02.29.08
Posted in Life and the happenings there of at 5:55 am by Kaihaku
Last week, I took a trip out to Preah Anteah commune, across the lake/river from Prey Veng town. It’s a rather isolated commune, reduced to a mere island in the rainy season and shaped by the strong currents of the waters surrounding it. More than any other spot I’ve yet been to in Cambodia, it reminds me of the Mekong delta. Of course, once I gave voice to that thought, someone pointed out that technically, it is the Mekong delta. Opps. Well, it really reminded me of some of the locations I visited in Viet Nam while I was still in University. It even had the thin wooden bridges that are so delightfully frightening.
I was heading to an old PVIO irrigation project, the Kunlieng Ch’rey dam, where I was to meet a group of MCC staff from North American visiting Cambodia and Laos as part of a Water Learning tour. Each of the visitors are staff in donor resources, so I expect that means a book, article, and/or video of their trip will soon be arriving in Mennonite churches around the world. They had visited a renovated irrigation canal in Takeo province the day before and now it was time for PVIO to host them.
Originally, I was going to travel to the dam with Sakhoeun, the deputy director of Water Resources and the head of PVIO, but there was some miscommunication and when I called him the day before to ask when he was going to next day…well, he was already there. Miles, our newest staff member here in Prey Veng and kind of sort of my new boss, wanted to come along. So, I sought out my favorite local moto dup (motorbike taxi) and asked him if he knew the place, as I had absolutely no clue how to cross the river much less find the village in question. My pronunciation was off. He thought I meant a commune up north in Sithor Kandal! …not that any of you really know where that is. So, I called Sakhoeun and he explained it to the moto dup, who upon hearing the village name correctly pronounced had no doubts. He knew exactly where to go. We sat down for a nice bowl of steaming hot noodle soup before heading off, though the moto dup had already ate so he was content with some iced coffee.
Actually, I might not mention him again, but I don’t really like calling him the moto dup. His name is one of the few months I actually remember, Makara or rather January. It’s actually pronounced a bit more like Mech’Gara, which reminded me of a Godzilla villain and thus stuck. Godzilla Vs. Mech’Gara! But yeah, his name is January and his my favorite moto dup in Prey Veng. He doesn’t have much money but he definitely has class.
Anyway, after a quick breakfast, we started off north along the river/lake out of town. After passing through two small villages, we turned left at a fork in the road marked by a twisted tree and were soon cruising through rice paddy. Eventually, we arrived at a little ferry. It’s been a few months since the last time I had to push a moto through knee high water but this time was a lot smoother than last time. Oh, I guess that raises the point that Miles was riding with Makara while I was driving an MCC moto. Since my last accident, my moto driving has improved drastically and being able to keep up with PVIO staff, I was able to easily keep up with Makara weighed down by Miles. Slick mud and piles of dust just don’t phase me like they use to… Though, watching schoolgirls collide their bikes into each other because they were staring at me proved a bit distracting. Fortunately, that happened on the ride back after Miles decided to take a turn driving the MCC moto and I was riding with Makara.
Anyway, we waded up to the ferry and pushed our motos aboard. Then we crossed the river on a squashed in with the crowds. I started taking pictures at this point; it’s hard to believe that the little ferry could hold so much. After crossing, we continued on through rice paddy for another good bit before entering a village and weaving along convoluted little paths – it felt like a maze. Then, we were out in the rice paddy again until we crossed the Tonle Doch, literally the little river, and crossed into highlands that reminded me so of the Mekong Delta or rather Southern Vietnam.
The Khmer call that area Kampuchea Krom, as long ago it was part of the Khmer empire. Now, it stands a symbol of their fear of being annexed by Vietnam and overun by settlers making them a minority in their own land. Though, while legitimate, the fear may not be as pressing as various Cambodian regimes have made out. For one, a noted historian with a focus on Cambodia, David Chandler, has pointed out that Kampuchea Krom was only part of the Ancient Khmer Empire for approximately 100 years, before that it was the realm of the Cham people. The Cham are now a minority group found in Cambodia, Vietnam, and Thailand. In ancient times, Champa was a rival state to the ancient Khmers but it was conquered piecemeal and slowly annexed in fashion similar to Kampuchea Krom by the Khmer and the Vietnamese . So, while it is true that Kampuchea Krom was taken from the Khmer people, it was not their historic heartland. It’s interesting to note how much Cambodian history was forgotten and then rewritten by the French during the colonist era. The Angkor Empire was all but forgotten by the local population until the French rediscovered it. The history the French Colonists attached to those ancient wonders and the ancient Khmer people, written from a superior and racist viewpoint, was later embraced by the Khmer state, particularly under Sihanouk. Unfortunately, it is a history divorced from reality, in which certain elements drown out key historical understandings. Modern historians have continued some of the fallacies of the French colonists; creating unified Khmer nations and a national history in eras were there simply is no evidence that one existed and plenty to suggest to ancient Cambodia more often resembled the warring principalities of Laos.
Enough discussion of history, I’m certain that I’ll talk about it at length in the future. For now, we crossed over a narrow concrete bridge about twenty-five feet over the water… A narrow concrete bridge with a large gap in the very center, fitted loosely with a makeshift wooden segment. Following behind Makara and Miles, it was a bit frightening to watch the wood sag as they crossed over and contemplate what would occur if it gave way while I was crossing at 30 KPM. Well, I made it safely and was soon weaving along lovely country roads surrounded with tall trees, villages, pagodas, and rice paddy. After watching much of Prey Veng turn to desert, as it does every year, it was nice to return to a place of lush glistening green. Then, we came to another bridge, higher and narrower than the last…and wooden to boot. It had been raining mildly and the bridge was slick. I was afraid as Maraka slowed down ahead of me but my speed was low at this point and I didn’t need to hit the brakes, just ease off the gas a bit. So, I didn’t slip off the bridge into the water below. Though, Sakhoeun asked me why it had been a big deal later, asking if I could swim. I replied that I could but the moto never learned how. It got a few laughs though it doesn’t sound as amusing now.
We passed a wedding party and the guests gestured to us to stop and join them. On our return some four hours later, a few of them actually snatched at my arm loosely as I passed.
The scenery was glorious as I will gladly demonstrate at a later date by posting some of the pictures I took on the ride back. I don’t dare snap pictures while driving a moto but while riding on the back of one the biggest danger is capturing terribly blurry images of cool scenes.
We arrived at the village in question and met with Sakhoeun and the Farmer Water User Committee – a group of locals who manage and maintain the irrigation systems, attempting to ensure that everyone has fair access to water. The Water Learning Tour group was late in arriving from Phnom Penh, so in the hour and half before their arrival, we talk with Sakhoeun about future and past irrigation sites, attempted some conversation with the committee members, went downstairs to see a newborn calf, and, I at least, got offered some rice wine – which I politely declined by claiming one glass would make me drunk and my director was coming. I’ve found it’s easier to get Khmer to back off with the alcohol with that sort of jest but the immense cultural pressure to drink has caused me to stop accepting invitations to lunch and dinner at Khmer houses. It’s sad to miss out on the relationships and interaction, but the risk of offense and the stress in spending an entire meal saying no isn’t worth it.
The Water Learning Tour finally arrived and, man, were they pale. After a year and a half in the tropics, I guess I’ve forgotten how people back home look in February. We marched out to the dam site, about a mile out into rice paddy, and had a meeting in a tent beside the main set of locks. There was a lot of discussion between the Farmer Water User Committee, PVIO staff, farmers, and the tour. I won’t go into most of the details here because I don’t have my notebook on me. The dam was built in 1911 and two culverts were added in 1988. In 2004, MCC assisted PVIO with a renovation which included community organizing to establish the Farmer Water User Committee to prevent conflict and ensure maintenance. The number of hectares available for rice have increased by about 50% and the average rice yield per hectare increased from 1 ton to 3 tons. At least, those are the numbers as I recall. Water is pretty important to rice farming…go figure.
We had lunch together then split up, with a small group remaining to conduct interviews and a larger group heading back to the capital right off. Of course, the first group to leave got lost and ended up arriving back in the capital after the second group, but that’s an aside – they had air conditioning, nothing to complain about there. Miles, Makara, and I decided to head back to Prey Veng sooner rather than later. So, we said our goodbyes to the group. Or rather, we waited to say our goodbyes…
In the interim, I talked with some of the local villagers as is my want. One of them was riding a bike down the road with a big spray container of pesticides strapped to his back. That was my first interaction in him, pointing out the rather obvious fact that he was carrying around a huge tank of “pul” or poison. He stopped and we had a laugh, then I pointed to a tattoo on his shoulder and asked him about it. It was a woman dancer, he just laughed and glanced at nearby villagers, basically saying “Hey, this western guy noticed my tattoo.” Then I noticed another on his forearm, just a few letters in what I thought was khmer script. He looked at a loss and didn’t give me a clear answer. I thought that was kind of strange, so I explain that I didn’t know how to read. Then he bolted, declaring that if I was in Cambodia, I should know how to read Khmer…before biking away quickly. It was a strange interaction, many Cambodians are illiterate and I’ve never been berated for not knowing how to read before. It’s almost universally acknowledged that reading Khmer is much more difficult than speaking Khmer. I told the villagers that I thought he was shy and making excuses, they just chuckled. Later, I found out the reason behind his strange behavior when I told my language teacher about the incident. Apparently, the script wasn’t in Khmer but in Bali or Sanskrit. So, the farmer didn’t know how to read it either. I mentioned that even so, it struck me as strange that he didn’t know what was tattooed on his arm, another language or not. The answer surprised me; the tattoo was probably a magic spell that he believed would protect him from harm. Apparently, it’s a practice in rural areas and among soldiers, tattoos of magical spells or Buddhist sayings are suppose to protect from danger. Well, I’ll never look at Khmer tattoos quite the same way again.
After seeing the group off, Miles decided that he wanted to try his hand at driving the moto so I hopped behind Makara and we were off. I made liberal use of the office digital camera on the ride back, after all, it’s not wasting film. I had some fun conversations in passing with other people on motos and, as mentioned, caused a collision of schoolgirls. It was a good trip, saw lots of Water Buffalos and cows, as well as some pigs and goats.
When we finally arrived back at the office, I was informed that Stoopid had cornered and was playing with a lizard. So, I saved the poor thing and released it outside the house. But not before rubbing its belly. All in all, a good but long day.
I know, where was the work? It was in there, trust me I’ll talk about it more later, but wasn’t quite as interesting as other things.
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02.23.08
Posted in Spero Cras at 1:48 pm by Crystal Graber
He is a from tribe B in Kenya, the second largest tribe. In Africa, you always vote for your tribesman, no matter what. better the evil you do know that the evil you don’t.
His mother died in October. He could not go home, because of visa issues. So he went home this Christmas. After four years away he saw his family, his country, his mother’s grave.
And then the election happened. And tribe A, who runs the government was opposed by tribe C. Areas where tribe C is strongest would not let the government count ballots in their area. Areas where tribe A is strongest would not let tribe C oversee the process of counting ballots. There was a huge turnout for the vote, and both sides say the other cheated. Tribe A wins, says the tribe A government. Like hell, says tribe C.
He was in a town between tribe A’s territory and tribe C’s territory. Visiting a friend, having a good time. When only feet outside his house the fighting began. And they prayed and they hid and somehow, survived the bloodshed only feet from their door.
The next day they left the town, seeking the shelter of his sister’s international organization’s compound. a safe place. on the way they were stopped more than 30 times. Always asking for IDs which label them according to tribe, and often asking for other things, money, water. At one roadblock they are told that the next roadblock will kill them, no matter who they are. And the men volunteer to help them. One man gets into the car and directs them into the “bush”. off road in a car with a man who had probably killed other men. But the little ambushes on their way require a word from the stranger in his own language, and they are safely allowed to pass. Another miracle.
At one roadblock, the men are convinced he is from tribe A. They pull him out of the car, with blood running down their hands and arms, and machetes waving, they ask him what tribe he is. Shocked, terrified, he tries to answer, “but I think it only came out a mumble” he reflects. Somehow he gives his ID to one of them and they realize that, despite his looks, he isn’t from tribe A. They let him back in the car and on his way. Luck, perhaps. Providence, definitely.
and what hurt most, in the whole experience, was seeing women wield machetes at one of the stops. the thousands of years as peacemakers have been forgotten. “have we really sunk to this level?” he wonders. the pain in his heart for his country and people. the peacemakers participating in war, where is the hope?
But how to get to Nairobi? To get his visa to return to the U.S. and finish his last semester in undergraduate studies? The roads are out of the question. Not only are there roadblocks, but bridges are burned out, too.
A miracle. His sister know people who are going in a small, private airplane to the capital. They’re taking an american girl from L.A., visiting Kenya for the first time on an internship of some kind. When they arrive, the Mennonite guest house is full, and she says she’ll “find someplace.” “this is not L.A.” he replies, and persuades her to come with him to a friends’ flat.
At the friends’ house, she gets hundreds of phone calls. Everyone is sure she’s dead and her father is angry with her for going with a strange man. While he understands, he still feels hurt, as if he’s dirty. Does her father really expect him to hurt her? The riots on the streets are four floors down, and there is shooting everywhere, and machetes. They pass the days playing UNO, checking on the chaos when something changes. Its like watching TV, when the gun shots increase, or slow down, someone goes to check on it. They don’t open the window because of the tear gas.
And then, while watching the news, they discover the their building, owned by a man from tribe A, is being marked for destruction by the rioters. The newscaster shows people calling up, “come down so we can kill you.” Her face goes red, like someone has painted it. “Are we going to die?” she asks. “I don’t know,” he replies. There are patrols of rioters, ready to grab anyone who appears. And there are groups of people preparing to burn the building down. The scene outside reflects from the television screen. And he wonders “is that really us? is this really happening?”
Two miracles. The police take control of the area, amid great bloodshed. Through phone calls and networking they get the girl to a hotel where she can be a bit safer, and he gets his visa.
The next day, he’s on an airplane home. Long layovers and delays and cancellations in JFK can’t bother him. No one’s shooting, burning or slashing. 30 hours in an airport in safety.
A week later she e-mails him “I am home safely. You saved my life, you must come to L.A. and meet my family.”
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Posted in Life and the happenings there of at 1:45 pm by Crystal Graber
*deep sigh* the peace that comes after being with annabeth is like a sweet, refreshing drink of tech groach ch’maa on a hot day. her kindness, gentleness, wholeness…after i’ve been with her i feel like i could just lay on the grass for a whole day and never think an unpleasant thought. she embodies the green, light, earth and water which i gather around me in hopes that i grow more like them. i drink tea, again. herbal tea, jasmine. i feel like i return to the earth, to my center. and all the tv shows, coffee, tea with milk, alcohol, spider solitaire…all the stuff in my life which isn’t wholesome melts away. she makes me miss kristi and cafes and autumn leaves and bike rides. and my faith flutters in its sad corner, like a butterfly that senses light. she’s as comforting to my troubled, restless spirit as charles is to my distraught, lonely heart.
life is good.
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02.21.08
Posted in Life and the happenings there of at 2:02 pm by Crystal Graber
The question every qualitative researcher asks, maybe every true academic asks, is “what do I cut”? Writers have to do it all the time. Its painful. Pouring time and energy into a piece of work, to have good sources, beautiful, evotitive language, and not enough connection to the overall piece. I think I recall Peter Jackson mentioning that cutting Tom Bombadil, while obvious, was difficult because of the delightfulness of the character.
I don’t want to cut my “other” tidbits from the culture section of my honors project. There are such great quotes, such poignant details. its those few sentances clumped together which give a vivid picture and emotion to the experience of living overseas. that’s what i love most about qualitative research. that’s why i talk to people, do interviews. because when someone mentions, in that off hand casual manner how they lost power ”every third night for 6 months last year”, I all of a sudden connect. I can feel that frustration. Saying its frustrating doesn’t help, really. But those few words, strung together like a painting or piece of music convey the emotion as poignantly as a scream of rage.
*sigh* but can it be helped? I can sense that this section, with all its delights, does not enhance the academic process. It doesn’t give credibility to the paper or follow the overall thought. Most importantly, it feels the least professional and the least legitimate of all the parts. And in a project where I’m struggling with legitimacy, particularly as an academic piece, and I have a hundred pages too much of solid, delicious data, it really should go.
sometimes I loathe academia. the crushing of the creative spirit. the honing of little used skills. but the birthplace of so many good ideas which sometimes spill onto practitioners and can actually go into the world and do some good.
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02.18.08
Posted in Ponderings and Incomplete Thoughts at 7:07 pm by Crystal Graber
i saw the vagina monologes this saturday
a celebration of vaginas, full of stories, poetry, emotionslaughterpainbitternesslove. and in the midst of it i found myself wondering not so much about the monologues, but about who i could share that with. every woman i know would enjoy them, well most, anyway. but to talk about it? maybe its just because i didn’t like my car companions. maybe i was tired, distracted. maybe i’m too sensitive to social subtleties. but i received attention from those who i find crass and who constantly crave my uttermost attention to their every thought. and i was ignored by those who have decided i am their true friend. drama drama. *sigh*
most of the monologues were fun, interesting. but the one that stole my breath, as though it had stolen my very life, was dedicated to the systematic rape of bosnia. oh indira! nadin! your country, your people, your mothers, sisters, cousins, aunts…how do we ever survive such things? such ugly, ugly things. psychology has all these answers, resilience! we say. whatever that means. perpetrators are ‘simply’ obedient pawns who are not being held accountable for their actions and thus do not associate their actions with their self being or self worth or identity, but with the higher-ups who have decided on this course of action. the military is inefficient to dissociate responsibility and allow atrocities.
for all the words and theories and stories and logic, it just doesn’t make sense. it doesn’t feel real. the surviving or the perpetrating. death seems a welcome guest amidst the abominable, repulsing, viscerally vomitous behaviors
when there is so much to create, why bother destroying? when there’s so much good life to enjoy, so many people to love and grass to lay on and dogs to wrestle with and ideas to ponder…what is this world of humans who admire only difficulty and pain? what is this world of humans who pass by the delights of tasty, wet air? though some wish for dragons to shake the doors of hobbiton from their hinges, to knock some world perspective into the little folk, leave the smell of scorched flesh for loftier people to grieve, to make songs about. leave the guns of rape in an abyss before the thought was ever born. and though the beauties of tragedy might not be mine, i would rather live a hundred years without a single person being violated than see all the mallorn trees of lorien. for our human heart to fill with a desire for simple things… give me peace, quiet, and good tilled earth.
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Posted in Ponderings and Incomplete Thoughts at 6:45 pm by Crystal Graber
dragging my feet, my soul
i love light–the lightness of body, of sun rippling through leaves, moon beams reflecting blindingly off a snowy world
crystal: clear, prism of light, open
crystals do not do their best work in mud. we get along much better with wind, water, fire, anything translucent or transparent
when we’re swimming blind through the mud, no matter how good the comfort of its warm goo might feel, its the most exhausting way to live. there’s no air in there. no light. no colors to be seen in the thick, wet earth. a good thing, refreshing for people. but not for crystals.
will the mud end with the project? god i hope so
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02.17.08
Posted in Officialdom at 4:31 pm by Kaihaku
Obviously, CrystalKai.net is up and running. After six years of using iPowerWeb for Kaihaku.net, it’ s nice to be using a host that actually acknowledges one’s existence. I’m attempting to transfer as much of the old database and the domain name, Kaihaku.net, to this new host but it remains to be seen how effectively that can be done. Regardless, it makes me all happy inside to be have access to webspace again.
Welcome all, more content will come, I’m certain.
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