One of the biggest
differences between American culture and Khmer culture are manners. It’s hard to be polite in a society where you
are unsure of the exact definition of “polite.”
Khmer culture differs greatly from American culture in that Americans are
fairly straightforward and will generally tell you when you are making a faux pas. Khmer people will not tell you if you are
doing something bad or rude, and you may never ever find out that you have
offended someone. Rather, if they want
you to know that they thought badly of one of your actions or that you behaved
inappropriately, they will tell a friend to tell one of your friends to tell
you. This is not a joke.
I am constantly in
fear of offending someone. At least, I
was when I got here. But I have learned to
take things as they come and just try my best.
Adjusted expectations are a crucial part of the Peace Corps.
For example: in
America, it’s extremely rude to tell someone that they are fat. It is generally
a compliment to tell someone that they are skinny – what this says about our
views of ourselves and definition of “beauty” …but anyway I digress. In America it’s rude. In Cambodia, it’s just another
description. When I went back to my
training host family for training #2, my host mom told me that I had gotten
fat. “Tow-aht” (fat) she said to me
repeatedly. I looked down at myself,
fairly certain that absolutely nothing about me had changed in the two months I
had been at my permanent site. Then I
looked back up at her and shrugged. She
asked me what I had been eating and if I had been eating a lot of rice. I told her not too much rice but I drink a
lot of water and she caught her husband’s attention. “See?” she said to Sao Sareth, “she eats no
rice and she gets fat. She eats water and she gets fat.” I smacked my head
against my palm because a common belief here that eating a lot of rice will
make you skinny and drinking a lot of water will make you fat. It’s a myth that CHE volunteers are
attempting to dismantle due to the incredible untruth of it. Anyway, the point
is that she thought nothing of calling me “fat” to my face. On the other hand, when I returned from that
training to my permanent site in Kampong Saom, my host mom told me that I had
gotten skinny. “Skorm, skorm,” (skinny) she said to me over and over, gesturing
to her face and neck. I checked the only
mirror we have in the house and once again, I was still looking at the same
face that I had when I arrived in Cambodia a few months before.
And then there is
cooking. I love cooks. I love them because they make delicious food
that I get to eat and not have to worry about cooking. I personally do not like to cook, which from
what I understand about most other people is not a very common attribute among
the human population. It’s not that I
don’t know how to cook (although a ready argument could be made for that
statement), I can cook, I do not enjoy it.
I take no pleasure in preparing food. I would rather eat raw food then
go through the trouble and pain of cooking it. So it goes. From what I have
found, this is also not an attribute that transcends culture.
During the holidays
I headed to a fellow PCVs house (Erik, you’ll meet him later) where he was
cooking New Christmakwanzikahgiving for myself and two other PCVs. He told his family that I was coming and they
asked if I would be helping to cook the meal.
His answer was something like, “I’m not sure she knows how to cook…” and
that swayed them not in the least.
“She’s a woman, she knows how to cook,” they reassured him.
When I first got to
Cambodia and moved in with my training host family, I thought that by working
with them, it would aid in my language skills and assimilation. So I always asked if they “jong jooey”
(wanted help) in the kitchen. I viewed
this as “polite” because in my world, sometimes you do things you don’t want to
do to be polite.
But…
It’s kind of like at
Thanksgiving when Grandma’s in the kitchen doing something funky with the
turkey’s gizzards and you ask if she wants help because she has rickety bones
and your parents raised you with manners. What you really mean by “help” is icing the
cake, or better yet, taste testing the pumpkin pie that Aunt Joanie has made
from scratch just to make sure that the whole family doesn’t get food poisoning
from bad cream the way everyone did that one year you were too busy mashing the
potatoes to sneak a taste from the pies and your cousin Jake, who said he would
test the pies and bring you a spoonful, ended up eating the ice cream instead, the
numbskull. Grandma, however, thinks that by “help” you mean standing at the
stove for 30 minutes straight stirring the curiously green gravy which makes
you mildly suspicious because it’s Grandma’s “secret recipe” and the truth of
the matter is that Grandma lived through the Great Depression and she’ll eat
anything that’s put on her plate. Meanwhile everyone else watches football and
helps themselves to fruit and veggies and their respective dips before the
grand finale of turkey, green beans and deliciousness minus the interesting
looking “gravy” that you’ve been trying to avoid smelling for the past 30
minutes.
My parents raised me
right. Did I stop asking if the women wanted help in the kitchen? No way! I
have manners!
The first time they
had me help, Bo sat me down on the floor with a mortar and pestle grinding up
some chili peppers and herbs to put in the som-law(a kind of soup). I won’t lie to you, I enjoyed it! I had this great story in my head, thinking
that I was like the pioneers, contributing to cooking the food from scratch,
not relying on a microwave or frozen food (which is essentially what I lived on
once I was responsible for my own food).
Hey, I was a child once, I played Oregon Trail back in the good old days
– my family always died of cholera or drowned in the river…but that’s a story
for a different day. There is something
strangely satisfying about grinding up your own herbs. The first time. The second time I was put to work on the
mortar and pestle I started looking around the room wondering if maybe chopping
up the chicken wasn’t as bad as I thought, or perhaps releasing leaves from a
branch had its uses. The third time I
praised the gods of microwavable food and refrigeration, trying my hardest not
to conjure the sights and smells of my mom’s leftover stew or my dad’s
salmon. There HAD to be a better way to
cook the food, a more efficient way of getting these herbs ground, an easier
food to cook! And well, there is. In
America. Effectively on the other side of the planet. So herb grinding it is. Bo is no dummy though. She started to notice that I ceased to eat
any food which I had a hand in helping prepare and so I was banished from the
kitchen. It was for the best, really.
The night before I
left Angtasorm for the second time (after the second bout of training) my host
brother Mao asked me if I was going to come back to Cambodia and visit them
once I returned home in about 2 years. I
told him I didn’t know and he asked if they would be invited to my wedding in
America. I told him of course they would
be invited and he said that we could Skype the whole thing. Then he explained that before that happened
he had to do 5 things: get a computer, get internet, download Skype, learn how
to use Skype, and add me as a friend.
Mao has high hopes but I told him I believed in him. He started talking
about the lengths of time and eventually decided that I could have 5 years back
in America before I returned. I thanked
him for his generosity. Then he said to
me, “maybe you come back with husband.
Maybe you come back with two or three baby.” Maybe, Mao…maybe not. I laughed because I have explained to many
Khmer people many times that I awt jong baan (don’t want) a husband or
children. (They smile knowingly, like
they’re in on a secret that I haven’t been included in. I can often see and hear the wheels turning in their heads and am terrified that one
day I will show up at a classroom ready to teach nutrition and instead a
wedding tent will be set up and beauticians ready to do Khmer bride makeup on
my face). Mao told me that while I was
gone he would build a hotel for me to stay at.
It would be a “million star hotel.”
A “million star hotel?” I asked him.
He said yes, because if I wanted to see the stars, I could go on the
roof and can look at a million stars.
And I thought that was a great idea.
Stay tuned for the Great Pancake Debacle
Xo-Amanda
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