I am leaving Cambodia.
I am leaving pieces behind, for pick up when I return…I realize this on the plane and smile.
I leave Cambodia having developed a new relationship with time…its amplitudes are different; its velocity varies but defines itself by infinity. Sometimes it slips through my fingers like sand. Sometimes it feels like space full of invisible pulses….
I leave Cambodia with the smell of jasmine surrounding me. I am drawn to it and I have smelt it long enough that it has become a part of me – a smell that I always recognize and find myself lingering and drifting to inhale …that is the beauty and magic of flowers: they can make us do that.
In Cambodia I learned patients. I lost my temper once and spoke with a strong voice. The moment it started happening, it felt foreign to me, too high pitched, bouncing off everything. I realized how pointless it was – trying to fill up a space with an aggressive approach result in others retreating and shutting down, shutting you out and you end up somewhere in the periphery. It felt terrible. I hung my tail between my legs and sought out the smell of jasmine.
I leave Cambodia with a new understanding of human nature – it’s much more raw, much more penetrating, much more sensitive than I ever imagined. From the bottom up, I realize and see capitalism and democracy (the ying and the yang of it) in a new form. Cambodia is the epitomy of free enterprise…everything is for sale, everything has a price tag. Pulling people off motos to steal a purse, cutting off hands to steal a rolex, robbing a man bleeding on the ground after he’s been in a moto accident; none of it is personal, it’s all a random act aimed at possessing something. It’s amazing what we’ll do for the material possessions and the monks continue their teachings that liberation exists when we let the materialism go. It’s almost like a subtle form of anarchy that a few a try to grasp and change but most are willing to utilize and exploit.
Family. At a western dinner party, the first question is: what do you do? Whereas at a Cambodian dinner, the first questions are: are you married? how many children do you have?
Family is the beginning of self-identity and definition. The family is the social support and the social fabric upon which people rely. I don’t know what is better-being able to rely on your family or the political structure…probably something in the middle – is the middle the place where we find peace because that’s where the elements are balanced?
Prostitutes. Over some amok and ice tea during an afternoon thunder storm, a couple of Cambodian women explain to me the role of prostitutes in Cambodian society from their perspective. It’s normal for a Cambodian man to go to the prostitutes to have sex because their Cambodian girlfriends cannot (and will not) have sex with them before marriage. They explain what else is he going to do? The wonder and ponder for a moment with tricky eyes looking at me: is it better for women to be like western women that sleep with many men and are easy or let the prostitutes deal with the aspect of male nature? I laugh at my nativity. I’ve never been so close, as a western, to such perceptions of what I represent (directly or indirectly). These Cambodian girls I’m talking to laugh at my response that I would not be ok with my boyfriend having sex with prostitutes, that I’m not comfortable dancing at the night club because all of the other girls on the dance floor are prostitutes awaiting and looking for a customer. I laugh too at my social ingrained responses and behaviours! We keep talking in circles explaining to each other, and then ourselves really, the role of the prostitute in our lives. Prostitutes as a functional part of the society- this is new ground for me…my mind creaks towards another understanding, even from a distance.
I leave Cambodia freely. Amongst the chaos I have found a freedom and peace I was looking for, almost desperately, in Canada. I am thankful to Cambodia for that. In the past, exits were always so emotional, so dramatic. I would leave with nostalgia in my heart…today, now, I leave quietly, full of new wonder and curiosity, packing my bags as if for a vacation. I am not sad to leave. Perhaps because I truly feel that this is only the beginning…
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Saturday, July 09, 2005
A tender moment
She is the only acid burn patient currently at ROSE. She arrived one week ago. I first saw her during rounds sitting in the main ward, her face charred and hardened pus on her chin. Her eyes were shut from the scars. There are a some splatters of acid on her left shoulder and left hand, but most of the damage is to her face and ears. She will undergo debridement (removal of the dead skin) and then skin grafting on her face because the scars are too big and too deep.
Her mother and her husband are with her. Her mother’s emotions are effectively covered by her constant smile. Her husband looks sad and exhausted. He sits by her bed, looking at her bandaged face – only slivers for her eyes, mouth and nose. Sometimes he holds her hand. Whenever I walk into the room he quickly walks away and sits in one of the corners. I realize I have never heard his voice. I am mostly aware of his eyes (they always looking puffy, as if he’d been crying) and his tattoos – the ones that men get here to keep bad spirits away. I haven’t seen this many on one body before.
As I’m treating Chan Narey, he watches. And then he picks up his wife’s burned hand and begins to massage it, mimicking what I did. He’s shaking a little bit. I feel a little bit like a voyeur, but I stay in the shadows, watching this tender moment. I walk over and sit beside him. He quickly gives me her hand but I don’t take it. Instead I place my hand over his, and guide his hand as it touches her skin and then begins to move closer to the scars, gliding over the scars, moving into the scars. His hand is soft and picks up what I am doing quickly. I smile and nod and he smiles back. All of this in silence…not one word was exchanged.
Five days after the operation, dressing changes begin. It’s an incredibly painful process and she cries with every millimeter of bandage that is pulled off her face. I hold her hand. I fight my own tears and have to consciously control how I respond to this whole process – at which my conscious screams: it can be done better, differently, less painfully, maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I bite my tounge until it bleeds. The graft has taken 80%. For the first time I see her eyes open – they are big, brown, moist. She is beautiful – even with her shaved head and blood streaming down her left check and dead skin hanging off the other.
Her mother and her husband are with her. Her mother’s emotions are effectively covered by her constant smile. Her husband looks sad and exhausted. He sits by her bed, looking at her bandaged face – only slivers for her eyes, mouth and nose. Sometimes he holds her hand. Whenever I walk into the room he quickly walks away and sits in one of the corners. I realize I have never heard his voice. I am mostly aware of his eyes (they always looking puffy, as if he’d been crying) and his tattoos – the ones that men get here to keep bad spirits away. I haven’t seen this many on one body before.
As I’m treating Chan Narey, he watches. And then he picks up his wife’s burned hand and begins to massage it, mimicking what I did. He’s shaking a little bit. I feel a little bit like a voyeur, but I stay in the shadows, watching this tender moment. I walk over and sit beside him. He quickly gives me her hand but I don’t take it. Instead I place my hand over his, and guide his hand as it touches her skin and then begins to move closer to the scars, gliding over the scars, moving into the scars. His hand is soft and picks up what I am doing quickly. I smile and nod and he smiles back. All of this in silence…not one word was exchanged.
Five days after the operation, dressing changes begin. It’s an incredibly painful process and she cries with every millimeter of bandage that is pulled off her face. I hold her hand. I fight my own tears and have to consciously control how I respond to this whole process – at which my conscious screams: it can be done better, differently, less painfully, maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I bite my tounge until it bleeds. The graft has taken 80%. For the first time I see her eyes open – they are big, brown, moist. She is beautiful – even with her shaved head and blood streaming down her left check and dead skin hanging off the other.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
A day in Phnom Penh
I woke up exhausted. My eyes were burning from dryness caused by the fan going all night and the constant dirt and dust in the air. Not a good day for contact lenses. The electricity wasn’t working so I took a cold shower (very refreshing indeed) in the dark. Getting dressed with my senses sluggish, I couldn’t shake the fatigue…I resisted the temptation of caffeine – at least for now. A bowl of sea food noodle soup for breakfast and a glass of water with a powdered electrolyte concoction seems to do the trick in providing a desperately need boast of energy. My moto driver awaits outside – I hop on, drive by yet another accident in the middle of the road around the corner from house (almost a daily occurrence this week) and we take the usual route to work at ROSE Charities. I’m lost in a bit of a daydream on the way to work – I have taken on the habit of consciously noticing or discovering something new on the way, otherwise, I have adapted to the point were I am not paying attention and the sensation of “daily routine” begins to take hold adn the winds of change begin to awaken.
At ROSE, I check e-mail, write a little bit of the project summary I have been working on as my two month stay is coming to an end. I try to limit my computer time to less than one hour per day – otherwise, cyberspace crouches in on the reality here too, and I don’t want to dance with that devil here. Changing into my blue scrubs I head down stairs for rounds and to look for the PT and dressing nurse. There is one acid burn patient currently at the hospital and two others who have been discharged but come every other day for treatment and dressing changes. As the dressing of the acid burn patient is taken off and cleaning of the wounds occurs, we discuss how they’re healing, the type of scar tissue there is (inflamed, granulation tissue, infection and so on), whether or not massage can begin - if yes, what techniques are appropriate; if not, why not. Patients flow in and flow out. I still find the quiet nature of this place…odd, strange, different, slightly disturbing. The only ones who cry out in pain are the infants. For the rest, only their breathing changes and they whisper “chuj (=pain)”. After this dressing, I am in the operating room observing the reduction of an elbow dislocation. The initial incision is sobering and the rest I find fascinating – the fascia, the muscle, the brilliantly red blood colour that flows inside. I recall reading once about Michelangelo and how he dissected cadavers to understand internal anatomy in order to create better sculptures of the human body.
I spend time hovering around the PT room to see what the PT is doing with the two acid burn out-patients. I’m hovering because I do not want to “tell him” what to do – I want to see how he manages alone, without direction from me or a constant dialogue of “yes” and “no”. I’ve only worked with him for about 3 weeks now and his personality has been the most challenging thus far. I am learning his ways, his manners of learning and understanding such that the information we exchange has meaning and is not lost amongst a bunch of English words that do not make any sense to his Khmer mind. It’s a fascinating and frustrating process, but it is leaving a deep impression on me about the multiple levels of communication we have at our disposal.
After work we head off to the Olympic Market as I need to buy a new cell phone. Lyna takes on the task of haggling and looking for the best deals. Initially I found this whole processes (shopping at the markets) nerve racking and uncomfortable. However now, I enjoy…it makes the “shopping” experience more witty, more interesting. Here’s the ritual in a nutshell: You find some thing you like. You ask the price. The vendor/seller says $10. You go half of the price, $5. Usually you will settle on something in-between. If they say "no bargain", you walk away. If they can sell it for less or need to make the sale, they will give you your asking price. If they will not sell for anything but their price, then they will not call you back and if you want this thing bad enough, you have to go back to them (which signals you agree on their price)…there are variations, but this is the general way its done. Even though it’s an intense process, there is no yelling and voices are not raised. Body language is key.
After the market we head off for dinner. Today I take my Cambodian friends for “foreigner food” at Nature and Sea. We have developed this nice exchange now where I take them out for foreign food and they take me to Cambodian restaurants for real Khmer food. Lyna cannot stand hummus and burchetta. But she likes fish and chips and salad. Nimol does not like steak but she likes French crepes with butter and sugar and Coca with lime! Pizza is ok. They both do not like the cheese and both ended up with stomach aches afterwards. I like the fish, but haven’t been gutsy enough to try pig brains or the fried bugs. So much fun, so many jokes, so much laughing happens over those meals. We probe at one another, test one another, figuring out each other and the differences and similarities between us, driven by curiousity and a desire to know more and to understand more. Our differences are very obvious, but our similarities enable us to sit at a table together and talk and learn about one another. I can’t believe they are 24 and they can’t believe that I’m 30! Today they explain to me why Cambodians do not like foreigners – these are the types of cultural lessons and realities I swim in everyday. I realize that I explain others foreigners through my "canadian expereicne" but I explain my personal actions through as a result of my European upbringing. THe dichotamy I thought I had put to rest is still very much alive within me.
After dinner I head off with my roommate for an evening of reading with a group of her foreigner friends who live and work in Cambodia. As we are pulling up to the Jane’s apartment (the host of this gathering) on our moto, I a feel a hand on my thigh and somebody pulling at my small purse that was hung across my shoulders. I pulled back, the strap broke and they drove away…without my purse. I was very lucky I am told by the group at Jane's house – that I did not lose my purse, that I wasn’t pulled of the moto bike and dragged and injured. My guardian angels are present. Inside, we sit around a table that has lotus flowers and jasmine wreaths on it, reading our favorite passages from our favorite books. It was magical. I read from “Ignorance” by Milan Kundera about the definition of nostalgia. I became nostalgic for the book club in Toronto. Once again, I realize that we are all seeking some form of completion, connection, understanding of others and ourselves and sometimes we find this in books, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in friendship, sometimes in love.
Returning home, the streets are quite. I see some young people stumbling about by the trees we pass – the problem of drugs and alcohol is only now beginning to be a reality that I am aware of. The layers, the many, many layers to a place…and once again, the end is only the beginning. The destination is the journey.
At ROSE, I check e-mail, write a little bit of the project summary I have been working on as my two month stay is coming to an end. I try to limit my computer time to less than one hour per day – otherwise, cyberspace crouches in on the reality here too, and I don’t want to dance with that devil here. Changing into my blue scrubs I head down stairs for rounds and to look for the PT and dressing nurse. There is one acid burn patient currently at the hospital and two others who have been discharged but come every other day for treatment and dressing changes. As the dressing of the acid burn patient is taken off and cleaning of the wounds occurs, we discuss how they’re healing, the type of scar tissue there is (inflamed, granulation tissue, infection and so on), whether or not massage can begin - if yes, what techniques are appropriate; if not, why not. Patients flow in and flow out. I still find the quiet nature of this place…odd, strange, different, slightly disturbing. The only ones who cry out in pain are the infants. For the rest, only their breathing changes and they whisper “chuj (=pain)”. After this dressing, I am in the operating room observing the reduction of an elbow dislocation. The initial incision is sobering and the rest I find fascinating – the fascia, the muscle, the brilliantly red blood colour that flows inside. I recall reading once about Michelangelo and how he dissected cadavers to understand internal anatomy in order to create better sculptures of the human body.
I spend time hovering around the PT room to see what the PT is doing with the two acid burn out-patients. I’m hovering because I do not want to “tell him” what to do – I want to see how he manages alone, without direction from me or a constant dialogue of “yes” and “no”. I’ve only worked with him for about 3 weeks now and his personality has been the most challenging thus far. I am learning his ways, his manners of learning and understanding such that the information we exchange has meaning and is not lost amongst a bunch of English words that do not make any sense to his Khmer mind. It’s a fascinating and frustrating process, but it is leaving a deep impression on me about the multiple levels of communication we have at our disposal.
After work we head off to the Olympic Market as I need to buy a new cell phone. Lyna takes on the task of haggling and looking for the best deals. Initially I found this whole processes (shopping at the markets) nerve racking and uncomfortable. However now, I enjoy…it makes the “shopping” experience more witty, more interesting. Here’s the ritual in a nutshell: You find some thing you like. You ask the price. The vendor/seller says $10. You go half of the price, $5. Usually you will settle on something in-between. If they say "no bargain", you walk away. If they can sell it for less or need to make the sale, they will give you your asking price. If they will not sell for anything but their price, then they will not call you back and if you want this thing bad enough, you have to go back to them (which signals you agree on their price)…there are variations, but this is the general way its done. Even though it’s an intense process, there is no yelling and voices are not raised. Body language is key.
After the market we head off for dinner. Today I take my Cambodian friends for “foreigner food” at Nature and Sea. We have developed this nice exchange now where I take them out for foreign food and they take me to Cambodian restaurants for real Khmer food. Lyna cannot stand hummus and burchetta. But she likes fish and chips and salad. Nimol does not like steak but she likes French crepes with butter and sugar and Coca with lime! Pizza is ok. They both do not like the cheese and both ended up with stomach aches afterwards. I like the fish, but haven’t been gutsy enough to try pig brains or the fried bugs. So much fun, so many jokes, so much laughing happens over those meals. We probe at one another, test one another, figuring out each other and the differences and similarities between us, driven by curiousity and a desire to know more and to understand more. Our differences are very obvious, but our similarities enable us to sit at a table together and talk and learn about one another. I can’t believe they are 24 and they can’t believe that I’m 30! Today they explain to me why Cambodians do not like foreigners – these are the types of cultural lessons and realities I swim in everyday. I realize that I explain others foreigners through my "canadian expereicne" but I explain my personal actions through as a result of my European upbringing. THe dichotamy I thought I had put to rest is still very much alive within me.
After dinner I head off with my roommate for an evening of reading with a group of her foreigner friends who live and work in Cambodia. As we are pulling up to the Jane’s apartment (the host of this gathering) on our moto, I a feel a hand on my thigh and somebody pulling at my small purse that was hung across my shoulders. I pulled back, the strap broke and they drove away…without my purse. I was very lucky I am told by the group at Jane's house – that I did not lose my purse, that I wasn’t pulled of the moto bike and dragged and injured. My guardian angels are present. Inside, we sit around a table that has lotus flowers and jasmine wreaths on it, reading our favorite passages from our favorite books. It was magical. I read from “Ignorance” by Milan Kundera about the definition of nostalgia. I became nostalgic for the book club in Toronto. Once again, I realize that we are all seeking some form of completion, connection, understanding of others and ourselves and sometimes we find this in books, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in friendship, sometimes in love.
Returning home, the streets are quite. I see some young people stumbling about by the trees we pass – the problem of drugs and alcohol is only now beginning to be a reality that I am aware of. The layers, the many, many layers to a place…and once again, the end is only the beginning. The destination is the journey.
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