12-14
Very recently I was speaking with my good friend Deidre about, as usual, the fact that we have more time on our hands than work could ever possibly fill. We can try to fill our time by building our muscles with exercise and physical activity, cramming our head full of words from books, working on our language skills (Khmer, not English – my spoken English skills continue to evaporate through lack of use), or picking up some new hobby or skill, but there is only so many hours that can be filled with that sort of business. We find that we, therefore, find the things that give us the greatest amounts of joy in order to supply us with the sanity that we need to fulfill our ob
ligations to the great county of Cambodia. For Deidre, it is coffee with a newspaper (a great thanks to Dan’s family for sending the Economist for our perusal) and anything/everything about the mornings, including the rise of the sun, the food usually served, the routines, the fresh fried bananas…everything.
And for me? Life here is so… what can I say? Slow isn’t the right word, though time moves at a different pace here. It isn’t simple, either, though that adjective comes to mind as well. For a person new to this culture and this language, nothing is simple, though life is nowhere near as difficult as it was – the market is not as intimidating, the general spectators of my life give me less trouble than before (as a foreigner, this is everyone), and I have no dread of the fact that there will be rice at my next meal (mainly because my body has discovered a certain dependency for that particular grain). As life gets easier, I find more things that give me the joy that I need to survive so far from home and so far from the life that I lived for 20 some years.
There is almost nothing that I find better than an afternoon bike ride with some mood music blaring out the numerous statements of wonder and attention that I get on an amazingly daily basis. The countryside is lined like Iowa with rice supplying the color instead of corn, and dotted with palm trees instead of big elms or oaks, and as I ride through a village hazy with dust as the sun sets, I feel a surreal wave wash over me at the life that I live. I find joy
as I sit respectfully in the temple, gazing at the statues of Buddha and the paintings of his life. In my village the temple is unfinished – the doorways have no doors, the windows no panes, and a cool breeze blows the scent of incense across my face. When I get home, I know that wherever I live there will be a hammock, and I will sit and read as I do her
e. I have spent many hours lost in fiction as I slowly swing in the hammock with a glass of jasmine tea. I’m not sure how I will ever survive another winter.
There are more things that I like (isn’t that what Martha Stewart says?). The Khmer people have a certain kiss that they give to babies and children – they press their face up close to the child and take a deep breath through their nose – and my yiey recently gifted me with the same kiss, which gave me a sort of strange giddiness that I can’t explain. Such closeness is a rare commodity for me here – hugs with boys are expressly prohibited and I’m not quite to a hugging level with my female family members, so the contact was well appreciated. In fact, the closest I am allowed to get to boys (not that I am complaining, mind you, at least not much) is in transit, when I am squeezed in a taxi next to a silent middle aged man, a talkative middle aged lady who is enthralled with the hair on my arms, or a teen-looking boy who steals glances at me but is much too frightened to speak to me. There are many places to find humor here.
Very recently I was speaking with my good friend Deidre about, as usual, the fact that we have more time on our hands than work could ever possibly fill. We can try to fill our time by building our muscles with exercise and physical activity, cramming our head full of words from books, working on our language skills (Khmer, not English – my spoken English skills continue to evaporate through lack of use), or picking up some new hobby or skill, but there is only so many hours that can be filled with that sort of business. We find that we, therefore, find the things that give us the greatest amounts of joy in order to supply us with the sanity that we need to fulfill our ob
ligations to the great county of Cambodia. For Deidre, it is coffee with a newspaper (a great thanks to Dan’s family for sending the Economist for our perusal) and anything/everything about the mornings, including the rise of the sun, the food usually served, the routines, the fresh fried bananas…everything.And for me? Life here is so… what can I say? Slow isn’t the right word, though time moves at a different pace here. It isn’t simple, either, though that adjective comes to mind as well. For a person new to this culture and this language, nothing is simple, though life is nowhere near as difficult as it was – the market is not as intimidating, the general spectators of my life give me less trouble than before (as a foreigner, this is everyone), and I have no dread of the fact that there will be rice at my next meal (mainly because my body has discovered a certain dependency for that particular grain). As life gets easier, I find more things that give me the joy that I need to survive so far from home and so far from the life that I lived for 20 some years.
There is almost nothing that I find better than an afternoon bike ride with some mood music blaring out the numerous statements of wonder and attention that I get on an amazingly daily basis. The countryside is lined like Iowa with rice supplying the color instead of corn, and dotted with palm trees instead of big elms or oaks, and as I ride through a village hazy with dust as the sun sets, I feel a surreal wave wash over me at the life that I live. I find joy
as I sit respectfully in the temple, gazing at the statues of Buddha and the paintings of his life. In my village the temple is unfinished – the doorways have no doors, the windows no panes, and a cool breeze blows the scent of incense across my face. When I get home, I know that wherever I live there will be a hammock, and I will sit and read as I do her
e. I have spent many hours lost in fiction as I slowly swing in the hammock with a glass of jasmine tea. I’m not sure how I will ever survive another winter.There are more things that I like (isn’t that what Martha Stewart says?). The Khmer people have a certain kiss that they give to babies and children – they press their face up close to the child and take a deep breath through their nose – and my yiey recently gifted me with the same kiss, which gave me a sort of strange giddiness that I can’t explain. Such closeness is a rare commodity for me here – hugs with boys are expressly prohibited and I’m not quite to a hugging level with my female family members, so the contact was well appreciated. In fact, the closest I am allowed to get to boys (not that I am complaining, mind you, at least not much) is in transit, when I am squeezed in a taxi next to a silent middle aged man, a talkative middle aged lady who is enthralled with the hair on my arms, or a teen-looking boy who steals glances at me but is much too frightened to speak to me. There are many places to find humor here.
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