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.