Stages of Relationships

Month One: Everyone is polite. Shy. All smiles and best behavior from both sides.

Month Two: More comfortable, but very little communication. We share the same space and are still very polite. “Hello” and “How are you? Fine, thanks, and you?” (every time). No problems. The students are still very well behaved. I eat alone at a large table because they want to respect my space. I want to join the other happy table, full of laughter and jokes and joy, but want to respect their space. On the outside looking in.

Month Three: I ask more questions and force myself into their circle. I sit in the middle of their lunch bunch, unable to understand a word… but there, all twenty of us at one table while the other remains unused. English classes open the door to comfortable relationships. They practice speaking English during the day and giggle, still embarrassed. I butcher simple words in Khmer. We laugh together.

Month Four: We eat mango on the steps and have real conversations – stories and worries and questions. We attend weddings together and eat meals together. I spend time in the homes of the teachers, and we share about our families – how much I miss mine, how much they miss theirs. Time together.

Month Five: Real relationships continue to develop. I walk into the school wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Pum says, “Oh, Molly, you look so handsome… ha ha ha.”
“Don’t you mean so beautiful?” I ask, flipping my hair.
“No, handsome – you dress like man. You not find husband, ha ha ha.” I act offended and pretend to hit him, but really love that we are on this level. It may be a little sad that I think real relationships exist when we start making fun of each other, but I love it anyway. The same guy makes a funny sound in his chair, and the teachers start laughing at him. He turns to me and asks, “How to say?” He stands up and, pointing at his rear, squats twice and says “toot, toot.”

Month Six: We are VERY comfortable with each other. I walk back to the kitchen to scope out the food scene. One of the cooks looks at me, says my name, and puts her arms out to the side, saying the word for fat. “What? You think I got fat??”
“Ha ha – Yes.”
I ask another teacher at the school if she thinks so too. She tilts her head. “Hmm. Yes, I think so.”
I run away. I try to come back the next day for soup, and a different cook holds her arms out in front of her, puffing out her cheeks. I scream and leave again, searching for a scale. Yes, two kilos (4-5 pounds) since January. Tough love. I am informed that they would not call me fat unless we were friends, and it’s actually considered a compliment. (“Fat is happy” they say.) My brother, bless his heart, assured me that I haven’t put on too much weight, and that he would notice because Carlsons carry weight in our faces. That’s true. But now I’m sitting further away from the camera during Skype sessions.
So yes, we are at a place of honesty - like family, right? Honest. And it is good for the most part.

Alright Already

I have wrestled with the decision long enough, and now that I have discussed it with my parents, it’s okay to talk. I have decided to return for another year of work at the school in Cambodia after my visit home. I don’t know if it’s crazy or not, but after trying to answer “why”… the best I can come up with is that it simply feels like the right decision. I was determined to head home for good and start looking for jobs… but I just don’t feel like my time here is finished. Maybe I have more to give to the students and staff at Goldstone, maybe I have more to learn about the country and the culture and the people living here… and maybe I just have more to learn about myself. I have been worried about impact, but a good friend helped me realize that we have an impact on the people around us just by living and loving and giving what we have...almost by accident sometimes. We can have impact anywhere. We simply make a decision where we are going to spend our efforts and our time. And I just need more time here... not becaue I don't want to be somewhere else. It has taken such a long time to build relationships with the teachers and kids at the school…I finally feel like I’m at a place where I can offer something. I’m not worried about how to get to school anymore or any of the other things I had to adjust to. I have a better understanding of the students - their levels, their abilities, and the weakness that need to be addressed – and I’m starting to get the education system here... not happy with it, but getting it. I’m not going to fix anything in a year, but I can contribute to a foundation on which someone else can continue to build. I’ve had to do a lot of learning first – not that the learning will ever end. So I’ll get to spend a month and a half at home – which is actually more time than I have had at home in a LONG time – and maybe even find a way to visit again next April during our short break. I’ll start saving pennies. Regardless, I can’t wait to get home now… only a month left! I’m excited to sit by the fire and swap stories with anyone who shows up in the backyard. I’m gonna plant myself by the river and soak up every ounce of love I can get.

Which Side Are You On?

I wrote about getting locked out of my house the other night… so today I had the opposite problem. I am house-sitting for my friends while they are on vacation – they have a flat with a great roof… plants and a view of the tops of every building in the city – and I need to learn a new system. I went down the eighty stairs this morning at quarter to seven to jump in my tuk, and the gate was locked. I didn’t think it was a problem - just busted out the brown key. Which didn’t work. Orange key didn’t work, and the other one only fit in the door of their apartment. I tried each key again and again… nothing. I saw Seopia, the guy who drives the tuk, on the other side of the gate. I yelled out that I was stuck, so he came over and tried to help – he reached his hand through the metal opening and tried negotiating the key in the lock from the other side. He did the same trial by error with the keys… but there were only two options. We both stood there for about ten minutes. The gates are high – no climbing over this one. I was hoping someone else would come out and rescue me, but it was an incredibly quiet morning. So I called the school, sheepishly, and let them know I would be late. Really, the stories I have to tell them – not stuck in traffic or lost my keys or ran out of gas – but I’m locked IN my house. I went back up the stairs and ate a proper breakfast since I had time, and Soepia kicked it with a cup of coffee at the sidewalk shop. It kind of makes me nervous, though – I started thinking of my fire escape route if I couldn’t get out of the gate (don’t worry, Morterud girls, I have a plan). I missed most of my first class, and they have instructions for tomorrow just in case. It was pretty funny – for one day. It could be a tiresome game after a while. But it made me laugh – because isn’t that the way life is? We’re either stuck on the outside looking in or the inside looking out… and we aren’t happy being stuck in either spot. Well, I got back in, so I get at least one more night on the roof. I’ll see if I get to spend tomorrow morning here as well!

The Last 24 Hours

I really almost got creamed by a cow yesterday. During 5 o’clock traffic, this huge beast of a thing was plugging through the intersection with his partner, pulling a giant cart of swinging orange clay pots. The carts and cattle never look like they are moving very fast, but nothing was gonna slow this unit down…certainly not a red light. I was on the back of a moto and had to duck so I didn’t go head to head with nostrils and a set of horns, and my bag moved along its chest. Really, not the normal commute. I was on my way to my friend’s house to deliver my backpack for them to use on their trip to Vietnam. She and her husband made me dinner and sangria, so we relaxed on the roof and enjoyed front row seats for the lightning show. The wind blew, and for the first time in a long time.. it felt cool. SO nice. I rode a tuk tuk back to our villa, but apparently didn’t make it home before curfew. It was just before ten – the door was locked, the lights were out. I could see the lights of our small apartment from the driveway, and I could hear the sound of Khmer sports commentators and the voice of my roommate cheering for the Switzerland soccer team. I tried to call her to let her know I was outside. Nothing. I texted her. Nothing. I called again… only a Cambodian operator. I tried calling my other roommate, but some man who couldn’t speak English answered the phone. I yelled from below during commercial breakes, then finally gave up. The guard at the house, Dara, thought it was hilarious. I kicked off my shoes and tried crawling on top of the big van that was parked below the balcony, but it was impossible. I really thought I was stuck until Dara pulled out a ladder. “Teacher, ladder!” he laughed. All ninety pounds of him held the bottom of the ladder while I climbed, wobbly and shaky, until I ran out of rungs. I pulled myself up to the lower ledge of the balcony, which was packed with dirt and moss, and I jumped the rail between two potted palms and knocked on the door. So funny. My roomie was scared by my surprise visit from our safe and secure upper patio, but I made it inside with enough time to kill three cockroaches in the kitchen and make some caramel tea. This morning I got to school and someone brought a small bag of roasted crickets… everyone asked me if I had eaten breakfast. The director said the big green grasshoppers tasted better, but these were not bad. Well, in that case. I can’t compare, of course, but crickets really aren’t bad. ONE. I think I was picking the legs out of my teeth during class, which is pretty gross.

Weddings

I really believe weddings are such a rich cultural experience. I have now been to three, though I can only tell you the name of one bride. At the first one I committed the offense of wearing a black and white dress. I was quickly and repeatedly informed that these colors were reserved for funerals. I learned my lesson and was more appropriately dressed for the second one. This took place in the province, and was probably the best experience. I traveled to the country with four of the teachers at the school, and they were really excited to feed me a breakfast of spiders and lotus nuts on the way. I knew we had arrived when I spotted the large pink and yellow striped tent. Almost every wedding is held in the same kind of tent, and they are set up anywhere they can find space… dirt lots, gas stations, the middle of the street. This one was in front of their house, covering tables, chairs, and a wall of about eighteen speakers. I recently learned that the music is not necessarily for the enjoyment of the wedding party and guests, but to announce to everyone within a ten kilometer radius that there is a wedding celebration. While everyone else endures ruptured eardrums. The bride was the sister of a teacher at the school, so we had VIP access to the house, which was nice. We climbed the stairs, changed our clothes, and ate fruit in a cozy little circle on the floor. I loved it. I was only there for a few seconds when my friend grabbed me and pointed to the pink envelope I brought. It was a gift for the bride and groom, though I didn’t know the appropriate time or place to present it. Well, now. She took me by the hand and led me through the back of the tent. The bride and groom were seated on the floor of a stage, the wedding party arranged beautifully behind them. Khmer music was blaring, and there was a constant rhythm of drums. My friend gave me instructions in Khmer and left me in a small line to the right of the stage, nudging me forward as she turned back to the house. There were many guests seated in front of the couple, and a photographer was snapping pictures as people presented their gifts. I panicked. I hadn’t seen this before, didn’t even know the names of the bride and groom, and suddenly I was at the front of the line. Some girl took pity on me, and led me to the stage. We knelt before the couple, and I imitated the girl’s actions, lifting pressed palms in front of my face after setting my folded envelope on the silk pillow. I was suppressing laughter, my natural reaction to uncomfortable situations. I realized, while I was posed on the stage, that I had forgotten to take off my shoes. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at every foot… shoeless. I’m sure I was only there for about 30 seconds, but it felt like a good twenty minutes. I searched for a familiar face or SOMEONE who would give me direction. Everyone just sat there with pasted smiles. So I got up escorted my size twelve sandals out of the tent, sweating bullets.
The third wedding presented an opportunity to sport my new Khmer attire. It was a long process to get things straight, but it was a hit among the teaching staff. A teacher’s wife is a tailor, so she was at the school one day to take orders. All of the women were flipping through magazines, cooing over the latest fashions. They all looked the same to me, and we concurred that the sheets of fabric would only make it to the middle of my shin anyway. I therefore decided to get a skirt with strips of traditional fabric sewn together – Khmer style with a twist. I selected four colors of fabric and hoped for the best. Well, it was my good fortune to have four different skirts made – one from each kind of fabric. I laughed, but said thank you, appreciating my many options. One of the teachers knew this was not the right idea, so demanded that I hand them back for correction and told the woman they were too big for me anyway. A week later, the skirt came back. Yes, it was very colorful and very tight and I was informed that the fabric I selected was ragged. I looked like a mermaid, and was afraid that if I sat down or bent over, the whole thing would burst into polyester and silk confetti. So it went back again for adjustments. The third time was a success, but then had the challenge of finding a top to work with an earth tone rainbow. I embraced the white puffy sleeves and ruffles and called it a match. Oh so Khmer. I decided to forego the hair and make-up and fake eyelashes, but I felt more culturally sensitive with my circus tent and big white bow.

Decisions

I have never been good at making decisions. My brother and I used to spend an hour in the candy aisle at Rice’s Mini-Mart deciding how to spend our fifty cents. Now the stakes are higher than ten Jolly Ranchers or a Snickers bar. I‘ve been faced with many “life” decisions. In the process of navigating my way through them, I’ve been exposed to my own character (strengths and flaws), and I’ve been forced to really examine my own beliefs, values, and dreams. Sitting in the middle of another culture has helped me in this process in unexpected ways. I haven’t written much about my personal mental and spiritual wrestling match, (and I will continue refrain from going into the deep trenches of my heart so you aren’t reading a Dear Abby column) but I will say that this experience is teaching me things about myself that I didn’t plan on learning. This is the most significant part of the journey – the fried spiders and bus rides and rainstorms are fun, but the shaping of my mind and heart is really at the core of this experience. That’s the tough stuff, the beautiful stuff, the powerful stuff.
I left for Cambodia with a definite seven month plan and the possibility of extending that commitment if things were working for me and the directors of the school still wanted me around. I assumed (cannot do that …ever, ever, ever) that I would cross that bridge toward the end of the school year, but was faced with the decision about a month after arriving. As a result, I have been wrestling with the idea of committing another year to Cambodia since the end of February. It may not seem like a big deal, but it has been for me. For three months I have been falling asleep and waking up to a mental list of pros and cons. I’ve been contemplating conflicting dreams, and have become so frustrated that I can’t have my cake and eat it too. I want to continue to work in a developing country AND establish deep roots with my family and friends. Obviously both can’t happen simultaneously unless twenty people move to Asia or there is a global shift that propels Cambodia to the coast of Washington (which would be nice because the temperature would drop a good thirty degrees). The most difficult decisions are those without “right” answers. They force me to ask a billion questions. Am I really having an impact here or is this a selfish feel good experience? Will my relationships with the people I love hold up if I am away for an extended period of time? Am I using my talents the right way? I’m wired for this kind of life – it works - but am I being responsible? If I stay, does it mean that I’m signing up for another year in the singles club? Really, I’d rather not be a member anymore. And the big questions – have I given everything I can? Have I learned everything I should? Is my time here finished? I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to say yes.
I’ve been able to examine my motives for making decisions; am I pleasing people? Myself? God? Am I even really listening to His voice? Being part of the Khmer culture has helped me look some things in the eye. This is a culture that likes to look good. They want to save face at all costs, and they are constantly seeking approval. It is most visible to me in my classroom. They will not answer a question unless they are sure they are right. They look up with eyes that long for affirmation. I find myself jumping up and down, yelling, “Just try!” I beg them to be wrong- to feel good about their ideas, regardless of what others think. I plead with them to be more honest, even if it doesn’t look pretty. And recently it hit me square in the face that I can be the exact same way, and I’ve been paralyzed as a result. I can be very independent, but I am also easily swayed by emotions. I worry that my family will feel hurt if I stay. I worry that the teachers will feel neglected if I leave. I still want my parents to approve, my friends to understand, and my brother to agree with my choices. But life doesn’t work that way.
Applause fades quickly. Eventually we’re all left standing alone, looking in the mirror. And that’s kind of scary too. I want to spend myself on something I believe in. I’m learning in a very real way that I have to make decisions I can live with – whether or not they make sense to someone else. Even if others do see the same things, it’s viewed through a different lens. My purpose and perspective may be very different than that of the person standing next to me. Two different minds, two hearts that come alive in different ways. And that’s more than okay – I think it’s necessary. We’ll be used in different ways as a result. I simply have to be okay making decisions that others may not agree with or understand. On a personal level and a spiritual level. So now I need to heed the advice I have been giving to my students. The decisions aren't necessarily easier, but they can be simplified. Before I left, my dad wrote something on a card that I have read over and over. It said, "Keep true to yourself no matter how much advice people are willing to offer." I'm trying to figure out what that means when I'm torn between two worlds. But I'll try.

Mmmmm...

I lied before. There is still a lot that surprises me. Today I was going out to the kitchen to get some water and talk with the cooks, and for the first time, I was really disgusted by food prep. I get the spiders, I get the random organs in the soup, and I slurp down the brown sqares of blood that jiggle around like jello. I have also eaten pig skin in soup and found it to be pretty tasty. But today I watched one of the women pluck the hairs out of the skin of a pig, which was draped over a basket like a pink baby blanket. It looks very different in lemongrass broth, so I'll probably forget this process by noon tomorrow - I just didn't realize that they bought sheets of hairy skin for lunch. The other day they roasted up some baby frogs. I've had frog legs before, which taste a lot like chicken, but these little guys went down one at a time and had a different flavor. The crunch of a potato chip, but the texture of shrimp. Or frog. It is what it is, I guess.

Today it's raining, and I just want to dance in it. It's light - nothing like the flooded street we rode our bikes through - but enough to cool this place down a little bit. The thunder is rolling and the kids are huddled under small umbrellas and a metal roof between classrooms. All of the cockroaches ran through the window to find cover as well, but I'm accustomed to their company - they are breeding in the corner of our kitchen too. I'm left wondering why they don't throw those guys on the BBQ, but I won't ask. I'm sure I've already unknowingly consumed a couple.