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?)

  

This is so great! Jaz is doing all the writing and I'm off the hook.

(Photo courtesy of an email from Bill Lowell, to which Steve responded: 

"Hey no need to be abusive to the kid.  Give him his hat back.")

Click here: The Adventure Begins

Read and enjoy.

Our nest empties once again

     For those who are wondering, Jaz and Sovann left yesterday morning for Bangkok, and right now they're somewhere between Kuwait and New York. It was an intense week, and perhaps someday I'll write about it, but while I still suffer from an inability to construct an interesting sentence, you should catch up on Jaz's blog here if you haven't already. I'm hoping jet lag won't stop her from writing again soon.

      Enjoy!

January 2012

     I hate to let the whole month go by without at least one post, but none of what I've written this month is worthy of your time.

     Instead, I'll let Jaz tell you what's on her mind. Leave it to her to write an intriguingly-titled first post: Jaz and Sovann's Excellent Adventure to America: Read About My Feelings Or Fuck You..

That's my girl...

Wherever you go...

     As the year comes to a close, I feel compelled to write something. My head is full of thoughts, but I can't seem to put them in words. No surprise - this happens to me all the time lately.

     It's been an interesting year, that's for sure. Never a dull moment, even when I desperately wanted one. While the scenery of my life has changed over the last year and a half, I'm still who I've always been. I still have a tendency to gain weight too easily, to talk too loudly, and to succumb too easily to inertia. I still want to feel useful, and still struggle to decide if I am. I still worry about money at odd times. I have tested all my social skills more than ever - trying to find a balance between my inner introvert and my bouts of extroversion, like I have some kind of social bipolar condition.

     Because wherever you go, there you are. And here I am, still struggling with the same things I've always struggled with, still changing my mind from one day to the next about whether I'm meeting those challenges successfully.

     In our early months here, I sometimes felt lonely for people who really knew me. Not necessarily anyone in particular, just people who knew I was reasonably competent at something, people with whom I had a history that allowed us to make references to past shared experiences, people who knew my kids, people who knew my shortcomings and still chose to be my friends. And people my own age. At 49, it's easy to feel old here, because I am easily 15+ years older than most of the people in my current social group. They're very tolerant of my advanced age, but still, there's no one to commiserate with about menopause. In any case, there are now people here who know me, and I like that a lot.

     As 2011 draws to a close, I spent part of the day organizing - putting away the few Christmas decorations we have, straightening out my desk and rearranging things in the guest room. It's my default coping mechanism for feeling like my internal life is a little too chaotic: make order on the outside, and hope it seeps in. But as usual, making orderly piles of paper and stacking books and towels doesn't really touch the jumble of emotions that swirl in my head and my heart. I am so grateful to be here, and sometimes so frustrated by being here. I love that our kids are all grown up enough that we can be so far away and know that they are fine, and I feel guilty for being so far away from them. I think about all the things I thought I would have accomplished by now but haven't and I feel like a failure, and then I remember the things I have learned and have done and I feel some satisfaction, possibly even some pride. I sometimes think about the things we sacrifice by living here, and then I am quickly reminded of all the great joys and privileges that come with this life we chose.

     So I'm feeling something, but can't easily label it. Maybe I'm feeling everything. Maybe I'll stop trying to organize my thoughts and just let them be.

     Resolutions? I usually avoid them, unless they're general and vague. One year, my resolutions were to "exercise, moisturize, and economize." I felt pretty successful at those, at least for a good long while. This year, perhaps I should aim for some structure and self-discipline, however I want to implement that. I know what kinds of things make me feel better: getting enough sleep, getting some exercise, reading and writing, learning new things. I just don't do those things often enough. Why is so hard to start doing the right things? Once I get started and have some momentum, it's not that hard to keep going, but starting is the tough part. And if a new year isn't a good excuse for starting things, I don't know what is.

     So, no promises, people, other than to give it a good shot. To wake up every day and take a few minutes to think about what will make my day feel worthwhile in the end.
   
     As for this evening, we will enjoy Cambodia's last 2011 sunset from our balcony and spend the evening with friends, doing our best to avoid the mayhem of all the drunken backpackers downtown. And when I wake up in the morning, I'll think about how I'd like to spend the first day of 2012.

     Wishing you all the best in the year ahead. Who knows what adventures it may bring?
     

All I want for Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/Solstice/Festivus...

     Never mind all the time I spend window-shopping on Amazon.com, creating ridiculous wish lists like a little kid - what I really want are emails from folks at home. And I realize that's asking a lot. You're all busy and stressed with holiday preparations of your own, so I don't care if those emails come now or in February or whenever you have the time to sit and write something. Every one of those emails, like every single one we have already received since we got here, will be a gift. A wonderful, heart-warming gift.

     Because absence DOES make the heart grow fonder, and I feel better every time I hear news from home about how life goes on like we remember it. Knowing that those of you back home are still doing what you do and being who you are somehow makes it possible for me to be here.

     So, what are you up to these days???