The other day I finally told the medical officer that I had a wicked toothache and she brought me into Phnom Penh for a dental checkup. Keep in mind that I am about a four hour bus ride from the city (approximately...in Khmer hours which means the time of the bus ride ranges from three to six...but generally I find four to be a nice round number for describing my trip in). She tells me this on a Sunday morning so I have Sunday afternoon to prepare myself to ask my host mom for help in obtaining a bus ticket...and locating the bus stop. I dutifully look up the words for "ticket" and "to need" - no worries, "toothache" and "dentist" have already been mastered oddly enough and for good reason apparently - and after gathering my basic-English-speaking boan broh (little brother) in case of emergency, I think I tell my host mom that I have a toothache and need to go to Phnom Penh to see the dentist the following day. What I do know is that she understood that I had a toothache. What I am still unsure about is if she thinks I wanted to bike into Phnom Penh with an umbrella that she thinks she talked me out of doing (I know the oddest words in Khmer). What matters is that the following morning at about 8am, I was on the crossroads of the main street waiting for a bus to stop on its way into the city with a bus ticket in my hand and my host mom by my side. Success! you might be thinking. Yes, young grasshopper, as did I.
Does anybody like trips to the dentist? I personally have had the luxury of the same dentist throughout my entire life. The same tooth doctor who watched me lose my baby teeth, try to glue paper clips to my teeth (in the third grade I thought braces were cool...yea, I was that girl), actually acquire braces, fill my cavities, and see me when I came home from college has watched me grow up. Needless to say walking into a Khmer dentist office where I had to remove my shoes in favor of some white croc-like options was a little more than intimidating. Regardless of the country or culture, not being in the relative comfort of the dentist office I had grown up in, I wished I had looked up "Can I see your credentials?" in Khmer.
The dentist office was very business-like but like I said, I am accustomed to only one dentist office and thus my view of them is pretty narrow. I was finished with my visit and waiting in the sitting room for the report to take back to the Peace Corps office - the waiting room had beverages available to patients which was very thoughtful but seeing as how they were drinks like apple juice (mostly sugar) and coffee (doesn't it stain teeth?) it seemed a little counterintuitive if you ask me - when all of the sudden I heard a scream come from the dentist rooms, followed subsequently by loud sobbing. I promptly looked around to see if anyone else in the waiting room was disturbed by this turn of events or if this was a common occurrence in Khmer dentist offices, not entirely sure which I was hoping to discover. Luckily (well...it's a matter of opinion), I was not the only one whose eyes turned to saucers which leads me to believe that generally children don't scream in the offices of Khmer dentists. I mean think about it - Asian eyes into saucers equals something unusual going on.
The best part of this story (yea, it gets better) is the day afterwards when I headed back to site. A little bit of background: the buses go from Phnom Penh to other major cities - the major city in my province is Sihanoukville via National Road 4. To get off at any stop along the road you have to tell the bus driver where you want to get off. Here's the kicker: you have to know where that stop is and where it is in Khmer . OUTRAGEOUS! Keep in mind that my site is not on the main road, it is about 5-6km down a dirt road off of National Road 4. I know what you're thinking, "silly Amanda, she doesn't know what that stop/crossroads/little-road-to-her-village is called". And you know what, "yes" to everything you're thinking. I didn't know what that stop was called (I still don't), I didn't know how far it was from Phnom Penh (I have always been an "approximately" kind of girl), and I have a terrible sense of direction. SO. I'm standing at the bus station with two other PCVs, one of whom lives in my province and knows his way around. He sees my panic and attempts to teach me one of the two names for my stop (I butcher the name and then write it in English phonetics on my palm) and then realizing the hopelessness of the situation, tries to tell the bus driver himself where I am to be getting off. Yes, I do think he has descended from the heavens to help me so and no, I'm sorry to say I didn't kidnap him to go with me to ensure my arrival at my site. I boarded the bus with confidence in my ability to have adventures and promptly took out my ipod for the drive. About four hours in I started to watch the road, thinking that I might recognize my stop. Of course, the setting sun and speeding bus were not great aids but I think I've dealt with worse. Hoping beyond hope that the bus driver wouldn't be driving too fast when I finally spotted my stop while at the same time attempting to read every single road sign that we passed, even the ones in Khmer (no, I can't read Khmer), I sat on the edge of my seat clutching my backpack in one hand and my phone in the other possibly unconsciously thinking that one would aid me. I'm positive I at least gave the other passengers a good story to tell that night at dinner. Hey, I win where I can.
When in the blink of an eye I spotted the road leading to my village, I stumbled up the bus to ask the bus driver why he didn't stop only to stammer out in atrocious Khmer what was left on my sweaty palm from 5 hours earlier. I can't say I'm sad that he forgot my destination in favor of paying attention to the roads for five hours - I've learned to pick my battles here on the scariest roads on the PLANET. Anyway, he pulled over while I weaved to the back of the bus to get my backpack and then hurry back to the front to get off, muttering "akoon" (thank you) while thinking, "shit" and "it's getting dark". The bus attendant gestured to the empty road behind us. "Bei kilomait" he said, and I turned to peer through the dimming light. Three kilometers back to my stop, no big deal. I thanked him, hiked up my pants which had magically grown longer in the two seconds since I had exited the bus, and began my trek homeward.
A couple hundred minutes later I arrived at my stop and turned onto the dirt road that led to dinner and my bed. Roughly six kilometers stood between me, clean clothes, some rice, and bed and I felt renewed at the thought of my Khmer home. I took out my phone and dialed the local tuk tuk driver who did not answer, so I did what anyone does when they are at a loss for what to do: I called my (host) mom. "Ja, Bong" I said to my host mother, "Knyom mao win, howee-nung nou plow" - I am coming back, and on the road. She responded in some Khmer that I didn't understand, and asked me (I think) if I wanted a tuk tuk. I told her that I had tried and had no luck (I think), to which she asked me about every other form of transportation (I think). I want a tuk tuk, I said to her (I think), no, I can't ride a moto, haha yes I can gi-kong (ride a bike) or hutbraan (run), but I just want a tuk tuk (I'm pretty sure). I heard a lot of Khmer on the other line, but, well, her Khmer doesn't sound like my Khmer and even on the best days I think that instead of asking her where I can find bread I am asking how to defeat vampires in Khmer...at least that's what her facial expressions lead to me to believe. After about 4.15 minutes of this and a lot of laughter she hangs up, while I continue to walk towards my destination. I had started to walk not sure if anything would happen - and I'm not very good at waiting. Picture this: me in my yellow raincoat with a black backpack on my back and a small purse attached to my front with one earbud in and a phone in my hand while I hold both pant legs out of the mud, flip-flops flinging red mud all over my backside anyway. By "road" I mean a sort of red clay that is slightly damp due to it being the wet season, and the sun setting faster and faster as I walk (briskly, or so I think to myself) in between the rice paddies. It's muggy and foggy but the mosquitos haven't discovered me yet as the dim light turns to darkness. I have walked about 1 km when the next best thing happens: it starts to rain. And by rain I mean downpour, because it's the rainy season and Cambodian rain apparently goes big or doesn't go at all. My earbud has fallen out of my ear and my pants are now more than a little muddy but have turned red in any case. What this should teach you, as it taught me that fateful evening in the middle-of-nowhere Cambodia, is that it can always get worse. Motos and tourys pass by and ask if I want a ride and I am struck suddenly with a memory of being very small in some sort of sports arena with my dad. In my mind's eye I see him about twenty years younger crouch down to eye level with my little self (I'm wearing a puffy pink winter coat in this memory by the way) and he tells me, again it seems and in a very dad-like voice, that I am not to talk to or go with strangers and only hold his hand. I chuckled at the thought of my father now, on the opposite side of the world telling me to avoid climbing into a van full of Khmer strangers in the dark.
At this point I am about 2km into the walk, continuing bravely but thinking sadly about the lost tuk tuk or my host family sitting and waiting for me to arrive, my host mother mistaking my Khmer "I need a tuk tuk" for "I want to walk home thankyouverymuch see-you-in-three-hours-don't-wait-up" when all of the sudden a moto light coming in the opposite direction stops and I faintly see my host mother awkwardly riding my bicycle towards me. The moto belonged to an uncle (or uncle-like figure) on the police force, friend of my host mom, and she laughed as she handed me my bicycle helmet and took my backpack from me. She climbed onto the moto to ride back with him while I rode back in front of them led by the light on the moto. (It wasn't until I started riding that I discovered that I didn't have a bike light but like I said, picking my battles). As I neared my house I saw that there were two cars in front waiting for my arrival with the lights on high as well as two more motos with men, and the house alight in the dark. What was that about a village raising a child? Because that night I'm pretty sure I proved that it takes a Cambodian village to locate an American. That, or my host mom had a party and they were all just waiting for her to get back - in which case she and her friend left the party to come get me. And THAT, my friends, taught me the even more important lesson that it always gets better.
I made it home, welcomed eagerly by my boan brohs, bucket showered, ate rice, and went to sleep. The next day I sewed the pants I had been wearing (and ripped on my bicycle ride) into capris, and every single person that I met asked me about my toothache. My escapade is still the talk of the town. Thus instead of a blog about teaching Khmer children the importance of nutrition or installing a toilet into a poor home, you get a story about a bus ride. All of this for a toothache. "Yes," to everything you're thinking.
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