My first and second jungle adventures

I spent the Khmer New Year holiday in Mondulkiri province. With night skies so clear you can practically see the answers to life's questions, Mondulkiri is a sanctuary for weary souls and a countryside oasis for Phnom Penhers.

Many other volunteers decided to journey to Mondulkiri, but my core group of like-minded and similarly-scheduled friends (David and Francine) stuck together. It was nice to have a smaller group of people to organize. We stayed at the Nature Lodge (nice pick, David!), a cluster of huts on the outskirts of Sen Monorom town. I've never been anywhere comparable to this place. Even though it's in the middle of rural Cambodia, it has all the comforts of home, plus more adventure and whimsy than any place I've lived. Francine and I split a $10/night hut that gave us just enough outdoorsy feelingwith the right balance of security. The wooden building had a cozy bed, porch with hammock and attached bathroom. My favorite part was the bathroom because I could look at the stars while I was shampooing.

Despite our plan to take the first day easy, we ended up on a foot trek to the K'bal Preah waterfall. The first hour felt good, invigorating even, but as the sun climbed higher, I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into. We followed red dirt roads, we stumbled through tall grass, we scurried over the ash of slashed and burned fields, and then we entered the forest. This wasn't get-out-your-machete rain forest, but it was certainly a hot sticky jungle-type forest with loose soil and tree roots doing their best to topple me.

With legs of jelly, we descended deeper into the forest, following our flip-flop wearing guide to the sound of water. I didn't mind that this one was small by waterfall-viewing standards—I was just happy to finally sit down after such an intense walk. We devoured our small fried rice lunches and rationed our dwindling water, unsure how long the afternoon return trip would take. It took much coaxing, but Francine and I eventually joined the others for a swim in the catch pool. As I scooted reluctantly across the hairy, slimy rocks to the deep water, something changed. I felt the high of adventure instead of the fear of the unknown. Sounds corny, but given my distaste for all standing bodies of water not filled with chlorine, I consider it a big step forward.

Speaking of steps forward, the trek back was a hot mess of steps. Some of our crew trekked on as though it weren't 100 degrees with full sun, but I lagged behind, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. My usual foot problems were negated by the ripping blisters that come from six hours of trekking on uneven ground. The strange forest party we came upon seemed more a hallucination than an experience, but after I threw back a (very dirty) cup of alcohol at the insistence of the locals, I realized that I was in the middle of nowhere with people who didn't speak my language, sharing a moment of celebration. Only after we finished the trek did I ponder the diseases I was going to get from the dirty liquor. So far, so good.

Back at the lodge, we found ourselves coated in red clay dust. My once white shoes were orange, and my khaki pants were all sorts of jungle colors. It was satisfying to see the dirt as evidence of our work.

To further punish our bodies, the second day was an elephant trek. For just twenty-five dollars, you can hoist yourself into a tiny wooden basket atop a wild elephant for the entire day. It sounds pretty adventuresome, or at least touristy, but the best word to describe it is simply painful. Butt on the wooden board seat, legs stuffed into the basket that wasn't wide enough for size eleven flippers, I held on for dear life as Francine assembled herself on the other side of the basket. The two hour trek to a waterfall even smaller than the day before was a miraculous act of contortionism for the two of us. With each step, I felt less blood flowing between my legs and my body, not to mention the growing pain in my knees. With only a few options for sitting position, Francine and I had to re-situate every few minutes to keep blood circulating properly. My newly achieved appreciation of adventure helped me climb off the elephant with as much grace as a giant lady with no experience de-elephanting can have.

We had a pre-lunch swim and a long post-lunch wait for the elephants to be re-herded for our riding pleasure. Apparently there are rules about how many hours a day these elephants can be held captive, so they get a long lunch in between trips to and fro. Francine and I named our elephant “Randy” because of his affectionate behavior, but we appreciated his discretion when the other elephants were misbehaving in the forest. It's humbling to be at the mercy of an animal that much bigger than yourself.

Randy got us home safely, but not without lots of uncomfortable basket-perching. Bow-legged and nearly broken, we slumped into booths for a well-deserved dinner.

Khmer New Year: Staff Party

The best thing about my work with CWF is how much I get to learn. Today marked the halfway point of the semester (gasp!) and the beginning of the Khmer New Year holiday. I had each student draw me a scene from his or her Khmer New Year celebration. As usual, they were shy, but the pictures were incredible. They drew the traditional games that children and adults play. They drew Pagodas and temples and monks and Buddhas. They drew families and people and themselves enjoying the festivities. Some even drew Thevada, the goddess figure who changes every year. Typical of the culture and religion, nearly all students sketched a table of offerings for the gods, and they drew people taking alms to the pagoda for the monks.

Through the pictures, we were able to have interesting conversations about the traditions and the events of the holiday. I didn't know that Khmer people don't celebrate birthdays the way we do. Instead, during Khmer New Year, everyone adds one year to his age. It's like birthday, en mass.

All day, the CWF staff had been running around the volunteer house to prepare for our staff party. It was fun to see the receptionists and the security guys preparing food and moving tables. The party itself began after our evening classes. We ate fresh spring rolls, curry and fruit. A royal feast. Then we moved on to Coke, wacky Fanta, and beer.

The fun really began once we started playing Khmer games, like the Khmer version of Piñata. The rules are the same, but instead of a paper mache donkey full of candy, it is a terra cotta pot full of baby powder. Imagine swinging a bamboo rod at such a pot—yes, shrapnel. I did pretty well on my turn. Not only did I bust the pot and get covered in powder, but I also managed to avoid getting hit with the large chunks of falling pot.

After surviving the games unscathed, the dancing portion of the evening was great fun. Khmer dancing is very complicated, but the CWF staff love to give lessons. Pheap is especially fond of dancing, and it's fun to watch her. For as much as they have been through (and as much as they do on a daily basis), the Cambodians know how to party. Even when the Khmer version of Akon's "Right Now" comes on, they dance like there's no tomorrow (blissfully unaware of the adulterous lyrics).

I look forward to experiencing more of Khmer New Year this week. I'm headed northeast, to Mondulkiri province. Hopefully the "Alaska" of Cambodia will be the break from city life that I am seeking!

Susadei ch'nam Thmei! (Happy New Year))

Happy

Today I finally got the package my mom sent. On the moto ride home from the Post Office, drive-by parcelnappers stood no chance to pry it out of my steely grip. The hour's trip across town was worth it: I've never eaten such delicious Twisler's, nor read such a great fashion magazine. And the fun pack of hair ties is now the most fashionable element of my wardrobe. As I handed out pieces of licorice to the CWF staff and neighborhood kids (and as they tried to nab the bag out of my hands), I felt so happy to share part of my present.

Thanks Mom!

Nebraska: my late night poetry session

Nebraska

I desire but a simple life
something to engage in
A family and a job
A house and a car

The nomadic existence
leaves me wandering
searching
for exactly what I've left behind

Let me trade in my suitcase
for the keys to my castle
views of the great big sky
The windchimes playing

The long and biting winters
contrast brutal summer heat
Thunderstorms on the horizon
The first winds of autumn.

In a strange reversal of mind
Suddenly it's the place
I couldn't wait to leave
that is the only place I wish to be

Best Khmer Lesson Yet!

Bong Srey. In Khmer that means "older sister". Although I was uncomfortable with this title at first, with my Khmer teacher, I realize how lucky I am to have a sister (of sorts) here. She is the P'own Srey, younger sister, I never had. This morning she took us out for breakfast (just like I did a few weeks ago). We drank iced coffee with sweet milk and ate pork on rice. I even ordered my food in Khmer--that's a fruitful way to practice any language!

We talked about our families over breakfast, and we laughed about the why English makes you ride a bike, you can either ride or drive a moto, but you must drive a car. As we slurped out the last of the sweet coffee from our glasses, I felt like the luckiest Bong Srey in the world. Even if I don't learn all the Khmer vowels, I get to spend time chatting and laughing with my Khmer sister, and that's what matters (plus, who can remember 20 vowels!?).

Rabbit Island on Easter

The pile of Kleenex and throat lozenges next to my bed is the surest sign of a good weekend. Instead my usual approach to the weekend (prepare for the coming week), I went along on a random trip to Rabbit Island, just south of Kep, Cambodia. Some of the volunteers have a strong urge to travel on the weekend, and I decided to try out this ambitious lifestyle.

Instead of the bus, which is far too scheduled for our group, we hired two taxis. At $40 one-way for each Toyota Camry, splitting the cost between 12 volunteers was very economical. Economical, but about as comfortable as water-boarding. In a lapse of judgment, the German guy (the only other person over six feet) and I were in the front together. It was human tetras to finagle all of our limbs into that seat. He ended up slumped forward, resting his arms and head on the dash. I used his back as a pillow, and I did my best not to knock the gear shift with my butt (though I did once—thankfully into 3^rd).

Three hours later we arrived in Kep, shook out our asleep body parts, ate breakfast and boarded the boat for Rabbit island. Rabbit Island is one of the undiscovered gems of Cambodia. Still relatively undeveloped, the small and stunning beach area has bungalow huts for visitors to overnight in. A few restaurants serve up the usual beach fair, plus Angkor beer and fruit shakes.

Quiet beach, minimal activity, lots of food—I was happy. The little bloody wounds from the sea urchins made me rethink the sea volleyball game, but did not deter me from lingering in the hammock, journal at the ready.

I felt very indigenous sleeping in the little hut with no fan, watching the uber-geckos scatter in the moonlight. What a strange place for a high-maintenance girl like me. After breakfast (pancakes with lime and sugar), Christie and I took the swim of a lifetime. I wonder what's around the corner, she said, pointing at the far-off edge of the island.

A half-hour swim later, it was a surreal scene. On the other side, it was a deserted island (except for the monks who were on holiday). Palm trees galore, wild animal noises, plants, rocks, clear ocean, hot sun. Is this really happening? Christie and I were both thinking aloud.

Thankfully, it was. We were floating there, watching Rabbit Island on Easter Sunday. Our huts were no longer in sight, and there we were, drifting out to sea, drifting away from reality.

Later, we took the boat back to Kep, ate Kampot Pepper fried squid and repacked into our 1987 Camry. My nose was runny and I felt that feeling of an impending cold. By the time we got back to Phnom Penh, I was certain that I had caught cold from the first car ride. Even though I'm guzzling honey and lemon water today, Rabbit Island was worth it.

No, it's not an April Fool--Lady Gaga as a teaching tool.

As a supplement yesterday's lesson about cellular telephone vocabulary, I brought music into the classroom. Lady Gaga's duet with Beyonce, called “Telephone”, tells the epic story of having a night out with friends ruined by a needy boyfriend's cell phone habits. With countless references to our vocabulary words set to a bumping beat, the song gave us context for talking about telephones.

The tiny speakers (from the Russian Market--where else?) connected to my ipod literally “brought the noise” for my class. We listened to the song a few times, read the lyrics and I even made them illustrate the scene. My students really hate it when I make them draw, but they all drew something today, even if it was only a disco ball. I liked listening to them describe their drawing to the class. This is Lady Gaga and Beyonce. They are at the club, drinking champagne and dancing. The man is calling. Lady Gaga is getting a text. She is annoyed.

A successful lesson. Thanks, Gaga.

By the way, my students are definitely prepared for any conversation involving "sippin' that bub" or "blowin' up my phone".

This tummy bug can't stop me!

Lately, I've been feeling lost—to say the least. My old identity as student and writing tutor has been traded in for wandering foreigner, leaving me confused about my niche in the world. To add to my disorientation, for the first time since I can remember, my success is not measured in grades. I have no A's to assure me that I am doing good work. Here, success is much more difficult to gauge. When my envisioned lesson plan leaves me reaching for the ejection seat, I often feel personally responsible, like I've really failed my students. Sure, I've only been a teacher for a short time, but I take such pride in my work that I am constantly evaluating my lessons. In Cambodia, my identity is based on my work at CWF, and I take that commitment very seriously—As always, I want to do my best work.

This morning, I know I was successful. Not even the ominous lower abdominal rumblings could stop me (though for just a moment, I was very concerned). My lesson on peer review with the Advanced Discussion went like a dream. As an English teacher, I was pleased that my students were communicating with the vocabulary I had presented. As a writer, however, I was thrilled to share my enthusiasm for this aspect of the writing process.

In this identity crisis, I am able to see what I really love doing. Whether as a teacher or student, I am fascinated by the writing process, the language acquisition process, and that moment when a new concept makes sense. Painful as it may be sometimes, realizing stuff like this is exactly what I wanted out of Cambodia (good thing because there are no refunds on journeys to find yourself). I can't wait to see what else Cambodia has in store for me!

The Tenth Dancer

Last night I saw a tremendous film about Apsara, the traditional Khmer dancers. Until the time of Pol Pot, these dancers were an essential element of Khmer society as a connection between the gods and man. The film I saw was called “The Tenth Dancer” because nine out of ten Apsara dancers were killed during the Pol Pot Regime. Made in the early 1990's, the film documents one of these “tenth” dancers who survived the genocide.

In the time of King Sihanouk, many young girls trained to be Apsara, including the film's central character. The stunning and ornate costumes, jewelry and make-up were an important part of royal ceremony, and the dancers lived in the palace. During Pol Pot, these women's close connection to the king made them targets for the Khmer Rouge.

Reading about Pol Pot is one thing, visiting S-21 and the killing fields another, but harder still is trying to understand Pol Pot in context. Listening to the stories of survivors is infinitely more painful because the numbers don't matter--one million, two million—it's arbitrary if you watched your sister starve to death, then your father and mother. The brutal interviews about Pol Pot's regime haunted the slow precision and beauty of the Apsara dance revival shown in the film.

I want to know more.

Out of power, but all is not lost!

Nebraskans are no strangers to power outages. Between thunderstorms and ice blankets, I've survived many an hour sans electricity. However, the four winter days of no power in Kearney were no match for the one night without power in Phnom Penh.

Just as I opened my book, the light flickered, sputtered and went out. The pitch black from outside was suddenly inside. The fans whirred to a halt, leaving me and my book in the muggy darkness. I fumbled for my handy alarm/flashlight combo and went to check the fuses. Other volunteers had also emerged from the darkness, disoriented and concerned. The fuses were in the right place, but no electricity was flowing. We migrated to the roof to check whether it was only our house or whether one of the notorious dry season rolling black-outs was upon us. The dark street was a pretty good indication that it wasn't just us, but the Karaoke bar shone like an ungrateful beacon at the end of the street.

The lack of light was really no problem, given that I was ready for bed anyhow, but the lack of fans was an immediate problem. The infernal heat inside our bedrooms is like a Turkish steam bath, and believe me, no one is sleeping in a Turkish steam bath. Lying there in a pool of my own perspiration listening to the booming karaoke bass, I imagined the kilowatts of energy fueling the amplifiers, neon lights and refrigerators. Yes, the very same kilowatts that could easily fuel the fans of the entire neighborhood and save us from this sweat box. The fan is an essential not to be taken for granted.

I actually fell asleep for a while before my alarm at 5. Still without power, I did the best I could to get ready with a flashlight and a good memory. Forced to forgo my usual toast and tea, I settled on part of an apple and water.

Teaching with low blood sugar, poor sleep quality and gallons of sweat is just not ideal, but I muddled through two classes. Breakfast at the Russian Market with my Khmer teacher and a lazy swim were absolute necessities. Without fans, our house was dehydration waiting to happen.

When the power finally came back on after lunch, it was such mega relief that everyone found a fan and began worshiping. By the way, what wonderful timing for my level 6's discussion of utility services. Must be fate.

Shorty

I miss driving my car in Kearney. I miss singing along with Kings of Leon as I roll down 2nd Avenue. Even now, just the thought of those songs sends me back to a time when I couldn't wait to get out of there. Ironic, isn't it?

Cue the knee buckle, the stomach turn and the overwhelming need to time travel.

S-21: Tuol Sleng Musuem

Continuing last week's trend of a confronting and touristy Saturday morning, I visited Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. Located just a few blocks from the volunteer house, this former high school turned torture and execution center is one of the most famous sites in Cambodia. Tuol Sleng High School was renamed S-21 by Pol Pot's “Democratic Kampuchea.” This site was made infamous by the estimated 20,000 people detained in the compound between 1975-1979.

In a moment of confidence, I decided to ride a bike to Tuol Sleng this morning. I figured that my weeks of practice on the side roads between the house, the school and the Sport Club had prepared me to cross Mao Tse Toung Boulevard (yes, that's the real name). Actually, once I cleared the traffic jam at the Russian Market, maneuvering on the busy street was quite easy. Rolling up street 113 towards Tuol Sleng, the residential neighborhood was unassuming, very normal. Even the houses directly across from from the compound were normal—washing hung out, children running about. I parked my bike, paid the entrance fee and followed the swarm of Keen sandal/shoes and large rear-ends into the compound.

Immediately cameras were flickering, shutters flying to capture the horror of Tuol Sleng. I watched as people photographed the sign with the translation of the Khmer Rouge regulations. I wondered about these tourists' poor relatives who were going to be subjected to a slide-show viewing of every captioned sign at Tuol Sleng. My camera safely at home, I read Pol Pot's rules, wondering how “thwart” made a whopping three appearances in the 10 regulations. Although I would have greatly preferred to explore on my lonesome, the sheer number of tourists on a Saturday morning meant that least 25 strangers and I were wondering the long line of rooms in Building A together. In each of the former classrooms, a metal bed frame, bent from the beatings which took place stood silently in the middle of the room. On the wall was a picture taken by the Vietnamese liberators of a prisoner beaten and left to die at the end of the regime. Although most of the blood has been washed clean from the floor, anyone who looks upward will notice the ominous red splatters on the ceiling. Building A amounts to room after room of the same solemn bed, the same gruesome pictures and the same empty feeling.

Building B was the most difficult. Like the Nazi's, the Khmer Rouge were meticulous record keepers, documenting and photographing each prisoner before the murder. In Building B, hundreds upon hundreds of these photos are showcased. At first, I looked carefully at each photo, searching the faces for feeling. Did they know what was going to happen, I wondered? I peered in to the glassy-eyed women, and the hard-faced men guessing whether they knew. As I continued down the endless rows of photos, the eyes started looking back. The women and their lopped-off hair stared at me, and the men, faces defiant, looked me in the eye. The room became a sea of eyes watching me. I no longer wondered if they knew. Each face knew something. It was a room full of knowing.

Nearly in a trance, I found myself roaming other floors and other buildings walking down barbed wire lined corridors, peering into empty rooms with shackles and numbers on the wall. Mass detention rooms full of prisoners. The infamous bloody handprint in one cell was particularly frightening, but in the context it was just another remnant of a torture center. Suddenly away from the rest of the tourists, I walked into something even worse than the handprint. I found myself in a long corridor of small wooden cells that looked like vertical coffins with tiny windows. Disoriented in the dim light and thick wood smell, my heart raced. Where is the exit!?

A guest book lay open in one room with multilingual well-wishes from other visitors. I scanned the book, wondering what I could contribute. What could I possibly say? I'm sorry? This place is filled with horrors beyond all imagination? Peace and Love? I didn't write anything.

I left Tuol Sleng like many people do. Confused about humanity and the human experience. If humans are capable of such atrocities, how can we trust anyone? I thought of my students at CWF. The incredible resilience of the human race astounds me. My students are the generation after Pol Pot, and it's up to them to continue rebuilding Cambodia.

Living the dream, soul-searching and other cliches

For now, I'm living the dream. At least that's what I told students this morning when we were taking turns asking “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” I explained that I am already in Cambodia—my answer to that question. Riding to school in the afternoon on a rickety Chinese bike, I feel like I'm in a movie. The dusty sunset against Phnom Penh's hustle and bustle seems too foreign to be part of my daily routine. Every day I have the same surreal feeling. Am I really here?

At the moment, sitting on the balcony, Khmer karaoke music swirling around, the week has caught up to me. It has been tough on my inner teacher. My Advanced Discussion hasn't gone like I envisioned and my night classes are difficult to manage. Slumped in the tuk tuk this morning, I felt defeated; like I was the worst teacher ever. A few unsuccessful lessons in a row can do that. Blank stares and chirping crickets are not encouraging.

After some intense soul-searching at the gym and several long talks with old friends and my volunteer colleagues, I've diagnosed some of the issues ailing my classes. First, I need to have a clear idea of what I want from students—otherwise, if I don't know, how the heck will they know what I want? I need to plan thoroughly and model the exercises. Second, I need to be an assertive teacher. But most importantly, I need to teach what I know! My two mottoes at the Writing Center were keep it short and simple, and write what you know. I've been doing neither of those here. I am a writer-- I need to use that to my advantage in the classroom. In the morning, I did a current events activity in which students read and listened to a Jena-fied version of a newspaper article about vocational training for inmates. A big success. In another class, I had students imagine their dream jobs and write a paragraph. They enjoyed the activity, it kept my classroom orderly, and many of them volunteered to read and discuss about their jobs afterward (a true miracle).

Contrary to my initial plan of catering to students, I am going to take advantage of my specific skills and education. More writing for me and the students, and definitely more discussion about current events. I miss you, CNN.

As I live the dream, I get to impose some of that of my students--how convenient!

Not related to coffee, but just pretentious enough for me

Such is the life abroad that we become caricatures of ourselves. My caricature is the Nordic princess, the Valkyrie, the impossibly tall woman in a land of smaller people. My outer appearance gives me away as a foreigner, as a greenhorn, but also as a very revered speaker of the coveted English language. I've never been so aware of my physical appearance, and yet, I've never done so little to prepare myself for facing the world. The asymmetries of my face that I do my best to conceal at home are in full view here. Stripped of my security make-up, hair and adornments. I am in the raw, and I think it works for me.

When our routines are stuck half-way around the world, our daily habits are also exaggerated. Though I'm only modestly sporty at home, here in Phnom Penh, I might as well be training for the Olympics. My KFC-tanned legs are a testament to the hours I put in at the pool. Having been a competitive swimmer for 10 years, I take for granted my abilities to move my body up and down the lane without stopping. Surprisingly, this skill has been one of my most prized possessions in the past two months. Swimming is a refuge for me, a time I can be alone. It is also a conversation piece, however, that I use to my advantage.

Besides having an eye-catching ability in the pool and retaining my need for punctuality, I have discovered skills I didn't know I had. My animation in front of the classroom still surprises me. I'm not really a shy person, but I usually prefer to error on the side of reserved. Interacting with non-native speakers in a classroom setting has changed my communication. I suppose it was a (excuse the pun) sink or swim alteration, but I now communicate with simpler sentences, removing all superfluities, and instead I use my body, face to express difficult concepts and words.

During the life abroad, we see ourselves in a new context. I'm surprised at the things that dropped away unnoticed (heaps of chocolate, driving my car, watching TV). The parts of my caricature that remain dominant are the parts I truly value, but most interesting to me are the things that are surfacing as weeks pass—new talents, things I miss about home, and my identity outside of Nebraska.

Where's Las Vegas when you need it?

Today I'm feeling lucky. Not lucky as in something good is going to happen to me, but more like I feel lucky to be me at this moment. I had a great night out with the group last night, and despite the “memories” of Angkor beer in my bloodstream this morning, I pedaled off to the Sport Club for one of my best swims ever. Walking out of the Sport Club, the Cambodian sun that I often curse for its infinite heat was warm and delightful on my face. I thought, yep, this is where I am supposed to be right now.

The best part is that, in my initial plan, volunteering a CWF was sort of an afterthought. I was so focused on CamTEFL that I did not give CWF the credit that it really deserves. The volunteers are a special lot—it isn't just anybody who devotes three months of his life to teaching, lesson planning, and sweating without pay. The CWF staff are also extraordinary. The entire staff is under age thirty, comes from rural Cambodia, and works long, hard hours for a small salary because they want to help develop their homeland. It's a great project to be a part of.

The Killing Fields at Choeung Ek

On most tourists' lists of must-see places in Cambodia, The Killing Fields at Choeung Ek rank somewhere near the top. To much to the western world, Cambodia is famous for two things: the Khmer Rouge regime and Angelina Jolie. Oh, and Angkor Wat—but, mostly the first two (Angkor Wat is for people who actually know something about Cambodia).

I finally collected the nerve to become a tourist for the day and visit Choeung Ek with 8 other volunteers. Before I came to Cambodia, I thought that places like the Killing Fields would be some of the first things I would visit, but in my varying degrees of emotional instability, I found myself weary of any further challenges to my psyche. It also helped that I could split the cost of the tuk tuk ride four ways—I'm becoming very frugal these days.

Unlike the mountain top fortress of Mauthausen concentration camp near Linz, Austria, the Killing Fields are unassuming. A few small buildings and a large memorial stupa dot the otherwise bare landscape. The Stupa (that's an ornate, tall and thin building) was built as a memorial to the victims of the genocide, and as a place to house the skulls and bones found in the excavations. The stupa has 17 wooden tiers to display the bones because the Khmer Rouge took power on April 17. Inside the stupa, if you look straight up, hundreds of skulls stare back, cracked and dirty.

The actual killing fields are different than I expected. They are simply big dug-out holes in a shady grove. The thousands of bodies have been exhumed from the countless mass graves, leaving narrow walkways between them for tourists. Before the Khmer Rouge, this area was a Chinese cemetery, as evidenced by the remnants of gravestones scattered around the excavated mass graves.

If the Khmer Rouge thought they were hiding the evidence underground, they underestimated the power of nature. The earth here holds no secrets. The flooding rains have been continually bringing up the bones and clothing of those who were murdered here for thirty years. Remnants of skirts, sandals and white button-up shirts have all made there way back to the sunlight. The rope and blindfolds used to keep prisoners afraid and handicapped have also surfaced as evidence of the atrocities. The bones and cloth are stuck there in the dirt, right under the feet of tourists who tread on a living museum. Many keep walking, unmoved by the natural unearthing of crimes against humanity, but I squat down to feel the shirt with buttons that has recently uncovered itself. I wonder if it was a woman's shirt. Who was she? Did she have a child? Was her child smashed to death against a tree in front of her very eyes? Was she stripped naked as a final humiliation before being bludgeoned and buried alive? I stop touching the shirt.

This is the part where I wish I could be more ignorant; the part where I wish things that happened half-way around the world before I was born would stop welling up in my eyes and turning my stomach. The more I learn and think about genocide, the less I understand humanity. I don't understand how anyone can say “yep, I think killing the educated people in our society is a great way to improve our country.” Moreover, I really don't understand why, if you want to kill so many people, do you bother do photograph each victim and keep such thorough documentation of the goings-on of your death machine? Why incriminate yourself? It just doesn't make any sense.

Although I now understand even less about humanity, today was an important visit for me as an educator in Cambodia. My students either lived through the Khmer Rouge or they are the first generation after. Rehabilitating a country that was so mutilated only thirty years ago is no easy process.

Author note: I'm adding this part a day later. It was in the original draft, but I chickened out because I wasn't sure if my reaction was legit. I was actually underwhelmed by the museum elements of the killing fields. I found the ungrammatical translations on signs and the amateur low-budget visitor's film to be a little insulting, considering the significance of this place and the amount of tourism here. I was especially disappointed in the video that was supposed to have a poignant message about the eternal spirit of the Cambodian people. The cheesy effects and poor audio were actually comical. Embarrassed of my own judgments on a genocide memorial, I was afraid to blog about it--that is, until I talked about it with some other volunteers who had similar reactions. We talked about how different this museum was to places like Auschwitz and Mauthausen, and how western ideas of such memorials are actually very different from what is possible in a place like Cambodia. Some deep reflections later, I decided that I wasn't aware of the expectations I brought to the killing fields, and that perhaps the museum holds a certain authenticity in its imperfection.

Some semblance of routine in my life...it's about time!

I'm learning the art of lesson planning as I figure out my daily routine. Between my early morning and evening classes, a daily swim, and mandatory nap time, I still have a free hour or so to plan out activities for upcoming classes. The level 4 and 6's have course books that I can use to pretty much spoon-feed new material. The preparation includes sifting through the book exercises and adding some games or Cambodi-fying some of the activities to be more interesting. Sometimes the book is a useful resource, but other times, the material in the book is just crap (and yes, I get to decide)! The Advanced Discussion also has a book; however, my preparation is mostly to educate myself on how to run debates, how to teach presentation, how to present the more advanced forms of discussion. It is actually quite intimidating.

During class, I am bursting with energy. I love being in front of the students, talking, using gestures, and writing on the board. It is so energizing to think on my feet. Even the diabolical heat inside the stuffy rooms can't slow me down. I bring a hanky to soak up the sweat and a bottle of water to hydrate. The students are so much fun that I usually forget about the heat. When they have a questions, students will shout “Teacher!”, or the shortened version: “'Cher! 'Cher!” That always makes me smile. Sometimes I wish I could get away with calling them “student!” because their names are nearly impossible. Never one to be outsmarted by another language, I am trying my best to learn and use all 48 of my students' names. Good luck, me.

The initial high of teaching quickly gives way to hunger and exhaustion as soon as I'm back at the house. Especially in the morning, after two classes and my Khmer class, at 9:00 AM, I'm ready to call it a day. Instead, I grab a quick and sugar-laden breakfast from the bowl on the dining table. Fully sugared, I can usually convince myself to go for a swim because I've already paid good money for my membership. After a swim and shower, I have a few minutes to lesson plan, and before I know it, some strange (and increasingly yummy) curry lunch is in the big pot, and I've got a big bowl of rice at the ready.

Post-lunch is a real treat. Finish up the lesson plans, check Facebook, and crawl under my mosquito net for a nap. It's just too hot to do much else. By three o'clock, I'm usually ready to face the world again. Pour cup of instant coffee (and a lot of milk), grab some fresh fruit and a peanut butter toast and I'm almost human again. Another hour or so and it's time to bike over to the school for another, hotter round of teaching.

After the ride home, around 7:30 PM, I'm “pretty knackered” as my British friends say, and the remnants of dinner go down without complaint. A group debriefing about the day's mishaps (and “haps”?), a final check of the lesson plans, perhaps another check of Facebook (or Blogger!), and I'm ready for a second shower and lights-out!

Believe it or not, it's a full-on day to to be a 20-hour per week CWF volunteer. I'm absolutely exhausted every night. It's a good thing that all of my applications to volunteer elsewhere were rejected. This is plenty!

CWF Semester 15 is Underway!

I have a lot to learn about being a teacher. The first week of semester 15 went very well considering the amount of environmental stress that Cambodia puts on poor ol' me. In the wee hours of the morning, I teach an Advanced Discussion class. This course is designed for students who are fluent in English and who have a desire to keep practicing via more formal types of spoken communication (debate, presentation, media review, etc.) These students, although they still have varied levels of English proficiency, are willing to speak up in class and share their thoughts on almost any topic.

In contrast to the confidence of the Advanced Discussion students, many of my early morning level 4's are still shy about making mistakes. I enjoy teaching level 4 very much because they have accumulated a usable vocabulary bank, but they still look to me for a lot of assistance. As a teacher, I like to be needed. My morning level 4's are very reserved compared to the 4's I teach in the evening—what a rowdy bunch! The evening class is mainly high school students, which means a lot of chit-chatting and giggling. It's great energy, but I find myself having to shout to get (and keep) their attention. Our lesson about farm animal noises went over particularly well because this group can appreciate the silliness of oinking, mooing, and meowing our way through an hour.

My level 6 class is held at 5:00pm, a universally bad time to try to be patient, attentive, or energetic. My students have just come from the university, or from a full day's work, and they are exhausted, hot, and ready for dinner. The first two days of class were like a trip to the Cambodian dentist, but yesterday we got on the subject of child abuse and our class had a great and lengthy discussion about parenting technique. Who knew?

My less perfunctory, more deliberate post regarding Women's Day

I let international Women's Day escape me with no real thought. Even though I encouraged others to think, I let myself slide through the day on a bad attitude. Today I came across the Lift insert of our Phnom Penh Post. On the front page, a Khmer woman poses as Rosie the Riveter in a remake of the iconic We Can Do It! Poster. One the first page, a short paragraph explaining Cambodia's lack of a united feminist movement and providing a short explanation of feminist theory stood out on a hot pink background. Throughout the insert, I realized that I take this stuff for granted. Not only having mostly equal opportunities as men, but also being aware of and being vocal about gender equality. Reading the articles, I remembered that gender (in)equality is a new concept for Khmers. Traditional Khmer culture does not support women's education or business endeavors; instead, women are truly expected only to marry and have children. These women should be willing to sacrifice their careers for their families. Even though I acknowledge that being a housewife and caring for children are valuable contributions, in Cambodia, it's the opportunity to choose other life paths that is missing.

As Cambodian society develops at the speed of Korean pop, Lucky Burger and Ford dealerships, women are faced with increasing identity conflict. Khmer girls are expected to adhere to traditional family values, but the cultural shift toward a more liberal society expects girls to be more sexually active. Premarital sex is still a definite taboo in polite (and all) conversation in Cambodia. Similar to what happens in many conservative societies, young Cambodians are becoming sexually active, but they have no sexual education or resources to help them make better choices. Thankfully, the articles included some online resources.

As a whole, I thought the insert was a nice introduction to feminist theory and the current state of affairs for Cambodian women. However, I did find one section particularly disturbing. It was called “5 Cool Things”. The author had selected five items that the modern Cambodian women should have. The first thing was a bank card—to be more financially independent. Okay, that's important, but the author's list of things that could be bought with a bank card (shoes, clothes, etc) was a little superficial. Continuing the superficial trend was the next cool thing, a big handbag. Is there anything cooler than that? ...Moving on to something more culturally relevant, house keys were the next cool thing. So, my assumptions that women had house keys were wrong (yikes!). The caption explained that you can stay out later if you have your own keys (literally “the keys to your house will enable you to experience more exciting places than your kitchen”). I think it was a joking exaggeration by the author, but maybe not. Yes, please get some house keys. After you have permission and the means to leave the house, buy the next cool thing--high heels--with your bank card—style and confidence. Not to mention foot problems. The final cool thing is an ipod. The caption tells readers that going around the city without being bothered by unfamiliar men is “a luxury” (does this make anyone else uncomfortable?). However, once you stick in your earbuds, all those pesky people will magically disappear, leaving you, your bank card, house keys, big bag and high-heels in peace.

The newspaper is a view of the society. From this article, I maintain that Cambodian society is taking on the material items of the western world, but holding on to traditional values that may or may not agree with these possessions. The trouble is that the traditional culture still dominates the mindset. If women are still seen as so incapable that they can't have a house key, or if is acceptable for men to bother women on the street, Cambodia needs to rethink the high heels and ipod.

Here is my revised list of 5 Cool Things:

1.University education—Earning a degree from the university will make you think about new ideas and it will help you get a better job (you might even meet a good husband there!)

2.Reproductive health education--learn how to be responsible for your sex life. Find out how to protect yourself from unwanted pregnancy and STDs/HIV, and take responsibility for your actions.

3.Internet newspapers—Save a tree and read about world events in foreign newspapers. Learn about the world outside Cambodia.

4.Shorter haircuts—everybody has long, straight hair. If you want to stand out, why not mix it up and try a new, shorter style?

5.Ipods—okay, after much internal deliberation, I have decided that this is a cool thing, but not as a self-defense tool. Use your ipod to relax or listen while you exercise.

Friendship vs. Intuition

A few days ago, I was talking with my housemates about gauging my intuition. Particularly when it comes to befriending Khmer people, I feel that my usually strong intuition has no bearings in Cambodia. I vented my frustrations about being unable to sus out the real intentions behind my Khmer friendships. Were people really just that interested me that they would stop me randomly and ask to be my friend?

At orientation, we were lightly warned about befriending Khmer people because of ulterior motives (money, marriage, visa status, sponsorship abroad), but my ever-naive spirit mostly shrugged off these warnings as things that happen to other people. By other people, I meant older western men (nice stereotype, huh?).

Today, however, I was asked to loan a hefty sum of money to help a Khmer friend pay for school. Since the beginning of this friendship, I have wondered if this is the part of the scary movie when I will be sold, or the part where I end up betrothed to someone's brother. My real fear was that simply being friends with me was not good enough, that my American citizenship and/or bankcard were of more value than my being. I was surprised and a little insulted by the request for money. Had our whole friendship been a sham? Were the fun days together just a ploy to make me feel obligated? Of course, I refused to loan her money. It was one of most culturally awkward moments of my life. I try to assume the best of people, but this situation did not feel right. I was trapped there in the ice cream store (this person knows all my weaknesses!), defending my refusal and praying for a distraction, an escape, a way to make all the uncomfortable go away.

I'm still not sure about what happened today. It could have been an honest request for a loan to be paid back within the month, or it could have marked the end of a friendship. I was drained and somewhat ashamed of myself as I opened the house gate. I gave my intuition the brush off, and it was—as usual—spot on (minus the part were I get trafficked or betrothed). An international friendship devoid of unsavory intentions, free of ulterior motives, and based on mutual understanding/curiosity. That's how I like it. Oh, and the ice cream part, that's good, too.

International Women's Day--my perfunctory blog entry

Today is International Women's Day. For many, it is a day marked by little more than an article in Marie Claire, or an e-mail invite to blog about the day. For those of us living in Cambodia, it is a public holiday, on which many schools (including mine) let students and teachers have the day off. Banners over the streets in Phnom Penh read: Women are the backbone of our society and economy in both Khmer and English. I am surprised at the level of public observation to this holiday in a place where women are subjugated so openly.

What does International Women's Day mean? It does not mean that just for today, battered women will get a day off from abuse. It does not mean that women are—just for today—equal to men. It might mean that it is ladies night at all the bars in town, but it does not guarantee a safer night for women anywhere. The hope of International Women's Day, for a gender studies person like me, is that people who are not gender studies people will take half a second to think about the imbalances in societies across the globe. But when is International Men's Day? (Don't get me started).

So how does one celebrate such a holiday? Even though I had plans to do otherwise, I have been a stereotypical woman all day—I went to the gym to work on my girlish figure, ate some chocolate, I complained about a lot of things, and I bought a new two-piece swimsuit (I also wondered if it made me look fat). Mission accomplished. Oh, and I cleaned the kitchen this morning because I couldn't sleep.

So, Happy Women's Day. If you want to do something a little more productive than I did, pick up a copy of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues; or donate clothes, money or time to a women's shelter in your community. Better yet, call your mother.

Lady! You want take long, hot bus ride? Good price for you!

Bus rides are notorious for being adventures, and our trip home from Kratie was no exception. After a 45-minute delayed start (that's Khmer time), we were shuffled onto a crowded bus with people sitting in the aisles, on the stairs, wherever. One guy even had to brace his foot on the door handle to keep it from flying open. I was perched on the front seat next to the boiling hot window. Instead of an arm rest, to my right was a metal pole (like the poles on city buses—for holding purposes). At first I thought it was a nice addition, but as soon as our bus began the usual bumping and swerving of Khmer-style driving, I found the pole to be a bruising and head-bumping annoyance. Three hours of unrelenting window heat, jostling and jarring later, we arrived at the lunch stop. We had just enough time to shove $1 of rice and stir fry into our unsteady bellies, use the last-chance outhouse, and choose from an assortment of foreign soft drinks (they were out of water!) before being summoned back to the overheating bus by impatient honking.

As I prepared for total dehydration, my rattled body began to hate Cambodia. Without reprieve from the constant motion, the shaking, the heat, I found myself just concentrating on not screaming. I was beyond thirsty, my butt and legs were tingling, my head was pounding and all I could do was sit there and take it. Two hours into my self-pity, a loud thunk from the right side of the bus startled even the unshakable bus driver. We pulled over in middle of nowhere Cambodia, and off-loaded in the hazy afternoon sunlight. The bus crew quickly assessed the situation, deemed it suitable for more driving, and ordered us back on. We drove incredibly slowly the rest of the way to Phnom Penh—roughly two more hours of slower jostling. I've never been so happy to get off a bus in my life.

At least it was an adventure. It always is.

Let's talk about poo!

On day two in Koh Pdao village, Our morning trek around the village to see first-hand the impact of CRDT was very inspiring. We saw the hen houses (talk about free range—these chickens are all over the village) and we spoke with the woman who cares for the chickens about how much better her income is now that CRDT has taught her new techniques. Next we saw the fish ponds that help the village feed its people. CRDT helped dig the ponds and now the villagers raise fish to eat during the rainy season. We also saw the home gardens that many villagers tend. The highlight, however, was the biodigesters built to supply not only fertilizer, but also methane gas-powered lighting and cooking stoves for the village. The biodigester is a simple contraption. Manure from the farm animals is collected and put in a tank where it ferments and releases methane gas. The gas flows up a tube into the house where it is used for cooking and lighting. The methane gas replaces firewood and kerosene lamps, two expensive and environmentally-insensitive resources. CRDT has also implemented outhouses which connect to the biodigester because, as our guide explained, human feces produce more gas than that of animals. What a nice cycle—use the biodigested gas to cook, eat the food, use the outhouse, have more gas to cook. Total sustainability via poo poo—now there's something to get excited about!

Speaking of poo poo, let me describe the facilities on Koh Pdao. If you are lucky, you'll see a wooden shack in back of the house. Courtesy of CRDT, outhouses have been implemented in many village homes. Inside the tiny building a small tub of flush water and a squat toilet await your business. Bring your own toilet paper and hand sanitizer and leave your fears of bugs and small reptiles behind. No lights are available, so if nature calls after dark—grab a flashlight if you've got it, and good luck. By the way, you might not come across a trash can for days, so a plastic bag for all waste products is also a good idea. The most successful squat experience results in dry pants, dry feet and an empty bladder. To achieve such a feat, I find that getting as much of your pants around your knees as possible is the trick. Trial and mostly error. I have learned many a thing about squat toilets out of pure necessity. In this part of the world, that familiar low abdominal growl requires immediate action. Always know the location and status of the nearest toilet.

Dolphins, bugs, and island parties

On our first afternoon in Koh Pdao, after our second (sic) nap of the day, we went on a quest for the endangered Irrawaddy dolphins. Only about 70 of these creatures remain in the Mekong, due to improper fishing habits, environmental pollution, and upstream dams. I had low expectations of spotting any, given the dolphin to river ratio, but much to my delight, we saw many of the flat-faced dolphins playing in the currents. We sat quietly in our tiny boats, watching for the mysterious creatures. Cambodian legend reveres these animals: It is said that a beautiful young girl was swallowed whole by a snake. Her father found the snake and cut it open, and when she emerged from its belly, the girl was so ashamed that she put a bowl over her face and threw herself into the Mekong. Perhaps something is lost in translation, but as we learned at the crocodile temple, many a Khmer folktale involve large predatory animals eating daughters, being cut open and bringing shame to she who was eaten. Why the shame? I haven't figured that out yet.

If the dolphin is endangered and rarely seen, the night fly and mosquito are in overpopulation and are the only thing you can see at night on the island. Back at the school, the village had brought out the mega amplifiers to kick out the jams Khmer-style in celebration of our journey from around the world to Koh Pdao. The setting would have been perfect if not for the clouds of bugs. Around the generator-fueled lights, awesome swarms of small winged buzzies hummed along to the music. Unpleasant as it was, even getting constantly pelted with insects couldn't stop a great evening (I won't tell you what happened when I blew my nose the next morning...). I can be a bit of a wall flower at dance events, but this time, I took the advice of ABBA and became my inner dancing queen. I let loose with the kids and volunteers, allowing the exotic music to entrance me. Pheap did her best to teach me the beautiful Khmer classical dance with the intricate hand movements, but I struggled with the coordination of it all. Regardless of my dance (in)abilities, I joined the line of Khmer women and made the circular track to song after song, batting the bugs out of my eyes.

Khmer-style and a durian tangent

Breakfast in Kratie Town was two of the most pleasant hours I've had in Cambodia. I nabbed a bamboo-wrapped roasted sticky rice for a little over 60 cents and crossed the the street to peel out the delicious mixture while overlooking the Mekong. Rice, beans and coconut milk make nearly the ideal breakfast food as the combination is sweet, but not-too-sweet, and appropriately filling. Satisfied and thirsty, I also decided that such a magnificent morning deserved an iced coffee. A little overwhelmed by the market, I enlisted the help of the cheekiest of CWF staff members. Soon, I was holding a tiny plastic bag full of ice, sugar and espresso. Yes, a bag with a straw—that's to-go Khmer style (pronounced “Ka-MY Style”).

It seems (and appropriately so) that everything in Cambodia is Khmer style. The mini-bus ride from Kratie to the boats at Sambo District was certainly Khmer style. Though lacking the roof-riders of traditional Khmer transport, we were packed like Khmers, fitting five large butts where normally three sit—thank goodness for a/c. The roads were true to Khmer style as we bounced, swerved and honked our way through the 45-minute journey. The ever-blasting Khmer radio hypnotized us into a new state of mind where things that seem essential at home suddenly aren't, and where the broken wall clocks reflect the easy pace of life.

Our meals in the village were served, how else, Khmer style. On the floor of the home, two parallel lines of place settings—enough to serve nearly 20. Several vats of rice, a few bowls of fish soups, stir-fry, and fried bananas (mmm!!) were ready to fill our hungry bellies. In the intense heat (upwards of 38 C or 100 F) of Cambodia, one trick is to douse the food with chilies to force your body to cool off. Even though it's a bit torturous going down, a few minutes later, the cooling effect is wonderful. The meals were excellent considering the circumstances, and the rest/nap periods on either side of the meal were much needed. If you have never experienced Cambodian heat, it's something to behold. Every day, it's the hottest summer day you can remember, plus humidity and no air-conditioned retreat. The knees of my cargo pants had white marks from the all the salt I had sweated out. Normally, I would have been very turned off by the intense climate, but the weather is an integral part of life here. The people move at a slower pace, they take life one nap at a time, because it's just too hot. In the words of another volunteer as he shut his eyes for a nap, “Now I know why it takes three months to dig a hole...”

During the absolute hottest part of the day, we visited the island school. I thought of my brother as we crossed the dusty school yard to the classrooms. We added our monstrous shoes to the pile of teeny flip flops before we filed into the sauna-esque classroom. Each volunteer had contributed a few dollars to buy school supplies for the kids, so after the children sang welcome songs, we gathered them outside to present them with a notebook and pencil each. What a great feeling to see so many children smiling and enjoying a new notebook. I was starting to understand the importance of my work at CWF, and the impact that even a small amount of time or money can have on someone's life. I have taken education for granted for so long that I have a hard time unpacking the idea that not all children go to school, and that schools are not the same everywhere. Time to wake up and smell the durian Jena.

Okay, durian tangent—It is only food too strong for wacky food expert Andrew Zimmern of the Travel Channel's Bizarre Foods. The durian is a soft fleshy Asian fruit renowned for its revolting odor. It took me nearly two months to realize that the durian was the main culprit of the nauseating stench at all markets. Many believe it to be an aphrodisiac, but after having several unfortunate spoonfuls in my dessert in Kratie, the only thing I wanted to do was brush my teeth and avoid ever, ever, ever eating it again.

Volunteers go to Kratie Province

Finally back in Phnom Penh, and after a good night's sleep, I can't wait to start writing about the week. My sweetened-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life cup of tea is at the ready as I review the photographs from Kratie province. The Conversations with Foreigners (CWF) volunteers made our pilgrimage to the Cambodian Rural Development Team's (CRDT) headquarters in Kratie Town and to the island village of Koh Pdao to see the projects that CWF helps fund. Our four-day trip included an orientation to CRDT and an overnight stay in the village to see the projects that CRDT has helped established.

CRDT was established in 2001 by four university students who believed in sustainable and environmentally-conscious ways of improving the lives of rural Cambodians. Now a successful and well-known NGO, CRDT has helped over 3,000 families in Northeastern Cambodia. Like all NGO's, CRDT needs a source of funding, and that's where CWF comes in. The Conversations with Foreigners school was created as a way to fund the projects and to provide a unique and cost-effective place for foreigners to volunteer. Students pay $40 per 10 week session to study with a foreign teacher. After the base costs of payroll and school maintenance are fulfilled, all remaining profit is given directly to CRDT. The students who pay tuition to CWF are typically from provincial areas; so in addition to the cheaper price, the incentive to support their own communities influences many students' decisions to study with CWF.

Like the Sustainable Tourism book on our table says, this trip is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see how the majority of Cambodia lives.

For more information about the CRDT follow this link: http://www.crdt.org.kh/

Slowing down

I'm lying on the chilly blue tiles in my bedroom. The dust bunnies I missed during my not-so-thorough sweep are swirling around the room, enjoying the fan as much as I do. I can smell the now familiar sour scent that comes up from the bathroom drains. That's Cambodia, I explained to Christie a few nights ago. The karaoke bar down the street lends a song to the whole neighborhood at night. The slow bass dictates my heartbeat. I've stopped sweating now that the sun has been replaced with the yellowest moon. It's nice to slow down in the evening--to stand still long enough to realize that the body odor is your own, and that another shower is a definite necessity tonight.

I've traded in my make-up routine for a face free of cosmetics. My jewelry bag is still in my suitcase, unused. The once coiffed and sprayed adornment on my head is now just hair, falling as it pleases. A splash of sunscreen, a spritz of mozzy spray and I'm ready for the world. It's strange to see myself without warpaint and headdress, but I'm starting to recognize the face in the mirror.

Cambodia's answer to Michael Phelps

Thinking back to my initial assessment of the Phnom Penh Sport Club as a major status symbol for the foreign, wealthy and beautiful, today I had an interesting experience at the pool. Saturday evening must be a good time to show off your gym membership because the pool was very crowded with Cambodians. After asking permission, I slipped into the fast lane with the older Khmer gentlemen. A few hundred yards later, the old men were gone, and I stopped to chat with some of the new volunteers who had accompanied me. Surveying the patrons, we gawked a moment at the chiseled, tanned Khmer man in a black Speedo and Cambodia swim cap (I do miss swim team). He dove into the fast lane and swam with an expert stroke—an absolute oddity in Cambodia. I took it upon myself to judge if he was fast or not, so I ducked back into the lane to see if I could catch up to him—A few years ago, I would've had no problem, but in my current three-years-off-season, my pace isn't what it should be! I was exhausted after several lengths at that pace, and I stopped at the wall. In true swimmer fashion, he did a flip turn right in my face. That was my cue to try to keep up.

When he stopped to rest, I started a conversation. Turns out that he was on the Cambodian national swim team (hence the cap, but who knew Cambodia had a swim team?), and now he is a coach at the international school. He also teaches swimming lessons at the Sport Club and is training for the triathlon in Siem Riep. In our caps and goggles, we had a nice chat. Swimmers are universally agreeable--it's some by-product of inhaling chlorine gas all day.

It's amazing who you can meet at the Sport Club!

Bike Blunders

Another day unscathed! It's a good feeling to walk up to the house at night having survived the day in Phnom Penh. Although I was nearly road kill on street 155 this afternoon, it was a very pleasant day.

So the road kill part—yeah, I was on my bike, returning from a 3-hour teaching training. Minding my own business, slowing at the corner to wait for my chance to cross 155, a small thoroughfare. I did the usual coast out a feet into the street, and then, out of nowhere a silver Lexus rolls up two feet from my left side and begins turning right. By turning right, I mean turning right into me. It was a slow motion scene of me expecting the car to stop, the car not stopping, and a bit of life-flashing-before-the eyes. I have no idea how the car didn't hit me, or how I escaped the certain doom of the other 15 obstacles on the street, but safely on the other side, I heard the hush of everyone on the street. My roommate, who had been about 25 yards behind me recounted the scene of Khmer women gasping and the entire street coming to a standstill for a brief moment: That car almost hit a barang on a kang! Apparently I caused quite a scene—And it was well-deserved. Although there seem to be no rules for Cambodian driving, there are general expectations, and that car was not abiding by the code. Cars are top dog on the road, but unsure foreigners on difficult bikes always have the right of way!

Oh the things you can learn in Khmer class!

I knew it was going to be a good morning. My peanut butter and jelly toasts went down well, and my roommate raved about my blog (which had entertained her during last night's insomnia). Self-esteem roaring, I went to a group Khmer lesson. With 20 people in a room built for 8, we were crowded, but undeterred. The teacher, Rotha, animated himself in front of the class, making jokes and showing his knowledge of the world as we each introduced ourselves. He asked me if I lived in “Big Apple” or Colorado, which impressed me. His comments to the Brits about Gordon Brown were hysterical, and the he had the whole room in stitches.

Then we began the Khmer lesson. He spoke quickly and scribbled on the white board as he reviewed some basic greeting words. I've been taking one-on-one lessons for nearly six weeks, so it was no problem for me to understand. I enjoyed the review of things I already have in my bag of tricks. Near the end of the lesson,you can imagine my delight when he asked something much more difficult, “How do Khmer call, 'What is your name?'” Oh, oh, oh!! Me, me me!! Without thinking, I broke the silence with “Da niat chmua aboi?” and he turned to me, totally shocked, and said, “Wow! Number one student! Can you say again for the class please? You say it so well!” Suddenly the center of attention, I called upon my most eloquent Khmer mouth gymnastics, and they repeated.

During the lesson, I also learned a lot of things. In Khmer, the word “yes” is “baht” for men, and “jaa” for women. If a man says, “jaa,” according to the Khmer teacher, people will think he is gay (by the way, that's the first time I've heard a Khmer use the word 'gay'). Interestingly, the King uses the word “jaa,” but for other reasons. The king is heterosexual, however, as part of Khmer tradition, he honors the first ruler of Cambodia—a woman—by using her language. How's that for a women's studies topic? Our Khmer teacher told us that women are the most powerful and respected people in Cambodia, and they are represented by the thumb. Thus, a thumbs-up is a positive symbol. In contrast, the son is represented by the pinky finger; hence a pinky-down gesture is one of the most negative. My sociology and women's studies background goes crazy for this stuff. Looking at this society from a Western perspective, I would absolutely say that women are second-class citizens who are mistreated and disrespected daily. However, my lack of knowledge about the foundations of Khmer culture seriously limits my ability to access the gender roles. I have a lot to learn!

After the lesson, more than one of the other volunteers complimented me on my fine command of the Khmer language. No matter how long you've studied, that's a great compliment to any language learner.

Between the blog and the Khmer lesson, consider my ego stroked.

New Kids on the Block

I'm going to sleep well tonight. Today was the official first day of CWF orientation for semester 15-- the February-May group. For me, it was a day I have been longing for since I arrived. With the group of nearly 20 assembled at our breakfast table, a fresh energy radiated from the new faces. The glow of pale skin and the sugar rush of morning doughnuts and sticky rice could have contributed to the radiation, but I prefer to think that the exuberant souls who chose the hottest, driest three months to live in Cambodia have something special. We are a diverse bunch with several Americans, a sprinkling of Canadians, a few Brits, some Australians, a Singaporean, a German, a Spaniard, and a Slovakian. I share a room with a young Canadian who does things like run a creative writing center, stay at yoga ashrams for 3 months, and come to Cambodia with literally only a normal sized backpack. She's way cool.

Back to breakfast--after a crash course in eating the rambutan, an exotic fruit that reminds me of a big grape, we set off in a caravan of tuk tuks, ready to take on the city. Our first stop was the CWF school to take individual pictures to hang at the school. They made me go first, and as I can never say no to a prop, I decided to sit on a nearby motorbike for my portrait. I'm not usually a trend-setter, but as the resident expert, my opinions and actions are easier to imitate.

Several overstimulating hours of tuk tuking, sight-seeing, and cell phone-buying later, we arrived back at the house for lunch. Twenty servings of rice and mystery Khmer dish, please. The heat and dust from the morning were wearing on my energy and my patience. I've learned to give my body some form of midday rest (or face the health consequence), so my roommate and I each took a few minutes of shut eye until the next orientation activity.

The energy change is a godsend. I was in a bad place mentally the past few weeks, and I was very worried about surviving the next three months. Now, however, with the support of this group, I know I can do it.

By the way, food tastes better when people say positive things about it. Suddenly, the meals that used to be somewhat disappointing for me are tasty and satisfying—though I'm still waiting for the dessert course...

Switching roles: from newbie to old hat in one fell swoop

Today marked a decidedly new chapter in my Cambodia chronicle. No longer was I the new kid on the block—on the contrary—Today I was the tour guide, the question and answer gal, the been-there-done-that person. Two new volunteers arrived midday, just after my swim at the Sport Club. Feeling a little cocky pedaling in on a bicycle, I introduced myself and excused my disheveled post-pool appearance. Both were twenty-something American women with delightful personalities. Over lunch I enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment as I answered their questions about Phnom Penh, CWF and the house. We took a neighborhood tour to the Russian Market to avert jet-lag napping.

After the intense heat of the market, we took a well-deserved break in the air-conditioned upstairs of Cafe Yejj. I was uncontrollably happy to finally be among my own volunteers, the people with whom I will share a very intense three months. I chatted enthusiastically about travels, school, and boyfriends for a few hours, despite my sore vocal chords. Our next stop was my secret spot—the 7 Mart Cafe with free wifi. I thought of Fiona's wisdom as I told them, you've got to have some comfort things to keep you sane—mine are brownies and daily internet access. For the first time in six weeks, I felt very confident and I found myself quite happy to be in Cambodia.

Now a nagging cough reminds me of me of my grandpa's wise remedy: grandma's frozen chocolate chip cookies do the trick every time. No cookies in the world could compare to my grandma's, but until the next time I can raid her freezer, these little chocolate-filled cakes will have to tide me over.

Lost Post from Sunday

I'm nearly alone in the house tonight. The same house that normally harbors the energy of 14. It's strange and lonely to have eaten my dinner in silence for the first time in a month. I'm in the cusp between semesters, dangling between the excitement of those returning home and the thrill of my new adventure. Since I can't talk to anyone anyway (laryngitis can shove it!) I'm using this long weekend to regroup.

As Fiona predicted, I'm asking a lot of the big questions to myself. Who am I? Where am I? What am I? Perhaps interesting for a conversation over coffee, I'm not terribly worried about these yet. I'm more concerned with questions like how can I spend 3 days at the house and not go nuts? When the heck will my voice come back? Will I fit in with the new volunteers? Am I blogging too often?

I'm also thinking about my real purpose here. I don't foresee an extended career of teaching English in Cambodia, so I've got to focus on what I can do for these students in the next three months. When I began teaching in late January, most of the other teachers had already given up on lesson planning and found a natural rhythm with students—or, they resorted to field trips and the media room. I felt a lot of pressure to make my lessons really fun, to disguise the learning part. I tried to be really creative and use lots of mini games to engage students. However, the feedback I got last week made me rethink my method.

Students at CWF are mostly university students or young professionals who are looking to English as a way to get a better job. At $40 for 10 weeks, these Cambodians are investing a hefty sum, though not the $120+ that similar schools charge. These are not restless children who were forced to come to school. These are adults who are motivated to improve their lives. They don't mind doing the grunt work that learning a language takes.

Based on that, of course I want to have a fun classroom atmosphere, but I want to focus on giving them a real learning environment. I've learned that Cambodian education is inconsistent at best, and that students at CWF have very little understanding of learning strategy and classroom behavior (at least the strategies and behaviors that western cultures take for granted). The best gift I give them is to do everything I can to help them learn the course material and give them a learning strategies for the future. The typical language classroom includes an introduction of new vocabulary, drills, controlled practice, and review.

My responsibility as a conversation teacher is to speak slowly and clearly enough for students to understand, but also to challenge them in real time. In a real conversation, many times there is no pen or whiteboard to write the word or draw a picture. In real time, we use gestures or description to get our point across. Sometimes, I have found that even if the student knows the correct word, the pronunciation limits my ability to understand. The Khmer-accented English is one of the most difficult I've come across. Similarly, listening to English must be very difficult for Khmer-trained ears. The sounds and emphasis are just back to front different. For instance, when we were talking about food, one student was raving about “spAHgehdEE” and I just couldn't make sense of it. Eventually, we got “spaghetti” and the world was small again.

I have a lot to learn.

It was I who bought the last six lemons!

Somewhere between the three hours of Skyping and the motorbike adventures in Kandal province yesterday, I have totally lost my voice. Due to perhaps overuse, or something more sinister (I also have a fever, body aches and total exhaustion), I can no longer vibrate my vocal chords in comprehensible ways.

Sweating in my room, forcing down a cup of hot honey and lemon water, I sit voiceless, but full of things to say. Part of me curses the day I decided that Cambodia was the only place I wanted to go. It's a hot, developing country with minimal sanitation. What the hell was I thinking? On the other hand, I knew those things coming in, and yes, they are obnoxious, but the are not insurmountable. The universe has a magical way of taking care of travelers. Take yesterday for example.

In the morning, I treated my classes to American breakfast foods for our end of the semester party. You bet they loved the Fruit Loops and granola bars. On a high from the loving compliments and well-wishes from my students, I was able to ignore the tickle in my throat and the heaviness in my body. After the sugar and warm-fuzzies wore off, so did some of my patience with Cambodia. On Skype, I found myself recounting all the miseries of Cambodia to my mother. I felt a little stupid admitting that perhaps Cambodia was too much for me, the invincible Jena. I told my mother that there are certain things here that I don't want to get used to (being really sick every other week, heavy corruption, and lung-darkening smog).

I also spoke to my boyfriend, an ex-pat in his own right; and I spoke to someone who comes with many an ex- prefix. He's an ex-boyfriend, ex-ex-pat, and one-time best friend. He was one of David's closest friends as well, which is the reason that we were Skyping. Over the past five years, my relationships with these friends have been put away, like the precious things kept in a hutch. I didn't neglect these friends purposefully, but I did neglect them. For the record, discussing this kind of thing over Skype with waning energy is not something I recommend. I didn't know what to say. We have plans to talk again soon.

Skype drama aside, I also had plans with Nouna, my Cambodian friend. She told me we were going somewhere for lunch, but as usual, she could've said anything and I wouldn't have known where or what it was. Helmets on, sun shining, we cruised down Monivong, past the Royal Palace, along the River, then we kept going! We crossed the Japanese friendship bridge, and drove down the dusty roads out of the city. My lingering doubts about the legitimacy of such a strange friendship began to surface as we drove into more desolate areas, but my happiness to escape Phnom Penh was too great. We finally stopped, sweat-soaked and thirsty at a river-front Khmer restaurant. The Khmers really have it figured out—At this place, we climbed into shaded hammocks over-looking the Mekong. Our beef salad and fried fish entrees were excellent, and the cat nap afterward was worth the drive.

By this time, my voice was almost gone, but I was enjoying myself too thoroughly to end the day. Nouna still had ideas for things we could do. Kandal Province, she yelled from the front seat of the motorbike, lifting the shield of her helmet. We drove back over the bridge, through the entirety of rush hour Phnom Penh city, and out the other side to Kandal. Not more than a ten minutes' drive from our destination, we heard the ominous thunk of a flat tire. We pushed the bike through traffic, across the street to a homely little shop with a mechanic and his family waiting to help. Since talking was out of the picture by this time, we both watched intently as he methodically removed the tire and the tire bladder. He then took the patching goo and stuck the tire in a vice, heated by actual flames. In less than 20 minutes and for a price of 2000 riel--$0.50--we were back on the road.

The Chinese church in Kandal was beautiful, but I had little energy left to enjoy. We agreed it was time to go home. My body was starting to rebel against me for taking this kind of adventure on a weak immune system. My throat dry and my glands the size of lycee, I barely managed to hang on to the moto as we sped back to town. I would have felt more distraught if the scenes were not so magnificent. With the Asian red sun melting into the darkness, the squiggles of Khmer script on the old sign would've made the perfect post card. It feels so satisfying to go on mini-adventures, to experience normal things in a very strange context. The bad things are balanced out by the good.

Sihanoukville, by Jena Lynch

I'd like to share my Snapfish photos with you. Once you have checked out my photos you can order prints and upload your own photos to share.
Click here to view photos

Feeling a little too stiff after a long bus ride?

Khmer Massage. Three dollars to the hour. Dim room with three beds and a fan, tiny pajama pants to borrow, and a young Khmer woman ready to inflict all sorts of pain. First she pushes, then she prods, pokes and jabs your whole body, then she momentarily cuts off circulation to your legs (as a yogi, this sounds good in theory) before continuing to use her rolling pin arms to flatten your quadraceps. No part of her body goes unused in this gymnastic show of massage talent. Before you know it, she's got you twisted up and her knees are digging into your hamstrings, her fingers into your feet and her body weight is stretching your hip flexors. Once you've turned onto your stomach, the real fun begins. Her sharp heels seek out any tenderness with her standing body weight and the painful sensation fires nerves all over. Pain centers located, rubbed, smashed and thoroughly worked on, She begins your career as a contortionist by elongating your spine, pop-pop-popping your joints and practically tossing your Raggedy-Anne body around the room.

At the end, loose, exhausted and soaked in sweat, you open your eyes and she's there giggling at you, waiting for the $3 you agreed on.

Chinese New Year Holiday in Sihanoukville

It occurred to me on the bus ride home from Sihanoukville as I opened the curtain just enough to peek out. Perhaps this is a country best viewed from here, from the safety of this tiny viewhole—where I can see the magnificent jungle hills, Khmer houses and dusty roads. Where the people are nameless and inconsequential, just like watching National Geographic. But the lives of those outside the Mekong Express bus are part of my experience. I get to deal with them in the market, I get to feel sorry for them as they struggle to make enough money for food, I get to be on the bus rolling by--I get to keep going. I take the bus to escape reality for a while, but for these people, there is no escape. What we see is part of their lives. The fatally-flawed Cambodian education system offers no hope of advancement; therefore, alternate sources of income are a necessity. Cue the convoy of standing-room-only truckloads of garment factory workers.

I happily report that this trip to Sihanoukville was 3000 times better than the one I took by myself. I went with Fiona, Phavy (a Khmer-American friend), and an ex-pat couple who work in Phnom Penh. It was a sophisticated group of intelligent people among the usual suspects in “Snooky Ville”—yes, backpackers and creepy Western men. Welcome to the Jungle, and indeed, at 6 AM Guns and Roses was was still blaring out of the beach bar speakers as the last of the partiers wondered off or passed out in the sand. Between that and the oft-used helipad in the backyard of our hotel, we didn't need alarm clocks. We explored the nicer beaches of Sihanoukville, stopping once at Otres and twice at Sokha (This Sokha guy owns so much of Cambodia I think they are considering a name change). Anyway, Otres was pleasant as usual, but Sokha, on the other hand, was reminiscent of 1950's Southern United States. The beach is divided into two sections: the Khmer side and the foreigner side. Guards police and enforce this invisible border with whistles for the Khmers who dare enter the white side. Judging by the not one, but two jellyfish stings endured by our small group near the demarcation zone, I also hypothesize that the border is patrolled even in the surf. Hired jellies to keep things separate. Sokha resort is the finest in Sihanoukville, and you had better be ready to drop close to $200 a night for a room there (to compare: my room was $5/night). Indeed, the hefty pricetag rules out most Khmers, but the elite of the country do have bucks to spend here, and they are allowed access to whichever side of the beach they prefer.

Fascinating and overwhelming for the sociologist in me, Sihanoukville is a case study in social inequality and the stomach-turning effects of tourism on a developing nation. The prostitution, tourist rip-offs, counterfeit bills, and general seediness of the place leave me with a bad taste. Perhaps I'm still recovering from my $3 haircut that really looks like a $3 haircut, but Sihanoukville is still not one of my must-see places in Cambodia.

Just for the record, the lattes at the New Sea View Villa might be the one thing worth trying in Sihanoukville. Best I've had since Barista's. My advice, skip the more expensive bus (it's the same awful, long drive whether you pay $6 return or $14) and splurge on lots of coffee and dessert.

I'm only human after all...

My soul is still smoldering from yesterday's news. I spent the night awake, listening to Ben Folds, letting tears and sweat soak my pillow. I also watched helplessly as my roommate battled that latest stomach bug to plague the house. Five of our remaining 12 in the house were too sick to teach. I suspect the sub-standard hygiene practices have something to do with it. The heat has been unrelenting the past week, and many of us are feeling the crunch of the last few days in the semester. By the way, a cholera epidemic has been declared in Cambodia (Yikes!). That mostly applies to the provinces, I think. I hope. I don't think we have cholera at the house, but if you ever played the Oregon Trail computer game, you well know that cholera can delay your trip several days!

Bless them, my classes this morning were patient with my broken-hearted Valentine's Day vocabulary lesson. I handed out word searches and candy—a winning combination. My second class even wrote some Valentine poems with rhymes. I was a proud mother hen. My little writers.

I grabbed breakfast at a swanky new cafe atop 7 Mart in the Russian Market. The three old guys at CWF were lovely dining company. Eggs on toast and a big coffee for $3. It's hard to beat. I bleached the bathroom and took care of Fiona for the rest of the morning. A short swim, and back to the school.

For the afternoon class I've been covering the past few days, there is usually just one student, and she's really keen to discuss social issues. Tonight I planned a discussion of the proposed burqa ban in France. The CWF director, however, had other plans. He combined several of the sick teachers' classes into mine, creating a giant group of students from diverse levels. I called upon every ounce of quick thinking to produce some semblance of a lesson for these diligent students. We discussed the most effective learning techniques for foreign languages. It wasn't half bad, and the students even asked me if they could visit my class tomorrow because I had so much energy. I also get the feeling that my English is much easier for them to understand compared to the Oz and Kiwi accents some teachers have.

On the bike ride home from school, I felt very satisfied. The stray dogs and children seemed happier, the ruts in the road smoother, and the traffic more manageable. My outflow of raw emotion yesterday brought me back into my body. I had felt so disconnected since I arrived, but I feel more like myself now than I have the whole trip. There are certain moments when time stands still, and it seems to be our chance to catch up to ourselves, to remember how to appreciate what we have at this moment. I've lost a dear friend. My heart is broken, but I'm able to be human for the first time in a while.

The not so bomb-diggity news from home

When you are abroad, life at home keeps rolling. Today I got the news that one of my closest high school friends died yesterday. I wasn't aware that he had been quite ill for a few weeks and that he was due to have surgery for a birth defect. In the midst of a sweltering internet cafe, full-on traffic, and a hideous Skype connection, I realized that I'm still alive and he isn't. Life is moving forward here and at home.

My friend was a fixture of many Lincoln locations and he was always conversing with someone interesting. I liked him because he was intelligent, off the wall and most of all, honest. I'll never forget our antics in northeast Lincoln. Joining chess club, grilling, Chinese fire-drills, making UFOs, newspaper hats (that were later found by a Lincoln Journal Star writer), kite flying, and generally kooky things that nobody else did. He introduced me to better music like Ben Folds and Tori Amos. We went to a Ben Folds concert, just the two of us, and it was one of the best nights of my life—despite the laryngitis. With Ben Folds atop a piano and David at my side, it was perfection. He made me want to be my wacky self. He didn't put up with any bullshit.

I remember when he visited me at the pool a few years after high school, during my overnight shift. He complimented me on my newly attained grown-up demeanor and worldliness. We planned to get back in touch, but living in different cities and going our own ways made our conversations infrequent.

The last time I saw him was late October 2009 in the CoHo, one of the places where he was a fixture. I was there randomly after another event with several high school friends with whom I had also fell out of touch (pattern?). His rich baritone voice and irreverent comments were the same as ever, and I found myself missing the good old days in his Nissan with plans to commit minor felonies.

He was one in six billion (he'd correct me on that figure), and I know that he is missed. Even though our friendship faded towards the end, his impact on my life was unmistakable, and I won't soon forget him.

When you die, I hear you can still read blogs. Apparently the blogosphere and heaven have similar altitude. Anyway, I hope it's true. This one's for you, David. You're the bomb-diggity, and when I see our bus-home in the Pacific Northwest, I'll attach it to a hot air balloon and light it on fire in your honor.

Learning for a reason

Teaching is hard. All you teachers out there nod your heads in agreement because I am right. There's nothing quite like the desperation of watching your lesson plan tank as you stand in front of a white board, unsure of what to do next. Do you abandon ship and let class out early? Do you persevere, despite the looks of horrified confusion on the students' faces? Do you casually mumble something and then spend the rest of class explaining/apologizing about the naughty words in English?

Luckily, in a low-pressure school like CWF, most class periods are a breeze (indeed the only breeze in Cambodia). Today, for instance, I used a high-energy game to review the past two weeks' material. The students were excited, bursting out with laughter, and speaking English! I was pleased. The CWF students are motivated by business and education opportunities and I am so proud of them for doing something to advance themselves. Cambodia is a sink hole unless you get a leg up. Cambodians who can get a university education and significant English language training have a much higher chance to break the cycle.

I'm like a chimney with all this venting

This post has almost nothing to do with Cambodia, but everything to do with my identity as a young person. At the ripe old age of 22, I haven't jumped into the bar scene. I don't like being drunk (especially when I don't speak the local language!), I don't like how people act (or are expected to act) when they are drunk, and I find the whole situation very uncomfortable.

Why is is that when I say I'm not drinking alcohol, I'm suddenly strange, prudent or antisocial?

Why is it that something must be wrong with me if I decide that I want my antibiotics to work properly (I'd rather not pee out the meds that are preventing major illness)?

Why is it that some people think that just because I'm a tall blonde, I need to “work the room” from the moment I enter?

Frankly, I'm not en pointe in a sweaty, smoky bar full of tipsy ex-pats. I don't like to exploit my looks in return for drinks and phone numbers. It's not a fair trade, and I'm just not that interested. It became frighteningly clear to me last night that I value people who can think of something else to talk about besides drunken misadventures, and people who have taken the reigns of their own lives (not just taken three months off to drink and be ignorant).

I did meet some fine people last night, over a plate of Cambodian nachos (don't ask). People who endure the same struggles to find compatible conversation partners; people who keep their heads on and care about the work they do. In acknowledging the incredible challenge they too face in social life in Phnom Penh, they gave me hope of sanity.

In my culture, alcohol is a powerful social medium. It signifies adulthood—perhaps even social status depending on the type of booze. Overt drunkenness is frowned upon, but getting drunk is also part of the social scene. I don't condemn alcohol or people who drink, because I enjoy the occasional glass of wine. My criticism is to the normalization of the bar scene as the paramount means of socializing for young people.

Have I gone astray?

What ever happened to late night coffee-housing or game night? Scrabble, Apples to Apples?

Easy Saturday

I'm perched on a plastic chair at the end of my bed, using my mattress as a desk of sorts. Fiona is doing the same, as we reflect on how our blogs are never what we imagine, but somehow they turn out right. I am thinking about the day—a hot, but easy Saturday. I didn't have to leave my pillow until 8 o'clock this morning, a welcome change from my usual 5:15 wake up alarm.

Fiona and I tuk tuked to Orussei market to pick up our investments at the tailor. I've now assembled something of a uniform for life in Phnom Penh. I challenged the tailor to make me some over-the-knee cargo/safari shorts, and he has delivered. Two pair, one in a thick, navy cotton (with anchor buttons!) and the other in a rugged avocado fabric. A little less feminine than my clothes at home, but functional, durable and modest enough for this city. The tailor also supplied me three button-up shirts. Complete with sleeves, a longer than usual length, and lovely fabric, I think these shirts will be ideal to scribble on a white board for several hours each day. Made-to-measure and cheaper than I could buy them in the market (shirts $3 each and shorts $9 a pop), I'm satisfied with my pre-semester purchases.

Post-tailor, another volunteer and I rode bicycles to the Sport Club swimming pool. Being underwater is decidedly the best way to spend the hottest hours of the day. The best thing about being in the house so early is that I can pick up on tips and tricks the others have figured out over the course of the semester. For example, my swimming buddy introduced me to the “hard beauty cloth” on sale at the mini-mart to help scrub away the dust and grime of Phnom Penh; and the hole-in-the-wall (that's all they've got here) noodle shop just down the street.

Tonight I'm feeling more like a part of the group. I am so pleased that some of the volunteers have asked me to accompany them on various missions—I've been needing that friendship element in my life. The group here is diverse, but they are a great bunch with big hearts.

Wishing for a return ticket

Today I envy those who will be escaping Phnom Penh in the next two weeks. My body has finally rebelled against the food, heat, and exertion of Cambodian life. I've been sick (diarrhea, dizzy, feverish) but somewhat functioning since Sunday, and today, mid-Khmer lesson, I nearly fainted. Last night, I thought I was going to sweat myself to death—my breath was dragon-hot, my skin clammy—I had disturbing images of myself going to a Khmer hospital...that made things worse.

I made it to the school on time this morning, sat down for the majority of my teaching, and fought through 30 minutes of Khmer lesson before I gave in. I had no desire to pass out at the school because I outweigh all the students by 30 kilos. Who could carry me?

Srey Leak, my teacher, helped me get downstairs to Pheap's office. I immediately burst into tears in front of the CWF staff, told Pheep I needed the doctor, and in five minutes I was slumped onto Pheap's moto.

Dizzy as I was, the clinic made it so much worse as the American doctor told me at least three horror stories about Cambodian medicine. Some guy had dysentery but the doctors didn't diagnose it, some lady died after a bad transfusion, and something else about dehydration. I had tears again. The seal has been broken. I have cried in Cambodia! The doctor checked my temperature, blood pressure, all the usual suspects. Mostly normal, but the length of time I had been suffering was worrisome, so he prescribed a bag full of antibiotics and rehydration power, and he even gave me a stool kit, in case I don't feel better soon. Pheap helped me with the $40 bill (I never carry more than $25 around here) and took me home.

The miserable feeling in my body was evident on my face as I walked in. Several volunteers came over and rubbed my shaking, sweating body and offered advice of what to do next. Drink a green coconut, lie down, eat some rice. I drank some rehydration fluid and struggled with the antibiotics as Fiona comforted me. I was crying again, but because everyone was being so nice. I was a little embarrassed, but everyone in the house had been exactly where I was: stuck on the toilet, sweating, panicky, homesick, and wondering why I chose to put myself here.

Four months left. How do people do this? How will I do this?