Gettin Out of Dodge!

After literally counting down the days until April 10th for more than a month, Dan, Deidre, Tara and I finally boarded our plane for Malaysia. This was, of course, after my traditional stop at the DQ inside the terminal. Before going, I didn’t know much about Malaysia other than the fact that it wasn’t Cambodia. And that was enough for me. We arrived in Kuala Lumpur late that evening; leaving us just enough time to shuttle into the city, find the seediest hostel around, and grab our first of many Indian meals to kick off one of the best vacations I’ve ever had. Our plan was to head up to the Cameron Highlands the next day to visit some tea plantations and do a little jungle trekking. After that, we hit KL for a few more days before flying into Singapore to get our fill of the cities. We visited Kota Kinabalu for some sun and scuba on the surrounding islands. We planned to head to Mount Kinabalu to do some hiking but somewhere along the way, Tara and I decided to return to Singapore while Dan and Deidre conquered the mountain. For those of you who know me well, it should come as no surprise that I opted for a few more days of shopping and city hopping over hiking. Some things will never change I guess … even after nine months in the sticks!

Malaysia and Singapore are about as different from Cambodia as you get. Aside from the fact that they’re all in South-East Asia, I’d say they don’t share much in common. Malaysia has a stronger Indian and Muslim influence that gives it a lot of its character. Singapore is a utopia of high gloss shine, culture, and order. Both places have embraced Western culture in a way that made me feel right at home, without loosing their own uniqueness. Ok, on to my trip …

The Cameron Highlands are a five hour bus ride from Kaula Lumpur, up a winding mountain road that rivals the insanity of the Amalfi Coast. We stayed in a sleepy little village where we could o.d. on E! TV at our hostel, catch a cheap massage at the local spa, and continue or tour de force of Indian food. Actually, we spent most of our time in the Highlands hopping from one delicious meal to the next. Aside from the Indian food, we were surrounded by three tea plantations (each with their own assortment of homemade scones and pastries to accompany their tea), several strawberry farms where you could pick your own berries or any strawberry confection you could dream of, and an apiary – because tea and scones clearly wouldn’t be complete without a little honey. When we weren’t feeding our inner-epicureans (literally), we explored the surrounding rain forest and waterfalls. The tea plantations were by far my favorite part though. The Boh plantation is made up of 1,200 hectors of terraced and manicured tea plants, all of which are harvested every 15 days. The work that goes into making tea is astonishing, but to work at a place with that kind of view is probably worth its weight in tea leaves.

Coming from Cambodia to the Highlands wasn’t too much of a shock. Sure the Highlands were cleaner, people were driving on the proper side of the road, and no one was yelling or staring at us … but the town that we stayed in had a lot of the same rustic charm as the Bode. Kuala Lumpur blew it all out of the water. One of the first things on our agenda was to catch a movie (at a REAL theater) and do a little shopping for new ‘going-out’ outfits so we could hit the town without looking like a bunch of dirty Peace Corps Volunteers. Walking into the Pavilion shopping center was like releasing three caged animals back into the wild. I say three because while Tara, Deidre and I stalked the shelves for heels, bags, and dresses, Dan dutifully endured our shopping extravaganza in a way I didn’t know grown men were capable of…he even let us drag him along to see “He’s Just Not That Into You.” We did all the requisite sight seeing of the KL needle and Petronas Towers on our second day (although we never made it to the observation deck because we got distracted by the shopping center on the ground floor). That evening we were all in our best form. We went out to dinner at Outback Steakhouse and then to a fabulous club where we made friends with half the bar staff and partied until the sun came up. Now, I know what you’re thinking: why would you go all the way to Malaysia to eat at Outback. But let me tell you what, after nine months of white rice and paddy fish, that steak never tasted so good. Trust me on this one.

We spent our first full day in Singapore at the Disneyland of beaches. It’s an entirely man-made beach island right off the city’s coast, complete with theme attractions and plenty of places to spend your money. In fairness, Sentosa Island is absolutely beautiful and would actually be a lot of fun if you went knowing what it was, but we were looking for a more laid-back vibe. Sentosa Island was recommended to us by one of the staff members at our hostel, who, interestingly, also recommended Attica – the Disneyland of clubs – to us for our first night out. After strike two we decided we should find a new resource.

Always the classy bunch, the four of us decided to head to the famous Raffles Hotel for Singapore Slings and peanuts (the rest of the menu was a little out of our budget) and Tara and I eventually found our club of choice. We claimed the Butter Factory as our late-night headquarters and embarked on another night of adventures … this time involving some slap-happy Cubans and an editor of Playboy magazine to name a few of the cast of characters. On our way out we snagged two of the bouncers who promised to show us the “real Singapore.” A bowl of noodles later and a few hours of chatting, the sun was coming up, but we weren’t ready to call it a day yet – so we headed to the East Coast beach where we all went swimming and watched the sun rise. We spent the next day hanging out with them and enjoying a totally relaxing day in Singapore. Perfect. I should also mention that we met up with two other volunteers who were also traveling through Malaysia and we all agreed we should move our office to Singapore and call it a day.

Needless to say, when it was time to head to our next destination, I was a little reluctant to leave. Kota Kinabalu was worth it though. Every day was a perfect day at the beach --all teal water and white sand. One of the days, Tara and I also went scuba diving. Our salty scuba instructor insisted we hold hands the whole time and regaled us with the story of how he woke one day and decided to flush his IT job down the drain for a life on the high seas. We have aptly startled referring to him as Captain Jack Sparrow. Although we didn’t dive too deep, we saw some great stuff: brilliant coral, a baby sea turtle, and a giant school of mirror-like fish that surrounded us and nibbled on our fingers and swam through our hair. We had dinner on the water and shot the breeze while listening to the waves break on the jetty that night … the perfect end to the perfect day. That was before Dan decided to take us on a - how should we say - "detour" on our way back to the hostel because he didn’t want to ask for directions. See, I knew it was only a matter of time after that shopping trip before he showed his true colors as a member of the male species!

Now, Kota Kinabalu was great, buuut Tara and I really wanted a few more days in Singapore and I was secretly (ok, maybe not so secretly) beginning to remember that in my heart of hearts, as much as I wish I could say I love hiking, I just don’t … and the next part of our journey had us heading straight to Mount Kinabalu for just that. By a stroke of luck, Tara and I found a flight back to Singapore for under $30 – at the point, we figured it was meant to be. So off we went for Singapore: Round 2. We spent our remaining days with the guys – even though they did throw off our one and only plan to get to the zoo!

By the time we said goodbye for the second time, I was fairly certain I’d hit a depression the minute we got back to the Bode. Our “home coming” to Phnom Pehn was less than ideal … but a good Indian meal and a major reminiscing session kept us sane!

…. So, when do I get to go back?

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Rant of the Week: Cheating

For the most part, I think I’ve dealt with differences between Cambodian and American culture pretty well. You know what they say though, “it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks,” and I often need to remind myself of the maxim I give Cambodians when they find my own behavior confusing: it’s not wrong, just different. I’d like to say I’m a big enough person to look beyond all those differences, and despite the fact that I know the best policy is just to shrug, laugh and say, “only in the ‘bode!” , there are times when that’s much easier said than done. Who would have guessed the 12th Grade Exams might be my limit???

I could make a list of the countless things that seem rude, troublesome, or frustrating about Cambodia but, believe me, the other volunteers and I have vented enough to know that doesn’t really help. It doesn’t change those things, and it certainly doesn’t help me get over them beyond the momentary relief of knowing I’m not alone in these feelings. There is, however, one thing I just can’t deal with. Cheating.

It’s not rare to see teachers accepting bribes from their students, withholding information in class to ensure students attend their private (no need to add: lucrative) private sessions, or allowing students to copy from one another or their books. I’ve spent hours discussing this problem with my co-teachers, and countless additional hours trying to figure out how a culture that puts so much emphasis on not “loosing face” in front of one’s peers can allow such blatantly dishonorable behavior.

In my own classes, I’ve tried to enforce a strict “NO CHEATING” policy. My co-teachers humor me in this when I’m present, but do nothing of their own volition to support it. For example, during a test I caught two of my students copying from one another. I asked them to stop and when they refused, I walked up to their desks and tried to take their pens from them. They actually wouldn’t let go and attempted to wrestle the pens away from me. Yes, wrestle. Meanwhile, my co-teacher stood by watching this train wreck with no indication that he cared in the slightest. Dare I say he probably secretly thought it was funny? I know I would have, if it hadn't been me.

I’ve yelled, given zeros, appealed to reason, tried to rally the school director ... all to no avail. In fact, my co-teachers now discourage me from attending test days at all because this is clearly a lost cause in their minds and it only makes me upset. They tell me, “Cambodia is a developing country and no one cares,” or they laugh the way they always do when met with an uncomfortable confrontation.

This week was the 12th Grade Exams. That means no other classes were in session (ironically, to prevent cheating and outside disturbance). After 5 days of sitting around my house doing next to nothing, I jumped on the opportunity to help the English department grade the exams. Needless to say, I wasn’t asked to proctor any of these exams -- lest I should actually insist that the students do their own work.

This morning I arrived at the school promptly at 7:30 to begin grading. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Happy and snappy. Ready to roll. I sat down, got out my little red pen, and graded the first exam. Now for the second. The test answers were identical. Including the essay. I asked the teachers what I should do since it was so clear the students had cheated. They said I could decide. When I reminded them that I would give both students zeros, they countered, saying it was only 100% clear that the students had cheated on the essay section – and even that was contestable because they could have been copying from a book, in which case, it wasn’t the students’ fault for cheating, but the proctor's fault for not catching them. They all happily agreed I could take off one point from the essay portion, and went on with their own work. Gee, glad we got that settled.

Deep breaths, Kimmel, deep breaths. I swallowed my anger and moved on to the next exam ... but as I began to see more and more answer patterns emerging and realized that not a SINGLE student had written an original essay, which asked students to describe a funeral they’d attended, I felt like I was enabling the system. I kid you not: 53 tests in, and I had only seen four variations to the essay answer. What? Did they all attend the same funeral? Puh-lease. Great men from Edward Burke to the Caped Crusader would agree with me on this -- by standing by and grading the work as if nothing were wrong, I was indirectly supporting the problem. But what could I do? I tried to bring up the issue a few more times during the morning, hoping to reach some consensus about how to deal with the cheating, but each time I was met with the same excuses.

... When they asked me if I’d come back after lunch to continue helping, I politely declined.

Ask any K1s or K2s, and they’ll probably tell you a similar story. Even the Ministry of Education has admitted that cheating is both pervasive and problematic in Cambodia, yet no one will stand firmly against it. It makes me ask the dangerous question: how can I help a country that won’t help itself? As many of you know, this is a question I often struggle with. Yes, I see progress in my students. Yes, I know change has to start somewhere. Yes, some things are just different here. And yes, I realize falling into some existentialist slump about the whole thing doesn’t help anyone ... but that doesn’t make moments like these any easier to swallow.

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HIV/AIDS Awareness Week

This past week I hosted an HIV/AIDS Awareness Week at my school. It didn’t turn out the way I expected, but it was a huge success all in all. It was especially meaningful for me because it’s the first major project I pulled off without any Peace Corps support. Originally, I planned to show the BBC mini-drama “Palace of Dreams” (a Cambodian film about a love-triangle and their experiences with AIDS) via big screen projector in the courtyard of our school, followed by a Q&A session and prizes. As it turns out, we couldn’t get a projector, so we had hosted three workshops where we showed the video on t.v.s in some empty classrooms instead.

Our target goal was to reach out to 200 students and we had 181 participants. Considering my classes of 50 regularly only have 20-25 students, getting this close to our target was a success in itself. We began each session by asking students to identify facts and myths about HIV/AIDS to assess what they already knew. Then, my co-teachers, Chyworn and Mao, and I presented basic facts about the disease. The students had a ton of questions and were really engaged in the discussions. Next, we played the video and followed up with a few questions and prizes.

Now, it wouldn’t be a “successful” project in Cambodia if you didn’t run into some major problems along the way. Like the power going out half way through the video in one session and the DVD breaking in another. Luckily, I was able to get another copy of the video from one of the other volunteers in my province and the power never stays out for TOO long.

My school director was very excited to host the program because the Ministry of Education asks that all state sponsored schools teach basic health information, particularly focusing on HIV/AIDS, but many schools don’t have the manpower to host these types of workshops. I’ll admit, my co-teachers were a little reluctant to commit to the extra work, but I think they were pleased with the enthusiasm of the students. It’s hard not to walk away from excited students and not feel good about what you just accomplished.

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The Name Game

A funny aspect about Khmai culture is that almost no one uses their names. Instead of calling people by their first name, they call each other by their title. There are no “Hey Paul’s” or “Hey Sue’s!” Its all “bong-sery” (big sister), and “loak-crew” (teacher - male). Usually I get “neak-crew” (teacher - female), “bong-Whitney” (Whitney-who-is-older-than-me), gohne-oi (child), or plain old “teacher.” This little quirk makes learning names next to impossible because you will hear them once on your first introduction … and probably never again.

Okay, I admit it – in some ways it simplifies things. Khmai names are difficult for me to pronounce and even more difficult for me to remember, so this system ensures I never offend anyone or make a blunder of their name. On the other hand, I’m still not entirely sure if my host father’s name is Lane or Leng. Seriously, how embarrassing is that? I love when friends come to my house or to my school in hopes of catching one of these introductions and FINALLY nailing down one of the many elusive names that escaped me during my first few weeks here.

The name game is especially fun in a classroom full of 50 + students. Most teachers don’t take the time to learn the names of their students because it simply isn’t the way things are done here. Attendance is taken by a “student deputy” who quietly checks off students’ names from the back of class. There are no verbal roll calls and the attendance list is written in Khmai, so even if I get my hands on it, it’ll be one heck of a translation project.

On the occasion (which I am proud to say is becoming more and more frequent) that many of my students are raising their hand to answer the same question, I am often faced with a slight problem. Is that Dara or Darraroth? Ratha or Rathanak? Or more likely … do I even have a clue? There’s always the old standby of calling out a common name that is sure to appear in every class. The eye-contact-and-nod-of-the-head method. The point. Or, my most recent addition and new favorite: toss-a-rubber-chicken-to-the-next-victim.

In the States, if someone close to me – like a teacher – didn’t know my name, I’d be hugely offended. But here, it isn’t the name that’s important … it’s your relationship. For example, I call the vendors on the street “mean,” or aunt. Even though these women aren’t related to my host family, by calling them their familial title, I am acknowledging their place in the community as a middle-aged, well-respected woman. They serve as an aunt to their family AND the community.

At first, I felt that not using peoples’ given names was impersonal and confusing, but the more time I spent here, the more I see that it unites people, brings them together as a community, and encourages a sense of commonality between strangers who only share a similar “place” in society. It also reflects one of the most fundamental characteristics about this culture.

Cambodians focus much less on the individual, and more on the whole (be that the family, the community, or their country). Instead of thinking about what’s best for their career or their dreams, Cambodians first think about how their decisions will affect the people connected to them … then themselves. As a whole, I think this tendency is what makes Cambodia such a warm, welcoming culture. When you’re here, you’re family. Literally. Of course, I’d also say it contributes to some of the violent outbursts that are so shocking in this otherwise gentle culture. Dreams can only be deferred so long before you begin to resent all the things keeping you from them.

But at the end of the day, I think Cambodians have it right. This constant emphasis on relationships makes you stop and think about the people you’re connected to. And it seems to me, all the accoutrements of your life – your stuff, your job – don’t amount to much if you don’t have people to share them with.

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Beach Corps

This past weekend reminded me why I traded in my Prada bags for a backpack. After IST, Deidre and I hightailed it down to Kep beach where we would be meeting Dan and his friend Nina for a few days of beach bumming. Think fresh seafood, empty beaches, straw bungalows, and miles and miles of clear blue water. Now that’s what I had in mind when I joined Peace Corps.

Kep is off the beaten path of the usual tourist circuit, so we essentially had the coastline to ourselves for three whole days and nights. We spent our lazy days staring out at the calm waves, reading, and chatting. There was a cool breeze rolling off the water that made the sun feel deceptively mild. The ocean itself was so warm I felt like I was swimming in a giant bathtub.

Odd as this may seem, this was actually the first time I’ve been to the ocean since I left the States. Living in the North-Western part of Cambodia has its perks, but a nine hour bus ride to the beach is not one of them. As Deidre and I rode into town, we both began clapping and giggling. You can imagine what a scene this was on a bus full of Cambodians and the few scant tourists passing through (I probably should have mentioned Deidre also had her scarf wrapped around her head for “lice protection” due to the questionable nature of our bus).

The smell of brackish water and salt air was like a tonic I didn’t know I needed. Jimmy Buffet once said every illness can be cured by the sea … and after this trip I’m inclined to believe it. Granted, in our zeal to soak up as much of the sun as we could, D and I ended up getting a little burnt -- but it’s a small price to pay when you’re watching the waves swallow a huge yellow sunset over a plate of fresh-caught prawns.

Our last night in Kep was by far the most memorable. During the afternoon, I hatched a plan to make homemade sangria using the infamous Randonal wine (which doesn’t even deserve to be called wine) and fresh fruit. Deidre and Nina seemed a little skeptical, but Dan jumped on board and helped rally the troops. After we had our fill of sun and sand, we headed to the crab market to pick up pineapple, oranges, apples, sugar and of course – the vino.

Our hotel restaurant hooked us up with a huge bucket cooler, knives, spoons and mugs so we could get down to work. After dinner, we set our bucket on the beach and kicked back to enjoy the setting sun. Now, the water around Kep is said to contain glowing plankton that makes the water sparkle when you swim at night, but I’ve never seen anything like that before so I had my doubts. As I stared out at the black waves, I noticed the swimming pier was completely obscured by the dark, moonless sky.

Clearly, the only logical thing to do was to go skinny dipping with the plankton and the million and one stars shining down on us. We scrambled down the pier, threw our clothes into a pile, and jumped in. Sad to say, the water didn’t glow at all as we waded out. We began complaining about how our sources had misled us when all of a sudden, as we moved farther and farther into the still water, we began to see flashes of light below the water’s surface following our fingers and toes.

It looked like the stars had fallen into the water and were swimming with us. It was truly one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. We tried different swimming strokes to see how the plankton would respond, jumped around, kicked our legs, and scooped water into our hands to see if we could catch them. When we were tired of that, we floated on our backs, looking up at the stars and contemplating the Milky Way.

In a word: paradise. And if that doesn’t make you want to jump on a plane and come visit me, I don’t know what will.

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Miss Manners

Picture this. Tiffany, Tara, Deidre, Kelsey and I are sitting at the United States Embassy eating lunch in the atrium. If there’s one place to be on your best behavior, the United States Embassy is probably it. Spending an afternoon on “American soil” proved to us all just how native we’ve gone … and how badly we’re in denial about it.

Our Program Training Officer, Cheryl, organized a lunch at the Embassy for all the volunteers and our counterparts to kick off the CamTESOL Conference we attended last weekend. We got to meet the new Ambassador, tour the embassy, and talk to people who actually wear suits on a daily basis. The Embassy was beautiful, the food was delicious, and there was air conditioning. Oh yes, and the bathrooms looked exactly like the kind you find in Barnes & Noble (except nicer). There is nothing – and I mean NOTHING – like stainless steel. The whole day was an absolute treat.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The day before was my birthday and I have to admit, it was a birthday to remember. To my surprise, the administrative staff ordered a cake to kick off my special day. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, I realized my best friends had tricked me into believing they weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary … until they surprised me with my second (this time homemade) cake of the day AND a dinner out at a swanky French restaurant followed by drinks at a posh rooftop bar. After 6 months of pinching pennies and living on a shoestring, we all cut loose and brought in my 23rd year in style.

That being said, between the cake, the copious amount of food, and never-ending free birthday drinks, I – along with everyone else to some degree or another – was feeling pretty miserable the next day. But if there’s one thing a Peace Corps Volunteer never does: it’s miss the opportunity for a really really good meal … because you never know when you might be eating boiled fish for the next week.

The girls and I had just finished our meal when we began talking about how funny it’s going to be when we go back to the States and have tablecloths on a regular basis, multiple eating utensils for each course of our meals, and need to follow basic table manners again. Somewhere during the course of this conversation, Deidre got up to get some cheesecake. When she came back, she sat down looking stunned and said, “you know, I think it’s going to be more of a shock than I thought,” and started laughing. Apparently, while she was waiting in line for her dessert she pushed in front of an Embassy staff member. Not uncommon by Cambodian standards, but probably not so much for the man she just cut off. He kindly nodded to her and said, “oh, excuse me” as if it were somehow his fault that she pushed him out of the way and not hers. She took one look at him and turned on her heel and walked away – questioning why he would doubt her lack of queuing skills. I mean, who queues in Cambodia?? Oops.

We were all laughing at Deidre’s faux-pas, when I abruptly stopped what I was doing and shrieked. I was so caught up with Deidre’s story I didn’t realize I had taken my chopsticks out of my bowl and was absentmindedly wiping them clean on the white linen tablecloth. Thank God my mother wasn’t there to see me. Of course, this sent us into more hysterical fits of laughter. We finally decided that as long as we weren’t loading food into our purses, we had probably not hit our low point yet. Although Tiffany did tell the Ambassador she’d be happy to come back to the Embassy strictly to use the bathroom again.

This behavior might seem odd to you, but we live in a world where it’s okay to sit on the ground for dinner and wear flip-flops to work. Casual is just one way of looking at it.

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Murder, She Wrote

The scene is pretty typical. I’m riding my bike somewhere and I see a crowd of people. True of any event where mob mentality is involved, there’s pandemonium everywhere. All the motos are stopped, kids are gawking around in the street, and everyone else is huddled around some unfortunate (and usually gruesome) traffic accident. At that point, I pretty much give up on getting to my destination in a timely fashion. This morning was no exception. I was on my way to Sustainable Cambodia when I saw a huge group of people huddled around the entrance of an adjacent hotel. I didn’t think much of it because, frankly, I see so many accidents here that I usually pass them without a second glance. In a place where such tragedies occur almost daily, any more than that will send you into a funk about how casually Cambodians accept death … and traffic laws. And trust me, you don’t want to go there. It was only later that I found out what I thought was a traffic accident … was actually a murder.

The Lily Hotel is located roughly 100 yards from Sustainable Cambodia. Many of the NGO’s employees and volunteers rent rooms there and I, myself, have stayed there on several occasions. The owner’s daughter is in one of my classes and her mother sometimes does my laundry. It’s certainly one of the best hotels in town. You can understand why I hardly believed when one of the volunteers came into the computer room and asked if we had heard the news. A man had been murdered. He was axed to death by a prostitute and then robbed early this morning. The body was just found. The police say the culprit escaped.

I sat in dumb shock for a few minutes thinking this over in my mind. I wish I could say this was the first of such incidents in my town … but it’s the fourth. Around Christmas, a man was killed at a concert by a jealous rival, and a few weeks ago two little girls were raped and brutally mutilated before being killed. In each of these cases, no one was convicted, and the general response from the public was, “these things do happen.” Now, I’m the first to say I think judgment is reserved for God alone, but while we all live together on Earth, there must be some way of sleeping soundly at night. The responsibility of maintaining this fragile tranquility usually falls on the strong arm of the law. But here in Cambodia, the police have neither the means nor the desire to pursue such incidents beyond what can be covered up by bribes, some good tale spinning, and a few words of caution.

I don’t feel unsafe in my town. Pursat is not much bigger than Small Town, U.S.A. and, as the resident foreigner, it’s much more likely that I would be robbed than accosted. After all, Westerners are all filthy rich … or so I’m told. More than that, the community has taken it upon itself to act as my guardian and cicerone. Cambodians are rightly known for their hospitality and warmth. They take this code of welcoming so seriously that some of the earlier volunteers had to have Peace Corps talk with their hosts, reminding them that the volunteers did not need a companion every waking hour of the day. Of course, that doesn’t make me feel any better when I really think about these tragic events.

The general attitude towards the passage of life in Cambodia is very different than in the United States. As I mentioned earlier, Cambodians tend to treat death more casually than we do. Perhaps it has something to do with the lack of modern medical facilities in the rural areas, the fury of tropical illnesses, the history of recent genocide, or the laisse-faire attitude so easily adopted when poverty leaves you with nothing to loose but your life. From my perspective, I certainly can not say. But I will say, it has been one of the most difficult things to adjust to since my arrival.

Never in my life I have contemplated mortality more seriously than during my time here. I’ve seen two motos crash before my eyes, resulting in a flurry of broken glass, twisted metal, and blood. I was confronted with my own fragility while lying on a hospital bed in Thailand, weak and alone with dengue. And now, I’ve seen the vendettas men wreak upon each other without the placating knowledge that someone will be held accountable. I don’t want to wax too philosophical here, but as someone who has lived in bubble of general honesty - where the biggest offenses are plagiarism and underage drinking - this all comes as a bit of a shock to me.

In my heart of hearts, I like to think that men are inherently good, and that good people lead fulfilling and happy lives. I’d certainly like to believe that I will continue to be so blessed. But all this evidence to the contrary reminds me that God is ineffable and that I can’t begin to understand the caprices of fortune. It also reminds me that life is too short to waste on petty differences, that when you love someone you must tell them, and when you are up, you should share your good fortune because someday you might not be so lucky. In honor of all my quixotic hopes and beliefs, I send a prayer out to those who are suffering and have lost someone they love - or themselves - in this life.

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Small Victories - Big Difference

In-Service Training (IST) is just two weeks away and that means I have to start thinking about what I’m going to say in my quarterly progress report. As you know, some weeks I feel like I literally accomplish nothing … but when I sat down and started to list the projects I’ve worked on over the last six months, I realized I was underestimating my own achievements! The simple act of breaking down six months worth of work into measurable goals and victories was very satisfying. Call me a visual learner, but I’ve always thought putting things in writing was a great way to reflect on and evaluate just about anything … wonder why I didn’t think of this sooner? Good thing Peace Corps did.

Six months in … and all I can say is, I’ve come a long way, baby! On a professional level, I’ve seen great progress in my students and co-teachers despite the daily frustrations that sometimes lead me to believe they’d be happier remaining in a state of habitual torpor. Two of my co-teachers in particular have begun consistently implementing new methodology into their lessons, resulting in more interactive and engaging classes for their students. Additionally, after six months of crazy activities with the “brang,” my students are not as afraid to speak out in class, take risks, and do silly things they would have been afraid to do when I first arrived.

In that vein, I’ve helped some of my brightest students work on scholarship applications and two of my co-teachers apply for continued learning opportunities. Aside from the obvious chance these programs provide for personal growth, I think all my students and co-workers benefited tremendously from practicing their interview skills with me and discussing application techniques. Additionally, I’ve been working with one of these co-teachers recently to translate a funding proposal requesting additional support for the construction at our school.

Extracurricularly, I’ve organized my school’s library (although it’s presently closed due to said construction), started volunteering four nights a week at an incredible NGO, and working informally with a small group of girls on self-esteem issues. I honestly can’t say enough about the work I do at Sustainable Cambodia. In my classes, we’ve discussed topics ranging from poetry analysis to resume composition and everything in between.

Of course, my major long-term project addressing self-esteem issues is still on the horizon as well. Deidre and I just finished the final draft of our project proposal for Camp G.L.O.W. - Cambodia. Keep your fingers crossed, we’re submitting it for review during IST! Once we secure funding, we can begin finalizing plans for what we hope will be an annual weekend retreat for 15 girls, focusing on healthy lifestyle choices, educational opportunities, and goal setting.

I can also say, six months of serious self reflection (due to Cambodia’s many many national holidays) has given me a chance to figure out what my passions are and start forming a cogent plan for life post-Peace Corps. In high school, my goal was to get to college. In college, my goal was to get good grades so I could get a job. Somewhere along the way, I neglected to think about what that job should be.

I had two pretty consistent love affairs throughout college: one with my English books, and one with French. But when I tell people I majored in French and English, they usually ask if I’m going to be a teacher ... and I’ve always had my doubts about teaching. Doing Peace Corps has helped me realize -- not so much that I want to teach -- but that I want to be an advocate for education. I’ve been lucky enough to follow my academic interests with an almost careless ease. When I see my students here struggling day in and day out to get a fraction of the education I had, it makes me realize what a great gift it really is to be able to pursue the caprices of the mind for no other reason than personal enrichment. Never mind the fact that if these students can complete high school, they will be able to do something truly meaningful with their lives.

To maximize my potential to promote this great institute, I’ve been entertaining the idea of pursuing a masters degree in French or education Either one will give me the freedom to pursue a job with the government, international humanitarian organizations, or, on a more local level, as a school administrator. Yup, all that time spent around crazy Liberals at Hamilton and in PC has rubbed off on me -- I want to save the world. Give me a break.

Peace Corps has been a formative experience in many ways. Aside from this self-revelation, it’s also been a great adventure. I’ve seen ancient temples, been (almost) attacked by rabid monkeys, eaten pickled pig skin, chilled out in jungle hammocks, and chatted with people who have witnessed genocide first hand. Just call me Lara Croft, right? But it isn’t always easy. Being a volunteer can be intensely lonely. It’s hard to imagine that you can be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel alone … but when you can’t truly speak their language, I assure you, you can.

I’ve always been reliant on other people, so in many ways, I think this experience has been good for me. The truth is, I’m not really alone. My Cambodian friends are always up to grab a cup of coffee and discuss local gossip, other PCVs are only a text or bus ride away, and my family and friends in the States are behind me 100% of the way. No, I’m not alone. None of us are. What we feel on those long, quiet nights or hazy afternoons when Cambodia is taking its daily siesta is the first step of becoming truly self-reliant.

This experience is, above all, an exercise in independence. It’s up to you to find your own happiness, set your own goals, and add meaning to your daily life. Peace Corps can be bureaucratic at times (it IS a government organization, after all), but they don’t cosset us. We’re truly out here on our own. And that’s a great feeling … once you get over the initial shock that no one’s going to hold your hand for it. It’s OUR life and OUR adventure. I guess they don’t call it the “hardest job you’ll ever love” for nothing.

So for now, I’m off to go live mine. This weekend there’s a province-wide soccer tournament that I need to dust off my pom-poms for and a week’s worth of Valentine-themed activities to plan for my students before next week!

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