8.10.08
Once again my one and only free day a week is coming to a close and I feel the urge to write based on three separate things that are churning the emotions inside me. One: Tomorrow I begin my first day of practicum teaching, and I am so nervous that I could barely enjoy the delicious beef stew with fresh French bread that I was served this evening (and served, and served, and served…) at my friend’s house. Two: I finally had the ultimate pleasure of hearing my mother and my grandmother’s voice as I left my wonderful beef stew and a mass of Khmer people to answer my phone with all the joy that could be expected from such an occasion. And of course, three: Cambodia is remarkably different than the good ole state of Iowa…and I may or may not have fallen in love.
You may be asking yourself, “Self, what is so different about Cambodia?” I’m going to make a vast generalization and guess that you probably have not stepped a single toe across the lovely country and seen the rice paddies, the village markets, or anything in b
etween. I am thrilled to elaborate.
For one thing, Wal-Mart is (thankfully) a distant memory because no such thing exists here. Instead we have markets, which are a mass of people and goods and mud. I have not been able to stand up straight in the market in my village because the cloth ceiling hangs too low (and, let’s face it, I’m not that tall). You can buy everything you need at the market here – though there is somewhat of an art to shopping. No one person will sell everything you need at once, but if you make a few friends in a few trades…you’re set for good prices. Find a good friend in the plastics department. She (or he, but usually she) will sell you hangers and basins and almost anything you need to wash your clothes or your plates or yourself. It’s very useful to have a frequently shopped friend in the beauty department as well, so you can get your sabboo (soap) so that you can actually clean your clothes, or your plates or yourself, and you can add some accessories and sweet smelling perfumes to attract the mosquitoes! I recently made friends with a veggie seller…but friends in the plai me-an (such a delicious little fruit!!) and sao-mao (the bigger and sweeter cousin of the aforementioned fruit) are quite an asset. I’ve also found a tailor in a fellow trainee’s family, as well as a sweet seller from another trainee. Market life is chaos and a barang (French, or foreign, or white, or not Khmer) always makes the gossip mill start running. In fact, I bought some bread the other day and my friend Deidre knew how many loaves and at what time before class the next day. Other trainees hear about one another’s bathing and oral hygiene habits with all the intensity of the 6:00 news.
I have electricity, which means that I have a fan, and light, and…(this is where I picture suspenseful music from an old black and white horror flick)…Television. Although…this television does not play any classic movies, any of my favorite sitcoms, or news that I can make sense of. Instead, I have the pleasure of watching news in Khmer (with not always the best photojournalism for the language-impaired like me), watching Khmer karaoke music videos with usually sound or look similar (Which is how I imagine my mother feels about the hip hop that I may or may not blast throughout the house when I am home), and soap operas. I have watched so many soap operas – though I do guiltily enjoy the plots that I sort of understand, the Khmer dubbing from Korean or Chinese or Japanese, the blood that looks like the classic corn syrup mixture without the syrup. My favorite one is set back in ancient times and the women who star as pick-pocketing bad asses have beat up the men in the pale blue fabrics on more than one occasion.
I do not have running water here, though it is around. I bathe in a little bathroom with tile on the floors and a very large spider that I’ve been calling my friend (he eats the mosquitoes, after all). I use a plastic saucepan that makes me think of making mac and cheese and dump cool water over myself about three times a day…which I recently learned how to say in Khmer, thank you very much. I also use a cleverly named “squattie pottie” which is not (despite the mental picture in my head) a simple hole in the ground. It is also tiled, and the mechanics of flushing are much the same, except there’s no button to push. It’s very frugal with water I think.
The teenage Britney Spears is huge here and I saw her picture on a shampoo/hair dye/skin care box looking like she just sang the Baby One More Time song…one more time.
I dreamt about a washing machine last night.
Then I woke up and began washing my laundry in the buckets by the well. Side bar: Last week I wanted to do laundry and therefore brought out my clothes and began soaking them in a bucket by the well. It is a small well, back behind the house past the chicken coop and the trash pile. But then, as it does here, it began to rain suddenly and I made a mad dash for the house, leaving my clothes behind. Later, I notice a brood of strange young men walking haphazardly about the yard (in the rain, mind you). I was very curious and began to peek around trying to figure out what these 5-7 men in their twenties were doing around our compound, especially since my brother was inside the house…
As I continued to watch the men, who had moved their party to the well near my laundry, I noticed a few strange things. For one, they were standing out in the rain still. Two, they had began to drink coconut milk straight from the larger, green coconuts (in the rain). And three, one strange case was getting water from the well to pour all over himself as if he was taking a bath, and as if he wasn’t already drenched from the rain pouring down upon them. Later, after the still nameless (and one faceless because he was wearing his moto helmet) men left in the slow dash that only a Khmer man can perfect, one fellow stayed, and I peeked to watch him glance over his shoulder before he stripped off his shirt, slung a towel around his waist, and lost his pants and red bikini style underwear to lay on the line. This was not before I noticed that the glimmer around his waist was, in fact, a belly chain. It really matched his gold necklace and bracelet, though. Oh yeah and, by the way, if you have gained any insight from this story about Khmer men, please, please, please enlighten me...
I cannot remember the last time that I thought that 20 til 11 was late and far past bedtime, but it is certainly the case now. More Kampuchea (Cambodia to Cambodians) / USA differences are certainly on the way.
Once again my one and only free day a week is coming to a close and I feel the urge to write based on three separate things that are churning the emotions inside me. One: Tomorrow I begin my first day of practicum teaching, and I am so nervous that I could barely enjoy the delicious beef stew with fresh French bread that I was served this evening (and served, and served, and served…) at my friend’s house. Two: I finally had the ultimate pleasure of hearing my mother and my grandmother’s voice as I left my wonderful beef stew and a mass of Khmer people to answer my phone with all the joy that could be expected from such an occasion. And of course, three: Cambodia is remarkably different than the good ole state of Iowa…and I may or may not have fallen in love.
You may be asking yourself, “Self, what is so different about Cambodia?” I’m going to make a vast generalization and guess that you probably have not stepped a single toe across the lovely country and seen the rice paddies, the village markets, or anything in b
etween. I am thrilled to elaborate.For one thing, Wal-Mart is (thankfully) a distant memory because no such thing exists here. Instead we have markets, which are a mass of people and goods and mud. I have not been able to stand up straight in the market in my village because the cloth ceiling hangs too low (and, let’s face it, I’m not that tall). You can buy everything you need at the market here – though there is somewhat of an art to shopping. No one person will sell everything you need at once, but if you make a few friends in a few trades…you’re set for good prices. Find a good friend in the plastics department. She (or he, but usually she) will sell you hangers and basins and almost anything you need to wash your clothes or your plates or yourself. It’s very useful to have a frequently shopped friend in the beauty department as well, so you can get your sabboo (soap) so that you can actually clean your clothes, or your plates or yourself, and you can add some accessories and sweet smelling perfumes to attract the mosquitoes! I recently made friends with a veggie seller…but friends in the plai me-an (such a delicious little fruit!!) and sao-mao (the bigger and sweeter cousin of the aforementioned fruit) are quite an asset. I’ve also found a tailor in a fellow trainee’s family, as well as a sweet seller from another trainee. Market life is chaos and a barang (French, or foreign, or white, or not Khmer) always makes the gossip mill start running. In fact, I bought some bread the other day and my friend Deidre knew how many loaves and at what time before class the next day. Other trainees hear about one another’s bathing and oral hygiene habits with all the intensity of the 6:00 news.
I have electricity, which means that I have a fan, and light, and…(this is where I picture suspenseful music from an old black and white horror flick)…Television. Although…this television does not play any classic movies, any of my favorite sitcoms, or news that I can make sense of. Instead, I have the pleasure of watching news in Khmer (with not always the best photojournalism for the language-impaired like me), watching Khmer karaoke music videos with usually sound or look similar (Which is how I imagine my mother feels about the hip hop that I may or may not blast throughout the house when I am home), and soap operas. I have watched so many soap operas – though I do guiltily enjoy the plots that I sort of understand, the Khmer dubbing from Korean or Chinese or Japanese, the blood that looks like the classic corn syrup mixture without the syrup. My favorite one is set back in ancient times and the women who star as pick-pocketing bad asses have beat up the men in the pale blue fabrics on more than one occasion.I do not have running water here, though it is around. I bathe in a little bathroom with tile on the floors and a very large spider that I’ve been calling my friend (he eats the mosquitoes, after all). I use a plastic saucepan that makes me think of making mac and cheese and dump cool water over myself about three times a day…which I recently learned how to say in Khmer, thank you very much. I also use a cleverly named “squattie pottie” which is not (despite the mental picture in my head) a simple hole in the ground. It is also tiled, and the mechanics of flushing are much the same, except there’s no button to push. It’s very frugal with water I think.
The teenage Britney Spears is huge here and I saw her picture on a shampoo/hair dye/skin care box looking like she just sang the Baby One More Time song…one more time.
I dreamt about a washing machine last night.
Then I woke up and began washing my laundry in the buckets by the well. Side bar: Last week I wanted to do laundry and therefore brought out my clothes and began soaking them in a bucket by the well. It is a small well, back behind the house past the chicken coop and the trash pile. But then, as it does here, it began to rain suddenly and I made a mad dash for the house, leaving my clothes behind. Later, I notice a brood of strange young men walking haphazardly about the yard (in the rain, mind you). I was very curious and began to peek around trying to figure out what these 5-7 men in their twenties were doing around our compound, especially since my brother was inside the house…
As I continued to watch the men, who had moved their party to the well near my laundry, I noticed a few strange things. For one, they were standing out in the rain still. Two, they had began to drink coconut milk straight from the larger, green coconuts (in the rain). And three, one strange case was getting water from the well to pour all over himself as if he was taking a bath, and as if he wasn’t already drenched from the rain pouring down upon them. Later, after the still nameless (and one faceless because he was wearing his moto helmet) men left in the slow dash that only a Khmer man can perfect, one fellow stayed, and I peeked to watch him glance over his shoulder before he stripped off his shirt, slung a towel around his waist, and lost his pants and red bikini style underwear to lay on the line. This was not before I noticed that the glimmer around his waist was, in fact, a belly chain. It really matched his gold necklace and bracelet, though. Oh yeah and, by the way, if you have gained any insight from this story about Khmer men, please, please, please enlighten me...
I cannot remember the last time that I thought that 20 til 11 was late and far past bedtime, but it is certainly the case now. More Kampuchea (Cambodia to Cambodians) / USA differences are certainly on the way.
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