back to the bracelets.

wow. i've never felt less like myself in a long time. i'm working at a large corporation. doing the things that now, i can't imagine doing after an experience like cambodia. and i can't complain. because i'm here. i put myself here. i'm not this person anymore. i'm on the road to knowing who i am.....finally....and this is not it. this person that everyone expects me to be, expects that i can be. i am not. i know who i am now. that is what cambodia did for me. and now i am here. so what do you do? what does anyone do in this situation? do you bear down and just keep moving in the direction you're going? or do you make the tough decision? it's funny. when i was in cambodia, everyone was proud of me....scared for me,......but proud of me. now that i'm home, no one knows what to think. and i'm, again, just thinking of myself. tonight i was reminded of the girl with the gold bracelets. and i cried. and cried. i have avoided thinking of her. as i think most people trying to be sane would do. but i cannot avoid her any longer. and now i understand why. funny thing is....there are butterflies everywhere.

The Winds of Change

Sitting here at my computer in my room that looms over the city of San Francisco. I arrived in the city about three weeks ago. Four days after I moved my things from my car to my new bedroom, I realized what my next step is going to be. And I'm not taking it here in San Francisco. I will pack my car back up and head back across the states...back to Florida. Back to my father's house. One more year. One year of doing post-bac work so that I can apply for my Master's in Art Therapy. And I plan to work with kids. I hope to work with kids. I hope to return to the hospital better equipped to help those kids deal with life, with living. Something tells me I never would've discovered this had I not first made the roadtrip back out here to San Francisco. I don't think I would've figured out the puzzle. So I've taken for myself what San Francisco had left to offer me and now I will begin a new journey back to an old place.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.