Tempest Fugit

It’s hard to believe roughly a month has passed by already. The days are so busy they literally melt into each other, but sometimes time seems to move so slowly that I give up all sense of temporality aside from the passing interest in when my next language class will be over. It’s strange to think about time moving along at a normal pace in the “real world.” Every time I look at my calendar, I get the feeling it is playing tricks on me. Did my father really celebrate his birthday 11 days ago? Are my friends at Hamilton really going back to school any day now? Two of the trainees, Will and Stephanie, celebrated their one year marriage anniversary last Monday at the hub site. I can’t imagine what their sense of time is like. They must feel down right betrayed by their calendar.

To celebrate this first of many personal landmarks and holidays that will only have significance to us, we all ate dinner at the “expensive” restaurant that night. To clarify: “expensive” means spending $7 on dinner as opposed to the usual $3. And that’s a rip off compared to prices in Tuk Phos, but don’t get me started on that. During dinner, Adrian snuck up behind Will and Steph with his violin and played their wedding song while they shared their meal. Let me tell you, there wasn’t a girl at the table with a dry eye during his serenade. Afterwards, we all chipped in on our various poisons of choice, be it wine, lukewarm beer, or some form of unidentifiable liquor that tasted a bit like lighter fluid mixed with cognac. Will gave a short, but brilliant, impromptu speech on why a year of marriage makes him an authority on, well, almost any topic really – after which we all released our weekend alter-egos for an evening of good fun and general immaturity. Sitting on the hotel balcony, I could have almost believed I was on spring-break vacation in Florida. In fact, I frequently find myself day-dreaming about my life in Cambodia as if it were a vacation. Despite our daily language and technical training, we haven’t bitten into the meat of our service work here, and all it takes is the smell of fresh coconuts and I’m humming “So bring me two pina coladas, I want one for each hand …” as Garth Brooks sings along with me in my head.

Today I received my first tangible contact from the United States since arriving, reminding me that I am, in fact, still connected to the real world. During our weekly “cooking class,” (we made Philly cheese steaks, minus the cheese, plus the onions and peppers, and garlic French fries in case you are wondering) Michael from administration arrived with the mail. Knowing my parents sent me a letter over a week ago; I have been impatiently awaiting its arrival. Tiffany and Kristine advised that I wait until I got back to my own house before reading the letter. You know, just in case.

When I got back to my room I ran upstairs and locked my door to enjoy my mail. I tore open the envelope to find three coloring/activity books that only my mother’s quirky sense of humor could have picked out (and only my similar sense of humor could have absolutely adored), photos from dad of family and friends in case I needed more, and what appeared to be a long letter. Score! I couldn’t decide whether the pictures or the letter would be more likely to instigate the waterworks, and eventually settled on looking at the photos first. All it took was a quick glance at Stephen and me painting Easter eggs, mom stitching in the sun, and dad grinning with the family at our yearly reunion before I was sniveling a bit. By the time I got to the letter and realized it was one of mom’s weekly letters, I knew I was fighting a loosing battle. For those of you who don’t know, this past year mom began a ritual of sending Stephen and I weekly letters telling us stories about our family, her childhood and each other that we didn’t know. Even at college, I usually read them alone. As Kristine and Tiffany would say … you know, just in case. That was all it took. But these weren’t the desperate, debilitating tears I cried in Paris once upon a time, they were the happy relief of seeing proof that my family is still doing all the things I expect them to do even though my own life is so displaced by time and space. They are still happily eating pizza, painting their new houses, working hard, taking care of Xena, and enjoying each other’s company. Life is as it should be.

Speaking of firsts, I also had my first experience with minor food poisoning. In the States, I rarely, if ever, discuss any type of bodily function. But in the Peace Corps, we report on each other like you would report football scores; each of us tallying how many times we’ve almost been sick, been sick, who has what rash, and betting on who is most likely to get amoebas next. This “over-sharing” is surprisingly liberating for me, if somewhat repulsive, voyeuristic, and morbidly fascinating. Each day, I decide whether or not to engage in what our medical officer describes as “high risk food behavior” based on the proportional relationship to how much I like a food and how willing I would be to hang over a toilet from eating it. My list currently includes: ice (usually in the form of iced coffee), ice-cream, any rare dairy product I can get my hands, butter and eggs. Or I should say it did include eggs. There is no refrigeration in Tuk Phos and I knew eggs might be a bad idea the first time I ate them and felt nauseous an hour later. But how could I possibly pass up fresh eggs? In theory, I believed that I could build a tolerance to eggs by eating them in small doses over a long period of time. I may have went a little overboard with the fried eggs on Saturday night, though, because I woke up at midnight with the distinct sensation that someone had just punched me in the stomach and was trying to rip it out of my body. You should also know that my host family locks the bathroom at night and has given me a chamber pot for any and all use after 9:00. As I was hovering on the floor feeling sorry for myself, I couldn’t decide if I would rather vomit (which would surely wake the family and cause a panic, but end my suffering), or wait it out unnoticed and let nature take its course in the other direction. After two very humbling hours of contemplation and general misery, I decided that Americans were not made to use chamber pots and that I will never eat unrefrigerated eggs ever again. Ever.

In other news from Tuk Phos, I recently explained to my host family that the mouse in my room is named Stuart after a character in a book. This was a very difficult concept for them to grasp. Why would anyone name a mouse? After my host family picked themselves up off the floor from laughing, I was beginning to wonder if I was actually mildly psychotic. But no. Remember, I promised myself I would make peace with Stuart. Ironically, that day my host family also bought a mouse trap at the market. I’m not sure whether Stuart has gone AWOL yet or not, but he or his brother has been in my room since that evening, and I’m beginning to doubt the effectiveness of said mouse trap. At any rate, if there’s one … there are hundreds. Most recently, I saw Stuart sitting on the ledge in my room staring at me. I kid you not, we made eye contact. As soon as I resumed reading my book, he crept closer. When I looked up again, he backtracked a bit and sat looking at me as if I were interrupting him. I also tried giving him a bar of soap to deter him from eating mine. I have mine in my shower caddy, he has his on the floor. This seemed to be a good compromise for a little while, until I woke up last night to find his bar of soap on my bed-frame. I don’t know how he got it up there … and I’m not sure I want to know. I threw the soap out the window and locked the other bar in my lockbox.

During our most recent interview with training staff, we discussed our potential hopes for our permanent site. I said I wanted to be in a large provincial town near other volunteers, where people would be passing through frequently. I also added that I would like to be somewhere where there is an active international community so I can use my French. I’m so excited to find out where my home will be for the next two years, but also a little nervous. We find out in approximately a week and a half, at which time we will go to our new villages for a few days to meet our family and familiarize ourselves with the school we will be working at. Patience is a virtue that I have never possessed, and I am literally counting down the days until they announce our sites. The thought of decorating my own room, settling in, really unpacking, meeting my permanent host family, knowing where I’ll be working and identifying possible secondary projects in the community is so almost more than I can take. Between our little trip to Battambang, the looming language assessment interview, permanent site announcement and visit, and coming weekend trip to Phnom Penh, the second half of training looks like it will be flying by faster than the first half.