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.
