Grab a Backpack

The American filmmaker, Oliver Stone came to Cambodia.

As part of the Building Bridges for Peace lecture series, Mr. Stone's visit would engage his audience in a dialogue for "peace" (though not for the halt in purchases of pirated films). After receiving an honorary academic degree and adjusting his glasses. He spoke on nothing and everything. Saving the whales was never mentioned (as did Rick Steves when he spoke at Notre Dame), but neither was the role of media in the developing world. Numerous American institutions and political figures were criticized and parallels were drawn to the Vietnam War.

As I leaned forward in my chair and the slow hum of Cambodian chatter grew louder, it became clear: Mr. Stone had missed the whole point of the lecture series-- to engage Cambodian students. As an academic lecture-starved foreigner, I learned more about the need to bridge communication gaps than I did about American conspiracy theories.

Perhaps this lecture was better than the last one though. A couple of weeks ago, as part of the same lecture series, 2007 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate for Economics, Professor Eric Maskin had spoken on globalization and the growth of income and poverty gaps in the developing world. His lecture had managed to do one thing: make evident the gap within the audience. Academic lecture-starved foreigners, mostly working for prominent international organizations, left unsatisfied by a simplified lecture failing to address underlying factors such as gender, structural violence, history, public health, you name it. On the other hand, Cambodian students stood up at Q&A and asked for a definition of globalization.

Building bridges for peace? Perhaps a series on communicating clearly with Asia would be more appropriate. Mr. Stone did hit on one or two good points:

1. Grab a backpack and see the world.

2. Enjoy life and take one thing at a time at time. Don't multi-task.

Finding myself stuck in Cambodia, I guess I can check off at least point number one. I grab my worn, green and black backpack and head out the doors of PUC university. I've had the same backpack since high school, and with its country-patches I've haphazardly sewn on over the years, it is a testament that I've seen at least some of the world. Although, looking closely at my bag, I think there are still enough spaces left to patch over with world travels...

Kampot in 24 hours

The van jerks to a stop. I wake up. Ooops. My head has rolled to the right, crash-landing on the laced-white sleeve of a nice Cambodian lady. I smile apologetically and try o sit back straight. At least I didn’t drool on her. A layer of dust has gathered on my black pants and backpack, and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the van, reminding me that lunch is still a few hours away, in the town of Kampot.

At 7am that morning Gemma and I had excitedly left our flat and made our way to the wrong market to catch a shared mini-van to Kampot. We had grand plans to get out of the city and go hiking up Bokor Hill and find the old French-colonial burnt-out buildings dotting the top of the hill. Problem was, we were in the wrong market back in Phnom Penh. We caught a motodop and hurried of to the right market, where we then waited an hour for a van to fill up with Cambodians making their way down South as well. Only USD$3, 4.5 hours, and a zillion stops later did we reach the riverside town. I’m all for local integration, but remind me never to take a shared mini-van again. You would think I had learned after Rattanakiri not to take these local transport vehicles. It’s an entire uncomfortable, dehydrating affair. The driver stops multiple times to use the natural toilet, bargain for fuel, buy bread, and pick up more passengers to stuff into every conceivable corner of space available. When you’re poor, you make the most of every space. Space, like television air-time, is incredibly valuable and once lost, is money gone forever.

When Gemma and I finally rolled into Kampot we headed straightaway to Epic Arts Café, the café/restaurant that employs and supports hearing impaired Cambodians and encourages the handicapped in art performance. One delicious quiche and pear-cinnamon shake later, I was ready to explore the riverside town and prepare for our next day 5-hour tour to Bokor National Park, but not before exploring some local caves and taking a walk along the river front. As consistent moto-dop passengers, we made it a point to use our legs for the weekend.

At 8am we gathered our day packs and loaded into a van with other foreigners (mostly Aussies) to hike up Bokor. Our guide Mr. Tree, was quite possibly one of the most hard-working, interesting Cambodians I have met so far. A camouflage hat shaded the cluster of deep wrinkles lining the corners of his eyes. “If you forget my name, just look up all around you. They are my friends!” I liked him immediately.

Born in another province, Tree moved to Kampot during the Khmer Rouge and became a former Cambodian-resistance soldier, fighting alongside the Vietnamese. Tree lived in the forests of Kampot for over two years, living off the land and mining fields. After the Vietnamese intervention, he helped the United Nations de-mine this area, moving on to be a park ranger while raising a family of six. Today he leads tour groups up to Bokor. I wonder if anyone else has had such an action-packed life, only to hear kids complain about the heat, steep slopes, and bug-bites.

As we ascended, the humidity soaked us through to the bone, but the dense forest provided adequate protection from the sun. Hiking up for two hours, we finally reached the spot where a pick-up truck then took us on an hour-long bumpy ride to the top of the hill. At Bokor Hill Station, Mr. Tree began:

“And now I will share with you, if you want, what I want to tell you now, the history of this place, of Kampot. You don’t have to listen if you don’t want but I will tell you anyways. We have two French [tourists] here, and I am sorry. I do not want you to be mad at me, because this story is history and now French tourists are very nice…” (The two French women look up and smile at the rest of us).

And so Tree shared with us the story of Bokor. How the people of Cambodia in this area were always under the rule of someone else; how a rich French colonial came across Bokor Hill in the early 1900s and decided this would be an ideal spot for French vacationers. The ideal (cool) weather and high altitude would provide a refuge from the Indochinese heat to rich French tourists. He built a Catholic Church, a post office, and a palace/hotel among other buildings. Cambodian laborers were used to build the beautiful buildings as well as the gravel road that would lead travelers up to this refuge. Many lost their lives building this colonial recluse.

Over the years, the Indochinese war, KR genocide (this was a KR stronghold), and US bombings would drive people out of the area. A Cambodian commander would live in the Catholic Church during the KR and the palace turned Casino that once held party goers and gamblers would turn into a place of torture—a prison. Overtime, lack of food, money, and the Vietnamese intervention would drive Cambodians back down the hill, transforming this once quaint little mountaintop retreat into a ghost town.

Today Bokor Hill no longer belongs to the French, but it does not belong to the Cambodian people either. According to Mr. Tree, the park is in the hands of Sokimex Goup, that own various companies across Cambodia, among them a prominent gas station chain. Sokimex owns a part of Angkor Wat. When you pay your $20 entrance fee to see Angkor Wat the money travels straight through to “company pockets”. A national treasure is in the hands of a few hands. Little money from tourism ever trickles down to the country’s inhabitants. It stays in the hands of a few or in the hands of expat-business owners. Today they are building another unsustainable tourist trap: A casino, hotel and golf resort atop this beautiful hill. Mr. Tree says he’s known this area all his life and is afraid of the environmental damage being caused by illegal logging. The winds will no longer remain trapped in the trees, but will reach down to other provinces, affecting local agriculture and weather patterns. There are fewer animals as well. He says he doesn’t know what this place will look like in 20 years.

Walking along the top of the hill, I explore the buildings along with the others. I come across moldy kitchens, cracked tile floors, the graffiti-covered inside of the Church. I imagine I’m wearing a long French gown as I make my way up the casino staircase and peer out over a cliff. In the distance you can hear the constant sawing of Japanese and American machinery, controlled by the Chinese with Cambodian-laborers illegally logging and clearing land.

I stand on the back of the pick-up truck on the way down the hill, my hands gripping the edge as we tumble down into the white mist. Do you know what it feels like to go through a cloud? It’s like going through the bright white flash of a camera, as goose bumps rise up on your arms from the cold and droplets cling to your eyelashes. I lean forward so Mr. Tree, who is seated on the roof of the front part of the truck can hear me. I ask Mr. Tree what he thinks this place will look like in 20 years. He shakes his head. I think he is afraid to say.

Don’t believe me about Angkor Wat? Go here:

http://www.talesofasia.com/cambodia-sokimex.htm

http://www.sokhahotels.com/termofuse.php

http://www.elephantguide.com/Cambodiatravel-news/bokor-mountain-golf-country-club-signs-up-arnold-p-2.html>

Rooftop Conversations

“When you came here, did you come here for others, or for yourself,” Mauritz asked a slightly tipsy Gemma and me. The three of us sat drinking wine and milkshakes atop Equinox’s rooftop, overlooking the touristy golden street of 278.

“For myself,” we both respond. “Me too.”

We are twenty-somethings, being selfish, living in Cambodia; saving ourselves from boredom, inactivity; the stagnation of living of at home. We never thought we could save the world, much less the people we’ve come across in SE Asia. We all know we can make a bigger impact back home, in our own communities. I, for one, constantly ask myself why I’m not in Mexico or Latin America, or somewhere I can actually speak fluently.

Earlier that evening, Maurtiz had invited Gemma and me to dinner at Souky Soup, a local Cambodian restaurant to have dinner with his GTZ work colleagues, including two Mongolians. When I asked the Mongolians what they typically ate back home, they responded, “Camel, horse, chicken, beef…. A lot of meat.” Well, I’ve never heard camel and horse before. The meal was cheap and delicious and at the end, something happened which spurred our rooftop conversation later on. We invited them all out for post-dinner drinks. Whether it was too late (9pm) or perhaps the cost of a drink (roughly $2-3), they all declined and the three Westerners were left to keep the night going.

“I love to travel and work closer to the problems on the ground, but I want to go back to Germany. I’m fine here, but this is not my culture.” Though he had just told us he didn’t want to go back to Munich were his friends just played video-games all day or did boring technical engineering internships, Mauritz had just said what we all felt at traffic-stops, in the market, on nights like this. This was not our culture. He continued, “In a way, we are just the sons and daughters of rich parents, with choice. We come across Cambodian colleagues that are willing to work harder, study more, be self-sufficient, the difference is that we have choice and they don’t.”

We have the choice to get up and leave or stay. We can move between worlds. We are flexible and adaptable and it is those very characteristics that make it harder for us to fit somewhere.

Staring out at the popular bohemian backpacker guesthouse Top Banana, we moved on to discuss neocolonialism, politics, economics, long-distance relationships, the rebellion of our generation against set paths, and everything else one shouldn’t discuss on a Friday night at a bar. It’s amazing how three 23, 24, and 25 year-olds from different countries feel the same thing, still ask the same questions. Where do we belong? Not here, but maybe here now.

The Ritual of Leaving

Phnom Penh is a revolving door. That is a fact. People come and go and that’s what makes this place so alive. I can have conversations about malaria, the environment, small business loans, biking to remote areas, travel to Malaysia, and the best place to eat Cambodian food in town. Most of us are young, restless, caught in between careers and wanderlust. Afraid of commitment and settling in one place where people only talk of last night’s show, new cars, money, hotel points, and the weekend shopping Sale at Macy’s. [NOTE: There is nothing wrong with talking about these things. I enjoy Glee twice as much as you do, believe me. I also love shopping at Macy's, nice hotels here and there and I still want a Mini-Cooper someday] When we leave home we miss out on birthdays, graduations, reunions, weddings, and so on. It is a sacrifice. We leave our homes to be closer to other things that matter to us—ideas, innovations in the field, travel, the exotic— only to be left behind by those of us that leave to move on to something new. Phnom Penh is a revolving door. It is a fact, and you have to learn to be okay with that.

That being said, a good friend just left. I met Katie, the way I’ve met other people. Through friends, of friends, of friends. That’s the only way you meet people here, or at bar. The night Katie left, I took out that cheap plastic Nokia phone and went through a ritual: the cleansing of the phone. Basically, I purged it of friend’s numbers that no longer exist. People leave, but they leave things behind. The things they leave are gifts and remind you of who they were, and maybe who they will become.

Betsy was the first to leave last May. I met her through Tim on our bike ride to Mondulkiri. Her infectious laughter woke me up from a cold year in Chicago, and I am indebted to her for leaving behind something intangible: The belief that those of us here could actually change the world through the little things we do every day. She also gave me a goal: to run the Angkor Wat Half-Marathon, which I completed last December. Betsy will take D.C. and the world by storm as an Anti-Human Trafficking and Women’s Rights Activist.

I actually met Fitria through Susan, one of my first housemates, but Fitria was also living on Sisowath next to the apartment I was watching for a friend. She was my only neighbor for a month and introduced me to the “UN Tribunal summer crowd.” When Fitria left to go back to Indonesia to finish her legal studies, she left me some cloth to make a skirt at the market and her Indonesian tea that felt so good when my stomach hurt. Fitria will become an exceptional international lawyer breaking free from conservative Indonesia to explore the world.

I met Helen through Tim, and Helen left me her room at the flat I currently live at. An incredibly energetic Brit with a knack for the wild party life in the Penh, Helen left me clean bed sheets, a towel, and a wicker shelf set. Helen will become a cross-cultural trainer in the UK, overseeing programs that emphasize the need for young people to get out and see the world.

When American David left, a sweltering summer of Pontoon parties and Chinese dumplings also left. As all the summer interns returned home, a new breeze flowed through Phnom Penh and it got quieter. Deepika can attest to that. I met David through Katie whom I met through Tim. David left me a motorcycle helmet and an iron. He’s also left me with the idea that I should keep writing, if not for others, at least for myself. David, I think you’ll definitely be one of those environmental activist lawyers responsible for taking down failures like the Copenhagen climate talks and actually doing work on the ground, wherever “the ground” may be.

Kathrin was my beautiful German roommate from Berlin. For two months my roommates and I watched her deal with sticky situations in Cambodia and fight against irresponsibility and those that take advantage of you. She left me a lot of Sunblock and the idea that you should always do what feels right even if it means being apart from family, friends, and boyfriends. They will understand. Kathrin will be an international lawyer in Germany and then go live in Latin America or become a model.

Taka was not a grass-eater. He was a Japanese “carnivore” as he put it. With a deep sense of curiosity for the living conditions of the poor and urban development, Taka left his plastic cigarette-butts bottle on our patio and a funny insight into what it is like to be a young male in Japan. Taka is going to re-develop an Asian city and quit smoking someday. Taka, I never thought you were a grass-eater.

Mary was the second German. She was just cool and did her own thing and questioned her own studies in agricultural development. She was the first German I met that loved (and took down) jars of peanut butter. Before I saw her off on her dirt-bike trip across the south of Cambodia, she left me with the idea that all over the world, women can be pretty good at the things men are supposed to be good at. Mary is going to leave Germany to go surf in Australia while she figures out her next steps.

I hated when Deepika left. My smart and super cool, Indian-American lawyer friend, she was both a mentor and my big sister. She taught me to work hard for what I want, and to move on to something else when I’m not happy. She taught me to cherish what we have and that it’s good to be patient when you’re young, and perhaps not so good when you are older because after all, we are always short on time. She left me plenty of relationship advice (for my non-existent relationships) and let me copy her beautiful shoes. Deepika is one of those people you’ll always be friends with no matter where you end up. I know you’ll continue to do amazing things for others as well as yourself whether it’s in Cuba, LA, India, or Europe.

Charel/Karel’s face always lit up when he talked about Africa. That was the best part, to see in someone who they are and who they will become based on the past experiences they’ve had when they were young. Not only did I learn more about mosquitoes than I ever thought I could, I learned what it is like to be carefree, compassionate and open with others. This tall, Belgian guy left me a Disney DVD collection and the hope that someday I will go to Africa. Charel, I think one day you’ll be where you really want to be, out in an African province researching the origin of tropical diseases or a bug's life.

Katie was my close friend for 8 months, though we were technically ND-BC rivals based on our University Alma Matters. When Kathrin left, Katie took her place at the flat and stayed on to have more adventures with me in Cambodia and Laos. She always found people and organizations doing cool things in microfinance and development. She set high goals for herself and taught me the importance of letting go of something or someone when it is not meant to be and that maybe I can become a rock climber one day. Katie will always place the interests of others before her own, especially when the others are struggling to make an income in developing worlds. I think you’ll definitely be on the front line of business and development, the future of closing poverty gaps. Katie left me her bigger pillow, Tylenol, and her straightening iron.

And now it’s almost February and the dynamics of my flat and work and life have changed. Gemma (French-American), Mauritz (German), Nora (Finnish and not pictured above), and I now cohabit in our Cambodian flat. We get along really well and at least three of us like to refer to ourselves as “The Family” when we go out. Gemma, Mauritz and I like to play the post-it game. Last night, we went around decorating the flat with yellow post-its with the French, German, Spanish, and Khmer spelling of words. We hope to be fluent by April when both of them leave.

The (Cambodian) Office

I must say, there are times when I really do miss talking to someone by the water cooler. Not that the Univision kitchen’s water cooler, strategically located underneath a tiny flat-screen TV brought the thirsty life-changing conversations. It’s that cliche office environment that I miss. The girl-talk by the receptionist desk, everyone looking up from their desk after the head man walks by in some outrageous suit or tennis shoes, the quick getaways to the corner Starbucks, and yes, even those Tuesday morning meetings where I contemplated moving somewhere very, very far away. That is the American office culture I occasionally miss.

The Cambodian office culture I’ve witnessed is slightly different. Yes, there is a water cooler, but is located right by the men’s toilet, meaning that whenever someone has to go, you can hear. Never mind that doors are only ever half-closed. Then, there are my colleagues. Amazing young people, hailing mostly from the province of Kandal. When I taught basic ESL classes to my colleagues on Wednesday mornings, I used the opportunity to learn a bit more about who they were, because casual conversations seldom take place, probably because they are too shy to speak to me. I’m a foreigner, and I’m a girl. I get a lot of giggles and occasionally the receptionist will tell me that so and so has a crush on me. Never mind that they are married and have a baby. Anyways, in these classes I’ve learned that most of them are the first to go to university, are one of several siblings, continue to go to school and work, and have families of their own. Many of them barely make more than $200 a month, yet have in their possession two things: the desire to learn English and a snazzy mobile phone.

Apart from my colleagues (production crew and administrative personnel) , the rock stars and singers, and my boss, I have one favorite person that works in that building on Preah Monivong: the old guard. Probably around 70 years old, this bone-thin man always smiles. Not only that, he actually kids around with the stronger, younger guards. Whenever I leave the office on my high-tech vehicle--my bike-- he pulls at the back wheel so I can’t go. He makes about $80 a month and sleeps on a cot in the back room of the lobby. This building is his livelihood. His wife comes around sometimes and they sit together on the floor and eat from a little plastic bag of rice. It breaks my heart. Occasionally I bring him leftover Chinese dumplings, a bag of bread or some fruit from my house. He always thanks me kindly and gives me a little pat. Although language is our biggest barrier, we communicate by sign language, and well, charades. I act out being sweaty and hot (or just show up sweaty and hot), going to eat lunch, sticking out my hand and pointing up if it’s going to rain, etc. I brought him back some cute chocolate-reindeer from the States and I swear he did a Cambodian jig. Life is hard for some Cambodians, and it is written all over his wrinkled, smiling face.

Sometimes, we get visitors in the office! Sadly, they are never young and good-looking.

The other day this tall, leggy man, of the same nationality as the original baguette, stepped into the office to have a chat with my manager regarding procuring additional business for a local television station in the Penh. To my delight, this way too naturally tanned skinny twig with manicured nails had the most amazing French accent. As the two figured out how to present a proposal to UNICEF and UNDP, I had the delight of listening to how in FRRRANCE things are done, because in FRRRRANCE this and that. At one point he turned to me and said, “I knooooow you. We met at a bar.” I blinked twice. I think I would have remembered him. “I don’t think so,” I smiled sweetly. He shrugged and continued to explain the innovation of streaming documentary snippets in video-text.

No matter where you work in the world, it can happen to you. It happened to me on the day after I returned to Cambodia, and I have to admit it wasn’t as wholly unexpected. When you work for a private company in an unstable (those some claim, what is now a stabilizing) economic and political environment, things just happen.

It kind of all went down like this:

I fly back to Cambodia to be let go. My boss informs me she is starting a new company and would like to keep me on as her assistant producer, under which our film will be released. Wait a minute? Was I just fired and re-hired? Maybe. Technically, the new general manager at our company fired me. It was my first time being let go, and I can honestly say, I rather enjoyed the whole process. For some reason, as I sat in the conference room, trying to look apologetic, as if I were the one that was doing the firing, it struck me how comical the whole situation was. As a foreigner, and rather generously paid by Cambodian standards, I was an expensive asset to the company, an asset viewed more as a liability when it came down to the bottom line. This of course, I’ve known for many months, but still, one doesn’t like to be let go. Nevertheless, there I sat, with the GM to my side, explaining downsizing and restructuring, or rather, trying to explain these concepts with me actually providing the key word phrases for him.

“I understand, completely,” I said, beaming at him.

Anyhow, to my surprise, upon being let-go I had unknowingly entered the world of alliances. No, this is not some Harry Potter wizarding alliance or other medieval game of make-believe. “I support you always, if you support me,” He said. Who can say no to that offer? Of course, a master at diplomacy (a characteristic I’m beginning to detest), I do the polite thing and just nod my head. Alliances? WTF?

Enter stage three. It seems the GM is eager to match me with a fellow ally… A Thai media company, where he knows some people. While it strikes me as odd that this man I’ve only known for oh, less than a month, is eager to place me with a new company, I am grateful that he is taking my firing so well. I’m not loud, or obnoxious, or call them out on multiple violations to my contract, for I know, enforcement of a contract in a world lacking governance is as valid as getting married to your best friend when you’re five.

In the meantime, GM seems to be more worried about my well-being than I am. I have a job— I’m a less than part-time reporter. I have skills, the most important one being, I speak and write in English. Plus, in this world I hold the neocolonialist advantage of being a foreigner. I decide I must join this alliance game for a time, just to see what it’s all about. After all, how many 24 year olds get to form alliances outside of Facebook Mafia Wars?

Stage four goes something like this:

3 missed calls… I finally pick up: “Can you come to the office today at 3pm? I will take you to my friend.” Oh. Okay. Why not? Does one need to be wearing a suit to meet an ally? Too late for that. At least I put on earrings this morning. At 3pm on the dot (Note: It is rare to be on time in Cambodia) GM comes and finds me and we step into the SUV and I’m whisked off for some alliance-making. As the car tumbles out of downtown Phnom Penh, past Northbridge (school and country club on the outskirts of the city), I contemplate possible scenarios:

1. I’m really being kidnapped. I have in my possession a perfectly working ibook G4 (purchased on E-bay several years ago and slightly dirty so never go for white), a cheap NOKIA phone (worth considerably less than every other Cambodian’s phone), and my life (which I value the most). I will be raped, murdered, and left for dead in one of the MAERSK containers covered in mud in one of the shipping yards we just passed by.

2. I will meet this person, be offered a job on the spot because I speak English. I will be offered a driver, body-guard, a diamond-studded phone, and VIP access to all of Phnom Penh’s nightclubs. The driver is on account of the difficulty in finding this work place on my own should I have to start work on Monday.

3. It really is an interview. Damn. What have I done in my two and half years of work experience so far… I review my resume in my head and think of big “media” words.

We reach the location. It’s not a major media complex. Just some Chinese-style houses put together. Once inside though, the place is maze of staircases, high tech production rooms, conference halls, kitchens, computer rooms, and people (gasp!) working on Colgate toothpaste ads. What did I expect? Certainly, not a full-blown media company in the middle of nowhere.

The interview goes well, though the entire time I’m wondering if I should be pitching the job, or apologizing for the GM’s over eagerness to sell me off to them as he sits in the same room as me, while I’m being interviewed. I am asked to explain multiple points on my resume, which I do rather well yet that fact that I’m not wearing shoes really bothers me. (In most Cambodian homes, you take off your shoes when you walk in).

On the way back to the city, after bestowing my gratitude (honestly, I think I could qualify for the Neutral Olympics), the GM hits me with this:

“You take job, we help each other. You work for (past company) too. I cannot pay all. Then, when I have money, I take you back.”

Translation: If you take this job that I am essentially making my friend give to you, you will be indebted to me until the end of time and therefore will have to work for free for me in the meantime, until I convince the CEO to take you back… All smiles and laughter. I didn’t quite nod at that one.

In a way, I had just experienced what it is like to be an international organization: A foreign pawn in greedy local hands. Not that the GM is greedy, because he is not. He is simply interested in advancing the company he works for and he sees me as one source for advancement. I on the other hand, did not come to Cambodia to sell toothpaste and Chinese-made cars to a population with a disturbingly growing income gap. I am interested in the role of media in developing countries, and this is just another side of it: the mass commercial side. It is times like this that make me wonder what I am doing here. If life really is about fate, coincidences, and the choices we make, than why did I end up in country where I cannot speak the language fluently, cannot actually produce a commercial or documentary, and cannot be bribed to form alliances? One thing is certain: The answer remains unclear.

The Great Departure or Winter in Chicago

After 23 hours of travel back to the States, I landed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5 AM in my beloved airport, O’Hare International. My dad picks me up and I eagerly shower and get ready for my first Starbucks coffee back home, but jet lag wins out and I pass out on my bed instead.

The rest of the trip goes at follows:

1. I proceed to hide under my bed-covers for the next three days, only submerging for food, water, hygiene, and movie purposes
2. My body, clearly undergoing culture shock, fails to respond to snow, wind, ice, and bleakness and requires me to dress in multiple layers, something a true Chicagoan would only do once upon a random wintry occasion.
3. Large intakes of Nestle dark chocolate raisins and Starbucks lattes help with the adjustment, as do fireplace movie nights with the family. I finally get the guts to brave it, and try out snowshoeing. It’s harder than it looks. My parents are pros though.
4. (Below: me, too cold to move)
5. I decide to be social. A Univision and Notre Dame reunion of friends my first weekend back in Chicago makes for a great re-introduction to life in the US of A with all my favorite people (well, in Chicago). Julie and I get each other the same thing for Christmas: squirrels (though hers suspiciously looks more like a groundhog), college note-passing jokes, and ethnic Bolivian and Cambodian scarves.
6. White Christmas 2010. My mom bakes a delicious turkey; apple-cinnamon mix thing, mashed potatoes, veggies and we trade the usual Austrian strudel for a French fruit pie. We proceed to open presents and miss all of our family back in Mexico City and the sun.
7. A string of movie-theater outings (they don’t have real ones in Cambodia), Barnes & Noble (again lacking in Cambodia), Starbucks (a rare find in Cambodia), and planning for what will be my second failure in life.
8. New Year’s 2010! What is time anyways?
9. Trip to D.C. to visit my newly engaged friend, Diana and my first glimpse of a BRIDES magazine outside of a bookstore. D.C. is colder than Chicago (is that possible?) and Mike teaches me how to play Wii Beatles Rock Band. I’m terrible at the guitar, but looove drums. I spare everyone by not singing, as does Diana.
10. I spend my second day in D.C. at the National Art Gallery and decide that the Art Institute of Chicago is much better. I’m partial to impressionism. At least 3 people ask me if I need help finding my way around D.C. I must look like a tourist.
11. My second failure in life. (The first was not pushing my parents for professional soccer training). I miss the Foreign Service placement cut-off by A QUARTER OF A POINT.
12. Such is life. I must go grow up now and deal with check-points in the West Bank or become a Lawyer in Munich or re-settle Somali refugees in Uganda.
13. I don’t commit suicide and meet Diana and Mike for a last D.C. dinner at a delicious Peruvian restaurant. It's a dark, lonely ride back from D.C. to Chicago.
14. I miss my plane ride back to Cambodia.. One leg booked for the day before the other. Oh details like 12:05AM departures. I take it as a sign I should go back and hibernate some more.
15. One month after I arrived in Chicago, I fly back to Cambodia.
16. A million hours later I taxi it back to St. 278 No. 42E, my humble abode. As I’m standing outside our green gate, waiting for Nora to come let me in, all my tuk-tuk and moto drivers welcome me back. They wave, smile, and point at the shirts they're wearing. Before I left to go home, I bestowed some presents onto all left by a former roommate. I feel back at home. That is, until a nice car full of well-dressed Cambodians parks next to me and they tumble out into my neighbor’s (or my landlord’s) flat. One of the women greets me, we chat a bit and it turns out she’s from Libertyville, a town next to the one I grew up back in my real home. She's just visiting, and dying of heat. Actually, the weather is the best it's ever been in Cambodia, probably around 75-80 degrees Fahrenheit. She sort of stares at me incredulously and asks me how many years I’ve lived here. “Going on 9 months now.” I hope next time I say that I’m pregnant. She blinks twice then says, “Be Safe!” Great. Welcome back to Cambodia.