Khmerican vs. Franglais

One of the most frequent questions I have received is how this experience compares to studying in France. If I were in Paris right now, I would be sitting in my jungle-themed room instead of in the jungle. I can remember how that roomed smelled so well, and the red velvet curtains by my front door. Sneaking in late at night with Meg and Kathy long after the metros had closed or re-opened. Sharing seats on Ligne 8 with people hung-over on life as I went to class. Ham + cheese + potatoes. Rue Vavin, Refuges des fondues, 67, mon poussin, “excursions” with M. Lecomte, the pâtisserie by Ried Hall. Looking back over that experience, it is difficult to remember how hard adjusting was at first amidst all my favorite memories, but I know that if I hadn’t had it, this one would be much harder.

The most obvious difference for me is the language. I am learning Khami quickly, but I am still no where near fluent and I can only construct simple conversations. Oddly enough, when I am searching for a word in Khami, I usually have the compulsion to break into French. The syntax here is far more simple than English or French, but difficult to pronounce and harsh to my ears in comparison. When I first arrived in France, I remember thinking part of my personality was lost in translation and that I was a slightly different person when I spoke French than when I spoke English. As I became more fluent, I learned words that named emotions I was feelings, but could not equate to any words in English. After all that time, I forgot what it feels like to be trapped inside your own ability – or lack thereof – to speak. In Khmai, I am a child, an illiterate and probably lacking any form of humor other than the self-inflicted slapstick I rely on to convey some sense of warmth to my family. Every day I find new ways to express myself and who I want my host family to know me as, but it certainly is a challenge.

In France, my host family treated me like a boarder. This bothered me because I wanted to be welcomed into their home, learn from them and lean on them. Here in Cambodian, I am part of the family. This experience is wonderful, but it also makes me appreciate the independence and autonomy I had in Paris. Privacy in Cambodia is as foreign as I am. The terror left over from Pol Pot’s regime has made families fearful and protective of each other, especially in rural areas like Tuk Phos. I love coming home to the exuberance of my youngest host sister, Key-Chain, lively dinner discussions and family t.v. nights (although I could pass on the Thai DVDs dubbed in Khami) … but I miss being able to come and go as I please, slipping into a crowd unnoticed, staying out until 2 in the morning no questions asked, and the feeling of being responsible for myself.
Of course, I can’t really compare the City of Lights with Tuk Phos. French and Cambodian social cultures, infrastructure and entertainment are completely different. Where I might have felt lost in the crows of Paris, I can not begin to escape the tight-knight community here. In some ways, it’s easier to be here because the culture is so completely foreign from my own that I don’t have the chance to compare it and miss what is familiar to me. In the end, I do miss the hustle and bustle of Paris, the beautiful buildings, western clothing, 24-hour electricity and outrageously over-priced, delicious restaurants, but I’ve gained a simplicity of life and a tactile satisfaction of doing daily tasks by hand. There are things about both places I can’t get enough of (right now: fried bananas and sunrises over the rice fields), and things about both that I could do without. I guess that’s why they say there’s no place like home. Paris changed me and I would easily redo that year again in a heartbeat. Cambodia will change me, and although I don’t know how yet, I know someday I’ll look back and remember those sunrises the way I remember the streets of Paris on a rainy day and thank God that country road didn’t take me home just yet.