Mexican

Big news from Phnom Penh... I had my first taste of Mexican food in Cambodia yesterday! Now, I've been able to make my own tacos (or at least attempt it) but it's not the same, precisely, and I've grown nearly desperate of late for some jalapenos. Of course, the restaurant we visited (called Cantina) was not quite the same as the bevy of options in and around LA (La Estrella, Prontos, oh how I miss you!). However, I did get to play the expert, explaining the quesadilla, burrito, and pico de gallo to my British friends... it was a fun and educational adventure.

Now, as to taste: the salsa was fairly good, the tortillas were a little too oily and not soft enough (how they managed that combo, I'll never know) for my preference. There was a noticeable lack of cheese, and it wasn't spicy enough for me... but the overall effect was good. I'll go back and sample the tacos... perhaps those will be better than the burrito was. Or maybe I need to relax my standards.

The most interesting part? All the different smells. And I don't mean food. In addition to the odor of the river (fishy, mostly, and not in a good way), someone was smoking marijuana nearby. Oh so appetizing. Another reminder that I am NOT in California, where that was at least banned from happening in the restaurant. In any case, my cravings for south of the border (and I mean the US border) cuisine have been somewhat tempered. Next up: the hunt for a good cheeseburger.

Culture

I have not spent much time describing my adjustment to life in another culture. To be honest, I don’t think about it that often. But today it is weighing on my mind, for many reasons.

I’m learning a thing or two about myself, and about Cambodia, too. For one, I’ve discovered that I like feedback. I like to know how people feel about me, their opinion of what I’m saying. Sometimes, I even like a fight, or at least a good debate. Whether that’s a function of my culture or my personality is irrelevant, because the Khmer will not fight with me. I spent two days this week leading a facilitation training for some of our staff. Even if they thought I was teaching complete rubbish (and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t), they would still say thank you and leave smiling. This unstinting hospitality and desire to please is both wonderful and frustrating. Coming from a culture in which a reaction—disgust, laughter, even a glare—can tell so much, the strangeness of inspiring only smiles and impassive faces can be maddening at times.

Last Friday night, I met some friends-of-friends, including a woman who has lived here for much longer than I have. I quite reluctantly found myself in the midst of a conversation about all the negative aspects of Cambodian culture—a patron/client mentality that impacts every interaction; the capacity for violence that seems to exist just beneath a veneer of content. The woman I spoke to is correct; these things exist here and come up all the time. Lately, when I am deflecting the perception of my coworkers that I am wealthy (my laptop is a continual item of fascination), or lamenting the atrocities here (last week the wife of one staff member threw acid on his face, and yesterday a church member was attacked and beaten), I have found myself longing to understand more, to be able to walk in and out of cultures simultaneously.

I am always, first and foremost, an American. Yet, I am trying to remember that this national culture, or even regional mindset, was not how I was created. God didn’t make American culture anymore than he made Cambodian culture—and one is not better than the other. We are products of our upbringing, of the places we are raised. It isn’t only nurture, though; my brown hair and blue eyes turn the heads of little children when I walk the dusty streets of Phnom Penh. As I try to understand and try to be understood, I am growing. Even when it is frustrating, when I’m confused and uncomfortable, I am still learning. At this point, that’s enough.

Brief

I woke up this morning with a cold. So, while my head is all stuffy and fluffy, I thought I'd update on some things I've noticed and that have happened recently. Just to stay on top of ever-exciting life in Phnom Penh...

1. Happy Chinese New Year!! Red lanterns and sacrifices are taking place all over. I've wished a couple of staff members a happy new year, only to have them reply "I'm not Chinese!" Which, of course, I already knew (and replied "I'm not Chinese either!''). It makes me wonder what will happen when I wish them a Happy President's Day later this month ("I'm not a President!"). Just kidding.

2. The other day, my next door neighbor was drying a side of pork ribs on their laundry line. It was an appetizing sight when I left the house at 8 a.m. The landlords downstairs often dry fish or pieces of meat in a basket on our roof... which I have to be close to as I go down the stairs. I just find this an interesting way to make... jerky?

3. New noises this week: firecrackers and cap guns. The guns sound almost real, and go off about every 10-20 mins. because I live right behind a school. Every time I hear them, I grow concerned for the teens, and the first time, I almost jumped out of my own skin. Scary.

4. I have discovered the beauty of water delivery. My "eco footprint" has changed considerably, as I have thrown out zero water bottles these last couple of weeks. This means my trash is lighter, I am more environmentally friendly, and I think I'm saving money. That trifecta produces some very happy feelings.

5. I miss my car. That's just a public service announcement. It's completely weird to miss a possession, especially in comparison to people. Nevertheless, I have found myself a bit wistful as I remember cruising around in my little 5-speed. I've been keeping it under wraps around here, because it's hard to explain that yes, I owned a car all for myself, and yes, so did almost everyone else I knew. The motorbike is awfully fun, but it doesn't come with a CD player or air conditioning. Not to mention the accidents (my scrapes and bruises are healing nicely).

6. Fruit shakes. I mentioned this before, but it is becoming a serious addiction, and I am a little worried that when mango season comes around (only another couple of months! get excited!) I will be in trouble. I may only eat mango shakes. Currently, I am enamored of the banana, strawberry, passion fruit shake. With frozen strawberries. Or pineapple. The combinations are endless.

7. I am wondering if Cambodia celebrates Valentine's Day. Give me a week and I'll let you know. Are you now picturing people saying to me, "I'm not a Valentine!" So am I.

With that, we've come full circle, and the stuffiness and fluffiness have made me forget all my other earth-shattering and/or hilarious observations. Or, at least, those I can share in brief.

Again

Well, it’s been 4 months, so it’s time for another moto accident. (Did you think I was proposed to again? Sorry… but keep reading for wedding-related commentary.) Today, though, I had the misfortune of being the sole cause, and carrying a passenger at the time. We hit a bump, she wasn’t holding on, fell forward, and pushed me over the front of the bike. While attempting to gain my balance, we turned the bike on its side and ended up sprawled on the dirt road. Fortunately, it’s dry and dusty right now, so it was a soft landing and we’re unharmed. I do, however, have elbow and knee scrapes on the other side of my body to match the ones from the first accident. So, one could make the argument that I subconsciously tipped the bike in favor of scar symmetry.

I am fine. The passenger is fine. The bike is fine. The pink helmet is fine. My black flip flops, which I was wearing while driving, are fine. Maybe it’s time to look into full body street gear. Then again, that stuff is unbearably hot.

Also, this morning I went to a portion of a wedding ceremony (not my own, obviously) and even participated! (during the “carry in the fruit” portion, I carried the fruit-flavored soda) I also learned, from the pastor, that brides should be younger than their husbands, and that women are more beautiful because Adam (man #1) came from the dust (and up close, dust is not cute, as I learned in the afternoon). Sorry, dudes, but that apparently means you’re destined to be less pretty than those of us who were made from ribs. And you have to wait longer to be married. I’m sure all the males in the world have somehow figured out some other advantage over women that outweighs these hardships. Pregnancy comes to mind.

I think I’ll go reflect upon today’s lessons with my new addiction—the fruit shake. More on that development later.

Heaven

There are very few days when I think, “Okay, Jesus, you can come back now.” In fact, I used to make that comment as a joke before a big exam or some stressful event. In 2006, while teaching ESL in Cambodia, one of my students mentioned the second coming. “Oh, how I long for that day,” he said, with such passion and earnestness I thought I would cry. I didn’t fully understand his statement, I’ll admit. It’s hard to willingly surrender that something better exists, that we really are waiting, in limbo, until God calls us truly home. It’s sometimes hard to accept that this life isn’t heaven.

Before Christmas, several things happened that have made me consider this train of thought. Our program staff encountered a little boy with malignant tumors all over his face. Bunthen, at age 8, is a terminal cancer patient. At the time, his illness had progressed too far for treatment, and his body too weak for chemotherapy. His parents are too poor to treat him. I tagged along as we visited the hospital to help tell Bunthen’s story and glimpse firsthand Cambodia’s medical system.

We waited as Bunthen and his mother met with the doctor. Later, I was told that because of the severity of the cancer, the doctor recommended euthanizing the boy. There is no hospice care here, and chemotherapy costs $60 per session. The doctor’s consultation cost $10, with another $2 for flat fees and $2 more for medication. In order for him to receive two much-needed pints of blood, we had to make a donation—part of a barter system because the blood bank is not stocked, and having to pay for a pint would be around $50. With a father who works as a bricklayer, this is far beyond what the family can afford. On the day we visited Bunthen, the funds were provided through a staff offering. Lately, some other money has been collected, and Bunthen has received some chemo treatments, but will not be able to continue enough to go into remission. Though the tumors on his face have been somewhat reduced, he is still weak, and still terminal.

Sitting there, in a dirty hospital cancer ward, I saw appalling things. I watched a woman sob over her breast cancer, from her fear that she would be unable to work any longer. I saw dirty beds, unclean floors. I thought about the beautiful hospital wards in the US, with their sterile conditions and efficient care. I thought about insurance and counseling services and Ronald McDonald houses for kids. I thought about how unfair it is for this little boy, who should be playing soccer or doing homework, to be sitting, sobbing in this dirty place that should be making him better. I thought about all the other patients, if they would be able to pay for their care, if they would recover.

I thought about the crowds around Jesus, seeking healing, just a touch, and how much that must have meant to the poor and the helpless. I thought that if Christ were here, now, that this heartache playing out around me might be different. And I thought, for the first time, how much I long for that day when He does return.

Kheb

Because I just told you all about fun with language, here's another (brief) story about how much I love living in a place with a non-Roman alphabet.

I ordered food the other day and had it delivered. They took my name for the order, and I spelled out K-A-T-E for them. When I looked at the receipt, I discovered that, apparently, my name can also be spelled "Kheb." I'm not sure if this should be my new Cambodian name.

Next time I'm in the States, I am totally going to tell the Starbucks barista that my name is Kheb. I want that name on my cup...

Happy Monday!

Dogs

Many of our staff speak English, and while there’s the constant code switch between two different languages, I often forget that I can’t communicate as I would in the US. Until, that is, something reminds me. Here’s today’s story…

A friend and fellow staff member was chatting with me when he mentioned his US Cultural Studies class (meaning, he’s studying US culture, not that he’s studying cultural studies the way that I learned it at USC… with terms like hegemony and agency thrown around). As you can see, the particulars of US culture can be lost even on those who grew up with it.

He said “The teacher said that if you call someone dorky it’s okay but not if you call them picky.”

Kate: “You mean if you call them a dork? Sometimes that’s funny…”

Him: “No, he said it was a good thing to be dorky.”

Kate: “Maybe. But it’s not bad to be picky. Dorky means you are kind of weird. Picky means you like things to be a certain way, or maybe that you don’t eat certain foods.”

Him: “No. Like being a dog. Doggie. It’s good to call someone that.”

Kate: “I would never call anyone a dog. That’s not nice.”

Him: “No, he said it’s good to be called dog. And piggy is bad.”

Kate: “Well, yeah, being a pig is not a good thing. That makes sense…”

Him: “Yes, being called piggy means you are lazy.”

Kate (finally catching on…): “Right. OH! Yes, it’s bad to call someone a pig, and sometimes it’s okay to call someone a dawg. But only some people say that, not everyone.”

Him: “Yes, see, it’s good to call people dawg.”

Kate: “But it’s not like a regular dog. Not doggie. It’s different. But I guess it’s not a bad thing. It’s for people who are your friends, I think.”

Him: “So calling someone dawg is okay, but not piggy.”

Kate: “Right. Your teacher’s right.”

Him: “I thought so.”

So now you can see why I have not come to teach American culture to the Cambodians. I clearly don’t know enough “culture” to be proficient. Peace out, dawgs.