Cambodia Revisited

Here are a few pictures that I've touched up with photo editing. As I pack for Cambridge, my thoughts are often back in Cambodia. Undoubtedly, my thoughts will be in Cambodia for a long, long time.

Travel By Numbers

I’m sitting in Phenom Penh International Airport. I’m waiting for my flight to Seoul to beginning boarding. There is a flat screen tv flashing an American documentary about AIDS in India. Four lovely Korea flight attendants in aquamarine silk suits have congregated about five seats down from me and are chatting warmly. I’m exhausted from an 8 hour bus trip (which included an 1.5 hour “lay-over” at the Vietnam-Cambodia border) that brought me from Saigon to Phnom Penh. I am looking at a 6.5 hour flight to Seoul, a 4 hour lay-over and a 13.5 hour flight to Atlanta. I have two carry-ons, one of which contains two stretched canvas painting of Angkor Wat in thick, bright acrylics. I stupidly paid an outrageous $3 for one iced coffee. There are four Westerners (including myself) waiting at the gate at this point. I have 22 minutes before boarding and 75% of my power remaining in my battery. I have exactly $15 left (which really is minus about $600 because I own my folks money due to unforeseen medical costs).  I have covered an estimated 20,000 miles in the last two months. I will have touched ground in five countries and two continents. I have interviewed roughly 14 individuals, written two official articles, two extended reports, 19 blog posts and only seven paper journal entries. I have 9 days until I leave for Minnesota /Canada and two months before I leave for England. I brought with me only three pairs of pants, one skirt, six shirts, two tank tops, one pair of pj bottoms, 16 pairs of panties, three sports bras, one sweater, one hat and a single, well-worn pair of chacos. My passport has three Visas – two for Cambodia and one for Vietnam – one of which will grant me return access until this coming December. I have spent countless hours writing, dozens of hours reading and too many hours incapacitated with illness. I watched all four seasons (roughly 50+) episodes of Ugly Betty. I take with me one colorful bag from Saigon. I leave behind dozens of co-workers, one awesome boss, one amazing friend and a single, humble piece of my heart.

Disfigured...Transfigured

His face was a charred, burnt red. Like roasting meat pulled from the flames, it was a deep, swollen burgundy. His right eyelid had been blown away leaving a milky white ball with only the cloudy remains of iris and retina. There were no protective lashes or thick brows to shield the exposed ivory bulb. His left eye, relatively intact, was a crisp mahogany; it wasn’t a depthless brown, but a rusted wooden floorboard brown. His lips were a faded wormy pink and puffed up in the right corner. There were shinny burns and hard sores that disrupted the surface of his haggard, tender flesh. His hands were charred stubs, thick scar tissue nubs sprouted from where his fingers use to be. He fumbled with a navy blue baseball cap and sloppily mouthed words that only spilled out like dried beans on a linoleum floor. Hobbling toward me he continued to mumble and I, despite a twinge of compassion, pulled away, averting my eyes and briskly stalking toward a secluded indoor café.

He was a landmine victim. Cambodia is the single most landmine-ridden country in all of Asia. Every travel book and website I have read about Cambodia ominously warns against straying from well-worn paths, particularly up in the sparsely populated mountains and along the Thai border. Landmines are an American legacy; President Nixon had landmines planted during the Vietnam War, a measure taken to “quell” any insurgency that could be regrouping inside Cambodia’s borders. But it wasn’t the armed military or Vietnamese guerrillas who became the victims of the mines; women and children wandering across the open, grassy fields would be arbitrarily blown to bits. Pol Pot, the ugly and ferocious Marxist revolutionary, planted even more landmines – particularly along the Cambodian border with Thailand – to dissuade the victims of mass murder from fleeing to safety.

Landmines are indiscriminate killers. Princess Dianna knew this and campaigned tirelessly for the banning of landmine usage around the world. I saw the burnt face of the victim, now unable to work and to provide for a family. Begging and being paraded around like some guilt-machine are often last resorts of mothers and fathers with children to provide for. Medical care is limited and often costly. And landmines remain a major threat, particularly to the thousands of subsistence farmers etching a living out of the countryside.

I walked through a local NGO which has developed simple handicrafts that victims – who often times lose all or part of their legs – can make in order to live self sufficiently and with dignity.  Some of these women sat on the floor of the shop front and smiled at me. They busied their nimble fingers wrapping colored cloth around stings of bead, creating dainty necklaces that I couldn’t help but admire. In my limited Khemai, we made small talk, but their unblemished faces and warm smiles were enough. I bought a small stuffed elephant for a friend’s daughter, and a woman missing all of her left leg and her right leg up to the knee said “good choice, thank you for visiting us.”

The pulpy-faced man hung just outside the little shop. I slipped a few folded bills into a donation box, but kept my eyes on the ground and I tried to innocuously slip away. I still could not look into his torn face.  My heart split at the seams and I felt a mixture of disgust and compassion.   How would Christ respond? Is it enough to leave a few folded dollars? Can I launch a campaign like the late Princess of Wales which impacts lives and stands as a testament before foreign governments? What little thing can I do?

My tuk-tuk waited just around the corner from the little shop. I had only enough money left to get back home. My heart was bloated with emotions: concern, revulsion, empathy, guilt, fear, anger, frustration and a genuine inability to process what a Christ-like response to this kind of suffering would be.  But I did one small thing: I looked this disfigured man full in the face and smiled.  

Top 10 Ways to Die in Cambodia, Redux

The longer Sara and I have spent in this wickedly wonderful country, we have discovered another host of ways one could perish. In honor of our nearly-complete summer adventure, I present to you Brekke’s Top 10 Ways to Die in Cambodia, Redux!

10. Falling off a Temple – Angkor Wat and the surrounding temple complex houses some of the world’s most stunning religious structures. Temples in all manner of degradation are sprinkled through tropical jungles. Ta Koa, a particularly steep Temple with miraculous views for those brave few willing to clamber to the top, has already claimed three lives this year. Because tourists are foolish enough to climb temples in flip flops, Falling off a temple ranks at number 10.

9. Being Struck by Lightening – The monsoon season has swung into high gear, and with the oppressing rain comes lightening storms. Although monsoon season has only been in effect about a month, 28 people have already died from being struck by lightning. The elements don’t play around in Southeast Asia! Because monsoon season is just beginning and the possibility for more lightning-related deaths is high, death by lightning strike is our number 9.

8. Being thrown from a moto – as your intrepid explorers moved from the country to the city, our form of local transport upgraded from our little rinky-dink bicycles (which we loved dearly) to speeding motos. It is customary for lady passengers to ride side-saddle as the whiz through clogged city streets. Unfortunately, this means perching precariously behind the driver, one butt cheek hanging off the back, legs dangling unprotected from oncoming traffic. Because of the destabilized position the risk of being rodeo-thrown into the street is high. Since only ladies ride side saddle, being thrown from a moto ranks number 8.

7. Spider bites – Cambodia has some of the largest spiders I have ever seen. Spiders the size of pancakes – no joke! – creepy-crawled through our field office.  The shrieks of intrepid explorers brought out spider-hunters who used gas, spray, shoes and a long pole to wrangle the beast. Because we’re now living in the city and marginally removed from nature, spider bites come in at number 7.

6. Snake bite – no, not the particularly tasty adult beverage, snake bites are common in rural Cambodia. Snakes and other assorted creepy-crawly creatures roam the countryside, lying in wait for unsuspecting explorers. Cambodia is home to an assortment of venomous reptilians, and Siem Reap (where Angkor Wat is located) hosts a restaurant that doubles as a snake farm for harvesting anti-venoum. Because snakes tend to stay in rural, forested areas, and we are now in the city, snake bites comes in just shy of the top 5 at number 6.

5. Dehydration, heat stroke, sun poisoning, etc – the sun is no joke here in Southeast Asia. Like the Central Americans, Cambodians take a siesta mid-day to escape the brutal sun. Being stuck out in that blistering heat has a plethora of adverse effects including: sun burn, sun poisoning, severe dehydration, heat exhaustion and ultimately heat stroke. With scarce and sub-par medical care, any of these treatable conditions can easily become life threatening. Because the elements are no joke (seriously, no joke), death from the ill effects of heat makes the top 5.

4. Murder-suicide form too much Khmer music – It may seem a little extreme, but a being trapped with constantly blasting Khmer music videos for a six hour bus ride is enough to drive any sane person to the edge. Pop music in Cambodia is quite different than Western pop music; Cambodians enjoy a slightly “edgy” (one might say off-key, leaning on intentionally sharp) quality to their vocal performance. In addition to bad 1980s keyboards, hours without respite is enough to gouge one’s eyes out, circumcise one’s eardrums, and blindly and deafly rampage through the crowded bus tearing out hears in the process. Think I’m exaggerating? Try listening to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on repeat for six hours and then you’ll get an idea (that actually would be better than Khmer music). Because we still have two 6-hour bus rides to look forward too, murder-suicide comes in at number 4.

3. Homesickness – the languid, wasting sickness that has claimed many a life of would-be intrepid explorers, homesickness strikes from out of the blue. The slow-killing disease rears its ugly head as explorers run out of minutes on their phone cards, episodes of Ugly Betty to watch, and consume the last few scraps of foods from home like raisin bran and cliff bars. Add any form of foreign illness to the mix and homesickness can be lethal. Because modern medications like Skype exist to alleviate symptoms, homesickness is our third worst/best way to die in Cambodia.

2. Worms or other assorted parasites – Contaminated drinking water, undercooked food, dishes handled by unwashed fingers can all lead to the contraction of worms or any number of unsavory parasitic creatures. These uninvited guests can range from relatively harmless belly worms, to little freeloaders who systematically attack your internal organs. Because it’s difficult to gage whether or not you’re infected and how severe the infection is, worms and parasites come in at number 2.

1. Being run over by a motorized vehicle – the transition from living in a predominantly rural town to a densely populated (yet mellow) metropolis is that traffic has increased about 3000%. While pedestrians are common, it doesn’t safeguard the walking citizen. Heedless SUVS, fearless motos and reckless tuk-tuks run stop lights, drive across sidewalks and engage in all manner of risky behavior – paying no mind to the helpless, slow-moving pedestrians caught in their path. As your intrepid explorers have given up their bicycles for the hustle and bustle of city life, walking is the main way of getting around. Because this is a new and improved for of auto-related death, it tops our second top 10 list as the number one best and worst way to die in Cambodia. 

My Day as Indiana Jones, a photo essay

Sunrise over Angkor Wat

The famous 52 faces of the Bayoun - plus one

Terrace of the Leper King

Remains of the Angkor bridge

Ta Koa

Ta Pram

Banteay Seri

Kbal Spean, "The River of 1000 Lingas"

Children

Children. The Bible tells us they are a “heritage from the Lord” (Psalm 127: 3-5). They are whimsical, carefree and downright adorable. They are innocent, trusting and unblemished from the tough lessons that we must learn as we grow older. In short, children are precious.  During my six weeks here in Cambodia, I have marveled at the children, who live joyously despite conditions that make my Western, sanitized heart rattle. The more I see this country, the more I fall in love with the shy smile and wide eyes of its children.

I have noticed, though, that the children here are more reserved than in the United States and in Guatemala (where I have done previous mission and humanitarian work). In Guatemala, children ran to me with open arms, flocked around me tugging at my blond hair and giggling at my broken Spanish. But not here; Cambodian children will watch me, their large dark eyes illuminated by curiosity, but they do not come near.  There is a consciousness that strangers may be entertaining, but only from afar.

In the United States, I have been a babysitter and part-time nanny. I have cared for twin boys (2 different sets, no less!), precious infant girls and an assortment of elementary aged tikes. They are silly, generally happy and willing to throw their love on any responsive stranger that comes their way (with a few shy exceptions). But not in Cambodia. Even after a morning of interviews and warm chatter with their mothers, children here are still shy. They are reserved and skeptical; hardened little observes that will watch you and even reward you with a smile, but rarely ever a hug or handshake.

This is a striking contrast to Guatemala where I was flooded by little Mayan babies. They loved to play, to dance, to take us by the hand and show us around. There was no bottom to the wellspring of enthusiasm that the Mayan children expressed for life. But in Cambodia, there is something that tempers this kind of reckless joy. It’s not that children are not joyous – they certainly are – but that they chose to reign in that abandonment when an outsider is around.

I am reading Samantha Power’s award winning exposé, “A Problem From Hell”: America and the Age of Genocide, which is an expertly researched and engagingly written examination of America’s response to genocide in the 20^th century. My boss lent me the book because it has a section on the Khmer Rouge and the “extermination” of the intellectual class in the late 1970s. Fascinating and heart-breaking, I have been reading about the systematic destruction that wiped about over 20% of the Cambodian population, from which children were not excluded.  In the wake of such a reign of terror, the hesitancy of families to be warm with strangers isn’t so out of place. But, why the children?

Children are resilient. They can survive trauma better than we adults give them credit for. They can imagine a world free of the shackles of the one in which they live. They dream. But, they also can pick up on and be influenced by the nuances in our adult actions and reactions. As I encounter and attempt to engage (i.e. snuggle and love) these precious children, I wonder if the trappings of fear and mistrust which are deeply women into the lives of their parents and grandparents are played out in their reserved response to strangers. And, if that is the case, how unfortunate to live with that haunted sense of mistrust bred by an all too real and horrible past.

Each child that breathes is a child of the Most High God. Each child is a precious gift, a blessing. No matter what country, what religion, what race, what gender, what language, each child is a light and a hope. In the eyes of Cambodian children, wide and silent, I see that small flicker of hope.

You can be a big fish in a little pond, it doesn’t mean you’ve won…does it?

Today was a day of contrasts and juxtapositions. It was a day of two very different kinds of communities that grew up around two very different kinds of leaders. It was a day that brought the concept of the “cult of personality” into relief. Today I went to church and to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, which – ironically – are right across the street from one another.

Sara and I went to the International Christian Fellowship church this morning. (www.icfpp.org) I for one have been craving the opportunity to fellowship with other Christians. It was relieving to see other Anglo-Saxon Protestants, who were also native English speakers and sympathized with my discomforts and hiccups of settling into life in Cambodia. It was refreshing to hear the Gospel preached (our sermon was on Luke 2:41-52 and Acts 15:25-29). It was a comfort to be surrounded by the body of Christ that was warm and welcoming. I talked with a wonderful Canadian couple who were getting ready to return to Vancouver after a year here in Cambodia. The husband was a retired minister in the Presbyterian church of Canada (oh Providence!) and the wife was a second grade teacher. They chatted with me about the ways to adjust, gave me tips on getting over jet lag and encouraged me with my discernment process as I move forward with becoming ordained. It was a joy to worship, a joy to be surrounded by people who welcomed me, and a joy to be in a place which, despite a very different take on church than my home presbytery, was still like home in all the best ways.

But this happy, calming experience is diametrically opposed to my experience of walking through the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. In a real, physical sense these two places are opposing – on opposite sides of a street corner, one is colorful and bright, the other a bland grey cement enclosure. And in a metaphorical, spiritual, figurative sense they represent opposite ideals – one a refuge of love and hospitality, even in extreme circumstances, the other a symbol of the ugly manifestation of hate which blossoms from deep rooted and unchecked fear. 

If you, like me, did not know what the Tuol Sleng prison was until this very day, let me give you a brief history lesson.  Saloth Sar, know to us as Pol Pot, turned what had been a primary and secondary school campus into a detention center during his reign as head of the Khmer Rouge. From 1975 to 1978 over 10,400 people were systematically imprisoned, tortured and murdered. Detainees ranged from intellectuals and members of the former Cambodian government, to “New City” Cambodians (rural refugees recently relocated to the city looking for work), doctors, religious leaders (monks, nuns) and anyone who could read. Essentially, anyone that the paranoid government decided to detain.  The prison acted as a “high security” location instead of the hard labor camps that resembled ones used by Hitler and Stalin.

Tuol Selng was a place of torture. It was a place where men and women alike were systematically beaten. They were lashed, flogged and shocked with electrical current. Each prisoner was photographed, with meticulous documentation of who they were, where they came from and what “methods” were used to “break” them. The former classrooms were shut up, the open corridor windows covered in a thick fencing of barbed-wire (to discourage prisoners from committing suicide prior to their execution date). Some of the classrooms were subdivided into tiny 3’X5’ cells where detainees were kept in heavy iron shackles until execution – normally 6 to 8 months. The former playground exercise equipment was re-fashioned into the torture devices strategically located in a central quad so that every prisoner could hear the agonizing screams while waiting for their turn. It was a place of immense pain and suffering. Pol Pot, under the influence of his fear and suspicion of all those with education and material gains, turned a place of education on its head and – in sad irony – out of a school where fear is dispelled through education he created a nightmare complex like the gulags and concentration camps.

The museum had dozens of glass boards with the pictures of the many men and women who died in that prison. (Photos can be seen here – www.tuolsleng.com)  They were black and white mug shots, hundreds upon hundreds in neat rows. Each photo had a number; the scrupulous records of exactly who the regime eliminated. There were pictures of the broken bodies of men after torture, stills of women chained to beds and color paintings of the different torture methods used. There was a room in which several unidentified skulls were kept locked in a glass case – about four dozen of them. Along the walls of this room were photographs of large mounds of human bones that the prison officials would make. Some of them were formed into designs. Some were just rows upon rows of femurs and tibias. It reminded me eerily of Heart of Darkness.

However, what cracked my desensitized heart were the several hundred photographs of children. Let me say that again, so that the impossible weight and horror sinks in: several hundred children. Wide-eyed little boys. Smiling baby girls. Frightened children. Precious children.

The Khmer Rouge killed more than 20,000 children during its four year reign from 1975 to 1978. In that four year period, the Khmer Rouge killed over 2 million people – over 21% of Cambodia’s population – from systematic terminations, work camps, slavery and constant combat. That’s one in five people. One out of every five of you reading this right now would be dead. Would it be you?

Pol Pot was a sick man. His mind was twisted by hate. Hate – an extreme form of fear – had mangled his heart so completely that he was incapable of seeing the humanity in the ‘other.’ The officials that sanctioned and ran Tuol Sleng allowed themselves to become so desensitized that they lost sight of the common humanity between themselves and their victims. Did Hitler not do the same thing to Jews in Germany?  Did the Interahawme not do the same thing to the Tutsis in Rwanda?

But there is another element to this prison visit that is more disturbing and heart-breaking. As I drank in all those faces of the men and women, and especially the precious children, I could not help but remember the part that the United States played in this tragedy. I as an American citizen cannot walk away with clean hands. My government support the Khmer Rouge despite confirmation that Pol Pot engaged in “criminal behavior” (and despite the fact that he executed several Western intellectuals) simply because he opposed the military forces in Vietnam.  We are linked to this because every time we allow for the infringement of human right anywhere, it becomes a threat to human rights everywhere.

I don’t have children. But, I hope and pray that one day I am blessed with the joy of being a mother. I pray that I get to hold my precious child and love him more than life itself. Looking at all those tiny faces I cannot help but think about my life, my actions, my place. Water boarding is torture. Guantanamo Bay is not too far off from this prison center. How far do we have to go before we become complacent parties in mass genocide?

 It was a day of parallels and paradox. It was a day of two men who couldn’t be more opposite. Pol Pot, a murderous fanatic who developed a cult which followed his extreme Marxist beliefs and supported him while he allowed his fears of the “other” to morph into unadultered hate and dehumanization. And Jesus, a man who grew a cult out of the Jewish tradition, preached a gospel of love and non-violence and welcomed all because each human being is a child of the Most High God. Pol Pot died of heart failure while under house arrest in 1998 without even having to go to trial for his crimes. Jesus died innocently on a cross, the lamb of God who took away the sins of all the world. Today was a day of two very different men, one who chose love and the other who chose fear. In its’ simple dichotomy of human weakness versus holy strength it is quiet, and moving, and profound. 

Word of the Day...

I’ve been learning a few words of Khmer here and there. A few essentials have helped me in awkward situations. So, I’m going to give y’all a few words of Khmer, which can help if you ever find yourself stranded in Cambodia.

Akun = “Thank you”

Som = “please”

Tuck = “water”

Muy = 1

Be = 2

Bai = 3

Boon = 4

Pram = 5

Sous-dye = “Hello” and Arron sous-dye = “Good morning”

Lee-hai = “Good bye”

Interestingly enough, Khmer doesn’t have a word for ‘no’ – they use English no do indicated dissent. Apparently before the introduction of ‘no’ into the language, if someone were to answer the questions are you hungry, they’d say “yes, I’m not hungry.” Strange, eh?

I’ll try to pick up a few more words and do another Khmer lesson in a few days!

Lee-hai!

A Christian in a Buddhist Land

It was a constant sort of hum-chanting that filled the room with a warm, radiant vibration. Four monks, ranging in age from about 20 to about 60, sat on the floor of our large conference room. Shrouded in large pieces of orange or red fabric, they chant-hummed in a cacophonic harmony which seemed to swell through the room like sweet incense smoke.  My knees hurt from kneeling on a reed mat. I was lost;  the language was foreign, then moments of bowing strange. I felt terribly out of place.

On Thursday of last week our office had a blessing. Here in Cambodia, inviting a local monk to come to your office or home to bless both your person and your space is a common practice. Monks are everywhere; their bright orange and rich red robes stick out. They ride on the back of mopeds, they wander around markets and yesterday I even saw a monk using the internet. I don’t know exactly why I find this weird – I mean, I am going to become a minister, yet I use a computer every single day. Perhaps it is because for me, Buddhism is still a mystical religion that has – until Thursday – stayed hidden in the pagoda.

I have never before traveled to a country in which Christianity was not the predominant religion. Guatemala is still mostly Catholic and Europe is Christian of some flavor or fashion (mostly). So, even if the form of Christianity practiced differed from my frozen-chosen Presbyterianism it was still Jesus on a cross, Mary the mother of God, and the three-in-one trinity that I could recognize. But here, in Cambodia things are different. Here, boys and men dedicate themselves to strict ascetic lifestyles relying on aid from the communities to help support them as they pray and study. They cover themselves in kashayas, or long strips of saffron and ochre fabric and shave their heads. They serve as religious instructors, community leaders and organizers, and – as what we would think of in the Christian sense –   as ministers.  There is meekness and humility about monks that is in sharp contrast to the often over-the-top charisma of Christian leaders and a sense that monks work hard to balance the need to withdraw from the world in an effort to attain enlightenment and the compassion to remain rooted in their communities as servant leaders.

In the work we have done with IRD thus far, monks, nun and achars (local religious leaders that can be compared to Deacons) have been sought out to help spread the public health message. At our very first day on the job, we attended a ceremony honoring the women who had participated in our “Model Mothers” program (which teaches and encourages good hygiene, sanitation and proper nutrition for children under 5). For many of these women, what they are being taught (like breastfeeding from birth through at least 6 months) goes against what has become the social norm. A monk sat in the first row, his orange kashaya vibrant against his dark skin, and spoke about how important nutrition and sanitation is to healthy families and communities. His presence was a blessing in many ways. The community looked to him for guidance and was encouraged by his support of the work IRD is doing.

Turning to these religious leaders to get the message about public health out is an important way to connect to this culturally distinct country. Last week, I watched as wandering monks stopped outside shops and residences, and said a few words. Some folks would come out, give them a small donation and then kneel while the monks chanted a blessing over them (Buddhist chanting, by the way, is not the peaceful, harmonious chanting of Anglican evensong or Benedictine-style monks; it is a strange nasal-off-key kind of chant that cannot be mistaken for anything else). Sitting in on a religious ritual brought into sharp contrast how different Buddhism is to Christianity. And yet, there was something familiar. Maybe it was the way we all hold our hands, pressed together for prayer. Maybe it was how, at the end of the ceremony the monks used bundles of leaves to sprinkle water on the kneeling crowd, much like the sprinkling of baptismal water on Easter. Or the way these Buddhist families welcomed us and care for us the same way Christian families back home would have. For all the remarkable and beautiful ways that we are different, in the human way we are the same.

After all, the Buddha says: “Consider others as yourself.” (Dhammapada 10:1), while Jesus reminds us: “Do to others as you would have them do to you." (Luke 6:31)

Top 10 Ways to Die in Cambodia…

It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster since Sara and I landed in Southeast Asia. It’s become a bit of a joke between Sara and I that this near-death experience or that particular brush with mortality is one of the “top 10” ways to die.  But after what should have been a relaxing and invigorating weekend at the beach (more on that later), I’ve decided that perhaps this list is truer than we originally thought. So, in the spirit of Travel channel lists of a similar sort, I present to you Brekke’s Top 10 Ways to Die in Cambodia.

10. Hydroplaning in a vehicle of any sort  - The monsoon rains are sudden and last for quite a long time (think multiple hours). Paired with rather unkempt roads and rather uncouth drivers, hydroplaning is a sure way to “loose the mortal coil” as one might say. A car out of control could take out not just the passengers, but also passing motos, bicyclers, pedestrians and unwary cows. Because monsoon rains are only once a day though, hydroplaning makes number 10.

9. Infected bites, cuts, abrasions, lacerations, etc – after the tragic implanting of sea urchin spines into my right heel this past weekend (more on that later), I became acutely aware of the health risk that infection poses to most Cambodians, and to ex pats living and working here. With less than adequate facilities dotting the country, any kind of open sore or wound has a high likelihood of being easily infected. The tap water here isn’t potable (which means we can’t drink it) and while it’s not too terrible to wash in, if you don’t want to swallow it, you don’t want to wash a wound with it. Since we hope to avoid open wounds at all costs, infection is only number 9 on our list.

8. Attack by roving bands of she-hes  - according to British Dave, as opposed to Aussie Dave, bands of “she-hes” (we’re not exactly sure what he meant, but we guess that they were transvestites) lie in wait for tourists in bars. While Sara and I have never experienced this, Dave was quite adamant, and had battle wounds to prove it. Apparently, he had been lured into a room with one of these wily bands and had to jump out a glass window in order to escape. He had several deep cuts and a bad burn form where he jumped on a speeding moto in his get-away. If he wasn’t so embarrassed by the story I would have thought he was lying to me. So, because you never know who you’ll meet in a bar, the she-hes make number 8.

7. Drowning in a boat on the way to or from shore – Sara and I had plans to go snorkeling one of the days on our beach trip (can I just say epic fail) and in route to the island the rains hit (in the morning!) and I think we very nearly drowned. The normally peaceful ocean turned grey, warm salty water was smash into our little dingy from the sea, cold water was pelting us from the sky. As we strapped orange life-vests to our shivering little selves, I remember thinking “this is a crappy way to go, out here in the middle of nowhere ocean, no one knowing where we are.” And then the motor of the boat died. Because only the grace the Almighty got us through that storm, death by drowning hits the top 10 list at number 7.

6. Abduction by the Khmer Rouge – while we have been lucky to have had our travels be (mostly) uneventful, the Khmer Rouge is still a significant threat in parts of the country. So, visiting the majestic mountains that rise out on the horizon is a no-go for these rather bumbling Americans. The rebels tend to stay in their mountains; as long as we avoid them, they should avoid us. But, because of their bloody past and unsure future, the Khmer Rouge lands just shy of the top 5 at number 6.

5. Unexploded landmines – Cambodia has the most unexploded landmines of ANY Southeast Asian country. Because there are so many of them, people routinely die from stepping in the wrong spot. Off-trail hiking is illegal in Cambodia because so many tourists have died over the years. And, if the landmine didn’t kill you and you survive the substandard medical care (think back to number 9), you inability to get work will probably result in death by malnutrition. The CMAC landmine detection and detonation training center is about a mile from the IRD office in Kampong Chhnang and routinely interrupts our meetings with small explosions.  Because landmines are undiscriminating and can cause multiple death scenarios, they make it to the top 5.

4. Malaria medication – As Sara unfortunately discovered this past week, mis-prescribed Malaria mediation can be just as painful – and potentially lethal – as contracting the disease itself. Malaria medications have a variety of side effects, including: constipation, diarrhea, fever, hallucination, vivid dreaming, bi-polar tendencies, depression, gastritious and acid reflux. If you can survive your medication, then you’re doing well. Because Malaria medication is suppose to be preventative, and is mandatory for travel in Cambodia, it ranks as the number 4 way to die in Cambodia.

3. Malaria and Dengue Fever – if you stop taking your Malaria medication as a medical intervention, you then run the risk of contracting the very disease you were trying to prevent. Not to mention Dengue Fever, which there is no prevention for except to spray down with bug spray and pray. And don’t think OFF Deep Woods will be enough; I have learned the hard way that it merely dissuades already passive mosquitoes. The really persistent ones pay no mind to the spray. Day or night, mosquitoes present and pose a real threat, especially to foreigners who haven’t acclimated to the climate and to the prevalence of the diseases. Because of the unavoidable effects of Malaria and Dengue fever – whether preventative measures, or unfortunate contraction – this pair of diseases comes in third on our top 10 list.

2. Diarrhea – this unavoidable reality for all travelers to Cambodia is still the number one killer of children under the age of 5. Coupled with malnutrition, diarrhea is a leading factor in why there is an alarmingly high <5 mortality rate and why so many children are stunted and have growth and development problems. The prevalence of contaminated water is a direct cause of diarrhea. What’s more, as the monsoons set in, what is known as the “diarrhea season” hits like…well, you know. And, this unsavory sickness doesn’t just strike poor village farmers; your intrepid explorers are not immune to illness. Undercooked foods, vegetables washed in contaminated water, the side effects of Dengue, Malaria and Malaria medication all cause achy and incompliant bowels.  Diarrhea – like landmines – is an indiscriminant way to kick the bucket (while on it). Because it pays no mind to social class, gender, nationality or job description, Diarrhea comes in as the second best (?) way to die in Cambodia.

1. Car accident – if any of my previous posts didn’t already give it away, car accidents rank as the number one most-likely and best (worst?) way to die in Cambodia. You may survive abduction, angry ocean waves, upset intestines and blistering heat but in a country without traffic laws or traffic police, death behind the wheel is unfortunately a high probability. Not to mention the whizzing moto drivers, riding helmetless through busy Phnom Penh streets. Due to poorly maintained roads, a frightening lack of accepted traffic laws and the sheer swarm of people on all manner of transport, death by car accident (or tuk-tuk crash, or moto catastrophe) is the number one most likely, best and worst way to die in Cambodia.

An Awfully Big Adventure and Back Before Lunch!

Today has been a very full day, and it’s only 3:30pm (at the time of this writing)! Sara and I have been across Cambodia (practically) and back, traveling with FFE (Food For Education). I have done my best to document our epic adventure, but it has been a wild ride since we first stepped onto the boat at about 7:30am.

We were told prior to this morning’s events that we would be “crossing the river” and “taking the boat” to get to the school where the drama would be performed. I thought to myself, “oh, a quaint little village across the river. Fun.” Silly Brekke, nothing is ever that easy.

 

A nearly 40 minute boat-ride later, in which Sara somehow either got engaged to or became the sister of this very chatty 17 year old girl, we arrived at this dusty looking hamlet. All the homes were thatched roof, bamboo-planked square cabin-type constructions on stilts. All the roads were a dusty red dirt pathway with assorted bumps that my behind can still feel. We unloaded the drama equipment from the boat and clambered into a tuk-tuk (“took-took”).

This is a tuk-tuk - like a rickshaw attached to a motor scooter

We departed for another nearly hour-long drive along winding streets and across flat, scorched plains. It was beautiful in a broken-hearted kind of way. It was a land naked of pretense and full of raw living truth. I think I may have fallen in love.

We arrived at the school and the drama kids immediately started to set up. They are an efficient little group!

I say “kids”, but they were more like a rag-tag group of high school students and recent high school grads. They ranged in aged from about 16 to 20, with a few speaking English (the best were the girl in green and the boy in pink).

The performances are IRD funded and are designed to teach lessons in basic hygiene (like washing your hands), the evils of alcohol and tobacco, and why eating your vegetables is essential to a healthy lifestyle. The group is hip and funny (as you can see) and I think it was a great way to engage the school children. Hopefully they’ll remember what they were taught.

The drama group then handed out toothbrushes and toothpaste (and a demonstration for correct teeth brushing techniques) to all the school children.

There we lots of neighborhood kids who milled about and watched the drama. They were terribly adorable. I couldn’t help but snap some photos. :)

We want to come to school too!

Precious! 

I got to visit the classrooms (there were only about 5 rooms) and say hello to the students. One room had a hand-made math poster that brought me back to 11^th grade Algebra III. No matter where in the world you are, some things never change!

See if you recognize the 3rd line from the bottom 

Then it was time to go, so we deconstructed the set, said our thanks to the teachers and students and piled back into the tuk-tuk, which promptly crashed while leaving the school. No joke, the motor died and we rolled downhill into a tree/fence. Sara and I screamed like the seasoned veterans of travel that we are.  After the manly boys hopped out of the tuk-tuk and pushed us to safety, we were off again. Until the motor died about 12 minutes later. So there we were, half melted in greasy puddles on the floor, stranded in the middle of rural Cambodia looking for a bottle of oil to get the motor functioning again. It was miserable hot, we were tired and hungry. The tuk-tuk wouldn’t start.

Did I mention it was hot? And Sara had decided to introduce the Cambodian teenagers to the musical stylings of Justin Bieber – which really should be a sin right up there with unwrapping cellophane candies in a movie theater. Well, the hand of God got that tuk-tuk running again, and we bumped and chugged our way back to the small river-side hamlet where our boat was moored. With the same efficiency, the drama kids unloaded the tuk-tuk, filled the boat and had us back in the water. And when I say “in” the water, I literally mean that by behind was cruising along a mere 5 inches away from this strangely green water (it looked like someone had washed a GINORMOUS paintbrush with green paint in the river).

40 minutes and some rather awesome tan lines later, we arrived back home in Kampong Chhnang. We walked into our hotel around 1:10pm – home in time for a late lunch! What a day, and it is only half over. In Cambodia, you really must expect the unexpected. 

The blogger as Frogger

Monday Sara and I traveled into Phnom Penh to meet with Cambodian HQ staff and do a little bit of grocery shopping (to pick up some home essentials and get a few western things – aka pasta and ranch dressing – that they don’t carry out in Kampong Chhnang. It’s not the city you need to watch out for, it’s the drive there.

You see, in Cambodia, most people of means (which is, oddly enough, us) hire professional drivers. And for good reason. Driving here is serious business. There are virtually no stoplights (even in the capitol), no stop signs (not a single one in KC) and no hard and fast traffic laws (let alone police to enforce said traffic laws). Throw into that mix a wide array of cars and trucks, varying moto-bikes with any number of passengers, tractors, ox-carts (no joke, carts pulled by oxen) and bicycles. Passing slower moving traffic is an art form, and our drivers seamlessly straddle the center of the road (and occasionally drive fully in the left lane) to pass slower traffic. And so, this passing-getting over- speeding up-passing dance is a bit unnerving to us Americans who are quite use to our, “stay in your own lane and pass only at the yellow dotted line  thak-you-very-much.” Which is when Sara turned to me and said,

“This is like a real-life game of frogger.”

Frogger –the early ‘90s video game of getting your little frog across the busy industrial highway unscathed. Suddenly I saw myself as a little frog, hugging the pavement and fearfully watching the enormous monstrosities of semi-trucks wiz by, unnoticing of my trepidation as some unnamed god-figure moved me across the screen toward what could be my impending death.

As that scene flashed before my eyes I looked through the front window to see a large white truck zooming toward us at break neck speed. We were in the left lane, trying to pass a stubborn blue minivan.  The white truck drew nearer and that minivan with about 12 people and two weeks worth of fruit bulging from the windows and back hatch went just fast enough that we couldn’t quite pass it. We were still in the left lane and that white truck was unyielding and absolutely not going to slow down. We inched past that minivan only to discover a slower motorbike had left only a very narrow – and I mean very narrow – gap. The white truck was upon us and I could see the outline of their driver and the dangly thingys around his rearview mirror. It was all so sudden: we were in the left lane, the white truck was in the left lane, the motorbike was blocking our return to the right. There was a narrow gap, and the motorbike and the blue minivan and…

We slide seamlessly into the gap and slowed down just enough to not ram the hell out of the moto and went just fast enough not to be rammed like hell by the blue minivan. I turned to Sara and said,

“I, like my uncle, am praying to make it out of Southeast Asia alive.”

(My uncle served in the Vietnam War)

This is typical Cambodian driving. Flirting with death. Speeding along the highways. Most people don’t wear helmets when they ride motos or bicycles. In fact, last week an IRD staff member was killed in a northern province because he was in a moto accident and wasn’t wearing a helmet. Because there aren’t enough good hospitals in Cambodia – and only ONE brain surgeon in the whole country – he was transported to Vietnam. He died on the border as they tried to get him to the hospital. IRD has since taken a VERY strict policy of requiring all staff to wear helmets whenever they’re on a moto. It was required before – and he died while on a personal trip – but they have taken a very stern stance about employees wearing helmets always, not just at work.

But still, culture remains. And now every time I get into a truck for a long car ride, I will imagine myself as a frightened and helpless frog, clutching the curb and praying a little froggy prayer.

Race, privilege and why I’m glad I’m not “Brangenlina”

White people are scarce in Cambodia. Outside of the Capitol at Phnom Penh and the two major tourist hot spots – Siem Reap (Angkor Wat) and Shionkville (beaches) – Anglos are few and far between.  Ex Pat communities thrive in tourist areas precisely because tourists, after a few days reveling in the “strangeness” of a new country, long for a little bit of home. So, here in Kampong Chhnang, Sara and I are two of three Anglos (the third being a mysterious Peace Corps volunteer named Greg who we haven’t met yet). So you can imagine that we stand out. Sara, if she wears sunglasses and doesn’t say anything, could probably pass as just a fair skinned Cambodian. But not I. My blonde hair has drawn more curious looks than I can count. We are obviously new in town (and way better equipped to adjust than Renee Zellwiger in that terrible Romantic Comedy).

But, everyone is kind to us. A little distant, but friendly. They return our smiles, sneak looks at us as they ride by on bikes and allow their little children to unabashedly wave and call to us. It’s a bit like being a celebrity, and reminds me of a visiting a school in Guatemala where the students wanted our autographs because we were American. But, for all that this seems harmless, it really points to much bigger issues – race and privilege.

 

I can’t make many astute comments on the racial dynamics at work in this former French colony that has only in the past 20 years come out of a terrible genocide (which wiped out all of the intellectual class, but more on that in a future post). But I can speak about what I’ve observed – that to be fair skinned and western is to be the most respected and most coveted. It’s a little uncomfortable to know that the children that wave to us and say “hello” – a word that is not used too often in everyday Khemer – are doing so because to them, being Western makes us quasi-celebrities. I don’t like the feeling of privilege, which in many ways I feel is undeserved on my part – that comes from merely being blond haired and blue eyed.  What does it mean to have to learn English in order to hold a non-tourist related job? What does it mean to have to learn someone else’s language in order to host an intern in your own country? I recognize that being a white American woman has given me HUGE advantages, but I also feel that from my place of privilege comes huge responsibilities. But how do I honor the dignity of the precious Cambodians that I meet every day while not seeming to condescend or patronize?

It’s difficult. It’s certainly a journey. I am reminded why I never want to be famous. I don’t want people constantly watching where I’m going, intruding on my personal life and being fascinated with every single thing I do from what I eat from breakfast to when I have my first bathroom break! No, leave the fame for the Bennifers and Brangelina’s of the world, and give me a good, honest Cambodian smile.

Burn, baby, burn!

Today Sara and I went adventuring. It was quite a good little adventure on our Saturday off. We saw the local pagoda complex, waved at some monks, were “hello-ed” by about 50 children, and managed not to sell ourselves into marriage by accident.

However, no adventure comes without some kind of hiccup and mine is a particularly purplely-red hiccup. That’s right, friends, I have a lovely stripe of sunburn from where I somehow missed applying my SPF 50 sunscreen.  It’s on my shoulder and – don’t let the camera fool you – it’s a deep reddish purple. It doesn’t hurt yet, which is actually a little concerning.

The arrow indicates where the said burn took place. Evidence of the burn in the very act.

Here is a video showing you the damaged the sun has wreaked upon my skin. It's a lovely crescent shape and is going to give me hours of grief when I have my backpack on. You haven't really lived until you've been sunburned in Southeast Asia, right? :/   

EDIT:

If the above wasn't proof enough, here is another awesome picture of my lobster-burn.

OUCH!

The day the lights went out in Cambodia.

The electricity goes out pretty much every day here. In fact, it went out this morning while I was brushing my teeth! Faulty power grids are part and parcel of working in a developing country. That being said, I have finally gotten some stable internet and am posting a video of what we do when the power goes out at work.
If only we could do this in America!

Good Morning...CAMBODIA

Yesterday I watched as Mason, the Country Director for Cambodia and the only American here besides myself and Sara, walked out of my office door and left Kampong Chhnang. He’s back in the capitol – Phnom Penh – until Friday when he leaves for a 3 week vacation back in the US. So, the only native English speaker that we know in the whole of Cambodia is leaving. It was an overwhelming thought, watching this person that I really don’t know at all but feel remarkably attached to, walk away and leave Sara and I stranded in the middle of rural Cambodia. We don’t speak a word of Khemai (well, I take that back, I’ve learned two words). Some of the staff speak English of varying levels, but between the accent differences and the lack of vocabulary there has been some communication discord. And, unless they are speaking to Sara or me, the staff communicates exclusively in Khemai, which only serves to increase this feeling of isolation and foreignness. This certainly promises to be an adventure!

 The IRD sign outside our "office" building

But everyone is friendly and welcoming! Although there are language barriers and cultural divides, the Cambodians we work with have been gracious and hospitable in every way. They answer questions, they return our smiles and they seem to be thoroughly glad that we are interning with them.  There is much to do – the Kampong Chhnang office is the hub for Child Survival and Food for Education projects – from project analysis, to field visits, to development and review of new proposal ideas. And, being a native English speaker, my editing skills will be put to good use (and have already been used!) as I look over official documents that are sent out from this office.

 Where I work!

We’ll also be spending a rather significant chunk of our time out in the field. We went to a “Model Mothers” celebration yesterday where women who were exemplars in breastfeeding, nutrition and child-rearing were honored and nutrition kits awarded. These celebrations mark a transfer of IRD leadership in these projects to local leadership as IRD’s grant is set to wrap up in September.

Model Mothers and a Model Father

A not-so-model little boy getting ready to make a run for it!

There’s so much to say about this wild and wonderful country. It’s a colorful place of welcoming people. Here there are pagodas and shrines to Buddha doting the road and standing brilliantly painted against the backdrop of a dry, weathered landscape. It’s a place where cars and mopeds zoom alongside ox-drawn wagons. It’s a place where people gather around a color tv in a thatched-roof hovel, drinking rice wine and trying to escape the pervasive heat. It’s a humbling and heart-breaking country with a willingness to give and a great need to receive. I feel very lucky to be here – I still can’t believe this is my life sometimes! At the same time, I’m anxious. This is a big step outside of my comfort zone, and there is something intense and lonely about knowing that you are a stranger in a strange land. 

some of the guys I work with

Cambodia Morning

I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!!! :)

The Adventure Begins...

I am less than 11 hours away from the beginning of one of the most exciting adventures of my life! I leave tomorrow at 7am to fly to Washington DC where me and my fabulous partner Sarah will be prepped by IRD (International Relief and Development) for a week before traveling 12 time zones ahead of east coast America to Cambodia. I have never been so far away from home before! What an awfully large adventure!


I’m really excited, not just for the adventuring aspect of the trip, but also because it will be a learning and growing experience. Cambodia is a country I know very little about. It is a culture wholly different from my own. It is a nation with a bittersweet past – one that as an American I am intimately connected to – and a timidly hopeful future. I am excited to see and experience local customs, to take part in local worship (which promises to be absolutely different than my traditional Presbyterian Sunday service), and to peer into the daily lives of regular Cambodian people striving to survive in substandard living conditions.

I have been on mission trips before. I have twice gone to Guatemala and each trip taught me something profound about God’s love and human endurance. I know that those trips were essential in forming my call to seminary. But, I will be in Cambodia for two months! That’s quite a difference than the 10 day alternative Spring Breaks I participated in as an undergrad. The nature of my internship – interviewing families who have taken part in a malnutrition prevention program – means getting to spend lots of personal time with local Cambodians. There’s no glamour to this job! And, that’s exactly why I so badly wanted to do it. It will be a trial-by-fire in the best (and maybe worst?) ways. I guess this is good practice for being in England for a year. :)

I pray that this opportunity allows me to grow as a Christian woman. I pray that this internship allows me to see the world how Christ sees it and to love those who are so completely different than myself in the way that Christ loves them. I pray daily that I may become the hands and feet of Christ; perhaps this grand adventure will be a refiner’s fire in my formation.