Desperate times, desperate measures.

     Every time I wrote a blog entry (whether I post it or not) one of the questions I ask myself is, “Who am I writing this for?”  And if I'm honest, the answer is always that I’m writing it for myself.

     I write to tell you what I want you to know about me. I often write to entertain, because I want you to think I’m entertaining. I often write to share little amusing details of my life, because I want you to think my life is interesting. I often write as a way to step outside of my day-to-day life and imagine Cambodia as it first looked to me, when everything was a novelty. But let’s just all acknowledge that writing a blog is a presumptuous and self-centered thing.

     But I write this time to tell you a bit about some of my work, to try to tell you some of the stories of the 37 children who are my “caseload” here, and to ask for your help and ideas about how to keep this program alive.

     I have not written much about my job, partly out of my desire to be entertaining and/or amusing (which this will not be), partly out of respect for the privacy of the children and families I work with (because there is no explaining what I do without telling you about some of them), and partly because after doing the work and thinking about the work, I sometimes need to separate from it all to maintain my own equilibrium. But I think the time has come to share some tales, and I am motivated by the fact that the program is potentially in danger, which means these children and families are in danger.

     Please bear with me while I try to explain things that I find difficult to put into words.

     When I started this job last year, the program was brand new and many children with disabilities had been identified and "enrolled" but there was no medical staff yet to proceed with getting them the help they desperately needed. My job, as the newly-hired nurse, was to make assessments, find appropriate medical care for these kids, make sure parents followed up with medications and recommendations, etc. (As with any newly-created position, the role has evolved as the needs were revealed.) At the same time, a Khmer physical therapist was hired to provide PT and access wheelchairs and other assistive devices for the large numbers of kids on the roster who have CP.

     Each time I met a new child and family, there was a new adventure to be had in trying to gather history and information (all done through my wonderful translator) and to make an assessment and a plan of action. It was home-visiting at its finest – and felt oddly familiar, even in such a wildly different environment.

     Some cases were relatively easy: there was a ten-year-old boy who was almost blind. He had never been to school. We brought him to the local children’s hospital, where he was diagnosed with congenital cataracts. He had two surgeries, and within a few months, he was able to see clearly enough to start school. Mission accomplished.

     Some cases were far more complicated but equally successful in the end. An eight-year-old girl who had been born with club feet ended up having two surgeries in Phnom Penh, dressing changes at home for weeks, ongoing physical therapy and braces made for her legs. She is walking normally on the soles of her feet now and also going to school.

Club feet - she had been walking like this her whole life.
Her parents took her for treatment when she was very young,
but couldn't afford to bring her back for follow-up
so it wasn't successful.

This is how she looks after two surgeries and several months of rehabilitation!

     Many cases involve children who can never be “cured” of their disability, but whose quality of life can be significantly improved:

• A family whose child has ongoing respiratory problems was provided with a nebulizer and a lot of parent education, and they can now take the nebulizer to the neighbor’s house where there is electricity and treat his breathing difficulties – and his oxygen level rises. He hasn't been hospitalized since he got the nebulizer eight months ago, after previously being hospitalized 2-3 times a year.

The only nebulizer for miles around...

• Several children who were getting by on substandard nutrition because they couldn’t eat regular food are now receiving some formula or soy milk supplements and their parents have been taught ways to prepare food and feed their child appropriately so they have gained weight. One 9-year-old girl has grown from 22 pounds to 33 pounds. A 4-year-old boy who had been living on nothing but diluted condensed milk for two years was hospitalized for his malnutrition and provided with appropriate formula. He has now gained several pounds and learned to sit up by himself for the first time.
• Some children have been able to get wheelchairs or walkers, allowing them to leave their homes and explore their villages independently for the first time.
• Several children who had untreated seizure disorders for many years are now medicated appropriately (or as appropriately as we can get given the limitations of what’s available in Cambodia) and are now seizure-free or very close to it.
• A number of children have been seen by a dentist for the very first time to have treatment for abscesses or extraction of teeth too far gone to save. Almost none of the children we see (or their siblings) had ever had a toothbrush before we provided them, and I can see from the condition of their teeth that they are in fact using it regularly.
• Two children with chronic ear infections, perforated eardrums and hearing loss are now receiving treatment. One got a hearing aid, which it turns out doesn’t help that much (again, a function of the limitations here) but his family has learned some communication techniques (thanks to our visiting speech language pathologists, who are worthy of their own post) and they feel that his ability to communicate has improved.
• One 5-month-old child with untreated (perhaps untreatable?) hydrocephalus is just a little bit happier now that his mother and grandmother have learned new soothing methods and have a stroller. His head is so large and heavy that it was difficult to carry him for long, so he spent most of his time lying inside the house. Now he has moments of quiet alert time while he busily sucks on his new pacifier and gets walked around the village in his stroller that we’ve customized with rolled towels and foam cushions.

A generously-donated stroller;
a happier family.

     Some cases are difficult, and will not ever have happy outcomes. A few children with severe CP or other neuromuscular problems have parents who are not really interested in learning to do PT with their child, or simply do not have enough time in the day to do it based on their struggle to provide the most basic needs for their family. We can’t make a difference if the family isn’t engaged in the process.

     But many parents are very engaged in doing everything possible for their kids, despite their own health problems, their poverty and stress and hand-to-mouth existence. They take unpaid time off work to bring their children to the hospital. They cook special food that takes extra time. They learn how to give medications at the right time in the right dose and they do it every day. They brush their children’s teeth, even though it may have once been a totally foreign concept. They wipe the drool from their child’s chin to prevent skin irritation. They take care of incontinent children without diapers or washing machines or running water. They do physical therapy every day to improve contractures and strengthen muscles, and they rejoice when their four-year-old can finally sit up by himself. They help their five-year-old daughter to practice with a new rolling walker until the child has gained so much skill and strength that she is finally able to walk by herself, after years of sitting and watching the world go by.

A lovely home visit with parents and children
(Pardon my amateur attempts to protect identities.)

     One family stands out in particular. They are as dirt poor as everybody else in Cambodia, living in a palm-leaf structure that looks more like a lean-to than a proper house. The mother sells vegetables and other "groceries" and the father tries to catch fish, frogs and lizards to sell or feed his family. They have three children, all boys. The youngest boy is five, and is a bundle of devilish energy and mischief. The oldest boy is ten, and he was the same sort of active kid until he started having seizures and losing motor skills at age 6. Now he is blind, deaf, unable to move and barely able to swallow. He weighs 32 pounds, down from 48 pounds six months ago as his condition took a swift downward turn after a long slow decline. The middle boy is eight. He can still walk with some help. His seizures are under control. He clearly has cognitive and motor delays. All of his front teeth rotted out of his mouth, but they brush his three new permanent teeth until they practically sparkle in the sunlight.

     There is no way to diagnose what’s happening with these three boys, but the situation suggests it may be a genetic degenerative disease. We don’t yet know what will happen to the youngest boy. We can guess that the oldest boy will not live much longer. We can’t fix that, but we have talked to the parents about how to make him as comfortable as possible, and how to make informed decisions about what could happen if he gets hospitalized again. We tell them every time we see them that we see how much they love their kids and how hard they work to take good care of them, while the neighbors ask them why they bother trying.

     All of these parents love their children. In the face of their own poor health, malnutrition, illiteracy, PTSD, poverty, and/or other challenges, they do the very best they can to take good care of children with complicated needs. Many of these children could lead normal healthy lives in the US. I just want them to have the best possible life they can have here.

     But the program is in financial trouble. It has been a difficult year for the program as it needed to apply for its own NGO status and break away from its original parent organization. There have been unexpected costs, and a decline in charitable giving – though the vast majority of the funding comes from one woman who founded the program and pays for most of it out of her own pocket. The hope is that in the year ahead there will be opportunity for grants or other access to funding, but right now, there is a very real possibility that the program will scale back drastically or even close. And while that leaves me a bit concerned about my income, it leaves me far more concerned for the well-being of these children and their families, and the well-being of my two very dedicated and skilled Cambodian co-workers.

     What would happen if we stop what we’re doing? As I’ve said, these parents love their children and want the best for them, and some of them have learned a lot of strategies that they could potentially sustain on their own. But none of these families were able to access appropriate medical care before we came along to help. They didn’t know where to take their child for good care, or they couldn’t afford the transportation costs to get there, or they were intimidated by doctors and didn’t understand instructions about medicine. In some cases, they got horrible care and were told that their child’s problems were a result of the parent’s own wrong-doing – they were told they were lazy or crazy or worse. So they never went back. They took their guilt and helplessness back home with them and waited to see what would happen. 

     Regular physical therapy, constantly evolving as the child makes progress, requires a trained PT to teach parents what to do. Children who have gained weight because we can provide some nutritional support will lose the ground – and weight - they’ve gained. A ten-year-old boy, slowly wasting away to nothing, will have no outside support for his parents to help them ease his discomfort. Kids with dental abscesses will suffer untreated at home. Underweight children with severe diarrhea could join the ranks of the 60,000 Cambodian children who die every year of mostly preventable or easily treatable causes. 

     This post is already far too long. I apologize - attribute that to my level of concern and passion about these children and these families. Thirty seven children is a drop in the bucket – the country is full of children like this that we will never be able to reach. But I again remind myself of the Helen Keller quote that my friend Lori uses so wisely in her own work:

I am only one, but still I am one.

I cannot do everything, but still I can do something;

and because I cannot do everything,

I will not refuse to do something that I can do.

     For these 37 children – and a few others we can hope to serve – we do something. In my wildest dreams and imagination, this organization could provide a model for others to do the same. In my truly wildest fantasies, this work would one day be supported by the government of Cambodia and all children in Cambodia could have access to reasonable health care and support – but probably not in my lifetime. I will leave reforming the government to someone else, but in the meantime, I would like these children to continue getting what little help we can give them.

     The budget for the whole program is about $50,000 per year. This is what I know about where that money goes:

• As expected, a significant portion of that is salaries. The two full-time amazing Khmer staff earn $250-300 per month. I am paid by the hour up to a maximum number of hours monthly, after which I work anyway because the work needs to be done.
• We rent a tiny office to have a place to store supplies, keep records, and have  meetings.
• We have a truck, which makes it possible for us to transport children and families and wheelchairs and water filters – some of these children live almost two hours away from Siem Reap. When it’s more cost-effective to transport children by tuktuk or motorbike or other means, we cover the transportation costs.
• We pay a small fee to the local hospital for expedited service so we can use our time more productively and get more children seen by doctors and dentists.
• When children have to stay in the hospital, we support the family by providing money for meals – the hospital does not supply food – or an inexpensive guesthouse room to stay in if needed.
• We provide toothbrushes and vitamins and other basic supplies, most of which are donated.
• We supply medicines that families could not otherwise afford, from simple Tylenol and antibiotic cream to medication for the nebulizer.

This is the kind of random unidentified medicine people often buy in the village.
Many people take inappropriate amounts of inappropriate drugs,
and children are especially at risk for toxic overdose. 

• We supply filters so families have a safe source of clean water.
• We supply formula and soy milk to a select few families, at a cost of about $30 per month per child. We would like to provide more in the way of nutrition. 
• We would like to be able to provide vaccines someday for those who need them. 
• But mostly, we would just like to be able to continue doing what we do.

     I’m not a fundraiser. I don’t have friends with deep pockets. I don’t like asking for help in the form of money. But if you know of grant sources, or someone who would like to volunteer time to write grants, please let me know. If you know someone who might be interested in financially supporting this project, please forward this to them. If you want to contribute financially, the founder has created a fundraising page at http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/201887 and you can make a tax-deductible donation there. 

     If you have more questions about this, please ask me. If you know of any group in Vermont that would like to hear more about this in person, I’ll be there in October and would happily come and talk about it. I believe in the value of this work, and I’ll do whatever I can think of to try to sustain it.

If you managed to read this far, thank you. J

Just sharing a little...

Brilliant marketing.

To read more about it, You should really go look at this page.

August 2012

      The idea of “catching up” with the blog – writing about all the highlights of the last few months – is far too daunting a task. Every time I think about trying, I immediately become overwhelmed, and then I find something else to do.  So let’s just acknowledge that lots of interesting (and boring) things have happened over the last few months, and then move on.

Some things I haven’t written about:

• Steve continued to play insane amounts of tennis.
• I continued to NOT play tennis.
• I had my second dental crown done here, and I encourage you all to come for dental work. Even considering the cost of airfare, it will probably save you money.
• Some long-term Siem Reap friends left Cambodia, including our housemates. There were goodbye parties.
• We miss them.
• I’m getting better at drawing blood, thanks to my Khmer coworkers’ willingness to let me practice on them.
• We went to Vermont for the whole month of June and had a terrific time.
• Except for the sticker shock. Ouch…
• Sovann got his green card. He and Jaz are working hard.
• I turned 50. It was not traumatic.
• My work is interesting, and I have a really good work/leisure balance right now.
• There has been a crime wave of night-time purse snatchings in Siem Reap.
• Tourists can still be really annoying, but they are part of what makes this town what it is, so I try to be tolerant.
• Something still surprises me every day. 

Any questions?

I told someone here recently that while I know a hell of a lot more about this place than I did two years ago (most of which I learned the hard way), I still have the following thought almost daily:

“I wonder what the hell is happening right now?”

Usually followed by:

“I wonder what’s going to happen next?”

I guess that’s why Cambodia likes to bill itself as the “Kingdom of Wonder” to tourists. And I hope I never stop wondering.

For my birthday, my mother bought this very cool mini video camera that is built into what looks like sunglasses. I have been playing around with trying to wear them while I’m riding on my motorbike, because that provides the best possible scenery and glimpse into life here. I’m still struggling with how to wear the video glasses while driving because they don’t really fit under my helmet, but one of these days I’m going to figure it out. I wish someone could just embed a camera in my eyeball and make it really easy, because I really wish you could see what I see.

I saw something today that I wish I had been able to capture for you. First, you need a bit of background: A “taxi” in Cambodia is not exactly your NYC yellow cab. No one takes a taxi across town – they’re usually used for long-haul travel between provinces, and they’re usually early-90’s model Toyota Camrys. Often they run on propane rather than gasoline so they have a huge modified propane tank in the trunk, which makes you really hope that no one rear-ends your taxi while you’re in it. Occasionally they have a couple of working seat belts.

If you need a taxi, you have the following options:

• If you are a foreigner, you will generally call a taxi driver you know (or ask a friend to call one that they know) and arrange the details a day or two ahead of time. You will agree on destination and price, which will be the same whether you’re traveling alone or with friends. (As an example, a trip from Siem Reap to the Thai border costs about $25 for the two-hour ride.) You can stretch out in the backseat and ask the driver to turn on the a/c and turn down the karaoke soundtrack and it will be a pretty pleasant ride.
• If you’re Cambodian, on the day you want to go somewhere you will stand on the side of the road and wait. If a taxi goes by heading in your direction, they might slow down and you can nod to let them know you want a ride. You will negotiate destination and price (Siem Reap to the border: less than $5), and then climb into the car and squeeze yourself into whatever tiny space remains, as the point is to fill the car. Any children will be sitting on an adult’s lap. Some adults will be sitting on another adult’s lap. 

          And today, I saw what I haven’t seen too many times before, though I know it’s not that unusual.

          An adult was sitting between the driver and the driver’s door.

          This was a classic Camry taxi – a spider-webby windshield, overworked shocks, one slightly wobbly tire, and a good solid coat of red dust. I suppose that the Camry is marketed as a five-passenger vehicle, but I was stopped in traffic next to this one long enough to confirm a count of ten passengers, plus the driver, for a total of eleven. Five adults were in the back, and four (including the driver) were in the front, as well as two children on laps in the front seat.

Cambodian people are generally smaller than Americans, but Camrys are Camrys everywhere. Those front seats are buckets seats. And the driver was sharing his, with another adult sitting between him and his door.

I wonder how many more people they picked up along the way to where ever they were going...

You know, some things I see along the road are so ubiquitous that I don’t even take notice any more. Pigs strapped upside down on motorbikes on their way to market, people driving in the wrong lane in anticipation of making an eventual left-hand turn, tour buses full of serious-looking tourists staring solemnly out of their air-conditioned bubbles and taking in the sights, families of five on a motorbike, buffalo crossing the highway and slowing down traffic, the women in green coats and masked faces who methodically sweep up the dirt on the side of the roads every day, groups of monks parading between pagodas. I hardly notice those things any more. But I'm glad there are still new things to see, if I look hard enough.

There was another surprise today. A Khmer coworker had spoken to me last week about his young child with recurrent ear infections who had a burst and draining eardrum. We talked about what the local doctor had prescribed (which was appropriate) and why some kids get so many ear infections and where to go for a hearing screening and some closer monitoring. Conversations like this make me feel useful, and people seem grateful for some explanation and direction.

Today he happily told me that the problem had been solved. By spraying perfume in his son’s ear, on the advice of his neighbor. “And now, no problem! Nothing is coming out of his ear!”

I wonder what will happen next…?

And now, some random photos to make this post more colorful:

My favorite commute

Seriously, sometimes I drive right past this guy on my way to a home visit.

These guys too.

If I forget to bring a drink or a hat, no problem.

Tuktuk parking lot at the temples.

Crowds of tourists - it's fun to try to identify their nationality from afar.

Let's not forget these temples are sacred spaces.

Someday I'll shave my head, but I still won't look like this.

Rice, ready for transplanting

Road construction!

Khmer-style bridge building

That is a LOT of concrete to mix and pour by hand.

Change of seasons

I thought I would miss the change of seasons when we moved to Cambodia, but it turns out there are seasons here. They’re different, and more subtle, but as you become more tuned in, you definitely come to notice them.

Just as we used to look for any small sign of spring in Vermont, we look for hints of approaching rainy season. As March turns to April, the weather grows hotter and the rice fields grow browner and the dirt roads turn to rivers of sand. We complain about the heaviness of the air and compare notes with other expats who have thermometers, learning to do quick Celsius to Farhenheit conversion in our heads. (28 C=82 F, 35C = 95F)

We post whiny Facebook status updates about the heat. We exclaim “Kdau nas!” (“So hot!”) over and over with local shopkeepers, and feel so justified in our complaining when even they agree. We watch the sky wistfully as dark clouds pass on the horizon, teasing us for an hour before the sun sets.  Lightning shows entertain us after the sunset has faded away.

We don’t bother to look at weather reports, but we watch for signs of change.  Just as we used to relish the first spring day that was warm enough to throw open the windows in Vermont, we wait with impatience for the day we will have to close the windows here in defense against the rain.  We have forgotten about the inconvenience of the sudden storms that will drench us and all our belongings when the rain comes for real. We've forgotten about the puddles and the muddy sandals and the splatter of red mud halfway to our knees. We’ve forgotten that sometimes we will accidentally leave the windows open when we leave the house and come home to find puddles on the kitchen floor, or on our bed. We have forgotten how inconvenient it will be to rush outside and bring in the laundry as fat drops fall on our freshly-dried clothes.

And then one afternoon the wind kicks up hard and sky grows dark. Mangoes are blown off the trees, and children race to pick them up. Bougainvillea blossoms litter the roads like pink confetti, and empty plastic bags roll like tumbleweeds. Getting caught out on my motorbike in that weather means getting my face and bare legs sandblasted as the red dirt swirls. I race home to beat the rain, and the wind blows harder still, knocking over plants on the balcony, sending cushions flying, and threatening to rip the loose piece of tin off the roof. Even my laptop briefly levitates off the table during a strong gust.

          

          The sky continues to darken, though it’s not yet 5:00 pm. and then we can hear the rain. It comes from the west, as it always does, and you can see and hear it hit the neighbor’s house before it gets to us. Then the drumbeat of rain on the roof drowns out conversation and I breathe in deeply, the same way I do in April in Vermont when I get the first scent of spring in the air. This storm won’t last long, but it brings the promise of relief in the weeks ahead.

The time has come...

"The time has come, the walrus said,

To talk of many things;

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,

of cabbages and kings."          - Lewis Carroll

     I probably won’t talk about cabbages or sealing wax, but I will touch on a few other subjects. This time, you even get photos.

     To catch you all up on practical matters, life has changed here at home in Siem Reap. Jaz and Sovann left on the 18^th of February and arrived in Vermont after a long series of flights. That leaves Steve and me living alone again, at least briefly, and it leaves the house quieter (and cleaner) than usual.

     We miss them, just as we expected we would, but there’s not much more to say about that. We’ve done this empty-nest thing once before, so that’s no big deal. Far more interesting is their story, and I’m a bit jealous of all those back in Vermont who have the pleasure of witnessing their adventure. So far, Sovann has:

• seen snow
• cooked a few delicious meals (with the parts of the fish that others were ready to throw out)
• been to Costco and Denny’s
• priced galangal and chicken feet at the local Asian market
• tasted a variety of beer and some champagne
• witnessed the magic of garage door openers and remote car starters
• married Jaz

Yup, they got married. The only U.S. visa available for Sovann was a fiance visa, so that’s what they got, and so as not to waste time before he can get his green card, they went ahead and got married within a few days of arriving. On Saturday evening, my parents and brother and aunts and uncles had a get-together for them. I Skyped with them for a few minutes that evening, and my heart melted a little when Sovann told me, “Mom, I don’t know what I did in a past life to be able to meet so many amazing people in this life...” I know there will be plenty of challenges and difficult moments for him, but it seems he’s hitting it off with the extended family quite nicely.

In the snow and cold, but still smiling!

In the meantime, Jaz is keeping up with homework, getting things sorted out with UVM, catching up with friends, thinking about job-hunting, and trying not to get too depressed by the cost of everything. Nothing like the culture shock when you come home to your own country after a long absence.

I encourage you to read Jaz's blog, if you haven’t already, or be her friend on Facebook, which provides frequent updates. Now I’ll get back to Cambodia news.

Two days before Sovann and Jaz left, four of his family members came to Siem Reap from the countryside to stay with us and spend some time with Sovann. I worried that they would be bored just hanging around the house, but they made themselves right at home, watching TV, enjoying the couch and the fans and the electric lights and the running water and my diet coke. They did exactly what we do when we visit at their house – they spent the day lying around relaxing while we went about our day-to-day business. None of them speak any English, so there was lots of smiling and a bit of gesturing when Sovann or Jaz weren’t around to translate. Sovann’s 12-year-old nephew, Knoi, had a great time opening and closing the freezer, and was mystified by the vacuum effect that made it difficult to open again immediately. At one point, he made a cup of coffee and put the whole thing in the fridge. I wondered whether he expected it to form iced coffee with actual ice cubes, and whether he was surprised when it turned into a giant iced coffee-sicle.

Jaz and Sovann left for good on Saturday morning at 11:00 am. We tearfully waved them off, and expected that Sovann’s family would pack up and leave as well, but they made no move to do so right away. When Steve kept asking me, “When are they leaving?” all I could say was, “I have no idea.” They had a 3-4 hour moto drive to get home and driving in the heat of the day is no fun, so I speculated that they may be waiting until later in the afternoon. The afternoon  wore on. Our guests napped in hammocks and on the couch, then woke up, turned on the TV again,  and started cooking. At a certain point in the evening, it became clear they weren’t going anywhere. I regretted stripping the sheets off the bed and taking them to the laundry, but I knew they wouldn’t really care. So they stayed another night. Steve and I went out to dinner with friends and came back to find every light in the house blazing. It’s still unclear to me whether that’s because of the novelty, or the lack of understanding that electricity costs money, or - more likely - to keep the ghosts away.

The next morning, there was activity that seemed to suggest an intention to leave. They packed all the things they had accumulated from Sovann in a backpack and box, and showed off their best English by saying “Thank you” again and again. And then, for reasons I don’t understand because they had arrived on two motos, they all climbed onto one motorbike for the long drive home. (The fate of the second moto shall forever remain a mystery to me.) As my brother commented on the photo when I put it on Facebook, “That is straight up epic.”

So much about life here is straight up epic. And so much is straight up awful – though most of what is so awful are things we witness rather than experience. Both of my jobs give me daily opportunities to witness some of the worst challenges that Cambodian children and their parents deal with every day. From time to time, I feel an urge to write more about that – about the Khmer-on-Khmer violence that pervades the news, the rampant corruption and how it impacts everyday life, about the young victims at the shelter and the stories that bring them to us, about the children in the villages dealing with disabling medical conditions without any support services or even enough to eat at times. But not today at least. Maybe never. I’m not sure that would be such an enjoyable read.

Instead, I’ll tell you about my keys, just because they have become a pervasive presence in my life, and they are far less depressing than all that other stuff. Back home in Vermont, I had a car key, and that was about it. Our house was never locked, so I didn’t need to carry house keys. I had a swipe card to get into my office. Nice and simple – only two things on my keychain.

Here, I have a dozen keys that I carry every day. Five of them are keys to various rooms and cabinets at the shelter. One is the key for my moto, and one is the key to the padlock for my moto. One is the key to our front gate, another is the key to our bike “cage” that was installed to stop all the bike thefts, and one more is the key to our front door. In addition, I have a key to our safe and a key to Jaz’s old room, which has a separate entrance from the balcony. In the last 18 months, I have locked and unlocked things more times than in my entire previous cumulative locking-and-unlocking experience. Now, part of the morning and evening rituals are centered around security: Is the gate locked? Is my moto locked? Are the bikes locked? Is the cage locked? is Jaz’s room locked? Is the front door locked? Is the front door also bolted? Is the back door locked? For a long time, I found all this to be annoying, but like many other things, now it is just routine. I wonder how I’ll feel about sleeping in an unlocked house again someday?

The other parts of my morning routine are sweeping and watering plants. The balcony always gets an overnight dusting of dead bugs, gecko poop, and other detritus, which needs to be swept away. And recently we’ve added to our collection of potted plants, which look lovely, but because it’s dry season – and particularly hot lately – everything needs watering almost every day. One of our potted plants is an avocado.  I let the seed sprout in a glass of water just like my mother used to do when I was a kid, but I don’t think my mother ever grew an avocado plant as big as the one I’ve got going here that’s only four months old. There’s something to be said for growing things in the right climate.

Speaking of which, you’d think this climate would be excellent for growing tomatoes, but I have had one failure after another in that effort. I get closer to success each time, but I’m still not quite there. I started writing a post about it a while ago, and never finished. Maybe I should just paste it in here:

Tomato cultivation as a metaphor for adjustment to new culture

     I arrived in Cambodia with this idea: "I know how to do a lot of things. But I know how to do them at home, not here. I have a lot to learn about translating my skills to this environment."

     It was a reasonable and appropriately cautious attitude, I would say. I'm still learning, and the curve has been steep and not always on an upward trajectory. Mistakes have been made. I initially took a job that wasn't a good fit. I've found the language much harder to pick up than I anticipated. I've made incorrect assumptions and wrong moves, some of which I'm aware of and some of which I'm sure I'm still oblivious about.

     And I've tried to grow tomatoes for the past year. Mistakes were made. I have yet to eat a ripe red tomato despite multiple efforts, though I seem to get closer to the goal with every attempt.

     My first tomato plants sprouted in their big clay pot on the balcony, grew to 18 inches tall or so, and then one by one, they shriveled and died, long before they blossomed. I replanted in some new dirt, and of the eight or so seeds I planted (a different variety this time), only one germinated and clung to life for a few weeks before turning brown on the edges and collapsing. I added some fertilizer to the soil, started some more plants indoors so I could choose the strongest seedlings to transplant, and eventually ended up with three rather robust looking specimens. They grew taller, though the stems were not as sturdy as I would have liked, and after a few weeks, a few blossoms appeared, and then one lone tomato made its debut. I watched and fussed over it daily, salivating while I imagined the juicy red tomato-y goodness I would soon enjoy. And then one day we got a huge rainstorm and the tomato split wide open and rotted overnight.

     I can be persistent, and I felt that success was within my grasp, so I tried again. The next batch of tomato plants got extra fertilizer and started out well enough, but then the leaves began to turn yellow and curl, until these too gave up and died.

     My latest effort has been the most successful yet. In a large pot that was at one point my failed compost experiment (which is another story), I poured in some new dirt over the remnants of rotted fruit peels and vegetable stalks and planted seeds once more. Three plants sprouted and in a matter of days, I could see their potential. The leaves were dark green, the stems were as thick as my thumb, and they grew so fast I could see the difference from one day to the next. Eventually, they were a riot of blossoms - delicate yellow flowers swayed in the occasional breeze, promises of good things to come. Then blossoms fell off, but no tomatoes formed. More blossoms burst open, and still no tomatoes appeared. I watered diligently, trying to guess exactly how much water was just enough but not too much. I wondered if it was actually too hot outside for fruit to set. I went online and did some quick research about tomato pollination and discovered that they are self-pollinators, and that sometimes shaking the plants helps, so I shook them gently and lovingly twice a day. Whether the shaking did the trick, or some other change in the environment was responsible, I don't know, but finally some tiny little tomatoes began to appear where blossoms once had been. And then more and more tomatoes - now the three plants were laden with small green tomatoes and I was ecstatic. I lovingly tied the plant up to the balcony railing so it wouldn't collapse under the weight of its own beautiful fruit.

     Finally, one tomato began to turn a shade of orange, and I salivated at the thought of plucking and eating it when it was perfectly ready. I checked daily, and felt it was about 24-48 hours away from perfection when a Khmer friend came to the house one day and casually popped it into his mouth. (Actually, I didn't see it happen, so I'm guessing about the "casually" part.) The next morning, I noticed that the very tips of all the branches were beginning to shrivel and turn brown. My heart sank - and over the next few days, more and more of the leaves shriveled and browned as well. The plants were still loaded with small green tomatoes, and it became a race to see whether any could ripen before the plants lose the battle with whatever ails them. The tomatoes lost the race.

     Where have I gone wrong? I was always able to grow tomatoes in Vermont - a far less tomato-friendly environment, one would think. Despite the blight that would eventually hit near the end of every summer, I could get a lot of tomatoes from those plants. I suppose one answer is that I keep trying to grow tomatoes from seeds I brought from home (though I did choose those that were suited to hotter climates.) And I know nothing about any possible blights or insects or other tomato dangers here. And perhaps there is a time of year that is better to try to grow tomatoes. There is obviously the danger of sudden over-watering during rainy season, or the risk of under-watering in dry season.

     Maybe the more important question is why do I even bother trying to grow tomatoes? The markets are full of cheap tomatoes - but they're most often sold green, or only a pale shade of red, and they're all one variety of rather unremarkable tomato. I wanted to grow plum tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, beefsteak-type tomatoes, heirloom variety tomatoes. I wanted to enjoy the process of growing them. I wanted to bury my nose in the scent of tomato plants, and I wanted to pick a juicy, sun-warmed tomato to pop straight into my mouth.

     But you can't always get what you want, or so I've heard. I can bring my skills from home and do my damnedest to put them to use, but I still have a lot to learn. I might get close, but I may never completely succeed. I may bring my desires from home, and my memories of experiences I would like to recreate, but I may have to suffer without the joy of biting into a sun-warmed tomato, and instead focus on the joy of a sweet juicy passionfruit that grows without any effort at all in our yard. I may long for that elusive tomato, but I long for many things from home, and I can still enjoy what Cambodia has to offer.

     And I can still working on learning that I have a lot more to learn.

         There – you just got a post within a post. You must be starting to wonder when this whole post will ever end... Soon, I promise.

         Perhaps I will just leave you with some photos, because those are long overdue, and they tell a much better story than I can muster in words.

Sovann's hangover cure right before leaving Siem Reap:
Coca Cola and coining (by his sister)

Just in case "CT scan" is on your list of errands,
they're having a sale!

I fell in love with these gourds in Rattanakiri and bought some.
Now I have no idea what to do with them...

At a glance, it looks like a nice, innocent mixed-fruit yogurt.
But no, it has "cereal beans and lotus nuts." And CORN.
I've bought it accidentally on at least two occasions.
Very disappointing.

My latest favorite notebook:
"Every Day
Sweet Day
Lovely giraffe, is a
fascinating bird, and happy Cubs."
(There is no giraffe illustration anywhere.)

Sometimes I have drive through this gate on the way to a home visit.
It's not a bad commute some days.

This is how it looks in my rear-view mirror.

And if my bike gets dirty on those dusty roads,
I can have it hand-washed for less than 75 cents.

It's watermelon season.

And apparently also Spam season...
I've never seen so much Spam in my life.
Who buys this stuff...?

I took this photo in the waiting room at the dentist
just before I got a crown put on.
It's a jar of candy, and a jar of sugar cubes.
Way to make sure you keep getting business, Mr Cambodian Dentist.

Parts of downtown Siem Reap are starting to look positively Vegas-like
in their use of flashing lights and neon. It's a bit much,
though I do like what they've done with this spirit house.

In my never-ending pursuit of the perfect pig-on-a-moto photo,
I have resorted to stalking them on the highway.
(I like how they put some leaves on this one -
is that meant to keep him cool,
or just a suggested garnish?)