And then came The Others

  I would like to introduce you to the supporting cast, my government-issued friends (as some PCVs like to call each other), the only people who come close to understanding what I mean when I say that I am literally sick of rice - in Khmer.

Let's open the credits on my BFF Erik

Erik is the Best Friend (also known as the Handsome Protagonist) who has the greatest of pleasures in being my closest neighbor.  He is a K5 English teacher and so has been in Cambodia for a year longer then me, and ends his Peace Corps life in July.  Luckily, since I met him in July after moving to my site, he has been extremely patient with all of my questions about Khmer life and the language, and helps me when I am having trouble.  To my endless happiness, he got a job with a local NGO and will be staying in Cambodia for an additional 2.5 years to design and (watch) build a community center in his village.  Whenever I need to get out of my village, Erik is always up for a bike ride, or down to hang out, which is great because there might not be a better conversationalist in all of Cambodia. 

Willia is The Sass.  She is a great friend located north of me in Pursat at a health center and does a lot of the same work that I do.  The best part about Willia is that she always knows how to make me laugh and she is great at being a cheerleader.  I call her up sometimes at site just to hear her voice and her reactions because I know that one conversation with her will put me into a good mood that will last for hours. She always knows just what to say and whether to turn the conversation to funny or serious and is a good cheerleader to have when I am stuck at site and in some major need of a good laugh. 

  Next comes The Roommate, Miriam.  Miriam was my roommate when we arrived in Phnom Penh that fateful day so many months ago not really understanding what we were supposed to be doing in this hot country with a language we could not understand much less speak.  She was placed in Svay Rieng at a health center as well and not too long ago we began a project on ANC work and educating Village Health Volunteers in order to be able to reach the villagers that we are not able to get to, or do not come to the health center.  Miriam and I have the same sense of humor and we both get told that we look Khmer by Khmer people (which boggles both of our minds).  I am always happy to see and hang out with Miriam when I get the chance in Phnom Penh or Sihanoukville.

  And then comes the paradigm: the Team (aka Team22).  The Team is made up of Mark (the Brains), Evan (the Beauty), Andrew (the Brawn), and Tony (the Wild Card).  Jill is the "Useless Girl" and I am the "Token Girl" but we share the attributes and mostly are just along for the ride. Let me Game of Thrones the Team for a second so that you can better understand the dynamic.  If we were to play the Game of Thrones (where either you win or you die), Tony would be Tyrion Lannister.  Tony is extremely smart, and can out-talk, out-think, and probably out-play everyone involved in a Game of Anything.  He also knows how to designate roles which clearly Tyrion is great at when he takes over being the Hand of the King and outwits Cersei at the end of Season 2. 
  Mark is Robb Stark because he is good at getting people out of trouble and diffusing situations, although he also has attributes of Tyrion Lannister and is pretty good at talking himself into and out of anything.  He and Tony make the most terrifying Team in that they are always up to shenanigans.  If Eddard Stark had Mark and Tony on his team he probably would have escaped and gone on to lead an army against Joffrey Baratheon and whatnot...or maybe they would have played the Game of Thrones to a different turn - with the two of them, one never knows what is going to happen.
  Evan is Jon Snow, not because he's a bastard or and outcast with a giant albino direwolf, but because he is super nice and befriends everyone in Peace Corps.  Also because if Evan were to be groomed for taking over Peace Corps and setting the rules, like Jon Snow in the Night's Watch, he's a leader I would definitely follow.
  Andrew was a tough one to place but after much deliberation, he would be Jaime Lannister.  Whenever we go out the Khmer girls love to look at Andrew and tell him he is so handsome! Also Andrew is generally willing to be the brawn behind the ideas of Tony and Mark who love to twist and thicken the plot.
  Jill would be Cersei Lannister - if Jill is happy, everyone is happy.  Unlike Cersei though, Jill is generally happy and always down to have a good time, even if she did go to UK (Sorry Jill, but March madness just ended).
  And I fancy myself to be Daenerys Targaryen, mostly because I like to play with fire.

top photo: Jill and I on our birthday boat ride

bottom photo in order from left: Jill (on the phone), Andrew, Tony, Mark, me, Evan

  Last but not least comes The Girls.  The Girls are my absolute favorite part of Peace Corps (mostly because I can refer to them as "The Girls" and everyone knows who I'm talking about).  Sometimes I picture us on "Real World Peace Corps Cambodia" (except more like "Sex and the City", "Girls" and like shows) only instead of wine glasses and salads we have Nalgenes and rice.  I am really big fans of The Girls and also am secretly grateful that they have scooped me up and become friends with me because they are lifesavers and meeting up with them is something I look forward to when I am at site.  Let me tell you a little about them via interpretation of The Girls through the Hunger Games (yes, I have seriously thought about this. What else do you think I do in my spare time?). 

  In a Hunger Games-type situation, Hayley would die first (Sorry, Hales). This is because Hayley is the nicest person I have ever met in my entire life.  She's simply too sweet and would not be able to handle killing the other tributes in cold blood.  She would be sharing her food.  Sharing of sustinence does not let one live in the Hunger Games where the odds are never in your favor. Hayley is also absolutely no good at hiding what she is thinking.  If you want to know what she is thinking, just take a glance at her face because she has the most priceless facial expression responses to almost everything that is said. 

  Caitie would be killed off second because she is also extremely nice and likes everyone.  I mean, everyone.  Generally when I'm out with Caitie and we run into other people, I find Amber and Hayley.  "Caitie's making friends again," I say to Amber very often, "I hate it when she does that" (I jest, I jest - I mean I say that but I don't hate it when she does that).  BUT Caitie is a huge inspiration to me and a great influence because she is so enthusiastic about life - seriously, Caitie has more enthusiasm for breakfast than I've ever had for anything in my entire life.  She's also super strong because she played lacrosse in college - which might be the only thing that let's her live longer than Hayley.  In the long run though, Caitie is too nice and friendly to survive in the Hunger Games.  She goes second.

  Amber is pretty ruthless when it comes to sports and Games because she's is probably one of the most competitive people I've ever met.  This will take her far in a Hunger Games-like situation, especially when it comes down to hand-to-hand combat.  She pretty much shows no mercy when she is involved in anything where she could win.  Amber also likes to gamble (which did me no favors when IU lost to MSU during football season.)  BUT - the downfall of Amber in the Hunger Games is her loyalty.  She loves Caitie, Hayley, and I and to her credit I think she would do anything for us, including share food or weapons.  Thus Amber would be the third to go. 

  And obviously I would win because I have no heart and am now accustomed to life without showers, electricity, and food options other than rice.  Also I am now bomb at using my tiger-camo pocket knife that supermom sent in a care package.  Take that mangoes that need to be peeled before consumption! Bring it on, Everdeen!

from left: Hayley, me, Caitie, Amber

  And that is just a small view and a few of my favorite people who take part in the drama known as "Peace Corps Cambodia: Amanda Arand".  Like I generally say, it's my world and they're just living in it.

End Scene.
xo - Amanda

The Invitation

  Possible Peace Corps Volunteers are recieving their invitations right now asking if they would like to become a member of the K7 class of PCV Cambodia.  I know this because they have started posting in our Facebook page asking ridiculous questions about whether or not they should cut their hair before they come (really?).  Anyway, in an attempt to establish kinship with future volunteers, I remember when I got my invitation to join the Peace Corps.  At the time I was living in New Orleans finishing up school at Tulane.  I got my invitation in mid-May, the day before my last final (you can guess how that last final went) and about a week before graduation.  I had just gotten home from my second-to-last final and went into my room with a book-sized package from Peace Corps (which I had been expecting for a week or so) and opened it to find a large blue envelope with the words "Peace Corps Invites You" (because the US government is so subtle and all).  I opened the invitation to discover that my assignment was Community Health Education Extension Agent in the country of Cambodia and I immediately thought the exact same thing that everyone thinks as soon as they hear what I'm doing, "Where is Cambodia?"

  After a quick google maps search and gaining of Wikiknowledge for my future country of residence, I called my mom.  "CAMBODIA!" she said to me when I told her. "How cool!" (my mom is cheerleader #1).  Later that evening when I spoke to my dad I was reminded of how alike we are - he said, "So Cambodia, huh? Where is that?" and then followed the generic dad-questions involving safety and security issues.  I had a little less than two months to wrap up, plan, and pack my life into two suitcases before jetting off to the Kingdom of Wonder and from the moment the invitation arrived at my house there was no doubt in my mind that it was what I was going to do.

  I have been here for a little less than a year, absorbing Khmer culture and rice (something I think it can be done via osmosis in Asian cultures, after much research) and relishing the American inside of me.  Possibly because I am currently sitting on my wooden bed typing on my broken computer wishing desperately for rain to cool of the weather in time for dinner aka rice, people tend to think that I am an expert on Peace Corps and giving advice about it.  While it's true that I have more experience with Peace Corps than you probably do, unless you are an RPCV reading this out of boredom, I am not sure I am quite the person to give advice on it.  That said, I also remember frantically searching websites and blogs of PCVs and travelers, trying to figure out what to pack and what to leave behind, if I would have contact with people back home or be living in a hut in the middle of nowhere.  When I look back, and when I look in my suitcase, it's easy to see that I shopped and packed like I would be camping for two years. 

  While I try not to give advice, I will answer questions honestly.  And so when I am contacted by a friend, family member, Facebook acquaintance, LinkedIn connection, or old AIM buddy to talk to their sister's-cousin's-best friend's-brother who is thinking about joining the Peace Corps, obviously I say "yes".  Because then I get to talk about me and there is no subject I like more. (just kidding...but seriously)

  Many people that email me or ask questions or post on our Facebook page are just getting out of college.  Maybe they don't know what they want to do with their lives and they are thinking about joining PC for various reasons.  I have always considered myself lucky in that I have always known what I want to "do" by way of career "when I grow up" and so unfortunately I cannot identify with someone who is lost down that road of their lives.  I can however identify with people who are drawn into PC by their ads promising "adventure", "travel", "resume building", some sort of "changing the world" type thing, and the kind who want to "build" themselves or "grow".  They always ask a ton of questions about things like what I do on a regular day (sweat and eat rice) and do I speak the local language (very poorly but yes) and inevitably, using many different words and phrases, they all end up asking me the same thing, "why did you join Peace Corps?" and "is it worth it?"

  If I were with them in person I imagine myself giving them a patronizing look and pretending to be all full of wisdom and experience, mysteriously answer by not answering something like, "you just know".

  In truth, my answer does not matter to their decision any more than my decision would influence theirs.

  It's not the Peace Corps, or the country of Cambodia, or even my job educating that makes my experience what it is: it's me.  I have laughed when I wanted to cry and cried when I wanted to laugh, stumbled through Khmer and switched to English, and begun speaking to my American friends in Khmer before realizing that I'd forgotten my native language for a hot second. I've been more sweaty and dusty and frustrated and more hungry than I ever thought I could be.  I have also never been happier, or more content with what I am doing.  Peace Corps really is "one of those things" where you get out of it what you put into it.  And I'm a Hoosier-I go big or I go home.  As you have been reading, I'm not home yet.

  But before I came to contentment in this Khmer country, I had a lot of questions too.  So, ok future Volunteer, go ahead and ask if you should cut your hair before coming here because after all, you don't know what's appropriate and what's not and maybe one of the reasons you joined the Peace Corps was to find out.  If I want to be honest, I had ridiculous questions before I left too.  I called the language "Kee-mer" instead of "K'mai" and had to look Kampuchea up on the internet to figure out where it was.  I google searched "Cambodia" more than I've google searched anything, and I made packing list after packing list after packing list before actually packing and then re-packing and then re-packing yet again.  I thought I would be cut off from the world with postcards as my only form of communication and I pictured myself talking to my family once every six months on an old-school cell phone Zack Morris style.  In reality, I get crappy internet at my site and use my cell phone every day.  Sure, I don't have constant electricity or hot water - but now I know that most of the world doesn't.  It's America that locked me in a state of luxury expectation before I realized that hot water was a luxury.

  One of my summer jobs when I was in college was selling books door-to-door (awesome job) and one of the most important lessons I learned from that job came from a higher-up who told me, "you don't make 'right' decisions.  You make a decision, and then you make it right."  I think he was right about that (get it? eh? eh?).  When I make a decision, whether I spend too much time thinking about it or if it's a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, I don't dwell on it and wonder if I should have gone the other way - I make it fit me.  I mold myself and the decision to work together.  So if you, dear blog reader, are trying to make a decision about whether or not you want to join the Peace Corps, move across the world to a third world country for two years of your life with everything you think you'll need crammed into two suitcases by yourself with your only companions being other people that you have never met in the same exact situation...then just make a decision.  And then, after you've made it, make it right.

Best of luck!
xo-Amanda

aaaaannnnndddd just in case...here are some links that give some great info about Cambodia and the Khmer. Not that you should stop reading my blog because obviously I'm an excellent, unbiased, completely objective third party observer with no personal interest in what I'm reporting.

Wikipedia

Cambodia.org

Here's a map!!!

facts and whatnot

The Great Pancake Debacle

I tried to make pancakes for my family last week. It was a huge disaster.

  You might be thinking to yourself, “but Amanda, pancakes are the easiest of foods to make! All that is required is batter, a pan, a little flippy flop, and syrup or butter (if you’re into that sort of thing)” and I would respond, “Optical illusion, my friend.” 

Let me begin at the beginning. 

  In Phnom Penh I bought the “just add water to this line” pancake batter.  Those are my favorite recipes to make, the “just add water” kind.  I am rather fond of the “vent and cook on high 3 minutes” kind generally found in the frozen foods isle as well.  These meals should give you an idea about the person that I aim to be.  Anyway, I also got some syrup to accompany what I thought would be the finest pancakes my village had ever seen.

  Back in my village a few days later during hope bye trong (lunch time), I got out the flattest pan I could find – which wasn’t a pan at all, it was a wok.  So instead of the oil I was using as a substitute for butter coating the inside of the pan in even amounts, it pooled in the center.  Next I poured the batter into the wok, not directly into the center but a little bit on the sides.  This was great because when I went to scratch it off of the pan with the spatula, it was quite easier than it might have been were all of the batter in the center of the wok.  By this time my host mom had wandered back inside to see what I was doing to her cookware, and watched me pour a second attempt onto a different side of the wok with the same results: uneven cooking, some burning, not a whole lot of flipping, followed by scraping and re-oiling.  I thought to myself, that’s ok, the first two don’t need to turn out…that’s what the tent h is for! But my host mom didn’t agree.  She had taken the spatula from me and tried herself to make the pancakes, already gathering what I was attempting to do.  She, however, tried to do it a little easier than I did.  She poured the batter directly into the bottom of the wok, in the middle of a pool of hot oil.  What do you think came out? Yes, that’s right.  She put some fried dough on the bowl in front of me which I dipped into syrup and put in my mouth.  I was hot and a little pancakey and very delicious for a bite.  Man Kheang stood next to me, trying to see over the counter at what all the fuss was about and I handed him a bit of fried dough and told him to dip it into the syrup.  He grinned at me after eating it – at least this treat agreed with someone. 

  My host mom tried again and again and again (at least ten times) to make the pancakes while I stood beside her offering brain waves of encouragement.  The tenth pancake saw me watching the fried dough pile up and Man straight up spooning syrup into his mouth. 

  When the batter was finally all fried up, my host mom gestured to the bowl and told me to eat some lunch, probably thinking that this is what Americans eat for lunch: a bowl of fried dough with syrup when they get bored with peanut butter sandwiches.  I sat next to it for a few minutes before escaping to my room to make lunch out of some care package goodies sent from Mom and Dad in the States.  You can bet that the patron saint of the Post Office gets a ton of “thank you” prayers.  That night my host mom took the bowls over to the health center to give the midwives some snacks.  The fried dough/syrup combo got a great approval rating.

  Well, this story doesn't seem like much of a debacle when I'm not telling the tale with animations, tonal changes, and mounds of exaggerations...but pretend that your encounter with Western food has been little to none for the past few months and you're attempting to share your culture with your host family.  After months of rice, getting fried dough instead of pancakes will seem like enough of a cruel joke that exaggerations are no longer necessary.

  I haven’t cooked since then, but lately I’ve begun to think that it’d be hard to mess up tacos.  After all, I just have to do is throw together ingredients and if the boys or my host mom does not like it, well, that’s on them!  Any suggestions? 

Bon Appetit!

Xo-Amanda

Staying "Polite"

  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.

  Traditionally, in Khmer culture, the women cook the food and the men eat the food…you can imagine what this type of thinking does to my digestive system.

  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

Photoshoot!

Hi Y'all! I couldn't upload these photos for my last blog update so am posting a few now. The following are my health center, the ANC room where I usually am for my days, and my beautiful health center staff during one of our English lessons.

 

I had mentioned that one Friday, I went on an outreach day with some fellow health center staff. These are photos of the hike to the community center...

The introduction and gathering...

And some photos of the communty and community building:

 



And for my birthday, a few PCVs came out to dinner, and went on a boat cruise:

In this last photo, a few of the guys wrote a song for the January birthdays and serenaded us.



Have a great weekend! - Amanda



Just Another Day

  With all of these posts about traveling and holidays, you are probably wondering what it is that I’m actually supposed to be doing over here in Cambodia.  Though I do enjoy going to Phnom Penh for meetings and Siem Reap for half marathons, my primary work in Kampong Saom is by far my favorite part of the country.  Thus I would like to walk you through one of my typical work days so that you can see what it is I am doing.

  As I have mentioned, I am a Community Health Education Volunteer for the Peace Corps.  I was placed in Kampong Saom in a health center which serves 11 villages and 5 island villages (I think).  My primary work is focused on educating the Khmer people in one of 5 main areas of health.  These areas include Maternal and Child Health, Hand Washing, Sexual Reproduction, Noncommunicable Diseases, and Nutrition.

  I also like to educate on exercising and since it is great for the health, I take special pleasure in bringing my exercise habits to the people of my village.  Sometimes when they come to the health center they say to me, "you exercise every day!" and I smile and reply, "why yes, yes I do...and let me tell you why..."

  I wake up between 6 and 6:30am to the tinny of rain falling on the roof outside.  Maybe every three days or so I go downstairs to do laundry.  On days that I do not do laundry I try to go back to sleep (like the able-bodied adult that I am) or do some Khmer studying.  My boan brohs leave for school around 6:30am and so I am left to my own devices while preparing for the day.  Sometime before 8 I get ready to go to work - this consists of me washing my face and maybe bucket showering, smell-testing my clothes, and getting dressed   At the health center, I work almost exclusively in the ANC room (pre-natal care) with pregnant women and midwives.  There I am able to see pregnant women and talk to them about (among other things) nutrition, breastfeeding, birth control, vaccinating their children, and sometimes exercise.  If there are no pregnant women to see, I work in the pharmacy, telling people the types of medicine they are getting, probably side effects, and a little bit about what not to consume with the medicine (like alcohol).  When there are no patients left (sometimes around 11am) I teach my health center staff some English.  I am usually at the health center until about noon. 

 Some days I go on outreach and am able to visit villages.   One Friday I went to work as usual, only to be abducted (willingly) by some NGOs and other health center workers for an outreach to an island village.  To get there we drove down my red dirt road to the end where a fishing village resides, climbed into a small wooden boat, and started about a 20 minute journey to the island.  

  When we got to the island, we hiked about a kilometer up to the community center where most of the members of the village sat waiting for us.  After introducing ourselves and doing a bit of explaining (most of it was in rapid Khmer and beyond my language abilities), the people were able to see the doctor, get medication and vaccines, and see me, resident Barang, attempt to remind them that leafy green veggies are ridiculously good for them. The last patients were seen at about 4pm, and so we trekked back to the waterfront and put-putted back to the floating village and my health center.  

  Back to my regular day: at lunch time I walk back home and usually enjoy a peanut butter sandwich.  Then, along with the rest of the country, until about 1 I rest or take what I like to call a “safety nap.”   I would explore or try to engage someone else in conversation but alas, the entire community - and I might argue the entire country - naps after lunch..."when in Rome," my friend.  After the country-wide nap, I do one of a wide range of activities.  Until 3 or so I am usually getting work done involving secondary projects like camps for kids or education materials.  Secondary projects involve a lot of planning, asking permission, and applying for grants so they usually also require a lot of phone calls and computer time.  At 3 o’clock I have a Khmer lesson with my teacher where we translate or write in Khmer for an hour.  Every other day or so at 4 I take a bike ride for exercise from 4pm to 6pm.  On the days in between, I do a little more work until 5pm and then go for a run until 6pm.  When I return to the house from my exercise I shower, and then eat dinner with my host family.  After dinner we all sit in the main room (also the only room downstairs) and watch TV or color, or I help Soktchea with his English homework and Man pulls out some sort of toy to play with.  Earlier this week we were without electricity for a few days and one night culminated in a wicked pillow fight...which I won, of course.  At about 8pm after wishing each other “goodnight and sweet dreams” we all retire to our rooms to fall asleep.  And by “retire to our rooms” I mean I go to mine and the rice mat and mosquito net is set up in the main room for my mother and brothers to sleep under. 

  At press time, I still have yet to make contact with the local high school or local orphanage but I hope to free up my schedule enough to be able to teach there, or at least have some sort of impact.  Because I am busy and used at my health center, my mornings are consumed with my primary work and my afternoons my by secondary work. 

  Secondary projects include outside work.  For example, another PCV and I are planning a Camp GO which is essentially an exercise camp for kids which will teach them not only the importance of exercise and nutrition, but also about teamwork.  Another project I am currently working on is a science lab book for kids.  A few weeks ago I was talking to English teachers who mentioned that their schools had a ton of lab equipment donated to them but which they did not know how to use.  I talked with them a little bit and we are putting together a small science/lab book which includes names and photos of the lab equipment as well as how to use it and some small short experiments that they can do in a science class.  The great part about these projects is that not only am I bringing knowledge to the people of Cambodia, but exercise and science are two things that I really enjoy and am passionate about. 

  A few things to mention about my village and Cambodia in general (these are generalizations and naturally you will find exceptions in almost every case...but for the purpose of explaining to Americans, here I go).  

  -In Cambodia people do not usually stay home for breakfast.  The morning is a really busy part of the day and breakfast is generally held outside of the home.  Like I have mentioned, rice with meat is a popular choice for any meal and can be gotten pretty much everywhere.  Another popular breakfast item is a sort of noodle soup.  For reasons completely beyond my understanding,  when eating Khmer (or as I like to call it: Khmeating) you use chopsticks for slippery noodle soup, and a spoon and fork for sticky rice and pieces of meat.  Anyway, my host mother is a sort of breakfast spot and so people come and eat noodle soup at my house for about 1500R (about $.30).  I usually eat a granola bar that my mother has sent from America because at home (America) breakfast is my absolute favorite meal of the day and the memory of it tides me over until lunchtime.  Also, though I am a morning person, chopsticks at 6am is too much.  

  -For dinner, people are at home and eat with the family.  This is a pretty important part of Khmer culture.  Also, Khmer people count how much you eat by how many bowls of rice you eat.  So my family gives me a bowl of rice and then there are bowls of a vegetable/meat concoction sitting in front of me to eat with the rice, and even if I eat a whole bowl of the tasty non-rice part of the meal, they still say I eat only a little because I've eaten maybe a grain of rice with each spoonful of delicious pork-and-pineapple. Many times my 11 year old brother will eat 3 bowls of rice and maybe half a bowl of a meat/vegetable surprise, but will say that he ate a lot and I ate a little if I have eaten only half a bowl of rice but a whole bowl of the other stuff.  Let me assure you, the first words I learned in Khmer were "I'm full" and "I'm not hungry".  This was after I learned that "breakfast", "lunch", and "dinner", were all known as "hope bye" or "eat rice".  My family doesn't tell me it's "dinnertime," they tell me it's time to "eat rice".  

  -People are not outside after dark.  In the city this is a little different - people are out after dark in touristy areas, and use tuk tuks to get around.  In the village this is because there is literally nothing to do.  There are no clubs, no coffee shops to hang out at, nothing to do and so people are at home hanging out with their families or doing whatever it is they do within the confines of the walls of their house.  Remember when I was coming back from the dentist and wandering along my road in the dark? That was a completely new experience for me because I've never been outside of my family's house when the sun has gone down.  It may never happen again.  

 On an unrelated note, my first birthday in Cambodia passed without a hitch! Some PCVs came to Phnom Penh to celebrate January birthdays and overall I can see that 24 looks to be extremely promising.  I was also featured in fellow K6 PCV Kirk Acevedo's blog,  60X27 - you can access my page on his site through that link (the only thing is he got my birthday wrong...but who's perfect?).  Kirk put together his blog with the thought of showing the web-world all about not just his experience, but the experience of our whole group.  You can check out some other PCV Cambodia K6 views and life happenings if you want to explore his blog (I highly recommend it).  He is also an incredible photographer! Thanks Kirk!

Happy Birthday to me! (It's January 19th, for future reference. I'll be here for one more birthday...and you can access the "snail mail" page to the right. Just saying.)

Xo-Amanda

Yeays Run the World

     Recently I took a trip over yonder to Kampot town, just to get out of site and visit some other PCVs.  Since I didn't know how to get there I told my host mom that I wanted to go to Kampot for the weekend, and she told me to be ready the following morning at 6:30am.  Like the dutiful daughter I am, I was ready the next morning with a backpack full of weekend supplies outside of my house.  It was my first time experiencing anyone hail a toury.  Tourys are basically vans that carry anything including people, to the destination.  And when I say anything, I mean anything.  They pack stuff into tourys including people and you pay, not for a seat, but just for your passage to your destination.  To hail a toury, my host mom just yelled out to the tourys that were passing, asking where they were going.  When one slowed and responded, "Kampot," she said ok, and they opened the door as she motioned to me to follow her, and walked towards the van.  Admittedly, they were a wee bit surprised to see my face follow my host moms and climb on the toury, but everyone said hi and we were on our way. 

  The way that tourys and taxis work is that they stop for anyone standing on the side of the road.  Occasionally, they will stop after a few hours for some food and a break.  At one point within the first hour or so of the ride, a cute little yeay with a face amidst wrinkles and a mini body curled up from age sitting in front of me with a headscarf on turned to me and she asked softly in Khmer, "where are you going?" I told her I was heading to Kampot, and she asked why.  I responded that I was going to see my friends and she smiled at me and turned back towards the front.  Then she turned to the man next to her and told him that I lived in her village and understood Khmer.  She smiled at me again and I wondered how many people I would meet who already knew of me.  "Yeay," by the way, is the Khmer word for "grandmother" and I use it to describe any grandmotherly-looking Khmer woman here...but they are called "Ohm" if they are not actually your grandmother - like I would describe her as a "Yeay", but call her "Ohm." 

  Anyway, we were on our way and I had made another friend, when we stopped about halfway through the trip for some fruit or coffee on a roadside stand.  I got out of the toury and headed over to a stand to purchase some minooah (pineapple).  "How much?" I asked the man after he had handed me a plastic bag with the juicy fruit.  "Two dollars" he told me and I stared at him.  "T'lei naa" I said to him, too expensive.  Two dollars is an outrageous price for roadside pineapple, 50 cents is more likely and he probably gave me an inflated foreigners price thinking that I am made of money.  I started to argue with him in Khmer, holding the pineapple in one hand and some bills in the other, waving my hands and trying my best to pronounce the right words in the right order when all of the sudden I heard a harsh nasal voice next to me and I turn to find the yeay from the toury giving the pineapple man the lowdown.  She waved her hands and spat some Khmer I think I'm glad that I didn't understand, while he just looked at her with a sour face, gesturing to me occasionally but not pointing which I thought must be a good sign.  It’s considered very rude to point with just a finger in Khmer, so if you want to gesture to something you use your whole hands.  I’ve heard that fights have been started with a simple point.  I was completely astounded by this yeay, she was incredible.  She scolded him. And he was ashamed.  Grumbling, he handed me some bills and waved me away and I picked at the sweet treat in my plastic bag with a toothpick.  Who runs the world? Yeays. Yeays run the world.  And if I had the support of all the Yeays, I could run the world too. She just turned to me and smiled and a few minutes into our continued ride, in a warm voice I could barely hear, said goodbye and exited the toury.  Goodbye, guardian angel, I thought to myself.  

  For the rest of the ride, an hour or so, I sat squished against the side of the van with open windows in front of me and behind me, thankful for the breeze that comes with a speeding maniac Khmer driver, staring out the window.  It looked to me like mayk jong plee-ung (the sky wanted to rain) and I started throwing up prayers to whatever deity might be listening.  Side note:  I'm fairly certain that whenever the gods get bored they look over the earth and come to rest their all-seeing eyes on Kampong Saom. "Amanda!" I know they think to themselves, "let's throw some random shit her way, she always puts on a good show" and thus my life here is a ballgame with consecutive curve balls that I commit to memory for your entertainment on this blog. But I digress - back to my prayers: with 32 people in the toury (remember it's the size of a van), not too many things could have been worse than closed windows.  I think I may have developed claustrophobia in that toury and if not it's because some jerk deity up on Mount Olympus decided it would be more fun to pack me into another toury or like situation down the road, or that a psychological breakdown on my part in said toury ride would ruin their fun.  Not to point fingers, because that would start a fight, but it was probably Hermes. To end this little aside, it didn't rain, and 32 was the limit on the bodies inside.  Soon enough people started to de-toury.  When I started to see signs for Kampot town I called a fellow PCV who resides in Kampot province and asked her where I should be let off.  Not entirely sure where the toury ended, I tried to describe my surroundings.  There were some road stands…a road…Khmer people…Khmer people selling rice and other food…aaaannndddd pretty much everything else that is in every single village in the country.  When I travel I like to think that I would be able to pick out places near my village and recognize them due to singular characteristics but the truth is that each village looks more or less just like every other village and I would probably mistake a road in the far north for my own if I were traveling alone and didn't speak Khmer. And forgot where I was going. 

  She told me to get off at the market and I prayed that the toury would end up at a market and that it would look like every other market I had seen so I would know when to de-toury.  It eventually stopped at what looked like a market and everyone got off so I followed suit, confident that I could at least get lost if nothing else and do so in a town that I had never been to.  After spending a little more time on the phone with my PCVbff, I was told to get a tuktuk or walk towards the river and there I would be able to find everyone.  She told me the word for river was “dtoon-lay” which is what I repeated over and over to myself as I was approached by some moto drivers asking if I wanted a ride anywhere.  “Dtoon-lay no eina?” I asked them, where is the river?  They looked at me with a rather blank look that I am quite familiar with by now so I pulled out my dictionary and looked up “river”.  It literally said “dtoon-lay” so I repeated my question: Where is the river?  After some silence and shaking heads, I walked toward the market and repeated my question to another group of Khmer people and received the same blank stares.  So I turned the dictionary towards them and pointed to the Khmer word printed next to the English word for “river” and they shook their heads at me.  “Awt yull” they said to me, I don’t understand.  I pointed, using all of my fingers together, to the word on the page.  “No ei-na” I said slowly, where is that.  They handed the book back to me and I turned to walk down the street.  There had to be a person in this town who understood my accent, read Khmer, or in general got the gist of what I wanted to do.  At that point a moto driver came up to me “moto?” he asked me, and I shook my head.  “dtoon-lay no eina?” I asked him back.  He pointed down a street.  “Go straight and turn left” he said to me in Khmer.  I asked him how many kilometers and he said probably about 1 so I thanked him and began down the road.  What an idea.  It turns out that there isn’t a road that leads straight to the water, there are a few different places one can turn left.  So I turned left at random and figured that if I just kept turning left and going straight I would eventually make it to the water.  Down one side street I came to a guesthouse and figuring that it might cater to tourists and someone might speak English, I wandered in to find a little girl playing in the front of the guesthouse.  She looked at me with no particular interest and I looked back at her, thinking about a major difference between America and Cambodia, this child being exhibit A. O well, with a shrug I asked her if she knew where the river was in Khmer.  She looked at me again and then went into hallway to the back, presumably to find someone older who maybe understood the foreigner in front of her.  I stood alone in the room. She came back and looked at me again, shaking her head. “Dtoon-lay no eina?” I asked again and she turned around and went to the back again.  After five minutes or so, she came back again and stood in front of me, silently staring at me.  I asked her again and she made no motions, so I mimed writing and she went to a side of the room.  Out of her pink mini backpack, she pulled a pencil and notebook, and I drew the curvy lines of water on it.  She nodded at me, put her writing materials back, and motioned for me to follow her outside.  Once outside she pointed down the street, made a motion to turn left, then right, then left again.  I tried to repeat all of this back to her in Khmer and she nodded, and then started walking forward, motioning to me again to follow her.  

  What could I do? A silent four year old who had left her shoes behind had taken it upon herself to ensure that I arrived at the river, which apparently I couldn't even say in Khmer.  Clearly she thought very little of my ability to survive alone, and even though she wasn't talking to a stranger...she was leading one around her town.  In hindsight...maybe I should be thinking about who I follow around strange towns...

  At one point I asked her name, and she told me a clearly what it was in Khmer which I promptly forgot (I am very bad at Khmer names) so I know she could talk.  Three turns and about 4 minutes later, we arrived a block away from the river and she stopped.  “Akoon jaran” I said to her, thank you very much, and I put my hands together and gave her a sompeah (a little bow of respect).  She put her hands together and turned around, walking back the way she came to the guesthouse.  I looked around, wondering if anyone else had seen that, if it was strange, if I was going crazy, and then got a call from someone wondering where I was.  “I was just escorted to the river by a four-year-old who was concerned for my safety” I told the person on the line.  “Where am I?!”

  Two days later it was time to get back to site.  A PCV came with me to help me get a toury back to my house, or at least my road.  We arrived back at the market and started asking around for tourys that went to Kampong Saom (my province) until we were directed to a particularly dusty blue one that was already full.  I headed to the van and turned towards a group of men sitting nearby who looked like they were associated with it.  “Where are you going?” I asked. The driver sauntered towards me. “Where do you want to go?” he responded, and I grimaced. If this toury was my only travel option, it was going to be a long ride.  I gave him the name of my village and then my stop and he nodded.  I asked him how much it would be and he gave me an outrageous price which I began, with the help of the other PCV, to argue about.  Finally finding a price we agreed on, I climbed into the van. 

 It was completely packed full of bodies.  Young, old, male, female, everyone who needed to get anywhere from Kampot to Kampong Saom was on that toury, including a young baby and her mother who caught my attention very shortly in the ride.  The reason? The crying.

  There are babies in almost every toury, and I've noticed that many babies tend to cry.  Usually I don't bother to find out the reasons because they stop.  This one started...and then kept going.  After ten minutes I was astonished at this baby's resolution. Surely it would tire sooner or later.  It must have heard me think that because in what was obviously blatant disregard for my ears and nerves, it continued to cry. And cry. And cry. I ventured a few looks around the toury, knowing I couldn't possibly be the only one affected.  The man next to me felt my pain at least- he had started to make cooing noises in the direction of the baby and faces in a vain attempt to elicit laughter or a smile, but at the very least, a cease in the tears.  Once, it stopped just long enough to give him a toothless smile but then realizing that the sound of wailing came from its own mouth, started up again. The pause was long enough for me to see that it wasn't even crying. It was just scrunching up its face and wailing. What?! Why would it do that?! What an attention whore. Nobody was bothering it, all of this crying drama was just unnecessary.  Sure, the toury was a little hot, but so is the rest of Cambodia. I tried to be sympathetic to the child - after all, this toury was what it had to look forward to, but the constant noise drowned out my empathy.

Thankfully, the mother and child got off and I tossed up a quick thanks in the direction of the heavens.  This one was directed at Allah - I hadn't talked to him in a while, but that's because my Arabic isn't really coming along (now that's a tough language) and I don't want him to misinterpret my prayers. You should see the stuff Buddha gets confused. 

I made it back just fine though, and am currently reclining in my hammock, planning a few projects and translating some Khmer.  Did I mention that I can read it?! Very exciting for me.  Before you know it, I’ll be writing the best of Khmer poetry.  I am, after all, Amanda Arand, woman of letters. 

Xo-Amanda