#elcayagm

In Cambodia, you don’t really say, “No.“ It is just not culturally appropriate. In the USA (or al least the parts of it I have experienced), it is better to avoid being frank. That is not to say that people in Cambodia don’t ever say no and people in the US never are frank, but it becomes a lot more noticeable when you are placed in a different culture, much as I have been. In order to really explain what I mean, I have an example and how it might go (as I have experienced it) in both cultures:

USA: You sit down to a meal at a friends house. It is corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and steak. The steak is WAY too salty and you cannot do it. So, you eat as much as you can and only eat corn and potatoes for the rest of the meal. Most likely, if the cook asks you if you want more steak and has not mentioned that the steak is too salty themselves, you are going to say something along the lines of, “You know, I have been trying to increase my veggie intake, I’ll stick to the potatoes and corn!“ or “This is so good, but I don’t think I can eat another.“ Everyone leaves happy, and you don’t have to eat another steak. Unless you know the person very very well or it is at a restaurant, you will probably not say, “Wow, this steak was way too salty. I really don’t want another, it was hard enough to get the first one down."

Cambodia: You sit down at a meal. It is sour soup and stir-fry. You take a bit of the sour soup and are reminded that you do not like it. So you stick to eating that yummy stir-fry.  If somebody tells you to eat more soup, you most likely are going to say, "Knyome ot joljet“ (I don’t like it) or “Ot Chnany“ (Not delicious).  After that, it is left alone and everyone leaves happy.  You would never simply say, “No, thank you."

It seems like these two things would not be sort of similar in the long run, but honestly, they are not. The more I figure out, the more it seems like not saying. “No“ may be more direct in a lot of cases than not being frank. There are those times, like when people don’t know how to say, “no” so they just laugh and leave you hanging, where „no“ would be so much more effective. But there are so many more that seem like are smoother in the long run because of the frankness. In the examples above, the USA story may lead the cooks of the steak to serve another super salty steak to you assuming that you like it, whereas in the Cambodia story, now people know you don’t like sour soup and unless they forget, they won’t ask you about it again.

Before I get into the meat of my post, I just thought I would give you a little update about my life recently via bullet points of the most important things:

It is November, so school is officially in session (though I have yet to start teaching!) I have slept in my room 2 times in the last 13 days and most likely will not be sleeping there for another 5 days In that time, I have been to Phnom Penh (for a YAGM weekend), to one of my co-worker’s houses in Battambang (three times) and got to see the city of Battambang at long last, stayed with Chamnan, and now I am attending a training on Good Governance in Pursat with my LWD staff and the LWD staff at Elise’s office (yes, that means that I get to hang out with Elise every day! and also that is why I am actually not starting school until next week) I attended a meeting (or so I thought) at the school that turned out to be the opening ceremony and lasted for many hours and included lunch! I finally met my Peace Corps volunteer. Her name is Linda, she is in her second year, she is very nice, and somehow we have never seen each other even though she lives very close to Chamnan

I hope that taste of my life is satisfying!

One thing that I have learned about Khmer culture that is totally different than the culture I am used to in the USA, is openness. What I mean is, it seems like there are no real topics or questions that are inappropriate or off limits. Obviously that is not the case in any culture, but compared to what I have experienced, Khmer culture is super open. In order to illustrate this I have decided to share two very different stories.

For those of you who don’t know, I have had a lot of struggles with food since I got to my site. It is not that I cannot eat food, it is not that I do not like the food, it is that I often feel obligated to eat way more than I want and way more often. This is something that I have been trying to communicate is an issue, and until recently I have not felt like I was making any grounds to be better (I am slowly figuring it out). As a result of this overeating, I have gained 5 kilos (about 11 pounds). While in the USA, I would look  at that and readjust my eating an exercise habits and it wouldn’t be a big deal, it is a much bigger deal here (not in a dieting way). I wouldn’t even know what I weigh except that the first weekend I was here I was pressured to weighing myself in front of a few people, and I had to weigh myself again in front of the same people this past weekend. Both times, many people were told my weight, even some people I do not know. This most recent time, people were told both weights with a, ''can you believe she gained that much weight?“ This weight sharing is not exclusive to my site, and one of my fellow YAGMs had their weight announced to a whole bunch of people all at once. At first, I wanted to shrink back into my skin, I was so uncomfortable with that information just being tossed around. Now, I am still not totally comfortable with that, but I am learning to let it go, because if I wanted I could probably get every single person’s weight without pause and it is not a big deal. That doesn’t mean though that I didn’t feel the same discomfort arise when some of my coworkers see an old photo (like from graduation) and say, ‘Oh, you were so much skinnier then.“ What it means is that I have to take a step back from those moments I feel uncomfortable and remind myself that it is not something personal at all. When my weight is shared, it is just a number that people are curious about and by no means is it maliciously being spread.

After that one which is a little less than fun, I have a very different way that Cambodians share. If you are sharing this blog post with a younger audience, you may want to read this section first and discern for yourselves if you want to share any or all of it. Traditionally, Cambodian families shared one room or the dividers between rooms are very thin. That means that everyone knows what everyone else is doing in the house. While this is not as true anymore with the growing popularity of concrete houses and buildings, the idea that nothing stays in the bedroom has transferred into the culture in a way it has not in the USA. While sex is a topic that by no means goes unaddressed in the US, it does not have the same acceptance as natural and appropriate in the USA as it does here. Case and point: Yesterday, during work training, as a part of a break, we were told a pretty funny penis joke. Because it was funny, though very different than jokes I have grown up with, I have decided to share it with you, hopefully you giggle a little. So, there is a man and his wife, and the man goes fishing every day. For some reason or another, he tells his wife one day that if he doesn’t catch any fish that day he is going to cut his penis off (I have no idea why he would do that). So, he goes out and fishes all day but doesn’t catch anything. Not wanting to have to cut off his penis, he comes up with a plan. After getting his plan ready, he heads home, head hanging. Once he arrives, he tells his wife that he didn’t catch anything and before she can say a word, he cuts off his penis. His wife is VERY distraught. She doesn’t understand why he would do that and he didn’t even ask her how she felt about it. While she is crying, she goes to pick up the penis and is totally surprised to find that penises have two eyes! How did she never notice that? As it turns out, the man never cut off his penis after all, and actually tied an eel around his waist (which is a fish, so I am a little confused) and cut the head off the fish instead of cutting off his penis. Hahaha now lets get back to the meeting.

In Cambodia, you share your life, you share the details that make it what it is, even the details that make me, as somebody from the USA, uncomfortable. You share your laughs, your joys, your stupidity, your jokes (even the penis ones!), and you let others share with you. Sometimes it is really hard and sometimes it comes naturally, but no matter what, I am learning a totally different perspective on what it means to share and to be open with others.

I was inspired by some friends, who were sending me beautiful stories they have been writing, to write a story of my own. I decided to work off of my own experiences and this was the result. Hopefully you enjoy it and maybe it will give you a little bit of a different perspective of my life here in Cambodia.

   I swallow and inhale slowly through my nose hoping that my face doesn’t change colors to match the fire burning my lips, mouth, and throat. I wont give in. Everyone else has begun to do that clenched-teeth, square-lipped, short inhale between each bite trying to cool their mouths down. If I do the spicy-inhale or drink the icy water that has been placed before me, I will have lost. Failing at this is not something I am willing to do. My failure will prove that I am just another foreigner who cannot handle the heat.

   I already put myself in that position when I reacted strongly to a super hot chili a few weeks ago. I am still suffering the consequences of that mistake. In fact, the whole reason I am eating this right now, or at least the reason I am choosing to eat so much of it, is because of that mistake. Ever since the spicy incident, in which I widened my eyes in the surprise of the fire’s intensity, opened my mouth wide, and promptly drank two tall glasses of water, I have been told that I cannot eat about half of the food I see. It is a protection, a way for my friends to show me they care – warning me to avoid what they think I cannot handle – but it comes off as a challenge to me.

   The conversation usually goes as follows:

   “Why can’t I eat it?” (If I were a perfectly normal human I would never ask why and just go for it as soon as the challenge is made, but I have food intolerances to gluten and soy. Before you ask (because everyone always does): No, it is not as bad as an allergy; no, I am not going to die or get instantly sick if I eat it; yes, I will feel horrible tomorrow if I eat that today; no, I didn’t make it up and I am not going to eat something to prove it to you.)

   “I think you no like” is the response 90% of the time.

   “Why do you think that?” I respond. Sometimes I get great answers to this one – my favorite was when one of my coworkers said, “Its Khmer.” -if I had a problem with eating Khmer food then I would be screwed living in Cambodia. Good thing I LOVE Khmer cooking.

   “Hal” (spicy) is the usual response. And that means eating time for me and my pride.

  I am eating it (and loving it too!). Every mouthful of the chili, papaya, hot pepper, all around spicy concoction stings my lips, making them feel swollen; making me aware of parts of my mouth that are usually forgotten as the underside of my tongue, insides of my cheeks, and my gums are coated in fiery saliva.

   Watching one of my friends, I make sure to take twice as many fork-loads of the food and only a quarter as many sips of water. It seems to be working – I am not even breaking into a sweat.

  I smile. I am winning.

  Across the table my friend says something to her neighbor in Khmer. She is Khmer, so I am used to it, and usually tune it out. Except she has a different way of talking when it is about me – in front of me. Sometimes I don’t mind – she is usually telling the person something dumb I did or telling them who I am or filling in when my language abilities fall short. But sometimes I question if she really thinks I can speak or understand any Khmer because I can understand what she says and can counter it all too. This is one of those times and my ears perk up when I realize she is talking about me.

   “She doesn’t like the spicy. She didn’t eat very much.” I just ate like four times as much as you! I just ate like half of it! “She doesn’t like Khmer spicy.” I can’t do it. I cannot let her think that! Or tell people that when it is not true.

   Would it have been better if I was doing the Darth Vader breath every bite to prove that I was actually eating it and feeling the spicy? But then, even though everyone else was doing it too, that would be the definitive proof that I can’t handle it. Should I have chugged the water? Made comments about how spicy it is? Made sure to show off every bite that I took? No, those would all be the proof that she could use too. So instead, I collect a really big bite with as many red chili slices as I can get on it – I make sure she is watching me. Then, as she begins to give me that look that means she is going to say that I wont like it or that I cannot eat it, I shove my fork into my open, still-burning-from-the-last-bite mouth. I look her in the eyes as I chew, swallow, and say, “I LOVE spicy like this!”

  Or at least that is what I try to say. What happens instead, is mid-sentence, a stray grain of rice or a part of a chili, or something, dislodges itself from wherever it had been hiding, falls down my throat, and partially chokes me.

   My eyes start to water, I cough, I wheeze, I stumble over my unfinished sentence as I reach for my nearly empty glass of water. I down what is left trying to reopen my airway to no avail and reach for the half-glass my friend has generously outstretched toward me. Chugging it, I finally feel the unknown food particle shift and allow itself to be swept away with the water.

   I lean back, knowing that my face is red and feeling the sweat that has formed above my upper-lip. I should not have taken such a big bite or rushed to speak before I finished it. Catching my breath, I look up at my friend ready to tell her what I was unable to finish earlier.

The majority of what I am able to say in Khmer has to do with food. And the majority of food is rice. I eat rice at least three times a day. A very typical breakfast for me is rice and pork. Then, for mid-morning snack, I usually have some sort of rice treat. This has been anything from little rice sugar bread type things, to bananas wrapped in rice and cooked, to little coconut rice bar things. So pretty much just all sorts of yum. Lunch at LWD tends to be a fish sour soup and some sort of veggies with meat, served family style over our individual bowls of rice. Then as a little rice break, afternoon snack is usually fruit. I love the fruit we have been having for this snack. Sometimes we get snake fruit; sometimes its bananas (fresh or fried!); but more often than not, we have oranges. For those of you who don’t know (probably most, if not all, of you), oranges in Cambodia are green. They are still orange inside (though not quite as bright), but they are a very green green outside. A few hours after snack time, I go to Chamnan’s house and we have some delicious veggies and fish, pork, crab, or beef, and rice. Finally, once I have reached my rice quota, I can go to sleep.

 Because rice is so central in the culture (and my daily life), it is important to know a at least one or two words and phrases in Khmer. Here are some that I say at least two or three times a day:

 Rice – buy

Have you eaten already? (Used like “How are you?”) – Nahm buy howey?

Yes I have eaten rice already. – Jah (if you are a woman)/Bah (if you are a man), khnyome nahm buy howey.

Okay to be fair, I don’t know if you actually can crash a funeral in Cambodian culture, and even if you can, I am not totally sure I actually count as a crasher, but that is less fun.

Now you may be saying to yourself, '‘Okay, if it wasn’t crashing the funeral, then how on earth did it happen on accident?“ And I have a fairly simple explanation for that: I have no idea what is going on 90% of the time. This is maybe less so during the working hours at LWD, but this weekend I have spent a majority of my time with some of the staff members of LWD who live just a few minutes’ bike ride away at their house. This group of women all speak varying amounts of English which means that there have been many times where I sort of get the gist of what is going on, but that is about it (and I often make false assumptions about what the gist actually is). Then there are other times where all I know is that we are going somewhere (like when we went and I met one of the women's father, who is a monk). Because wherever we are going is almost always something new or different for me, I like to go along.

The first time this happened was when I went over for dinner on Thursday night. Before dinner we went to pick up Chamnan (my friend)’s sister’s vegetables. That seems like an easy enough task, right? Pretty hard to misunderstand, right? Wrong! I somehow missed that her sister sells vegetables at the market and was totally caught off guard when we drove for like 25 minutes to the first place and they had about 20 bags full of veggies for us - and then we went to more and more places and got more and more! Because it had gotten dark while we were out, we ate dinner at Chamnan’s sister’s house in the village right next door. After we finished eating, we crossed the street to visit a very old dying man who was surrounded by women and some men while two monks sang nearby. It was all very new and different to me but also very interesting. We didn’t stay long though.

Fast forward to Friday night (briefly): Before dinner we went back to Chamnan’s sister’s house to get some veggies to cook with and there was still some music at the house of the dying man, though much fewer people.

Saturday night: After dinner we were all looking at this English-Khmer Picture Dictionary and they were helping me learn new Khmer words while I helped them mostly with pronouncing the English words. During this time Chamnan got a call that the old man had passed away so she went to see him and was out until very late.

Yesterday morning I woke up around six, put on my lazy clothing from the day before and was a told, ''Okay we go now.“ Being used to just going places, I went along with it and found myself about 15 minutes later at a pagoda helping get together supplies for a funeral. All of the dishes, pots, pans, that sort of stuff came out of this storage closet type thing with hundreds (dare I say, thousands) of bowls and cooking things for funerals. We then followed the supplies back to the dead old man’s house where we shortly went to the back and started cutting food things, doing really anything to help prepare for the funeral. I was quite overwhelmed and had even less of an idea of what was happening than usual which made me very conscious of how much I stand out as a white foreigner and how I felt even more out of place because everyone was wearing nicer, button-up shirts. My discomfort with feeling so outside was apparently noticeable to Chamnan, so we went back to her house and showered and freshened up (which was needed!) before heading back to the funeral.

We went back to the back to help with food prep again and it was so crazy to me how much would change every time I would come out from the back. All these tent/shade coverings were hoisted at one point. The old man’s body was moved from being covered and in a mosquito net to being inside of a coffin. An area was set up for a number of monks with a lower area set p for everyone else. And while all this was going on - the singing, the moving, the praying, the funeral part - there were so many people in the back, making food, cleaning dishes, setting up tables, taking down tables, doing everything and anything that needed to be done. I really enjoyed helping out as much as I could, but sometimes people would tell me to sit down, that I, the foreigner, shouldn’t have to do the work (or that is what I am pretty sure a lot of them were saying…). There were a few times where I was able to just go to the way back and help with the dishes. I liked doing that a lot because I knew what I was doing, because I have done dishes before, and because it was something to do and that needed to be done.