On the Road with Kem

Life changes quickly in a developing country and I have been called elsewhere. As I reflect on my time in Phnom Penh, the one constant aside from my volunteer work with Daughters NGO was my tuk-tuk driver Kem. He collected me daily from work in the slums near Wat Steung Mean Chey, rain or shine--mostly rain though, among the dark late afternoon clouds.


On my last day in town, Kem drove me to the airport. Before he dropped me off, we stopped briefly, so I could interview him about the tuk-tuk, which was a source of fascination during my stay. Tuk-tuks are the major mode of tourist transport in Phnom Penh. In this hectic, lawless town, a trustworthy, savvy tuk-tuk driver is an asset. Kem was always there for me, only a text message away. He was a safe, dependable driver and a good friend. I will miss him and our daily drives.


Talking in a Tuk-tuk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwuYZMfmXlI

This short video, only five minutes of the fifteen we talked, is breathtakingly amateurish: The sound is poor, due to passing moto traffic; I'm sweating bullets like a rookie thanks to the heat; and at one point, there is the disconcerting sound of someone sharpening a knife. But more important than the video quality, or lack thereof, is the interviewee: The kind, hard-working man who made a challenging experience manageable for me, by ensuring I arrived, whenever, wherever, safe and sound.

Tuol Sleng

I arrived to Phnom Penh exactly three months ago by bus from Siem Reap. It is a five hour bus ride and they show movies along the way. I usually enjoy films but on this particular bus ride, they showed Zombie movies, a Khmer favourite. I had never seen a zombie movie before, did not in fact know it was a distinct genre, and I am now quite certain I never want to see another. Only marginally better were the karaoke videos played during intermission, at full volume.

When I got to town, I caught a tuk-tuk to the Boddhi Tree Hotel Umma. It is a lovely hotel, with a spacious garden restaurant and large airy rooms. But it is best known for its location. It sits directly across the street from S-21, the former Khmer Rouge prison known now as Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, where thousands of Cambodians were detained and tortured in the mid to late seventies.

The site is a former high school, comprised of four three-story buildings and a large central courtyard. Today, visitors can walk through the buildings and see the small cells where people lived for months at a time. The fourth building, Building D, is filled with graphic photos of the dead. It is not for the faint of heart.

It took me three months to find the courage to visit this place, as I had heard stories about how awful and disturbing it was. But what struck me most about Tuol Sleng was not the barbed wire, the cage-like rooms, or the photos. It was the silence: It is the most peaceful place in town.

And now for something completely different...

I was told I was going to experience beggar fatigue out here. There are beggars everywhere, young, old, limbs, no limbs, every shape, colour, and size. They are the backdrop to decades of poverty and conflict. But no, in fact I don't have beggar fatigue at all. Granted, I don't give them money when they ask, since warlord gangsters control the beggars and collect their proceeds at the end of the day. But I don't avoid them either. The beggars are simply doing their job, like the rest of us.

However, I do have a fatigue of sorts. I have "Old Western man with young Asian girl" fatigue. Every restaurant, every cafe, every street corner here, there is a Western Grandpa getting it on with a Cambodian girl forty or fifty years his junior. I said I would not judge, but I take it back. I judge now. Oh, I can talk about flip-flops and rain storms until the emaciated cows come home to the rice paddy, but the most pervasive image here is the sex tourists. It gets a little draining and after a while, you just don't want to see it anymore. If I am being ageist, by not complaining about the entire age spectrum of people exploiting the women here, well then tough, get over it. Somehow, the cute 23-year old on his gap year trip having a little romp doesn’t seem half as bad as the 70-year old man who should have gotten it out of his system long ago. So in the spirit of Juvenal and Jonathan Swift, I have made a meagre effort to express my further thoughts on this issue in song, to be sung to the tune of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer".



Grandpa Got Run Over by a Tuk-Tuk


Grandpa got run over by a Tuk-Tuk
Walking home from whorehouse Sunday eve
You can say there’s no such thing as justice
But as for me and Bong Srey* we believe

He’d forgotten his Viagra
And he’d found a Miss Right Now
So he left to find his blue pills
To ensure Cambodian Boom Boom Pow

But Gramps had been super forgetful
In the throes of new romance
He forgot his hearing aid and glasses
So against a speeding tuk-tuk, he stood no chance.


The tuk-tuk driver hadn’t see him
Or so he claimed to the police
Who arrived to fine the white man
Who was lying dazed but aroused in the street


And now Grandpa’s back with Grandma
And he’s got a lot to ‘splain
How he wasn’t at a conference
But was seeking Asia nooky down the lane

[Chorus! All together now! ]

Grandpa got run over by a Tuk-Tuk
Walking home from whorehouse Sunday eve
You can say there’s no such thing as justice
But as for me and Bong Srey* we believe!





*Bong Srey: "Sister" in Khmer, common form of address among Cambodian women

Fear and The Business Card

Nobody likes to fail. But from my impressions, it seems Cambodians least of all, to a fault. The old adage goes “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”. But in this country, the parallel adage would be “Of course you won’t succeed, so why bother. But if you are fool enough to try and then fail miserably, like we know you will, we will laugh at you and make many jokes at your expense.” (I paraphrase). As you can imagine, this is a powerful deterrent to risk taking around here. This attitude seems especially true in terms of improving one’s own circumstance. And since it’s tough to change without taking risks, a lot of people are going nowhere.


I saw an example of this on Friday. We the roommates went out to dinner by the riverside. Our Khmer waitress was a smiley, chatty girl, with decent English and a strong interest in practicing it on her customers. In the course of conversation, she showed us a business card an NGO customer had recently given her. A job at an NGO offers far better prospects to this young lady than working at a restaurant, especially given the likelihood in this town of waitressing morphing to hostessing and then to that Cambodian point of no return, prostitution. Anyway, our waitress was clearly proud of having been given this business card, as she should have been. It was a huge vote of confidence in her. But there was a rather big problem: She was too afraid to call. Why? We asked. First, she pointed out (in good English) that her English was not good enough to work at an NGO. We assured her that yes indeed it was. Next, she stated she was afraid she could not work at an NGO, because she had never worked at an NGO before. We shot this down too: No experience necessary, we exclaimed! Look at us, we’d never worked at NGOs before either and here we were! She gazed wistfully at the business card for some time, shifting from foot to foot, and said “But maybe...maybe I cannot do it because...” Pause for effect. “Because it might be...difficult!” Ooooohhhh. Difficult. Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? To the western ladies volunteering at NGOs addessing horrible social problems in one of the world’s most unstable, corrupt, and upside-down countries. Difficult. Yes, well, best forget it then, nothing to be done, it won’t work out, thanks for playing. Next!


I think “Difficult” is in fact a solid argument for not doing something, but only as long as you don’t understand how difficult operates. So I tried to explain how difficult works: Yes, it would be challenging at first but only for a day, maybe a week...and then, in all likelihood, it wouldn't be so tough. Might even be easy. But success as a possibility is a hard concept to grasp while in a fear of failure mindset. Alas, I wasn’t getting through--She looked at me suspiciously and gripped the business card more tightly. It was getting late, we’d eaten and drunk everything on the table, including most of the chilli sauce on the chips because the ketchup tasted funky. It was time to go. If only we could give her a big enough push to jump bravely off the Fence of Wishing and Hoping, in one fell swoop, we could change her life and maybe even get our check. Not wanting to leave without movement on the issue, we made an agreement. We asked her to promise that the next time we saw her, she would have at least called this NGO. Smiles and nods. But what are the chances?



When I decided to come to Cambodia, I was told by previous volunteers to lower my expectations to zero in terms of any positive impact I would have. Well, that’s encouraging, I thought, thank you, can’t wait to get started! I couldn’t comprehend how that was possible. How can a person be effective in one country but ineffective in another? Ahh, the naive beauty of Western arrogance. Having arrived, I understand better why it is difficult to create real change, even in small ways. When I encounter this fear of trying and fear of failure, I sense it has deeper roots than I can grasp. And these deeper roots, history, politics, culture, are legitimately frightening (I will not write about them here). As roots do, they hold the Cambodian people firmly in place, but in a limiting rather than supportive way. Oh well, I can only work with what I've got in front of me. So I will keep chipping away at the small terrors as above, trying to understand the mentality of the moment, in the context of a country in a perpetual quiet crisis. I think this effort is worthwhile, because if and when the fear moves on, it leaves in its wake an open road, unobstructed and unimagined. And what’s so crazy is that it can start with a simple phone call.

Changes

The new people have arrived. Four new housemates, so we total seven now, all volunteering in various capacities in Cambodia. We are a lawyer, a market researcher, three physio therapists, a horse whisperer, and me. Ages range from 18-39. Six girls and one guy (a brave man to live with so many women). Our volunteer coordinator, a clever fellow who ensures we get to hospital when we fall down manholes, took us out to dinner this Saturday night. Once seated, a glass of wine in hand, I was enjoying people’s stories of why they'd chosen to come here...and waiting for the food-I was so hungry, having missed lunch. We’d ordered the house appetizers and I was impatient for snacks. But as the waiter approached with a large platter, I realized it was not the typical starter plate of potato skins, calamari, and fried cheese. Oh, lots of fried things: tarantula, snake on a stick, cockroach, frogs, a little bird, beetles, eggs, and silk worms, all nicely arranged to please the eye as well as the palate. And my new roommates dug right in. Even the vegetarian ate a beetle. I watched in horrified awe while people tried the leg of a tarantula, a bite of snake ("tastes like pork crackling"), and tossed back silk worms (“pops in your mouth”) like peanuts. When our token guy slowly and deliberately ate the entire large cockroach, I had to look away, queasy from the sight. He noted afterwards: “It took a while to chew through it.” As I say, brave man. This bloke helpfully pointed out as we left that it would have been much harder to eat all these things if they’d been alive.

Thankfully, we did finally have a “normal” dinner (Ahh, rice. Sweet plain rice). One of the many things I've learned on this trip is that I am not an adventure eater. Good to know one's limits: I'll go out on a limb, I'll climb a mountain, I'll cop a squat...but I won't eat anything ever featured on Fear Factor.

Sated and several clubs later, we went en masse to the penultimate night club in Phnom Penh, The Heart of Darkness. We the volunteers had been advised not to go to this particular place, due to past incidents of serious violence. Apparently, the combination of money, power, alcohol, arrogance, guns, and no real laws of any kind does not always yield happy results. Go figure. But tonight was violence free. Just dancing fools, full of free bugs and booze.

Street like a River

These days I moto-dop to work and tuk-tuk home. Traffic is worse here in the evenings than mornings, and a couple of nights riding home on a moto, I feared for life and/or limb, so now it's tuk-tuks all the way for evening rush hour...

And while tuk-tuks are safer than motos, they don't do as well on the rocky dirt roads that lead to my work. The first half mile of my journey home is like a carnival ride, as I am jostled around with each rut and rock the tuk-tuk passes over. No shock absorbers onboard. I’ll slip a disc one day getting so thrown about. But in the meantime, it gives the kids in the slums a good laugh to see the foreign lady hanging on to her tuk-tuk for dear life as she rides by, so maybe I'll just keep it up.

In addition to laughing at me, these local kids find other ways to amuse themselves. There is a game I see them play, which I have dubbed “Kick the Flip-Flop”. It involves (surprise) kicking a flip- flop back and forth on an approximately 5 x 7 foot playing field of available open space. Players number from 2 to 5, male, ages approximately 8-13. I’ve seen two versions of the game: One, cooperative, where the flip-flop is passed among all players; and the other, competitive, where goals are set up at either end of the playing field. The goals are made of, you guessed it, flip-flops. The game is played in bare feet. What strikes me about this game is that it reflects the tenacity of the human spirit. These kids have nothing. Nothing. I ride by their homes on my way to and from work and peer nosily into the dark little shacks that open directly onto the dirt road. There is no TV, no wii2, no Internet, no game boys or [insert latest gadget]. I think of the lengths some people go to in attempts to have fun. These kids wake up every day and make fun with whatever is at hand...or foot. Can’t make lemonade, as no lemons. But they’ve got shoes, and that’s a start.

Next week is a holiday in Cambodia, Pchum Ben, the festival of the dead, as I understand it. During this time, many Khmer people return home to the provinces to see family and to honour their ancestors, who they hope will send them luck, good health, and maybe even a little extra cash from the nether world. In Cambodia, when people describe going back to where they are from, they call it their “Homeland”. I heard this first from my tuk-tuk driver Kem, who often leaves town to go see his family. I’ll be trying to arrange a pick-up with him for later in the day and he’ll say no, explaining “Today I go to my Homeland." And then I won’t see him for several days, until I get a text from him letting me know he is back in Phnom Penh, ready to roll. While he is away, I imagine him in a faraway mystical place, The Homeland, high in the Cambodian hills, shrouded in jungle and mist. But in fact I think his homeland is a small, dusty, mosquito-ridden village a couple hours down the road towards Saigon.

With all these thoughts of homeland and ancestors, I am homesick this week. For the first time since I left. This started in Hong Kong, I think triggered by an unplanned (and pointless) visit to Marks and Spencers--Thought I was back in London for a crazy minute. Yikes. Then once home in Phnom Penh, I had a few days of “What am I doing here”, which I’d not experienced before. Everything felt foreign, so completely had I disconnected while away. I’m over it, happily back in my routine. A seasoned Phnom Penh veteran said this happened to him once as well, so I am not alone. However, I am left with a vague but persistent ache for New England, where I have not lived for many years, but which I seem to identify as the “home” in “homesickness”.

And therefore, I now firmly believe that for an adventure like this, a little geographical “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” treatment would not be a bad thing. Memory can hold a person back during lengthy trips away, if one keeps longing for the old in the face of the new. Take, for instance, the fact that I miss Western autumn. Viscerally. Pumpkin patches, apple picking, foliage, waning days. And family: I associate fall with kayaking with my dad. I am the farthest away from home, for the longest time I have ever been away, during a poignant season. Interestingly, I’ve met some Westerners in town who have lived here so long they seem immune to memory. They are made of sterner stuff than me.

I remind myself to embrace the new-the never-ending supply of wonderful and different-take whatever the hot and humid day brings-just kick the flop-flop. So it's a different kind of autumn for me, where instead of falling leaves, there's falling water: Rain and lots of it. This posting’s title is from Kem. Thursday, he arrived to pick me up shortly after the afternoon rains began. The street had flooded within minutes and to reach his tuk-tuk, I had to step into eight inches of rainwater. This took some self-counsel. As I contemplated the untreated water, I wondered what tropical disease it might have in store. But step in it I did, with my flip-flop shod feet. And as we roared down the road towards higher ground, Kem, clearly enjoying this, kept yelling “Street like a river!!!” while I rummaged in my backpack for a camera. In the photo above we are nearly out of it, as I’m slow on the draw, but you get a view. Water, water everywhere.

Reflections

This weekend, I am taking a pause from the developing country immersion experience: As I type, I am sitting poolside on the roof deck of a five star Hong Kong hotel, shamelessly mooching off a talented friend who has flown in from NYC for a job interview. This weekend has been full of fancy drinks, swanky bars, glitzy shopping and I am now in reverse culture shock, dazed by all the creature comforts. This intermission ends tomorrow and then it’s back to bottled water and 99% DEET. But in the meantime, this break from Phnom Penh is allowing me to reflect on my experience so far. I am two months in to a six month stint. How’s it going?

To help answer this, I have re-read what I've written so far. It’s worth noting that before I left London in July to begin this adventure, I had a rather high level of fear. The most accurate word is terror. The unknown is scary stuff. But I got on that plane regardless. And now, in re-reading, I notice that I sound less shell-shocked with each successive post. Aside from the occasional heat-induced spelling mistake, (and no spell checker on blogspot that I can find), I think things are going better than expected.

And a few comments about Hong Kong. First, wow, what a city!! I have never been before and while I’ve barely scratched the surface, what a stunning and fascinating place, from the water to the skyline. I will no doubt return. Second, it helps to be with someone who speaks fluent Mandarin (or Cantonese, as that is the local language): Our cab driver tried to seriously rip us off last night and was surprised to be scolded in his native tongue for taking advantage of foreigners. Third, and most importantly, I am ready to go back to Phnom Penh tomorrow. Despite enjoying the countless available amenities, I am not anywhere near wanting to return to Western-style living. This is a useful benchmark measure that is difficult to take in situ.

On this trip, I have learned that trying to move seamlessly between developed and developing regions brings unforeseen problems. To explain: We were invited last night to a party at a nice jazz club. Not surprisingly, I have a very limited selection of clothing with me in Cambodia, due to airline baggage weight restrictions and the need to bring practical things like large volumes of antibiotic ointment and Malarone. I certainly don’t have clothes for clubbing with high-flying future employers of friends. Furthermore, everything I own has been roughly hand-washed for the past two months, so I am cultivating sort of a shabby-chic look, heavy on the shabby, hold the chic.

So with only my sad NGO-appropriate clothes in my bag, I had nothing presentable to wear to this party. Off to the mall to find an outfit. Luckily, I only needed to locate a decent top, as had discovered the perfect pair of jeans earlier in the day, (a religious experience in and of itself, especially as jeans were too heavy to make the packing cut back in July, so have been jean-less for two months). Anyway, reverse culture shock was in full effect as I wandered about the massive shopping mall, numb from the industrial strength air-con, feeling overwhelmed by the endless clothing options. I had ventured into Zara and was having difficulty discerning what was cute and what was not, so accustomed had I become to my grungy attire, when I saw the models. Now, while models are not known for their expertise in securities law like my smarty-pants friend, they do know a thing or two about clothes: They are the divining rod for smart fashion choices. These preternatural creatures were flitting around Zara, alighting here and there like butterflies at different clothing racks, in search of the elusive size zero. I waited patiently, like a biologist in the field, noting what items interested them. When they finally flew away to their next photo shoot, I, in my frayed,wrinkled, fashion "don't" outfit, moved in like a jackal to the clothes rack they’d just abandoned...and found the perfect party top. Which I must say was a big hit.

And while I fear for this delicate chemise once in the hands of my Phnom Penh laundress, it won't bother me if it soon falls to bits. Because, while it may not survive the rough handling of a developing country, on reflection, I know that I will.

Animals without Borders

This week, I gave a training session for the staff at work, who are mostly Khmer. As English is spoken by some but not all, every second or third sentence was translated into Khmer by a bilingual colleague. The topic was leadership. To start on this unwieldy topic, I borrowed the parable of the fox and the hedgehog, as thought it would be a fun and manageable way to begin, in a foreign language and different culture. As a brief reminder, the story goes that the fox knows many little things, all useless and trivial, whereas the hedgehog knows only one big thing, but this single idea helps him to organize everything in his life. This story was co-opted by Jim Collins into the Hedgehog Concept, as an example of how great leaders think, focus, and work. As I prepared for my talk, I was uncertain if either of these animals even existed in Cambodia. But I thought the ideas would translate, so I used the images above to help the staff visualize. I began my talk and all went well for a while, people nodding and watching intently, good signs from a speaker's point of view. But after I’d gone on for a bit, people reached a saturation point on traits of great leaders and wanted to circle back to the animal photos. The session then devolved into an intense conversation in Khmer about these animals and other similar ones living in Cambodia. As it happens, no hedgehogs exist in the Kingdom. But they have a porcupine at a nearby zoo that a few people had seen before, and they thought it was quite similar to the hedgehog photo. One person felt sure it was the same. (I noted that the hedgehog is nicer). About foxes, there was uncertainty as to their existence here-a few thought maybe in the past, but not any more-No one knew why. However, everyone agreed that wolves were pretty much the same thing and wolves definitely live here, so that satisfied the group. (Except me, as I have now added to my list of concerns running into a wolf). Amidst all this discussion, I do think a few ideas about effective leaders got through, as I saw people taking notes, though admittedly they may have been writing out grocery lists or drawing caricatures of the over-exuberant red-haired lady pointing repeatedly at the porcupine on her laptop. Overall, the experience for me was educational as well, since I've done a lot of training in companies in other countries but never at an NGO, never in a developing country, and never in SE Asia. But that day I used the same high bar of success I always have: At least no one fell asleep.

Of Swimming Pools, Vigilance, and Fire

A friend here in Phnom Penh fell down a manhole the other day and is currently nursing a wounded knee with six stitches. The manhole in question had been covered with a piece of cardboard, which in the dark, my friend unknowingly, trustingly, stepped on (who covers a gaping hole with cardboard?). She might have disappeared like Alice in Wonderland into raw sewage six feet below. Except thankfully somehow, she caught herself, hence the knee injury, arm soreness, and shock. I walked by the offending hole the other day, after the incident, and noted that the new safety measures now enacted to prevent other unsuspecting passersby from a similar fate included covering the hole with yet another broken down cardboard box, this one marked “Heineken”. At least, it’s nice to know you can have a tasty Dutch beer after falling into human waste! No orange cones in sight.

And so it seems, in this and all other areas of life here, vigilance is critical. You have to watch your every step. Not only walking on sidewalks but in all aspects of your being. Every scratch and scrape requires close attention. Every road crossing needs not only a casual left-right-left glance (or right-left-right, depending on from whence you hale.) But more a left-right-left, then a quick right, another left, and a rapid scooting out of the way of the tuk-tuk you didn’t see bearing down on you. And with people too, you must be vigilant, in many respects. If you teach someone a thing, don’t assume they will remember the next day. You can’t assume anything or anyone will be what you expect or will be the same as yesterday. Some days this creates an odd feeling, sort of like waking up and the laws of physics have changed, gravity is less or some days more. However, this idea of taking nothing for granted, of knowing you may tread on cardboard and not concrete, is perhaps a good way to live, as what you have one day, maybe you won’t the next. So I try to be vigilant, but sometimes with limited success: The other night, I ended up with a mosquito INSIDE my mosquito net. From his viewpoint, he was thinking, well, at least I am safe from the other mosquitoes...and look what’s for dinner!

Even one's own behavior is unpredictable here. I paid my first “bribe” the other day: I went to a hotel which charges $7 to non-guests to use the pool pictured above. I explained politely that I thought this was too much to charge, since I could go Elsewhere and swim for free. They said that they charged that amount to limit the number of non-guests using the pool, as otherwise every ex-pat in town would be there. How surprised was I then when I went to close my tab and the bartender explained I could pay two dollars extra at the bar and not pay the seven dollars at the front desk for the swimming fee. This seemed a good deal. I think the bikini may have helped in that negotiation. And now I am part of the system. Or perhaps part of the problem.

Work continues well and brings highs and lows. Some days, I feel helpful, with my ideas and process suggestions. Other days, I feel in the way, more a business disruption, like the power outages that often happen during the day. I mentioned this to my boss and her response was that she has had similar feelings. That was oddly comforting, as she has been here for ages and keeps plugging away. And she assures me I am useful. Therefore, I will keep up with the suggestions, nosing around in everyone’s business until someone shows me the door. At the very least, the girls in the Sewing Room are getting used to me, and always smile at me, as I wander around the building, dazed from the mid-day heat, looking for a member of staff to bother, while the sewing machines whir busily all around.

A friend has asked about the meaning of “Gathering Fire”. It is the title of an excellent book of poems by Mary Gilliland, a now retired professor of English at Cornell. I have always loved the title, as think it is powerful imagery, suggesting a time of growth, of building strength. When I was a child, during our cold New England winters, we used to have fires at night and it was my job to gather kindling. In the slanted winter sunlight, I would set off into the woods behind our house to collect twigs and sticks, crunching through the dried leaves or snow underfoot. And then return proudly to the house with an armful of small branches, with which we would start the fire. When you are eight years old, any contribution to the family feels important. I chose this title because I feel a bit like that eight year old again, gathering kindling for the Daughters of Cambodia, helping them to build a great fire for all the world to see.

Communication

Lots of moments for lost in translation here. Best example is this. I live near a gas station called Caltex Bokor. Every tuk-tuk and moto driver knows where this is, so it’s a convenient dropping off point, instead of my house. Situation: Wishing to go home, I approach a moto-driver waiting for a fare and say “Caltex Bokor?”. He looks at me quizzically, with furrowed brow, shakes his head. So I say it again, but this time using what I think is a Khmer accent, so it sounds more like “Caltek Boko”. Still the quizzical look. Seeing this ongoing exchange, another moto driver with some English wanders over from the ever-present gang of moto drivers waiting by the corner and asks “Where you want to go?” So I say again “Caltek Boko”. He nods, as knows the place, and turns to the uncomprehending driver and says "Caltek Boko", exactly as I have just said it. The first driver has a flash of recognition and now repeats excitedly, Caltek Boko! Everyone is happy, everyone understands. However, I can’t help but wonder, are they taking the piss? Is this a joke and later in a local beer garden they'll have a good laugh at my expense: Hahaha, Caltek Boko, hahaha, funny lady!! I think I read about a similar experience in a Bill Bryson book, but somehow it is more disconcerting half way round the world.

Up until now, I have said little about work. I have held back for a few reasons. One, I wanted to absorb first what goes on there. Two, I had to sign some confidentiality paperwork, which I have done now, so know what I can and cannot say. Three, I've been trying to determine how to talk about the sex industry in an appropriate way.

I thought I'd start by painting a picture of where I work. Life is not easy if you are a poor young women in this country. A lot of girls get sold into brothels by their families who need a steady stream of income. The importance of cash flow. To combat this practice, the Director of Daughters has created a system where girls who willingly want to leave the sex industry can do so, by immediately giving the girls a salary and a job. At present, every weekday, 60+ women who are former sex workers show up to the office where they sew purses, scarves, place-mats, coasters, make jewelry, lace, greeting cards, etc for sale to retail and wholesale buyers. They receive lessons in hair and beauty, dance, photography, are given counselling if they want it and training in life skills. Like in any office, there is water cooler gossip and occasional slacking off but overall the model works really, really well. And the products the ladies make are excellent. A key idea that differentiates Daughters from some other NGOs in this space is that Daughters expects the girls to make real, sustainable changes in their lives, to take responsibility, to manage their money, and to make good decisions about their future. Much of this change stems from the increased self esteem of having a job and having greater control over their lives. These types of changes take time, as all change does, but overall it works. Far better than brothel sting operations you read about in the paper. And the positive impact on these women’s lives is vast. These young women, most in their late teens, early twenties are being giving a chance to live and to hope.

Each day, I sit in the office, taking loads of notes, bothering the staff with lots of inane consulting-type questions, mispronouncing the few Khmer words I know, and pondering how to help Daughters market their fair-trade products more broadly. The broader the markets, the more products sold, more money to hire more girls who want to get out of the sex trade, the more lives saved, the more hope created...

Around Phnom Penh, I often see the demand side of the industry hanging out in bars--the creepy soul-less dudes with vacant faces and vacant hearts. In my orientation packet for volunteering, there was a section that explained the sex trade here and described these guys: "Sad lonely middle-aged white men who are as interesting as a bucketful of warts." Granted, that is only one part of the demand demographic. It is a broad spectrum, including locals, tourists, and ex-pats. Simply a reality of human nature. I am trying not to judge. Just help clean up the mess.

In day to day living, on Monday, I nearly fell of my moto-dop. My driver took a corner too fast on a dirt road and the bike starting to slide out. I had to stumble off quickly (I ride side-saddle) before the bike fell out from under us both. I was not very happy with my driver. I just stood in the busy dirt road for a few minutes thinking about whether or not to get back on the bike or to walk away. Meanwhile, a collection of onlookers watched to see what would happen next. Not losing face is important here and I did not want the driver to lose face in front of all these people. But I needed him to be more careful. So I said quietly and slowly More careful. More slow. I had not yet learned those words in Khmer (I know them now) but figured he'd get the gist. Then, I slowly drew my finger across my neck in a horizontal line, trying to depict that I could otherwise get very hurt. Not sure if he understood that gesture. On reflection, he might have thought I meant I would hurt him. Which may have been a good thing, because either way, he drove more thoughtfully after that and I made it safely to Caltek Boko. No problem.

So far so good

I'm very much enjoying life here in Phnom Penh. Still taking in all the newness. And the heat, which requires that I spend half my time drinking water and the other half looking for a loo. I am now volunteering at the NGO and learning so much about how NGOs run, how Cambodian culture works, and how to survive commuting to work on a moto-dop (see photo of me in my power ranger/boba fett helmet)).

The traffic here truly must be seen to be believed. In the western world, now and then, you read in the paper about some fool who drives up an exit ramp onto the highway in the wrong direction, causing a multi-vehicle accident. But here, every day, in every lane, and across every lane, every different type of vehicle is moving and jockeying for position. Most intersections don’t have stop signs, so it is just a matter of weaving your way through the chaos and usually the bigger vehicle wins. Gridlock is common and the notion of do not block the box does not exist. Where there is the occasional stoplight, police lie in wait for any moto-dop drivers not wearing helmets and when an unsuspecting driver stops at the light, the police run out and grab the moto keys and charge the driver a fine on the spot. No payment, no keys. It is mesmerizing to watch all of this from the back of a moto and I am usually too curious to be scared as I hang on and keep an eye out for bag snatchers.

In terms of getting settled socially, the ex-pat community is small and very friendly. New people arrive every day, without knowing a soul, so phone numbers are exchanged over coffee within the first five minutes of meeting. This feels a bit like being in kindergarten, when you first go on to the playground, and you see lots of other kids who kind of look like you. So you go up and say, hi my name is ___, let’s be friends. And it’s a done deal. That is what it is like here. Which is refreshing in such a faraway place.

This past weekend, I got to know my way around town a bit. I went to a local market called the Russian Market and bought fabric to have made into clothing. This can be done very cheaply ($6 for a skirt) and is a better option than buying ready-made clothes, which won’t fit me anyway, as am too big to fit any clothes made for local women. At the market you can also buy movies for $1.50, so took advantage of that. Then spent all Sunday lounging by the pool meeting others who were also new in town. Not a bad life, but good to remember that not everyone here gets to live like this.

There are so many things to worry about here, like bag snatchers, traffic accidents, horrible people exploiting local women, but it is important to try not to think of these all the time or you'll never leave the house. Therefore, I try to focus on immediate problems and so far, my main worry is about this adorable little puppy named Abbey at an Internet cafe I frequent. Rabies is a huge problem here and I did not get the rabies shots. When I visit the cafe, Abbey always runs to me and tries to give my foot a lick. Because I am a huge fan of dogs, I would normally encourage this behavior. But instead I am shooing her and basically running away, which feels (and looks) absurd and goes against my nature. Oh well. For the time being, better that than foaming at the mouth...See photo of the savage beast above.

Overall so far so good.

Getting Settled

I have moved into my new home, a group house in Phnom Penh. At present there are only two others, a girl and a guy, both out here for six months as well. More housemates to arrive in September. I have started working and am currently learning the ins and outs of the business-this is a horrible pun, but I am trying to find some kind of black humour to get me through what I am going to see here. So far looking at basic operational issues and enjoying being at a workplace where they sing and dance in the afternoons and sometimes play Bob Marley tunes. Across the street is a house where they make flip flops and everyone is high on glue. Good times.

In town, there are options: Huge local markets, with Khmer food, but also many fancy western cafes with $3.00 coffees and pancakes and muffins. I saw a street vendor selling dead tarantulas for snacks the other day. An expat friend described eating one, crunchy legs, but eating the body he said "took some getting used to." Right: While I am embracing this experience, that is one thing I will never do. Ahh, but never say never, right? In other firsts, I have been riding on the back of moto taxis, which I thought would be too scary, but is in fact so much fun. In the words of Sheryl Crow, a change will do you good.

First and Last Impressions

Sapa, Vietnam, where street gangs of Black Hmong ladies in full tribal costume harangue you the moment you descend from the minibus at 7 AM. They are selling bracelets and purses, which is very much what you are wanting after a mostly sleepless night on a train and before you've had a coffee. They are just trying to make an honest buck and have benefited greatly from the tourist influx. Aside from the hard sell, Sapa is stunning country in northern Vietnam and any visit would not, in my mind, be complete without seeing those mountains. The mountains themselves are not massive, but they are unusual, as mountains go, very green and pointy. Plus the area is so different from the hustle and bustle of Hanoi and Saigon, making it well worth the trip. The trails are not great and if it rains, which it did when I was there, it is very slippery. But with the rains come moody low clouds and very pretty fog. And there is a crazy mud slide thing you must cross and you feel like you'll plunge any minute into the gorge below. Which you might. The overnight train to Lao Cai is an experience itself--you don't get much sleep, as the train is noisy and bumpy, but then you have three strangers sleeping in the same small cabin, so maybe for the best?

Anyway, that was the end of my time in Vietnam and I am currently in Siem Reap, Cambodia, home of the famous Angkor Wat. The Temples-they are lovely, impressive, and amazing achievements. But I am afraid-and I hate to say this-that I have discovered I am not really a temple kind of girl. I liked them very much, but was more enthralled by the elephants galloping by. But I will surely be back during my time here and maybe a temple or two at sunrise will change my mind. I may have sightseeing fatigue. The town of Siem Reap itself is worth several visits, as so many good restaurants and great people watching. Some odd slightly off-putting sights as well: One street performer had a stunt where he placed his child, a two year old or so, on his shoulders and the baby stood unsupported for about ten seconds. Then the man took up a collection for this "trick". Stuff like this bothers me, but things are that way here. I intend on being a patient observer, at least for the time being. Place your bets for how long that lasts.

Tomorrow to Phnom Penh. Home.

A Day in Hue (this rhymes)

I've spent the past few days in Hue. Hue is remarkably hot and the heat is not interrupted, as it is in Saigon, by welcome afternoon rains. Thankfully, the cyclo guys are never far away and always happy to see me, as I think I overpay every time. In terms of sightseeing, while my guidebook touted the restaurants and history, the most interesting thing I saw was an outdoor market I discovered by chance when I got lost my first day. It is near or on An Duong Vuong, in the opposite direction from the Perfume River. Ladies selling every kind of fish, vegetable, and meat, all in the open air. While I think it spurred me to become a vegetarian while over here, it is how people grocery shop when there is no Tescos or Fresh Fields. These photos are the ladies at the market. They seemed flattered and mostly happy to have their photos taken, though a couple ladies wanted a dollar and one rather aggressively wanted my water bottle.

Perfume River

In Saigon, there is an art to crossing the streets, of walking slowly and deliberately, and not panicking at the sight of dozens of oncoming motorbikes bearing down on you. I had to watch people before I tried it myself. The key is not to run, the bikes go around you. But yesterday, I took a break from walking and instead toured the city's museums in a cyclo, similar to the one pictured here. My driver stayed awake most of the time, unlike this guy (that is not me). My driver's name was Nam. Aside from the guy in the photo, everyone here is very busy, making, cooking, or selling something. Or driving around on their motorbikes. My Mekong River tour guide explained that without a motorbike, you don't have much of a life in Saigon. 8 million people, 4 million motorbikes. And counting.

Today I am in Hue, which is a different world from Saigon. Sitting next to me on the plane here was a Vietnamese woman, Mrs. Tran, who was going home to visit her 89 year old mother. It's a small world, as Mrs. Tran lives in Leesburg, VA and has for the past 18 years. We had a nice chat, she works as a cashier in the Giant, she was tired as had been on the phone til 3 AM talking to her husband's sister. She got kind of teary eyed as we landed in Hue. I don't think she'd been home for three years and she had lost her husband in the meantime. She explained that last time she visited, he did all the work and she just did what he said. But this time, she is having to do everything herself and she is working very hard. Nice lady, Mrs. Tran. I hope she has a good visit.

Room in my heart

Contemplating my grown-up gap year in December 2008, I knew I wanted to do several things: Study a language, travel, and "give back", in some yet to be determined manner. Language study was easily sorted, as the options are endless, a trek in the Nepalese Himalaya took care of the travel bit, but the giving back required more careful thought. I wanted to do something meaningful but was not sure what.

I know people give back in many ways: Volunteer, donate money, clothes, etc. Some can create foundations, like Bill Gates; others give in more individual and emotionally enduring ways. I have a friend who many years ago adopted a failure to thrive little girl. One day over lunch, he explained to me why he and his wife had decided to do this. Both were a bit older, already had children by previous marriages, so there was no pressing need to adopt. But as he explained to me, after he learned about this little girl, he and his wife felt strongly: "We had room in our home for her...and room in our hearts."

Room in our hearts. That phrase has reverberated in me for years. How do we know if we have sufficient room in our hearts for something as hard as raising a troubled child? Caring for a sick parent? Easing someone's pain? Perhaps the oft-quoted, tired, but still relevant Beatles song: "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make" provides some guidance? Or maybe we can't know for sure. But we move forward and do our best.

As a start, a year ago, I volunteered for a charity in the UK, a woman's shelter that was in need of help getting its business in order. The program used a team-based approach, where I was teamed with three other business professionals assigned to this charity. This approach worked well, as everyone brought something different to the table. It was a great experience: I learned a bit about how charities run in the UK, I met other like-minded business people giving their time and expertise, and I helped (I think) the charity tackle some strategy challenges. Also, this was clearly the right direction for me.

So back to the question of how to give back during this time away from work? I knew I enjoyed helping charities in need of business skills but lacking funds to hire expensive consultants. As the time approached when I needed to commit to a volunteer project, serendipity led me to Cambodia. At the time I was merely gathering information, surfing the web researching my options, talking to different people, when the perfect opportunity landed in my lap. And, no fool, I took it.

And so has begun an extensive study of a country about which before I knew very little (sadly, as Cambodia is often eclipsed by its neighbor Vietnam in the minds of many Americans). And so too has begun a mental preparation for several months living in Phnom Penh, helping an organization that aids young girls, kids really, to leave the brothels and start better lives. I leave in two weeks, am ready to go, have already packed to within an inch of my life--my North Face bag is bursting at the seams. But there is plenty of room in my heart.