Opera house

Kiddish school decor isn’t a problem until it’s midnight and you have to pee.

I’ll tell you right now, the toddler on the wall playing with an unrecognizable animal is not the friendliest of companions after hours.

Our closest running water is a little children’s bathroom three flights of stairs below us. I am becoming a professional at holding it. It’s not good. It’s not healthy.

However, between the options, I’ll pass on the combo of sticky green carpet, crackhouse MDF door that literally doesn’t have hinges, and the infamous toddler wallpaper.

I mean, they just took a murder pamphlet right out of Hannibal Lecter’s office.

Best Environment For Sociopaths: Finally Thrive At Home

The lights are the sterile, tinny wash of a hospital in a zombie apocalypse and the doors creak before they fall off the hinges (trying to put a door back on the screws in the dark is one of my talents now).

Like really, it’s as haunted as it gets. I thought I’d miss America’s spooky season, but I guess not! I’ve got a personal haunted house actor as the security guard.

He lives in the school too, but I have no idea where. It’s a mystery. No doubt he’s stowed away in one of the many doors that cap off the never-ending staircases, but I’ve just never seen it in the flesh.

Phantom of the Opera right? I told you.

He’s as cute as can be, don’t get me wrong. I think he’s maybe 5’2″ and he never wears a shirt. He wears his uniform during school hours of course, but the rest of the time (when he’s “guarding” the school) he’s got the air conditioning method going on. The no-shirt method.

Every 5th time I turn a corner this little flip-flop-clad boy-man is just grinning at me.

I think he’s caught on that I’m jumpier than a fish.

But he definitely doesn’t know that I broke a girl’s nose in a Halloween walk one year because she got too close to my face.

I can’t really communicate that in Khmer, so he might have to learn the hard way.

But really, the school is growing on me.

The ground floor is a steamy mix of feet and kid’s sweat, but hey, it’s the smell of home.

Back when a lot of the interns were still here (we’ve lost 6 to a drug bust and another 2 to old-fashioned lack of grit)

Teaching is becoming more natural. More is required as we settle into a sort of routine. I’ve now been rid of my training wheels.

Let me elaborate.

Training wheels consisted of shadowing our “Host” teacher who is really in charge of the class. The class gets a couple of sessions with a native speaker (cue: moi) a week and the rest are still with that teacher.

Chen Long is great. He can’t really speak English, but he teaches it just fine!

My favorite is when he slaps the sassy 12-year-old boy across the face for eating a snack in class. Yes! I wish someone would smack the hot Cheetos out of Jane Doe’s hands in Chem 105 recitation.

Another fun fact: he’s got the longest nails I’ve ever seen on a guy.

It kind of seems to be a thing here.

Definitely not visually appealing, but can be thrifty? At least according to the guy I saw sitting in his tuk-tuk scraping the plaque off his tongue in his side mirror.

As I sit in a baby plastic chair staring at Chen Long struggle to type on our shared keyboard I really, really hope his nails haven’t seen the same misfortune.

The nail daydream continues every time I see him.

It’s just the only thing I can focus on! I really can’t stop staring. It’s so bad. But they’re so long. You would totally understand. Don’t judge me.

I really just want to distract him with some coconut coffee (his drink of choice every lunch) and chop them off while he’s watching Khmer soap operas.

But alas, it is beyond my reach.

And so here I am, daydreaming. Maybe one day he’ll come to school with trimmed nails.

We’ll celebrate and I’ll buy him lunch and coconut coffee and he’ll think I’m making a pass at him but I’ll know.

I’ll know the truth.

Slowly I’ll use Pavlovian science to reward him every time he trims his nails and then voila!

Problem solved.

He’ll be brainwashed into short nails like a salivating dog.

Wow, can you believe Psych 101 is actually surfacing in my daily life?

The last time this happened I think I was talking to a guy with a face that screamed Chad who was convinced my “rebellious, free spirit” was a result of some Freudian psychosexual stage gone wrong.

He really knew how to get a girl on the first date.

Please, assume things about me and then mansplain why they exist in a convoluted mishmash of Psychologists you just learned about three weeks ago and documentaries you found on YouTube.

First of all, I’m a rule follower to a crippling degree, excuse you.

And second of all, Chad, you’re really not impressing me with a watered-down version of the lecture that we both heard last week.

(sorry to all you gabillion Psychology undergrads, but you’re WAY too easy to make fun of)

Boys playing pick-up soccer at Olympic Stadium- where the Olympics would have taken place if not for the Khmer Rouge

The kids are kids.

They’re funny, sticky, touchy, rowdy, and mischievous.

Once in a while, you’ll strike an angel.

The hardest part about them is their NAMES.

Goodness gracious.

I turn into a 95-year-old airforce veteran who’s lost his hearing to bomber planes once they try and tell me their names.

Sorry?

Say it for me one more time.

Okay.

One more time?

One more time.

Pleeeeease.

Okay, now say it slow for me.

One more time?

Okay, got it.

*scribbles translation*

Repeat x20.

Every day.

They laugh hysterically when I try and pronounce it. They don’t ever cut me slack.

I mean they could be pronouncing apple “APPO TEACHAH” (apple teacher) and I’m like okay good enough.

But noooo if I pronounce Thai Sopheanieth Visoth wrong I’m the idiot.

By the way that’s the actual name of my student.

Tie-Sew-Pay-Ah-Need Bee-Soth

I just call him Thai, because if I had to say his full name every time he lays on the floor and tries to do the worm we’d never get anywhere.

“Under Maintenance”

Speaking of worms . . . I’ve become quite good at haggling with shady locals trying to rip me off. The other day Addy and I took our lunch break to go pick up some skirts we had tailored but we couldn’t remember which market it was at!

Classic.

There are lots of different markets in the city. Each kind has its own specialties and styles.

However, all of them have stink-eyed grandmas selling questionable “delicacies” and young women marketing their knock-off Dolce&Gabbana purses.

The markets are actually insane.

They are everything your imagination can’t comprehend unless you’ve been in one.

Meat, produce, and diamonds all merge in a chaotic conglomerate.

Everything from paper goods to flip flops to turtles in a bucket.

One minute you’re walking through Textile Tinytown and before you know it you’re burning your arm on a gargantuan pot of oil-frying local grub.

The actual “stores” (more like stands, or booths) inside are so shallow that it’s almost like a display window.

Walking past kind of feels like you’re seeing vignette after vignette and it can’t be real because wow there’s a hair salon and the next inch there’s a butcher, but then huh, there’s the seamstress right after that, is her foot touching that duck carcass..? that doesn’t seem right, oh wait, yes it is.

Usually, the “restaurants” (which consist of 1-foot-high plastic chairs and counters up to your knees) are in the center, with long arms of exploding merchandise spiraling around it like a galaxy.

And its own galaxy it truly is.

Made for people under 120 lbs.

The walkways in most of these markets are so crammed and so narrow that I can barely fit.

People give me the stink eye as I squeeze past, like somehow I got to choose my Anglo-Viking heritage.

I have not seen one shoe that could fit even three-quarters of my foot.

My school uniform shirt only fits me because it’s a men’s extra large.

When we had our skirts made I asked her to have it reach the bottom of my calf, in the traditional Khmer cut.

The skirts became popular when no one could afford a bolt of fabric so they used the ends of the rolls. Now, even though some people can afford it, they still use the ends of the fabric which have a certain pattern. Because of this specific amount of leftover fabric, you can’t just cut a bigger piece.

She looked at me and then the fabric.

The word was not spoken, but when I got the skirt back and it came to my knees I understood.

On the plus side, people always ask me to reach the hangers that are at the top of the shops.

See people, see? The clumsy giant can be useful! You should domesticate her for your use!

Asian improvisation

The market gives us a real peek into Khmer life.

Moms are in here haggling over chives and boyfriends hold girl’s purses as they dig through mountains of one-size-fits-all leggings.

Whole families camp out in their “booth” with chairs amid the produce or meat or whatever product they have on display.

A baby swings in a hammock over the goods as an auntie simultaneously rocks him with her left hand and digs out change for her customer with her right.

Vendors chat with each other over the noise or watch movies on their phones, dwarfed by the piles of merchandise that surround them in their “window.”

After traveling to TWO wrong markets (we couldn’t remember the name of the one we ordered the skirts at) we almost gave up.

Luckily we sleuthed and tag teamed until we pieced together our itinerary that day and remembered we saw a men’s underwear store right next to it and then that led us to go through our taxi history until we found a little cobbler’s shop that happened to be right next to the market. A miracle.

A man and his livelihood

But through all this figuring out, we had these tuk-tuk drivers outside one of the markets (the wrong one #2) trying to get us to get in their rickshaws. We tried to show them a picture of the market we had taken, and see if they knew where it was. The guy was clearly bluffing but claimed he would take us there for five dollars.

Even in Phnom Penh, the “pricey” capital, five dollars is an outrageous amount for a relatively short ride across town. Although to a tourist it might seem reasonable compared to transport prices in New York, London, or any other Western city, you’re getting raked over the coals.

I responded with:

T’lainaa (a colloquial phrase meaning “so expensive”) and shook my head while inhaling sharply.

I offered him one index finger while saying moi (one).

The cabbie driver raised in eyebrows in surprise and chuckled along with his buddies who patrol this side of the market’s territory.

“Ohhhh *khmer I don’t understand* one dolla eh? wowww only oooone dolla? hahahaha” as him and his friends taunted me I could see on his face I had called his bluff and now we were both laughing.

We shooed him away and parted with a smile.

Not so much a tourist anymore eh?

I’ll take the surprised laugh at my broken Khmer because it means I’m trying, and I’ll be damned if anyone rips me off just because I look clueless.

Okay, so maybe I am clueless most of the time.

But I’m not helpless, there’s a difference 😉

Most people here are really obliging. Apart from drivers and some business owners trying to get foreigners into their wallets, people are happy to improvise communication, point out the right bills (KHR currency is really confusing), and even help me spice my Pho correctly.

A lot of our fellow teacher friends think that just saying it reaaally slowly will allow the vendor to go back in time and take an intensive English class that specializes in the UK dialect so that they can get their street meatballs with the right sauce.

Being me, I am hyper-aware (to a fault) of imposing.

This really bugs Addy. And I honestly get it. It’s been this way since my legs still swung from the chair. We’d go to someone’s house for a play date and they’d ask us if we wanted water or a snack and I’d always kick her in the shin and emphatically proclaim “No, we were fine.”It took me 3 years to learn how to ask for ketchup packets at Wendy’s because I just hated being a “bother.”

Hopefully, my shyness has subsided, but something deep down is still very hesitant to impose/ask for help.

It has it’s pros and cons.

But, back to communication, going around presumptuously speaking English isn’t really my style, even though a lot of people do know some basic phrases and most Khmer aren’t bothered by an attempt at speaking your language.

But I just can’t imagine someone assuming I knew Spanish and not even saying hello in English first.

Monsoon season essentials

Most of these other teachers don’t even bother learning how to say hello!

Can you imagine that?

I mean it is true that random people shout “Hello!” at us all day long, but still.

The good thing is, as long as you’re trying, people are really nice.

They even take time to teach me some things.

The kids, of course, are brutal. If I even mildly butcher anything, it’s over. I have to put out the laughing fits with a couple of chalkboard slams.

Luckily, the adults aren’t so cruel.

After I bought a fried banana from her, this grandma with two teeth spent a good two minutes teaching me that when you’re talking the number 50 (hansuap), it changes when you’re referring to change, like $2.50 (bipoan)

Of course, those are transliterations of Khmer.

Actual Khmer looks like this:

ក្រុងគូឡាឡាំពួរៈ ចាប់ពី​អា​ផាត​មិន​ប្រណីត​នៅ​ប្រទេស​ សិង្ហបុរី​ រហូតដល់​ខុនដូ​មាត់សមុទ្រ​នៅ​ប្រទេស ​ម៉ាឡេស៊ី ក្រុម​វិនិយោគិន​ហុងកុង​កំពុង​ផ្លាស់ប្តូរ​សាច់ប្រាក់​ទៅ​ជា​អចលនទ្រព្យ​នៅ​តំបន់​អាស៊ីអាគ្នេយ៍ ដោយ​ការតវ៉ា​ប្រឆាំង​ដោយ​ហិង្សា​កាន់តែខ្លាំង​ឡើង​នៅ​ក្រុង​ហុងកុង និង​សង្គ្រាម​ពាណិជ្ជកម្ម​រវាង​ប្រទេស​ចិន និង​អាមេរិក​។

…yeah.

A lot of Khmer don’t even know how to read written kmai so I think I’ll pass on trying to learn that side of things.

However, I press on in my extremely basic attempts to verbally communicate and I’m met with compassion every time.

Getting measured for our $18 Khmer skirts (the most money I think we’ve spent on any one thing so far)

Something that’s not so compassionate is my digestive system.

I’ve honestly given up on feeling 100%.

Like, it doesn’t matter what I eat, there will be pain, and there will be a lot of it.

I really try not to buy on Sunday, so this past week I was stranded with some noodles, oatmeal, and a huge bag of rice I found in the basement and a rice cooker that looks like it jumped off an advertisement in 1974.

I had my packet of instant rice noodles in the morning and for dinner a bowl of rice.

Sounds mild right?

Think again.

Ok so here’s my theory.

I think the rice actually congealed into a giant ball in my stomach and didn’t digest because I didn’t eat anything else with it. Well, I kind of did, the noodles.

I’m sure they just added to the Ball of Rice.

This thing was like hosting another body within my own.

Clearly, I’ve never been pregnant or I’d be familiar with that but I’m sure it would be a jarring experience whether you’re a Miss or a Ma’am.

I really could feel a ball of rice going down my body for 72 hours.

And NO I’m not a doctor, but trust me, if anyone has a personal relationship with their intestines, it’s me.

They are one of my top five Facebook friends.

The noodles were just the bad opener for a bad band, the kind that you realize are horrible live once you get there.

I couldn’t eat for three days.

Seriously.

Not one bite.

I was in so much pain that all night I had to sit up on my knees looking like I was proposing to the curtains.

I was actually doing those belly dance digestion moves in hopes of my intestine being amused and taking pity.

I dreamed of laxatives.

I actually fantasized about those Activia yogurts and then the commercial was stuck in my head for 2 hours.

Ohhh man. Well, I learned my lesson.

Rice will be accompanied.

It’s too dangerous alone, and at night, with no movement ahead for hours on end.

Hopefully, things adjust in the next little bit, and the food provided by the school is really pretty good.

Noodles & Company (Norwegian company, to be exact)

School is exhausting, but we do get off at 5, so in the evenings we are free to roam about, go to dinner, or maybe even lesson plan! Partyyyyy.

The other night I was craving a skate so I went to the very center of town and sweated for about 3 hours and then went home.

Just kiddingggg.

Although it really did kind of feel like that.

I’ve never been so hot in my life.

I think my internal temperature really did rise.

Like honestly, I was just dripping in sweat. I know that’s not the prettiest image but I’m not here to sugarcoat. I was in a new realm of sweat I’d never experienced. I could have rivaled the wrestlers in the Wasatch weight room basement. Actually, I could have rivaled someone who just jumped out of the pool.

Luckily, the little kids that were skating there (yes, skating!) didn’t care if I looked like a 6’1″ cherry tomato in a dress.

I WAS SO HAPPY TO BE SKATING WITH PEOPLE.

Even if they were 7 and 9. (There were a couple of teenage boys on inline).

They were on inline skates that lit up in rainbow lights and just looked absolutely adorable.

We did tricks together and a couple of times they would just follow me around in lazy circles.

I was so surprised to see other skaters!

And more surprised that they’d want to hang out with me.

Well, I guess if there were ever a beacon calling to people on wheels it would be a tall white girl with a neon fanny pack in a floral dress with bright orange rollerskates.

You can’t really miss that.

I mean I’m a spectacle in the U.S.

But here?

I’m a full-on show.

People are always staring. Always.

Not necessarily in a rude way, but I mean, I’m already tall and then on skates, I’m about 6’2″

..soo you do the math.

The main square of the city is bustling with people. Everyone is out and about, eating street food or dancing to the music blaring from public speakers.

Pick-up soccer games dominate most of the tiled real estate.

Flip-flops mark the goals.

Slicked with sweat and barefoot, they’d put any official high school league to shame.

I weave through the chaos until a little square between monuments glistens openly, calling.

People watch as I glide to a reverse 360 switch, in time with the swelling Khmer voice that dominates the park.

I am just in love with the smooth, open space that allows for a full-on skate routine.

Entranced, I cross-pull backward into a dancer pose and let gravity pull me around in my circle on one leg.

I cross one leg over another, inhale, look backward, and stick my toe stop to the ground as the rest of my is flying in a full turn. My miraculous landing is met with applause from people sitting on the edge of the fountain.

Turn, turn, twist, half fakie, swing of the hips and a cross pull to fling into a spin.

Round and round and round.

The lights are blurry against the polluted sky.

The golden, gargantuan statue of the Cambodian King looks down on me with a smile.

The strange music doesn’t feel so strange anymore as I watch children and aunties alike belt along with coconut drinks in hand.

Families are out with their children, teaching them how to ride a bike, or swinging them between their arms as they walk along the cobbled paths.

Boys are flaunting and girls are flirting.

Little congregations of teens crowd around the pick-up games.

A little drink street vendor in socks and flip flops concocts energy drink cocktails that seem to be the favorite of the youth.

She is kind to me as I struggle with my basic Khmer and ask for Ginseng tea.

Dogs run at me as I glide through the hoards of people walking, jogging, and running along the circular track that follows the park.

Kids crunch chicken bones and spit them towards the guava trees that line the walkways of the monuments.

Women in long sleeves and pajama pants chat over fried bananas and rice wrapped in leaves.

They flick the organic wrappers and one falls into a makeshift tub where a baby is gleefully splashing water next to her grandma.

This little slice of life is why I moved halfway across the world.

These little vignettes are more moving than any museum or sunset boat ride.

I am a stranger to these people.

Foreign.

And I certainly don’t have a true understanding of their way of life yet.

But with a smile, they can break the barrier of an entire ocean and let me into their life just a little bit.

By the warmth in their eyes, I am invited to take part in this great organism of culture that ebbs and flows with every position of the sun.

I am invited to be a part of the commotion: from boys apologizing to me for hitting me in the head with their soccer ball to old ladies helping me count money, I have a place in this crazy city.

Even if that place amounts to foreigners.

Cities are just cities and monuments are just pretty without the lifeblood of it all.

In Phnom Penh the streets are dusty, the sun is hot, and it can frankly feel broken down and dysfunctional.

But it’s only the exoskeleton of something beautiful and vibrant.

Nights like these I am reminded of my ignorance and reaffirmed in my choice.

Interaction is the difference.

The difference between tourism and travel.

It is what we seek.

It is how we thrive.

It is the reason for living, and without it we won’t ever understand the other side.