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.