Monday, December 25, 2006
A Cambodian Princess and Christmas Music
My cousin Ted has been messing with me all week long about the gift he got for me, "Oh, you're just going to love it! I can't wait to see your face when you open the gift," and so on. Last night, while we were all sitting around the Christmas tree opening gifts, I came across THE gift, Teddy's gift for me. I tore into that thing like I hadn't done to a Christmas present since I was a kid. I couldn't believe it when I saw it. It was a Barbie doll.....wait for it.....not just any Barbie doll. It was a "Barbie's of the World" Barbie. What's really great about this is that I had seen an exhibition of "World" Barbies at the airport in Singapore last summer on the way to India. That had always stuck in my mind...all those Barbie's in the glass case looking so glamorous and elegant. For once, Barbie dolls made sense as a kind of cultural toy (instead of just this skinny, little blond girl with big boobs giving little girls complexes about what a "girl" looked like). And there it was: my Cambodian Princess doll dressed up in traditional Khmer garb and posing like a regular Cambodian Apsara dancer. How beautiful. What a wonderful gift! I couldn't believe my cousin had gotten me such a wonderful present. It made me feel like he understood how important that trip was for me. It was exactly the gift I didn't know I wanted to receive. It was perfect.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Catching Up and Slowing Down
The flights from Seoul into the States were the most annoying ones of the entire trip. And, with the holidays and the heightened security of the U.S. airports, I expected nothing less. I made it to the gate in Chicago just in time to catch my last flight home to Orlando, only to arrive there and realize that no one was there to greet me. Oh well. I'm a big girl. I can get my luggage and drag it outside all by myself and call my ride to remind them to come get me. As soon as I pulled my luggage out to the street (because the Orlando airport is the only airport in the world that makes you pay for a luggage cart!) my dad pulled up in his big Ford truck, which was really bizarre, by the way. He got out, we hugged, he grabbed my bags and threw them in the back and I opened the passenger side door and climbed in. And that was the beginning of me wanting to be back in Cambodia.
After a few days of being home, I realized that this was going to be more difficult than I thought. I was sleeping during the day and up at night. My family, of course, wanted to spend time together as soon as I got back, so I spent a lot of time walking through restaurants and houses looking like (and feeling like) a complete zombie. Last night, two weeks to the day of my leaving Siem Reap, was the first night that I slept on a more normal schedule (10pm-7am). WAHOO!!!! I did it!
Well, in between my arriving in Florida and this morning, I have not exactly gotten this all figured out. In fact, I'm terrified of living in this place again after being in Cambodia. Make no mistake, it's been wonderful seeing my family. But I changed in Cambodia. I'm more my own person now. And having the same kind of conversations with people that I had before I left for Cambodia, it just doesn't work anymore. I'm not judging the people. I'm judging the quality of my own life here against what it was just a few weeks ago. And I know I'm in complete control over that. But there is a difficulty in the people in your life not understanding...there's something difficult about returning to a place where everyone expects you to be the same person you were before you left and treating you the same and wanting to have the same kinds of conversations, when you have changed. I don't want to walk backwards down the road I'm walking on.
I had a dream last night that I was back in Cambodia. But, for some reason, I didn't know what to do. Then, I realized, I needed to get back into the hospital. I could just walk back in there and start working again. And this feeling of relief came over me. Then I woke up, took my hot shower (which I'm realizing that I don't like as much as I thought I would), and sat down in front of my computer to try and reconnect, through words, to the place that I have left...the place where I left the better part of myself.
Seoul Soup
So, I officially left Cambodia two weeks ago today. I remember when I left that I was sad to be leaving, excited to be heading to South Korea to see Aldrin (my boyfriend). The flights all went smoothly to Seoul. I was there around 8am and Aldrin was there to greet me. It was great to see his face. It was like a fairytale, the first four days we had together. We went out for dinners and I got to meet his co-workers/friends and we went to the Seoul Art Center to see an exhibition on Man Ray (and Robert Frank, Garry Winogrand, Bill Brandt, Brassai). It was wonderful. I had fallen in love with Aldrin all over again when he came to Cambodia. And Seoul was no different. Then I made a big mistake and went to the Seoul airport to head back to the states a long 28 hours before my flight actually left the country. So....I got back on the bus toward Anyang to return to Aldrin's apartment. I arrived (which, frankly, I can't believe I found the place) around 5pm and knocked on his door. He wasn't home, so I decided the only thing that I could really do was wait for him to come home. It was cold. I propped my luggage up against his door and took a seat on the stairwell of the apartment building. For three hours, people walked passed me, up and down the stairs. No Aldrin. My fingers and toes had become numb by this point. I realized that sitting there any longer was going to be bad for my health (I had been getting up periodically and walking outside and then back in to keep my blood flowing). I had seen a small, corner restaurant that looked warm and as though it may serve soup, so I eventually decided to leave my bags sitting outside Aldrin's door and go across the street to the almost empty establishment. I grabbed my important documents and objects (i.e. passport, flight tickets, money, credit card, camera, hard drive-which had all my images from Cambodia on it, etc.) and walked out of the building. I entered the restaurant and took off my shoes where all the other shoes had been abandoned on the floor. I could instantly feel my face beginning to thaw from the warmth of the place. I scuffled my feet across the floor over to a table and sat down on the hardwood floor. There were only four pictures up on the wall and since I couldn't read or speak Korean, and no one in there could speak English (or maybe they just weren't willing to, I don't know), I pointed to the bowl with the red broth that looked like it had noodles in it. A few minutes later, The warm broth arrived along with about ten side dishes of different things one could add into their soup. I picked up the chopsticks and poked through the bowl. My inspections revealed many different species from under the sea, so I decided it was a seafood medley. There were chunks of fish, squid, seaweed, etc. in the bowl. I thought, "How great! I'm a vegetarian and I chose the seafood! This is perfect!" So I began to eat. And the broth was so warm that I had to keep blowing my nose and dabbing the water from my eyes (which I'm sure the other patrons really appreciated and found appetizing). As i was eating, I submerged my chopsticks in the broth and pulled them back out to find that I had fished for something that didn't look "fishy". I had a hunch for what it might have been, but I put it in my mouth, nonetheless, and bit down. Yep, it was brain. Now, brain of what, I didn't know. It was small, but I began to realize that maybe fish didn't have brains, and if they did, they surely were not as large and as defined as this one. Still, trying to bring my body temperature back up, I took another bite. It really wasn't half bad to tell you the truth. And, to be honest, I've eaten a lot worse. Soon after I took another bite, I realized that, by looking at the part of the brain (or whatever it was) still hanging on the chopsticks, I could see what appeared to be a brainstem. That was it. I was done. No more for the vegetarian (who eats dog AND brain, apparently).
I paid the bill and walked back across the street. As I entered the door of the apartment building and rounded the first set of stairs, I could see my luggage still sitting outside of Aldrin's door. AHHH!!! That meant that he was still not home. It was around 9pm at this point. I sat back down on the stairs and repeated my earlier routine of sitting, standing, then walking outside (half looking for Aldrin, half trying to get my blood flowing again). Armed with only my zip-up hoodie (because it wasn't exactly cold in Cambodia and I'm just that smart to forget completely that Seoul might be cold in December), I really began to feel the night's cold. Around 11:30pm a girl that lived upstairs came in the front door of the building and almost walked right into me. She said she was sorry. She spoke English!! Thank god. Okay. But she went as quickly as she came in. "Damn! I'm going to be out in this cold all night," I thought. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps coming down from the stairwell above. It was the same girl equipped with a blanket, some hot tea, and her cell phone. I had tried to call Aldrin earlier from a payphone type of thing, but I had a hard time figuring out how to work it (yeah, I'm a genius). So the girl asked if I had Aldrin's cell phone number and I gave it to her. She called a few times. No answer. Then she told me there was an empty apartment right above Aldrin's that the tenants had moved out of just that morning. She took me upstairs and let me into the vacated room. I laid the blanket out on the floor and sat down. Before I knew it, the door was opening and I was waking up from a pretty deep sleep....probably a coma. It was Aldrin. "What the hell happened??!!? Why didn't you call me??!?!" I gave him the story, told him I tried to call. Then we walked down to his apartment and I fell asleep as soon as I got inside.
I woke up a few times in the night and looked over to see him awake. I wondered why he hadn't been asleep and thought maybe it was because there were two people shoved onto a bed that was made, really, only for one. I fell back asleep. He woke up really early and took off for the gym. A few hours later, after I had showered and gotten dressed, he returned to the apartment. He got ready for work and we said goodbye (again) and he left. A few hours after that, I got back on the bus toward the airport and a few hours after that, I boarded the plane into Chicago. And that was Seoul.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Seven Hours
It is exactly seven hours before I head to the airport and, eventually, board the plane to go to Seoul and see Aldrin. It's really happening. It's all coming to an end. I don't really know what else to say right now. There's not much to say. Everything is done. I am going to the hospital this afternoon to do some last minute things: give a gift to Sinath and one to Sockaan and a letter to the Executive Director thanking him for the amazing experience I've had, return the cell phone the hospital loaned me for three months and say goodbye to the kids. Everything is packed and sitting in one small spot in my big, now empty room. Every space I'm in right now seems empty, but I feel so full. And I'm very happy to be going home and seeing my family and friends. So it's difficult to be too sad. But there is a definete part of me that is experiencing the lamentation of goodbye.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Photography Exihibition and Bill Clinton!
The exhibition is up! .....with a little trouble and a lot of help, the photo project that I worked on with the kids at the hospital is now gracing the walls outside the In-Patient Department. I felt so accomplished when that grid of images finally went up onto the wall. For a moment, I thought it would never happen. And with only two days left at the hospital, it was just in time. Also, the children got to see the photographs that they took blown-up to a large size and displayed, which, frankly, was one of the coolest things I've ever seen (the kids' reactions). It was about a "Day in the Life" of the children. It was a chance for them to finally get some real art therapy and express the way they feel about being in that place at this time in their lives. It was beautiful. And it was only sheer moments after the successful installation that Bill Clinton came walking through the doors of the hospital. He was a good-looking man, but I expected him to seem larger-than-life, for some reason, and he did not. He looked like any man I'd ever seen (except, of course, for the fact that I recognized his face). He greeted some of the children and spoke with the executive director of the hospital about procedures and problems of having this kind of a facility in a place like Cambodia. It was interesting to hear the small bits of their conversation. He left as suddenly as he came. And as soon as he walked out the door, Sinath (play specialist) was telling me how beautiful she thought he was. Soon, all the Cambodian female nurses and staff were talking about how much they enjoyed just looking at him. It was hilarious. I loved being a part of that moment with them. The experience of seeing Clinton for the first time was so much more enhanced because I got to do it with these people.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
One Party, Four Days and 150 Goodbyes
I feel .....Something. This experience was ......Something. I am in a space that I can't quite explain. I'm ready to go home. Ready to see my family. I have four days left. Four days to make things right, to laugh the laughs, to dance with friends, to drink Angkor Beer, to reminisce with the people who understand, to take pictures, to paint ceiling tiles, to play with the kids, to talk with the staff, to be misunderstood, to misunderstand, to walk through the Wat, to listen to the monks chant at 6am, to sit on the side of the road and watch the slow and beautiful Cambodian life pass me by. Last night was my first and only breakdown so far. I think I had gotten so ahead of myself, getting excited to come home, and I didn't realize right away what I was leaving behind. This is the end of this experience. And the end only ever exists to usher in a new beginning, but this ending is the most powerful one I've ever tried to bring to a close.
I spent most of yesterday partying with 149 people...staff and volunteers from the hospital. We were celebrating. It was a time for us all to come together and rejoice in the fact that we simply knew one another...that we were all in the same place at the same time and how wonderful and precious a thing that is. We drank....everyone drank. And no one can drink quite like the Khmer...which is kind of hilarious because they are all drunk after one beer, but they just keep on drinking. A few hours in, after the meal and a lot of beer, we were having egg races and playing other games you would only really think to play as a child. The really beautiful thing is that we were all playing because we wanted to, because we were having fun, because we were truly enjoying each other and that time together. We danced the traditional Khmer dance in a circle around a table. Did I mention that we laughed? Alot? We stayed there for hours. The volunteers were the last to leave, and I think, rightfully so, as we will be the first to go. Our place here is so impermanent and so temporary, it's difficult to know really how much you are doing for a place like this, for people who know how to live so much better than you do. But I've done what I could. I hope. I pray that I've done something good for this hospital. I know I've done something insurmountable for myself. Making the choice to come here was the smartest thing I've ever done, even though, at times, I really thought otherwise.
I am so grateful, and so saddened, and so healed all at the same time...in a way that I never expected or planned on. I'm leaving here a different person than when I came. And I don't ever want to go back.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Giving Thanks and Getting Seoul
It wasn't really Thanksgiving. I mean, we are in Cambodia, after all. I felt a little silly for celebrating Thanksgiving here when, at the same time, I'm taking advantage of celebrating the Khmer holidays as well. But, I did say I was going to start celebrating every thing...every reason. So here I am - in Cambodia - and happy to say that four of the volunteers (myself included) went out for a fancy meal at Chambey's on November 24th. We all sat around and told what we were thankful for...(just kidding. We didn't do that). Why do we need to SAY what we are thankful for? Isn't it obvious? Two and a half months ago, it wasn't so obvious to me. Today, yes, I know better what is important in life...in my life. Working at the hospital...there's no need to tell the others who are working there with me, what I am thankful for. We are all thankful for the same things and we know it. Words are unnecessary, they are overrated (sometimes).
I'm sitting here, almost one week after our Southeast Asian Thanksgiving celebration, looking out onto the street, watching the sun set over Siem Reap and I can't believe I only have thirteen more days here. My body is beginning to recoil from the grip of this place, but it feels a little strange...even the thought of leaving. Part of me knows I may never return. And part of me has been checking out a little early. I mean, I've been working a lot with the kids lately. We've been doing really fun things...photo projects and painting. But I see myself leaning back a little, not wanting to be as attached to the kids as I have been for the last two months. I think it's kind of a pointless effort. And it's not really even an effort, because...well, I was watching Sinaath (the art therapist at the hospital) read a book to a young girl that I had been sitting with earlier in the day. I moved over toward the bed and sat next to the girl. She was sprawled out on her side and obviously in pain. I couldn't see her face because she was watching Sinaath read as well. I kept looking over at the girl's mother and she returned a smile every time I glanced her way. Eventually, the girl turned far enough for me to see her face. She had been smiling the whole time she was listening to Sinaath's story. I mean, it's a moment like that that just breaks your heart and completely heals you at the same time. This girl is, justafiably, in so much physical pain, but all she needed was for someone to pick up a book and read to her. It's moments like those that I had never experienced before coming here. Part of me wonders if I will ever have moments like those again after I get on that airplane from Siem Reap to Seoul. And then, I think, you know, those moments are everywhere all the time. Maybe I just never paid attention to them before.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
The Eyes Have It
I was told on Thursday afternoon that the hospital needed me to photograph a surgery for them that would be taking place the next morning. It was an eye surgery. I thought, "Oh god, I don't know if I can photograph this." I'm one of those people that can't watch my friends put their contacts in. Oh, man. But I wanted to have the experience of seeing an eye surgery, so the next morning, I went for the 10:30am surgery in the OT. I saw the young girl sitting outside the OT doors, waiting to be prepped and operated on. She didn't look scared. She just sat there. The doctors came out from behind the doors and circled around her, asking her questions, then moving her up onto the gurney. I put on some scrubs and walked into the room. The girl had already been sedated. The doctor was putting on his white latex gloves when he looked over at me standing in the corner with my camera around my neck. He looked at me and said, "You also have a strabisma," (loosley translated, he was referring to my lazy eye). "Yeah." "Well, why haven't you had surgery yet?" "Oh, I did when I was 5, but it didn't work." "Why didn't you try again?" "Well, other eye doctors told me the surgery wasn't covered under insurance because it was purely cosmetic." "No, it's reconstructive surgery. I do adult strabismas all the time and I get insurance coverage for all of my patients. It's just semantics, the way you write up the paperwork." "Oh." "Where are you from in the states? I know a lot of good eye doctors who do adult strabismas and I can refer you to one in your area." "I'm from San Francisco." To which the doctor handed me a card and replied, "Here's my number in San Francisco. Call me in Jan. and you can have the surgery by March."
I stepped back into the corner and the surgery on the little girl began. I watched the doctor cut into the girl's eyelid. I watched the blood pour from her eye. I photographed for what felt like forever (but maybe was about 15 minutes, in reality) and I began to sweat. All of a sudden, my camera got heavy. Really heavy. I pulled the camera down from my eye and turned my head. The room kept spinning around me. I was about to pass out. I moved my feet toward another observer in the room who was doing nothing to operate on the girl. He saw me, grabbed my shoulders, turned me around and walked me out of the room. He was really nice. He sat me down and I found out he was a friend of the eye doctors. They were in the rotary club together back in San Francisco. His name was Eric and he works at Wells-Fargo back home. He took me to check-up on the kids they had already taken to recovery from other surgeries earlier that morning. I just stayed sitting. I was still a little out of it. Eventually, they wheeled in the girl that I had seen during surgery. Needless to say, I didn't see the eye doctor again before he was to leave that afternoon to go to Bangladesh. I found out that the team of doctors that worked with him at the hospital were going to pick him up from his hotel and take him to the airport, I jumped in the backseat of the Land Cruiser and rode along to the hotel. When we got there, the doc was standing outside with his luggage. I got out of the car and walked up to him. He smiled and asked if I was ok, because he had seen me get ushered out of the OT room. He hugged me and told me he would see me in San Francisco. This doc was so genuine. A really cool guy and I'm stoked that I've finally gotten some questions answered about the possibility of having surgery.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Hoo-ray for Ma-lay(sia) and Team Pangkor
When the sun comes up in Kuala Lumpur and brushes the faces of the Petronas Towers, you know you are seeing something that no one really deserves to see, but there you are, looking right at it. There is no place like Malaysia...no place I've ever been, anyway. One night in KL then a taxi ride to Pangkortown and a ferry on to Palau Pangkor (the island). And there I am. There I am with three friends and white sands and warm sun. We dropped our bags and ran for the shore. A perfect day (even Lou Reed would've been satisfied) on the seas of the equator. The water was warm, even hot in parts. We rented kayaks and headed for the coves and hidden beaches. We swam all day and into the dark and dream-filled night. Bottles of wine and one of tequila (just for me), lots of laughter, light-hearted and soulful conversations with good friends, plenty of time to think and plenty of time not to. Pangkor Island was good to me. It gave me a break from the heat of Siem Reap. It renewed my visa (and reset my mind). The silence, the noise, the sunset, the rain, the exploding sky, it was all there on Pangkor Island.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
The Waiting Game
Watching a mother watch her child die is something I never thought I would ever have to do. And, for some reason, the possibility of having to do that eluded me completely when I was back in the States trying to think ahead about what might be difficult about working at a children's hospital. Funny, huh? I mean, I guess it's pretty obvious. But I was thinking more about how it would be to have to see a child admitted into the hospital and then come for work the next day to find out that they had passed away.
But to become friends with a parent, and spend time with him/her for more than a month while their child goes through peaks and valleys of being sick, gaining and losing weight, in and out of the ICU, off and on the defribulator: it's a very different thing. You begin to wonder how much can happen before the parent breaks. And the strength of these people is astounding. But I guess that is the thing about a parent and their child. A parent can withstand anything when it comes to doing what they need to in order to help their child survive (whether in the Western world or here).
It is finally really getting to me. I am constantly thinking about what is happening...about whether or not I will come in to the hospital the next morning to find a bed empty. It breaks my heart, but in a strange way, because it's not really my broken heart to be had. And I turn and watch these parents, and, if my whole body could be heartbroken for them it would be. Selfishness aside, I'm lost for how to feel, for what to offer. I rub the mothers' backs, I say what I can (my speech is so limited in times like those), I search for a way to connect, to do what I can...otherwise, why am I here? Why are any of us here? And what can you do for a parent who speaks a different language than you and is struggling to hold himself/herself together for the fight of their child's life? What do you say?
I take pictures. It's becoming more and more difficult to get the camera out. But I get it out. And when I hand a print to a mother or father of their child, they don't tear up at the sight of their baby on a hospital bed with tubes coming out of him/her. Instead, they smile. They put their hands together and bow towards me, offering their thanks. It means something to them. And that means something to me.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
personal reflections #3
Sometimes I feel like I'm shouting, but no sound is coming out. Sometimes I feel like the world is standing in the shadows, even with so much light around. Like I'm sinking for trying to swim. And all this crying, it's just going to dry us all out. So what do we do? How do we make a positive impact on the world when the world is so big and we are so small? Sometimes life feels like this. And, sometimes-really most times, it's the smallest of us, who moves the mountain. And by "small," I mean, the child sitting in a bed who is nine months old but weighs about 11 pounds.
Where am I going wrong? I think of all the things I would like to see change and now I'm wondering why I never did anything to try to make that change happen. Sometimes, I think we underestimate ourselves....the things we can teach, ...more importantly, the things we can learn, if we are open to it.
Dah Goes Home
The doctors decided that Dah had been at the hospital long enough (she's been taking care of her younger brother who is malnourished and has AIDS...there are no parents...no mother and the father is in the last stages of TB/AIDS and is dying at the Referral Hospital in town). I went in this afternoon to sit in on rounds and check on a few patients who have been at the hospital for as long as I have been in Cambodia. One of the children, who's mother I absolutely adore (the mother with the biggest smile ever!), was moved from the In-Patient Department (stabalized children stay there) to the ICU (intensive care). His pneumonia has advanced and they have him on a defribulator. The mother looked defeated. It was really heartbreaking to see her that way. No more smiles. Just sitting there by his bed looking tired and worried. I hugged her and she gave a small smile. Then, eventually, we made it around to the LAU (where Dah and her younger brother, NY, had been staying in bed #6). I looked to bed #6 and there were two strange bodies in the bed. A mother and her grown child. I was instantly panicked. What had happened? I just spent two hours with Dah the day before. I asked the LAU nurse if they had gone home. "Yes," he said. They discovered that the sister (Dah) could administer the HIV medications perfectly and so they sent them home and she would continue to care for Ny. My heart sank. How could she have left? How could I have not been there to say goodbye? I still have pictures to give to her. Where is her home? Will I ever see her again? Or will I spend the rest of my life wondering what has happened to her and her brother? She was my best friend at the hospital. She was a great friend. So I will ask the homecare team to take me along if they ever go to do a "follow-up" visit on her brother. I want, at least, to say goodbye.
Indiana Jones and Kaoru's Crusade
What do you get when you take four volunteers and give them some motos and a day off from work? I'll tell you....you get four "barang" driving two hours out of the city to find the long lost temple of Bung Melea (a.k.a. "the Indiana Jones" temple). Kaoru (my partner in crime), Lena, Isaiah (my san francisco buddy), and myself motoed out to the ruins in the jungle together. However, Kaoru, who drives a scooter back home in tokyo to work everyday, decided to drive her own moto. So, with Lena on the back of Kaoru's ride, and Isaiah and I on the back of our own experienced drivers' motos, we took off in seaerch of adventure. Two hours through the Cambodian countryside is an experience in and of itself. There's nothing like the color green that exists out here in the rice paddies. For me, it never gets old...seeing that bright, vibrant green that I've only ever seen in the most skilled of paintings. Looking back from my moto, I could see Isaiah waving and Kaoru and Lena about a mile or so back with the biggest grins on. When we finally reached the ticket booth, all of our butts were sore. Although, I think Kaoru was on such a high about having driven a moto in Cambodia, that she couldn't really feel anything anyway.
Five dollars and a VERY short moto ride later, we were standing at the entrance to a monstrous pile of boulders and stones that have rested there for centuries. By first look at the temple, it definetely looked like a place that Indy would be roaming inside of looking for buried treasures. We walked in, the four of us and a guide that we acquired (without realizing it), up the first few boarded steps into the temple. Soon after the first few easy steps upward, we began climbing over boulders that were so large, I had a difficult time getting my 5'4" body up over them (what can I say? I have short legs). Kaoru was pretty overcome by fear when she realized how high up we were going. It was not a climb for those terrified of heights (as Kaoru is). But she kept climbing, and with a little help, she made it up and over. It seemed to me that she was accomplishing quite a bit and that she, in fact, is much more brave than she lets on. It's things like that that inspire me....seeing someone, a friend, overcome a fear, or, even more, stare it in the face and just keep going. Because make no mistake, Kaoru is still afraid of heights...just as much as she was before she made the climb. BUT, she made the climb. And she will do it again and again is it means seeing something beautiful on the other side, or experiencing something new.
That's just it. We are all too afraid of the things we don't know. Some people are afraid and they do them anyway...maybe because they're brave, but I think it's mostly because they're a little bit crazy. And some people don't even think twice about ever going through with the change. But change is important. Maybe, the most important thing. I think of all of the concerns I had before coming out to Cambodia, and now I look at myself in the mirror and know I will never be the same. And it was because I took a chance. And if I keep taking chances, maybe I'll keep changing, keep evolving, keep surprising myself at the things I'm capable of. And when I am learning, that is when I become a better teacher. And that's really what it's all about...right? yeah.
1,000 Lingas and The Waterfall
I had been hearing about K'bal Spean since the day that I arrived in Siem Reap. It was supposed to be this wonderful hike through the jungle which culminated in a view of a beautiful waterfall and an amazing riverbed of 1,000 lingas (carvings in the actual riverbed of hindu dieties and symbols). And let me tell you, I'd been putting off going for absolutely no reason really. Last weekend. when my friend Aldrin was in town, we decided it was time to take the two hour trek out of Siem Reap, into the rural countryside, to hike through the jungle and see this "amazing site." And to be completely honest...it was possibly, the most unbelievable thing I've ever seen. It was breathtaking.....unreal. Underneath the clear, rushing water flowing down from the mountain's peak, were hundreds of carvings in the bed of the river. It was fascinating. After photographing the carvings, we walked further down stream to where we could hear the rush of the waterfall. We rounded the corner and saw a small waterfall dumping water onto more carvings in the riverbed below. We enjoyed the view for a few moments, taking pictures (I was wishing I had my journal or a book, because this was the perfect place to find a seat and just be quiet).
I looked up and Aldrin had found his way to the other side of the river. When I inquired as to how he got across, he pointed to his feet and smiled. I rolled up my pants and started to walk through the water (which was covered with hovering mosquitos of massive proportions). The water was cold and the initial shock was so intense that I didn't realize that one of my sandals had fallen off of my foot and been carried down the river by the strong current. I screamed! I thought to myself, "Oh great. I'm in the middle of the friggin' jungle, and I'm going to have to hike back through with only one sandaled foot." I began running downstream after my sandal. My pant legs came loose and fell down into the freezing water. I yelled at Aldrin who was laughing pretty hysterically by this time, and he came running from the other bank. Thankfully, the sandal eventually wedged itself in between a rock and a hard place (literally) and Aldrin was able, from his end, to reach around and grab it.
I think he felt pretty good about being the one who rescued my sandal. I nicknamed him "Romeo" for the day and he didn't mind that either.
So, after our mini adventure, we headed back through the jungle (both wearing PAIRS of sandals) and were back on the road toward Siem Reap. The next day, Aldrin boarded a plane and headed for Laos to continue on his journey before returning to Seoul to teach. It was good to see him and great to have a friend from home out here with me. Somehow, though, I don't think he'll have as interesting of an adventure as we had with the "Great Sandal Caper"....ok, he might...it's a possibility. But, all the same, it was a pretty great day.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Water Festival
There is a night during the 10-day water festival, when the Cambodian people light candles and place them in the center of a flower to float them down the river. It's an offering to the Gods as thanks for the fact that the flow of the river's water changes direction (stops dumping into the ocean and begins depositing into the Tonle Sap Lake, which provides a freshwater resevior for the people of Cambodia). It was an amazing sight to behold the night that the lights took over the river. I thought I was in Paris, for a moment (even though I've never been to Paris or seen the twinkling lights of that city). But it felt romantic for some reason, the same way I imagine that Paris might.
That night was the culmination of a week long celebration complete with live music, rockin' festival foods for 25 cents, and river boat races. We even got the opportunity to take a child from the hospital (one who has been there for weeks now and is confined to a wheelchair because both his legs are in casts) to see the men and women practice for the boat races. He was ecstatic about it. He talked about how he wanted to race the boats when he was older. He smiled the entire time he watched from the river bank (something I didn't think this particular boy was capable of...everyday you can hear him crying from the other side of the hospital). The doctors and nurses, of course, told us to keep him out there as long as possible....for both their and his own sanity, I'm sure.
The boat races were pretty amazing. It wasn't the actual races that were amazing so much, but the sheer number of people gathered at the riverside....it was staggering. I loved the chaos and the laughter and the festivity of it all. Nothing like that has happened here since my arrival and I got the feeling that it was a once a year kind of blowout celebration for the Cambodian people.
It was the night of the candles on the river that my friend, Aldrin, flew into town. He is an English teacher in Seoul, South Korea. He came for a few days and his welcome to Siem Reap was thousands of candles floating on the river. Needless to say, I felt like a pretty good hostess at that point. After all, it was one of the most breathtaking things I'd ever seen...so it couldn't have been too shabby.
The week of celebration, the hundreds of smiles in the streets, it all got me thinking...how wonderful it would be to truly celebrate in such a whole-hearted way...I mean, to celebrate, in such a huge way, the gift of water...it's amazing to think about all the things we take for granted. The people here in Siem Reap and all over the country are each, individually, genuinely so thankful and aware of the fact that they will have water for another season, another year. And all we have to do is turn on the faucet. Nobody even thinks about it. I never did. Not until last weekend. I want to celebrate those kind of things. I want my celebrations to mean as much to me as the Khmer people's celebrations mean to them. And I start today.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Ph'Kai
I've thought about it and talked about it and danced in circles around it...but doing it, being a part of something so big, sitting on the floor of an old man's home along the Siem Reap River as he speaks in laughter about small things..that teaches you something. Not trying to impart wisdom, impress, show off everything that he has or make you feel insignificant; he has nothing. Really. He has a green hammock hanging in the corner, sagging lowly at the weight of the small child (his grandchild) sleeping inside the mesh, another small child, a girl, hiding behind his feet, occasionally peaking around his arm to see the strange "barang" sitting inches away, some pots hanging on the wall of the kitchen (the only other "room" in the place) which also happens to overlook the river below, a small gas stove to cook on, and a few other things lying around (perhaps some items they use as utensils or plates). That was what this man had. And he had some oranges and bananas (his livelihood). I know about the oranges because he looked at me and smiled as he handed me two of them. It was an offering, a gift. He was giving me two oranges that he could have sold or given to his grandchildren to eat. But I could not say "no". How awful and rude it would have been of me to not accept such a generous gift. I don't think I've ever appreciated something so much in my life. I pulled out the only thing I had to offer in return - some stickers that I had brought from the States to give to the children at the hospital. I handed a page of stars to the one child that was awake (as the other remained quite comatose in his hammock). The girl smiled and I was surprised that she came to me and took them from my hand as I half expected her to make her grandfather act as a go-between. I didn't know if she had seen stickers before and didn't want to assume she had at the risk of her not fully enjoying the best feature of a sticker - it sticks. So I pulled one off of the page and stuck it on the back of her hand. "Ph'kai!" she exclaimed, which means "star" in Khmer. The conversation was a strange mixture of Khmer and English because the grandfather seemed to know just about as much of the English language as I know of the Khmer. I said, "thank you" and he invited me to come back to his home by the water the next time I was in Cambodia. I walked out and kept my feet moving parallel to the river bank. I looked over and saw two young men fishing. They smiled and said "Hello" in English and so I felt compelled to say it back in Khmer: "Suas'dey". And then I asked if they were fishing (which was obvious, but, frankly, I was excited to use the word "fishing" because I knew what it was in Khmer). They immediately invited me over and asked if I wanted to learn to fish. Of course I want to learn to fish! We stood there talking for a while about the Water Festival and the boat races that would take place in the city later that day. I watched as he stood there with a long branch and some twine hanging from the end of it....he wasn't catching anything. He told me it was difficult to catch fish when the river's waterline was so low (funny that he said that during the weekend of the "water" festival). We eventually said goodbye and parted ways. I walked across the small bridge and a moto driver appeared. He took me back into the downtown area of the city for 3000 riel (seventy-five cents).
All of this took place within two hours early in the morning. The day had barely begun by the time my short journey had ended. Cambodia is like that...the days are long, the heat is intense (absolutely a factor in the length of the day), and the experiences are, without a doubt, unforgettably captivating. Each moment that matters is one that is given to you. You don't have to steal a second of it. Someone just hands it to you. Like the stars in the sky, that's what those kind of moments in Cambodia are like for me. They're everywhere, not one of them can be ignored or denied of its beauty, and you haven't done anything to deserve to be in their presence. But you're really damn glad that you are.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The Art of Travel
When you are in a new place, a maps most useful trait is that it can help you get lost. You take the trails that are not marked on the map. That is the best thing about having a map in hand. It's the realization that the destination no longer holds court. On a whim, choosing a new direction; allowing yourself to freely wander the world: that gives you strength. After all, real daring comes from a place within and is nursed afterward, by a more appealing thing: fear.
Recently, a friend who is working with me out here, and who also happens to be going back home to Lebanon on Thursday, told me that she wished this could last forever: us, working at the hospital, living in Cambodia. But I told her, "nothing lasts forever." And the minute something threatens to, it becomes instantly annoying to the spirit. We are people who thrive off of temporary excitements, short adventures. After all, no one ever said that value was measured by a yardstick. Who's to say that something lasting a short time has less value than something that seemingly lasts forever? "Don't think about Thursday," I said. "Let tomorrow come tomorrow. Stop measuring time. Start living it." (Easy for me to say, not so easy for me to do.)
Even our friendships are temporary...the idea of strangers coming together during travel...it screams of temporary. But does that mean that our time together was meaningless? I have found that it is only when you travel alone that you are free to let yourself float along whatever stream you encounter. And meeting people along the way is a much different thing than taking them with you from the beginning. Meeting people along the way also requires something of yourself - something that I've become terrible at....revealing yourself. It's funny because you don't have the time to make someone find their way to you. You have to open yourself up from the start. If you want to have a real relationship while travelling, there can be no hiding. There is no time for that. That has been something that has tested me and taught me the most during the course of this adventure in Cambodia.
"Always in the big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off alone into a new place there will be, along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the Unknown, and it is your first bond with the wilderness you are going into." - Wendell Berry. There is fear waiting around every corner...maybe even danger. But rounding those corners makes you brave. And, frankly, not rounding those corners is a refusal to live. Every adventure we take, every fear we stare down, only readies us for the greatest Unknown that waits for each of us. And we will walk that journey alone as well. The way I look at it, I am readying myself for something larger, something that I would like to drain myself of fearing. Why be afraid of it? It waits for all of us the same. In that way, we are, again, unified in our separation from each other.
I said, a few days ago, in an email to a friend...or maybe it was on this blog....that I had never felt more awake than I have felt since being here (and also have never been so satisfyingly exhausted). I guess there is a time in one's life when you are fully awake rather than half-asleep (E.B. White). That time, for me, is now.
$35 Buys One Literacy
I remember not wanting to go to school as a child. I recall praying for a snowstorm to hit northeastern Iowa and force the doors of the institution to close for the day. Here, in Cambodia, children go to school six days a week (Monday through Saturday). Smiling faces and books in hand, they walk together along the dirt road in their white tailored shirts and navy blue pants/skirts. These kids are thirsty to learn. They know it's their tictket toward opportunity. Most, if not all, of the parents were denied the right of an education by the Khmer Rouge regime. They know very little and are afraid of what they don't understand - a truth I've discovered exists for all people, everywhere. These children are not only showing strength and courage to do something that their parents are unfamiliar with, but they are running toward the doors. It's insatiable, this kind of fervour to learn. The mentality for living is so different.
There is a program that's starting up now through the Angkor Hospital for Children that will buy one person (street children or struggling mothers/women) literacy education for one year all for $35. I have spent $35 on a pair of jeans...on sale. To think of the things I've spent money on, and then to see what that kind of money could do here for people...to get them off the streets, to get the children to stop begging, the young girls to stop selling their bodies in the local bars, the mothers educated enough to work a job and not be cheated because she doesn't know how to calculate correctly...at the risk of sounding like Sally Struthers, $35 can change a life in Cambodia. But in the states, $35 can't fill a tank with gas. The idea of it is astounding, unbelievable, mind-boggling.
The average working person in Cambodia (by working, I mean twelve hours a day, seven days a week) makes around $25/month. These are people with children to feed, rent to pay, and all the other everyday expenses of living...what happens when you can't afford to help educate someone in your life?....someone you desperately want to have a better life than the one you have known?...you stand knee deep in a rice paddy, if you're lucky enough to be part of a family that owns land. You stand in snake infested waters and hand plant single, green blades into the mud below. You stand under the burning sun of Southeast Asia and you move as quickly as possible....you are 5 years old. It doesn't matter. You want to do it. You have to do it. It's what you know. It's life. Work. Eat, if you get fed. Go to the city center and beg if your parents ask you to do so, because they know you have better luck at a U.S. dollar than they do.
It costs 12 cents to buy one egg in this country. The farmers who farm the eggs can't even afford to eat them. This is not a plea for charity. This is not a PSA for poor, Cambodian farmers or uneducated children. Some things in life are hard to face. The things we want to make easy for ourselves to ignore are the things that we cannot, without guilt, look in the eye. But if we only would, if we only would just be aware, just pay attention, the world may have a better chance at unification rather than division. What are we all so afraid of? Is it that greed has taken over our hearts so intensely that we cannot possibly believe our money or time would really make a difference? How sad it is that we have all become so cynical in such a safe part of the world. We have nothing to be afraid of....except maybe ourselves and what we are becoming as a whole. People in countries that are struggling...people who are waiting outside the doors of a school to be let in...they have every opportunity to know fear and succumb and yet they are unafraid...or they are the bravest souls you'd ever want to meet.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
personal reflections #2
There is no reason for hatred. No reason for predjudism, war, violence, ignorance. I turn on the television here in Cambodia and watch the president of the United States talk about the importance of being in Iraq, about the "war" that must be waged against terrorism...but really, I think he's waging a war against his own country.
Love is the most important thing we can give. Love is the most precious thing that we can receive. I don't know who's calling the shots or who's watching over us. But I know that I feel the safest when I am experiencing love. I think God, whoever that is, exists in love. I find that kind of power in love. And nowhere else. I wish we were more concerned with helping others than we are with helping ourselves. Maybe God wouldn't seem so far away. Maybe a resolution wouldn't seem so unattainable. If only our infant spirits would awake...if we could be innocent again like we were as children...if we could look at the world through the eyes of a child: I believe the world would be a different place.
Friday, October 27, 2006
The Golden Girl and The Butterfly
Yesterday morning I woke up, reluctantly, to the sound of the chanting monks in the Wat one street up from the White House. It was the same as every morning before. It will be the same every morning after. But this morning would be different. The volunteers and I, all of us, were up early this particular morning. We were headed into the countryside to see a drama performance organized by the hospital. It was meant to be an educational experience for the people in the villages to teach them about TB and the importance of immunizations. After two hours in the van, with a small oscillating fan at the front, moving from side to side barely cooling the people in the front, we arrived at Angkor Chom (the outreach clinic in the countryside). We all piled out as quickly as possible and were met by a wall of heat. We walked underneath the awning of the stage and sat down. I think the play was funny. All the Cambodians were laughing. I looked around at the other volunteers and saw their puzzled faces and that's when I began to laugh. The performance was in Khmer. None of us understood a word. Well, maybe one or two words at most. I got restless quickly and got up to photograph. I moved through the crowd, staying to the outside so as not to interrupt any one person's view of the event, and discovered some beautiful faces. I made my way to the shrine where the monks pray daily, and found a few young boys running around the perimeter. They spoke fairly good English and asked for a picture. I took a few and then would periodically show them the images from the monitor on the back of the camera. They would laugh and point at their friends' faces. We said goodbye and I moved on, stumbling along an interesting pack of women who seemed to be making concessions for the people attending the play. I watched them and took a few images. As I was looking through the view-finder, framing a shot, a large butterfly came and sat in the middle of the rectangle. It was amazing...
.....(mostly because I am a butterfly girl. I have a butterfly tattooed on my left wrist from a cross-country trip I took a year or so ago in the States. Butterflies are a kind of justification for me that I am in the right place, doing the right thing. Sometimes I would see them on my cross-country journeys and I would think, "I'm on the right path. I chose the right road to take. I will see something great on this road, otherwise, why would I see butterflies?). Also, a few weeks ago at a friend's house here in Cambodia, a butterfly came and landed right on my hand. It just sat there. That has never happened before. And I thought, "Of course. I'm here. I'm supposed to be here.".......
Okay, so enough with the sidebar.....after staring at the butterfly for a few moments and thinking about how wonderful it felt to be in the right place, the drama performance came to an end. The volunteers and I all piled back into the van and headed home to Siem Reap in time for lunch. After grabbing a bite, I went to pick up some prints I had made for the parents at the hospital. I made the short walk back to the hospital (although, it felt long because of the heat), walked through the gate and found my friend, Sokaan (another art therapist) in the hallway. She moved toward me, grabbed my arm, and asked me if I knew that Kanika had died this morning. Kanika was a girl that I had referred to as the "golden girl," because she always wore these two thick gold bracelets on her right arm. And, well, she was a Golden Girl. She had a beautiful face and the kindest eyes I'd ever seen. She sparkled.
She also had AIDS. She was withering away to nothing. I had taken a picture of her just a week before and given her mother the print a few days ago. And this afternoon I walked in to find out that she had died. It was strange somehow, to remember so clearly handing her the image of her own face just days before and realizing now that she was gone. And then I remembered the butterfly. I am in the right place. I'm glad I was here to know her, to have seen her face. I will always remember her that way....with those hopeful sparkling bracelets and her hair in braids....she will always be golden.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Being Missed and Speaking Khmer
Today was just another normally abnormal day...again. The morning is usually pretty predictable...maybe a meeting, Khmer language class for an hour, then to the floor of the Out-Patient Department to play with the kids who are waiting to get in to see the doctors.
(It is worth noting that while I was outside sitting with the kids, one of my favorite long-term tenants at the hospital, Dah, walked up with her little brother, whom she cares for solely, on her hip and told me in English that she had missed me over the weekend. Pretty amazing considering that this girl is around 13 years old and doesn't speak much English save for "hello". It touched me because I knew she had asked someone how to say it so that she could say it to me. And it sounded perfect. It was clear English. And when I said it back to her, she had this look of triumph on her face that I'll never forget.)
Then lunch time came. My partner in crime (and volunteer housemate), Kaoru, and I walked to the Center Market to see what we could get for a dollar, then moved on to Viva Mexico! for some eats. On the walk to the restaurant, I thought of how funny it was that we were about to eat Mexican food in Cambodia. (And let me tell you, the tostada was one of the best I've ever sunk my teeth into!). After the two-hour lounge and lunch, I walked back to the hospital for the afternoon shift of paper-folding and coloring-book tracing. (However, I have to say, the bulk of the interesting stuff that happend to me at the hospital takes place during the afternoon session...and today was no exception).
I spent the day working with "the other" play specialist. Sinaath, the woman I normally work with is currently away for the week undergoing some AIDS education training in Phnom Phen. So today, I worked with Seekaan (sp?). She's a good amount of years younger than Sinaath and her face and attitude both show it. She is lovely! LOVELY! She didn't force me to fold any number of birds in any amount of time...she just smiled at me. Speaking to each other was limited as she is unsure of her English and I am more than unsure of my Khmer. However, as the afternoon progressed, we found it easier and easier to trust each other and began small conversations....mostly about how to say a certain word in either English or Khmer. We were learning from each other. Then came the mothers. I love the mothers of the children at the hospital. They are funny. They love to laugh (I think a lot of it is at me, but the Khmer people have this beautiful way of making you feel as though you can laugh along with them....even if it's at your expense). So, we laughed. We began speaking to each other...in Khmer. I was workin' it! I even knew what I was saying...and more impressive than that, I knew probably about 80% of what they were saying to me. I photographed and the mothers were all very receptive...very accepting of me taking pictures. I promised to bring in prints to them tomorrow afternoon. Then I turned around and in the corner of the In-Patient Department, laying in a bed, I recognized the largest smile I remember seeing since walking into the hospital a month ago. I have no idea of the woman's name, but I recall her face perfectly: round and jolly with eyes that smile all on their own. And beneath her, one of the smallest babies I had seen come into the hospital. Her son was suffering from malnutrition. But today, he looked healthier, and was having his lunch just as I was walking by. She shot me that 1,000 watt smile and i stopped in my tracks. I smiled and said, "sua s'dey. suk sa bei? jah. k'nhom mean ruup. tngais sae'ek awi ruup muy. ban?" .......that's right.... and in between all of that, she was talking to me, and I was answering her. And we understood each other! Her smile got bigger and bigger as the conversation continued, because the last time I saw her (in the LAU with her son) we failed at any and every attempt to communicate. She was impressed! I impressed a Cambodian woman....and not just any....but one who speaks no English and has only dealt with people in and around her village. It was amazing! A totally captivating moment. And because it was right as I was leaving the hospital for the day, I walked out of those double doors feeling like I was walking a mile above the clouds. I can't believe I made it home on that bicycle in the traffic with my head so far in the clouds...then again, my feet are never really completely on the ground.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Sundays in Cambodia
There's nothing quite like a Sunday in "C-Town" (as my cooler, younger, more hip cousin calls Cambodia). It's the only day that you can sleep in until you actually wake up. Sunday is officially, my weekly Cambodian holiday. Cruising the open-air markets (like a regular two-day-stay "barang"), walking in the sun along the local river that floods each time it rains, laughing with the locals about life, drinking Angkor beer (no matter the time of day), wearing your camera around your neck, smoking a Cambodian cigarette, drinking coffee from Battambang, playing on the internet at the local cafe (it has become an institution and feels like it should be reverred as a library would be), eating every meal somewhere new, discovering the fish market that you can't believe you never saw until your fifth Sunday in town...life is like this in Cambodia....never boring, always forgiving, never on time. It's kind of nice and I'm going to miss the Sundays here. I'm already spending any extra time I get to myself, just wondering how I'm ever going to leave this place behind. It's funny because, when I arrived, I was as homesick as anyone would be, as I've ever been while travelling, and now, I am homesick at the thought of leaving this place. I wonder what it will be like to walk away from these kids that have taught me how to look at life from a different angle, from a different perspective. You can come here and think you're going to do something great for people who are living more difficult lives than you've ever known or imagined....but once you are here for longer than a short moment, you realize, you are the student in this place. Everyday you are learning...not just more about yourself, but more about the world..about the other people living in it.... And then, they become a part of you, and not just any part of you, but one of the best parts of you. Cambodia revives you, wakes you up, makes you more ready to deal with a world that can't be bothered with you. Cambodia spoils your heart.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Okay...I'm A LITTLE Faint of Heart.
This afternoon, my day took a complete and unexpected turn (come to think of it, that happens almost every day at least once - but this time, it was a huge turn!). I found my way to the small room where surgeries are performed on the children. A woman handed me some blue scrubs (and as stupid as this sounds, I refuse to lie and say I didn't feel cool in them, I felt so cool in these clothes!...even though I definetely didn't belong in them). I walked into the room and the child was already on the table. He had a huge burn on his chest and was out like a light. The surgeons immediately greeted me and told me where to stand and what was about to happen. I watched the two-hour long operation as the plastic surgeon cut out the burn and sutured the boy in a long diagonal line from neck to lower chest. It was amazing. Even after the stitching, the physical appearance of the boy's chest (where the burn had been) was completely changed and definetely looked better. Soon after they wheeled the boy out of the room, another boy followed. This one was awake...for a moment, anyway. I saw them put him under and he was terrified by the look on his face. And he had reason to be. The "Operation Smile" team came in the room. The boy had a severe cleft in his upper lip. In fact, the head surgeon (who has done this surgery numerous times) said she had never seen one so separated. She was unsure as to whether or not it would pull together. After hours and hours of suturing....I mean, I have no idea how this woman stayed on her feet and kept sewing....the surgeon made a noise of triumph. I had been standing directly to her left, just inches from the boy and his new face. It was unreal. He looked totally different. I mean, it was difficult to see the boy's face when he walked in. But as he laid on that table, four hours later, still under anesthesia, he was beautiful. Hundreds and hundreds of stitches in his face, nothing could change that feeling of accomplishment that the entire room felt (and I have to admit, I selfishly felt it too. And for no real reason except that I was there to see it). He woke up early out of anesthesia. At that point, I had to exit the room and so I didn't get the after photograph. But he will be in recovery for a few days and I will go back to the hospital soon to get the shot.
Sometimes, I'm amazed at the things that we, as human beings, can do. To give that boy the face he never knew he always had...the face that is rightfully his...it was amazing. I wish I could be there when he sees his reflection for the first time...but, no matter, I was there to watch his world change.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Every Day, Never The Same.
It's funny...the first day that I feel well after a sickness here has notoriously (both times now) been among the very best of days that I've been here. When I'm sick, I get homesick. And make no mistake, I am frustrated, in a foul mood, angry that I can't be at the hospital, etc., etc. Then, just like that, the sun goes down, I sleep off the sickness, and the sun comes back up. And, boy, did it come up today (not literally...really, it rained buckets all day long and flooded all the streets...but gave everyone a break from the intense heat of the past few days in the process).
I walked into the LAU this morning to say "hello" since I had been out sick for a few days and I was received very warmly, as usual, by the patients and family members populating the room. They asked, as ALWAYS, for me to photograph the new residents to the recently vacated beds. Of course, I would photograph them! So I did. I have to say, I still didn't get that feeling (photographers, you know that feeling!) that I had really gotten something great. But I can only imagine what having those photographs means to the families that come through there. And if I never get the images I need to host an exhibit when I return to San Francisco I think it's okay. I'm beginning to realize that it's much more important that these parents have images of their children than it is whether or not I have an image that a rich art buyer wants to hang on their wall. This experience, for me, is trumping everything I've ever done...every accomplishment I've ever thought I've made...every single frivalous thing I ever thought was important. I could walk away tomorrow and feel fulfilled, satisfied. But, at the same time, the thought of walking away seems heartbreaking. And I'm thankful that "walking away" from this isn't something I have to burden myself with thinking about now. Right now, I can just be in it...in every moment....and I am - more than I've ever been a part of anything in my life.
So....by the end of the day...I was photographing in the IPD (in-patient dept.) of the hospital. And I got that feeling (photographers, you know that feeling!). TWICE! Yep. Got the feeling twice. Was a good day. A really good day.
All that being said...all that goodness aside...working everyday doing the same thing can get very monotonous and depressing if you let it. It's important to mix it up! It's important and immerse yourself as much as possible in order to keep things moving...to keep a constant flow of change...to "stay on your toes" as they say (whoever "they" are). So...I am thankful also that I've been given a project to work on in addition to working with the children and photographing:
I'm in the middle of illustrating an educational oral health coloring book for the children here in Cambodia (specifically, for the hospital - but they are planning on publishing the book and possibly distributing it as there is currently nothing like it on the market here and there is DEFINETELY a need for it!). I can't really go into specifics about the problems these children have with oral hygiene, or the further problems that those problems cause, but let me just say, it's nothing I've ever seen before or ever even knew was possible. The coloring book is coming along very well and the higher-up's are extremely pleased with what I've brought them so far...which really was pleasing to me. It is also very nice to feel I am doing more to help the children in this country...not just the children who come through the hospital doors. It is a joint effort between the executive of education, myself, and a few of the dental surgeons. And it's been interesting working with them on what may be interesting illustrations (think elephants and pigs with toothbrushes). What's the matter? Never pictured a pig with a toothbrush? They need clean teeth too, you know? ;)
Saturday, October 14, 2006
I Am Not Faint of Heart.
We are all leaving in a minute or so. All we have are the chances that we take. The passion with which we choose to live and the compassion that we choose to give. There isn't much else for us but to swing back and forth with the breeze. And sometimes, our timing is wrong. Sometimes, there isn't much to look out on.
Sometimes, the world exhausts me: the wind, the heat of it all. But I never lose the sun. It's always on my back or shining right into my face. And even while shining so brightly, I can still look "living" in the eye.
This life will not last forever. So we should swing, and swing until there's no net below. And then, when the timing is more clear, we should just let go.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Dog Lovers Need Not Apply
Tonight I had the privaledge of trying a local dish...the dog. No, I'm not sure how they are raised here...or if they are, for that matter. And, frankly, I don't want to know. It was good. Tasted like beef jerky. I would recommend trying it. Hey, you only live once. When in Rome....
Although,... I couldn't get my two Yorkie's, Lola and Oliver (who are waiting for me at home), out of my head during the meal. Needless to say, I didn't finish it. Even a vegetarian needs to try new things...at least once. Life is about living. So cowboy up, kids!!!
Oh! I almost forgot the best part! ..... Not even the cat would eat it!!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Angkor Chom
I ran downstairs this morning as I heard the AHC Jeep that I was supposed to be inside of pull out of the front gate of the White House. I got outside, looked down the street, saw the Jeep about to turn left on its way to Angkor Chom, waved my arms, and then I watched it disappear. I dropped my hands and my head fell with them. How could I be so stupid!?!? Just more evidence that I am in fact, as the locals say, a stupid "barang". I turned to walk back into the White House and there in the doorway was the Team Project Manager. He was about to get onto his Baja moto and ride out to Angkor Chom. He gave me a helmet and I gladly (and reluctantly) climbed on the back of the one-seater. I knew that the 55km ride out into the countryside on muddy, red dirt roads was going to be painful, but I had no idea that it would, without a doubt, be the most ass-numbing experience of my life!....literally. Pain. I'm sure it was karma for something I have done that I shouldn't have. So, that's how I am looking at it.
About an hour and a half later, as we bumped up and down along the road and my camera equipment, subsequently, continued to bang into my spine, we passed a white Jeep. All the bumping had shaken my brain loose, I think, because it didn't even occur to me that it was the AHC Jeep until we pulled in front of it and stopped the moto. The project manager is a good man. I got off the back, he turned around and laughed at me, I smiled, and jumped in the most comfortable Jeep ride I've ever taken (and will ever take) in my lifetime. About fifteen minutes later, we arrived at a small, empty, concrete building in the center of a flooded fishing village. As soon as we got out of the Jeep, the empty building filled with locals who sat on mats on the floor like a kindergarten class would. The team members talked to them and then began to teach. The people of the village, all adults, leaned like children over their papers as they tried to scribble on their papers and read the words on the chalkboard. Fifty perccent of the people in the room were illiterate. All they knew of their language was how to speak it. And that is due largely to the Khmer Rouge Regime that came through in the 70's and 80's. They killed all the educated Cambodians and refused those left living any educational opportunities for fear that they would rise up against the regime. Now that you have a small piece of background on that, I can say with ease, that watching these adults, some of them my grandparents' age, struggle through writing their own name down on a piece of paper was an intense and moving experience.
I observed for about an hour and then moved outside the classroom walls. I just began walking through the village. If I smiled at a passerby, they smiled back. If I stared at them, they stared at me. That was pretty much the story until I ran into a bunch of children swimming in a rice paddy reservior. I held my camera up to my eye and began to shoot their heads bobbing up and down, just above the water line. At first, they were startled, some even frightened (which is normal for a child from the countryside, as most have never seen a barang, let alone a digital camera). But as quickly as I turned the camera around to show them their own faces, all doubtful looks disappeared and laughter ensued. This continued on for quite some time. When I finally decided to leave, I began walking back to the clinic, turned around, and saw that I had a line of children following me and laughing. I felt like I was carrying a flute down that road. When I got back, it was time for lunch: more fermented fish and rice and, of course, a hot glass of ovaltine (and it was not a chilly day). I finished eating and talking with the team members (in English AND Khmer....woohoo!!) and walked back outside. I was immediately invited to the hut next door to lay in a hammock suspended from the stilts of the dwelling. I laid down in the green mesh and quickly fell asleep. I woke up about fifteen minutes later, after one of the best sleeps I've had since my arrival in Cambodia, and looked out onto the countryside. It was a great moment.
I got up, began photographing again, and before I knew it, two hours had passed and I was in the Jeep riding back to the White House. I can honestly say that nothing about this passed month has been familiar, ordinary, or anything less than a fantastic journey.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Fermented Fish And Suspended Birds
What a wonderfully "abnormal" normal day! It was like any other day: wake up, bike to the hospital, sit with the children outside for four hours while they clamour around me (climb on me, pull on me, speak to me in words that I cannot understand), leave the hospital for my two-hour lunch break (that's right, volunteers have it good), pick up pictures for the families I've been photographing,.....etc. OH WAIT! Let me go back. Today, it wasn't just any ordinary lunch served at the White House. I walked upstairs to eat at the khmer buffet style table, but just as I was working my way up the steps, Lena (an Cambodian-American-Dane...if you can figure that out) was invited to eat with the security guards and cooks outside. "Would you like to come along? I won't tell you what we're eating." That did it. I knew I had to go at that point. Eating strange and new things is the spice of life...literally. So, I walked downstairs and out the back door, around to the carport to sit on the cement slab and eat like a real Cambodian. There was rice, some kind of soup, fish, greens, and other vegetables. Lena began to tell me about the fish. This was not just any regular fish. It was fermented fish. Now, I had become familiar with this when I went into the Amazon with my good friend, Paulina. We consumed two bowls of Chi-Cha, otherwise known around South America as "fermented fruit juice" (conveniently fermented by the natives saliva). This was going to be a breeze. "C'mon, Lena," I thought, "Give me a challenge!" I sat with Lena, two Khmer, male security guards, and two female house cooks/cleaning ladies. We formed a circle around the food, sitting cross-legged and smiling a lot! Lena helped with the language barrier between us all and it wasn't long before we were talking and laughing loudly (a strange act for khmer people, as they are known to be very quiet...and, in turn, think of Americans and most Westerners as loud and obnoxious...which we are...thank god). I dove into the fish. It was as salty as Lena warned me it would be. But along with the rice, it was more than tolerable. It was very, very good, to be completely honest. It was the fish soup that I had a more difficult time enjoying (even though the Khmer promised that I would find it more delicious than the fermented fish). The greens were wonderful. The papaya soaking in the warm broth was delicious! It was a wonderful experience. All that in just under an hour.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon, I headed back to the hospital on my squeaky bicycle. I love that thing! Everyone knows when JuJu's driving down the road! After arriving at the hospital, I approached Sinaath (one of the permanent art therapists) and discovered we would be spending the day in the LAU (low acuity unit). This was wonderful! It would be our first time ever as a team in the LAU, and that was precisely the room where I had been spending most of my off-time. Chen, the young boy mentioned in earlier blogs, resides in bed #3 there, and so through spending time with him, I've come to know every child, mother, brother, and sister connected to the LAU. I walked in with Sinaath and was greeted very warmly. We sat down and began to fold origami birds to hang from the patients' bedposts. This time, it was different - it was better. I am sure it was because the mothers and fathers in the LAU had become so acquainted with me, that even though we've never been able to say more than "hello" to each other, we were finding (and really searching for) ways to communicate. Now that Sinaath was there, we could actually finally speak. The family members began holding up different objects and saying the Khmer name of that object to me. They would repeat it until I thought I had actually HEARD the word, and I would say it. They would inevitably laugh at me, but it was a warm kind of laughter. And it was funny, because when they looked at me and said, "ch'muah," which means "name" in Khmer, and I responded, "Julayne," they gave me the look I'd been giving them. They repeated back to me, "Ch'lin". I laughed and made a noise that indicated, "Oh, see, it's not so easy!" We all laughed. It was a wonderful afternoon.
I also got to spend extra time with Chen. That always is good for me. He has taught me the most since arriving here and something tells me that if I never saw him again after today, he would continue to teach me for the rest of my life.
Tomorrow, I leave with a team of three men - two community builders/workers and one anthropologist - to a town 55km away from Siem Reap. It will be my furthest journey yet and, without a doubt, material for yet another blog. I will stay the day there and return to the White House in the evening. I hope to spend the majority of the time photographing...and laughing.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Reaching Out to Bekong
I don't know how to begin this one: what happened yesterday was nothing short of amazing. Around one o'clock in the afternoon, I climbed into a four-wheel drive vehicle with a male nurse named Sophearin. Off we went down Route 6, the road that eventually leads to Phnom Penh (Cambodia's capitol city). After riding along for about a half an hour, we turned left onto a red dirt road, which inevitably reminded me of two things: (1) backwoods, Southern Georgia, and (2) the bus ride into Ecuador's Amazonian town of Mesahualli. In fact, the countryside of Cambodia resembles the Amazon quite a bit. It's very lush. A green jungle spotted with the smiling faces of children and curious expressions from the older locals as they look in at the white girl, or "barang" (as the Khmer people say).
I asked the nurse a few questions about the countryside and the people living in it as we bounced along the road wet with last night's rain, but mostly, I just stared out the window. I was intrigued, enthralled, excited about where we were headed and how I had no idea about what that place would look or feel like until I arrived there. Suddenly, as I was looking out, daydreaming and wondering about life in a hut made of sticks and palms, the Jeep stopped. Nurse Sophearin opened his door and got out. I took a deep breath, opened my door and put my foot in a mound of red mud. It felt good. I smiled.
Grabbing my pack full of art supplies and my camera, I walked down the small path from the roaside to the large hut on stilts. First, I noticed the stairway up to the main entrance of the hut. Someone had carved out tiny little blue fish that lined the railing. I thought, "ah, artists". This was going to be good.
I approached a woman, and soon, I noticed three small children all standing together. They looked afraid (most kids from the country have never or very rarely seen a "barang," so their apprehensions are comprehensible). I said "hello"" and "sua s'dey". The kids like it when you say "hello" because they learn that early on in school - how to say "hello" in English, and so they love to practice it. And then, smiles. I sat down and put my pack on the ground. I pulled out some paper and crayons and began to make flowers and faces for them to color. They had never seen crayons before. I had to show them how to color. The nurse was extremely helpful in translating for the both of us. Soon, they were coloring. I gave them spinning tops that held their attention for the rest of the check-up. One young boy there was "immune compromised" (had aids), and his mother had died from the disease a few years back. He lives, now, with his grandmother, aunt, and cousins.
As the nurse took notes and gave out medications, I sat with the other children as they colored. I pulled out my camera and took a photograph. I always point it towards me first, because, normally, it really scares the children until they see the image on the LED screen. They smiled. I photographed the ones who wanted to be photographed. I showed them their pictures. I wondered how long it had been since they saw their own face. I wondered if they had mirrors up in that hut, as mirrors are a hot commodity here in Siem Reap. I left my crayons and paper with them. They seemed pleased. Waved goodbye.
We left, the nurse and I, both smiling, and on to the next house. Another large family just up the road. Another child with AIDS, the mother had it as well, but luckily, was still alive to be with her son. The grandmother had the most amazing face I have ever seen. She just stared at me smiling, for minutes. Then, they all began talking and looking at me. I thought, "oh no, they don't like "barang'." I looked to Sophearin and he smiled and told me that they were trying to figure out if my hair was naturally blond or if it came out of a bottle. They had never seen a blond before. I laughed and told them that it was my hair from birth. The same process from the house before ensued. I colored and gave toys to the children while the doctor checked the young man. The whole famile gathered around to learn about the doses for the medication. The grandmother kept looking to me and talking. When she realized that I couldn't understand her, she would mimic things out, and I would know what she was trying to tell me. I spoke to her with the small vocabulary of Khmer that I know, and she was more than pleased at my efforts. I gave the crayons and paper to the children at this house as well. Just before leaving, the grandmother put her hand on my knee, looked me right in the eyes, and said, "Akun," which is Khmer for, "Thank you." I grabbed her hand with mine and smiled. We waved goodbye again and headed onto the last dwelling.
The last house was the smalllest hut of all and also contained the smallest number of family members. I learned that the mother had no job and no land, so our hospital actually employed her in the Outreach Program. Her small hut was given to her by another non-profit organization in Cambodia. Her son was the third child we saw that day who was afflicted with AIDS. But he was also the child we saw that had retained a good amount of weight - I would even go so far as to say he was "chubby". It was good to see. And he spent most of the time laughing. He knew about his medications - when to take what, even what they were called. And he was only four years old. Pretty amazing when you think of the fact that they take four different medications daily. We stayed at this dwelling only for a few moments.
As we pulled away, I looked up at the sky. It was the first time it hadn't rained during the day. There was a cool breeze introducing the evening (and suggesting late rain). But the sky was quiet in that moment. The sun was setting and there were only the muffled sounds of the city just passed the rice fields. I closed my eyes, and we headed back to the hospital.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
personal reflections
I'm beginning to realize that I've embarked on a journey to the furthest reaches of the human spirit. I am allowing this place to change me. I'm being open. Open as a person, and not thinking as a photographer who wants that heart-wrenching image. I know these kids. They know me. It's like having 500 of the cutest nieces and nephews I've ever laid eyes on. I spent an hour today just carrying three of the rowdiest kids in the hospital around upside down by the legs (they were healthy siblings of the sick in-patients...I imagine it must get boring in that hospital for a healthy 3 year old). My life is changing, because this place is changing me. And I think I'm figuring out that if you just allow the world to change you, you can really start to change the world...well, you can definetely feel like you're making a difference...a kind of small splash in an immense ocean of chaos. When the river floods here in Siem Reap, which is almost at least once a day, you can either look at it and feel like you could sink in it, or feel like you could walk right across it. I'm not trying to sactify what my role is here....I'm saying, the lows are LOW and the highs are HIGH. There's not much in between ground. All the "in between" is filled with confusions and miscommunications and feeling lost (all that stuff that comes with being a stranger in a strange land).
I was sitting in my room the other night thinking, "I feel different". My heart feels better. I think that the day I went to Art School, something happened to me. Art School did a lot for me, but it also did a lot to me. And whatever it was that I lost there in those walls, I've gotten back here. My heart just doesn't beat like it used to. I feel strong. And I feel aware, for the first time in a long time, of everything that's happening around me, in me, everywhere. I think I've spent a lot of time looking for the answers, and then trying to convince myself that I wasn't (when I still was). But the answers just don't matter anymore...because they're rarely ever right, they always come too late, and you only get to one of them by way of about 1,000 questions.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Power of Photography
Today was my first day carrying my gigantic Canon around my neck through the halls of the hospital. And I have to tell you, I'm surprised by the reactions I got - most were actually very positive. Of course the kids were fascinated - they were not the ones I was worried about. It was the parents (not the heat) who had me sweating today. I couldn't even muster up the courage to take my camera out of my backpack during the morning session at the hospital. I went back to the white house for lunch and when I finished me meal, I sat there for a moment thinking, "What the hell is my problem? I worried and worried that I wouldn't be able to photograph in this hospital, and now that I know I can, I'm wussing out." After only twenty minutes into my two-hour lunch break, I got on my bicycle and headed back to the hospital. I arrived with an hour and a half left of my lunch. Perfect, I thought. I will be able to photograph only and not have to worry about folding little pieces of origami paper. I walked right into the LAU (low acuity unit - where chine/"john" is still residing in bed #3). I walked right over to him, he gave me that familiar "Whatever" look that is always on his face these days, I sat down, took the camera out of my pack, and pointed it at the two of us. Click. My first picture at the hospital was of Chine and I. I turned the camera around to show him the LCD panel (this was the moment I was hoping would have a positive affect on his mood). And, I swear, I've never seen a dim room get so bright in such an intensely short amount of time. Chine smiled. Let me make this clearer to you somehow: CHINE SMILED!!! It's the first time I've ever seen him smile. It was what I'd been waiting to see. And there it was. He could smile. I thought he was missing the gene. And he kept it going for a good five, maybe even ten (ok, that's exaggerating) minutes. Man, I have never felt so good in my life. In fact, at this moment right now, I'm celebrating with my first ice cream of the trip here in Cambodia. I felt like I had conquered the world. And the mother I told you about in the last email...she happened to be standing behind me. When she saw Chine smile, I heard the most wonderful noise come from her throat. It was true, a pure elation. I can't believe he smiled. He smiled.
(Sidebar: I found out this morning that because Chine's family is from near the border of Thailand, he'd been sent to a school in Thailand and didn't speak Khmer, but, instead, speaks Thai. NO WONDER no one could get him to respond!!!!...not to worry...there is staff that are Thai refugees and have been communicating - successfully - with Chine).
I can't believe he smiled. Maybe those cheesy kodak commercials have got something to them....know what I'm sayin'?
WOOHOO!
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