In the evening, I usually retreat to an area under a large blue-green mosquito net in my room. In there is my bookshelf and desk, and it is the place where I write these entries at night until exhaustion overtakes me. Since electricity is very expensive in my town, I have a car battery that is connected to an am-meter. It charges my computer and cell phone. The copy of Rolling Stone magazine in this picture is from July.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Where I Write These Things
In the evening, I usually retreat to an area under a large blue-green mosquito net in my room. In there is my bookshelf and desk, and it is the place where I write these entries at night until exhaustion overtakes me. Since electricity is very expensive in my town, I have a car battery that is connected to an am-meter. It charges my computer and cell phone. The copy of Rolling Stone magazine in this picture is from July.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Assignment So Far
In the four weeks now that I have lived in the Anchor district, I have had the opportunity to spend about three weeks at the high school when was in session. In that time, I have observed and noted the abilities of both the students and teachers to communicate in English, and I have come to several conclusions about each of these groups. The long and the short of it is that both the students and teachers cannot speak English very well, with the exception of my counterpart, Mr. Nou. My work as an English teacher in this community is clearly laid out for the next two years, which is not necessarily a bad thing. I do not write this entry in an effort to be condescending or overly critical of the community or its students, for I am merely trying to describe the naked truth of what I have seen and heard. In examining it, I have found that the student’s lack of English skills has to do with a lack of learning resources and some cultural elements that inhibit the pursuit of study. The latter is something that I will discuss first, because it affects my teaching most directly.
Culture is a curious subject, and understanding it is often a lesson in humility. After living here for a few months, I thought that I would move beyond the scratched surface of understanding how Cambodians think. However, this is quite the opposite. In trying to understand the cultural rules that seem to inhibit a student’s ability to learn, I have scratched my head repeatedly in trying to understand why they do the things that they do. I have yet to figure out ways of overcoming them, but my hope is that by recording and taking notes on them I can understand them a little bit better.
While observing the students during my first week, I was struck by how incredibly shy the students were. When I introduced myself in front of my new classes of students during the first few days, they looked at me with a terrified expression on their faces. I could not help but find it similar to the way that my two-year-old neighbor looks at me. The eyes are wide, the mouth stretched open or in a vague smile, the head is bent over (along with the overall posture), and all of the muscles in the face are frozen. Some of the students still look at me in this way even after I have taught in their classes several times and implored them to speak in class. The co-teachers I work with tell me that while the students welcome the idea of learning English from a native speaker, they are too shy to approach me and ask questions. Some of them have warmed to me, especially when I quoted a Cambodian proverb Khmer in class that translates into English as “If you are shy with your teacher, you will never learn. If you are shy with your wife, you will never have children.” However, for most of my classes this shyness inhibits them from speaking out loud at all.
During a class that I was observing, the Cambodian English teacher called on a female student to read a passage that was written in the book. The student refused, and said in Khmer that she could not read English. At this point, I had heard this from multiple students. In a moment of curiosity, I asked her privately if she really could not read English, or rather she was simply too shy to read in front of the class. She mumbled something unintelligible, averted her eyes, and made it clear with her body language that she had little to no interest in speaking with me any further. A little while later, I could hear her reading along with her friend from the book. In a culture where yes means no and no means yes, saying things like “No, teacher, I can’t read English” are part of an age-old tradition of saving face that is common in many parts of Asia. The student probably could read English, but she did not think that her English was sufficient enough to read in front of the class. So she claimed that she could not read English at all. I initially thought that if only this shyness was overcome, then the students would speak English well. When I gave my students an English test for the first, I was proved wrong about this theory.
A few weeks ago, I helped give a test to the entire tenth and eleventh grade class in order to test their understanding of English. Plan International, which is an active NGO in my village, recently donated several new computers and a spiffy solar powered generating system to the school, and the test was a way of determining which students should be given the opportunity to use them and learn computer skills. The test was fairly straight forward, allowing the student to conjugate English verbs and determine appropriate tenses. The students themselves are supposed to have had at least three years of English so far, and the difficulty level of the test seemed appropriate when I looked it over. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
The problem began with the word “choose.” While proctoring an tenth grade class, I had to write the test on the blackboard for the students to copy and then do. Since our school does not have the resources for generating large amounts of photocopies, simple tests and quizzes are often done this way. The word in question was in the overall instructions that required the student to choose the correct verb tense from two that were given. For example, “While Susan was driving, she was receiving/received a call on her mobile phone.” After a few minutes of looking at the word, one student finally approached me and said that he and the others could not understand what this word meant. I tried to explain it as best I could in both English and Khmer, but the students still had no idea what this word meant. It was not until I grabbed a Khmer teacher who was passing by the class that I was able to translate what this word meant. For the rest of time remaining in that period, I sat behind a desk in front of the class. The faces of the students were reduced to black in the light of an oncoming morning thunderstorm, and I stared at them in a state of bewilderment. Three years of English, I thought. Three years of English and they can’t understand the word “choose.”
It is hard to understand why this could happen unless you know something about the district’s industry and geographical location. Eighty percent of the workforce in Anchor is involved in farming. Whether they are involved with growing rice, tending the stocks in a fish farm, raising livestock, or some other activity, most of their lives are spent in the fields. For the children of the Anchor, this is ultimately their destiny whether they like it or not. Like their forefathers before them, they too will probably become farmers themselves. Siem Reap is only around 50k away, and one would think that the promise of money and better jobs in the tourist industry there would be a luring opportunity away from the back breaking work of picking rice. A lot of people who I have talked to know someone who works there, and the their success is widely circulated. While the promise of moving there and earning more money is certainly present, the reality of going there is not. For the children in towns closer to Siem Reap, it certainly is. The town of Pourk (pronounced with a silent k on the end) is close enough to Siem Reap for this dream to become an attainable reality having better human and material resources.
When I taught an eleventh grade class in Kampong for a week, the same sort of problems existed. The shyness, the lack of comprehension, and the inability to pronounce certain words were all there, but they were all there on a much smaller scale. In general, the student’s ability in that district was much better this one. However, Kampong is a much bigger town with greater resources for learning. The high school has many English teachers, the town has many bookshops, and it has a road connecting it to the wealth and opportunity of Phnom Penh. Anchor district is a much smaller place, with fewer resources. Here the students can barely understand the words in their books, much less the words that come out of my mouth. This may sound exaggerated, but I swear that it is true.
So, why teach children of this district English if they are just going to forget it when they have to go and work in the fields when they finish school? It is a hard question to answer, and I would be lying if I said that I had no trouble answering it. A simple way of looking at it has to do with the overall mission of Peace Corps in Cambodia itself. Essentially, what we are trying to do is improve the teaching methods of Cambodian English teachers. The reason why we teach primarily with counterparts is because we are trying to ease a shift from teacher centered learning techniques that those that are student centered. It is more of a teaching training assignment to give Cambodian teachers techniques to use in the classroom. These skills will hopefully be passed on to other teachers in the future for the benefit of the students. Aside from this, however, there is another way of possibly looking at it.
As part of the Peace Corps mission, we are charged with being unofficial ambassadors of the US in order to provide people in the world with a better image of America than what they know already. As the country director noted in our swearing in ceremony, “These are not the Americans that you have seen on television.” Part of this responsibility is explaining to our community about the positive aspects of America culture. The quest that many Americans have had to make a better life for themselves is one of these aspects that I can tell them about that could possibly have an impact. Whether or not this would create an entire generation of Willy Lomans is unforeseeable, but perhaps through teaching English to the children of Anchor, I can give them a skill that can enable them to do something more than be a rice farmer. This will probably not become a reality for many people in this community, but for a few who understand the value of education it might be.
It is difficult to determine what impact I will have on this community after I leave for America, but perhaps with a little education the people working at the bank will someday be from this town instead of one over forty kilometers away. I friend of mine recently asked me if I thought this whole thing was worth doing. I would have to say that yes, it is worth doing. There are more reasons behind this answer, but I think that having any kind of impact at all on this community will make the experience worth it because it would give the people of Anchor to have something that they would have otherwise never gotten.
Culture is a curious subject, and understanding it is often a lesson in humility. After living here for a few months, I thought that I would move beyond the scratched surface of understanding how Cambodians think. However, this is quite the opposite. In trying to understand the cultural rules that seem to inhibit a student’s ability to learn, I have scratched my head repeatedly in trying to understand why they do the things that they do. I have yet to figure out ways of overcoming them, but my hope is that by recording and taking notes on them I can understand them a little bit better.
While observing the students during my first week, I was struck by how incredibly shy the students were. When I introduced myself in front of my new classes of students during the first few days, they looked at me with a terrified expression on their faces. I could not help but find it similar to the way that my two-year-old neighbor looks at me. The eyes are wide, the mouth stretched open or in a vague smile, the head is bent over (along with the overall posture), and all of the muscles in the face are frozen. Some of the students still look at me in this way even after I have taught in their classes several times and implored them to speak in class. The co-teachers I work with tell me that while the students welcome the idea of learning English from a native speaker, they are too shy to approach me and ask questions. Some of them have warmed to me, especially when I quoted a Cambodian proverb Khmer in class that translates into English as “If you are shy with your teacher, you will never learn. If you are shy with your wife, you will never have children.” However, for most of my classes this shyness inhibits them from speaking out loud at all.
During a class that I was observing, the Cambodian English teacher called on a female student to read a passage that was written in the book. The student refused, and said in Khmer that she could not read English. At this point, I had heard this from multiple students. In a moment of curiosity, I asked her privately if she really could not read English, or rather she was simply too shy to read in front of the class. She mumbled something unintelligible, averted her eyes, and made it clear with her body language that she had little to no interest in speaking with me any further. A little while later, I could hear her reading along with her friend from the book. In a culture where yes means no and no means yes, saying things like “No, teacher, I can’t read English” are part of an age-old tradition of saving face that is common in many parts of Asia. The student probably could read English, but she did not think that her English was sufficient enough to read in front of the class. So she claimed that she could not read English at all. I initially thought that if only this shyness was overcome, then the students would speak English well. When I gave my students an English test for the first, I was proved wrong about this theory.
A few weeks ago, I helped give a test to the entire tenth and eleventh grade class in order to test their understanding of English. Plan International, which is an active NGO in my village, recently donated several new computers and a spiffy solar powered generating system to the school, and the test was a way of determining which students should be given the opportunity to use them and learn computer skills. The test was fairly straight forward, allowing the student to conjugate English verbs and determine appropriate tenses. The students themselves are supposed to have had at least three years of English so far, and the difficulty level of the test seemed appropriate when I looked it over. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
The problem began with the word “choose.” While proctoring an tenth grade class, I had to write the test on the blackboard for the students to copy and then do. Since our school does not have the resources for generating large amounts of photocopies, simple tests and quizzes are often done this way. The word in question was in the overall instructions that required the student to choose the correct verb tense from two that were given. For example, “While Susan was driving, she was receiving/received a call on her mobile phone.” After a few minutes of looking at the word, one student finally approached me and said that he and the others could not understand what this word meant. I tried to explain it as best I could in both English and Khmer, but the students still had no idea what this word meant. It was not until I grabbed a Khmer teacher who was passing by the class that I was able to translate what this word meant. For the rest of time remaining in that period, I sat behind a desk in front of the class. The faces of the students were reduced to black in the light of an oncoming morning thunderstorm, and I stared at them in a state of bewilderment. Three years of English, I thought. Three years of English and they can’t understand the word “choose.”
It is hard to understand why this could happen unless you know something about the district’s industry and geographical location. Eighty percent of the workforce in Anchor is involved in farming. Whether they are involved with growing rice, tending the stocks in a fish farm, raising livestock, or some other activity, most of their lives are spent in the fields. For the children of the Anchor, this is ultimately their destiny whether they like it or not. Like their forefathers before them, they too will probably become farmers themselves. Siem Reap is only around 50k away, and one would think that the promise of money and better jobs in the tourist industry there would be a luring opportunity away from the back breaking work of picking rice. A lot of people who I have talked to know someone who works there, and the their success is widely circulated. While the promise of moving there and earning more money is certainly present, the reality of going there is not. For the children in towns closer to Siem Reap, it certainly is. The town of Pourk (pronounced with a silent k on the end) is close enough to Siem Reap for this dream to become an attainable reality having better human and material resources.
When I taught an eleventh grade class in Kampong for a week, the same sort of problems existed. The shyness, the lack of comprehension, and the inability to pronounce certain words were all there, but they were all there on a much smaller scale. In general, the student’s ability in that district was much better this one. However, Kampong is a much bigger town with greater resources for learning. The high school has many English teachers, the town has many bookshops, and it has a road connecting it to the wealth and opportunity of Phnom Penh. Anchor district is a much smaller place, with fewer resources. Here the students can barely understand the words in their books, much less the words that come out of my mouth. This may sound exaggerated, but I swear that it is true.
So, why teach children of this district English if they are just going to forget it when they have to go and work in the fields when they finish school? It is a hard question to answer, and I would be lying if I said that I had no trouble answering it. A simple way of looking at it has to do with the overall mission of Peace Corps in Cambodia itself. Essentially, what we are trying to do is improve the teaching methods of Cambodian English teachers. The reason why we teach primarily with counterparts is because we are trying to ease a shift from teacher centered learning techniques that those that are student centered. It is more of a teaching training assignment to give Cambodian teachers techniques to use in the classroom. These skills will hopefully be passed on to other teachers in the future for the benefit of the students. Aside from this, however, there is another way of possibly looking at it.
As part of the Peace Corps mission, we are charged with being unofficial ambassadors of the US in order to provide people in the world with a better image of America than what they know already. As the country director noted in our swearing in ceremony, “These are not the Americans that you have seen on television.” Part of this responsibility is explaining to our community about the positive aspects of America culture. The quest that many Americans have had to make a better life for themselves is one of these aspects that I can tell them about that could possibly have an impact. Whether or not this would create an entire generation of Willy Lomans is unforeseeable, but perhaps through teaching English to the children of Anchor, I can give them a skill that can enable them to do something more than be a rice farmer. This will probably not become a reality for many people in this community, but for a few who understand the value of education it might be.
It is difficult to determine what impact I will have on this community after I leave for America, but perhaps with a little education the people working at the bank will someday be from this town instead of one over forty kilometers away. I friend of mine recently asked me if I thought this whole thing was worth doing. I would have to say that yes, it is worth doing. There are more reasons behind this answer, but I think that having any kind of impact at all on this community will make the experience worth it because it would give the people of Anchor to have something that they would have otherwise never gotten.
Sunday Morning Laundry
Eyes open. The alarm on the cell phone is going off next to my pillowed head. Why did I set it last night? It’s Sunday, no classes to teach, no places to go. All I have to do is laundry and make lesson plans for the week. Oh hell, I have to do laundry. That’s why I set the alarm last night. Eyes open. Eyes closed. Get up, Adrian, you’ve got to do laundry before the rain comes in the afternoon. Maybe it won’t rain today? No, there’s a reason why they call it the rainy season. It rains every day. Got to do laundry now. You wait too long to do it, it’ll only have an hour or so to dry. It’ll still be wet tomorrow, and will smell for the rest of the week. Sit up. Scratch my head and look at my legs and arms. No bug bites? Good. How about the neck and torso? None there either. Mosquito net must be doing its job. These days, though, it’s the little black flea like bugs that’ll get into bed with me when I least expect it. I think they’re attracted to the white sheets. Lift up the mosquito net and crawl under it.
Feet hit the floor. Roll up the net today? No, just tuck it in under the mattress to make sure nothing gets in. Open the window and let in the damp morning air. The sun’s beginning to get up as well. Another couple of hours and the heat will be good enough to dry all my clothes out on the line. Breakfast? I’ll get it later when I’m done from that café down the street. Queet tio chia muy café dtuck dah go dah gah, my favorite kind of breakfast. Chinese noodle soup mixed with beef, with iced coffee and condensed sterilized milk to drink. That’ll be good. The girls who work there are pretty friendly as well.
Got to get started. Walk to the bathroom and open to the door. Stand with two feet apart above the porcelain Turkish toilet. Pee. Flush it with two scoopfuls of water from the reservoir. Ants are crawling in and out of one of the cracks in the wall. They just don’t know when to take a hint. Poison them with the promethren that’s tucked away in the medical kit? Wait, another spider has created a web nearby. I’ll leave the ants to them. I’ll have my breakfast and they’ll have theirs.
Open the door of the bathroom. Grab the two plastic basins resting against the wall. Set them down on the floor, and pour water into each of them. Get the detergent and pour it into one of the basins. Keep the other one for rinse water. Bring over my dirty clothes and the plastic chair that sits in front of my desk. Put on the rubber gloves I bought at Lucky Mart. The detergent will kill my hands if I let it. Too many other health concerns just from living here Better prevent one if I can.
Pick up a t-shirt. It smells god-awful. Probably one that used for biking this past week when I got caught in the rain. Dunk it into the soapy water, and get it nice and wet. With one hand over the other and the fabric in between, start scrubbing vigorously back and forth. Get the collar, then the armpits, then anywhere else that has a stain. If needed, use a sprinkle more of detergent. My host sister in Kampong taught me how to do this, though if she were here she’d give me a heap of trouble about the way that I’m scrubbing. She was never satisfied with my laundry skills, no matter how hard I tried. Can’t a barang get a break? Never.
Take the t-shirt and wring it out. Make sure all the soap gets out of there. Dunk it unto the rinse water once, twice, three times. Wring it out again, and throw it on the tiled floor of the bathroom. Just washed the floor yesterday, so it’s okay to put the finished product over there. Another t-shirt, pair of underwear, same process. Pair of white socks. Why did I ever bring a pair of white socks with me to Cambodia? I can never get the stains out of them. I swear I’ve worked fifteen minutes on the underside of a sock once, and still couldn’t get the dirt out of it. Pair of pants, and its time to use the brush. Grab the plastic handle and scrub the lining, the rear, and the cuffs. Try to get the mud stains out as much as possible. Dunk it into the soapy water a few times and inspect it to make sure that there isn’t a stain I’ve missed.
Two more pairs of pants, underwear, and shirts and I’m done. Pick up the finished laundry pile from the floor and bring it outside quickly because it’s dripping all over me. Look at the line. Damn. All the space has been taken. Take my metal clothes rack, put everything hanging on it on the bed, and bring it outside. Take all the clothes that are wet, and put them on the rack outside in the blazing sun. Host mother is laughing at me, and though I don’t understand her I imagine that what she’s saying is some opprobrious remark. I laugh with her, sardonically. Should have looked to see if the line was full before getting started, but I’ve got no other time to do this other than now. In any case, I can bring the clothes inside in a hurry if it starts to pour. You can never tell when that’s going to be during the day, but it always happens.
Take the used water and pour it outside. Mop up the bathroom floor a bit, and make sure its clean. Change into more respectable clothes, and grab the wallet, watch, keys, cell phone, malaria pills, and a book to read over breakfast. Lock up, and head out. Exhausted, and its only 7 AM.
What did Culture Shock!:Cambodia have to say about this place? “With its incredibly cheap cost of living, Cambodia is an easy place for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned Western male to hang out.” (96) Maybe for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned western male this is easy, but these people probably have washing machines.
Feet hit the floor. Roll up the net today? No, just tuck it in under the mattress to make sure nothing gets in. Open the window and let in the damp morning air. The sun’s beginning to get up as well. Another couple of hours and the heat will be good enough to dry all my clothes out on the line. Breakfast? I’ll get it later when I’m done from that café down the street. Queet tio chia muy café dtuck dah go dah gah, my favorite kind of breakfast. Chinese noodle soup mixed with beef, with iced coffee and condensed sterilized milk to drink. That’ll be good. The girls who work there are pretty friendly as well.
Got to get started. Walk to the bathroom and open to the door. Stand with two feet apart above the porcelain Turkish toilet. Pee. Flush it with two scoopfuls of water from the reservoir. Ants are crawling in and out of one of the cracks in the wall. They just don’t know when to take a hint. Poison them with the promethren that’s tucked away in the medical kit? Wait, another spider has created a web nearby. I’ll leave the ants to them. I’ll have my breakfast and they’ll have theirs.
Open the door of the bathroom. Grab the two plastic basins resting against the wall. Set them down on the floor, and pour water into each of them. Get the detergent and pour it into one of the basins. Keep the other one for rinse water. Bring over my dirty clothes and the plastic chair that sits in front of my desk. Put on the rubber gloves I bought at Lucky Mart. The detergent will kill my hands if I let it. Too many other health concerns just from living here Better prevent one if I can.
Pick up a t-shirt. It smells god-awful. Probably one that used for biking this past week when I got caught in the rain. Dunk it into the soapy water, and get it nice and wet. With one hand over the other and the fabric in between, start scrubbing vigorously back and forth. Get the collar, then the armpits, then anywhere else that has a stain. If needed, use a sprinkle more of detergent. My host sister in Kampong taught me how to do this, though if she were here she’d give me a heap of trouble about the way that I’m scrubbing. She was never satisfied with my laundry skills, no matter how hard I tried. Can’t a barang get a break? Never.
Take the t-shirt and wring it out. Make sure all the soap gets out of there. Dunk it unto the rinse water once, twice, three times. Wring it out again, and throw it on the tiled floor of the bathroom. Just washed the floor yesterday, so it’s okay to put the finished product over there. Another t-shirt, pair of underwear, same process. Pair of white socks. Why did I ever bring a pair of white socks with me to Cambodia? I can never get the stains out of them. I swear I’ve worked fifteen minutes on the underside of a sock once, and still couldn’t get the dirt out of it. Pair of pants, and its time to use the brush. Grab the plastic handle and scrub the lining, the rear, and the cuffs. Try to get the mud stains out as much as possible. Dunk it into the soapy water a few times and inspect it to make sure that there isn’t a stain I’ve missed.
Two more pairs of pants, underwear, and shirts and I’m done. Pick up the finished laundry pile from the floor and bring it outside quickly because it’s dripping all over me. Look at the line. Damn. All the space has been taken. Take my metal clothes rack, put everything hanging on it on the bed, and bring it outside. Take all the clothes that are wet, and put them on the rack outside in the blazing sun. Host mother is laughing at me, and though I don’t understand her I imagine that what she’s saying is some opprobrious remark. I laugh with her, sardonically. Should have looked to see if the line was full before getting started, but I’ve got no other time to do this other than now. In any case, I can bring the clothes inside in a hurry if it starts to pour. You can never tell when that’s going to be during the day, but it always happens.
Take the used water and pour it outside. Mop up the bathroom floor a bit, and make sure its clean. Change into more respectable clothes, and grab the wallet, watch, keys, cell phone, malaria pills, and a book to read over breakfast. Lock up, and head out. Exhausted, and its only 7 AM.
What did Culture Shock!:Cambodia have to say about this place? “With its incredibly cheap cost of living, Cambodia is an easy place for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned Western male to hang out.” (96) Maybe for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned western male this is easy, but these people probably have washing machines.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Woman At The End of the Road
Every day after school, I walk to the statue of this woman on the edge of the town. She stands at the intersection between the roads that lead to Varin and to Pourk.
Friday, October 17, 2008
"On a Cold Night They Came"
A Quiet Town With a Violent Past
The road that leads from the villages of Daun Sva to Bott in the province of Siem Reap is a particularly pretty one. Trees of grey and white bark line one of the few paved roads in the region, and the view from a bicycle stretches across the fields of brown wheat and green rice plants to the hills of the Varin district. In Bott village itself, a Wat with a large and ornately decorated gate stands where the road curves toward the smoke colored hills in the distance. In this place of seemingly rural tranquility, however, there is a hidden danger. A few kilometers outside of Bott, there are little stone markers placed on paths leading into the rice fields. The markers are painted red and white, and have the design of a skull and crossbones painted on them to indicate the presence of mines and unexploded ordinance. The Halo Trust, a British de-mining organization that is active in Cambodia, placed the signs there some years ago, but even their warning goes unheeded by some. It is common to see farmers tending to their cattle herds or walking among their crops out there. It is still not clear to me whether or not they understand the danger that is involved in their action. I have talked to them on a few occasions using what little Khmer I know in order to gain any information about these fields. They know that there are mines out there, but they continue to go on farming despite the danger. It is the only thing that they can do to still make a living.
There are many mines in this area, and their presence is a symbol of the violence that Cambodia suffered over a period of nearly thirty years. In talking with some of the teachers at my high school, I have learned something about the violent history of Anchor. In order to explain some of it, I must of course describe briefly something of Cambodia’s history during the past thirty years. In 1970, a General named Lon Nol took power in a Coup that deposed King Norodom Sihanouk. Sihanouk in turn backed a revolutionary guerilla group named the Khmer Rouge, and supported them in their fight against Lon Nol. When the Khmer Rouge took power in 1975, they forced people out their homes all over the country to work in a gigantic agrarian genocide that caused the deaths of millions. In 1979, Vietnam invaded the country in response to attacks on Vietnamese civilians, and occupied the country until 1989. In 1992, the UN transitional government authority (UNTAC) came in to help support Cambodia’s first democratic elections that resulted with Hun Sein, the current prime minister, gaining power in 1997. From what I have gathered, the district of Anchor has witnessed a small part of many of these major events that I have quickly reviewed.
Anchor was one of the last districts to be captured by the Khmer Rouge in the 1970’s. Some of the residents have told me that when Lon Nol’s government was fighting with them, many people died here and in the surrounding areas. It also seems that almost everyone here knows someone who was killed during the time of genocide, whether it was an uncle, father, cousin, or some other kind of relative. When the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge placed mines on the roads and in the fields to halt the invading army’s progress.
After the Vietnamese had conquered most of the country, fighting between the Khmer Rouge and government soldiers lasted for many years afterwards. The Khmer Rouge soldiers attacked the police and the army multiple times during this period, and civilians were in a constant state of alarm. UNTAC sent several workers to the Anchor district during the 1990’s, and two of them were killed in the ongoing violence. A mine on the road blew up underneath the car of one, and other received a fatal bullet wound in the neck. From what I am told by people in the village, the latter came from Bangladesh and lived at the Wat with the monks until he died. Until Hun Sein took power in 1997, there was virtually no peace in the area. The central town’s appearance today looks so peaceful, and it is hard to imagine the horrible things that went on here some years ago. Yet they did.
On a Cold Night They Came
This is the story of Mr. Jia Bon Tooen. He is a friend of mine who works in the office at my high school, and I have come to know him through regular visits to his cell phone shop in the market. On one such occasion, he told this story about his early days as a teacher in this district. It is a tale of survival, and the misery that the people faced in a time before the days of UNTAC. This is his story, and I have tried to put it down in writing as best I can.
When I came to this district as a secondary school teacher in 1989, I lived two different lives. By day, I taught physics, chemistry, and math. By night, I traded my chalkboard and teaching materials for a rifle and grenade belt. You must believe when I say that I never in my life wanted to become a soldier, but the situation at the time was desperate. When I arrived at the school in the beginning of the academic year, the school director told me that I would not be paid if I did not perform nightly guard duty for the local army company. Rather than face starvation and misery, I carried the gun. While the soldiers and police slept during the night, a ragtag band of teachers and office workers kept watch over the town. Every night, we were afraid that the Khmer Rouge would attack. We knew that they hid in the forested hills not far from the town in the district of Varin, and that at night they would creep through the fields to attack the town. It was only a matter of time before it did, and I will tell you how it happened.
It was a cold night when they came. At four in the morning, I was standing outside of my house near the main road that leads through the center of town. A few hundred meters away, the police and army slept at the barracks near the secondary school while I waited for my shift to be over. Another hour, and I could go back and prepare for the morning session. I crossed my arms, rested the butt of my rifle on the ground, and leaned against a post to try to maybe sleep a little while no one could see me. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard a loud whistling. I looked up, and something fell from the sky and exploded a hundred meters away with a large explosion that shook the earth. I dropped to my hands and knees as other bombs came and crashed in the same way.
During a brief pause in the shelling, I suddenly began to hear the sounds of pounding feet. I looked in the opposite direction of where the bombs struck, and I saw the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge. Hundreds of them were running down the road dressed in their Chinese made green drab uniforms. Their heads were wrapped in red bandannas, their feet protected by sandals, and their waists were clothed in ammunition. I could see them coming, but they could not see me in the darkness. I acted quickly and jumped into a muddy canal that was by the side of the road next to me. In the dark, I threw off my ammunition, grenades, and pitched my rifle into the black water. I did not dare fight the Khmer Rouge, for I knew that I would be killed if I did. I was a teacher, not a soldier. I didn’t sign up for this.
I could hear the pounding feet running by me as I breathed heavily among the reeds and muck of my watery hiding place. My head was just above the water, but despite my efforts to hide myself I still feared that the Khmer Rouge would see me. When the pounding of feet passed near me, I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. I was not a Christian man then, but if I were I would have offered God anything He wanted if He kept me alive that night.
As soon as the soldiers passed my hiding place, I began to hear gunfire. The Khmer Rouge were fighting with the soldiers near the school, but from where I was I could not see them. Slowly and carefully as to not make a sound, I crept on my belly like a snake from my hiding place through the mud to see what was going on. As soon as I reached the road, I saw that the Khmer Rouge had almost completely overrun the soldiers and police stationed at the barracks. The government soldiers were retreating, firing their guns sporadically as they went. These men constantly bullied the civilians in the town, but when it came down to actually fighting all of their bravado was stripped from them. When the shooting finally stopped, I walked slowly back to my house. I went up to the second floor, took off my wet and muddy clothes, and hid under my bed. However, the terror of the night was not yet over.
When the Khmer Rouge had taken all that they wanted from the barracks, they turned on the town. They looted everything that they could find, and I could hear them breaking down doors and smashing windows outside. One soldier came into my house, and stole my dishes. When his footsteps could be heard inside the house, I froze. The sound made it its way into my living room, and having not found anything of value in there the footsteps made their way into my kitchen. I could hear the clatter of my dishes as he dumped them into his crudely stitched sack and began to head for the door. In my misery and desperation, I decided to follow him to beg for my things back. Today, I do not know why I did this, as I could have stayed hidden where I was. I felt that it was the least I could do to protect what little I had.
I came downstairs with only a kromah wrapped around my waist, and followed the man as he left. A few steps out the front door, the soldier noticed that he was being followed. He turned around to face me with one hand holding his rifle, and the other carrying his stolen goods. The man looked like one who was deprived of even the simple comforts of life. His naked feet looked bruised and worn, and his dark and sun scorched face contrasted sharply with the red bandanna tied around his head. The green army clothes he wore were dirty and covered with mud around the ankles. He could have smelled awful as well, but I did not dare get close enough to him to tell if he did or not.
When the man looked at me with hardened eyes and a scowl, I put my hands together and pleaded with him to not take my dishes. I said that I was simple person without a lot of money. He dropped his sack and grinned, revealing a sinister smile of white broken teeth. He raised his rifle and asked me, “Why do you follow me?” and fired the gun several times. A spray of bullets struck the earth around my feet, and I thought for a moment that he would raise it and shoot me in the chest. However, he simply laughed and walked off to rejoin his comrades. I dropped to my knees in shock of what happened, and watched the Khmer Rouge wreak havoc in the town. Some of them simply robbed houses, but others did more damage. One smashed open a jewel case, and helped himself to as many watches as he liked. I retreated back to my hiding place soon after I was shot at, and the Khmer Rouge soon after retreated to theirs. The sun was coming up soon, and they knew that they were not safe in broad daylight from the government planes.
I did not go to school that day. I helped my friends and neighbors pick up the pieces of what had just happened. We knew that the Khmer Rouge would come again, but for the time being we could calm ourselves enough to avoid going mad with fright.
No one slept well the next night. No one who lived through what we did would have.
The road that leads from the villages of Daun Sva to Bott in the province of Siem Reap is a particularly pretty one. Trees of grey and white bark line one of the few paved roads in the region, and the view from a bicycle stretches across the fields of brown wheat and green rice plants to the hills of the Varin district. In Bott village itself, a Wat with a large and ornately decorated gate stands where the road curves toward the smoke colored hills in the distance. In this place of seemingly rural tranquility, however, there is a hidden danger. A few kilometers outside of Bott, there are little stone markers placed on paths leading into the rice fields. The markers are painted red and white, and have the design of a skull and crossbones painted on them to indicate the presence of mines and unexploded ordinance. The Halo Trust, a British de-mining organization that is active in Cambodia, placed the signs there some years ago, but even their warning goes unheeded by some. It is common to see farmers tending to their cattle herds or walking among their crops out there. It is still not clear to me whether or not they understand the danger that is involved in their action. I have talked to them on a few occasions using what little Khmer I know in order to gain any information about these fields. They know that there are mines out there, but they continue to go on farming despite the danger. It is the only thing that they can do to still make a living.
There are many mines in this area, and their presence is a symbol of the violence that Cambodia suffered over a period of nearly thirty years. In talking with some of the teachers at my high school, I have learned something about the violent history of Anchor. In order to explain some of it, I must of course describe briefly something of Cambodia’s history during the past thirty years. In 1970, a General named Lon Nol took power in a Coup that deposed King Norodom Sihanouk. Sihanouk in turn backed a revolutionary guerilla group named the Khmer Rouge, and supported them in their fight against Lon Nol. When the Khmer Rouge took power in 1975, they forced people out their homes all over the country to work in a gigantic agrarian genocide that caused the deaths of millions. In 1979, Vietnam invaded the country in response to attacks on Vietnamese civilians, and occupied the country until 1989. In 1992, the UN transitional government authority (UNTAC) came in to help support Cambodia’s first democratic elections that resulted with Hun Sein, the current prime minister, gaining power in 1997. From what I have gathered, the district of Anchor has witnessed a small part of many of these major events that I have quickly reviewed.
Anchor was one of the last districts to be captured by the Khmer Rouge in the 1970’s. Some of the residents have told me that when Lon Nol’s government was fighting with them, many people died here and in the surrounding areas. It also seems that almost everyone here knows someone who was killed during the time of genocide, whether it was an uncle, father, cousin, or some other kind of relative. When the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge placed mines on the roads and in the fields to halt the invading army’s progress.
After the Vietnamese had conquered most of the country, fighting between the Khmer Rouge and government soldiers lasted for many years afterwards. The Khmer Rouge soldiers attacked the police and the army multiple times during this period, and civilians were in a constant state of alarm. UNTAC sent several workers to the Anchor district during the 1990’s, and two of them were killed in the ongoing violence. A mine on the road blew up underneath the car of one, and other received a fatal bullet wound in the neck. From what I am told by people in the village, the latter came from Bangladesh and lived at the Wat with the monks until he died. Until Hun Sein took power in 1997, there was virtually no peace in the area. The central town’s appearance today looks so peaceful, and it is hard to imagine the horrible things that went on here some years ago. Yet they did.
On a Cold Night They Came
This is the story of Mr. Jia Bon Tooen. He is a friend of mine who works in the office at my high school, and I have come to know him through regular visits to his cell phone shop in the market. On one such occasion, he told this story about his early days as a teacher in this district. It is a tale of survival, and the misery that the people faced in a time before the days of UNTAC. This is his story, and I have tried to put it down in writing as best I can.
When I came to this district as a secondary school teacher in 1989, I lived two different lives. By day, I taught physics, chemistry, and math. By night, I traded my chalkboard and teaching materials for a rifle and grenade belt. You must believe when I say that I never in my life wanted to become a soldier, but the situation at the time was desperate. When I arrived at the school in the beginning of the academic year, the school director told me that I would not be paid if I did not perform nightly guard duty for the local army company. Rather than face starvation and misery, I carried the gun. While the soldiers and police slept during the night, a ragtag band of teachers and office workers kept watch over the town. Every night, we were afraid that the Khmer Rouge would attack. We knew that they hid in the forested hills not far from the town in the district of Varin, and that at night they would creep through the fields to attack the town. It was only a matter of time before it did, and I will tell you how it happened.
It was a cold night when they came. At four in the morning, I was standing outside of my house near the main road that leads through the center of town. A few hundred meters away, the police and army slept at the barracks near the secondary school while I waited for my shift to be over. Another hour, and I could go back and prepare for the morning session. I crossed my arms, rested the butt of my rifle on the ground, and leaned against a post to try to maybe sleep a little while no one could see me. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard a loud whistling. I looked up, and something fell from the sky and exploded a hundred meters away with a large explosion that shook the earth. I dropped to my hands and knees as other bombs came and crashed in the same way.
During a brief pause in the shelling, I suddenly began to hear the sounds of pounding feet. I looked in the opposite direction of where the bombs struck, and I saw the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge. Hundreds of them were running down the road dressed in their Chinese made green drab uniforms. Their heads were wrapped in red bandannas, their feet protected by sandals, and their waists were clothed in ammunition. I could see them coming, but they could not see me in the darkness. I acted quickly and jumped into a muddy canal that was by the side of the road next to me. In the dark, I threw off my ammunition, grenades, and pitched my rifle into the black water. I did not dare fight the Khmer Rouge, for I knew that I would be killed if I did. I was a teacher, not a soldier. I didn’t sign up for this.
I could hear the pounding feet running by me as I breathed heavily among the reeds and muck of my watery hiding place. My head was just above the water, but despite my efforts to hide myself I still feared that the Khmer Rouge would see me. When the pounding of feet passed near me, I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. I was not a Christian man then, but if I were I would have offered God anything He wanted if He kept me alive that night.
As soon as the soldiers passed my hiding place, I began to hear gunfire. The Khmer Rouge were fighting with the soldiers near the school, but from where I was I could not see them. Slowly and carefully as to not make a sound, I crept on my belly like a snake from my hiding place through the mud to see what was going on. As soon as I reached the road, I saw that the Khmer Rouge had almost completely overrun the soldiers and police stationed at the barracks. The government soldiers were retreating, firing their guns sporadically as they went. These men constantly bullied the civilians in the town, but when it came down to actually fighting all of their bravado was stripped from them. When the shooting finally stopped, I walked slowly back to my house. I went up to the second floor, took off my wet and muddy clothes, and hid under my bed. However, the terror of the night was not yet over.
When the Khmer Rouge had taken all that they wanted from the barracks, they turned on the town. They looted everything that they could find, and I could hear them breaking down doors and smashing windows outside. One soldier came into my house, and stole my dishes. When his footsteps could be heard inside the house, I froze. The sound made it its way into my living room, and having not found anything of value in there the footsteps made their way into my kitchen. I could hear the clatter of my dishes as he dumped them into his crudely stitched sack and began to head for the door. In my misery and desperation, I decided to follow him to beg for my things back. Today, I do not know why I did this, as I could have stayed hidden where I was. I felt that it was the least I could do to protect what little I had.
I came downstairs with only a kromah wrapped around my waist, and followed the man as he left. A few steps out the front door, the soldier noticed that he was being followed. He turned around to face me with one hand holding his rifle, and the other carrying his stolen goods. The man looked like one who was deprived of even the simple comforts of life. His naked feet looked bruised and worn, and his dark and sun scorched face contrasted sharply with the red bandanna tied around his head. The green army clothes he wore were dirty and covered with mud around the ankles. He could have smelled awful as well, but I did not dare get close enough to him to tell if he did or not.
When the man looked at me with hardened eyes and a scowl, I put my hands together and pleaded with him to not take my dishes. I said that I was simple person without a lot of money. He dropped his sack and grinned, revealing a sinister smile of white broken teeth. He raised his rifle and asked me, “Why do you follow me?” and fired the gun several times. A spray of bullets struck the earth around my feet, and I thought for a moment that he would raise it and shoot me in the chest. However, he simply laughed and walked off to rejoin his comrades. I dropped to my knees in shock of what happened, and watched the Khmer Rouge wreak havoc in the town. Some of them simply robbed houses, but others did more damage. One smashed open a jewel case, and helped himself to as many watches as he liked. I retreated back to my hiding place soon after I was shot at, and the Khmer Rouge soon after retreated to theirs. The sun was coming up soon, and they knew that they were not safe in broad daylight from the government planes.
I did not go to school that day. I helped my friends and neighbors pick up the pieces of what had just happened. We knew that the Khmer Rouge would come again, but for the time being we could calm ourselves enough to avoid going mad with fright.
No one slept well the next night. No one who lived through what we did would have.
The Ubiquitous Subject of Rice
In the western world, bread is a staple food that is eaten by many at all hours of the day. The same could be said of rice for those living in the Orient, but the fact of the matter is that this stuff is so much more. For Cambodians, it literally is food. The word for rice in Khmer is bai, and it is used to mean both rice and any other type of food. When one Cambodian says to another “Neeyam bai,” the phrase literally translates as “Let us eat rice.” The phrase implies the words “Let’s eat our meal,” but the use of the word for rice in daily conversation certainly suggests its immense importance in Cambodian culture.
Rice is served with almost every single meal, with the exception of sometimes breakfast, and it is the central part of the repast. I can recount what I have eaten today on October 10th, 2008 of what this means. This morning I arrived at the breakfast stand in front of my house to eat a meal of bo boah. The lady who works there served me a bowl of watery rice porridge with some wild onions, garlic, and pieces of chicken that floated near the top of it. After adding a few drops of chili sauce for an extra punch of flavor, I swirled the mixture before eating it with a single spoon. At lunch, the family I lived with served me sñou tralop tah goo an with kong kaip and rice. The two former dishes were a stew of green beans and sprouts, and a plate of boiled frogs. Some who read this may balk at the notion of eating frogs, and I assure that it was no different for me the first time. I have learned, however, to follow the advice of what my former Khmer teacher told me about eating strange new food in Cambodia. He said to me once, “Adrian, don’t look. Just eat,” and I have never thought otherwise since then. Dinner that evening was a meal of rice and a curry stew with pork. Sometimes I have noodles at breakfast, but for the most part my diet consists of having rice at meals three times a day.
One would think that I would be tired of eating it by now, but my attitude is the exact opposite of this. By the end of my first two weeks here, I was sick of eating rice. Now, I am hooked on the white stuff. If I do not get my rice sometimes in the morning, I quickly become very cranky. My stomach and digestive system have adapted themselves very well to this diet, for which I am very proud of them, but I have noticed that they cannot handle western food as well as they used to. Several slices of pizza and glasses of beer is not a familiar site for them anymore, and sometimes this means trouble. This quick and troublesome change in diet is almost proof enough to demonstrate that rice is an all-important substance in Cambodian cuisine.
At the same time, it is so much more important that this. I have written here already about the ocean of green rice fields that surrounds the town of Anchor, but I have yet to touch on the people who work there. Riding my bicycle through this expanse, I can see men and women who have toiled their entire lives in the fields. The young men are usually shirtless, lean, muscled, and have the darkest of skin and hair of anyone in this country. They sometimes smile and shout “Hello!” as I ride by, and their smile reveals a gallery of white teeth. The young women usually have their heads wrapped in a long scarf and a straw hat, and have a haggard and sun worn face. They stare at me, and do not smile. The older people are almost indistinguishable from each other. Rail thin and white haired, they sometimes laugh crazily or stare in amazement at the spectacle before their eyes. Their entire life has been spent working hard in the fields to feed the people of Cambodia, and there is no telling what they remember from the days when the country was at war. It is they who I think of when my bowl is filled with rice everyday.
Rice is also a frequent topic of conversation. Whether it is used as an offering for the monks, one’s dead ancestors, or for everyday consumption, the supply of rice is talked about frequently. The grandfather of my host family, who works for an agricultural NGO in the area, has told me that there has not been enough rain this year for a good harvest in the dry season. With rising food prices in the world, this is not good news for Cambodia. ABC radio, which broadcasts from Australia, has reported that the consumption of dog meat has increased over the last couple of months. I have yet to see this myself, but I would not be surprised if some of the people out in the country were eating it as a source of protein.
I am curious to see how this will affect my diet. I have every confidence that I will be able to eat enough to sustain my health over the next two years, but there might be less of the food I eat for everyone around me.
Rice is served with almost every single meal, with the exception of sometimes breakfast, and it is the central part of the repast. I can recount what I have eaten today on October 10th, 2008 of what this means. This morning I arrived at the breakfast stand in front of my house to eat a meal of bo boah. The lady who works there served me a bowl of watery rice porridge with some wild onions, garlic, and pieces of chicken that floated near the top of it. After adding a few drops of chili sauce for an extra punch of flavor, I swirled the mixture before eating it with a single spoon. At lunch, the family I lived with served me sñou tralop tah goo an with kong kaip and rice. The two former dishes were a stew of green beans and sprouts, and a plate of boiled frogs. Some who read this may balk at the notion of eating frogs, and I assure that it was no different for me the first time. I have learned, however, to follow the advice of what my former Khmer teacher told me about eating strange new food in Cambodia. He said to me once, “Adrian, don’t look. Just eat,” and I have never thought otherwise since then. Dinner that evening was a meal of rice and a curry stew with pork. Sometimes I have noodles at breakfast, but for the most part my diet consists of having rice at meals three times a day.
One would think that I would be tired of eating it by now, but my attitude is the exact opposite of this. By the end of my first two weeks here, I was sick of eating rice. Now, I am hooked on the white stuff. If I do not get my rice sometimes in the morning, I quickly become very cranky. My stomach and digestive system have adapted themselves very well to this diet, for which I am very proud of them, but I have noticed that they cannot handle western food as well as they used to. Several slices of pizza and glasses of beer is not a familiar site for them anymore, and sometimes this means trouble. This quick and troublesome change in diet is almost proof enough to demonstrate that rice is an all-important substance in Cambodian cuisine.
At the same time, it is so much more important that this. I have written here already about the ocean of green rice fields that surrounds the town of Anchor, but I have yet to touch on the people who work there. Riding my bicycle through this expanse, I can see men and women who have toiled their entire lives in the fields. The young men are usually shirtless, lean, muscled, and have the darkest of skin and hair of anyone in this country. They sometimes smile and shout “Hello!” as I ride by, and their smile reveals a gallery of white teeth. The young women usually have their heads wrapped in a long scarf and a straw hat, and have a haggard and sun worn face. They stare at me, and do not smile. The older people are almost indistinguishable from each other. Rail thin and white haired, they sometimes laugh crazily or stare in amazement at the spectacle before their eyes. Their entire life has been spent working hard in the fields to feed the people of Cambodia, and there is no telling what they remember from the days when the country was at war. It is they who I think of when my bowl is filled with rice everyday.
Rice is also a frequent topic of conversation. Whether it is used as an offering for the monks, one’s dead ancestors, or for everyday consumption, the supply of rice is talked about frequently. The grandfather of my host family, who works for an agricultural NGO in the area, has told me that there has not been enough rain this year for a good harvest in the dry season. With rising food prices in the world, this is not good news for Cambodia. ABC radio, which broadcasts from Australia, has reported that the consumption of dog meat has increased over the last couple of months. I have yet to see this myself, but I would not be surprised if some of the people out in the country were eating it as a source of protein.
I am curious to see how this will affect my diet. I have every confidence that I will be able to eat enough to sustain my health over the next two years, but there might be less of the food I eat for everyone around me.
Out There
Some years ago, I was granted the opportunity to have an internship with a cultural foundation in Fez, Morocco. When I was not working this organization, which was frequent during the end of the summer months, I took the liberty of taking trips to various sites around the country. On such occasion, I visited the Berber town of Azrou in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. During an extended weekend there, I went walking into the hills and mountains surrounding the town. One day after discovering a goat path that led to the top of a mountain, I stumbled a vista overlooking the countryside below me. At this moment, I felt the sensation that I was truly out there. The bold sense of adventure felt like I was standing on the edge of the world and looking down at all that I had traversed. I was miles away from the nearest human being, hundreds of miles from the crowded city of Fez, and thousands of miles from my own home in America. This was the farthest that I had ever gone. There was a certain sense of elation as I climbed down from that mountain that afternoon, but it was short lived. I dined alone later that night a little café near the town square, and the want of companionship filled me with such a melancholy temper that it nearly erased the accomplishments of the day. Groups of tourists sat near me, and I would have given anything to join their conversation.
This is not the first time such a thing has happened. The sensation of being out there and the subsequent reactions to it has repeated itself many times for me in my life. From the cold and snowy streets of Bratislava, to the heated grasslands of South Africa, to the rice fields of Cambodia, it has followed me everywhere I have traveled. Such an anecdote about my travels in Morocco could be applied to the present Peace Corps experience in Cambodia. There are certain days when I ride my bicycle out into the rice fields that surround the town to gain some moments of peace and quiet. I often pause in the middle of a long stretch of road, look at my surroundings and reflect on how far I have come from my former life.
A few months ago, I was finishing a thesis, taking final exams, hanging out in dorm rooms, and graduating from college. It seems so long ago, but time is such a relative thing in the mind of the beholder. I keep trying to imagine what Americans are doing at the present moment, but I cannot seem to really get a clear picture in my head. I think of my house, family, and the last time I took a red blooded American gal out on a date. The memories are as real as they can be, and I try to hold onto them as much as I can for fear of them slipping away from me.
I sometimes cannot even believe myself how exotic my life has become in this world of being out there. A day’s worth of routine involves watching dark young children climb coconut trees with machetes, seeing four to six people placed on the back of a motorcycle, and fearing the pinch of a mosquito bite as possibly the first step towards the horrible condition of either dengue fever or malaria. I watch families ride their huge, black water buffalos through deep canals to their floating houses, babies running around naked and urinating where they please, and mangy dogs fighting with each other to the amusement of onlookers. I know that if I am ill I have to hydrate myself by drinking as much coconut juice as possible, and that if I stop by the side of the road I cannot go too far into the bush because I might step on a land mine. I have the best excuses for telling someone that I have no interest in marrying a Khmer girl, and that if I leave my house on a Cambodian holiday I might run into packs of drunken Cambodian men. I could go on, but the list goes on and on. If I spend too much thinking about it I might go stark raving mad, and I pray that that will not happen. Dealing with it, I suppose, is a peculiar consequence of being out there.
But where does this feeling come from? There are several factors that contribute to this. The geographic location of where I am to spend almost two years of my life has to do with this greatly. If you follow the road from Siem Reap some sixteen kilometers northeast and go north for another thirty-four kilometers, you will find the district of Anchor. The dirt road leading there is lined with canals that irrigate the surrounding rice fields, and it travels more or less in a straight line that creates something resembling an isthmus. Patches of jungle appear along the road, but it is mostly an agricultural scene that rises up before you. Dark brown children submerged up to their necks in water can be seen fishing with nets in the canals that run alongside the roads. Wooden houses built on stilts and with straw roofs appear sporadically by themselves or in hamlets on either side your vehicle. At last, in the middle of a green ocean lies the island of Anchor. A paved road runs through it, and small one or two story houses are built on either side of this main street. About a hundred meters beyond the road on either side, the rice fields begin again. There is nothing like walking or biking in any direction away from the town, and seeing that there is nothing but rice fields in every direction. The nearest volunteer is more than thirty kilometers away.
Accompanied by this feeling of geographical isolation are the feelings of loneliness due to cultural and linguistic separation. For the latter, the language barrier can be quite a crushing weight upon the whole experience of being in Cambodia. I know enough Khmer to communicate requests and ideas in a very simple conversation format, and it has quickly improved during the short time that I have been here. I make it a point to study it every day because I believe that it is necessary for my survival in the long-term. However, the full and in depth conversations that I used to have with the other volunteers are simply not there anymore. I do appreciate the desire to practice English when people approach me in order to practice their English, but it really gets old after a while when you have to answer the same questions over and over again. When speaking to you, they usually have this expression on their face as if they are an actor trying to remember the lines of a script they memorized years ago. The people I am growing closest to are those who can speak one of the two languages that I know well. It is that simple.
When school is not in session, boredom can come easily. Depression follows quickly in its wake. I am fortunate that I came into the Peace Corps with an already honed sense of what I can do to keep myself active. For me, I write both these blog posts and several stories of fiction, read French novels, practice the violin, and study both written and oral Khmer. Reading and writing Khmer is about as hard as trying to decipher hieroglyphics having just discovered the Rosetta stone. I have recently found a person willing to tutor me in Khmer in exchange for lessons in English, which is very fortunate. I hope that after some time I will be able to overcome the handicap of not being read in this country.
I know that I can make this situation work, but it is going to take some time and incredible amount of patience that I am going to have to develop over the years. Peace Corps was never advertised as something that was easily doable, but you do not fully realize it until you get out here. Out there. I hope that in writing these things down and posting them on the internet for all the world to see will help explain this feeling, and what I have been through in my time here. It is my wish that someone who reads this will better understand what I have been through, and not look at me as a foreign creature.
This is not the first time such a thing has happened. The sensation of being out there and the subsequent reactions to it has repeated itself many times for me in my life. From the cold and snowy streets of Bratislava, to the heated grasslands of South Africa, to the rice fields of Cambodia, it has followed me everywhere I have traveled. Such an anecdote about my travels in Morocco could be applied to the present Peace Corps experience in Cambodia. There are certain days when I ride my bicycle out into the rice fields that surround the town to gain some moments of peace and quiet. I often pause in the middle of a long stretch of road, look at my surroundings and reflect on how far I have come from my former life.
A few months ago, I was finishing a thesis, taking final exams, hanging out in dorm rooms, and graduating from college. It seems so long ago, but time is such a relative thing in the mind of the beholder. I keep trying to imagine what Americans are doing at the present moment, but I cannot seem to really get a clear picture in my head. I think of my house, family, and the last time I took a red blooded American gal out on a date. The memories are as real as they can be, and I try to hold onto them as much as I can for fear of them slipping away from me.
I sometimes cannot even believe myself how exotic my life has become in this world of being out there. A day’s worth of routine involves watching dark young children climb coconut trees with machetes, seeing four to six people placed on the back of a motorcycle, and fearing the pinch of a mosquito bite as possibly the first step towards the horrible condition of either dengue fever or malaria. I watch families ride their huge, black water buffalos through deep canals to their floating houses, babies running around naked and urinating where they please, and mangy dogs fighting with each other to the amusement of onlookers. I know that if I am ill I have to hydrate myself by drinking as much coconut juice as possible, and that if I stop by the side of the road I cannot go too far into the bush because I might step on a land mine. I have the best excuses for telling someone that I have no interest in marrying a Khmer girl, and that if I leave my house on a Cambodian holiday I might run into packs of drunken Cambodian men. I could go on, but the list goes on and on. If I spend too much thinking about it I might go stark raving mad, and I pray that that will not happen. Dealing with it, I suppose, is a peculiar consequence of being out there.
But where does this feeling come from? There are several factors that contribute to this. The geographic location of where I am to spend almost two years of my life has to do with this greatly. If you follow the road from Siem Reap some sixteen kilometers northeast and go north for another thirty-four kilometers, you will find the district of Anchor. The dirt road leading there is lined with canals that irrigate the surrounding rice fields, and it travels more or less in a straight line that creates something resembling an isthmus. Patches of jungle appear along the road, but it is mostly an agricultural scene that rises up before you. Dark brown children submerged up to their necks in water can be seen fishing with nets in the canals that run alongside the roads. Wooden houses built on stilts and with straw roofs appear sporadically by themselves or in hamlets on either side your vehicle. At last, in the middle of a green ocean lies the island of Anchor. A paved road runs through it, and small one or two story houses are built on either side of this main street. About a hundred meters beyond the road on either side, the rice fields begin again. There is nothing like walking or biking in any direction away from the town, and seeing that there is nothing but rice fields in every direction. The nearest volunteer is more than thirty kilometers away.
Accompanied by this feeling of geographical isolation are the feelings of loneliness due to cultural and linguistic separation. For the latter, the language barrier can be quite a crushing weight upon the whole experience of being in Cambodia. I know enough Khmer to communicate requests and ideas in a very simple conversation format, and it has quickly improved during the short time that I have been here. I make it a point to study it every day because I believe that it is necessary for my survival in the long-term. However, the full and in depth conversations that I used to have with the other volunteers are simply not there anymore. I do appreciate the desire to practice English when people approach me in order to practice their English, but it really gets old after a while when you have to answer the same questions over and over again. When speaking to you, they usually have this expression on their face as if they are an actor trying to remember the lines of a script they memorized years ago. The people I am growing closest to are those who can speak one of the two languages that I know well. It is that simple.
When school is not in session, boredom can come easily. Depression follows quickly in its wake. I am fortunate that I came into the Peace Corps with an already honed sense of what I can do to keep myself active. For me, I write both these blog posts and several stories of fiction, read French novels, practice the violin, and study both written and oral Khmer. Reading and writing Khmer is about as hard as trying to decipher hieroglyphics having just discovered the Rosetta stone. I have recently found a person willing to tutor me in Khmer in exchange for lessons in English, which is very fortunate. I hope that after some time I will be able to overcome the handicap of not being read in this country.
I know that I can make this situation work, but it is going to take some time and incredible amount of patience that I am going to have to develop over the years. Peace Corps was never advertised as something that was easily doable, but you do not fully realize it until you get out here. Out there. I hope that in writing these things down and posting them on the internet for all the world to see will help explain this feeling, and what I have been through in my time here. It is my wish that someone who reads this will better understand what I have been through, and not look at me as a foreign creature.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Music Session at the Wat
This is my friend Stephanie and I during our music education session at the Wat (Buddhist temple in Cambodia). The kids got a kick out of the violin.
Pchum Ben
As I am writing this, the country of Cambodia is celebrating the festival of Pchum Ben. The celebration begins with Kan Ben on the first day of Potrbotr, the lunar month that stretches from late September to early October, and ends on the day of Pchum Ben. During this time, Cambodians go to the pagoda, or Wat in Khmer, to offer gifts to the spirit forms of their deceased ancestors. Ly Daravuth offers this description:
Daravuth’s stated intention in this paragraph is not to provide an anthropological description of Pchum Ben, but rather to describe a ritual that has many different variations. To some degree, I can elaborate on this description, myself having been to the Pchum Ben ceremonies in Kampong several times. In gathering some more detailed background on Pchum Ben over the past few days, there are some key points that one must understand before discussing the actual ceremony. To begin with, the reason why this ceremony takes place during the early hours of the morning is very specific. It is a widely held belief that spirits can only be released from the afterlife during the early morning hours before the sun rises. By giving them food, one honors them and ensures that they will eventually leave the afterlife to continue in the cycle of reincarnation. It is also important to remember that when one gives the offerings, it is not simply for your own ancestors. Rather, you offer on the behalf of the community. The idea of collectivity is stressed in this ritual, as nearly everyone from the villages participates.
An example of this unifying element in the ceremony can be found in a simple anecdote that happened some nights ago. In helping my family prepare the bey bun used in the ceremony, I accidentally rolled a ball of rice that was too large. Both my older and younger host sister criticized me for doing this, and I retorted by saying, “Kroo ah sah slaap khym jiang klien kroo ah sah neak” (My dead ancestors are simply hungrier than yours). The two sisters laughed, but the eldest one reminded me politely that the bey bun feeds everyone’s ancestors, and not simply my own.
The Pchum Ben Ceremony
On Friday, September 25th, I awoke at three fifteen in the morning. Moving around my room and house as not to disturb the still and silent sleeping members of the family, I departed quietly at nearly a quarter to four. Using a small lamp to find my way in the dark, I rode on my bicycle to the house of a friend and fellow volunteer. I met his host family there, as well as himself and three other American friends. We rode on our bicycles to a pagoda located directly off the national road, and removed our helmets as sign of respect as we entered the grounds of the temple. It is generally cool during these morning hours, and the temperature felt comfortable as we rode through the dark along the national road.
After parking our bicycles outside the vahira of the pagoda, we removed our shoes and sat on the rice mats at some distance from the altar. It is custom when entering the vahira to kneel, and bow your head three times with both your hands touching the floor. The Chinese describe this movement as the cow tow, but I am not exactly sure if the Cambodians have one that is its equivalent. After performing this action, we were quickly led to the altar itself to offer burning bundles of incense. Several large golden Buddhas stood before us, including one that held a magnificently glowing halo behind its head. After placing the incense in an earthenware pot before the altar, we sat down again and held our hands together in prayer position. The amount of burning incense near the altar that the smoke caused me to cough several times before I was able to find some fresh air.
The monks chanted for some time after that. I cannot say for how long, but I was relieved when they stopped. For someone who is not accustomed to sitting on straw mats for most of their lives, the introduction to this oriental posture can be quite painful. When sitting on the floor before the Buddha, the custom is to sit with your legs folded so that both of them are pointed in the same direction. Try this for a moment: Sit on the floor with your legs crossed in what westerners would call “Indian style.” Now take your left leg and place it firmly against your right. The left leg should be sticking out a bit. You must remember that you cannot use your right arm for balance, for it is currently occupied in prayer position. Some people find it easy, but I find it quite painful. During the second ceremony of this kind that I attended, my host brother-in-law showed me a way of propping up one of my legs that made the posture less painful.
In concluding the ceremony, the monks altered the regular, single tone pitch of their voices several times in a way that seemed to infer a question. While the words were not familiar, the sound of them almost resembled a, “Ahnn?” The response to this by the congregation was a simple, “Ahhnn.” After three repetitions of this, the people stood up and moved outside. The host family of my friend gave us plates of ball-shaped sticky rice (bey bun) that had a single candle in the middle of them, as well as bottles of water and incense. We lit the candle as to see what we were doing in the dark, and proceeded to move around the vahira. Eight stations were set up, and the congregation lined up to toss the bey bun and pour the water into a plastic bucket at each one until all of rice they had was spent. Only the candles illuminated the people who held them, and the people moved in a train of lights around the vahira several times. After this, the congregation dispersed or went back inside the vahira. As we bicycled home, the sun came up on our right. In a beautiful display of red and blue against the black profile of the coconut trees, it rose until we could clearly see the road in front of us.
Much of this experience was repeated exactly during the second time that I participated in this ceremony, with the exception of a few minor details. When the moment came to leave the vahira and go around to the different stations, we had to walk barefoot. In addition to throwing the rice, my host family and I threw splices of bananas as well. I was surprised by how similar it was, despite the fact that we were at a different Wat.
It is interesting to find that the festival is not limited to just these morning services. I discovered this when I would go to the Wat during the day for language or technical sessions of training. For the latter, one assignment required the trainees and I to plan and develop a community activity in Kampong. Since the Wat is a public place where many families come frequently during the Pchum Ben festival, four of us asked the head monk to hold a music presentation for the children during one of festival days of Kan Ben. The session was a success, and afterward we were invited to participate in the midday ritual in the vahira.
On most days of the festival around lunchtime, rice and other dishes of food are prepared by a particular family and are offered to the monks. One station is set up whereby one can place the rice eaten by the monks into three silver pots. The monks themselves sit in a line that runs perpendicular to the altar, and chant while bowls of food and sticky white rice are placed before them. When they are finished chanting, they eat some of the food before giving the rest to the congregation. It is then, and only then that it is permissible to begin eating.
During the actual Pchum Ben day celebration, families gather together from all over the country to be together at the pagoda in order to honor their dead. A small contingent of my host family’s relatives came up from Phnom Penh during the morning, and we went to the Wat together. Almost immediately after we arrived, we went to visit my host father’s father at his grave some distance from the Wat. People who are Chinese-Cambodian in this country typically bury their dead, whereas most Cambodians have the body cremated; therefore, the ceremony that I witnessed at this site is not something that one sees typically in Cambodia. When we arrived, a small straw mat was laid out. Two monks sat before us with their backs to the grave, and chanted while we sat and held our hands in prayer position. After some time, my host father poured water onto the ground in what must have been some kind of offering. The chanting stopped, and we packed up to leave. We then formed into a line with at least two hundred people that formed a human circle around the vahira. Nineteen monks proceeded to go around this ring and collect rice and money from everyone. They moved slowly, and I could feel the sun beating down upon my face while I waited. One family decided to introduce their infant daughter to me, but she cried hysterically in fright when I greeted her in Khmer. The monks finally came to us, and we gave them the rice we held in our porcelain bowls. After this, we left to go back to the house, where we ate a large meal of rice, curried pork, and a fish soup. In the afternoon, I bid goodbye to the family and went to friend’s house to play cards and drink coffee.
A Pchum Ben For Pol Pot
Ly Daravuth also writes something interesting having to deal with the recent nature of Cambodian history. In his work on reconciliation and the arts in Cambodia, he mentions that the era of the Khmer Rouge is something that present and future generations of Cambodians will have to deal with. From a religious perspective, the tragedy of this period presents a rather unique problem. Those who died during the period of genocide, whether they were members of the Khmer Rouge themselves or the victims of their tyranny, have “their souls condemned to wander, damned to never reincarnate, unless acknowledged in a proper ceremony” (Daravuth, 2). Daravuth expresses the desire to have a special Pchum Ben to acknowledge these people, but admits that this has simply not happened yet.
To be frank, it is easy to see why. I have only been in this country a little over two months, but in the many interactions I have had with Cambodians I can see a desire of not wanting to remember this period of history. A perfect example of this is the fact that many leaders of Cambodia’s present government are former leaders of the Khmer Rouge themselves. The people do not want to dwell on this horrible episode of their history, and would rather turn almost a blind eye to it. The conversations I have had about the 1975 to 1979 Khmer Rouge era, which most Cambodians refer to as simply Pol Pot, have been far and few between. Even when they do happen, I have a feeling that they witnessed a few things that they have long since buried in a private corner of their memory. Knowing this, it is not a far stretch to understand why a special Pchum Ben ceremony will probably not happen.
As one older man told me in French. “Pendant la génocide de Pol Pot, j’étais un homme ignorant. Maintenant, je veux garder cette ignorance.” (During the time of Pol Pot, I was ignorant man. Now, I want to keep this ignorance.)
During Pchum Ben, very early in the mornings, people cook rice and, in the pal of their hand, form rice balls called bey bun. Before dawn, they bring these bey bun, along with other offerings to the pagoda’s main building (the vihira) to convene the souls of the deceased. At a certain point during the ceremony, the participants circle the vahira three times scattering the bey bun to the ground. After the procession, some of the people return inside and join the monks chanting. (Ly Daravuth, Notes On Pchum Ben, Boston: Brandeis University, 2005.)
Daravuth’s stated intention in this paragraph is not to provide an anthropological description of Pchum Ben, but rather to describe a ritual that has many different variations. To some degree, I can elaborate on this description, myself having been to the Pchum Ben ceremonies in Kampong several times. In gathering some more detailed background on Pchum Ben over the past few days, there are some key points that one must understand before discussing the actual ceremony. To begin with, the reason why this ceremony takes place during the early hours of the morning is very specific. It is a widely held belief that spirits can only be released from the afterlife during the early morning hours before the sun rises. By giving them food, one honors them and ensures that they will eventually leave the afterlife to continue in the cycle of reincarnation. It is also important to remember that when one gives the offerings, it is not simply for your own ancestors. Rather, you offer on the behalf of the community. The idea of collectivity is stressed in this ritual, as nearly everyone from the villages participates.
An example of this unifying element in the ceremony can be found in a simple anecdote that happened some nights ago. In helping my family prepare the bey bun used in the ceremony, I accidentally rolled a ball of rice that was too large. Both my older and younger host sister criticized me for doing this, and I retorted by saying, “Kroo ah sah slaap khym jiang klien kroo ah sah neak” (My dead ancestors are simply hungrier than yours). The two sisters laughed, but the eldest one reminded me politely that the bey bun feeds everyone’s ancestors, and not simply my own.
The Pchum Ben Ceremony
On Friday, September 25th, I awoke at three fifteen in the morning. Moving around my room and house as not to disturb the still and silent sleeping members of the family, I departed quietly at nearly a quarter to four. Using a small lamp to find my way in the dark, I rode on my bicycle to the house of a friend and fellow volunteer. I met his host family there, as well as himself and three other American friends. We rode on our bicycles to a pagoda located directly off the national road, and removed our helmets as sign of respect as we entered the grounds of the temple. It is generally cool during these morning hours, and the temperature felt comfortable as we rode through the dark along the national road.
After parking our bicycles outside the vahira of the pagoda, we removed our shoes and sat on the rice mats at some distance from the altar. It is custom when entering the vahira to kneel, and bow your head three times with both your hands touching the floor. The Chinese describe this movement as the cow tow, but I am not exactly sure if the Cambodians have one that is its equivalent. After performing this action, we were quickly led to the altar itself to offer burning bundles of incense. Several large golden Buddhas stood before us, including one that held a magnificently glowing halo behind its head. After placing the incense in an earthenware pot before the altar, we sat down again and held our hands together in prayer position. The amount of burning incense near the altar that the smoke caused me to cough several times before I was able to find some fresh air.
The monks chanted for some time after that. I cannot say for how long, but I was relieved when they stopped. For someone who is not accustomed to sitting on straw mats for most of their lives, the introduction to this oriental posture can be quite painful. When sitting on the floor before the Buddha, the custom is to sit with your legs folded so that both of them are pointed in the same direction. Try this for a moment: Sit on the floor with your legs crossed in what westerners would call “Indian style.” Now take your left leg and place it firmly against your right. The left leg should be sticking out a bit. You must remember that you cannot use your right arm for balance, for it is currently occupied in prayer position. Some people find it easy, but I find it quite painful. During the second ceremony of this kind that I attended, my host brother-in-law showed me a way of propping up one of my legs that made the posture less painful.
In concluding the ceremony, the monks altered the regular, single tone pitch of their voices several times in a way that seemed to infer a question. While the words were not familiar, the sound of them almost resembled a, “Ahnn?” The response to this by the congregation was a simple, “Ahhnn.” After three repetitions of this, the people stood up and moved outside. The host family of my friend gave us plates of ball-shaped sticky rice (bey bun) that had a single candle in the middle of them, as well as bottles of water and incense. We lit the candle as to see what we were doing in the dark, and proceeded to move around the vahira. Eight stations were set up, and the congregation lined up to toss the bey bun and pour the water into a plastic bucket at each one until all of rice they had was spent. Only the candles illuminated the people who held them, and the people moved in a train of lights around the vahira several times. After this, the congregation dispersed or went back inside the vahira. As we bicycled home, the sun came up on our right. In a beautiful display of red and blue against the black profile of the coconut trees, it rose until we could clearly see the road in front of us.
Much of this experience was repeated exactly during the second time that I participated in this ceremony, with the exception of a few minor details. When the moment came to leave the vahira and go around to the different stations, we had to walk barefoot. In addition to throwing the rice, my host family and I threw splices of bananas as well. I was surprised by how similar it was, despite the fact that we were at a different Wat.
It is interesting to find that the festival is not limited to just these morning services. I discovered this when I would go to the Wat during the day for language or technical sessions of training. For the latter, one assignment required the trainees and I to plan and develop a community activity in Kampong. Since the Wat is a public place where many families come frequently during the Pchum Ben festival, four of us asked the head monk to hold a music presentation for the children during one of festival days of Kan Ben. The session was a success, and afterward we were invited to participate in the midday ritual in the vahira.
On most days of the festival around lunchtime, rice and other dishes of food are prepared by a particular family and are offered to the monks. One station is set up whereby one can place the rice eaten by the monks into three silver pots. The monks themselves sit in a line that runs perpendicular to the altar, and chant while bowls of food and sticky white rice are placed before them. When they are finished chanting, they eat some of the food before giving the rest to the congregation. It is then, and only then that it is permissible to begin eating.
During the actual Pchum Ben day celebration, families gather together from all over the country to be together at the pagoda in order to honor their dead. A small contingent of my host family’s relatives came up from Phnom Penh during the morning, and we went to the Wat together. Almost immediately after we arrived, we went to visit my host father’s father at his grave some distance from the Wat. People who are Chinese-Cambodian in this country typically bury their dead, whereas most Cambodians have the body cremated; therefore, the ceremony that I witnessed at this site is not something that one sees typically in Cambodia. When we arrived, a small straw mat was laid out. Two monks sat before us with their backs to the grave, and chanted while we sat and held our hands in prayer position. After some time, my host father poured water onto the ground in what must have been some kind of offering. The chanting stopped, and we packed up to leave. We then formed into a line with at least two hundred people that formed a human circle around the vahira. Nineteen monks proceeded to go around this ring and collect rice and money from everyone. They moved slowly, and I could feel the sun beating down upon my face while I waited. One family decided to introduce their infant daughter to me, but she cried hysterically in fright when I greeted her in Khmer. The monks finally came to us, and we gave them the rice we held in our porcelain bowls. After this, we left to go back to the house, where we ate a large meal of rice, curried pork, and a fish soup. In the afternoon, I bid goodbye to the family and went to friend’s house to play cards and drink coffee.
A Pchum Ben For Pol Pot
Ly Daravuth also writes something interesting having to deal with the recent nature of Cambodian history. In his work on reconciliation and the arts in Cambodia, he mentions that the era of the Khmer Rouge is something that present and future generations of Cambodians will have to deal with. From a religious perspective, the tragedy of this period presents a rather unique problem. Those who died during the period of genocide, whether they were members of the Khmer Rouge themselves or the victims of their tyranny, have “their souls condemned to wander, damned to never reincarnate, unless acknowledged in a proper ceremony” (Daravuth, 2). Daravuth expresses the desire to have a special Pchum Ben to acknowledge these people, but admits that this has simply not happened yet.
To be frank, it is easy to see why. I have only been in this country a little over two months, but in the many interactions I have had with Cambodians I can see a desire of not wanting to remember this period of history. A perfect example of this is the fact that many leaders of Cambodia’s present government are former leaders of the Khmer Rouge themselves. The people do not want to dwell on this horrible episode of their history, and would rather turn almost a blind eye to it. The conversations I have had about the 1975 to 1979 Khmer Rouge era, which most Cambodians refer to as simply Pol Pot, have been far and few between. Even when they do happen, I have a feeling that they witnessed a few things that they have long since buried in a private corner of their memory. Knowing this, it is not a far stretch to understand why a special Pchum Ben ceremony will probably not happen.
As one older man told me in French. “Pendant la génocide de Pol Pot, j’étais un homme ignorant. Maintenant, je veux garder cette ignorance.” (During the time of Pol Pot, I was ignorant man. Now, I want to keep this ignorance.)
The Market
Of all the things in Cambodia that I could choose to not like, it is the market that would top the list. I even dislike the fact that I cannot bring myself to enjoy visiting the place. For some, the proclivity for navigating among prices and sellers here is among their many attributes. I, however, cannot stand to be in there for very long. This is so despite the fact that I understand fully and completely that frequent trips to the market are among the essential parts of life in Cambodia. I will try my best to explain why.
The house where I live is not far from the market in Kampong. If you turn left from the front doorway onto the dirt road, you will reach the entrance in about thirty or forty meters. The main complex of the market is made up of about a hundred different stalls that are all under the protection of corrugated steel roofs. Sunlight is allowed to shine on the different paths that run through it, but it is particularly dark in some places. If you walk into the market from the national road, you can see a sort of courtyard set up that has a very large trash pile in the middle. From here, you can walk to different sections of stalls that sell anything from various food products, to clot, dresses, hardware, books, and medical supplies. When it rains, the water turns the dirt into a kind of black and soupy mud that will swallow your foot whole if you are not careful where you step. It is malodorous as well.
I often walk through the market, and almost notice immediately the dark brown faces that stare at you from behind their merchandise. They always have the same look on their faces. They are curious, I know, and I beginning to notice it less and less. But they always stare.
While some sections of the market are generally tolerable, there is one in particular that is unavoidable and disagreeable to my senses. It is section that deals in food. The meat that you find is always warm and putrid smelling. Every time when I walk into this place, I always see some display of butchery done to fish, turtles, dogs, cows, and most commonly pigs. Pork is usually less expensive than beef in this country, and its consumption is very popular. The market is usually crowded with dead pigs. I have even seen one that was carved in half and carried on the rear seat of a motorcycle.
Since our house is not far from the market, I can hear them being slaughtered sometimes when I wake up in the morning. They scream with a high-pitched squeal that is almost human. I cover my head with a pillow and wait as they are silenced one by one. When I visit the market and see them on display, I cannot help but feel a chill run up the back of my spine when my memory replays the audio of their last breath. Despite even this, I still eat their meat because I need the protein to survive. Going vegetarian in this country, although something of an appeal at this point, does not sound like a viable option.
I am sure that my dislike of the market will reside if given some time. For now, however, it is still one of the many things that I am struggling with.
The house where I live is not far from the market in Kampong. If you turn left from the front doorway onto the dirt road, you will reach the entrance in about thirty or forty meters. The main complex of the market is made up of about a hundred different stalls that are all under the protection of corrugated steel roofs. Sunlight is allowed to shine on the different paths that run through it, but it is particularly dark in some places. If you walk into the market from the national road, you can see a sort of courtyard set up that has a very large trash pile in the middle. From here, you can walk to different sections of stalls that sell anything from various food products, to clot, dresses, hardware, books, and medical supplies. When it rains, the water turns the dirt into a kind of black and soupy mud that will swallow your foot whole if you are not careful where you step. It is malodorous as well.
I often walk through the market, and almost notice immediately the dark brown faces that stare at you from behind their merchandise. They always have the same look on their faces. They are curious, I know, and I beginning to notice it less and less. But they always stare.
While some sections of the market are generally tolerable, there is one in particular that is unavoidable and disagreeable to my senses. It is section that deals in food. The meat that you find is always warm and putrid smelling. Every time when I walk into this place, I always see some display of butchery done to fish, turtles, dogs, cows, and most commonly pigs. Pork is usually less expensive than beef in this country, and its consumption is very popular. The market is usually crowded with dead pigs. I have even seen one that was carved in half and carried on the rear seat of a motorcycle.
Since our house is not far from the market, I can hear them being slaughtered sometimes when I wake up in the morning. They scream with a high-pitched squeal that is almost human. I cover my head with a pillow and wait as they are silenced one by one. When I visit the market and see them on display, I cannot help but feel a chill run up the back of my spine when my memory replays the audio of their last breath. Despite even this, I still eat their meat because I need the protein to survive. Going vegetarian in this country, although something of an appeal at this point, does not sound like a viable option.
I am sure that my dislike of the market will reside if given some time. For now, however, it is still one of the many things that I am struggling with.
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