Rice Drive

On Saturday I was able to join a group of people from our church to deliver rice and food to a very poor community. Their village was at the base of Oudong mountain, about 40 km outside the city of Phnom Penh. The families in this village were in desperate need of food – some hadn’t eaten in several days. As we drove along the red dirt road, men and women started rushing to the delivery point. The children were waving, and rode alongside us on their bicycles. Everything had been arranged in advance, so the people who were registered in the community were given a ticket and were expecting the trucks. When we got out of the cars, we were greeted by about thirty little smiling faces, singing, “Hello!” The children huddled around the visitors, some dancing, some showing off on their rusty bicycles, and some quietly lingering at the back of the mob. The kids were barefoot – some with clothes, some without – and their faces were marred with dirt and sweat. A couple had scabs on their heads and legs. But it was impossible to look at those things very long - I was introduced to some of the most beautiful children I’ve seen. They were excited to meet us and loved taking pictures, so we snapped away. I went over to the lines of people from the village, and sat next to some of the women. They seemed to look hard at first, but revealed warm smiles when I got close to them. I love moments like this… the women always speak to me, and though I don’t know what they are saying, I am able to connect with them for a moment. They waited patiently, squatting on the ground, checkered scarves on their heads or shoulders. We started moving the bags of rice from the truck – each family received a 30 kilo bag of rice (over 60 pounds) and a bag of other food items and water. Some of the bags were placed on the ground, but eventually I was able to carry the rice to their homes, and that was where I was really impacted.
A woman took my hand, and I walked with her. She led me to her small house made of metal sheets and wood. She had a wooden platform inside, which served as her bed and table, and there was a small place for a fire. She turned to me and smiled, then gently tapped her chest, indicating that this area belonged to her. She called to the man in the opposite house. He smiled and came over to us, lightly touching his hand to her arm. He was her husband. Then both of them pointed to one of their neighbors. They shook their hands, indicating that she had not received any food. She was on a wooden flat, making a basket. She looked up and smiled, but did nothing else. I returned to the trucks to get food for her, but the rations were reserved for people with tickets. I tried negotiating, wanting the woman to have something, but found there was nothing I could do. So I returned empty-handed and sat with her for a while, knowing that I could have given so much but wasn’t able to offer anything at that moment. I didn’t like that feeling. A couple people came who could speak Khmer, and I learned that she had to sell her home when her father died, leaving her off the list. She was also responsible for raising a little boy who had lost his parents. Then a woman approached with two eggs. She appeared to be quite old and was very thin. She came to offer her eggs to the woman who didn’t receive anything. A few minutes later, some people came back with bread and a couple cans of milk.
I was moved by such a spirit of community and generosity. They were taking care of each other – giving out of their own poverty. I was also slapped in the face with an unfair reality. And I stepped back for a moment, questioning the reason we do things. Obviously we came to this are because there was a serious need. As we distributed the rice, we took many pictures – some were taken to remember the experience, but I think we can also take them to honor our own efforts in helping the poor. I was taking pictures of people who were sitting in a very desperate place, asking for help. And they were grateful, gracious, and very appreciative, but I realized that sometimes we make ourselves out to be heroes … when the heroes are the people who are fighting to survive despite extremely challenging circumstances and an uncertain future. The real heroes were sharing the very little they had. I was impacted by their actions of love. And I don't mean to imply that we should stop giving our time, energy, money, or love, but I suppose I'm simply seeing it as my responsibility to give what I have without bells or whistles. My responsibility to give on a small scale, without a scheduled Saturday trip or a trip to a third world country.
I valued this experience, but not because I was able to contribute much. All I did was pack a few bags of rice (that someone else purchased). I was really honored to spend some time with new people - people who have maintained a genuine heart of love, humility, and generosity. I hope I was able to offer love in that moment as well, but as usual, I received far more than I was able to give.

Cr-eeepy

Worse things have happened to people – even to my friends here – but a couple recent events reminded me that I can’t get too comfortable. Cambodia is a safe place, but like anywhere in the world, danger exists. Sometimes I forget. I think I grew up in the safest town on the planet; wild animals were a greater threat than any person. I tend to carry that mentality with me, which is good because I don’t live every day in fear… but it’s not entirely realistic. (So to all my moms - I'll be more careful).
Most people in the city try to be inside by nine o’clock at night, just to be safe. The majority of my girlfriends have self-imposed eight o’clock curfews if they're alone. Well, I thought I could outrun anybody that looked scary, and that nobody would mess with a six-footer. Not so. After dinner with some friends I was riding back home along a pretty dark street. I only had to travel a few blocks, so I wasn’t worried. As I was pedaling, I heard a motorcycle slow down behind me. I clutched my bag with my right arm, knowing that sometimes moto drivers snatch purses. Instead of reaching for my bag, the driver put his hand on my leg, letting it run from my hip to my knee. It was a scary feeling – I just kind of froze, then screamed, “no… No, NO!” He looked me dead in the eye and smiled, then veered to the left at the cross street. A surge of panic hit me, but I was fine. Nothing else happened, and I was half a block from our villa. It was a scary moment, though. I felt paralyzed, and I was frustrated that I didn’t have control of the situation. It was a good reminder that I am human, that I don’t have power over the decisions other people make, and that some people are just kind of creepy.
Which leads me to the next odd experience. I’ve been staying with a friend for the week because her roommates are in the states on leave. We were working out on the roof outside her apartment - a little boot camp with Billy Blanks. About fifteen minutes into it, while we were doing some ridiculous leg kick, I noticed a guy sitting on the ledge of the house next door, about ten meters from us. The lot is vacant and dark – no idea why he was there – but he didn’t move, except to swing his legs over the edge of the roof. It would have been an easy jump to the base of our lot, even with the spiraled wire donned with razor blades in place. I don’t blame the guy’s curiosity – I’m sure he had never seen two white girls jumping around on the roof to the sound of a drill sergeant. There are also different cultural norms regarding personal space here… but it was still uncomfortable. So my friend went down and asked the guard to talk to him. I think he left, but I kept eyeing the water heater on top of the house just to make sure he wasn’t hanging out in the shadows. We walked down the steps afterward, discussing the possibilities of a man leaping across the roof – like a Matt Damon movie set in Morocco. Imaginations can make things much worse. But still creepy.

Ode to Sweat

I marvel at how people here can roam around with jeans and long sleeves and act like they are comfortable. When you get closer, it becomes clear that everyone is sweating. Beads of moisture are sitting on every forehead (I still have everyone beat, hands down – I have full on streams of sweat)… and comfort is relative. I think people just give up on the idea of dressing appropriately for the climate and sweat out their fashion statement. Go ahead and try to conserve energy. Test out that dinky paper fan. Invest in dri-fit. You'll still sweat. So it makes me think of Dr.Seuss... and I’m going to try my hand at poetry:
I will sweat in cowboy boots
In aqua socks or strappy shoes
I will sweat in shorty shorts
In linens, cottons, mesh, or courds
During church and at the school,
Water’s so hot, sweat in the pool.
I sweat in tanks, pajamas, skirts
Pit stains dominate all my shirts.
I sweat if I sit, I sweat if I stand
Doesn’t matter if I crank the fan
Typing alone – only fingers move
Sweat in every single groove.
Try to wear a lightweight tee,
But your only hope is to find A/C
So wear your jeans, your wool socks too
Either way, it'll get the best of you
Embrace the glow, love the stain
Calories don’t melt without some pain!

Goldstone Boot Camp

There’s no way to capture this moment in writing, but it was priceless. The ninth grade English curriculum touched on health and fitness, so I told the kids to wear their workout clothes the next day. The girls wear long navy blue skirts and white blouses daily, so breaking out of their uniform was exciting for them to begin with. I didn’t realize just how exhilarating a short aerobics class would be. A friend of mine came to help out, and because the girls were too embarrassed to exercise in front of the boys, we split them into two groups. We stood the benches upright against the classroom walls and turned our cramped little space into a miniature fitness center. First, I demonstrated how to do jumping jacks. They all started giggling – I never know why they’re laughing, so I’m accustomed to carrying on while they laugh. But I realized they weren’t laughing because I looked like a bouncing idiot (well, not entirely) – they were laughing because they had never seen this done before. I cranked some music through two small speakers, and they tried out their new move. They started jumping tentatively at first, slapping their hands together – then they sped up, awkwardly flailing and squealing like kids at a carnival. They were absolutely ecstatic doing the most basic PE warm-up. They were smiling and laughing and having so much FUN. Their laughter was contagious . Most looked like they were going to pass out after thirty seconds, breathing like they sprinted a lap around the track. Next came wall sits, and we finished with push-ups. They kind of looked like push-ups. Each new exercise brought the same excitement, and the boys had the same response…literally screaming with joy (and maybe a new kind of pain – squats just can’t be THAT fun). Their shirts were pasted to their backs with sweat (really, I sweat when I blink … working out in this hot, humid mess is crazy). I didn’t expect this kind of reaction during routine calisthenics –days like this are so great. And I learned quickly that even though not a single kid is overweight, they need more exercise.

Don't See That Every Day...

Yeah, yeah I do. I wish I had a camera in my pocket all the time, because these everyday occurences are still pretty funny. The other day I saw a monk smoking a cigarette… can they do that? They kick it at the mall with their cell phones, and pile on the back of motos. I see everything on motos (I know I talk about this a lot, but it really is hilarious) – I saw two guys carting a full size mattress a while back and wondered why I bothered renting a Uhaul the last time I moved, when I had a fully functioning ten speed. In fact, I’ve become so comfortable on the back of motorcycles myself that now I eat breakfast while we roll down the street. I jump on the back with my coffee and a cup of yogurt. The other day a guy came to the school to cut down dead palm branches with a big ol machete. He scurried up the tree in a matter of seconds, and soon coconuts were falling from the sky. Everyone celebrated by lopping the tops off and punching straws through the meat to get to the juice. I wasn’t finished with mine by the time I had to leave, so I was drinking from an enormous green coconut, swerving through traffic on the back of a beat up Honda. I also used to think it was funny when bunnies ran through the door of my classroom or birds flew in from the vents in the wall, but they have become frequent visitors. There’s also a constant stench of burning garbage, insense, and raw chicken in the room until lunch. Every day a man walks through the gate of the school with a giant block of ice on his shoulder – about a meter long, no plastic. They crush it in a pillowcase with a club and throw it in a cooler for the day. I still laugh at stuff all the time, but very little surprises me.

Stories from the Past

I didn’t know much about the dark past of Cambodia before coming here. I watched The Killing Fields before I left the states so I had some idea what their recent history was like, but it was nothing I had studied in school or researched for any purpose. Honestly, I don’t know if it would have meant much to me if I had, but now it does. The events that took place during the time of the Khmer Rouge are still very much alive in the minds of the people here; I haven’t met a single person from Cambodia who was not impacted in some way. As my relationships grow stronger and more trust is established, I’m hearing the true stories from people who lived it – the personal reflections of a real nightmare. I can’t even begin to understand, but I’ve been able to listen.

They begin to reflect as something stirs a memory. The other day it rained, and one of the teachers started to share. She spoke as candidly as I would if I were talking about jumping in puddles… but her story wasn’t lighthearted. It wasn’t a good memory. She was young during the time of Pol Pot – about five years old – but she was still expected to work. She ate next to nothing – a spoon of rice in the morning and a spoon in the afternoon. Her responsibility was to dig up buried human waste and mix it with the soil. She would shovel it into large baskets. The stronger people would bear two baskets with a stick across their shoulder, one in front and one behind. She was young, however, and could only manage one, which she carried on her head. They would walk the baskets of waste and dirt to the rice fields, where it was used as fertilizer. As the rain came down, the contents of the basket would drip down her face and body. She said it felt like it never stopped raining, and she didn’t dare stop working.

There are so many stories. One man shared at church the other day that he was found under a tree by a compassionate woman who took him home and raised him in her village. Another teacher at the school was left alone at two years old, only to be taken care of by her six-year old sister for months. They ate bugs from the ground and hid in caves on the banks of the river when they were scared. A man I have become good friends with was completely alone when his father died. He had to burn his father’s body by himself – nobody to help him, nobody to stand with him.

These people, my friends, are so resilient. They smile and love and laugh again as quickly as they can. But they don’t forget. And as a result, they don’t take their lives for granted. They are the most appreciative people I have ever met. I’m constantly inspired by their strength and their gratitude. It has helped me to see how blessed I am – I have been protected from war, from poverty and a lot of pain. I don’t know why, but I’m grateful for the safe, loving world I have experienced.

Tour de Cambodia

Khmer New Year was the third “new year” Cambodia celebrated, following the International New Year and Chinese New Year. I didn’t know much about the actual holiday or which calendar I was supposed to be following, but I did learn (only a couple days before everyone abandoned Phnom Penh) that I had a week of vacation to see as much of this country as possible. All of the Khmer people living in the city travel to their homelands in the province to visit family during this time. It was a special time for them, which made it a special time for me. I didn’t have much of a plan for the week, but I knew people who did, so I rode their coattails to Seim Reap and Sihanoukville. Two different friends, two different itineraries, and two cities in opposite parts of Cambodia. As a result, I spent more time on the Mekong Express than I did at any particular destination, but it was worth the travel time and the leg crunch that comes with being six feet tall in a five foot world.
The first leg of my journey started early Monday morning. I hadn’t even confirmed plans with my new friend, but I packed my bags, hoping she would be waiting with my ticket. I hopped on the back of a moto-taxi – my big purple backpack strapped to my shoulders, my messenger bag wedged between the legs of the driver, a plastic map in my left hand, and the rest of my coffee in a melting plastic cup in my right. If Cambodians can pack six people, two live chickens and a fifty pound bag of rice on a motorcycle, I can manage to travel this way too. We drove to the bus stop, where I met my friend and another traveling companion. We laughed at the idea that three people, all strangers really, would be spending three days together. It seems to be a common story here. We boarded the bus, and I spent the next six hours wishing I could shave five inches off of my femur.


The road to Seim Reap goes through the heart of Cambodia - in more ways than one. Not only did we travel through the center of the country geographically, we also wound through villages of multiple provinces, allowing us to get a very real look at the lives of the people living here. The majority of the Cambodian people live in rural areas, and most are extremely poor. Many rely on the support of relatives who have moved to the city – and though Phnom Penh is not a wealthy city, the people living and working there are rich by comparison. The houses in the province are very simple, just one room shared by generations. Many homes are perched on stilts to avoid the flooding that occurs during wet season. The roofs and walls are thatched, and the boarded floors still offer a view of the ground. Huge cauldrons collect their only source of water, a precious resource, especially now. We are in the thick of hot season – and that label is no joke. It’s hot. Everyone slows down a little as the sun snatches every electrolyte and drop of hydration. From the window, I could see people clinging to paper fans, spread out flat on their backs, trying to conserve as much energy as possible. The road was lined with small tables set up to display fruits and vegetables, spiders, coconuts and lotus seeds. Men and women waited all day for someone to pull over and purchase their goods, like kids at a lemonade stand. Palm trees created a canopy above the rivers and sections of the road, and fields sprawled across most of the land. Everything is so dry right now – the people, the cows and even the ground look thirsty.

That being said, once we arrived in Seim Reap and spoke with the owner of our guest house, we learned that April is, in fact, the worst time to visit – apparently rain forests don’t have the same wild, green, mystical look when there’s no rain. No matter. We were there, and we were determined to see the temples. We climbed one of the temples in time to see sunset, which was gorgeous. We were in good company, as about five thousand people had the same plan. The next day was full of temple crawling as well. Our goal was to see the sunrise as well, so we woke up around five o’clock in the morning. We spent too much time talking with our Australian guesthouse owner and his two birds and missed the first glimpse of the sun, but we were still the first people to arrive at Bayon Temple - a very cool experience. The three of us climbed around the huge stones and stared down the faces that looked us in the eye. It was absolutely silent except for the sounds of distant monkeys, geckos and birds. I felt like an archaeologist … and a little like Indiana Jones. I was kind of expecting a guy with a machete to jump out of a cavern. It was both serene and eerie. The moment of exploration ended quickly as people piled out of tour buses and the temples turned into a Disneyland attraction, and the rest of the day was just plain hot. By the time we made it to Angkor Wat –the pinnacle, the center of the park, the reason people travel to Cambodia - my brain was milk toast and my shirt resembled a locker room towel. So we took some pictures then found a pool. I have promised not to complain about the heat too much, but it had to have been over a hundred degrees most days - I don’t know what the humidity index was either, but the sweat on my shirt indicated that it was about 120%. My only statement: I hate the equator.
The second leg of my trip was refreshing. After another ten hours on a bus, I landed on the beach at Sihanoukville. I had been there already on a field trip, but making sure seventy-five kids don’t drown is not relaxing. This time I was able to order about fifteen coconut shakes (they were cheaper than bottles of water) and eat fresh barracuda. I think Jimmy Buffet would dig this place. The first day, we just lounged. Didn’t think, didn’t even move much – except to the neighboring restaurant for a plate of chips and salsa. By the next day, my friend and I were restless, and it was overcast (which was pretty nice), so we decided to play. We rented a moto from the hotel, and I became motodope driver for the day. I did a couple laps around the block before adding another person to the equation, but she trusted me for some reason and jumped on the back. We lurched down the road, and I had to keep my head on a swivel so I didn’t collide with a cow, another moto, or a tuk tuk going upstream. We stopped on the side of the road to fuel up – which means that we bought an old 1.5 liter Pepsi bottle filled with yellow fluid – and headed toward the beach. Parts of the road were washed out, and pot holes dotted the concrete, but my rides with Cruger prepared me well. We went kayaking for the afternoon - I was so happy just to be on the water and see some mountains in the distance. I loved spending time with Beate - we sat in the water eating fried rice, trying to figure out why life is so weird. Those are my favorite moments... pondering and wondering without finding any real answers. Then the next morning she rented a sailboat and taught me the ropes. It was great, but the idea of sailing in the Gulf of Thailand is a bit more romantic than it actually was – high temperatures, a rolling sea and a belly full of coffee and condensed milk is not a good combination. I was about two waves from throwing up in the beautiful Gulf of Thailand. I bailed from the boat about a hundred meters from shore and swam to solid ground. I don’t know why I subject myself to the ocean over and over again. I tried to eat squid salad afterward to cap off my week (ordered chicken salad… lost in translation or Cambodian prank?). The man driving the van back to the city kept waving his hand in front of his face and gave me dirty looks while my group of new friends tried to act like they didn’t mind the smell of my lunch. Not the best way to make friends. Seasick, cramped, and sweating, it was so nice to get out of Phnom Penh for a while, and have a few new adventures.