that. I have often heard my grandparents talk about a pale skinned people that ruled Cambodia a long time ago, and I thought this man could be one of them. The old people called these foreigners barangs, and it seemed possible that this man was a barang. What was he doing here? He disappeared down the road soon, and I talked to my mother about the strange sight that I had seen. I described to her what this man looked like, and she agreed with me that he was indeed a barang.
When I saw the man for the second time, I was counting crates in the back of my shop. He crossed the mud puddle on the side of the road, ducked under the low hanging, corrugated roof that covered the porch, and approached the storefront. Baskets of my fruit were in front of him, and he greeted me in Khmer as soon as I noticed that he was there. I stood there dumbstruck. He continued to speak, and asked me how much it would cost to buy a kilo of limes. I shouted to my husband and his friends who were across the road, “Hey there, this barang speaks Khmer!” The red kromah that I had wrapped around my head nearly fell off because I was so excited. Everyone quickly rushed over, and soon people young and old surrounded the man. The barang took one step backward, but did not seem perturbed by the sudden attention. He continued to ask me how much a kilo of limes would cost. I told him that it would cost him 5,000 riel. He said something that I did not understand followed by the word kilo. He said it three times until I understood that he wanted a half a kilo of limes. I remember meeting some people who lived in Phnom Penh a long time ago, and I noticed then and there that he spoke like they did. His accent and that way in which he phrased his Khmer words had a similar sound. I measured out half a kilo of limes on the scale, and asked him for 2,000 riel. He paid in exact change, and said thank you in Khmer. I smiled and said nothing. He nodded and continued walking. Everyone stared as he walked down the road towards the high school, but it did not seem to bother him in the slightest.
How strange it is that a barang would come to my shop and buy limes!
II. The American
I first met the American when he walked into my electronics shop one morning. A Cambodian English teacher, who teaches at the high school here in Anchor, accompanied him and greeted me when I looked up from my desk. I pulled up some plastic chairs, and we sat down together near the front of the shop on the concrete floor. Behind us were racks of television, radios, and speaker equipment, and wires hung from ceiling. The American introduced himself to me in Khmer, and said that he would be teaching English at Anchor High School for two years. I smiled when he spoke Khmer, and I told him that I spoke English. He smiled when I spoke a few words of it to him. It must not be something that he hears often in Cambodia. He said that my English was very good, and he asked me where I had learned it. I began to tell him my story.
“I used to be an English teacher, but now I sell televisions. Many years ago, I taught at the high school during the day, and carried a gun at night as a soldier. The Khmer Rouge was still here, and sometimes there was a lot of shelling.” The American listened attentively, and his eyes grew wider as I told my story.
“Now I am studying to be pastor. A few years ago, some people from Australia came and told me about Jesus. Do you know Jesus?”
The American nodded his head and stared at the floor.
“Jesus loves all, and all should love Jesus.”
The wife of a local policeman walked into the shop at this point, and sat down with us. She asked who the American was, and I told her in Khmer that he would be here for two years to teach English at the high school. She asked me to translate a question for her, and I said to the American, “Are you married?”
“Mun toan riup kah té,” (I am not married yet) he replies to her in Khmer. She then asks him if he wants to marry a Khmer girl, and he says no. He explains in Khmer how a Khmer girl would not know how to speak English, and that as a result the marriage would not be happy. She replies to him, “Rien Khmay!” (So study Khmer then!) We all laugh again, and say to one another that this American is funny. The Cambodian English teacher looks at his watch and says to the American that they should get going. They both say goodbye to us, and leave.
I cannot understand why anyone would think that marriage with a Khmer girl would be unhappy!
III. The Counterpart
This is the story of how I met the counterpart.
I know why my school director picked me for this task. I am the only English teacher currently teaching at our high school right now because all of the others are leaving to work at other schools. We are getting a volunteer from an American organization named Peace Corps, and this man will teach English with me and the other teachers. My school director told me that there was a conference with Cambodian English teachers and American volunteers in Kampong Chnang. Someone needed to go there, meet him, bring him back to Anchor, and introduce him to the community. This someone had to be me.
I arrive in Kampong Chnnang, and there are lots of Cambodian English teachers from all over the country at the high school where we are gathering. So many teachers! All of them are standing or sitting with at least one barang. I am frightened and nervous to even be here. I want to improve my English, especially with a native speaker, but I am so scared about meeting this barang. I see him for the first time when he and another American approach me suddenly. He is wearing black pants and a white shirt that is tucked in. His face is white and his hair a light brown. He introduces himself and greets me in Khmer. I giggle, bend over, and avoid his gaze. I cannot help it, I am so nervous. I look at his blue eyes, and say, “Hello! Nice to meet you.” The other Cambodians are calling their barangs “counterparts.” I have no idea what this word means.
One Cambodian who works for the Peace Corps as a Khmer teacher asks me how old I am during this morning of introductions. I say that I am twenty-five, and that I have one year of teaching experience. He laughs, and says that I look like I am fourteen. I laugh, but only because I am embarrassed.
We have two days of meetings with the Americans and with the other Cambodian English teachers. We learn how we are supposed to teach together, how we are supposed to interact together during the two years that we will be together, and how we will improve the English skills of our departments. This barang, this “counterpart” keeps talking to me, and I have only the slightest idea of what he is talking about. My English is not very good, and he speaks so fast! I tell him to speak slower, but sometimes I still cannot understand him.
After the conference, we go to Phnom Penh by taxi, and then to Siem Reap in the north of the country by bus. I have never been to the capital of Phnom Penh before. I want to see the actresses and actors who live there! I tell my counterpart and the other barangs that I want to see them. They laugh, and I laugh. I think that they have been here many times, but I have never been. I try and sleep on the way to Siem Reap, but the bus is so bumpy. I vomit several times, and my counterpart looks horrified. I ask him to move to another seat so that I can lie down on two seats. The bus ride is a blur, and the other teachers are laughing at me periodically along the way.
After six hours, we reach the town of Siem Reap. I take my counterpart by the hand, as friends do in Cambodia, and lead him to a tuk-tuk (motorcycle rickshaw). We negotiate the price to go to Pourk, which is where my school director will pick us up in his car. The counterpart looks tired and wide-eyed as we pass through the town of Siem Reap. I explain to him that there are many expensive hotels in this city, and he nods in agreement. We leave the paved road, and the counterpart bumps up and down in the tuk tuk with his big, blue backpack. After twenty minutes, we arrive at the central market of Pourk. The director is there, and I introduce the two men to each other. The counterpart greets the director in the formal way that Cambodians meet each other for the first time. He bows and says, “Choom reep suah,” as he places his big blue backpack inside the car. We drive though the rice fields to Anchor Chum, past the herds of cows and the pagodas, and I have to translate everything that the barang asks the school director. There are brief pauses of silence along the way.
We arrive at the house where the barang is going to stay during the two years that he is here. He meets his family, and greets them with a nervous expression on his face. The school director, the barang, the family, and I talk for a few minutes before the barang puts his gear in the big concrete room at the back of the house that will be his bedroom for the next two years. I put my things down there as well. We visit the school where we will both teach together. He is lucky that the school is across the road from his house because many teachers have to travel a long way to get where they have to work. We cross the road in front of the house and enter the grounds of the school through the big blue steel gate. The muddy, dirt path that we follow is lined with trees on either side, and we pass the soccer field on the right that is almost completely submerged in water. The barang makes a joke about the rainy season. I laugh, but only to be polite. Many places fill with water during this time of year, why should he think it is funny?
I show him the school offices in the first yellow, one floored building that we come to. The barang says that this school resembles the school that he taught at in Kampong, only that it has fewer buildings. I show him a classroom, the pond behind the school, and the dormitories where I and some other teachers live during the week when we are not in our homes. I introduce the barang to another teacher, and we chat for a few minutes. I speak with the teacher in Khmer for a few minutes, and the barang strolls off few minutes later. When I turn to look at him again, he is looking at the view over the pond and he has a vacant expression on his face. I hear him muttering something under his breath as I approach him. “Are you bored?” I ask.
“No no…just thinking about something,” he replies. I do not know what that means exactly, but I smile at him. It is getting late in the afternoon, almost time for dinner. “Are you hungry?” I ask him.
“Bat, khynm klien chiran,” (Yes, I am very hungry) he replies in Khmer. I laugh. This barang always wants to practice his Khmer. Every time I hear him speak our language, I think it is hysterical. “Yung neam bai nul pteah neak,” (We are going to eat dinner at your house) I say. He nods his head quickly, and we begin to walk back to his house. Before we leave, the school director comes and finds me. He asks to stay with the barang for one night so that he does not feel lonely. I say ok. The barang has a big bed in his room, and I am sure he will not mind sharing it.
We go back to his house. The barang washes in the bathroom while I talk with his host family. When he appears in the fresh and wrinkled clothes that he has pulled out of his backpack, it is time for dinner. We sit around a stone table underneath a straw roof outside of the house and eat our meal of rice, potato soup, and beef cutlets. I translate a few questions from the barang, but he mostly sits in silence as I joke with the boys in the family. I laugh a lot while he seems content to simply sit there in polite silence. After dinner, we pour ourselves some cold water out of the glass bottles that are stored in the kitchen cooler. Although the barang did not seem hungry at dinner, he greedily drinks down glass after glass of water when I offer it to him. “Neak s’rai dtuck?” (Are you thirsty?)
“Bat, khyom s’rai dtuck” (Yes, I am thirsty). The boys of the family and I fall over laughing while the mother and father giggle. We cannot help ourselves. Sometimes we see barangs on television, but we never hear them speak Khmer. This person is like a comedian who you cannot tire of. It is almost like a white, paper cartoon has come alive to teach English in Cambodia.
The barang excuses himself from the table, and says that he is going to bed. I ask him if it is okay if I watch television for a few minutes. He looks confused, but says that he does not mind. I watch with the family for a few minutes before I go into the barang’s room. I use his bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face while he is reading a book with a flashlight under the mosquito net. When I am done, I go over to his bed, lift up the mosquito net, and crawl into bed with him. The barang looks shocked. He asks me nervously why I am not sleeping in my room at the school. I respond in my best English.
“The school director asked me to stay with you one night so you are not bored.”
“Bored?” he asks. “Do you mean lonely?”
“Yes.” I think that this is what he wants me to say.
The barang seems uncomfortable, and moves as far to the edge of the bed as possible. Why does he do this? I do not want him to be lonely. I put pillow next to his and move over as well. I put my hand on his thigh and rest my head on his shoulder as a sign of friendship. My brothers and I sleep together like this at my home, and I expect that he should welcome it. Something, however, is wrong. He arches his back like a terrified cat, and gently pushes me away. I am struggling to understand why he is doing this. He turns to face me, and states that he very uncomfortable. He explains that he knows that Cambodian men touch each other, but that American men do not. He asks me to move to the other side of the bed. I am sad that he has rejected my sign of friendship, but I move to the other side of the bed. I look at him one last time before I fall asleep. His eyes are wide open, his arms are at his sides, and his head is facing upwards. When I wake up in the morning, he is lying in the same position. I do not understand what I did to cause this reaction.
After a few days here, the barang leaves to go back to his home in Kampong. I know that I will see him again in another month, but I wonder what the next two years are going to be like when he and I are both living here. I want my English to get better so I can have a better job, possibly one in a hotel in Siem Reap. I hope this happens, and I hope that he can help me make this happen. Until then, life continues in Anchor without any foreign influence. Perhaps, so much the better.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A Killing Field
This is one of the killing fields of the Pol Pot regime in Cambodia. In the past, it was a massive instrument of torture. Today, it is farmland.
Kampuchean Adventure
We leave Kampong for the first time. It is not just another trip to the hub site for lectures, immunizations, and perhaps some time spent at the Internet café. This is a real trip, a real adventure on our own. Leaving in the afternoon, we pass schools, factories, slums, mansions, houses on stilts, and hilltop temples in the distance on our way to the capital. We are joking and laughing, happy at the fact that we are finally free for a weekend after six weeks jumping from day to day, hour to hour. It is blazing hot outside, but the van has air-conditioning. The taxi arrives on the riverbank of the Mekong, and a wind is blowing off the river that cools us as we make our way to the guesthouse.
Phnom Penh is a crawling metropolis of filth, luxury, and darkness. Madness and danger lurk around every street corner, and seeing the unexpected familiar is a daily occurrence. The streets are lined with shops that are crowded together, and motorcycles move quickly in herds down the boulevards. The legacy of the French occupation, which ended in 1953, can be found in the design of the city. Roundabouts circle giant, illuminated monuments, and the architecture of the rectangular apartment blocks resembles some sooty and foreboding neighborhoods of Montparnasse in Paris. The riverbank is lined with expensive hotels, restaurants, and bars that cater to western tastes, and tourists walk around unaware of the spectacle that they are. Aside from here, they hide in pockets around the city. When we stumble upon them, we stare just as much as everyday Cambodians, but they take no notice of who or what we are. Phnom Penh is a world unto itself, unlike the rest of Cambodia.
We check into our guesthouse, and move quickly to walk around and eat before dark. The streets are very dangerous at night, and no one wants to be the next victim of some wealthy man’s temper. Crossing the streets and walking past the independence monument at the heart of the city, we finally reach one of our main destinations: a western supermarket. My mouth drops as I enter the air-conditioned confines of the store, and stare at the goods that I found common in my former life. Peanut butter, jelly, cheese, donuts, ice cream, maple syrup, packaged meat products, and cookies. I walk around the isles in sheer astonishment and excitement at what I find. As I examine the prices of all these things becomes registered in my mind, however, the astonishment slowly turns into bitterness. The want of these things is drowned by the fact that I cannot afford to buy many of it. I buy a small jar of Nutella, and leave satisfied.
The group of people that I am with splits up, and a few of us head over to a western restaurant for dinner. I eat a hamburger and French fries. The others order the same, or Mexican food. We talk, we eat, and life feels good. After dinner we head back to the guesthouse, and I use the Internet for a little while at the café across the street.
A little while later I find myself sitting in the bar of the guesthouse with some volunteers and trainees. Pint sized bottles of Anchor beer are on the table, and I am drinking a Fanta. We are sitting in brown wicker chairs, and there are wooden fans circling above our heads that are suspended from a thatched roof. Yellow, Chinese lamps are strung from the ceiling, and the electric light is not very strong. We talk, exchange stories about our training villages, and the listen to the advice given to us by some of the other volunteers about living abroad. Australian and European backpackers filter in and out, and I stare at them as if they were aliens. The women are wearing shorts, low-cut shirts, and exposing their shoulders. I am ashamed to even glance at them, but I cannot seem to stop doing that. It is something I have not seen in so long.
I am so tired. I want to go to bed, but I am drawn to these people. One of them is leaving tomorrow, and while I am sad to see him go I know it is really for the best. I finally excuse myself, and go upstairs to the room I am renting for five dollars a night. After taking a hot shower for the first time in six weeks, I watch the news on the television. John McCain is announcing his running mate for the 2008 presidential election as I drift off.
The next morning, three friends and I pile into a cab that drives us to the Russian market. I feel refreshed, and the day has not quite warmed up yet. We negotiate the time and price of the bus, and leave Phnom Penh. Slowly, we wind our way up the Mekong river to the town of Kampong Cham. We get to the town, and take a tuk tuk (a motorcycle rickshaw) through the roundabouts and markets to the Mekong hotel on the riverbank. Making friends with the driver, we ask him to take us to Phnom Bros and Phnom Serai after lunch.
Phnom Bros and Phnom Serai (male and female mountain) are two small hills around 6km away from the town. The legend about this site is that they are the result of a competition between the men and women of Kampong Cham. The story is that before this took place, women were always responsible for the expense of weddings. The women did not think that this was particularly fair, so they challenged the men to race and put a wager on it. Whoever could build the tallest mountain would not have to pay for weddings from then on. The women built the mountain halfway during the day, and then built a fire to trick the men into thinking that they had stopped to rest. The men saw the smoke and proceeded to rest while the women kept building. The women eventually built the taller mountain, and the men, from then on, had to always pay for the wedding.
After lunch, we make our way to this site. Climbing up long, stone staircases to see the temples on top of each one, we can see how the Khmer Rouge damaged them during the mid 1970’s. The areas around the site are some of the infamous killing fields in which people were systematically put into forced labor camps. Walking between the mountains through the farms, I feel a chill crawl up the back of my spine when I imagine what went on there some thirty years ago. Despite its terrifying history, the land itself is barely scarred. Like the beaches of Normandy or the farmland of Gettysburg, you would think that it was just like any other place on earth.
We come down from the mountains, wash up, and stroll around the town before having dinner. Another volunteer from Kampong Cham province joins us and tells us some of the things he has seen in Cambodia. The restaurant is owned by an American ex-pat with a big, black mustache, and serves western food. I eat spaghetti with tomato sauce, look at movie posters on the wall, and listen to Tom Petty as it comes over the stereo. The restaurant overlooks the Mekong, and during pauses in conversation I stare at it. The sun’s reflection on the water shimmers as it slowly dips behind rain clouds, and then behind the other side of the river. It almost nine in the evening, and time for bed.
The next day I head back to Kampong, and the cycle of training begins again.
Phnom Penh is a crawling metropolis of filth, luxury, and darkness. Madness and danger lurk around every street corner, and seeing the unexpected familiar is a daily occurrence. The streets are lined with shops that are crowded together, and motorcycles move quickly in herds down the boulevards. The legacy of the French occupation, which ended in 1953, can be found in the design of the city. Roundabouts circle giant, illuminated monuments, and the architecture of the rectangular apartment blocks resembles some sooty and foreboding neighborhoods of Montparnasse in Paris. The riverbank is lined with expensive hotels, restaurants, and bars that cater to western tastes, and tourists walk around unaware of the spectacle that they are. Aside from here, they hide in pockets around the city. When we stumble upon them, we stare just as much as everyday Cambodians, but they take no notice of who or what we are. Phnom Penh is a world unto itself, unlike the rest of Cambodia.
We check into our guesthouse, and move quickly to walk around and eat before dark. The streets are very dangerous at night, and no one wants to be the next victim of some wealthy man’s temper. Crossing the streets and walking past the independence monument at the heart of the city, we finally reach one of our main destinations: a western supermarket. My mouth drops as I enter the air-conditioned confines of the store, and stare at the goods that I found common in my former life. Peanut butter, jelly, cheese, donuts, ice cream, maple syrup, packaged meat products, and cookies. I walk around the isles in sheer astonishment and excitement at what I find. As I examine the prices of all these things becomes registered in my mind, however, the astonishment slowly turns into bitterness. The want of these things is drowned by the fact that I cannot afford to buy many of it. I buy a small jar of Nutella, and leave satisfied.
The group of people that I am with splits up, and a few of us head over to a western restaurant for dinner. I eat a hamburger and French fries. The others order the same, or Mexican food. We talk, we eat, and life feels good. After dinner we head back to the guesthouse, and I use the Internet for a little while at the café across the street.
A little while later I find myself sitting in the bar of the guesthouse with some volunteers and trainees. Pint sized bottles of Anchor beer are on the table, and I am drinking a Fanta. We are sitting in brown wicker chairs, and there are wooden fans circling above our heads that are suspended from a thatched roof. Yellow, Chinese lamps are strung from the ceiling, and the electric light is not very strong. We talk, exchange stories about our training villages, and the listen to the advice given to us by some of the other volunteers about living abroad. Australian and European backpackers filter in and out, and I stare at them as if they were aliens. The women are wearing shorts, low-cut shirts, and exposing their shoulders. I am ashamed to even glance at them, but I cannot seem to stop doing that. It is something I have not seen in so long.
I am so tired. I want to go to bed, but I am drawn to these people. One of them is leaving tomorrow, and while I am sad to see him go I know it is really for the best. I finally excuse myself, and go upstairs to the room I am renting for five dollars a night. After taking a hot shower for the first time in six weeks, I watch the news on the television. John McCain is announcing his running mate for the 2008 presidential election as I drift off.
The next morning, three friends and I pile into a cab that drives us to the Russian market. I feel refreshed, and the day has not quite warmed up yet. We negotiate the time and price of the bus, and leave Phnom Penh. Slowly, we wind our way up the Mekong river to the town of Kampong Cham. We get to the town, and take a tuk tuk (a motorcycle rickshaw) through the roundabouts and markets to the Mekong hotel on the riverbank. Making friends with the driver, we ask him to take us to Phnom Bros and Phnom Serai after lunch.
Phnom Bros and Phnom Serai (male and female mountain) are two small hills around 6km away from the town. The legend about this site is that they are the result of a competition between the men and women of Kampong Cham. The story is that before this took place, women were always responsible for the expense of weddings. The women did not think that this was particularly fair, so they challenged the men to race and put a wager on it. Whoever could build the tallest mountain would not have to pay for weddings from then on. The women built the mountain halfway during the day, and then built a fire to trick the men into thinking that they had stopped to rest. The men saw the smoke and proceeded to rest while the women kept building. The women eventually built the taller mountain, and the men, from then on, had to always pay for the wedding.
After lunch, we make our way to this site. Climbing up long, stone staircases to see the temples on top of each one, we can see how the Khmer Rouge damaged them during the mid 1970’s. The areas around the site are some of the infamous killing fields in which people were systematically put into forced labor camps. Walking between the mountains through the farms, I feel a chill crawl up the back of my spine when I imagine what went on there some thirty years ago. Despite its terrifying history, the land itself is barely scarred. Like the beaches of Normandy or the farmland of Gettysburg, you would think that it was just like any other place on earth.
We come down from the mountains, wash up, and stroll around the town before having dinner. Another volunteer from Kampong Cham province joins us and tells us some of the things he has seen in Cambodia. The restaurant is owned by an American ex-pat with a big, black mustache, and serves western food. I eat spaghetti with tomato sauce, look at movie posters on the wall, and listen to Tom Petty as it comes over the stereo. The restaurant overlooks the Mekong, and during pauses in conversation I stare at it. The sun’s reflection on the water shimmers as it slowly dips behind rain clouds, and then behind the other side of the river. It almost nine in the evening, and time for bed.
The next day I head back to Kampong, and the cycle of training begins again.
My Very Large Class
This is our 11th grade class at Hun Sen High School. I am at the front and center of the group. To my left are my co-teachers and fellow PCT's, and to my right are our two counterparts. Our classroom is behind us.
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