1st Week of Teaching

Father Dunnan, Viviana Nicolosi, English Muller, Linda Guyer, Christina Savinel, Margie Thickstun, Bonnie Krueger, Doran Larson, Stu Hirshfield, Sharon Williams. I owe so much of who I am to these great teachers and mentors. It is, therefore, surprising, that I was not more excited to teach English. I have the utmost respect for great teachers, but I have never felt drawn to teach. Then again, what have I felt drawn to do? Well, that’s a very good question. Good thing I still have two years and lots of time on my hands to think about it, huh? At any rate, after my first week of teaching and observing, I wanted to take a moment to reflect on the deep satisfaction of touching students’ lives. My students are the future of Cambodia. They look to their teachers to guide them, lead them, push them, and send them on their way.


A large part of my job is training Khmai teachers to approach their job with passion and conviction to ensure their students have the futures they deserve. This way, my time will not end after two years – but in the sustainable future of the teachers who will continue to touch their students’ lives for years to come. At the same time, I can’t help but notice how much influence I have over the students themselves. I felt nervous as I stepped in front of my first class. Fifty pairs of eyes are a tough crowd…especially when no one brings their book. Apparently, this is a fairly common phenomenon, but quite honestly, the book isn’t very good anyway, so I’m not too worried about it. We spent the first day introducing ourselves and playing a vocabulary game. At the end of the class, I allowed the students to ask me questions about myself and share any feelings or ideas they had about the upcoming year. After the usual onslaught of “Where are you from?” “How old are you?” “How many people are in your family?” and “Are you married yet?” one boy stood up and told me how glad he was to have me here. He told me that no one ever teaches by playing games and that he really likes learning that way. It’s such a small gesture, but I was touched. In each subsequent class I have been in, it seems like one or two students have gone out of their way to reach out for my help.

One of the teachers told me I represent something greater than a textbook. Not me personally, of course, but me as proof of the Western world in a place where the immediate benefit of learning English is not always apparent. Right now, the students are shy. They are used to being taught the same way year after year, with the same book, with the same future in front of them. End of story. I’m not saying my presence will miraculously turn every student into the next Fulbright scholar, but I have the distinct opportunity to show the school there are other ways to do things. The students are bright, but not necessarily encouraged to think critically or be creative. That’s where I think I can help.

Many of the teachers are eager for this change. I hope to show them how a little support goes a long way in the eyes of a student, and how teachers can become role models for their students through my own example. The thought of helping a student get to college or apply to be a translator is thrilling. Their life will be more secure, their family safer and their confidence greater because they dared to do things differently. But before we see change beyond that of a few individuals, each teacher needs to commit to the responsibility of taking one more step farther today than they did yesterday. If I’m being realistic with myself, I know two years in Pursat will not revolutionize the entire education system in Cambodia. I’m just one person. But let’s say three teachers continue fostering leadership in their students through interactive learning once I leave. And let’s say they touch one students’ life in every class they teach from then on. Soon, those students will be the face of education, and they will be leading their students beyond the horizon of progress.

This is the future of Cambodia. And it’s a bright future indeed.

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These Are a Few of my Favorite Things

It’s Saturday morning. Usually Khmai people don’t have two day weekends but, ever the American, I insisted on not teaching class Saturdays to save this sacred ritual. Today, my only plans are heading to the school at some point to start organizing the English library with Ratha and Monny (I found huge sacks of unused English books – from Steinbeck to children’s picture books – in the cupboards), and getting coffee with an awesome girl from New Zealand who I just met. While eating breakfast, I was thinking about what I would be doing if I were at home. Probably making peanut butter pancakes, texting Steve-O about getting lunch later, and planning some late-night activities in State College. Of course, if I were still at Hamilton, I’d be sleeping in to an obscenely late hour and then getting Dunkin Donuts with Laura before sitting down to work on The Continental. And by work, I really mean gossiping about whatever we did Friday night. This reminded me of one of my very first posts. Before I left, I made a list of the things I thought I would miss most about home. Thinking back on what I wrote, I realize it isn’t the *things* themselves that I miss. Mostly because you can buy almost anything in Cambodia, even if you have to pay an arm and a leg for it, and because my family has been sending me a steady stream of letters and care packages containing all the comforts of home. For lack of a better word, what I miss most are “temporal memories.”

In other words, I miss the events, people and things in my life associated with certain times of day, month and year, which are now absent. Oddly enough, I usually miss home most in the morning when I first wake up. I attribute this to the fact that for the last 22 years I have done one of two things every single morning: 1.) Wake up, get ready for school and go to class or 2.) Wake up, shuffle around in my pajamas until brunch, and laze around. My host family, like most Khmai families, wakes up between 5:00-6:00 a.m. (me along with them) to begin their daily routine. Mine starts with boiling fresh drinking water for the day. Boiling water? What? What happened to scrambling to finish a few more paragraphs of my thesis before meeting with Margie or sleeping in until 10:00 a.m.? I’m sure I’ll get used to this new life, but for now, I can’t help feeling a little disoriented when I wake up and have to remind myself that the day here starts very differently than the day in America.

For those of you who know me well, I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear how much I’ve been missing fall either. In a land where the seasons never change – hot to hotter doesn’t count – I have difficulty noticing the passage of time. It still feels like summer here, so my mind wants to believe I’ve only been here a few weeks when, in truth, summer has faded into fall on the other side of the world. Fall has always been my favorite season. I can still remember sitting on the front porch of the farmhouse with my father playing “I Spy” as the harvest moon rose above the pine tree in the yard. I like to brag that living in the North East is ideal because each season has a distinct personality. Every year I look forward to breaking out my sweaters, the smell of turning leaves, farmers’ markets, pumpkin carving, Halloween, fresh apples (and apple pie), football games, Thanksgiving, the start of a new school year and the anticipation of the holiday season to come. It’s practically the American Dream.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one who feels this way, so some of my friends and I are planning to celebrate Halloween together, which happens to fall on the King’s birthday, so we won’t have school anyway. It’s funny how much I look forward to those moments of “celebration.” Cambodian people rarely indulge in many of the pleasures we take for granted as part of our leisure lives. I don’t know a single Cambodian who enjoys reading for pleasure, I have difficulty explaining why I cross-stitch in my spare time when it clearly has no functional purpose, and hobbies are almost nonexistent aside from young boys playing pickup sports after school. Unless you’re in a major city fueled by tourism, it’s safe to say that there is no happy hour, there are no nightclubs, there are no movie theaters, no one has picnics in the park for fun, no one goes canoeing Saturday afternoon. That’s not to say Cambodian people don’t have fun – it’s just that their leisure time is spent very differently than Americans’. They work so hard on a daily basis, that when there is a moment to spare, they just want to sit down and be with each other. I sometimes forget that Westerners work very hard … but we play very hard as well. I actually think I may have forgotten how to truly relax somewhere along the way. In the States, I load myself down with extracurriculars and social events. But here, I’m learning to find a stillness in myself that has been buried under hours of piano lessons, cheerleading practice, Bundy parties, road trips, and dinners at TexMex. Knowing myself, I don’t think I will ever give in to that stillness. Already, I find myself trying to fill my days as much as possible because I have always been happiest when I am on the brink of being entirely too busy. Whatever you want to call it – a full social calendar, the pleasure principal, being young – I miss it.

And finally, I miss the people. I know, I know – I said people don’t count because missing them is a given. But the way I miss them is almost a physical lack. Like I left part of me in the States. When I lived in Paris, it was a little different because the culture and my life as a student were parallel to what they would be in the States. Cheap cell service, living with the girls, and the easy pleasure of college life in one of the greatest cities on Earth were luxuries that, although I didn’t always appreciate them at the time, made that experience unforgettable and incredible. The multitude of other differences here make being able to text my brother the minute something ridiculous happens, going to Panera after church every Sunday with Gray, bantering with the family over dinner, curling up with Xena before bed, crashing in Megan’s apartment every weekend this summer, and meetings with all the familiar faces from professors to sorority sisters, seem that much more far away. So for all of you who I left in the States: I think of you often and take you with me every day because you are my home.

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And Then There Were Three

One of my biggest fears while I was preparing to move out to site was that I would feel isolated. I absolutely love being with other people. Even sitting in comfortable silence is sometimes preferable to being alone. That isn’t to say that I don’t need my personal space. For as much as I like, even need, to be near others, I truly enjoy the solitary comforts of reading, writing, sewing and playing guitar these days. But I usually only crave those private moments after I have filled myself with the good company of friends and family. During training, I saw other volunteers on a daily basis and we used each other as a sort of support system to bolster our morale or share funny stories. From day one I knew it would be a shock to move out to permanent site and have to – gasp – entertain myself. All day. Every day. Yet it seems that I have already made three new friends who are helping me connect to the different communities within my new home; and each of them has a unique story I would like to share with you.


Sivauy

I first met Sivauy (pronounced: sue-hoy) during my site visit. I was biking to the school when a young girl rode up beside me and began speaking to me in impeccable English. I looked around half expecting to see another foreigner, only to find a bright eyed Khami girl. Her English was truly remarkable and I remember hoping I’d run into her again when I returned to site.

During my second day in Pursat, I was shopping in the market for some fabric to hang in my room. I had been there an hour already, and I was just about to give up when I saw the exact shade of teal I had been looking for in a stall a few feet in front of me. The saleswoman proposed an outrageous price for the fabric and I practically laughed, knowing she assumed I didn’t know what the proper Khmai price should be. When I began bartering with her in her own language, her eyes lit up and she said, “Oh! You speak Khmai!” I said yes and began to explain who I was. I was just about to launch into my speech about what the Peace Corps is when she interrupted me: “But I think I have already met you! You are the volunteer teacher working at my high school.” The light bulb went off over her head, then mine.

Of course it was Sivauy. What luck! She helped me do the rest of my shopping, insisting that all the vendors give me a fair deal, and showed me where her mother’s stall was so I could visit any time. Whenever I go to the market, I make sure to stop and see Sivauy. We usually stroll around together and talk while I do my shopping. She recently confided in me that she wants to be an English interpreter once she graduates. I have no doubt that she can achieve this goal and I hope to help her along the way.

Aside from being wonderful to talk to, I think she would be a great candidate for the girls’ leadership camp Deidre, Eddie and I are trying to coordinate. I’m telling you, the girl has bearings – and I expect she will do great things. She certainly is a wonderful new friend. In fact, it was Sivauy who introduced me to another important woman in my life.

Suthy

When Sivauy told her math tutor about me, she asked to meet me; so before her weekly lesson, we biked over to her teacher Suthy’s (pronounced: sue-tea) house. Suthy is a woman of about 50 and speaks fluent French. That afternoon we talked and laughed together and discussed each other’s lives. There are actually a lot of French speakers here, and it is always a relief to be able to really connect with someone. I think the Khmai people like being able to share their stories with a foreigner too, so I have never been happier to say I speak French. During the course of the afternoon, Suthy told me that her mother and father died of starvation during Pol Pot’s regime and that two of her five siblings were killed. She lived in an orphanage until she was old enough to begin teaching and then carved out a life for herself. I am impressed at the simple, but fulfilling life she has made after such a tragedy. She teaches math at the high school and offers private lessons on the side. She has four children who all have bright futures ahead of them: an embassy worker, a match teacher, a translator and a mother.

Suthy has taken on the unofficial role as my crazy Khmai aunt and protector. During our first faculty meeting, she ran up to me and gave me a big hug and began introducing me to all the teachers and telling them about me. When a young Khmai man named Mr. Bean (he made a point of adding, “You know, like the American comedian, yes?”) sat next to me to chat, she shooed him and said, “This isn’t a karaoke bar! Don’t sit so close to her!” When he insisted that it was okay because it’s okay in America, I turned to Suthy and asked, “But is it okay in Cambodia?” When she said no, he shamefacedly added, “Oh, so you want to be like Khmai?” and stood up to walk away. The three of us laughed and Suthy patted my back approvingly.

Anna

Finally, there is Anna. As I was leaving the internet café a few days ago, I heard a woman call out to me. She had a thick accent, but was most definitely Western. She was sitting with a young Khmai girl named So-ka, and I learned that the woman was from Spain. Her name is Anna and she is an architect in Pursat. Anna is the exact opposite of most Khmai women. She is loud, a little brazen and certainly not shy. It was refreshing to be with someone with such a large personality. She invited me to go to a floating village with her and So-ka that afternoon, saying how important it is to reach out to other Western faces when you see them. I eagerly agreed and planned to meet them again at 2:00.

We took a took took to Kampong Leun about an hour away from Pursat where we found the floating village. It’s hard to describe this place. Imagine a huge lake that stretches beyond the horizon with an entire village built on barges and rafts. I saw floating gas stations, pig farms and families watching television. There are no sidewalks or streets so the only form of transportation (and presumably recreation) is by boat. I saw little children no more than five paddling huge boats across the glassy lake, women selling goods from canoes piled high with fruits and vegetables and smarmy old men smoking cigarettes over the side of their vessels.

At the end of the day, I returned to Pursat with them and Anna assured me that she is always up for a cup of coffee if I want to meet up. She actually lives in a smaller village outside of Pursat, but swings by this way often and attends Church every Sunday on the outskirts of town, which I’m planning on checking out this week.

I’ll put up some photos of the floating village soon so you can get an idea of what that was like. In the mean time, take care of yourselves and send me some love.

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Home Sweet Home

It feels so good to finally unpack. During training, we were only allowed to take one of our bags to site so I felt like I was in “limbo” for the past two months. That, and knowing my host family in Tuk Phos was temporary made it difficult to really settle down. The two days at Hub Site before swear-in were full of the usual debauchery, but we all cleaned up nicely for the big day. The girls looked like cupcakes in our party shirts, and seeing the boys in ties was like seeing an endangered animal in the wild. The press, our country director, the ambassador and minister of education were all there to wish us well and send us off. I actually got chills during the minister’s speech when he suddenly stopped speaking Khmai, turned to us and began speaking to us in English without the use of his translator. He expressed his heart-felt appreciation for our organization and shared details from his personal life that really drove home why we are here. After the ceremony, about nine of us packed up and headed to Battambang for one night of celebration and American food before we went home.

It’s surreal, but nice, to finally be able to say I’m “home.” When I got to Pursat, I couldn’t find a took took (moto-drawn taxi-carriage), so I had to call my co-teacher and hopelessly ask him to come help me. Sure enough, within 10 minutes, he was zooming to the rescue on his moto – took took in toe. As he pulled up, I was in the process of buying giant grapefruits for my host family and almost dropped them in excitement when I saw him. For as anxious as I was about returning to site, I was surprised how excited I was to see my co-teacher and my host family. When my host mother came home I actually ran up to her and threw my arms around her. And I really do feel like I’m home. My room is a mess, but I can almost see a glimmer of what it will be once I unpack and finish taping up photos of family and friends. This morning I had milk and cereal for breakfast (I bought them in Battambang knowing we had a refrigerator here), took a real shower and sat down at my desk to write this blog entry. I could be anywhere. I do feel like I’m “cheating” on the whole Peace Corps experience a little bit with how Western everything is here, but let’s not kid ourselves – I’m not complaining.

I also really love my host family. They are gentle and caring, but laid back and willing to give me as much space as I want or need. I immediately felt like I was part of their family … of course, nothing makes you feel like part of the family like getting disgustingly ill like I did during my site visit, but never mind that. Last night my host father, brother and I all joked around over pork spare-ribs, mushroom soup and rice. It wasn’t as chaotic as the Kimmel house, but it was fun.

I don’t actually start teaching school until the 9th, so I have a lot of free time on my hands for the next few days, which is good because I feel like I have so. much. stuff. to. do. I need to try to finish unpacking, get a few things for my room and set up a P.O. Box so you guys can send me mail without a month of lag time while it goes through Peace Corps office in Phnom Penh. I also want to head back to the Australian NGO I found last time and see if there are any foreigners lurking about who can show me around. I also want to do a little research on a community project I have in mind. I am hoping to organize a summer girls’ empowerment camp to encourage female leadership and self-esteem. The project will take a ton of work, so I don’t think it would hurt to start generating ideas now.

Everything feels like it’s falling into place so nicely that I only have two rants of the week to share: 1.) I dropped my iPod into the toilet and broke it. In fairness, it was a legitimate accident (I forgot it was in my back pocket), but no less devastating. As I always say, I have the bad touch with electronics. It wouldn’t be a trip out of the country if I didn’t break at least one major electronic device. At least it isn’t my computer this time. 2.) There is a bug that flies around and sprays you with acid that causes your skin to develop an angry blister-like rash. My friend Tiffany and I were discussing how much it would suck to get sprayed – I mean, we’re talking deal-breaker suck here – and sure enough we both got sprayed at the Hub site. Mine was on the inside of my right arm but poor Tiffany’s was on the back of her thighs. That’s karma for you. Good thing I’m not a Buddhist or I could have had it all over our neck like one of our teachers.

Other than that – I couldn’t be happier. I have consistent internet access here so I’ll be much better about writing to you all too. In the meantime, enjoy those fall leaves for me and feel free to send me pictures!! My desktop background photo is the closest thing I have to fall here, so I fully expect documentation of pumpkin carving, farmers’ markets and the changing leaves so I can pretend I’m cruising down I-95 with the Alleghany Mountains on either side of me.

(p.s. – new photos are up from our pool party at the Ambassador’s house, swear-in and other random fun)

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Two months down, two years to go!

And just like that … training was over. The language proficiency exam is done. Our community project is complete and I am just two days away from swearing in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer. I know I haven’t updated you all in a while, so I’ll do my best to catch up on the highlights.

I can now say I survived amoebas! When I see a bottle of water, I assume that it is bottled water. But you know what happens when you assume. During my site visit, I drank some water that may or may not have been sterilized and ended up sicker than I have ever been in my life. As I was trying to nap on the bathroom floor (I can not be happier to say that my new family has hot running water, a western style shower and toilet) while frantically texting our medical officer because I thought I might actually die, my host family informed me that they were surprised I hadn’t gotten sick sooner. Glad they weren’t too concerned. Amoebas are single cell animals – oh yes, animals – that live in your stomach and populate until your body rejects them violently. Easily cured with a 3-day drug that turns your blood to formaldehyde if mixed with alcohol. No joke. At least I have a story to tell my children that rivals my parents’: “I had to walk to school in the snow up a hill both ways.”

Always the novelty princess, I also managed to take up yet another hobby. While in Phnom Penh, I bought a guitar! Tiffany got one too and I think some of the other PCTs are going to grab one on their way to permanent site. We aren’t allowed to leave our provinces for the first three months, so we’re going to have plenty of time on our hands. I try to play for about an hour a day and one of the K1’s offered to teach me a few basics when we are at the Hub for swear-in. I already know how to play a two octave scale and a few chords, but I’m not the rockstar I am when playing Guitar Hero. Give me two years though and we’ll see.

In local news, today was the last day of the two week Pchum Ben festival. Every morning at 4 a.m. the monks begin chanting over loudspeakers commemorating the community’s ancestors. Everyone comes to the temple before sunrise to throw sticky balls of rice around the Wat to appease their ancestors who have ended up in Hell. At 9 a.m., people return to the temple with more food – this time, for the monks. I opted out of the 4 a.m. ceremony (I could hear the festivities just fine from my bedroom), but I did attend one of the mid-morning ceremonies. With all the little nuns in the corner gossiping, kids running amok while their parents yelled at them, and pot-luck style buffet of food, I could have sworn I was at a church picnic in Hollidaysburg.

Another big highlight was our end-of-training community project. We split into several groups, designed and implemented a one-day community event. I am happy to say that my group’s “American Game Day” was a huuuge success!! Tiffany, Franz, Rebecca and I organized a field day at the local primary school. We taught about 40 kids how to bob for apples, play tug-of-war, have a three-legged race and water-balloon toss. They absolutely couldn’t get enough. They also couldn’t get enough of the prizes we had for them. They swarmed around us like sharks when they saw we had toys. I was actually a little worried when they started fighting each other in line to get closer to the grab bag, so I put Franz on prize duty and watched the mayhem from a distance. It was awesome to see the kids so involved as they wobbled across the sand pit arm-in-arm during the three-legged race, and when the girls kicked the boys’ butts bobbing for apples. It was, by far, the most exhausting, but gratifying morning yet.

Now that we’ve finished our community project and language lessons, we haven’t had any structured lesson time. We’ve been cooking together, hanging out, watching movies and gossiping. During all this free time, the girls decided it would be fun to get traditional Khmai ceremonial clothes made for swear-in. We will all wear our teaching skirts (sampots) and traditional shirts. Mine is made out of metallic mauve lace. No, you probably haven’t seen anything like it in Vogue lately … but I’m pretty sure your grandmother has curtains just like it. I’ll post pictures for blackmail later, don’t worry.

Next time I write – I’ll be an official volunteer! :)

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Following in their Footsteps

It’s hard to think of people outside their relationships to us. I usually think of my parents as, well … my parents, for example. Their identity for me has always been clear and consistent. My father is a self-made success; an accomplishment that could only be diminished by his intense devotion to our family, hilarious tendency to “get lost in the 50s,” and Jack Burns-esque protection of his little girl. I don’t think he will ever cease to be my hero. My mother, on the other hand, describes herself as “her kids’ mom.” For me, that’s all the important memories of birthday cupcakes shaped like ice cream cones, homemade Halloween costumes, college care-packages and endless hours of sharing the secrets that pass between a mother and her daughter. But my parents weren’t always parents. They have traveled, loved, lost, and lived beyond my wildest dreams. I am compelled to think about these “other” lives because I feel like I’m following their footsteps down a path I didn’t know existed until I found myself on it.

Of course I knew my mother worked with the Federal Disaster Assistance Administration when she was younger. And of course I knew my father risked his life in the name of our freedom during the Vietnam War. But until I found myself sitting in South East Asia like my father once did, searching my soul for the compassion my mother had, I didn’t truly understand what they had accomplished. Like everything else, it’s difficult to see the depth of an accomplishment without knowing the struggle behind it.

The last two weeks, I’ve been skipping between my surprisingly Westernized host family in Pursat, and the luxury of Phnom Penh. It’s easy to forget how hard life is here when you’re eating hot apple pie with ice cream at Free Bird. While I was away, I let my guard down and slipped back into the comfort of my American identity. When I returned to Tuk Phos, however, I felt like I was literally slapped by reality. But then, it’s hard to face reality in a society where the most educated people in my parents’ generation were slaughtered, leaving the country bankrupt of its brightest minds, and only now capable of beginning to rebuild a sense of confidence.

It doesn’t help that yet another one of us has decided to go home this week. Again, it was someone who I feel like I’ve known forever and that I can’t imagine this place without. When I listened to Katie tell me why she decided to go home, I heard myself in her. I remember saying those things to my parents when I was in Paris. Granted, I also remember them telling me that after everything we went through to get me there, there was no way I was coming home (and thank God they did – but no need to say I told you so, right?). Culture shock. I’ve been there. In truth, I’m probably there now. You arrive and everything is new and exciting, bright and interesting. But then as the weeks wear on, and the identity you’ve spent 20-some odd years cultivating is suddenly forced to adapt, the heart of your being begins to rebel.

Every trainee is dealing with culture shock differently. Some people bottle their feelings, some people lay them on the table. I’d like to think I’m doing it better this time around than I did before, but there are moments when exhaustion and anxiety seem to be just outside my door. I know why I came here though. I know how hard I worked to get here. I know that two years of my life can change someone else’s lifetime. Maybe more importantly, I also know I am my parents’ child. I have my father’s strength. I can face the harsh conditions here and give up the comforts I grew too accustom to in the States because he did it before me. He stood up for what was good despite the sun and the rain, and despite everything he gave up for that sense of hope. And when it’s my heart that’s weak, I feel my mother inside me, stretching her hands forward beside mine to offer our hearts in hopes of easing someone else’s pain. I want to do the good that they’ve done.

The highs in the Peace Corps are some of the highest you can have, leaving room to fall into a staggering low if you’re not careful. They say it’s riding them both that make you feel alive – and you can’t help but feel alive here. Everything is wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

When I woke up this morning, it was a cool 76 degrees with a strong wind that reminded me of those last days of summer before fall. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was home … maybe taking Xena for a walk with dad, or starting the first day of class at Hamilton. It’s funny how something like the way the wind blows can take you somewhere else entirely. I felt so far away and yet, so close to home at the same time. This feeling made me think of something my mother wrote in her most recent letter:

“You meet people, they come into your life, and then you never see them again, but they always bring a smile to your face when you think about them. Throughout your lives, I’m sure you’ll realize that, and what I think you should do is keep a small box and keep all those great memories in there. If you are feeling down, go and open the lid, look inside and pull out a smile!”

In these two months, I’ve put many new memories into my box along with the old standards I come back to again and again. It isn’t always easy to be here, but I am never without that box.

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MY HOME FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS!!!

It’s official! I know my home for the next two years!!!! I’ll be at the Hub until Sunday and then heading to my site for three days to look around and meet my permanent host family. After that, I’m off to Phnom Penh for a dinner at the Ambassador’s house (correction: pool party and bar-b-q) and a weekend of celebration with the rest of the PCTs.

I will be living in the provincial town called Pursat (which is the capital of the province Pursat). This is in the North-West of Cambodia, right in between Battambang, Siam Reip and Phnom Penh … which is excellent because I anticipate spending a lot of vacation time in those cities! Pursat is located on National Highway 5, so you should be able to easily find me on a map.

Here are some fast facts about my town, school and host family:

- Pursat is the stone carving capital of the country
- Right on the Tonle Sap Lake
- 24/7 electricity
- Easy internet access and post office
- There is one other volunteer in my province named Bri, and many nearby in other provinces
- Pursat upper Secondary School has 2,922 students and 119 staff, 10 of which are English teachers
- The average teacher in Pursat works between 19-28 hours per week
- My school was abolished during the Khmer Rouge Regime, but reopened in 1979 and was renovated in 1994
- There is also a Teacher Training Center in my village that I may be able to work with
- Many active NGOs in the area
- I am living with the Yeap family
- My host father is a nurse and my host mother is a homemaker
- My family consists of two daughters (although one just got married and is moving out) and a son
- They have family in the United States so they are excited to have a Westerner live with them
- We are the first Peace Corps volunteers to ever be in this province!

p.s. I just revised the link on my blog so that people can view my photo album! I’ll load a few every time I update, so keep an eye out.

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The good, the bad, the hilarious

Returning to Tuk Phos from my mini-vacation in Battambang was very bittersweet. The trip itself was exactly what I needed. Deidra, Katie, Tiffany, Tara and I put on our best tourist clothes and hit the town. Battambang (or at least Hotel Banan) will never be the same … but I’m getting ahead of myself. Friday morning, I woke up early to pack and prepare for our trip. Everyone was excited to get out of dodge for the weekend. I breezed through language class and lunch, and was just throwing a few miscellaneous things in my bag when I received some bad news from one of my best friends.

I don’t mean one of my best friends [qualifier: in the Peace Corps], I mean one of my best friends [period]. He had been administratively separated from the Peace Corps. When I read his text message, I sat in shock for a few minutes, then grabbed my things and walked over to his house. If I step back from my own biases, I guess I can see why the administration ruled unfavorably against him. Peace Corps is a job like any other: they told him not to behave a certain way, and he did. At the same time, I wish so very much that he would have had the chance to serve here, because his potential to affect change was so great. That, and I’m going to miss him terribly. He helped me laugh at times when I wanted to cry and, although I’ve only known him for five weeks, this experience cultivated an unparallel closeness between us that makes me feel like I’ve known him for five years.

When I returned to Tuk Phos, my host family asked me what happened to Ed. Gossip travels fast. It was the first time I really had to admit he wasn’t coming back out loud. I didn’t say much, but I must have looked like I was about to cry because they just nodded, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Knyom nuck Ed die. Knyom yul.” I miss Ed too. I understand. They told me his family cried all weekend when he left, and how he had taught them to save money for their business instead of spending it all. She was visibly shaken by the fact that he wasn’t coming back either. When I road by his house today on my way to language class, I looked up at his balcony half expecting to see him there. It’s hard to imagine life in Tuk Phos without our daily banter.

We have actually lost a total of 4 people so far. One young man was asked not to come a week before departure for medical reasons, another guy left after the first week because he felt he should be doing something else, and a girl left two weeks ago for personal reasons. I was always a little surprised to hear current volunteers talk about loosing people from the first group like loosing members of their family. I didn’t know the other trainees who left all that well, so their departure was less of a shock to me; but after this, I finally understand what those volunteers meant.

Getting away for the weekend was a good way to put my feelings about this on the backburner. I hugged Ed goodbye and boarded my 12:30 van, soon to be surrounded by my favorite partners in crime. A total of seven of us would be in Battambang for the weekend. The five girls decided to pool our money for a room in the most expensive hotel in town, while the guys opted for more modest accommodations. We figured if we were going to travel, we out to do it right. Our guidebook described Hotel Banan as “brining the bling to Battambang.” After reading that, there wasn’t a question in our minds that we should stay there.

The trip there was relatively uneventful. Tiffany, Anthony and I grabbed a bus together in Tuk Phos, picked Tyler up from Boribo on the way, and planned to meet the girls from Kampong Tralack when we got there. We were warned that transportation in Cambodia was a trip. Van and bus schedules are fickle and it is not uncommon to squeeze eight people in a sedan-sized taxi (a feat which I have witnessed myself). No one follows any road rules – if there are any – or comes to anything remotely resembling a complete stop. Oncoming traffic drives on both sides of the highway, making even the most seasoned road-tripper want to grab the “oh-shit handle” in fear on a minute-to-minute basis. Aside from this fact, our ride there was smooth sailing. Oh yes, but a Cambodian man did fall asleep on Anthony’s shoulder. Luckily, I don’t think he drooled.

Friday night we took it easy. We went to a restaurant serving hamburgers, french-fries, milkshakes and banana splits. After gorging ourselves on American food, we met up with a volunteer who lives near Battambang for drinks. We called it quits early because we were all exhausted from traveling. The following morning we got up for yet another American meal at the Sunrise Café. I have never been so happy to have a bacon, egg and cheese bagel or a cinnamon bun in all my life. Deidra, Katie and I parted ways from the others to head to our “adventure site” at the Wat Banan. We must have climbed over 100 steps to the top of a mountain where we found the ruins of an Angkor style temple. As they say, a picture is worth 1,000 words, so I will let my photos speak for the breathtaking site we found at the top. We wandered through the ruins for a while, listening to a few monks chanting afternoon prayers, before heading back down to catch up on recent gossip over some coconut water. When we returned to town, we decided to do a little shopping before dinner. We managed to find a mall-like structure in town where I, even more surprisingly, managed to find 2 shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of shoes. Retail therapy, much? I was in good company, though; Deidra did about as much damage as I did by the end of the day.

The girls all met back at the hotel to freshen up before dinner. It felt so good to put on a pair of jeans, primp, do our hair, put on makeup and ease into the evening. The five of us went to a place called The Riverside Bar for dinner and drinks. From the outside, the place looked like a total dump, but the top of the stairs revealed a rooftop patio overlooking the river, complete with twinkle lights and palm fans. When we saw the inside, we all began to giggle uncontrollably. Tiffany said it reminded her of being in New Orleans, Deidra said it could have been Hawaii, and I was just happy to see pizza on the menu. The restaurant was obviously geared towards NGO workers and tourists because there was hardly a Khmai face in the whole joint. Tiffany used to work at a bar, so she helped us create our own versions of pina coladas and margaritas to kick the evening off right.

After dinner, we eventually decided to take the party back to our hotel room where we played cards, sang and danced to the most ghetto music we could think of while jumping on the beds. It was a night to remember and I actually can’t remember the last time I laughed quite so hard. After passing out, I distinctly remember waking up at some point during the night feeling cold. The air conditioner (oh yes, our hotel had air conditioning) was set at 18 degrees Celsius the whole time. I thought about wrapping myself up in a blanket, but remembered this was the last time I would feel cold for a while and drifted back into a happy, freezing, snooze. Mm, it’s good to be a tourist.

Sunday we slept in, went to breakfast and lounged around our hotel until noon when we caught our bus back to our respective towns. We all fell asleep the minute we got on the bus, only waking up to say goodbye and plan our next trip together. Next up – the beach. I hope it’s soon. When I got back to Tuk Phos, it was all I could do to stay awake through dinner with my host family and relay my excitement to my parental unit during our weekly phone chat before retiring to my room, dumping my stuff on the floor and crawling into bed. You know it was a good trip when you fall asleep before your head hits the pillow the day after the weekend before.

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