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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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? ;)

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.

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!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

A Change Is Gonna Come

It was like a cool breeze that blew over me this morning. I went into the executive director's office early to get my coffee fix (there's coffee in the staff lounge, but it's not as good as the executive director's brew) and guess who I ran into right as I was entering his secretary's lair?...that's right. Jon Morgan himself (that's the exec. dir., for those of you who are unaware). He looked at me and said, "oh no." Immediately he thought I was going to tell him I wanted to quit. I think many volunteer art therapists before me have done so. But I smiled and said, "oh no. I just have a question for you." So, we stood there as I started unfolding my previously thought-out shpeel (yes, i said "shpeel") as to whether or not I was going to be allowed to photograph in the hospital or not. I got about two sentences in, no wait, one, and Jon smiled and said, "of course." Ahhhh. Cool breeze. So tomorrow, I begin photographing in the hospital. I'm stoked and where, initially, I feel I may have been nervous about photographing there, now I am just so damn glad that I get to, that I'm ready to make that jazz, baby. To say that my mood has lifted is a complete understatement. And, at times, I feel I've been slightly bi-polar since arriving here - I've run the gamut of emotions. I've been ecstatic, elated, content, exhausted, depressed, miserable, sick, healthy, confused (that's pretty constant, though): and all in just under two weeks. And now, what am I? Ready.

Otis Redding in Cambodia

Okay. So, the annoying depression seems to have passed for now. Only lasting a few days seems like a pretty good deal for the fact that I'm alone and on the other side of the world. Yesterday, I really began feeling better, physically, and sure enough, the mental state followed. Today has been a good day. And I'm enjoying being here again. I think I just needed a few days to recover from the illness to pick my spirits back up. I got an email from a friend today who told me: "homesick? really? for what? everything is the same here: the traffic, people going to work. nothing is new here. everything is new where you are. enjoy it." And she is right. And then, a wonderful thing happened: Otis Redding came over the speakerbox. And I think I started to realize that I am in the middle of one of the best experiences of my life. So, no more sadness. No more homesickness. Not today. :)
I am in danger of becoming a doctor, I feel. Okay. That is an obvious joke to me, but I feel the need to let you all know that I'm kidding...to an extent. Being with these children, watching the doctors and nurses relieve some of their pain with medicines and sweetnesses, it's healing for me to just observe. But I had a conversation with the resident art therapist and she told me that when we come to their beds and draw with them, make origami for them, they forget their pain. They smile. She is right. I don't know why or how I had let that go unnoticed. Maybe we are all some kind of therapist: a therapist in whatever it is that we do best. Maybe we all look for ways to help heal each other through working in what we know. It seems logical enough. All you need is compassion.
I still feel lost when it comes to helping the children. I am unsure if I'm giving them what they need...or anything that they need for that matter. But there comes a point when you must stop wondering what you're doing for them, and put that energy towards doing more for them. I can't explain what it's like being in this hospital. The reality of it is terrifying and, at the same time, it is inspiring to be next to someone who is so brave, so determined. It's hard, even when you're talking with them, laughing with them, rubbing their bellies, to understand what their lives are like.
I would like to update you all on Bun Chine (the boy I referred to as John in beginning posts): someone from his family or from his home village has shown up to care for him. He is responding to them. They feed him and he is eating (which was not happening when I or the nurses would try).
It's funny: it seems to be true that a human being cannot find the will to carry on without an other: a lover, a friend, a relative.