06.27.09
Posted in Life and the happenings there of at 1:23 am by Crystal Graber
Greetings all! I do not write much, or often, but I thought I would briefly reflect on some of the things I have genuinely enjoyed, and continue to enjoy, about living where I am in Germany.
I am currently living in a town of 340 people, 7 families of which are winzers–wine makers. My host dad is one of them. So naturally, I enjoy the wine itself, as well as my increasing ability to differentiate between wines and qualities of wines. Its been great fun to learn about the growing process, to help with pruning and staking and bottling, and to go on tours of the press and cellers. But perhaps what has been the best of fun are the other winzers. Our wine region is Rhine-Hessen, encompassing the Rhine River on both sides, and is one of the friendliest wine regions in Germany (I am told). I have attended several wine festivals at this point, and poetry readings, and birthday parties, and find at every one people who quickly open up to my attempts at conversation. They buy bottles of wine for the table, (and I now know my preferences), and tell me about growing up in the vineyards and how they want to travel to America. I end up having the most fun late in the evening, when alcohol has brought their speech around to such extreme dialect that they cannot understand each other, or they begin to speak English with me.
Something else I love about living here are the gardens. Germans take gardening seriously in general, but I am constantly delighted to walk through the smallest town or alley and find a mass of roses spilling over the side of a fence, or climbing kiwi trees pruned along the old houses. When I have luck, I get to pick strawberries, raspberries and sweet cherries. Soon, the beans and tomatoes will be ripe as well. Its such a wonderful feeling to crave a snack and wander into the backyard and find something, not to mention the fabulous cakes, puddings, and ice cream sauces we make!
I really like German windows. Especially being in this program (where, as someone else commented, we are all required to live in the highest room in the tallest tower, no matter which part of the country or what family we’re in). In both my bedrooms this year I have had a huge skylight through which I can watch the moon and stars, or clouds, through which so much natural light comes I need to close the blinds at night, and through which birdsong wakes me up nearly every morning. If I could pick one thing to take with me to the United States forever, it would be such a skylight in every bedroom I ever have.
Many specific foods appeal to me, but I particularly like the way of eating–a decent breakfast, large lunch, and small dinner. Of course, I would prefer to eat at 6, rather than 8 pm, but its understandable that they want a cafe und kuchen (coffee and cake) break every day around 4 or 5, even if I cannot drink enough coffee or eat enough cake to be properly German.
There are many more little pleasantnesses here, but these are probably the highlights, at least at the moment. This year has been straining in many ways, but its always the little things of the moment that bring me back around. And I can hardly believe that in little over a month I will be home again, this time to stay, for a long time.
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06.11.09
Posted in Life and the happenings there of at 6:55 pm by Kaihaku
The night before I stayed up far too late playing Romance of Three Kingdoms. It was almost midnight before I finally yielded my struggle to place my dynasty’s rule over all of ancient China. I had had some caffeinated tea that afternoon which perhaps played a role, though if I had had the foresight to leave Melian safely locked away at the office sleep would have found me long before regardless.
I woke up at 4:30 but laid around like a bum for ten minutes or so, hoping to banish my sleepiness with a few more minutes. Unfortunately a few more minutes cannot replace a few lost hours, so at last I forced myself up and started on what was to be a long day. After getting dressed, visiting the bathroom, and collecting what I needed from my house I walked to the office passing my neighbors doing their predawn exercises. In a maneuver I perfected while living at the office, I deftly twisted my hand around the bars of the front gate and unlocked it from the opposite side. Opening the front door and moto-cage I woke up Rasmey, the night guard. I then had to slip back to my house to retrieve the moto key which I had forgotten there but otherwise everything was in order – or so I thought, it wasn’t until much later that I realized that I had forgotten my heavy raincoat.
Pictures never quite do it justice.
By 5:15 I was on the road to Neak Loeung, in time to enjoy the sunrise during my entire ride south. I had a pleasant crossing on the ferry, as is usually the case in the early morning and soon was cruising on national road one towards Phnom Penh. After crossing the two Japanese bridges, I began stopping at each town and asking for Tol Long which Dara had told me was the ferry name or if there was a saleng, a ferry, that crossed the Mekong nearby. I had gesture at the far bank to convince people that I wasn’t just a confused foreigner who couldn’t find the Neak Loeung ferry, but otherwise they were quite helpful.
One woman sent me to a small abandoned landing. Surrounded by lush foliage, the only sounds waves lapping and birds chirping, I was tempted to stay and enjoy the early morning cool. In fact I did stay for a moment, though it was too small to be the ferry landing I was seeking.
Later I had the first of a series of identical conversation openings.
Me – Sou S’dey.
Them – Ot Cha. (Swiftly, flat pane.)
Me – Ot Cha Sou S’dey?! (Loudly, in disbelief with a grin)
Them – Sou S’dey. (Laughing and looking embarrassed.)
The first was with a woman who sent me behind a pagoda to a ferry that wasn’t there. There was, however, a school. She mistook my saleng for salah, my pronunciation isn’t as clear as it once was. But a man there told me that there was a ferry another two kilometers further down national road one and, indeed, there was. Twenty-five kilometers from Neak Loeung, kilometer marker thirty-five. After checking that it was large enough for a car, I notified everyone. Then once I heard back, I found my way to a simple restaurant near the ferry. I was told that this place served kuy teal but that another down the road served rice. I decided that given my sore throat and runny nose Kuy Teal would be the better option. I had that conservation starter with the Ohm making the Kuy Teal, then once she was trying to understand what I was saying instead of just dismissing me as a foreigner I ordered a bowl of Kuy Teal with chicken – the best Kuy Teal I’ve had in a very long time.
My breakfast of Kuy Teal and Iced Coffee.
After finishing my meal, I returned to national road one and not even two minutes later the ADI truck pulled up. The timing was uncanny. Everything seemed to be going great, except for the constant confusing contradicting phone calls from Sakhoeun and Sotherith of PVIO. After waiting a bit for Miles and Dara, I decided that we would cross the Mekong awhile and head for the “right” ferry where Sotherith was supposedly waiting for us. The road was lovely, winding along the far bank of the Mekong through picturesque villages. I could see why a previous MCC volunteer had once biked from Phnom Penh to Prey Veng along it. I wished I had someone to share it with, bring back there for a peaceful picnic in the countryside.
The “wrong” ferry we took across the Mekong.
Every Khmer we asked either had no idea where we wanted to go or said that we were heading in the right direction. Even more so, my gut instinct was telling me to go south along the Mekong. I had forgotten that I should never trust my gut instinct when it comes to directions, especially not in as convoluted a road system as Cambodia’s. The calls began coming more and more frequently. “We’re waiting at Plouh T’rey.” “Where are you?” Miles and Dara had found Sotherith, crossing at the “right” ferry which I had took to be south of the one I found but which was actually north. Of course, I didn’t figure that out until much later. There was a lot of confusing talk with ever changing village names and even something about a new car. It’s difficult enough to speak in a second language over the phone, even more so while riding on a moto.
Finally, I stopped and asked a Ming where we were. To my immense relief she said Prey Veng. We had to be on the right route, we were out of Kandal. Then she hit me with Chamkar Veaeng village, Peam Ro. Peam Ro. Peam Ro. The district south of Kompong Leav, south of Prek Anteah. It was then I let Tola of ADI take over; something I hadn’t realized until ten minutes before this stop was that Tola is Khmer. From other meetings I’d had with him I assumed him to be Filipino or Indian. But he was Khmer and after I relinquished my phone to him so he could speak with Sotherith things were quickly sorted out. It was a great mess. If I had had a Kandal map I might have realized it myself, but trying to sort it out in Khmer without any visualization had me lost. Traveling south was a mistake, we needed to travel north, cross a bridge over another river, then head south along that riverbank. I had the wrong river entirely. I have an excellent map of Prey Veng, with it I have rarely gotten seriously lost or more than slightly off track. This was a stark reminder of the times before I had found that map.
I was, of course, flipping out as we turned around and headed back the way we had come. Well, flipping out internally. Over an hour had been lost and I had made MCC looking incompetent by proving unable to simply find the “right” ferry. I was furious at Hon Dara for mistranslating and for not putting things together coherently, at PVIO for not being able to communicate effectively or to provide one set of directions, and at myself for dozens of reasons. As we rode along, the ADI truck now in the lead, I retreated into internal turmoil. I kept on deflecting the blame, the negativity, onto others, especially Hon Dara who I had been relying on, then catching myself and forcing myself to acknowledge that it was my part in the mess that was bothering me and that I wanted to escape responsibility for it by by blaming others. But no sooner had I gained perspective I would lose it and slip back; it’s often easy to blame others instead of taking appropriate personal responsibility. My mind was racing as I followed the ADI truck, getting bathed in thick clouds of dust, answering my phone which was now incessantly ringing with calls from everyone involved. Then the ADI truck waved for me to take the lead so as to avoid the dust. I did so and, unlike previously when I was in a more level headed state of mind, I did not watch them carefully in the mirror, choosing instead to focus on my mental ravings. Then, suddenly, I realized that I was driving far too fast for this country road and was too far ahead of them. So I stopped and waited for them to catch up.
And I waited. And waited. They never came. So I went back to look for them, becoming alarmed. I should have called them at this point, that would have been the rational thing to do but I was quite irrational at this point. My internal brooding was spilling into action. I drove back to where I had last seen them, back to where I took the lead, back to the last crossroads… They had vanished. I still didn’t understand where we were heading, exactly. I began checking each of the ferries. Had they turned down the road to Prek Anteah? There was no such road, not that I could see. Had they become fed-up and decided to leave? Did they return to Phnom Penh? They had left me… But why? There was no sign of them. For the first time in a long time I felt the strong emotions of my first year here. I was a failure, incompetent. I wanted to be done, to run away. I didn’t belong in MCC. I just wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere far from the world and never take part in it again.
Twenty minutes passed from when I noticed they were no longer following me until Tola called. I had forgotten that there was a detour for cars around an incomplete bridge. Motos could still make the crossing but cars had to go around. The ADI truck had come across another vehicle stuck in the mud and helped pull them free. They had called me once the stuck vehicle was out. Now I had a great reason to be furious at myself. I had worked myself into a ludicrous state.
“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality.”
~Seneca
I was livid as I raced to meet up with them. Despite my efforts, they arrived at Kunlieng Chrey shortly before I did, we were about an hour and a half late. Along the way my first aid kit had flown from my basket on a bump and exploded open spewing bandages and such all over the road, if not for that I think I would have caught up with them. Though, in retrospect, it really wouldn’t have mattered. It took me some time to calm down, fortunately I had little part in the meeting with the Farmer Water User Committee and thus had the time.
The meeting between the local FUWC, PVIO, and ADI.
The meeting was a long and productive one which included a long way out to the center of the irrigation dam. There were some folks out fishing in the reservoir who shied away from the sudden influx of village leaders, government officials, and foreigners.
A couple of the fishers we disturbed.
Spotting some ominous dark clouds in the distance, I picked up my speed on the walk back through the rice fields and was soon far ahead of the others. I came across a grazing herd of water buffalo which fled in terror at the sight of my tall pasty pale self. They would gallop away from me then stop and look back uneasily as I continued to approach, only to gallop off again as I came nearer. The young buffalo made a sound that I’d never heard before, I can’t quite describe it but it was definitely a sound of fear. The oxen further on had no terror, or even interest, in me.
Water buffalos flee before my tall pasty self.
It began to sprinkle as the others made it back from the dam. There had been contradictory talk of lunch throughout all of the earlier confusion. With rain looming the ADI staff decided to head back to Phnom Penh instead of risking waiting for the uncertain meal. There was some minor talk of heading to the Kompong Thnol site but, unfortunately, it was too far and there simply wasn’t the time. If we had arrived on time it would have just been in the range of possibility but arriving as late as we did it was quite impossible. Sotherith then told those of us who remained that lunch was waiting for us at a nearby house that ended up being several villages away and it started raining while we were en route. They served Cha Moan, Snao Moan, and a plate of chopped vegetables. They also had some pitch black home-brewed fish sauce that would have knocked my socks off if I had been wearing any. The rain died away soon after we finished eating and we were on our way again. It unfortunately picked up again as we entered the village that held both scary bridges. Neither bridge caused much trouble but the ground was mostly clay and just a touch of rain made it like driving on slick ice. All of us came close to spilling out but we managed to get to a safe house. There Sotherith, who was riding a 250 cc, asked if I wanted to switch and let him ride the smaller moto. I thought he was trying to be nice at first, then he continued that riding such a big moto was much more difficulty. Dara was shocked and disagreed almost vehemently that a big moto was better. Sotherith shrugged off the dissent but the exchange was reassuring one for me, most people assume that a bigger moto is easier on rough roads but actually I, for one, think the opposite. Sotherith is one of the few people I know how doesn’t ride a 250cc like a tank just cruising through rough spots but rather making the effort to avoid trouble spots. It is true that a 250 can take more of a beating but a smaller moto can usually avoid most of that beating.
We waited out the rain under the house of a businessman Sotherith knew. The businessman wasn’t around, we gathered he had more than one house, but he had farm equipment stored there in various stages of decay and neglect. While waiting we were visited by children, a young woman with a plumb baby, and by a Ming who was collecting donations to improve the road. I’ve become quite leery about giving to beggars here but I still give freely to village road improvement projects.
After the rain stopped we pressed on through the slick clay and across the concrete bridge with the sagging wooden central segment. The road became a slick uneven path through rice fields but the worst of it soon passed as we moved from clayey soil into more sandy soil. We traveled through several kilometers of rice field, passing the stretch where on my last visit the unexpected sight of a pale foreigner caused a schoolgirl six bike pile-up, and soon came to the village before the ferry. Coming into this village from behind after riding through rice fields is an experience, suddenly you’re enclosed by trees and cacti fences, turning on right angles down maze-like roads. Many villages in Cambodia have a similar feel but there are a few, like this one, which stand out for their individual character.
It began to sprinkle as we left the village but we were lucky enough to avoid getting soaked as the rainstorm was a few kilometers ahead of us. The sun beaming down from behind us and the rain in front of us formed a magnificent rainbow in the distance as we traveled along beside a massive canal towards the small ferry that would take us across the Sap river.
The ferry was on the far side of the river when we arrived, so we ended up waiting in a small gazebo with the ferry operators and other passengers. While we were waiting, the Ming struck up a conversation about me, praising my white skin and expressing how she wished she had beautiful skin, not ugly black skin. The Khmer language handles color a bit different than English. Technically, there are no universal colors but instead colors are expressed as the ‘color of’ an object. So when she declared that she had ugly black skin, what she said literally was that she had ugly skin the ‘color of lead’. This is a common awkward topic of conversation and I’ve made it a routine to argue semantics when they refuse to accept that their skin isn’t ugly; in my opinion their darker skin is more attractive than our pasty freckled hides. So after she got in her opening salvo of self-critique, I humorously criticized her for not knowing her colors and pointed out my black bag which is, actually, porh k’mao and corrected her by pointing out that her skin is actually porh cafe teuk ta koa, the color of coffee with milk. At this her shirtless husband slapped his chest proudly and declared, “Well, in that case, my skin’s the color of buffalo dung!” I was glad for the round of guffaws that followed, I didn’t have a response to that. Unlike his wife he was in high spirits and couldn’t seem to care less about the color of his skin, though it was clear that he had consumed a decent amount of rice wine by this point. He went on to tell childhood stories that involved encounters with buffalo dung to the laughter of those waiting. After things died down the Ming started in again, asking me, “Why do some American men take Khmer wives with their ugly black skins?” My color lesson hadn’t changed her mind, but it did allow me to reply, “Because coffee with milk is delicious.” There was another round of guffaws and Miles tells me he swears the Ming was blushing. That was marked the end of the skin talk. Soon we were on the ferry and then back in Prey Veng.
It had been a long day which I ended bruised, covered in dirt, sweaty, blistered, weary, and oddly content. Cambodia has a way of teaching grace the hard way. For all of the stress I heap on myself, I have a good life. Throughout the countryside there are subsistence farmers living on the edge of starvation at the mercy of nature, the government, even international politics. Despite all of the stress I heap on myself, all the mental torments I inflict on myself, all the trials and tribulations I imagine…compared to them I have so much and no excuse to be so uptight. Life is good. I waste far too much time and energy inventing troubles. Why have I spent so many nighttime hours worrying over trivialities? The countryside is a humbling place. The interesting thing is how much of a relief it is to be humbled.
It was a good bonding experience to travel to Kunlieng Chrey with Miles again, though not many words were exchanged between us. The first trip to Kunlieng Chrey was Miles’ first trip into the countryside in Cambodia and the first trip I took with Miles. It was fulfilling somehow to travel there again with him.
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