I miss Cambodia...I miss Nimol, I miss Chan - I wonder how she and her two daughters are doing. I miss the noodle breakfast and assing-kicking vietnamese coffee. I miss the sounds of the hospital first thing in the morning. I miss not hanging out with the kids at the orphanage on tuesday afternoons. I miss the bloody heat.
Sometimes I feel like I let people down by not going back sooner, by not stretching myself that much more. It feels terrible. It makes want to cry.
I am thinking about it more these days again.I contemplate going to Cambodia in the next 3 months. The idea leaves me feeling exhausted. I don't understand it, but I trust my internal checking system enough to know its not time yet.
Here, in Calgary, things don't have that edge and or that intensity. That sense of immedicacy doesn't exist here and it makes time expand and get thick...sometimes even slow. There is something here, right now, that works for me...maybe it's Lee's cooking, maybe it's the mountains. For now I am here, exploring the western landscape, reading Anja's blog from Kabul and writing letters with my Cambodian friends who continue to live their realities which I, a "Westerner", percieved as such a struggle. And yet when I read their letters I relate to the way they describe their days, their lives, their wonders, their worries and problems. I love having this awareness so vividly at the forefront - that we are really not that different.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
negotiating the layers of healthcare
We (Nimol and I) decide to head over to the pedeatric hospital in the morning, before 9:30am, so that we can catch the doctors while they are on rounds. Hopefully their rounds will be in the morning. Hopefully they will not finish before before 9:30. The last two times we went we were unable to find a doctor to speak to you about Chan's daughter's condition. I want to help, but it's difficult to consider treatment options when the diagnosis is unclear. Ít's difficult to do anything when no one can answer your questions. She has been in the hospital for two weeks, taking medications, but the diagnosis is unclear and there has been no change in her condition. I'm a bit confused by this. I wish I could do more. Looking at scribbles and pill packets, my gut tells me this cannot be the beginning or end of the medical care. Walking up the stairs, a statue of Jesus Christ looking down on us, the nauseating smell of vomit and diarhea hits us again. This time Nimol doesn't really respond to it. This time, it's not as harsh as the first. I realize we are quickly adapting to it.
We are in luck. All of the doctors and the interns are milling around. I think my presence makes them mill around more. Sometimes this is good, sometimes this is bad. I am learning how to use the symbolism or meaning of my presence (that being a foreigner) to advocate for those I can help. Sometimes that means I have to leave because I become a barrier. That's fine too...as long as they get what they need in appopriate way.
We sit and chat with Chan and her daughter. I play with the baby. She is gorgeous with a head of crazy soft black hair. Her name is Ka - which means beautiful girl. Indeed! The doctors begin their rounds - looking at x-rays, physical exams, checking the charts and going back to looking at x-rays and physical exams. From a distance, through my inexperienced eyes, it all looks ok. Nimol has that smile on her face. That smile I have learned to know - something is going on and her eyes are catching the discreptancy. I ask her "What is it?" She says: "I have never seen doctors spend so much time with each patient before!!! I think you should come here every morning and play with Chan's baby!". Right. Well, at least today.
Then finally it is our turn.
The doctor looks over the chart: the lab tests and the medications perscibed so far. Last night she did not sleep due to abdominal pain, and her blood pressure was very high again. She looks more swollen today - the edema on her face and legs is palpable. Chan did not sleep either. She is concerned. The doctor doesn't change anything, just writes down the symptoms the mother reports. Nimol says, "Now you can ask you questions to the doctor. He speaks English!". I look at him and ask : "Do you speak English". He laughs, shakes his head "No", he says in english. Back to you Nimol. I want to know what is the diagnosis. Alot is said in Khmer. The english translation : "he is not sure". OK. second question: "the treatment they give so far - does it work ? Have the levels of protein in the urine changed?" Again, alot is said in Khmer, but the english translation: "not sure". OK. third question: "the lab tests indicating the protein levels what do they say - he was looking at them". the answer: "there is no change". The doctor then explains that they need to do blood tests to determine the diagnosis, but the patient needs to pay for these test. Nimol begins to speak quickly with a tone of voice that I know - she is becoming inpatient and pointing the obvious to the doctor: "how can she pay when she is in room for poor people and everything here is for free because they are poor?!" The doctor doesn't seem to discuss anything else except that nothing else can be done (or discussed, or considered) until the patient pays for the necessary blood work. Nimol presists (this is why I like her!): "but they took blood yesterday!"and points to the small bruise on Srey Po's left cubital foassa. The doctor doesn't seem to know and does not know where the blood has been taken to. This is becoming ridiculous. A second doctor walks in. Nimol nods her head: "he is good...I work with him at another clinic. I will ask him". She walks over and beings the dialogue. I feel ridiculous sitting there just looking over shoulders and eaves dropping on conversations I cannot participate in. My role has become to press Nimol for more clarification. I know she doesn't feel comfortable...it's a slippery slope: push too hard and they shut you out, don't push hard enough and you are shut out and ignored. The doctor reviews the chart. Explains the two possibilities. Explains there are blood test results - he points them out...the very page the other doctor looked at at least 3 times!!...so there are blood test results...it takes me a couple of seconds before the blood rushes out of my head and I can concentrate once again on what he says. I can't believe that someone would take advantage. Well, yes I can. I hits like a wave though. How do you inspire change in such an attitude that takes advantage of the poorest? I suppose I must return to the writings of the great few who had the patience, the understanding. I am but a student in the back row somewhere.
We leave the hopstial. Nothing has really changed except that we ruffled a few feathers and that I going to looking around for another opinion about what can be done for Srey Po. I have 5 days left. LEt's see what I can do...
An hour after, I get a phone call that a foreigner patient needs x-rays and an operation. 5 Cambodian staff and myself spend 4 hours transporting this patient for x-rays and to a hospital for an operation. I wonder if a Cambodian in the same situation would have been afford the same time? I imagine they would show up on a moto holding their own leg...
I arrive back at PT House at 4:40pm...Exercise class started at 4:30pm. I promised I would come today to at least come to do the hoky-poky dance with them. This silly little dance inpsires laughter and good spirits for hours afterwards. It seems ridiculous to be travelling across town to do a 5 minute exercise. But I keep my word; I show up and we dance and sing together. I realize this is building trust...an important element. But more important, the sight of their smiling faces, their laughter and ability to move limbs covered in scars and bandages to this silly song makes it all so worthwhile.
We are in luck. All of the doctors and the interns are milling around. I think my presence makes them mill around more. Sometimes this is good, sometimes this is bad. I am learning how to use the symbolism or meaning of my presence (that being a foreigner) to advocate for those I can help. Sometimes that means I have to leave because I become a barrier. That's fine too...as long as they get what they need in appopriate way.
We sit and chat with Chan and her daughter. I play with the baby. She is gorgeous with a head of crazy soft black hair. Her name is Ka - which means beautiful girl. Indeed! The doctors begin their rounds - looking at x-rays, physical exams, checking the charts and going back to looking at x-rays and physical exams. From a distance, through my inexperienced eyes, it all looks ok. Nimol has that smile on her face. That smile I have learned to know - something is going on and her eyes are catching the discreptancy. I ask her "What is it?" She says: "I have never seen doctors spend so much time with each patient before!!! I think you should come here every morning and play with Chan's baby!". Right. Well, at least today.
Then finally it is our turn.
The doctor looks over the chart: the lab tests and the medications perscibed so far. Last night she did not sleep due to abdominal pain, and her blood pressure was very high again. She looks more swollen today - the edema on her face and legs is palpable. Chan did not sleep either. She is concerned. The doctor doesn't change anything, just writes down the symptoms the mother reports. Nimol says, "Now you can ask you questions to the doctor. He speaks English!". I look at him and ask : "Do you speak English". He laughs, shakes his head "No", he says in english. Back to you Nimol. I want to know what is the diagnosis. Alot is said in Khmer. The english translation : "he is not sure". OK. second question: "the treatment they give so far - does it work ? Have the levels of protein in the urine changed?" Again, alot is said in Khmer, but the english translation: "not sure". OK. third question: "the lab tests indicating the protein levels what do they say - he was looking at them". the answer: "there is no change". The doctor then explains that they need to do blood tests to determine the diagnosis, but the patient needs to pay for these test. Nimol begins to speak quickly with a tone of voice that I know - she is becoming inpatient and pointing the obvious to the doctor: "how can she pay when she is in room for poor people and everything here is for free because they are poor?!" The doctor doesn't seem to discuss anything else except that nothing else can be done (or discussed, or considered) until the patient pays for the necessary blood work. Nimol presists (this is why I like her!): "but they took blood yesterday!"and points to the small bruise on Srey Po's left cubital foassa. The doctor doesn't seem to know and does not know where the blood has been taken to. This is becoming ridiculous. A second doctor walks in. Nimol nods her head: "he is good...I work with him at another clinic. I will ask him". She walks over and beings the dialogue. I feel ridiculous sitting there just looking over shoulders and eaves dropping on conversations I cannot participate in. My role has become to press Nimol for more clarification. I know she doesn't feel comfortable...it's a slippery slope: push too hard and they shut you out, don't push hard enough and you are shut out and ignored. The doctor reviews the chart. Explains the two possibilities. Explains there are blood test results - he points them out...the very page the other doctor looked at at least 3 times!!...so there are blood test results...it takes me a couple of seconds before the blood rushes out of my head and I can concentrate once again on what he says. I can't believe that someone would take advantage. Well, yes I can. I hits like a wave though. How do you inspire change in such an attitude that takes advantage of the poorest? I suppose I must return to the writings of the great few who had the patience, the understanding. I am but a student in the back row somewhere.
We leave the hopstial. Nothing has really changed except that we ruffled a few feathers and that I going to looking around for another opinion about what can be done for Srey Po. I have 5 days left. LEt's see what I can do...
An hour after, I get a phone call that a foreigner patient needs x-rays and an operation. 5 Cambodian staff and myself spend 4 hours transporting this patient for x-rays and to a hospital for an operation. I wonder if a Cambodian in the same situation would have been afford the same time? I imagine they would show up on a moto holding their own leg...
I arrive back at PT House at 4:40pm...Exercise class started at 4:30pm. I promised I would come today to at least come to do the hoky-poky dance with them. This silly little dance inpsires laughter and good spirits for hours afterwards. It seems ridiculous to be travelling across town to do a 5 minute exercise. But I keep my word; I show up and we dance and sing together. I realize this is building trust...an important element. But more important, the sight of their smiling faces, their laughter and ability to move limbs covered in scars and bandages to this silly song makes it all so worthwhile.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Arrival- August 19
Arriving into the Cambodian heat felt good. Familiar. Familiar is the general feeling that is at the forefront as I leave the airport and become acustomed to new faces, palms, the orange colour of the dirt, the numerous land cruisers and squatting moto drivers. The soft Khmer language hits my ears. At first it feels a bit distant and then I settle myself back into its familar sounds. My hellos quickly transform into hands in a praying position and a small bow. I do not do it as gracefully as the Cambodians though...there is a softness to how their hands meet in this gesture.
Driving through the bizarre traffic, I become aware that people are driving faster, there are more cars, more traffic. The cloud of exhaust smoke is much thicker. A flashing thought of my lungs inhaling this stuff for the next month makes me enjoy the current car drive. A hummer drives by us. It looks obnoxious set against the rickety store fronts and naked, dirty children.
The familar layer of sweet quickly forms on my forehead. Goldie, the dog, is in the back fully enjoying the wind, tounge hanging out. Dr. Jim is catching me up on what has been going on and introducing me to Pang, as he negotiates the stop and go flow of the traffic. We fall into an easy and light conversation. Welcome back...
I take a nap. I shower. I unpack a little bit. Read a little bit of the Cambodian Daily and guzzle water. We leave for the Australian compound for dinner in the late afternoon and have a lovely dinner with fascinating characters. One woman has worked extensively in the "HIV/AIDS world" of Asia. Another woman works at Hagar shelter (the one where Chan stays). Another man is currently living in Sierre Leone and in Cambodia on vacation to visit friends. He has warm and penetrating eyes and a striking scar on his forehead; I keep biting my tounge so as not to blurt out a question about it. We are all relatively new to one another but fall in and out of numerous fascinating conversations. I find myself at a constant intersection of colliding cultural interrpretations and misinterrpretations in a profound effort to understand and do some small piece of something in needy lands. I am inspired by their courage and fascinated by what drives them to undertake the lives they lead and do the work that they do...
Finally the jet lag over takes me. I am exhausted. Two days of travelling and 23 hours in a plane has left me dehydrated and longing to lie horizontally. I fall into a deep sleep and wake up refreshed, ready to head out into Cambodia...
Driving through the bizarre traffic, I become aware that people are driving faster, there are more cars, more traffic. The cloud of exhaust smoke is much thicker. A flashing thought of my lungs inhaling this stuff for the next month makes me enjoy the current car drive. A hummer drives by us. It looks obnoxious set against the rickety store fronts and naked, dirty children.
The familar layer of sweet quickly forms on my forehead. Goldie, the dog, is in the back fully enjoying the wind, tounge hanging out. Dr. Jim is catching me up on what has been going on and introducing me to Pang, as he negotiates the stop and go flow of the traffic. We fall into an easy and light conversation. Welcome back...
I take a nap. I shower. I unpack a little bit. Read a little bit of the Cambodian Daily and guzzle water. We leave for the Australian compound for dinner in the late afternoon and have a lovely dinner with fascinating characters. One woman has worked extensively in the "HIV/AIDS world" of Asia. Another woman works at Hagar shelter (the one where Chan stays). Another man is currently living in Sierre Leone and in Cambodia on vacation to visit friends. He has warm and penetrating eyes and a striking scar on his forehead; I keep biting my tounge so as not to blurt out a question about it. We are all relatively new to one another but fall in and out of numerous fascinating conversations. I find myself at a constant intersection of colliding cultural interrpretations and misinterrpretations in a profound effort to understand and do some small piece of something in needy lands. I am inspired by their courage and fascinated by what drives them to undertake the lives they lead and do the work that they do...
Finally the jet lag over takes me. I am exhausted. Two days of travelling and 23 hours in a plane has left me dehydrated and longing to lie horizontally. I fall into a deep sleep and wake up refreshed, ready to head out into Cambodia...
This morning...
It was about 11:30 am. We had finished the morning treatments and while Thary (the PT) was preparing lunch, I was finishing the exercise posters we had put together for the patients. As I traced out elegant and curvy Khmer alphabet outlining basic instructions, I heard a beautiful sound. It was singing. The melody had various undulations and patterns. It was sweet like mango juice. I stopped what I was doing and began to follow it...outside, three of the patients were sitting on one of swing sets in the front yard. One woman, who lives in permenant darkness for the scars have sealed her eyes shut and continue to ooze puss, was singing in the most beautiful voice. The other patient, also a woman who's burns resulted from a gasoline explosion fire, was lying on the other bench, also humming along. The blind singer was holding and caressing the hand and shoulder of one of the male patients. He is the most quite of all the patients; keeps to himself and doesn't say very much. I usually find him quietly lying in his bed and when I ask why he is not out with the others, his sads eyes look up and he just says "pain". Here he is - outside and smiling.
I brought the posters outside, set myself up on the front stoop, the house dog lying on my lap and floated with their songs...
I brought the posters outside, set myself up on the front stoop, the house dog lying on my lap and floated with their songs...
Friday, August 05, 2005
Slums - a visit
A draft of this blog was written in early July 2005, when I was still in Phnom Penh. The day we went into the slums was one of the hardest I experienced in Cambodia and it took a bit of time to put all down.
Now it has been completed and hence posted...
She has a plan she explains: she wants to sell second hand clothing at the market. SHe really likes buisness and being amongst people haggling, bargining at the markets. Before her acid burn accident, she did the hair styles for brides for their wedding day. She explains all of this to use during one of the scar massage sessions - while I massage the scar on the left check and forehead, and then nurse cleans out the puss and dead tissue from the other eye socket (she lost her eye as a result of the acid burn). She has a friend that lives in Phnom Phen - actually it is her adopted mother (when she was young her parents died and this women decided to adopt her on top of her 6 other children. Jesus). She is excited and chippers away at her plans of selling baby clothing at the market. She just needs $50 to buy the initial batch. Just $50...I inquire where she will get the $50. She doesn't know. Yet. But she just needs $50 to buy the first batch and then she will sell the clothes on the market and make enough to buy food for her and her daughter...Is this part of the process I wonder? Is her ambition strong enough to over come the stares and avoidance that her scars will cause at the market? Does she know? Although everyone around realizes that the rejection she will experience at the market because of her deforming scarring, nobody steps forward to tell her that. Is it in anybody's position to make that move ?. Funny game of chess. I gently suggest that she has other ideas just in case this one doesn't work out the way she hopes. But she seems very determined. SHe will live at her step mother's place, start to sell clothes and once she is up on her feet again, she will find a place for her and her daughter to live.
I want to see where she will live with her step mothers. I feel like I am adopting this family of two...I'm not sure why but the option of turing away is not an option at this point. On a personal note, I recognize the fact that I am taking responsibility for another life. That there are wings under which some are finding shelter. My wings do not scare me, however, I am aware of the strength they need in order to nurture and provide.
The following week, in the early afternoon, the PT and I take his moto and pick up ChanNarey and her daughter at the shelter. Chan has a strong conversation with the moto taxi driver - he wants to charge her too much for the trip to the market and to where her step mother lives...I start to move away from them a little bit; I know that because there is a foreigner with them (myself), the price doubles. These are the shadows that we keep moving in, trying to find the best deal.
We turn off the familar main road onto a wide dirt road of an unfamiliar world. We twist and weave our way through the pot wholes, cars, people and dogs, following the bike in front of us so as not to get lost. But inevitably, with the congestion, we do lose them. Not focused on the bike in front anymore, my eyes begin to focus on what is immediately surrounding us - stray dogs, dirty children with ripped clothes who look at us with cool distant eyes. Some children smile shyly and quickly hide their face behind an older kids back. Buildings that seam to be leaning against one another. A cloud of orange dust hangs in the air. Adults with wild eyes and hair satured with the dust; they look exhausted. I begin to sink into my new surroundings. I am aware of my heart beat slowing down. I have no sense of smell, but I am very aware of the new sounds and the colours - everything is set against the orangy-brown dirt and takes on new tones. Lost, we decide to turn around head back the way we came. I feel like a ghost who is silently travelling and weaving through the streets the bear a particular kind of burden.
Suddenly, I see Chan - stepping out onto the road and waving at us. Re-united, we are lead by Chan down a little, windy alley leading away from the main road. The volume begins to go down and specific sounds become more audible - I can hear conversations between people, dogs barking, somebody is running, I am aware of the sound my feet make on small rocks, stepping into puddles. We are met by her step mom at the end of this alley. She is a petite woman - I am struck by the thought that this tiny female body gave birth to 6 children...my head grasps the significance of this and at the same I am in awe and wonder at the capacity of the human body.
She begins to lead us down another maze of small alley ways, and then another...further and further away from the main road and deeper into the soul of this place. I've lost track of how many times we've turned. I feel oddly eternally calm as I enter the heart of this slum with my companions. Houses are layered ontop of one another - it seems as if randomly, in no particular way or organization. Their supports are the shacks on either side. SOmetimes their is alley way leading into another maze of shacks, children, chickens and more puddles. I don't understand how they do not fall apart...they look as if they are made of popsicle sticks and any wind would blow them over. But they endure, survive, stand. This entire place takes on it's misery and poverty in appearance and function. Little children running about slow down to observe us with curiosity. Parents and adults peer out through cloth-covered doorframes, revealing a little bit of their homes to my scanning/absorbing eyes. We continue to walk. I am astonished at the fact that there are so many people condensed into this place and that it expands so deeply...from the main roads, this place disappears - to the outside world, it's as if it didn't exist.
We come the end and walk up three steps on a make shift stair case - which is really a ladder on it's side. We continue on along a narrow plank of wood and turn into one of the many doorways and then walk into one of the rooms - a room comparable to the size a nursery room or an ensuite bathroom in a family home in Canada. This room is their home - the home of the step mother, her husband and her 6 children. I am stunned. I knew about this...I've heard about this...but now, standing here, being here, I am stunned. This actually happens. People actually live and survive like this. I begin to feel the air leaving my lungs. Tears come to the surface, as I am struck with an undeniable truth. Now I understand her expression of dispair, the surrender to circumstance. I accept it and now hope to be a gracious guest.
Against one wall is a massive metal water barrel - the water used to bath, wash dishes, cook. One wall has a window and against it is a wood bed frame the size of a twin bed. Some of the planks in the middle are broken. Dishes and pillows are stored in the small spaces between wooden beams of the wall. Somehow, this family of 7 sleeps, eats and functions in this one tiny room. And they have said that Chan and her daughter can come and stay with them...the degree of love, helpfullness and wanting to help each other floods over me. Even when you think you can't, you can.
I am invited to sit on the bed frame. The physio, also my translator, sits beside me. I invite Chan's daughter to sit on my lap. I play with her hair - this with her body heat somehow calms me down. Everyone else sits on the floor around us. The mother smiles at me and Chan, playing with her hands, rubbing her right thigh. When Chan looks away, I see the expression on the mother's face change and I realize she is very afraid and sad for her step daughter. I don't know what to say or what to do. I feel like I need a few days to absorb this place before I can even begin or engage in any conversation...an ackward silence fills up the room. Chan begins to chatter, smile, laugh a little bit and this seems to melt the ice. As with any human interaction, we begin to talk about the basics - the two wedding pictures nailed to one wall, work, family, children...how hard life is. How we want something better for the future. How we want our children to have a better chance at a better life: A common thread running through the fabric of human existence.
One of her daughters is the same age as Chan's daughter. I see them eyeing one another. I ask if she goes to school. Yes, she does. About 2km from here. She walks there every day. I ask if we can go see it. As we leave the room, I look back and see Chan and her mother huddling together on the bed of broken wooden planks, comforting one another with tender jestures two women who are close to one another will do.
Back on the dirt paths, the two girls begin to talk to each other. They have a quick, brisk pace, strong eyes, determined eyes. Beautiful smiles which they do not express randomly. Their expressions are serious most of the time, very particular and true. Their instincts are fine tuned -about their surrounds and the people that they come across. They are not innocent or naive. I am amazed that such young girls can know so much already. Each one takes one of my hands and begins to lead they way to the school...they have a beautiful quality about them: they are not over-taken by grief and disappair... and I'm inspired by it. Being in their hands, I realize that their is always hope. That in something god-awful and terrible something beautiful can be found.
Now it has been completed and hence posted...
She has a plan she explains: she wants to sell second hand clothing at the market. SHe really likes buisness and being amongst people haggling, bargining at the markets. Before her acid burn accident, she did the hair styles for brides for their wedding day. She explains all of this to use during one of the scar massage sessions - while I massage the scar on the left check and forehead, and then nurse cleans out the puss and dead tissue from the other eye socket (she lost her eye as a result of the acid burn). She has a friend that lives in Phnom Phen - actually it is her adopted mother (when she was young her parents died and this women decided to adopt her on top of her 6 other children. Jesus). She is excited and chippers away at her plans of selling baby clothing at the market. She just needs $50 to buy the initial batch. Just $50...I inquire where she will get the $50. She doesn't know. Yet. But she just needs $50 to buy the first batch and then she will sell the clothes on the market and make enough to buy food for her and her daughter...Is this part of the process I wonder? Is her ambition strong enough to over come the stares and avoidance that her scars will cause at the market? Does she know? Although everyone around realizes that the rejection she will experience at the market because of her deforming scarring, nobody steps forward to tell her that. Is it in anybody's position to make that move ?. Funny game of chess. I gently suggest that she has other ideas just in case this one doesn't work out the way she hopes. But she seems very determined. SHe will live at her step mother's place, start to sell clothes and once she is up on her feet again, she will find a place for her and her daughter to live.
I want to see where she will live with her step mothers. I feel like I am adopting this family of two...I'm not sure why but the option of turing away is not an option at this point. On a personal note, I recognize the fact that I am taking responsibility for another life. That there are wings under which some are finding shelter. My wings do not scare me, however, I am aware of the strength they need in order to nurture and provide.
The following week, in the early afternoon, the PT and I take his moto and pick up ChanNarey and her daughter at the shelter. Chan has a strong conversation with the moto taxi driver - he wants to charge her too much for the trip to the market and to where her step mother lives...I start to move away from them a little bit; I know that because there is a foreigner with them (myself), the price doubles. These are the shadows that we keep moving in, trying to find the best deal.
We turn off the familar main road onto a wide dirt road of an unfamiliar world. We twist and weave our way through the pot wholes, cars, people and dogs, following the bike in front of us so as not to get lost. But inevitably, with the congestion, we do lose them. Not focused on the bike in front anymore, my eyes begin to focus on what is immediately surrounding us - stray dogs, dirty children with ripped clothes who look at us with cool distant eyes. Some children smile shyly and quickly hide their face behind an older kids back. Buildings that seam to be leaning against one another. A cloud of orange dust hangs in the air. Adults with wild eyes and hair satured with the dust; they look exhausted. I begin to sink into my new surroundings. I am aware of my heart beat slowing down. I have no sense of smell, but I am very aware of the new sounds and the colours - everything is set against the orangy-brown dirt and takes on new tones. Lost, we decide to turn around head back the way we came. I feel like a ghost who is silently travelling and weaving through the streets the bear a particular kind of burden.
Suddenly, I see Chan - stepping out onto the road and waving at us. Re-united, we are lead by Chan down a little, windy alley leading away from the main road. The volume begins to go down and specific sounds become more audible - I can hear conversations between people, dogs barking, somebody is running, I am aware of the sound my feet make on small rocks, stepping into puddles. We are met by her step mom at the end of this alley. She is a petite woman - I am struck by the thought that this tiny female body gave birth to 6 children...my head grasps the significance of this and at the same I am in awe and wonder at the capacity of the human body.
She begins to lead us down another maze of small alley ways, and then another...further and further away from the main road and deeper into the soul of this place. I've lost track of how many times we've turned. I feel oddly eternally calm as I enter the heart of this slum with my companions. Houses are layered ontop of one another - it seems as if randomly, in no particular way or organization. Their supports are the shacks on either side. SOmetimes their is alley way leading into another maze of shacks, children, chickens and more puddles. I don't understand how they do not fall apart...they look as if they are made of popsicle sticks and any wind would blow them over. But they endure, survive, stand. This entire place takes on it's misery and poverty in appearance and function. Little children running about slow down to observe us with curiosity. Parents and adults peer out through cloth-covered doorframes, revealing a little bit of their homes to my scanning/absorbing eyes. We continue to walk. I am astonished at the fact that there are so many people condensed into this place and that it expands so deeply...from the main roads, this place disappears - to the outside world, it's as if it didn't exist.
We come the end and walk up three steps on a make shift stair case - which is really a ladder on it's side. We continue on along a narrow plank of wood and turn into one of the many doorways and then walk into one of the rooms - a room comparable to the size a nursery room or an ensuite bathroom in a family home in Canada. This room is their home - the home of the step mother, her husband and her 6 children. I am stunned. I knew about this...I've heard about this...but now, standing here, being here, I am stunned. This actually happens. People actually live and survive like this. I begin to feel the air leaving my lungs. Tears come to the surface, as I am struck with an undeniable truth. Now I understand her expression of dispair, the surrender to circumstance. I accept it and now hope to be a gracious guest.
Against one wall is a massive metal water barrel - the water used to bath, wash dishes, cook. One wall has a window and against it is a wood bed frame the size of a twin bed. Some of the planks in the middle are broken. Dishes and pillows are stored in the small spaces between wooden beams of the wall. Somehow, this family of 7 sleeps, eats and functions in this one tiny room. And they have said that Chan and her daughter can come and stay with them...the degree of love, helpfullness and wanting to help each other floods over me. Even when you think you can't, you can.
I am invited to sit on the bed frame. The physio, also my translator, sits beside me. I invite Chan's daughter to sit on my lap. I play with her hair - this with her body heat somehow calms me down. Everyone else sits on the floor around us. The mother smiles at me and Chan, playing with her hands, rubbing her right thigh. When Chan looks away, I see the expression on the mother's face change and I realize she is very afraid and sad for her step daughter. I don't know what to say or what to do. I feel like I need a few days to absorb this place before I can even begin or engage in any conversation...an ackward silence fills up the room. Chan begins to chatter, smile, laugh a little bit and this seems to melt the ice. As with any human interaction, we begin to talk about the basics - the two wedding pictures nailed to one wall, work, family, children...how hard life is. How we want something better for the future. How we want our children to have a better chance at a better life: A common thread running through the fabric of human existence.
One of her daughters is the same age as Chan's daughter. I see them eyeing one another. I ask if she goes to school. Yes, she does. About 2km from here. She walks there every day. I ask if we can go see it. As we leave the room, I look back and see Chan and her mother huddling together on the bed of broken wooden planks, comforting one another with tender jestures two women who are close to one another will do.
Back on the dirt paths, the two girls begin to talk to each other. They have a quick, brisk pace, strong eyes, determined eyes. Beautiful smiles which they do not express randomly. Their expressions are serious most of the time, very particular and true. Their instincts are fine tuned -about their surrounds and the people that they come across. They are not innocent or naive. I am amazed that such young girls can know so much already. Each one takes one of my hands and begins to lead they way to the school...they have a beautiful quality about them: they are not over-taken by grief and disappair... and I'm inspired by it. Being in their hands, I realize that their is always hope. That in something god-awful and terrible something beautiful can be found.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Like sand slipping through my fingers
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…
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)