More Than “A Five-Star Hotel”

“Why are you going to Cambodia?” the man next to me on my 13-hour layover flight from Los Angeles to Taiwan asks, with furrowed eyebrows and a slow shaking of the head.  The conversation I had gotten into with the 60 year-old Taiwanese man suddenly shifts to me.  When he, my neighbor in the emergency exit row of our Eva Airlines flight, had dismissed the flight attendant’s attempt to give us a run-through of our responsibilities at the start of the flight, I had wondered if he was familiar with the flight.  Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I am now hearing about his regular choice of seat 60C for the spacious leg room and the window, during his frequent ventures between Taipei to Los Angeles.  I am  also hearing about his childrens’ successes in business and medicine in the States, his different homes in Taiwan, as well as his interest in cars—the numerous Mercedes and Lexus’ that he has owned.  Except to comment on my fluency in Chinese as an American-born Chinese, this is the first time he turns his attention to me.

I take a deep breath, not sure how to answer.  Having thought through the rationale behind this trip countless times, on numerous occasions, for a drawn-out period, all I have to show for it is a tangled web of thoughts and feelings.  I manage to articulate, “I hope that living in Cambodia will broaden my perspective towards the world for the rest of my life,” hoping that I will get the chance to explain.  But I never do, because the conversation shifts back to him as quickly as it had turned to me.  Quickly, I am listening to his view of Cambodia— lack of water sanitation, overwhelming poverty, heat, disease, corruption—that should keep me from being there.  Exhausted, several hours into the flight, I cannot help hoping—and praying—that there a significant portion missing to his narrative.  When we say our farewells at Taipei International Airport, he leaves me with an attempt at humor attempt that stick in my mind … “Cambodia is not going to be a five-star hotel.”  




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Day One
My host family—Pbu (host father), Ming (host mother), Pisey, Pisal, and Channa—and I sit together cross-legged on a square wooden table a foot off the ground, in front of a ten-inch television, when darkness suddenly surrounds us.  A murmur arises from the surrounding community, and Channa, my animated 15-year old sister utters something in Khmer.  Before I even realize she walks out of the home, she returns with a candlestick from a home that serves as a store.  I am confused, not just at what that is happening, but that she maneuvered the narrow winding passages of our community—of wet dirt, off-handed litter, and pointed objects—so quickly in blanket darkness.  Dinner continues as light gleams off of cell phones and the thin candlestick Channa melts onto the wooden table.  I am overwhelmed by the first couple of hours of arrival in Cambodia.  But I am mindful, after a long day, of the comfort of being with a whole family. 
                                                                   
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Pisey is one of the first people I connect with in Cambodia, a university student who is also my host sister.  In the first couple of hours in Cambodia, I try to be of some help while she washes dishes.  But a single knee-high faucet, a small space for dishes that allows water to run into the dirt ground, and a need for developed muscles in the squatting position makes me of little use.  So of course, I manage to assume the role of distractor instead.  Pisey’s fluency in English, in a context in which education is not highly valued, is telling of her family’s diligence to find good education… and makes her the perfect victim for my inherent inquisitiveness.  Rain spatters noisily on the metal roof over our heads, while we attempt to hold a conversation.  Water seeps from holes in the ceiling—where chemicals from a factory next door had eroded the roof— and Pisey and I are soaked.  But we pay little attention, as time stands still.  We are laughing.

“Bong, Hanna,” Pisey says, teaching me the word for “older” sister and brother. 

Me.  “Bong”
“Bong” ,” Pisey says more clearly, more slowly.

“Bong?”
“No… Bong”

“…that’s exactly what I said!” 

                                                                     


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I wake up in the night, immediately aware of unfamiliar sounds and surroundings.  Cambodia, first night, I remind myself.  And… of course I need to use the bathroom.  But, how?  I remember the struggle earlier in the day, to take a shower.  “They don’t shower naked here, or use toilet paper,” Chami— my slum-experienced, effortless-Khmer-speaking, Japanese-Canadian mentor— from SERVANTS, explained to me when she introduced me to the family and showed me the workings of the home, earlier in the day.  Fear races through my mind now, as I listen to the furious scurrying and bizarre screeching.  I had seen a few rats earlier in the day, and somehow, I am imagining that they jump at people, and take huge chunks of flesh out of them.  But I have no experience and no idea.  It does not help that nothing is visible, except the humidity, thick in the air.  I hold my hand up to my face to find that it blends into the surroundings.  I grumble at being subservient to a high-maintenance bladder, and try to gain the courage to leave the mosquito net.  Failing, however, I decide to try to go back to sleep.  But I really need to go to the bathroom.  Ugh.  On second attempt, I successfully leave the mosquito net and struggle to find my way to a door three feet away.  It will not open.  Is it bolted?  Making a lot of noise, I consider just waking up Pisey, sleeping a couple feet away.  But I cannot do it without also waking up her siblings sleeping next to her, and her parents, under the wooden floor beneath us.  I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally find the bolt, feeling like I might have woken up the entire community in my attempt anyway.  I scramble clumsily down the wooden ladder, and through the dark to the bathroom.  Feeling like I have conquered the world, without any animal incidents, I climb back up the wooden ladder, bolting the door behind me.  Making sure that my mosquito net is firmly tucked, I fall back asleep, holding my aged stuffed golden retriever, Hopeful, firmly, grateful for the decision to bring along something so familiar. 

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Week One & Two
“Han-Naa…mao vengh howee” Ming says, greeting me.  Reassured to see her after a long day, I respond,  “Jchia, mao vengh howee,” with a sigh of relief.  This is usually the part where I attempt to give Ming a run-through of my day in Khmer, complete with actions and vocal expressions, in hopes of communicating effectively.  It is easy to get her to smile, as I tell her about my all-too-common mishaps, as well as unusual encounters during the day.  Today, I am telling her about finally being able to speak the same language as people at Khmer Language School - Chinese, with three people from China. “Tengay ni, kn’om niyey piesa Jen jieh-muy jon-jiet Jen bai nea, neu Sala Piesa Khmer” I say, excited about the conversations I had with my new friends.  Ming laughs with me, listening carefully as she shares the experience, all the while helping me to communicate what happened.

Another time, she asks me how much my moto-dop ride costs to school.  I tell her I tell every moped driver, “roal tengay, kn’om tlo-op jih dai bai powan da” when they try to make me pay more for looking like a foreigner.  Her face creases from years of being in the sun, as she smiles proudly at my explanation to the moto-dop driver that I usually get a rate of 3000 real, or $0.75. 

Every interaction with my host family is a reminder of the reward of working through Khmer.

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In the next five weeks, I start to learn the ways of this communal child-rearing community.  Neighborhood children become my best friends. Logistically, I learn the ways of our tree-house like home, so that I only bump my head every once in a while, and fall on the steps every now and then.  I figure out that rats are cowardly creatures that do not eat people.   And, most importantly, I find that my family fosters my sense of belonging in Cambodia.  Rats, mice, and geckos quickly fade into normal life, as cherishing life with people takes the forefront of life in this Cambodian slum.  While I never want to mitigate the realities of material poverty - realities of societal neglect, missed-opportunity, and daily hardship - I am also experiencing that both life and poverty, should never be mistaken for just material possession.  Instead, life and poverty, individually, are holistically intertwined somehow, meshed into our complex physical, emotional and spiritual beings.


















"Our physical, emotional, and spiritual wounds - the totality of weakness, vulnerability, and human frailty - are our poverty.  We are finite and limited creatures, not self-contained, never self-sufficient.  Amid our best talents, our greatest strength, we are, at base, impoverished.  Poverty is part of our story, our reality, and part of who we are in this fallen word...Brokenness is a spiritual response to my poverty.  It is to come to the end of myself - my wisdom, energies, and talents - and to know from the depths of my being that Jesus is the only hope I have for life and for holiness.  All are broken, but few embrace brokenness, yet it is an intimate part of who we are and how we are to be with each other" 
- Judith Hougen