Boobs and Hugs

We Comptons are an abnormally open family.

When we rent a movie at Red Box, 8 times out of 10 Hoffa will watch it lying on the living room pullout couch in his boxers and white mid-calf socks, the rest of us sprawled out around him or on the other couch. Our spontaneous family friend Sarah used to drop by unannounced (we like it when people do that), but after the third time she walked in and Hoffa was still only wearing underwear, I think she’s been permanently scared off.

Then there are boobs. We met and began playing with a younger family on the beach today. Like us, there were three girls and a boy, aged 9, 7, 3, and 1. While I was lying on my stomach, propped up by my forearms next to the small pool we were digging, I commented on their impressive bathing suit tan lines.

“I’ve been here all week,” I said, “but I don’t really have anything to show for it.”

The seven year old boy pointed toward my chest. “No, there’s a tan on your, uh…”

His older sister interjected – “He doesn’t know what to call them.”

“Boobs,” I say matter of factly.

Others get uncomfortable. We call it like it is. Even when I’d rather we didn’t. So here’s the story.

When I was eleven, I was not omitted from the socially awkward pains of puberty. All of my friends subtly and suddenly just started wearing training bras. Sure, we made fun of each other when we wore white shirts. Yes, we pulled the elastic strap in the back when someone turned around, but I don’t think they endured much humiliation beyond that. My friends did not have three unrelenting little siblings, fascinated by these two new bulges on my chest. Had they just whispered in my ear every once in a while, “Jessica’s getting boobs!” these memories from long ago would probably have been washed away in the outgoing tide of short term recollection. But oh, no, not the Comptons. Once Georgia, RoRie, and Cain figured out what was going on, they were merciless, unyielding I tell you. They received endless joy and amusement every day of my fourth grade existence by cupping their hands to their own flat chests and taunting in an overly seductive tone and a shaking of the shoulders, “Woogie, woogie!”

This mockery was not limited to the privacy of our own home, though. Public places were preferred. It happened all the time – in the produce section of the grocery store, after school in the hallways, at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant. It even made it into the 2004 Christmas letter. Great Mom, let’s just announce to your 500 closest friends that your eldest has boobs now. Awesome. When it first began, I was embarrassed and mad. Later, it got so that I didn’t even blush. I, attempting to invoke an aura of maturity, would shrug and sigh a heave of disapproval. Shaking my head like the little adult I was, I would say, “Kids,” as if I wasn’t one myself. Seriously, I did that. What kind of weirdo fourth grader was I?

I remember thinking to myself that it was just a matter of time. Someday, my sisters will hit puberty, too. But Georgia remained as flat as a flour tortilla well into high school. (Don’t be fooled, folks. The small curve from sixth through tenth grade was only a 32 NA padded bra. That’s supposed to stand for “nearly A.” I think it’s original abbreviation is more appropriate – “not applicable.”) By the time new pairs of boobs began budding in our house, I was too old to be making fun of my sisters, and in truth, we were all grateful to discover that Georgia wasn’t abnormally stunted after all. After fifteen high-pitched years, I’m still waiting on Cain’s voice to crack.

But, oh, my how the circle has turned. Now, as we frolic in our bikinis on the Costa Rican beach, Rosa Marie gets the teasing. Despite her long daily runs, the girl has grown from berries to pomegranates while I’ve been in college. She has the body of a goddess. Narrow waist, stomach of steel, lean legs…and these breasts that cascade into perfect, perky cleavage. As a joke, she shot a model picture on the beach. Georgia hacked her phone and posted this:

The laughs. We even e-mailed it to our grandparents. After they heard about the 5.6 earthquake here a few days ago, my grandma responded, “Now I know what triggered the earthquake!”

My poor father. Hoffa is both dismayed and in awe.

“Mama, why did you let her get that top? Nothing is covered! It might as well be a bra.”

“I didn’t, David, she bought it herself.”

“What am I going to do, Hoffa?” RoRie pleads. “I can’t help it!”

Yet, as she moseys out of the clear ocean water, oblivious to all, he definitely checks out his own daughter. And, while the father in him wants all three of his daughters covered in nun habits, silently, I know the man in him approves.

As for me, every time I see her without a shirt on, I can’t help but burst into a giggle. She knows why.

“Jessica! It’s not that funny.”

“Oh, but it is, RoRie. Look who gets to say woogie woogie now.”

Then there are the hugs.

If you haven’t experienced a signature Compton hug before, hold your breath. That is my warning, meant to be taken quite literally. Upon first introduction to a stranger, normal people shake hands. We tend to hug. These are not limpy acknowledgements from the side of the waist, either. A Compton hug is a full, front on embrace, complete with smiley eyes, a joyful heart, and a much-too-tight squeeze.

Our hugs are a manifestation of the love we have for another. They are unadulterated, and they are plentiful. One early Costa Rica morning when everyone had arisen, as usual, by six a.m., Hoffa asked, “Has everyone hugged each other?”

Now let me interject that though we frequently hug, it’s not part of the morning routine. But when Hoffa gets his mind fixed on what he thinks should happen, you can’t really disregard him; he’s a persistent (and, dare I say, persnickety?) old man. He then proceeded to individually interview members of the family and insist we all do so.

Apparently, these instances of adamancy are more frequent, and all of my siblings have become almost as easily put out as he. I, however, have been out of the house for two years. When he posed this question, I couldn’t help but smile. No other father forces his teenagers to hug each other. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s pretty sweet, too.

While life is still like this in Charleston, our isolated time together in Costa Rica has allowed us to focus on each other even more. When I’m at school, I miss this so much – the harmless banter, the laughing, the weirdness, the true love of physical affection and verbal affirmation. We are a forward, innocent, and funny group. I love that boobs and hugs and underwear are normal parts of our lives. I even kind of love our almost total lack of privacy; there is not much left “personal” in our personal lives. There is unusual security in this kind of life, too. My family has me, and I have them. I know them deeply, and I trust them. These are the people with whom I seek counsel, I talk, I run, I snuggle, I hug. For most, these are the uncomfortable things, even with family. Don’t talk about boobs. Hugs are greetings after long separations. They’re wrong, though. In these things I have found the most comfort. It is the woogie woogies and the suffocating squeezes that assure me I am home.

Playing in Nosara

A few updates:

Monkeys

If you have no experience in Central America, it turns out our mystery animal from the previous blog is indeed only a howler monkey, and they sound much more intimidating than they actually are. Had we kept going a bit longer on the trail, the worst thing that would have happened is a possible groping of a testosterone-filled monkey or some poop droppings from the trees above. That’s their weapon, and honestly, I think it’s a more effective tactic than straight on physical attack.

Jesus

Bible study with my sisters (and now mother!) has been going really well. As in, it’s actually happening, regularly. We’re praying for each other and talking about faith issues together. I’m struggling to go beyond that, though. I know I need to start acting on my faith, but I am consistently held back. After yoga class, we walked along with Eleanor, our yoga instructor, and she said she moved from Canada to Costa Rica for emotional healing, mainly from the pains of relationships and previous men in her life. As it was happening, I felt the tug – she needs Jesus. She’s like the Samaritan woman at the well. Talk about Jesus. Pray for her. I could envision my friend doing it. “You need healing?” he would eagerly ask. “Here, let me give it to you.” And then he would pray for her and talk as long as necessary about this good new life, and there would be a big celebration in heaven. I saw the opportunity coming, and already I knew I would not act on it. Why? Am I really that afraid? I don’t think so. It’s more a matter of boldness and confidence. I want someone to lead me. I want to heal alongside others more confident and experienced than myself. I know it happens, I’m tired of not being a part of it, and yet I do not act.

Mojitos 

The new favorite summer drink for the Comptons is a homemade mojito. The first day we were here, we stopped for lunch at a beach front restaurant, where Mama ordered one. That minty hankering hadn’t quite left her when we took a very expensive trip to the grocery store. At the checkout line, she raised her pointer finger and exclaimed, “Oh! Mojitos!” With the very little Spanish she knows, she talked to the locals to figure out what ingredients we might need, and proceeded to race around the store for mint, lime, club soda, and rum. We get home. We have the ingredients, but do the Comptons strike you as expert drink makers who spend a lot of time at home mixing up concoctions? No, all Hoffa wants is a cold beer and a colder glass. His Spanish consists of “Hola!,” but I think mojito might be a Spanish word. Using a lot of hand gestures and repeating “mojito” incessantly, he invited our jovial taxi driver Louis to come inside to make and drink mojitos with us. Louis speaks little more English than Hoffa does Spanish. He came, though, and half an hour later, we’ve got three Hispanic workers – a taxi driver, a plumber, and a delivery man – and five of the six Comptons sipping on mojitos.

Paddle Boarding 

We’re here for a while, so the padres are trying to spread out our activities, but we have one down. Despite our ability to do it anytime on Shem Creek in good ol’ Mt. Pleasant, Mama was really interested in paddle boarding here. When we started talking to the locals about this idea, they all responded in the same persistent way: “Oh, no, we don’t go to river. Many crocodiles. Eat our dogs. Eat us.” Well that scared Mama off for all of twelve hours. “Let’s just go to the Experience Nosara place and talk to them ourselves. Surely they wouldn’t get all of these high reviews on TripAdvisor if tourists were dying on the river.” Well that’s encouraging, Ma. What do you expect them to say? Like any good tour business eager for customers during the low season, they assured us that it was completely safe. The next morning, Eight-pack Alan (as I secretly called him) came to pick us up. He is the most ripped thirty two year old I have ever seen. He also has a cougar. When Hoffa told me that, I asked dubiously, “What? You have a cougar for a pet?!” No, Jessica, his wife. She’s eight years older than him. Dang. You go for it Alan. At any rate, our day on the river really was enjoyable, and though we did see a few crocodiles, they did not bother us. Mama was satisfied, and the rest of us enjoyed the excursion.

Walking

My favorite exercise is the kind that isn’t intentional exercise. Yesterday, after the intentional run in the morning, I also ended up playing in the ocean for two hours, walking five miles, and doing an hour of yoga. We weren’t walking just to walk, but to actually get somewhere; I love that. I take back what I said about winning a walking contest. It turns out Mama and Rosa Marie can put the spring in their step when they want to. I was the one falling behind on the way to and from the free community yoga class at Harmony Hotel on Playa de Guionnes. It gets dark around 6 pm here, and they walked even faster on our return, a little alarmed by the dark. Are you surprised that we still got confused about how to get back?

Stay tuned. I am working on a pretty funny post. It involves boobs and hugs, so get ready.

Wandering

“Dang, I’ve never heard Mama say ‘shit’ before,” Rosa Marie giggled after our 500 meter sprint back up the footpath.

Only the Compton women would be chased off by a deep grunt during our first full day in Costa Rica. Only in Costa Rica, as the monkeys stake their territory, will you hear your rather reserved mother cuss. It’s all because she is one of the most directionally challenged human beings ever, and she passed her mapless genes onto us. Inheriting no internal compass, I opt to call myself a wanderer.

When I’m on the Appalachian Trail, I’m a hiker or a backpacker. On the Ravenel Bridge, I’m a power walker. I could probably win a powerwalking race; yes, I am that dorky. But those varieties of walking are all pretty typical things for me to be doing. They go in a straight line, and you can’t get lost. When I’m in a foreign country, however, I become a wanderer. Not because I have some deep wanderlust running through my veins, but because I will invariably get lost, which, of course, happened today in the intestinal labyrinth of Nosara roads.

After a sample of Mediterranean vegetable, pepperoni and salami, arugula and sundried tomatoes, and bacon and blue cheese pizzas for lunch, Cain and Hoffa turned back along the beach. As they headed to the cozy bungalow we’re renting for the next two weeks, the women – Mama, Georgia, Rosa Marie, and me – decided to find our way into town, buy a few groceries, and check out the lay of the land. So, in our bathing suit cover ups and sandals, rain clouds looming, we ventured the other direction down a rocky, dirt road, which, after wrapping around a house, quickly turned into a small footpath.

“Uh, Mom, are you sure this is the right way?” Georgia, the most skeptical of us all, questioned.

“Oh, come on, it looks alright to me. Let’s keep on,” I pushed, always up to discover where something may lead.

We trekked on another minute. As usual, I led the way. It’s one of my pet peeves to follow others on trails. I like to see where I’m going and what’s ahead of me, which is ironic, since most of the time I’m oblivious to my surroundings. Mama followed, the two sisters straggling behind her.

“Hey look!” Rosa Marie pointed to the trees above us. “Monkeys! And there’s a baby too!”

I was more interested in the bonanza of mangoes our curly tailed friends feasted on than the animals themselves, but it was still exciting to encounter our first jungle animals.

“Hey, let’s turn back,” Georgia suggested. “Do you hear that?”

I retorted that, no, I didn’t hear anything. It was still a clear path, and I continued walking.

And then it happened. This guttural, husky warning, a threatening crescendo began in the thick trees ahead. My ears didn’t register, and my steps continued. Rouh, rouh, roouh, rooouh, ROOOUH!

“Oh shit!” Mama exclaimed.

Oh my gosh! I thought. I’m about to be attacked! Turn around, run away!

My track star sisters were already off, fifty feet ahead of me. Though my mother is one fit fifty year old, running has never been a strength of hers, and bearing four children has not done her any favors. Adrenaline kicked in, though, and even she was trotting along as best she could. It turns out sacrificial love for one’s child is not reciprocal. Mama, get out of my way!

As soon as the trail opened up, I cut around her. Nothing was chasing us, but we weren’t taking any chances with a noise like that, and we all continued running until we were back at the head of the trail. Grateful to be safe, we all laughed, and continued on the next unmarked road. We walked down more jungle paths and continued in almost perpetual ignorance of where we were. An hour later, the clouds released rain in the same way the mystery animal warned us. First a refreshing sprinkle, fifteen minutes later a torrential downpour. We never found the town, and, as only true wanderers do, we unintentionally circled back to the pizzeria. Even when we got back on the beach to follow Cain and Hoffa's footprints, we got lost, passing by our exit and looping back until we found a promising gap in the trees. I suppose this is how our time in Costa Rica may go. The days are circular…waking to the early sunrise, morning dips, a daily adventure, afternoon thunderstorms, reading, and relaxing. Within these days, though, we will wander together, enjoying each surprise around the next bend in the road.

Life in the Compton Clan

For the past three weeks, I have spent more consecutive time at home since senior year of high school. I think a lot of people – as they probably should – go to college and don’t ever return home for summer breaks. They discover independence and begin their adulthood, and that is a good thing. While I hope you’ve discovered by now that I am all for a good adventure, I also love Charleston. First there are the people - my family, lifelong best friends, and community at St. Andrews. I learned a while ago that people make any experience, and no one makes it quite like my fellow Charlestonians. We share a unique connection. We understand the true meaning of slow, lowcountry summer days, of jet skiing and kayaking and loving the water. Of salted watermelon, late nights on back porches, and guitars and worship nights. On Friday nights, we dance at Shaggin’ on the Pier. We know what thick humidity feels like, and we just embrace it. We’d rather suntan on the beach or a private dock than at a pool. We know hard work, and we know fun.

I’ve loved falling into a relaxing, yet fairly disciplined summer routine. I pick berries, go for a long run, and have a quiet time most mornings. I head to work at Taco Mamacita for five or six hours. The job is both challenging and rewarding. I mess up less every day, but I still mess up, and it sucks every time. I’m a people pleasing perfectionist, so there’s always a tough part of the shift when I will get really down on myself. I like serving, being busy with a task always ahead of me, and making good tips. I’m trying to focus on praying for people during their meal, but I get distracted a lot. I hate not knowing what alcohol a customer is ordering (“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?), getting orders wrong, not eating a full meal at a normal hour, and when my manager gives me the cold shoulder. At home, I’ve also been helping Mama around the house, running some errands, even writing a few letters or finishing that book I began in March. It turns out home really is where the heart is, and I don’t think my heart ever fully came with me to Roanoke.

So, choosing to come home this summer has been a very good thing. I am not fed up with my family (yet), and I like being able to help around the house where I can. Though I loved being a resident advisor this past year, I think one of the hardest parts was living alone and primarily focusing on myself. It’s not how I work. I’d rather be giving myself away to others, serving their needs. When I first came home, Mama was more overwhelmed and stressed than I had ever seen her. A week before she turned fifty (!), she was working two people’s jobs at Old South, hosting five parties at Sugah Cain in seven days, and trying to maintain her graceful, sweet composure. It wasn’t working. I was glad to be available and helpful. Apparently, she says no one in the Compton Clan identifies things that need to be done and just does them quite like me. It’s in my nature to lend whatever assistance I can, and Mama has been appreciative.

The massive wealth springing from most homes, mine included, in Charleston has been pretty hard for me to reconcile since I returned from Cambodia. Obviously, world wealth distribution is not equal, and while becoming poor does not put Cambodia in a better position, I cannot shake the guilt that the Comptons live quite the life. I went shopping with Mama yesterday and tried on a very cute dress at Almost Pink on Sullivan’s Island.

“How did it work?”

“Oh, it’s flattering, and I like it a lot, but it’s forty dollars.”

“Well, that’s what we’ve been spending on a lot of dresses for Georgia and RoRie. If you really like it, we can get it.”

What?! I can’t swallow that price tag quite as easily. I guess it’s not horrendous, but I still didn’t buy the dress.

We’re pretty down to earth people, but we still have our stuff, and it’s easy to become desensitized to the abundance. But then again, it’s also kind of nice. My phone was being a little persnickety, but basically working just fine. My two year upgrade had arrived, though, and now that both of my sisters have an iPhone 5, I wanted one too. I got it, and I must say, it is a pretty cool gadget; Instagram is my new favorite (my username is jcomp15…follow me!). I maintain the caveat that I still have an aversion to constant technology and social media. Georgia is addicted. Drives me crazy.

There’s also this family vacation we’re going on. To Costa Rica. For two whole weeks. Say what?! My mom has been talking about being ready to go since April. “Mama, I haven’t even gone to Cambodia yet. I can’t begin to think about that trip, but I’m glad we’re going. You need it.” She does, badly. We took off from the Atlanta airport an hour ago, and I don’t feel guilty about this trip…just plain lucky. As a kid, I always wanted to go to Costa Rica, and though I don’t know how to really take advantage of the surfing, I am going to do most everything else. Paddleboard, snorkel, horseback ride, zipline, hike, run, yoga. Most importantly, as long as Georgia puts down the phone, I’m looking forward to exclusive time with the Compton Clan. When we on vacations while I was in high school, I wasn’t old enough to go explore on my own. I felt contained, and I became stir crazy. The sibs knew how to rub me the wrong way. And they would do it intentionally! Do not continue to agitate an already aggravated animal. The results will not be good. The same concept applies when I travel with my family. The idiots. They were fully entertained.

Last summer when we went to Vancouver, the experience was different. I had just gotten through my first year of college and headed straight out to Camp St. Christopher. I was starving for family time, and for the first time, I felt a little like an outsider. In high school I shared a room with Georgia; we were best friends. When I left, the roles shifted. She and Rosa Marie began running cross country and sharing a room together. They became best friends. It was wonderful to be with my family, but I almost felt like I didn’t fit into the puzzle anymore. They had learned to live without me. The puzzle still had a hole, but all of the pieces had shifted and changed connections.

Another year has passed. I have been home, living with and being a true part of the chaos that comes with my crazy family. I fit again, and I just want to spend time with them. The whole reason I chose to come home this summer was because I knew it could very well be the last time we are all living under the same roof; I wanted to mentor my sisters and grow in Christ together. Rosa Marie and I have been able to do so already, but I think these next two weeks are going to be really special. As for our annual summer vacation, we’re older, and I now have the autonomy to go do what I want when we travel together (Ha! Suckas! No more boxing in and annoying your older sister!)

Life is good, and I am one grateful gal to be a part of the Costa Rica bound Compton Clan.

Jesus? Oh, Jesus

I thought about the former days,
    the years of long ago;
I remembered my songs in the night.
    My heart meditated and my spirit asked:

“Will the Lord reject forever?
    Will he never show his favor again?

Psalm 77:5-7

During our stay in Sihanoukville, Courtney and I went out to dinner, where an older Englishman sat at the table next to us enjoying a beer by himself. Had he been some wildly attractive young man, the guy most twenty year olds would try to talk to, he probably would’ve intimidated me, and I would have left him alone. Alan, however, was in his sixties, so, being me, I engaged him in conversation, and we ended up spending dinner together.

“Traveling will change you,” he said.

I wrote about a lot of my experiences in Cambodia, but I must confess that I haven’t been entirely forthright, either. I was already writing more than normal, and I’ve needed time to process since then. I spent 21 remember-forever days in a country in which 95% of the population is Buddhist. I spent 21 incredible days on a trip with eleven other Americans that I normally don’t spend time with at school. I spent 21 days without corporate worship, without regular prayer, without any spiritual guidance. My quiet time dissolved to writing time and adventuring. I felt like I was the only Christian left in the world, that there soon may be none. On the night of May 21, while everyone else went to eat dinner, I sat on my hotel bed for an hour in Siem Reap verging on a quiet, existential panic. It’s dangerous for me to sit and brood by myself without any outlet. I began wondering what topic I would write about next for the stem due the following morning. It quickly spiraled to much deeper thoughts, questioning Jesus, His power and grace, and the authenticity of my relationship with Him. It ended with this journal excerpt:

“Have I just eaten religious food they’ve been spoon-feeding me my whole life?”

Before the trip, people had said they were so excited to hear about what God did in Cambodia. Lying on that bed, I thought to myself, What about what He’s not doing? Where are you, Lord? Where is the power of the Holy Spirit? Where is my courage? Where is my belief?

Where was He? Well here’s the thing –

When I was in Cambodia, I might as well not have been a Christian. I was only some twenty year old gal lugging around a Christian identity and some good values. Everyone on the trip knows I am a Christian. One day when we were all packed up waiting in the lobby, I was holding my journal with gold-lined pages and Lauren asked if it was my Bible. While that was stowed in my backpack, I almost took pride in retorting, “Nope,” I’m not just a Southern Christian hanging onto some foolish beliefs in which I find comfort. But…maybe I was. I yearned to pray with someone, to have someone reaffirm my beliefs. I felt like every day they were stamped out a little bit more, being replaced with some kind of worldly humanism. I talked about it some, but in a more academic, this-is-just-what-I-think kind of way. I didn’t get wasted every night, I didn’t cuss every tenth word, I asked one girl about her religious upbringing and said if she ever had any questions about Christianity, I’d be happy to talk to her. After her mom died, I offered to pray with Liesl, who also goes to IV and lived on my hall this past year. Later she said she’d like that. It never happened. Why did it never happen?

I felt stuck in a state of lukewarm falsehood. I did not know how to truly demonstrate or defend my faith. I didn’t want to offend anyone or be the annoying Christian always bringing the conversation back to Jesus, but I also didn’t want to be living like the Bohemians I met or a lot of other people on the trip – sex with acquaintances, black out drunk parties, gossip, and self-centeredness. Their beliefs ranged from a Baptist PK who “just likes to keep it between me and the Big Man,” to no religious upbringing, to secular humanist, to church attendee with the family on breaks. I didn’t want to let go of my beliefs or lifestyle, but I was spending time only with these folks for 21 days, and I wanted to befriend and relate to them.

I was surrounded by Buddhist temples and monks, I didn’t think they were right, but I also found it beautiful. I loved the culture, I loved witnessing the gracious giving of alms every morning and seeing a society which has found structure and support in religion when the government (massively) fails. But what about the Great Commission? If I really believe this, if Jesus is my savior and the cornerstone of my life, shouldn’t I “go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything Jesus has commanded me?”  I felt like I should, yet I had no desire to do so. It seemed so wrong to try to change this religion. Yet you have Life to offer, Jessica!

Whatever I was in Cambodia, I didn’t have the freedom of fully embracing sin (which can, for a time I think, be a fun lifestyle), but I also was not being filled by the Father, operating out of His love and infinite might. So I was just empty and longing, raw and numb, gnawing for spiritual food that I know is real, but I couldn’t quite access. It was awful, and it scared me. Was Alan right? Had traveling really changed me? Had it stamped out my faith? Traveling is something I am passionate about, and I really am considering teaching English abroad for a few years after college. How would my faith in the future?

I was also worried about coming back home. What if I really have changed? What if I just like my Christian friends and my Christian life and don’t actually love Jesus? What if all of this gets pushed under the rug? Oh Gosh. I’m telling you, I was freaked out. I’m glad I had the internet and a small connection to home. Toward the end of the trip, one of my best friends, Lizzy, posted a blog about her weekend jaunt to Charlotte. She was filled with so much joy, talking about the amazing things the Holy Spirit had revealed that weekend and how they had prayed for her aunt’s back and the Lord healed it. That’s all it took for me to remember this good Lord I serve. It didn’t wipe out all of the questions and doubts, those Dark Nights of the Soul John Donne writes of, but it reminded me that when you call on Him (which, really, I had not been doing), He answers. He comes through.

I’ve been back from Cambodia for about two and a half weeks now. As I talk to friends, I’m reminded that it’s probably a good thing to be challenged. I should probably be highly skeptical of those whose faith is always fine and dandy. I’ve been as candid as I can be with those I’m close to, and many of them “get it” more than I anticipated. When I relayed my Cambodia faith experience to my friend Drew, whose wisdom and discernment I admire a great deal, he emphasized Lizzy’s story and the remembering. Just like Psalm 77, I can question, but I can remember the good things God has done in my life and community. The answered prayers, the prophetic words, the healings, the grace, the joy.  He has answered many times.

I’ve also realized my family and I can be growing together. We’ve been caught up in our own world of graduation festivities, camps, work, and overloaded schedules. Ever since last summer, I’ve wanted to come home and disciple my sisters. Rosa Marie and I have had a few quiet times together, but it is way harder to do than I anticipated. This Tuesday the Compton Clan is headed to Costa Rica for two weeks, though. Mama deserves a much needed break, and I look forward to being able to focus on the Lord with my family. It’s time for the Secret Place, where we can grow and really begin listening to Jesus’ still small voice. I still wonder how this is all going to work out in the end. The doubts are not over, but the faith is not crushed. I’m learning, and I am confident in this one true God.

Thundering

            “You should totally come check out the Topanonna tonight,” Morgan encouraged in a lilting South African accent. It was hard to tell whether her bleached hair and bronze skin were artificial or truly sun kissed, but as she finished off her Angkor beer, her mildly plump body candidly testified to the accommodation of a few extra drinks.

“Yeh, it’s the chillest place in town,” Hayley, her Kiwi companion, agreed. Tints of red glimmered in her otherwise brunette hair, which was carelessly pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head. “Ev’rybody is so, so friendly. Loads of backpackers are coming in and out all the time, so you’re always meeting people. I’m so glad I found it.”

My three week stint in Cambodia included twelve other companions, a tour bus, and a thorough itinerary, so this spontaneous invitation offered at a cheap restaurant along Phnom Penh’s riverfront was an unexpected start to my travels. It was only my second day here, and I was already beginning to resent the organized structure of the trip. I fiddled with the coconut leaf bowl in front of me, unable to eat another chalky bite of my first Cambodian cuisine specialty, Amok Trei, a fish coconut curry soup served with the typical perfectly round scoop of steamed rice. Despite street kids hassling me to buy scarves and postcards for the past fifteen minutes, I remained under the two second periodic breeze of the restaurant’s oscillating fan, unwilling to face the sticky humidity outside. This heat was my punishment for coming to Cambodia in May, the dry season for rice patties and tourists alike. When Morgan and Hayley entered the restaurant, the kids abandoned me, hoping to find more eager customers in the new arrivals. As they continued to try to sell their paraphernalia, Morgan patiently answered their stream of questions.

“Buy some bracelets from me?”

“No thank you, we don’t need any.”

“You can take back to your mom or sisters!” another persistent girl pushed. With creased eyebrows and a jutting lower lip, a whiny pout replaced the angelic face I had seen mere moments ago.

“We’re not tourists. We teach school here.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

I couldn’t help but eavesdrop. Curiosity, followed closely by envy, got the better of me. They were my age, and they had begun their lives. While I plodded along pursuing my undergrad degree, teaching English abroad someday only a blurry future possibility, Morgan and Hayley were doing it. They were independent, living in a foreign place with real jobs. I must talk to these girls.

            “Well, that sounds pretty cool,” I replied. “Where is this place? What is it exactly? I don’t really know what I’m up to tonight, but maybe…”

My good girl reputation has followed me into adulthood. Growing up, I was the over achieving perfectionist. I never drank, never had a boyfriend, and rarely missed class or church. If there is such a thing as “safe risks,” those are the only ones I took – hiking a dozen miles, beating the record on high ropes courses, dancing like a fool, and engaging strangers in conversations. I snuck out once with my best friend just to sneak out. Learner’s permit in hand, we drove to the sticky twenty-four hour pancake joint. Such a badass, I know. But I liked it that way. Though I was innocent, I was also the responsible, mature one, the person everyone came to with their issues.  I had a stream of A’s on twelve annual report cards, few personal problems, a strong faith community, and good relationships with my parents, siblings, and friends.

“The Topanonna is the hostel we’re both staying at. It’s also got a great bar and lounge, and it is the place to hang out,” Hayley explained.

“Say, why wait ‘til tonight? What are you up to right now?” Morgan posed.  “We can all grab a tuk tuk and ride over there together.”

***

“Lady, you get pedicure? Very nice. Feet all soft. No more dead skin.”

            I handed the three crumpled dollar bills over and slid off my clunky Chaco sandals. My feet were grimy from the dirt they had collected walking through Siem Reap’s Old Market that day, and the straps left a faint crisscross tan line. Above me, the sign incorrectly read, “If our fish can’t you happy we will not charge!” I stepped onto the ladder and crawled, turning along the blue, cushy seat and situating myself in the middle of the three connected benches. The shimmering tilapia below me swam about, unaware of their future food. Here goes nothing. I cautiously stuck my sweaty feet about three inches into the cool water. In a millisecond, the fish swarmed them, and tiny toothless fish mouths began nipping the bottoms of my feet. Squealing three decibels too high, I couldn’t control my ticklish kneejerk reaction as I immediately pulled my feet out of the tank.

My uncouth behavior caused almost everyone – market customers and shopkeepers alike – in a thirty foot radius to stare. I tried to regain my composure. Drawing on rudimentary yoga skills, I sat up straight and slowly exhaled, using my fingers to pull two invisible strings down to my thighs. Let’s try this again. I dunked my feet back in, forcing myself to stay still. The lanky vendor handed a Coca-Cola over to enjoy during this supposedly relaxing live-fish, dead skin pedicure. I got my thirty minutes’ worth, but I could barely stand it, nor could I believe I was really partaking in this tourist trap.

            But so it goes in the three Cambodian cities I visit - bustling Phnom Penh, temple-laden Siem Reap, and tropical Sihounikville. Despite my revulsion to being dependent on sealed water bottles and Asian English speakers, there are pros to being a tourist here. My companions and I didn’t have to do any research or preparations before we arrived. Our highly recommended tour company booked our hotels, chose the best restaurants in the city, and crafted a detailed itinerary for our stay in Cambodia. We never got lost; we didn’t even have to figure out where to go. Our spacious, air conditioned bus transported us through the unnavigable streets of Phnom Penh and along one and a half lane potholed country roads. I was only scared for my life a few times. 
          And thank goodness for Dam, our flat-faced, stocky guide. If I were to Google “How clueless Americans survive Cambodia,” he would be the living, breathing version of the top listed results. He knows hundreds of obscure facts and all the historical dates relevant to this country, patiently answering our never-ending stream of questions with a “Well actually,” at the beginning of his response and a deep, yet strangely light-hearted giggle at the end.

“Don’t pay more than five dollars in the market,” he instructs us. “They’re cute, but don’t buy from the little kids either.” “When we go to the Royal Palace, please cover your knees and shoulders.”  As we amble through the king’s grounds, he points out the Silver Pagoda.

“Why is it called that, Dam?” I ask.

“Well actually, it has 5,239 silver tiles on the ground, hahuhuhu.” Dam’s genuine smile is never far behind his characteristic laugh.

To begin with, being a tourist is fun. Bargaining between a price of four and five dollars for intricately designed pashmina scarves in the market is a game. I allow myself to enjoy a mango shake or a special cocktail simply because the third world restaurant prices are so shockingly affordable. Six dollar massages? Yes please, I’ll take one of those. Maybe another one tomorrow too.

But touring gets old, fast. I hate being herded around in a big group, the conspicuous sunburnt white girl among smooth mocha skin. At Wat Phnom, a Buddhist shrine atop a man-made mound, we awkwardly flash our cameras amidst the chorus of xylophones resonating through the temple. Worshipers burn suffocating quantities of incense and fervently proffer themselves before the golden Buddha, praying for luck and blessings. Over and over, I pulled my camera out of my pack and flashed away... in the temples at Angkor Wat, amidst the solemnity of the Tuol Sleng prison and the Killing Fields, even at the appallingly poor villagers of the countryside.

I hate feeling like Dam is my Mother Duck as I waddle after him, that I am incapable of making my own decisions, that I don’t have the chance to be alone. I want to mess up and learn from my mistakes. Let me turn the wrong way with an upside-down map, let me get chased (and not bitten, please) by a villager’s protective dogs. Let me loose, let me travel. After a week, going out to eat all the time loses its appeal, even if the prices are cheap. What do I want? What should I go see today? The Khmer Rouge’s genocidal bloodbath of the 1970s has left its stains, and when I look for them, I see the effects everywhere. Mine bomb amputees sit on sidewalks begging for a dollar or selling photocopied guidebooks. There are so many ragged, unschooled children roaming the streets that it begins to look normal, acceptable even. Dam tells me that forty-eight percent of the population lives below the ninety-cents-a-day poverty line. Maybe in a small way my money really is helping the economy, but I struggle to reconcile the blatant contrast of my consuming tourism with the horrendous poverty that still plagues this country.

Just like the ones gnawing on my feet, tilapia swarmed the pond I grew up swimming in; if you were too still, they would surprise your backside. My sisters and I used to sit on the floating dock and soak our feet, joking that it was a free spa treatment; we had heard people in Asia actually paid to have fish bite them. Now I was one of those crazy tourists – buying a fish pedicure, blowing through twenties on scarves and mango shakes, and snapping a fifteenth photo of another dry field. It is convenient, easy,… and repulsive.

***

Considering Morgan’s invitation, the whimsical adventurer in me agreed without hesitation, while the safe rule-follower cautioned her. Can I trust them? What would happen if I said yes? What would I be missing if I declined? Morgan slouched in the chair, her double-D cleavage threatening to fall out of her low rib neck tank top. I shifted my glance to Hayley. Surrounded by a dash of light freckles, her crystal blue eyes were simultaneously piercing as diamonds and milky as unstirred coffee cream. Neither Morgan nor Hayley were wearing shoes, and they didn’t seem concerned to be standing barefoot on the unswept restaurant tiles. The two looked like they had been best friends for years. They seemed enough like me, wearing the same type of flowy five dollar elephant print pants I bought the day before. I wanted to get to know them, so I suppressed my reservations.

            “No plans,” I shrugged.  “Let’s go!”

We piled into a tuk tuk, Cambodia’s open-air carriage cab pulled by motor bike, and headed for the Topanonna. On the way, I learned that Morgan and Hayley had only met two nights before at a party. Hayley opened the Happy Pizza box and pulled out a cheesy slice, offering some to me. Realizing this really could be ganja-fortified, I declined.

“We got jipped, Mo. This is not the real stuff,” Hayley bemoaned.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Oh believe me, another guy at the Topanonna got some real Happy Pizza last week. You could taste it. And definitely feel it.” I laughed along.

            We pulled up to a headache-inducing yellow cinderblock building. It displayed a black outline of the cityscape, and an artsy sliding iron gate resting open against the wall. Under the black and red striped hood I read the bold, lowercase letters: top banana. In a moment of embarrassing epiphany, I realized this was the Topanonna Hayley had raved over. Top Banana. Ah, that makes a little more sense. We climbed up a very vertical staircase, switch backed, and scaled perilously steeper stairs verging on ladder status, to the open air lounge.

            I definitely would not have ended up at a place like the Top Banana on my own. The hostel had all the necessary amenities – Wi-Fi, a western toilet, a well-stocked bar – but it was the environment and the people that gave the Top Banana its trendy, hipster feel. The speakers jammed a playlist of electric guitar music and hard rock, and behind rows of alcohol bottles, the chalkboard wall decoratively listed the bar menu specials. After we splayed across the low level couches, I checked out a group of lean, scruffy-faced guys smoking against the porch rail. One glassy-eyed woman with matted hair staggered over to the group and fell onto each of them consecutively until the last man gripped her waist and conceded an occasional kiss or rear grab. Eventually she stumbled over to her beanbag in the corner, collapsing into it with her legs spread wide, silently begging for a man to give her some attention.

***

Doctor’s mask fastened and wire brush in hand, I strategically selected the back wall of the latrine, where I could hide, at least temporarily, from the sun’s beating rays. Cumulus cottonballs hung in the cerulean sky, and the acres of cleared rice patty fields beyond me provided a rare and welcome breeze. As usual, thick humidity coated the stifling hot air. An emaciated cow mozied along the clay road, creating a cloud of red dust in its trail, and the stupas in the Buddhist cemetery beyond it proudly preserved the ashes of the village’s deceased in a variety of bright colors and heights. Our tour company deserved some props. They believe in service learning and the benefits of voluntourism, so after excursions and comfy hotel beds in Phnom Penh, the pendulum swung 180 degrees to a countryside homestay and community project. There was no air conditioning or running water, and sleep did not even provide relief from the unbearable heat. Lying on the floor mat in my sports bra, I would stare up at the mosquito net, feeling pebbles of perspiration develop all over my body, wishing my dreams would take me somewhere more comfortable. After a sleepless night, each day we ventured to the remote village of Chrey Cheoung to renovate the outdoor bathroom at the local school.

I was determined to put every bit of energy I had into sanding the whitewash off of this wall. Generally I love serving, but in this case I had no specialized skills to offer, and I did not understand the point of coming half way across the world to do a worse job sanding a wall than the malnourished twelve-year-old staring at my pitiful work. I was certain he could do this better and more efficiently than I. This homestay was part of our itinerary, though, and if they really wanted me to sand, I was not going to be a sissy about this. So I put the brush against the wall and started scrubbing with all the elbow grease I could muster, bending to get extra throttle in my legs, ridiculously straddling the corner of the building for that perfect angle. Call me intense. Or absurd. I only took water breaks when Vet, the company’s director for Service and Education, told me to pause.

 Later that evening, I expressed some of my qualms to him. With a genial white smile and soft-spoken demeanor, he explained that when visitors like us participate in community service, we interact with the locals and gain a more authentic understanding of the people, place, and culture. After the village decides what project is most needed at a community meeting, Vet uses the money we contribute to the project to buy materials from village suppliers and hires off-season farmers to work with us. We help stimulate the area’s economy, and the locals don’t see the work as charity, because they take ownership of the project. I began to understand that in this circumstance, it is not necessarily about how good I am at this work. When I cease trying to use the zoom function on my camera to bridge the divide between the locals and me and begin mixing concrete and laying bricks alongside them as I did the following day, the dynamic shifts. Sometimes, it’s not about the work at all. On the last day, I picked up litter around the school, but I did it with the children from the village for a half hour, and then we played freeze tag together. I didn’t feel guilty, and I didn’t feel like a tourist.

***

Incredulous. That’s all I felt as Hayley and Morgan relayed their stories of winding up in Phnom Penh. Halfway through her college education and teacher licensure at her home in Christ Church, New Zealand, Hayley got antsy. She decided to sell her only valuable possession, an acoustic guitar she used at night gigs, and made her way to Cambodia. Three weeks before I met her, Hayley arrived in Phnom Penh on her own without any plans or preparations. “After only forty-eight hours, I was miserable and lonely. The hostel I was staying in was a total dump, and I wasn’t meeting anyone. Now that I’m at the Top Banana, lit’rally ev’rything is different.”

She confessed that she only had a hundred dollars to her name and needs to make her forty dollar paycheck last through the month. “It’ll all work out,” she shrugged, without any discernible concern. This cannot be real. What are you going to do without money?

Three months ago, Morgan renounced her privileged life in South Africa and moved to Cambodia with her girlfriend. A few weeks later, she was single, kicked out of the flat they were renting together, and nearly broke. When she did stumble upon the Top Banana, it felt right. The day before we met, rather than heading to the airport and returning home as her round trip ticket instructed, she decided to stay in Phnom Penh. You intentionally missed your plane home? Seriously? She doesn’t have any regrets, though. Everybody, she emphasizes for the fifth time, is just so friendly and happy. “I love it here, and I wasn’t ready to leave. So I didn’t.”

Because I didn’t understand these two, I wanted to hear their take on issues I had already noticed plaguing Cambodia. I began with the street children that bothered us earlier at the restaurant.

“Are those kids really trying to earn money for school?”

 “Maybe a select few,” Hayley began. “But nah, most of them have sold that stuff along the riverfront every day since they were four years old.”

“What about the classroom? Is it hard for you to teach not knowing any Khmer?”

“Eh, I have a small chalkboard the size of a window. There are only three pencils and not much paper. None of the kids are really learning, and all of the grades are fake, anyway, so none of it matters,” Morgan revealed. “The government won’t let you fail them either. They all pass with good marks.”

“What?! Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked, failing to suppress my shock. “Don’t you think that’s inhibiting their education in the long run?”

 “Maybe so, but that’s just the way it is here. Absolutely nothing needs to change.”

“What about all of the prostitutes and child trafficking? The sex industry is a pretty big issue here,” I pressed. Surely they disagreed with those practices. “Even I see women standing out on street corners, and I’m oblivious to a lot of things. We shouldn’t try to combat that?”

“Definitely not. We’ve befriended a lot of prostitutes, and all the ones we’ve met like it. They don’t want to do anything else.”

My initial incredulity swelled as they shared their thoughts.

 “I’m not saying we need to come in and change everything about this culture. It’s wonderful, and in the little time I’ve spent here, the Cambodians are some of the happiest people I have ever encountered,” I acknowledged. “But you’re telling me that if your prostitute friend was offered a skilled job with the same pay, she would continue to be a prostitute?”

“Yeah, she would keep selling herself,” Hayley said.

“That’s what we love about this place, though. The traffic is crazy, the people are poor, the government is nuts-o, but it all kind of works.”

***

Halfway through the tour of the Green Gecko orphanage, I shot my friend Paul a look.

I just want to do this…Forever…Please?

We stood inside the library, which resembled a cheerful elementary school classroom. As I turned around the room, rows of genre-labeled plastic baskets filled with Khmer and English language books, children’s art renderings, and colorful educational posters surrounded me. Doug, an exuberant, potbellied Australian with short, peppered hair, guided us around the grounds, sharing the story of the Green Gecko and how he came to be a part of it.

            Founded in 2005, the Green Gecko Project is one of Cambodia’s highest ranked NGOs which houses, educates, and inspires seventy-four past street youth, ranging in age from Sothi Peda, who is now in law school, to Sarm, who joined the family at the age of four. Though it is a top-tier orphanage, its roots do not run deep with a grand vision and organized plan, but with one woman, Tania, who saw a problem and the beginning of a solution. Now, the neon lit Pub Street filled with two blocks of restaurants and street massages is a hub for tourists to gather and socialize. At The Red Piano, every tenth Tomb Raider, Angelina Jolie’s namesake drink, is on the house, while bars like Angkor What? and The Temple provide entertaining nights of dancing and meeting other travelers.

However, less than a decade ago, this was a dilapidated strand – littered with trash and over two hundred street youth, unwanted and making early careers of begging. Tania knew the only exit ramp to this lifestyle was education. The slew of ragged, dirty problem kids were unwelcome in the public schools, and their parents wanted to keep their children on the street, unable to afford school fees and using them as an extra source of begging income which often subsidized their gambling or drinking addictions. Tania hired a private tutor and one room for an hour every day, serving the kids who came a hot meal after the lesson. Each week, rather than dropping in numbers, the class grew, until there were over ninety children in regular attendance.

The Green Gecko Project is more than an organization, though; this is a permanent family that cares deeply for its members. Green Gecko’s primary goal is to protect the children, but it is equally interested in recognizing each person’s talents and potential. As Doug spoke, mushy do-good feelings began welling up inside me. This sounded right. It sounded like something worth doing. Most orphanages, even the reputable ones, kick the youth out at age eighteen. Green Gecko promises to fund their children’s vocational training or university education. Unlike an actual orphanage, most Green Gecko kids still have fathers and mothers, and they are required to visit them regularly. The parents, many of whom used to be Khmer Rouge soldiers, benefit too. Green Gecko provides vocational trainings and family workshops to improve their skills, and Doug told us that spousal abuse at home has decreased by fifty percent.

In the past five years, both the grounds and the children have transformed. This land was once a field of dry rice patties. Now it has bedrooms, eating huts, a playground and classroom, as well as a soccer field and volleyball court. Tania believes children should be able to play and explore; on this acre, now they can. School exams report that these children, whose futures once only promised poverty and prostitution, are some of the brightest in Cambodia. At the Green Gecko, learning is not limited to the classroom, but is part of everyday life. They preserve their culture and empower the girls by practicing LaBakatao, a Khmer form of karate. Each child takes on responsibilities and leadership positions within the orphanage, learns to budget with a reward system, and uses their creativity in countless arts and craft projects. Once these kids were their country’s bane. Now they are its most promising future.

Like Morgan, Doug abandoned his life of comfort and pleasure, taking an early retirement from his executive position in a telecommunications corporation to move to Cambodia. He still enjoys a smoke and a night on Pub Street, but his passion for the Green Gecko Project’s mission is obvious, permanently etched in his soul and tattooed in Khmer on his arm – “Care for and protect the children of Cambodia.” “When I came here the first time for three months, it was like lightning struck me,” he excitedly explained, waving his arms upward and tip-toeing on the balls of his feet. “Back in Australia, I wasn’t comfortable with myself anymore. I began looking for a way to return.” Before long, Doug’s heart and home permanently transplanted to Cambodia.

Without any experience in the restaurant industry, Doug rented an obscure, ramshackle building in the Wat Bo area of Siem Reap, and he opened the Green Star. The Lonely Planet Top Choice restaurant now operates on the first floor and Doug lives upstairs with his Cambodian wife and head chef, Avee. With unbeatable prices and Khmer and international food that is just plain good, the restaurant has already contributed $27,000 to Green Gecko.  When volunteers come to help with the Green Gecko, they have to bring skills with their service, and they are required to stay for at least three months. “This is not about doing something for a week and making yourself satisfied with your good deeds,” Doug warns. “This is about the children. Still though, I cannot emphasize enough the giving side of life.” As Doug continued talking, I just wanted to be him. Not literally – not old or permanently living in Cambodia or even working with the Green Gecko – but going somewhere for a while and contributing where the people could use my help. That takes more than tourists’ money, more than sanding a whitewashed wall, and more than a Bohemian lifestyle. Touring the Green Gecko made me realize that my future travels will not be short stint vacations. I will be somewhere for three months; I will identify a problem and do something about it.

Standing in the library, Paul returned a sympathizing glance as beads of sweat dripped from his bald head. He knew how I was feeling. Living in corporate America where millions are dissatisfied with their jobs and focused on themselves, Green Gecko was tapping at the deepest core of my being, where I knew that what the staff was doing would make me come alive, where I could find deep fulfillment in giving myself away, where what I did mattered. Before I stepped back onto the bus, I broke from the group to thank Doug personally. For a moment, his playful temperament dissolved and he looked me in the eye earnestly. “Always remember this: What you say whispers. What you do thunders.”

***

Back in Phnom Penh, I was lying on a beanbag next to Morgan, tipsy from a poorly mixed two thirds Bacardi mojito. The bright red walls displayed a funky purple and orange rendition of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and past guests’ sharpied forget-me-nots. In the corner, an electric piano and mike were set up for live musicians. Above me, the ceiling was tiled with a green “I heart Ireland” t-shirt, a local Cambodian radio station flag, and more graffiti. While most people signed off with a short “Live it up” or “Phnom Penh is the shit,” Frank’s rap took up a whole ceiling tile. It contained the typical messages – I wanna live life, smoke lots of weed, and have world peace. Right.

            “Why is there a life jacket on the ceiling? And how did people write up there?” I asked, my mind more blurry than usual.

            “Somebody told me the Top Banana used to be on a boat. It sank out in the Mekong River and those are the old walls,” Morgan said. “The life jacket commemorates the old days.”

This hippy roof top lounge and the people here did not make me uncomfortable, but it was so not me. I wondered what my friends at home would think, how anyone who knows who I am would react to seeing me with this Bohemian crowd. Maybe it was the vastly different lifestyle, but I was strangely intrigued by everything Hayley and Morgan did. I knew I did not want to live like them, and I was convinced they could not always be as satisfied as they sounded, but I still found their carpe diem outlook appealing.

These two were bonafide Bohos, and they lived far outside my established safe-risk zone. Though it seemed to be working for them, I couldn’t drop the feeling that their lack of caution would eventually catch up with them. They drank the city’s tap water. Until you’re reeling with dysentery. They laughed at the idea of malaria pills. Until that one mosquito bite. They regularly rode on motor bikes with strangers. Until you’re the real life Taken victim. They seemed to echo Timon’s “hakuna matata” philosophy, but even characters in the Lion King can’t simplify life to that degree. After spending a few hours with Morgan and Hayley, I realized that scraping by day to day is dreamily romanticized. Sure, the Top Banana is a cool place, but how could they live here long term – party after party, Happy Pizza after Happy Pizza, washed down with yet another drink? How could they be so complacent, seeing Cambodia to be perfect?

***

Two days after my experience at the Top Banana with Morgan and Hayley, May 15 arrived, and Cambodia’s wet season supposedly began. The heat was no less miserable than May 14, and the dry rice patties across the country received no relief. We are tourists shuffling around and buying fish pedicures. We are hippies living the Dream, but our throats are parched. The following day, the first sprinkle refreshed Cambodian plains, wetting its appetite and promising good nourishment. It ended ten minutes later as abruptly and surprisingly as it began. We are coming to serve, the light splatter whispered. We want to help, but we will leave soon, and our thirst will not be quenched. A week later, I jolted awake, alarmed by the powerful clamor trembling from the outer reaches of the night skies. It was a roar of thunder as I had never heard before, booming and boundless. I am a traveler, it quaked. I will bring the rains.