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Memories of that first moment in
Pochentong Airport flicker dimly in the
distance of nine months of Phnom Penh
living. I can no longer relate as well
with the idealistic person who sobbed
inconsolably with burning tears, evoked
by the dirty emaciated faces reflecting
her youth, now imploring her for money
as she first stepped onto Cambodian
soil. She quickly learned survival
dictates a certain degree of immunity to
the ubiquitous poverty, suffering, and
insanity engulfing her.
I remember the profound sorrow that
blanketed over me - as well as the other
volunteers I'm sure, as the van made its
way from the airport to the Cando*
office and my living quarter for the
next twelve months - at the sights of
skeletal children playing on heaps of
trash as if they were rolling on green
pasture; of decrepit, war-created
transparency of Phnom Penh University
buildings; of dark, gloomy wooden shacks
that lined the streets with women
sitting at stands patiently waiting for
customers; of dusty and sweaty faces,
lined with expressions of hopelessness
and futility but thinly layered with a
determination to get through the day.
Oh, if each could tell her story - but
all their faces seem to say, "I have
weathered so much that if I were to tell
you, you wouldn't understand." As the
van came into view of Independence
Monument, a sharp pain of familiarity -
a sickness of nostalgia - triggers
memories of my time spent there many
years ago playing hide-and-seek with
siblings.
We arrived in the middle of the rainy
season. I remember wading through
knee-deep sewage water as we made our
way from Cando II to the office of Cando
I for orientation that first month. The
dilapidated, hole-ridden, over-flooded
roads make for adventurous cyclo
(rickshaw) rides. A rowboat would have
made for a smoother and more practical
transport as streets overnight transform
into rivers. Along the way, cyclo and
motor taxi drivers make use of the
stream as they washed and shined their
possessions on the road but only to have
their cleaned wheels to be splashed and
dirtied by oncoming Mercedes. Children
play and swim in the city-river
alongside women balancing baskets with
amazing ease and poise, selling local
delicacies from "noum arkow" to seasonal
tropical fruits.
During my first trip to the neighborhood
market, I almost fainted from the stench
and unsanitary condition. The mixture of
flooding, garbage, and the odor of the
open market posits a perfect breeding
ground of diseases. Have I become too
bourgeois in my attitude? Or has
everyone a right to a healthy
environment?
It is really very difficult not to put
on an elitist attitude here, especially
as an "anikachun" (Cambodian from
overseas). Prior to coming to Cambodia,
I romanticized about running free with
children in the villages, eating
delicacies from street vendors, dressing
in traditional local outfits, living in
shacks. I romanticized that I would be
free from the comfort of fifteen years
of American middle-class living and
fully embraced the culture of my roots -
at least for the one year I am here
anyhow. The 140-pound maximum allotted
to me, I packed with mainly books,
gifts, and the most essential personal
items, purposefully avoiding stylish
clothes of Western taste. Sarong is the
way to go! How quickly that first day in
Cambodia shattered my romanticized
ideals! Each of the volunteers was shown
our own personal, spacious,
fully-furnished, air-conditioned room in
our well-guarded villa in the most
expensive part of Phnom Penh. We were
introduced to our cook, our maid, our
laundry lady.
I did make a conscious effort to not let
the royal treatment dilute my strong
initial desire to contribute to the
development of Cambodia. I refused the
laundry service. For the first eight
months, I scrubbed my own clothes. I had
sarongs cut. I only accepted half the
time to be driven to and from work at
the Ministry of Justice. I frequented
local restaurants and stands. However,
success was short-lived. After the first
few months, inexpensive, local stands
were traded in for trendy, western
hang-outs. The "Cando Breakfast Club"
can be spotted religiously at the French
café, Phnom Khiev. And hey, that Justice
Ministry four-wheel drive would make for
a smoother and more sophisticated ride
than the rickety cyclos. Moreover, it
would provide better protection against
the dust and heat to maintain that pale,
bourgeois skin. And now that I am
presenting the news on national
television, tailored expensive clothes
are excusable.
Thus, continues the deterioration in
thinking and action. Would Cambodia be
better off without people like me? The
country doesn't need attitudes - plenty
of these already exist here among the
leaders and the expatriate community.
Cambodians don't need "anikachun"
flashing the almighty dollar in their
faces for they have witnessed how more
vices can be achieved with a dollar than
a riel. The conclusion to be drawn then,
is not the altruistic American-me
benefiting Cambodians. Rather, in all
honesty, I have gained a lot more than I
have given during my nine months here.
*CANDO is the acronym for
Cambodian-American National Development
Organization.
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