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.