Kampuchea Noir 2

Episode 2! Enjoy.

Kampuchea Noir 2

Amanda

Cooking Success!

   After my failed cooking attempts have been recorded on this blog, I need to redeem myself with stories of cooking triumphs. 

“She can be taught!”

So while success stories do not have nearly enough drama to make an interesting tale, they do bring fond memories to mind, and tasty food to the lunch…bowl. 

Cooking story #1: Tacos.  Tacos are super easy, even for this girl.  Everything was washed thoroughly and cut properly (ok, Maak helped out with the cutting) and the meat ended up being pork.  The pork was actually kind of fried and then taco seasoning was added.  I showed the host fam how we eat tacos (in hard shells purchased in Phnom Penh) and won rave reviews.  Ok, well not really.  My host mom liked them, but the boys didn’t.  She told me that it was an expensive meal to make though, mostly because the taco shells were like $6 from the supermarket and everything else added up to about $1.  She was right. 

Cooking story #2: Eggplant Marinara – This lunch is pretty self explanatory.  I got some eggplant from a stand nearby, marinara is a purchase from the city (Phnom Penh, as it happens) and the grocery store, and I chopped some onions because I figured that with only two ingredients I couldn't call it “cooking” – that’s just “mixing”.  Anyway, the sliced eggplant, together with marinara sauce, ended up quite delicious.  And if you’re wondering if marinara sauce keeps for the next day with no refrigeration, no, it does not. 

Cooking story #3: Pumpkin Soup!  Very exciting to attempt, even if it is just soup.  For this one, I had less than an idea of how to go about making soup from pumpkins, much less what other kinds of ingredients to include or how to begin a recipe.  So I used my problem-solving, highly educated, 21^st century American brain: I googled it.  Google gave me a few recipes on how to make pumpkin soup using actual pumpkins, and I had to modify the recipe because when I tried to make pumpkin soup, I didn’t have any butter…or spices…or anything but pumpkin, canned milk, and carrots on hand.  So it goes.  It was delicious.  Also I would have eaten pumpkin-anything at that point. 

And of course, there are the baking items.  Baking, I can do.  Baking is pretty exact, requires instructions and measuring and order. Baking is fun and easy and not like cooking.  Thanks to the toaster oven gifted to me by a K5 Volunteer who left, baking is relatively easy.  I have successfully only made muffins though, because when the angel food cake was attempted, I tried to improvise and add cocoa powder, vanilla powder, and cinnamon.  Not all in the same cake.  Not even the boys would eat it.  But they do like chocolate chip muffins *fist pump*.

I asked my parents what they thought about my self-depiction of cooking debacles on my blog.

Supermom tried to be generous, “You don’t portray yourself as bad at cooking so much as accident prone!”

Fair enough, I do go through a lot of band-aids. 

xo-Amanda

Names

     The funniest thing about names is that though we call them our own, answer to them, and believe them inherently ours, they do not come from us; names are given to us by our parents or guardians.  Through names, the first name that is chosen for us and the last name that is inherited, we are claimed.  In American culture, people generally have a “given name” (of which mine, for example, is “Amanda”), and a family name (of which mine is “Arand”) commonly passed down via the patriarch –  because we are a patriarchal society.

     Sometimes people are named after others – handed a family name as a given name or a name passed down from Grandma or Grandpa.  Sometimes it is from the baby book.  I can’t begin to imagine how new or not-so-new parents might go through the choosing process.  All I know is that my two names are two letters off of each other and that when I was in college and writing fast, sometimes I accidentally wrote, “Amanda Aranda.”  What a great conversation starter with the Professor.  Thanks Mom and Dad. 

     Other quirks with names come when one moves to a society or different language.  For example, when I was in college, I studied abroad in Athens, Greece, and no matter what I said to Greeks, no matter how many times I repeated my name, they forever called me, “Amina.”  My roommate happened to be standing next to me when one of these encounters took place. 

"Πώς σε λένε;" (pos se llene?)(“What is your name?”)

“Amanda.”

“Amina?”

“Amanda.”

“Amina?”

“OK.” 

     I embraced it. So did my roommate.  After learning a bit of modern Greek I came to find that the hard “d” sound isn’t actually in the Greek alphabet (delta is actually pronounced like “thelta” – the “th” soft as in “the”…but Greek lessons are for another day) and so whose fault was it if they didn’t have the letters of my name in their alphabet?  Alphabet reconstructions are for another day, when I have more time on my hands. 

     Added names-I, for example, have a baptismal name and a confirmation name-are added in for good measure (I suppose) to show the world that we are otherwise involved in a religion, have passed a certain age, or have hit some other sort of mark in the world.  Sometimes people receive new names when they pass from one family to another, are adopted or married.  Sometimes they choose new names for themselves.  Whatever the reason, a change in a name can signify a change in a life, or a change in the surroundings of a person.

     For most people, names are important.  They identify us.  They are how we identify ourselves.  People don’t go around trading names willy nilly.  Oftentimes this indicates that something is wrong, or someone is not who they say they are.  We guard our names from people we don’t trust or for protection.  Names are incredibly personal. 

     In fact, in a study on attention – the dichotic listening test, (I just got out of school, remember?…or something like that, so I figure I can cite journal articles – check out this MSU journal article or Arciuli 2011) people who were told to concentrate on what they were being told in one ear were always distracted by their names spoken into their other ear, but not by more conversation or a switch in languages from English to German.  They could concentrate on anything they were told to (it's called, "selective attention" or "the Cocktail Party Effect"), but were always distracted by hearing their own names.  People like hearing their own names. 

Why am I telling you all of this?

    To remind you that names are important, that’s all, no matter what culture you are in.  When so much of your identity changes, it’s nice to fall back on something that’s not supposed to: your name. 

     In Khmer culture, like many Asian cultures, the family names come first.  So if I were a Khmer person (which I am mistaken for more often than not, here), my name would be Arand Amanda.  But in Cambodia, my name is not “Amanda,” “Arand,” “Amanda Arand” or even “Arand Amanda,” it is “ManDAAH.” 

     Something that I found very interesting and was explained to me when Diana visited, was a quirk of the language involving names: to preface a name with “Aaahhh” (as in Ahhh-manda) is endearing to a person when said by someone older than them.  So that means that my host mom or HCD might call me Ahh-man-DAAH and that would be completely acceptable (indeed, it’s even my name) but if one of my host brothers were to call me Ahh-man-DAAH, instead of “Bong” (the respectful term for “older sister”) or even “Bong Man-DA” (which they sometimes resort to) it would be considered rude.  Therefore my name, Amanda, is not entirely proper in Cambodia due to the first syllable – but only for people younger than me.  Likewise, my host mom has called Diana, “Ahh-Dian-AAh” because adding in that extra “Ahhh” is kind of like nicknaming a person you like who is younger than you.  I think.

    

     A Khmer nickname isn't so bad.  I have gotten used to both versions.  In fact, I have decided that more than anything, it signifies my acceptance into my community; assimilation and integration. 

     During the last wedding season I learned that the people of my village think that my name is Da.  As in, they think my full name is “Man Da” – my family name being “Man,” and my given name being “Da.”  More than one wedding invitation I received in which the person was able to write in English was addressed to “Man.Da.”  Interesting.   I have been adopted and renamed. 

     One afternoon Man Kheang, Sokchea, Mea, and their friends asked me about English and American culture and I explained to them that in America and many other Western cultures, we do not use hierarchical names or greetings, and that the family name goes second; the two names are dtawh-dto (swapped). 

They spent the next few days walking around, calling me “Da Man.” 

I couldn't object.

xo-Amanda

Cooking Attempt #1

I tried this whole “cooking” thing that everyone keeps talking about.

Well…I didn't quite make it that far.

Shall I begin by setting the stage?

    It was a stifling hot afternoon; the kind of hot that makes a body exclaim the obvious (“Man, it’s hot!”), and then, exhausted from attempted exaggeration, seek the nearest shade – sure to be at least ten degrees cooler.  I was looking especially village-chic in my usual rural wear consisting of long pants, a dri-fit shirt, and a sweatshirt over that as I wandered, sweating bullets, down the road to purchase the orange vegetable I had been craving for a few days: pumpkin.  I was feeling pretty good about myself, changing up my lunch routine by tossing the whole “peanut butter sandwich” deal I had been eating for the last year-instead I had begun going to road stands and buying vegetables to cut up and eat, and that day I had even gotten eggs to boil.  I walked down the road to the next village over, purchased my goodies, and meandered back to my house to set up the cutting board and get a knife. 

    You know how your mom always tells you to put the vegetable on the cutting board and cut down, while she holds it in her hand and expertly chops vegetables in the air in the time it takes you to manage a cut in half? That’s me and my host mom.  That day I tried to be her.  I held the pumpkin in my left hand and cut down with my right.  In this situation, I think it’s fair to say that I don’t know my own strength (and what strength it must be!) because I cut straight through the pumpkin to my index finger.  I pulled the knife out of my finger and bright red blood gushed from the slice.  Jumping up, I jammed my finger into my mouth, trying to reason that any iron lost would go straight back into my body while I ran up the stairs to my bedroom where my med kit was stashed and pulled out gauze and band-aids because I couldn't find any medical tape.  With mad medical skills, I managed to wrap the finger and then assuming that the blood would stop soon, went back downstairs to finish cutting the pumpkin.  I was still hungry and still craving pumpkin and it seemed like a rational idea.  The cutting took 2 more minutes during which time 6-year-old Man Kheang came over to me and asked what happened to my finger.  “Kut miriam die?” I said to him, which sounded to me like ‘cut finger.’  He corrected me, “moot kambut” (cut with a knife) and thus my Khmer lessons continue.  Soon I was back upstairs putting pumpkin into the toaster oven and eggs into the water heater holding my bleeding finger up and wondering why pressure and gauze wasn't doing the trick of halting the bleeding.  So I did what anyone does when they have a medical emergency and their mom isn't on hand: I called my friend, Amy, in Kampot – the next province over.  

“Hello?” she answered the phone.

“Amy, I cut my finger.”

    “Amaaandaaaaaaa,” she said to me (in the voice she always uses when I call her from the city after chugging chocolate milk and making myself sick. “You know what milk does to you” she scolds, exasperated while I groan in agreement and over the following few hours, curled in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, swear that I will never again eat myself sick with dairy after weeks of lactose-free food in the village; a promise that I know, even as I make it, I will inevitably break at the next available opportunity.  Milk is just so good).  Luckily though, she was sitting next to Hayley and handed the phone off to her, “Amanda cut her finger” I heard her say with a resigned air.  Hayley (the ultimate nice girl) sounded appropriately concerned, “Whaaat?!” and then I heard her clearly through the phone, “You cut your finger? What happened?” 

    I explained the pumpkin debacle and followed it with a description of my still-bleeding finger.  “I am not really sure what to do,” I said, and she answered promptly, “you should call Medical Duty.” 

(In PCCambodia we have two medical officers and the ‘medical duty’ is a phone number of a phone manned 24/7 by one of the two doctors on staff.  They o answer no matter what-kind of like an ER on the phone.) 

    Hayley was right.  I had started pacing in the upstairs outside of my room at this point and it had been twenty minutes since I cut my finger, blood still pouring out, me burning through gauze (not literally).  I dialed Med Duty and waited for an answer trying to frame a question out of my cut finger.  The phone was answered.  “Hello AHmenDah” I heard on the other end – the Duty Officer was Navy, the Khmer half of the medical staff.  “Hello Navy (pronounced Nah-VEE),” I answered in the most cheerful voice I could muster, “I have a problem.”  “Yes, what is it?” she said to me, patiently.  “Well, I cut my finger...not on purpose.” And proceeded through the story yet again, explaining how the bleeding had not ceased for 20 minutes.  “Ok,” Navy said, “You are in Kampong Som? I will call the clinic and we will see if we can get you an appointment. I will call you back.”  I thanked her and hung up, still pacing, though now in a circle, while I waited. 

    She called back right away.  “Amanda,” she asked me, “are you in the city or are you in a village?” I told her I was in my village and reminded her which one it was.  She knew it. “Oh,” she responded, “so you are not so close to the city then.” I’m not.  “Maybe you will come to Phnom Penh instead,” Navy said to me and I thought to myself, well, we just jumped from a little over an hour to my provincial town to 6 hours to Phnom Penh, but in light of the 10% of my digits still pouring blood, I was okay with heading straight to the capital.  She told me she would call my health center director and see if he would take a look at it to determine if I needed to come in and get stitches.  I went downstairs to wait for him as he made his way via car to my house and I remember thinking as he got out of the passenger seat, “Who is driving?”

    He unwrapped the gauze and observed the bloody mess while telling me to hold it up and attempting to wrap it up again (I was out of band-aids) the whole while I was sitting next to the now warm pumpkin.  Then he asked me if I had been crying, because Navy had told him I was crying.  “Bong yoam?” Man Kheang said to me, (Bong crying?).  I don’t remember crying…but if Navy said I did, maybe it was all in my voice.  I looked at him and smiled.  My health center director left me with instructions to keep my finger up and pressure applied and I sat with Man. 

“Bong,” he said to me in a 6 year old serious voice, “When Mea cut his finger, he didn’t cry.” (Mea is his 10 year old cousin)

“Oh, Mea klang.” I told him, (Mea is strong). 

He nodded in agreement.  “But when I fell and my nose was bleeding, I cried.  It’s okay to cry.” And he looked at me again with a serious face – possibly the most precious moment I have ever encountered. 

    I headed upstairs to my room and got a phone call from Navy.  She told me that my health center director (whom I lovingly refer to as my ‘HCD’) thought I would be fine, but there was a lot of blood and he couldn't quite see how deep the cut was.  “Come to Phnom Penh and we will just to make sure it is OK.” I told my host mom, she called my HCD who was heading there (so I wouldn't have to take the bus) and then ran upstairs to throw some clothes in a bag while I re-wrapped my finger. 

    Out of band-aids, my eyes tore wildly around the room for an adhesive agent, finally coming to rest on the ultimate of bonding materials: Angry Birds-themed Duct tape Supermom had sent in a care package.  One handed, I tore off a piece and did my best to wrap it around the gauze, unable to help the smile materializing on my face. 

    Minutes later I was in the passenger side of the HCDs car, on my way to Phnom Penh.  He sat next to me and chuckled – I’m sure he thought I was a complete idiot to be going to the hospital with moot kambut but in my defense, at this point I was just following the doctor’s orders.  About half an hour into the drive, rain pouring down steadily, he pulled off the road and motioned to a muddy path in front of us.  “Sam-sup nea-tee” he said to me, (thirty minutes).  I nodded.  Am I not always up for the adventure I never see coming?  We mucked through the mud to a house off the beaten path where his son received a blessing from a man who must have been holy (I didn't ask any questions), and then trekked back to the car. 

    About a week earlier my HCD had mentioned that he was teaching his son how to drive.  This didn't really connect to anything that was going on until he pulled over again about half an hour after that, and his son climbed into the driver’s seat.  I double checked my seat belt. 

    I hadn't met his son beforehand, and though HCD told me that his son was 20-years-old (or roundabouts), he looked to me more like 14-years-old, 15 if I was being really generous and accounted for some serious failure-to-thrive in childhood.  So when he got behind the wheel of the car and started driving at half the speed his father was driving, passed by semi’s and tuktuks alike, I wondered if I would have a finger left at the end of this journey…or if I would even make it to Phnom Penh. All of the sudden the blessing made sense, (“Maybe I should have gotten one” I thought to myself) and I realized I was holding tight to the door – to do what, I don’t know.  Maybe tuck and roll if I foresaw something dramatic happening in advance. 

    HCD sat in the backseat, giving instructions in Khmer to his son who generally responded in a like manner.  Soon enough they started bantering and listening in, I wasn't sure whether I wanted the conversation to continue in favor of entertainment, or cease in favor of attention on the road. 

“Slower, gentle. Do not try to pass now, I will tell you.”

“The truck just passed me. What does that sign mean?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

    Eventually we made it into Phnom Penh and headed toward the HCDs house where I met his daughter and her husband who ran a pharmacy nearby.  “We will wait for a bit, and then go to eat rice. After that I will take you to the hospital,” HCD told me in Khmer.  I nodded. He said we would make it by 6pm (about 15 minutes afterwards).  Twenty minutes later I climbed into the car and he told me to call my doctor.  “We will go eat rice and then I will take you to the hospital. Maybe 8pm.” He said.  I called.  She disagreed.  He took me to the hospital. 

    They asked me immediately how they could help and then for my passport, which I promptly handed over, filling out hospital forms with English translations.  Then I was taken back to the doctor who eyed my Angry Birds-Duct-tape wrapped finger.  “I ran out of band-aids” I said, by way of explanation.  He just smiled at me…I don’t think he hangs out with kids much. 

    Taking off the tape and gauze was a little challenging since by the time the blood finally stopped gushing out of my finger, there was so much of it that it glued the gauze to my wound which promptly reopened upon gauze removal.  They got to work cleaning so that they could examine my finger and once they did, proclaimed me not in need of stitches.  Then the jokes started.  “Are you left handed?” they asked me (what should be a simple question).  “Well,” I answered, “I usually write with my right hand,” which is the truth.  “O good, then you don’t need this finger, we just take it right off.” (chuckle-at-a-joke-well-completed-while-overtired-and-American-little-me-smiles-weakly,-protesting-while-bringing-out-my-best-“no, no!”-laugh-and-joke-along).  It was examined, cleaned thoroughly, and Navy arrived just as the last piece of tape bandaged it up.  She assured me that we would take a look soon, and possibly go to see the hand surgeon. 

    Two days later I was sitting back in the doctor’s room in the Peace Corps office, watching blood flow from my reopened wound.  “I think we will call the hand surgeon” Navy told me as the blood continued to flow, and made an appointment for the following day.  She tried to be reassuring about it, “Just to make sure there is no lasting damage.” But she kept saying, "hand surgeon," "hand surgeon."

So to the hand surgeon we went.

He was very pleasant. “You are a Peace Corps Volunteer, what are you doing in your village?” he asked me as I sat down, and I thought that he must see a lot of us, the way he was talking it seemed like he knew a lot about our organization.  Then Navy walked in and sat down.

 “Do you see a lot of Volunteers?” I asked him.  “No,” he said to me, “not many.”

“Oh, you know a lot about Peace Corps.”

“Yes,” he responded, “I am Navy’s husband.”  And Navy looked at me, nodding and smiling. 

Whammy.

Navy, you could have just said, ‘my husband’ instead of ‘the hand surgeon’ every time you mentioned him.

He took a look and explained to me that Navy brought me to see him because of the location of the cut.  Had I moved my finger a bit when I had cut it, or the knife, and cut a little bit lower on my finger, I would have been in danger of severing the nerve ends for good and lose the sensation in my fingertip (which at the moment, was gone).  "Maybe you will not get 100% of feeling back in your fingertip" he said to me as he held my finger gently between his own, "but maybe you get 98 or 99%".  Good to know.  I settled my expectations at 98%-99% sensation returning in the following few weeks and thanked him for his expertise on my poor digit.  

So I was sent back to site and here I wait for maybe 98% or 99% of sensation to return to the tip of my finger.

And I am still just dying for anything pumpkin flavored.

Happy Halloween!

xo-Amanda

The ANC Project

      One of our goals as PCVs in Cambodia is to increase maternal and child health awareness in the villages.  In order to do this, three other PCVs and myself just finished leading a pilot of the ANC Project at a health center.  Amber, Margaret and I traveled to Brittni's health center to teach a couple of her Village Health Volunteers the essentials about pre-and postnatal health.  We covered simple things like maternal nutrition and the importance of iodine and iron in her diet, to more complex items such as traditional beliefs we are working against.  The idea is that the Village Health Volunteers, who have more contact with pregnant mothers in the village (who may not come into the health center to see us), will be able to do a little education of their own, and will be better able to counsel a pregnant woman on whether or not she needs to come in to see midwives at the health center.  

     First we composed a manual of sorts, with lessons and activities to assist in the workshops.  All of the lessons and activities are accompanied by necessary props (paper-wise) as well as Khmer translations and Khmer-English transliterations.  We planned for the manual to be able to be used by any PCV if they want aid teaching about ANC care at their health centers.  After completing this pilot session, we are now making small changes to improve the manual and the workshops, and will be having another (hopefully smoother, more improved) workshop at my own health center early next year.  

The Village Health Volunteers participated in activities after each lesson.

 Amber and I go through the importance of iodine in a pregnant woman's diet for both the mother and the baby.

This was during a review session, I went through steps pregnant women should take, such as going to the health center for checkups, learning about good nutrition and changing their diet for the benefit of the baby, saving money for the birth, and having a plan to get to the health center.

The Village Health Volunteers (back) with Brittni's tutor (back right) and PCVs (front from left to right) Amber, Margaret, Brittni, me

Here's to more ANC Projects, more education, and better health.

xo-Amanda

This Doesn't 'Bode Well

When I was in high school, I had this purse.  It was big and round like a log, with pink and white patterns and short straps that made it hang right underneath the armpit.  I put it in my locker one morning sophomore year to find it missing at the end of the day – it had been stolen in my little 600 student, uniform-clad school.  Now, I didn’t have any money in it, that I remember, because I didn’t have any money.  What I did have were those dance photos that high school girls exchange like trading cards, keeping their friends and their dates’ faces for eternity forever, wallet-sized.  Yep, I had spent days collecting my friends photos and handing out my own, and they were all in that purse that was taken.  That’s what I was upset about.  After that it was a couple of years before I even started using purses again, and even then never big ones, and never cluttered with things I didn’t think I would need.

                Then in college, fall of my junior year, I studied abroad.  One trip to Rome with my roommate, I had Euros lifted off of me – right out of my pocket, and since then I all but stopped carrying things in my pockets.  I was back to purses.

                I thought I had solved the problem of big purses and pickpockets by the time I came to the ‘Bode.  I had been using a small bright purple purse, no bigger than my hand that zipped closed and hung from one shoulder to the other hip.  Close to me, easy to reach, right behind my hand when I was walking and sitting on top of my lap when I was seated. 

But it has happened again.

                I was walking on the streets of Phnom Penh one Friday afternoon just before the workday ended.  It was a bright and hot day, with PCVs Laura and Amy at my side, not 100 yards from my guesthouse, my purple purse sitting comfortably on my right hip underneath my hand when all of the sudden I stopped short.  I felt something on me, felt a tug of the strap of my purse, the swift snap as it broke off of my body and heard a scream in the air.  I watched as a flash of purple rode ahead of me in the hand of a man with a black hat, fast, on a moto, deaf to the screams behind him.  It wasn’t until I saw a man come out of his shop to the left to see what the fuss was about, and I felt Amy’s arms around me that I realized the screams were coming from me.  Dazed, I let Laura and Amy lead me the minute more to the guesthouse where we found a group of PCVs sitting in the lounge and I remember thinking, “Don’t they know the world has been turned upside down?” Amy told them what happened and they turned shocked faces toward me and I grabbed her phone and went to the elevator.  I called the Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer (as I’m supposed to when stuff like this happens) and as I heard myself tell him what happened, my voice trembling as I confirmed what my brain didn’t want to, I began to cry. 

               I wasn’t the first PCV to be robbed on the streets of Phnom Penh.  I wasn’t even the first to be robbed that week.  I had heard stories and been warned, taken precautions when I was in the city, and seen it happen.  But I didn’t expect to be so shocked, freaked out, or scared.  Scared.  That’s how I felt  More scared than anything.  The attack felt personal, it made me feel vulnerable, and unsafe.  It was broad daylight.  This guy was on a moto.  I couldn’t breathe.

               I recounted the story for the SSO and he advised me to call the Cambodian bank to cancel the debit card I had, and the AO of Peace Corps (the money lady).  While talking to him I entered the room to Hayley and Amber, who had just returned from a visit to America.  They took one look at my face and grew silent.  I continued with my story.  It’s good to get instructions when something like this happens.  All of the money I had was in that purse, along with the ability to access any more money.  I was literally left with nothing. 

                He gave me the number to cancel my card and I called the line.  A Khmer man answered and I explained what had happened.  “Do you have the card number?” he asked me, an absurd question to my mind because, as I had just told him, it had been taken.  When I said no, he went with “What do you have?”  I told him I had my name and he asked for it and then how to spell it.  Three times.  On the third try he finally said that he couldn’t find my account.  This poor man.  He was only doing his job and in a foreign language no less, me sitting in my guesthouse room on a borrowed phone feeling out of sorts to deal with.  I was doing my best not to get upset with him, but I was already upset with what had happened.  We tried to locate my account with my birthdate and couldn’t.  Finally, he said my full name and I felt a click in my head – I hadn’t told him my middle name.  “Yes,” I responded, and the card was cancelled.  One down, one to go.

                The other Peace Corps staff member dialed, sitting on a bed with Amy beside me, I couldn’t handle it anymore.  I couldn’t stop crying and didn’t want to continue crying into the phone so I handed the phone to Amy, asking her to do the talking.  She obliged but was asked to hand the phone back to me.  I took it and explained again what had transpired.  As with the SSO, mounds of support came to me from the other end.  “What do you need from me?”  “How can I help?” She offered to meet with me later that night or the next morning.  Peace Corps could lend me some money to get back to site and live until I could get back to the bank and sort out this mess.  It is good to be surrounded by good people. 

                I got off of the phone with her and ordered myself to stop crying.  I couldn’t.  I was also very aware of the three silent people sitting close to me in our little room.  My friends, who wanted to help and just didn’t know how to do it.  They were extremely gentle: I have money you can borrow.  Do you want to go out tonight? Do you want to stay in? Are you hungry? Are you tired? Each asking in her own way, What can I do to help you?  How do I make this better? Their kindness made me cry harder, and then harder still for feeling ridiculous for crying.  It was only a robbery after all, and I was so freaked out. 

               

                I went through the what-ifs – What if I had been carrying the purse on my other shoulder? What if we had stopped for water or taken just ten minutes more at the office? What if I had left my purse at the guesthouse that morning?  It seemed like I had cashed in all of my good luck that afternoon, in the broad bright daylight of Phnom Penh.

                But then there are the other what-ifs – what if the strap hadn’t been a cheap little thing and hadn’t broken?  What if the thief had dragged me into oncoming traffic, refusing to let go of my foreigner purse I’m sure he thought was full of gold?  What if he had a knife?  What if it had been a two man job?  In reality, it seemed like I was pretty lucky after all.  What I was most upset about losing was  my sweet pocketknife had been in that purse along with jewelry my sister had given me.  That stuff was not as easy to replace as the money.  As is easy to believe growing up in the Land of Milk and Honey, the best thing about money is that you can always make more – in America, that is.  And that’s not all.  By some odd stroke of luck, I was actually carrying my passport in my other hand when this all happened.  What if I had put that in my purse before I started walking?! Maybe I did have a Khmer guardian angel and they had done what they could for me. 

                And now that the whole mess is over I still find that the paranoia is with me.  That feeling of vulnerability and being unsafe that I felt as soon as it happened has not left.  I find that I don’t want to go walking around Phnom Penh anymore, I don’t want to be on the streets, don’t want to explore.  I don’t want to make conversation with people manning the stands selling little noms, or joke with tuktuk and especially moto drivers.  This thief took my stuff, and that was inconvenient, but he also colored my perception of this country I live in.  He took away my sense of security and for that above all else, I find it hard to forgive him – this nameless, faceless thief. 

                When I got back to site my family was all a-flutter.  They asked me how much money I had been carrying and what else had been in my purse, how sorry they were that this happened, and that there are a lot of thieves in Phnom Penh.  Sokchea said to me, “Bong, Knyom keung jao” (I am angry at the thief)  and Man Kheang mimed what he would have done with a knife.  The gathering needed a little light so I said to them, “Knyom jong jia Spiderman” (I want to be Spiderman) and motioned like I was spitting a web at the moto riding away, then pulling it back to me.  The boys laughed and for the following twenty minutes, we acted out what would have happened to the thief if we had been various superheroes or if they had been with me. 

                Inevitably, as will anything and everything involving me, my entire village and many surrounding it heard about my hard luck.  Those first few days back I was asked constantly about the experience and what I had lost.  People gave me condolences and advice, they laughed and they were sad.  My tutor even spun it into a lesson: “Braw-yaht,” he said to me, be careful.  One particular instance that struck me was with an older man who works at my health center.  Usually a jokester, he is always teaching me random Khmer words and asking about English.  He is never shy about popping open a beer immediately following the health center closing for the day.  So when he slowed down his moto one day as I was ready to go on a run, and very seriously and personally apologized for what had happened, I was for a moment extremely sad and touched by his apology.  He had no connection to the thief, had heard about my misfortune secondhand, and was not involved in it in any way yet still felt the need to insist that not all Khmer people were thieves.  I was sad – that he felt the need to apologize, that he took it so personally, and especially that he thought I had such little regard for Khmer people that I considered them all the same.  I don’t think this is what he was thinking of at the time, more than likely he just wanted me to know that he was sorry I was robbed.  But if someone I know got robbed in America I don’t think I would go to them apologizing for the American people.  Some people are thieves.  Most people are not.  I am pretty glad I’m not one of them.

                The morning after this episode happened in Phnom Penh I was able to briefly Skype with my dad.  “It’s good to see you’re still smiling” he said towards the end.  Yea Superdad, it feels good to keep smiling.  Because it happened, but I am not going to let it ruin the year that I have remaining.  You’re the one who taught me to not cry over spilled milk, Daddio.  I cried a lot afterwards but I can’t cry forever.  Isn’t there some saying about “if you don’t laugh, you cry”? I’m a practical girl, and I wear makeup – crying is hard to clean up. 

 I’ve got the laugh lines to prove it.

xo-Amanda

Kampuchea Noir

While Diana perfects her blog post, I thought I might take a moment to entertain you.

In Peace Corps Cambodia, we have a little "Mango Dreams," which is a digital magazine that a few PCVs produce.  It's one of those "by PCVs for PCVs" kind of things and so for my fellow PCVs I began to write what I like to call a "little diddy" for it called Kampuchea Noir, featuring my very own K6s.  For your entertainment, I have attached it below easily accessed by clicking on the link. Enjoy!

Kampuchea Noir

xo-Amanda

PS - the Lab Project is fully funded and on its way! Updates to come!

Sciencesciencesciencescience

I know Diana is supposed to post her blog about her experience in Cambodia - but I am just too excited about my next project not to share it!

Thus a little intermission is in order.

A little back story (to set the mood): One lovely evening in Kampot town with some fellow PCVs, I got into a discussion about what was being missed most about America (read: we were complaining about missing America).  When my turn came I relayed to my friends how I after studying science for years, and being in labs, classrooms, and my kitchen (which is where I "cook" *coughcough* aka "conduct experiments" as I like to say) being in Cambodia where science education is itty bitty if it exists at all, I missed my science textbooks, seminars, research, and reading journals easily accessed through university archives.  I miss being able to utilize my higher education to figure out puzzles, and having debates with other like-minded individuals about brain function or physiology (remember, brain science is one of my passions).  And though most PCVs do not identify with my nerd-like yearning of learning and STEM, they could identify with missing a part of myself I had to leave behind when I left America in favor of working on something else Cambodia needs.  

THEN upon hearing me remark upon missing research, Emma and Evan (ETTT PCVs in Kampot) mentioned that their schools had tons of lab equipment donated from India and China that sat in rooms dusty and unused because though the equipment was donated, no one ever taught them how to use it. 

*LIGHTBULB!* Thus the three of us came up with a project idea (which makes me crazy excited) that enabled me to bring my passion for science to Cambodia! We decided to talk to Evan's co-teacher and school director and see what they thought about a little extra science education at his school.  With their help and input, our laboratory project idea was born.

The project consists of three main parts: a book, the lab, and training.  Evan's school director and co-teachers cleaned up the lab that they have at their school and dusted off the equipment that has never been used.  It was/is being refurbished and will be further refurbished as we move along in the project.  I come in mostly with the book.  I (with help from Evan and Khmer counterparts) put together a laboratory manual using the equipment Evan found in his lab, simple home experiments, and my love of science and science education.  The manual has three sections: one section to explain what the lab equipment is and how to use it, one section with simple, fun, "at-home" experiments of three main areas of science (chemistry, physics, biology) ...the kind of stuff I bugged my mom to do when I was in the fifth grade...like combine vinegar and baking soda, and one section with lessons in it using equipment that cannot be specifically used in experiments - like a human body lesson with a human body model.  (And because I wrote the lessons I added in a brain lesson...because I can).  Our book is also being translated into Khmer in order to make it easier for our Khmer counterparts to use in addition to adding to their English education.  The last part of the project, the training, comes together when the book has been translated and printed, and all of the refurbishment accomplished.  I will travel to Evan's site and work with him and his teachers showing them how to use simple pieces like Bunsen burners and beakers in fun experiments for the kids to introduce them to and get excited about learning my favorite subjects.  

Throughout the project we have been in constant communication with Khmer counterparts, learning about what Khmer kids would like to learn, where their science knowledge is at, how easy or hard some supplies might be to get at a local market that things of that nature.  We wanted this to be a project that will be used, sustained, and carried on long after we leave.  Though the kids might not grow up to work in a research lab, they are able to visit more options of hobbies or possible careers, and might just find that they have a passion for a subject they didn't know quite so much about before.

Right now we are working on raising money to fund our project which Evan wrote a great grant for - check out the site and please spread the word!

Meanwhile I am so excited that I'm telling just about everybody I meet about our lab project.  

So that's me, Amanda Arand, woman of letters - bringing science everywhere I go.  Is there anything better than spreading your passion?

XO-Amanda

To donate, copy the URL to spread the word, show your friends what a badass you know, or just revisit our site to check on the progress, click here.

Bong-Srai Visits Cambodia

In mid-May, one of my Cambodian dreams came true: my sister Diana came to visit!

We met up in Bangkok and spent a few days in Thailand exploring the northern neighbor of Cambodia.  This included an elephant hike (above, Diana looking eager) and white water rafting (below, it was really white water drifting - low season and all that), and a night in a "traditional Thai village" that rather resembled my own site where I've been living for the past year...

We took advantage of all of the tourist stops, and saw Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha upon Buddha (they really like their golden Buddhas up in Thailand).

Diana looking awesome (so, normal) in the Grand Palace in Bangkok

Upon reentering Cambodia, we stopped first in Siem Reap for her to see the temples of Angkor Wat.  One of Diana's good friends who is currently living in Hong Kong, Jill, met us for some unforgettable days at the ruins.  As you can see below, we had some grand fun in our matching tanks while we showed other tourists the meaning of "style."  (Jill isn't even posing, that's just the way she stands - like a superstar.)

And of course there were the peddlers and sellers, who accosted us at the beginning and end of each temple trying to sell their wares.  Diana preferred to talk to the children selling stuff and make friends.  They were rarely swayed from their objective of making money off of tourists.  

A great reason to travel with Diana is that she loves taking pictures - she carried 3 cameras around with her during her trip. THREE. Unnecessary? She didn't think so. But the plus side of that was that she took pictures I wouldn't think of seeing: a man balancing pipes on a moto, girls in their uniforms riding their bikes home from school - those things are all second nature to me now, part of the scenery and part of my life here.  They aren't things I would think are photograph-worthy but seeing them afterwards I thought to myself, "this is something I want to remember" and was glad she took photos of things I had considered rather mundane.  

However the polls show that the best part of the trip was when I got to take Diana back to my site to meet my host family.  She hit it off right away with Sokchea and Man Kheang, especially when she revealed her gifts to them of Spiderman/Angry Birds themed clothing and games.  

In case you're wondering, my little brothers still draw her pictures and my host mom asks me to tell her hello and that she misses her and was happy when she was here.  Not joking about that.  She really hit it off with the host family!

Alas, Diana learned the hard way, as I have, that when gifting the boys with a puzzle, it probably means you will end up doing it yourself.  

My favorite part of the visit by far were the goodies she brought me: making myself sick on Reeses’ pieces, finally having a watch after not knowing the time for a month, and new running shoes that Sokchea would later thank me for having because the old ones smelled so bad.  Just kidding. Obviously it was having Diana around for two whole weeks! Plus, having Diana around is great for my ego: she kept complimenting me on my Khmer ("that's because you don't know how it's supposed to sound," I told her), and all the Khmer people we met told me we had moak doyk (similar faces)...before following it up with, "but she is skinny and you are fat"...so it goes.  

But seriously - for me, one of the hardest parts about living in my village is that due to the lack of English (...Americans and understanding of American culture), being able to express myself is difficult, if not impossible.  I am limited by foreign words, facial expressions and hand gestures that I am wary of making in case of offending someone by chance.  To be able to be with not only another American, but my sister who knows me so well and thinks in a like manner, was the real holiday for me.  Some PCV jokes were a little more on the difficult side for her to understand in the beginning: "I'm perpetually hungry" - but then when we got to site and she had a rice meal with my family, she understood that rice doesn't really fill you up and that sleeping in a village takes a little bit of practice. In addition, we found it amusing that though we apparently have the same face (I can't see it...but I'm not going to argue with a statement like that), I am the only one who looks Khmer... and Thai! When we were in Thailand I got the good old "you have a Thai face" a few times from the locals just like I get "you have a Khmer face" here in Cambodia.  But Diana didn't.  

It was interesting for me too, to be able to see the ways that I myself had assimilated and didn't notice many parts of Khmer culture that she did.  For example, at one point we were in a taxi with our bags strapped to the roof (quite normal here) and when we slowed down some moto drivers ran alongside the taxi, reaching for our things.  "Amanda, they're stealing our stuff!" Diana said to me frantically.  But I knew they wouldn't take our things, they just thought we might get off and hire them to take us somewhere so they were getting our bags for us.  On a bus, I got off at a stop to get a snack and Diana stayed put, watching the stands and people milling about outside.  I smiled at that one; it took a while for me to feel comfortable to get off at a stop too - the first few times I took the but I never got off at a stop.  

People in my village asked me the the same questions about her as they had (and still do) ask about me: how old is she? What does she do? Is she married? Why not? Does she have a boyfriend? What is her salary? What is her boyfriend like? Why is she so white and you are not? Is she going to get married? Is she going to have kids? Is she moving to Cambodia? Does she like it here? Does she miss America? I answered the questions the best that I could and reminisced about my own answers.  It was also really fun to introduce her to my sister so that they could see that me being an odd American wasn't an anomaly - it runs in my family. :)  I was sad when she went back, but no big deal, Diana is a regular correspondent and suffers my torrent of attention when I have access to internet and whatnot.  

Diana is going to post a "celebrity blog" next, about her experience here and I am curious enough to read it myself.  I wonder if the things she thought of are the same things I thought in my first few days here, and I wonder if she dreamed of the States like I do.  

Waiting for the Superparents to arrive next!

xo-Amanda

"Things"

  Living away from a first world country for a little while allows me, at the very least, to understand some things I took for granted being raised in fact-paced American society with the world at my fingertips. 

Things I Will Never Do in the US Again

1. Complain about doing laundry – wish a washing machine.  What was I thinking? You put clothes in with some detergent and push a button, perhaps two.  Then maybe an hour later put them into a dryer and push yet another button (O the energy required).  Here I do laundry by hand in a big tin bucket while Cambodian squatting and then hang my clothes to dry on the line – which takes a few days because it’s the rainy season and dampness pervades the air. Needless to say the smell test rules my laundry chore.
2. Say, “I don’t care” when someone asks me what I want to eat. I do care – anything but rice.
3. Take a short/cold shower.  Bucket showers will cure you of any unnatural urge to do this.  Take a long hot shower and don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise. 
4. Throw just anything in the garbage.  For Pete’s sake, recycle. There is no waste management system in Cambodia and people just burn piles and piles of trash in front of their houses.  Yes, I worry about my respiratory health as well as the stratosphere.
5. Underestimate the importance of toilet paper.  And everything that implies.

BUT having lived here for longer than “a few months,” there are some things that I really appreciate about my home away from home:

Things I Really Like About Cambodia

1. Using facial expressions and a year-long game of charades to understand and be understood in this country.  It can get old but is ridiculously fun and who can’t use more entertainment in their lives?
2. The lack of information – I don’t mean ignorance, I mean that in America there is an information overload that contributes quite nicely to procrastination and it’s kind of cool to be unconnected for a little while.  I would not recommend it for two years straight…but still.
3. Life is an open invitation.  Literally.  Everyone in my village knows each other and each other’s life stories, and while that can seem invasive to someone raised in American culture where privacy is a key part of our lives, I have found that Khmer people are genuinely interested in everyone around them.  They are super friendly and when they ask me about my family, or why I don’t have a husband yet, it is in no way a malicious implication, they really are interested in my reasons.  People come and go at my house, wander up and off, into and out of conversations, and it’s all very normal here.  There is an open invitation to sit and chat and (usually) partake in whatever is being nommed on at the moment during most parts of the day.  If you were to take a slice out of my life in the village here, you could use it to define the word “community.”  Really.  It’s nice to be involved, even when you’re not.
4. My health center staff.  They are super.  Not only did they open their arms to me when I walked to work the first day, they help me with my Khmer and are always willing to not only teach me new things but learn new things that I am able to teach them. 
5. My host family.  They are hands down the best part about living here in my village so far away from everything I know and love in the States. 

And for good measure:

Things I Think About and Have a Neutral Opinion Of or Otherwise Cannot Locate Anything to Make A Passionate Plea About.

Or,

Pointless Things To Complain About

1. Mismatching chopsticks.  Are chopsticks not hard enough? Come on, chopstick-makers of the world, can we all just agree on a generic chopstick length so that there is a balance?
2. Those little kids who know only one English word (HELLO) and feel the need to scream it in my direction at every opportunity they can.  Every day I go running along the same road. Every day I pass the same children playing outside of their houses. Every day they drop what they are doing and yell at the top of their lungs “HELLOHELLOHELLOHELLOHELLO!!!!” to me both on the way down the road and on the way back.  I have been here running almost every day for 10 months. What are they trying to accomplish?  I’ve turned it into a game though, only the ones who really put effort into it get a response.
3. Khmer People who think I look Khmer.  For anyone who has not met me or looked at the photos I post, I am not Khmer.  Khmer people, for the most part, think I look Khmer – and they get confused when I open my mouth and butcher their language.  I am not offended by this because I think Khmer people are unattractive (I don’t), I am offended because I am under the self-induced illusion that everything about me screams, “AMERICAN” and those who find themselves around me should be overwhelmed by my Americanness.
• This goes along with 3b - . Europeans who think I look Khmer.  This astonishes me, mostly because I am not Khmer.  True story: one day at my health center, an Italian doctor came to visit with some NGO based in Sihanoukville and in the process of saying hello to the rest of the staff, said hello to me and proceeded to speak to me through a translator.  Let me be clear – she spoke English to the translator (who could tell I am a foreigner), who spoke to me in Khmer.  What did I do? Obviously I played along. Wouldn’t you?
4. KhmEnglish.  I generally understand English, and for the most part I can understand Khmer.  What is the most difficult thing in the world is when people decide to interchange the two and mix the languages in an attempt to show off their knowledge…or maybe just because their brain is used to using both languages and it’s easier to express using both.  I’ll admit, I do it from time to time and when I realize I am doing it I try to just stick to one or the other.  There are some people who maybe they think it sounds cool (?) when really it’s just confusing.  Are you speaking English? Did I forget my language? Are you speaking Khmer? Why haven’t I heard those words before? Usually I am just like, “Listen buddy, pick a language, any language, and stick with it. Thanks.”
5. The endless bowls of rice. No, they are not filling. Yes, I will have just one more bowl.  Maybe this time it will taste different. 

xo-Amanda

Happy Anniversary

   A year has passed since I left the Land of Plenty and Plenty More and entered the maze that is Cambodia.  Though I can hardly claim to be an expert on any subject involving Peace Corps, the country of Cambodia, or the Khmer, I have (with my undiluted and extremely acute powers of observation) unearthed a few new pieces of information over the past year.  Some of these discoveries sober me, other observations I still find completely mysterious.  Daily occurrences remind me that though I live here, Cambodia is not my home, though I speak this language, I do not fully understand it, and (most importantly) though I eat Khmer food, it never really fills me up. 

I do, however, have some skills that have significantly improved over the last year that I am quite proud of.  The top eight skills I have included below (this was a fun list to make).

  

8. I am really good at charades now.

7. I can ride a bike relatively long distances in an ankle-length traditional Khmer skirt.

6. I can successfully use a squatty potty without getting completely undressed and while wearing a  backpack…and not soil any of it.

5. I can haggle the market ladies down to about half the price they originally quote me.

4. I can go many days without electricity or internet.

3. I can shower(ish) with a seriously restricted amount of water (about a bucketful) and still get clean.

2. I can hand wash a weeks’ worth of clothes in under an hour 

1. I can cook rice. (Not sure if a happy face or a sad face should follow this comment)

And throughout this year I have discovered some things about myself.  The best ones (or, the ones that I can be posted online) follow:

1. Watching American television shows is more difficult here than it is in America.  This is because I get distracted largely by the food (any PCV will readily admit that they have dreams about food in America…have you read my rice post?).  For example: in almost every single episode of everything, there is a bowl of fruit in the background of a scene.  Why is there a bowl of fruit? No one has a bowl of fruit just sitting at their houses - that’s silly because if you leave fruit out it will rot and draw bugs and even in my large family if someone did want to eat fruit, they certainly wouldn’t eat an entire bowl of it at once and not all of it would get eaten which leads to the rotting food and what a waste that is!  People go into the cupboards for the good food in boxes with labels like “Hostess” or “Cheez-it”, anything that says “full of sugar” if you read between the lines.  But anyway, I am sitting in my village having not even seen real blueberries for the last year when all of the sudden in the episode of Nashville on my computer there is a bowl of blueberries in the background and I get distracted by the food.  I start thinking about the blueberries and how good they would be in pie or pop tarts, or just washed and in a bowl like they are depicted and suddenly the scene was 27 minutes ago and in the meantime the main character has a secret brother who is also a CIA agent cheating on his wife but the wife is running for President and pregnant to top it off and the whole plot line has gotten away from me because of a bowl of blueberries!  Forget about scenes that take place in bakeries.  No, I don’t have ADD.  Really, I don’t.  It’s the food!

2. Feeling clean is half the battle to getting clean. And “clean” is a subjective term.

3. I am the happiest person I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know.  I like to think that it radiates off of me like sunlight and everyone around me is trying to get a tan from my happiness.  Or at least that's what I'm aiming for. 

4. I will be getting very fat upon my return to America. See #1.

   And though I swore when got off the plane a year ago that by today I would be an expert in Khmer culture and language, I have to admit that I am still nearly (okay, completely) in the dark about most things.  I had hoped to at least be under the illusion of having secret knowledge that can only be gained by living in my village, but alas, I am still a foreigner who communicates mostly through body language.  I still have an atrocious American English accent when speaking Khmer and I still leave most of the rice in my bowl during dinner. 

Can you believe it’s been a year? I can’t.

xo-Amanda

On the next episode of “blog post by Amanda” come more lists- “Best” and “Worst”.