The Pied Piper Calleth

As I think I’ve finally begun to adjust to a new lifestyle now that I’m in Cambodia- the different foods, limited internet access, and even the homesickness has begun to subside as the reality of two years in another country has actually dawned on me and seems slightly less ominous than it did four months ago- I’m still having some troubles adjusting to the sounds. It seems as though as soon as I get used to the natural audio tracks of my surroundings, some other new ones creep in there too. For example, one morning I woke up and realized that 200 quail-like creatures had taken up residence next door, right behind my bed room. I really don’t know how else to describe them since I’ve never seen such a bird before, but I can describe to you in great detail the screeching, seemingly impossible high-pitched tones these things can belt out. I don’t know what’s upsetting these little guys so much but I can certainly hear their daily distress as they have disdainfully become both my alarm clock (sans snooze button) and my banshee lullaby.

I’ve also discovered that the village of Bos Khnaor has had a pretty high death rate recently as there have been several funerals as of late. While I mourn with the best of them, and appreciated the party favors of a paper fan, hard candy and a red yarn bracelet to ward off evil spirits, the blasting of xylophones and bells for 12 hours a day is enough to make me go through my supplies of pain killers faster than you can say “chu cabahl” (headache).

Other than the occasional self-induced seclusion to heal from headaches, I’ve been IRB-ing like a champ. (IRB, as Peace Corps has ingrained in us, means Intentionally Relationship Building…or a fancy word for schmoozing.) When working at the Health Centers, I’ll chat with the women about their babies, and half of the time end up saying they have a beautiful son when in actuality they have a daughter (or vise versa) since they tend to dress their babes in skirts and WWE shirts regardless of their sex. The women in turn will ask me the typical line of questioning… “Are you a docter?” (I’m not) “Do you know French?” (I don’t) “Do you have a family?” (Well, yeah, I have parents and a sister in the States and a host family in Cambodia) “No, I mean, do you have children?” (No) “Are you married?” (No) and “How old are you?” (22)…to which one woman responded, “Oh, you should have had four children by now.” Wow, and I thought American women worried too much about their biological clocks a-tickin’. I’m toying with the idea of printing off the answers to all these standard questions in Khmer on a t-shirt…..

I’ve also been talking to people in the bustling Bos Khnaor market. I have a few favorite breakfast haunts but my favorite of which is a stall that sells Khmer noodles and porridge across the street from a coffee shop. The customers change fairly frequently and it gives me a chance to at least have my face out in the community in the morning, impress a few folks with my Khmer, plug the Health Center and correct people when they think I’m from France. In my market dwelling I’ve discovered some other treats resembling American snacks such as the coconut infused waffles, made by women crouched over irons on the market floor, and dtuk-a-luk, similar to a smoothie but with some unfamiliar ingredients that I don’t really care to know about. My dtuk-a-luk lady knows me well enough to stop short of adding raw egg or durian, but other than that I let her have full reign. A bit scary sometimes but surprises like the addition of pumpkin harkened memories of fall weather and Halloween from home.

A random wat visit one day resulted in yet another opportunity to bump elbows as I’ve learned that the monks are super chill. I thought it might have been an issue talking to them since I’m a woman but they have been surprisingly welcoming and receptive. There’s even an animal farm stocked with geese a-layin’, pigeons a-cooing, and rabbits a-nuzzlin’. Shaggy sheep dogs scare me to death every time they great me by barking and bee-lining in my direction, but they wouldn’t hurt a fly, and a mocking bird of sorts tries to throw me off with his ventriloquist act of imitating a human sneeze when no one else is around, always managing to make it seem like the culprit is right behind me. I think one of the main draws to the wat on the main road, if I’m going to be honest, are the monkeys. Four red-bottomed primates live in the trees near the wat and the smallest one, whose teeth, much like a puppy’s, are too small to break the skin in the event of a bite, is named Chalowin. He allows friends (aka bringers of snacks) to hold him and even offers up his delousing services as he’ll look to comb your hair scavenge for bugs, yet another tasty snack you’ve surely brought just with him in mind. The sizing up of this guy, and his teeth, before letting him perch on my shoulders and have his way with my hair, was brought on by the anxiety of watching him cling on to his tree and throw himself away from it with all the force he could muster, much like an Olympic swimmer at the start of a race. Even though he’s little, the thought of himself plummeting towards me at full speed initially elicited fear…but over time and bunches of bananas, I think we’ll learn to gain each other’s trust and a friendship will blossom. Something to legitimately fear? One of the monks told me that they used to have snakes in the animal farm as well, but they recently escaped. When I asked if the snakes were big, he replied, “Of course!” Oh…of course…

Wat visits now serve as a sort of de-stressing method, as have been my daily dusk runs. My typical route speeds me towards the other wat nestled back near the banana plantations. On most nights, the view of the purple sky before sunset and the endless green from the surrounding rice paddies leave me breathless. I’ve described the tumbling clouds once before, but it ceases to amaze me how close they seem to straying towards the earth at this particular location. And like the wispy white puffs inside a glass-makers bauble, each stratus and cumulus appears to have been intentionally crafted to show the dimension and life inside the cloud. The pagoda, which in itself is not entirely impressive, accompanied by the dozens of stupas pointing towards the heavens, seems to come close to its lofty goal of piercing the sky to rain down the wisdom of the gods. But most startling is the combined effect of all these elements to calm any restlessness brought on by the day and to reconfirm the things I love about this country. Then, usually, my proverbial thoughts are interrupted by a cow chasing me out of its pagoda territory.

Rest assured that every run ends with kids sashaying beside me, which then bleeds into a dance routine that the children try to copy. As of late, Annie Lennox’s “Walking on Broken Glass” is a favorite to strut down my dirt path home. And like the pied piper calleth, I round up the youngsters to follow in what feels like could break into a musical dance number bursting out in rural Cambodia.

There is a lot of down time as a PCV, and although during my settling- in weeks I was content with reading ‘til my eyeballs bled to pass the time, I needed to try at least some kind of projects to feel productive as a volunteer outside of work hours. I started with little things at first, like teaching my neighbor kids how to high five and pound the rock, which has proven to be rather successful with a few high five enthusiasts leading the pack now. I then spent a few hours cleaning the trash in front of the health center and counted 193 straws alone from what I picked up. The problem with this mini-beautifying project is that it’s very temporary. There are no qualms to littering in Cambodia and a serious behavior change would have to work its way into the community if there is any chance of making the idea of trash clean up sustainable among its members. I’ve taught one ballet class to interested girls, which I think went well, but the most enthused students were only home on vacation and have since returned to Phnom Penh. I’ve taught a few “hip-hop” classes so far as well. It’s hard to judge the level of success of this project considering I’ve kept the interest of a handful of girls but most of those who show up, even after some shameless pleading, revert to watching from the sidelines because of their shyness. My goals are realistic with this project-I’m not aiming for an Antonio Banderas Take the Lead storyline, nor am I exactly serving up the best hip-hop moves, but dancing is a passion of mine and I really wanted to bring that passion to a project. There are few, if any, outlets for creative expression offered up in the villages, and I thought it would be a nice change to add some swagger to the otherwise monotonous dance moves at parties.

If I’m not spending my work time at the health center, I bike from house to house throughout the trails and talk to whoever will have me for a moment about what the health center offers. I give a spiel about what particular circumstances would call for a visit to the health center, and clear up any misconceptions they might have. It’s been a great excuse to meet a bunch of my neighbors as well, as I started with houses on my running route and worked my way from there, and the information I jot down about families could end up being useful if I decide to apply for grants for my village in the future.

I’m currently moving towards starting an English/American Culture Club at the high school, and have made some connections with the director and staff of teachers through my many visits in attempts to understand the very confusing scheduling of classes. I spoke with the tenth graders about it already and hope to have the first meeting next week.

No matter how unproductive my day has seemed I can usually pull myself out of a funk by talking to some of my favorite villagers. My one-year-old neighbor baby, Bunya, who I joke is my sungsah (boyfriend) always warms my heart. He was scared of me when I first moved here, but now he shows affection by looking for my reaction when he does something funny, sharing his snacks and even kissing me on the cheek sometimes, usually followed by him hitting my face as well, but I’ll allow it because it started so sweetly. My ming (aunt) who lives across the street often gives me treats and jokes around with me, and I even cuddled with her after a long day in Kampong Cham. The yeay (grandmother) across the street loves to watch me dance, even if I’m being silly. My coffee lady always greets me with a smile and sits and talks with me when I stay at her shop on days when it’s not so crowded. My breakfast ming’s daughter has become quite fond of me and visits my house on occasion to drop off friendship bracelets she has made or to ask me questions from her English classes. My teacher-friend Bunya jokes around with me and makes me feel less foreign of a foreigner. My staff member (or, my favorite word in khmer because it sounds like a chicken clucking, my “bokalek”) has taken me in like one of his own children and has invited me to his daughter’s birthday party and has picked me up from Kampong Cham when I couldn’t find a ride back, has blown me away with his generosity and willingness to take me under his wing. And my mother and sister and I get in laughing fits sometimes about our cultural and language misunderstandings, feeding off of each other’s chuckles until we have to take a collective sigh to start breathing normally again. I like those moments best. These are “my people” in Cambodia. It feels good to have people.