The Countryside

Slowly catching up. This is from May 13. The story's not over. I'm in Siem Reap now and my perspective has changed a little bit, but I'll get to that soon!

Every summer since I was eight years old, the Compton Clan has trekked up to the Pisgah National Forest with our church family. Everyone stakes out their spot and proceeds to set up impressive compounds in two valleys carved within a meandering mountain stream. Aptly named Cove Creek, the campground is nestled below the Blue Ridge Mountains. The combination of refreshing air, hiking, and a personal Sliding Rock is the perfect antidote to the busy pace of our suburban lives. Every year I come home rejuvenated, having invested in valuable relationships and increasing my appreciation of Creation. For four days, we live a little more rustically; an outhouse and a water pump are as close as we come to first-world comforts. Those four days are some of my favorite of the whole year.

Thirty-seven kilometers outside of Siem Reap, I have found a new Cove Creek. Far from our low-end luxury hotel in Phnom Penh, we are now in a home-stay, sleeping together on a tiled floor almost entirely covered in two rows of white mats and mosquito nets lined right next to each other. You have to crawl under the compound of nets to get from one side to the other, and without air conditioning, I am trying to find my Zen in this heat; others just suffer. After sweating all nine plastic bottles of water we’ve each consumed in the past twelve hours, there are no showerheads to refresh ourselves. Instead, we scoop rainwater from concrete silos; a shower could not feel as refreshing as these. There is no indoor kitchen, just a tent with a gas stove and a few coolers, yet the food we have had so far is phenomenal. For many on this trip, this is seriously roughing it. I see it the other way around. The family we are staying with are treating us like kings. They have served crispy pancakes cooked in the perfect amount of butter for breakfast and plates of fresh fish, pork and pineapple, bock choy, vegetable soup, deep-fried shitake mushrooms, chicken, and sautéed vegetables for lunch and dinner. This is not your average PB and J. At the end of a meal, they won’t allow us to do any work. We wash ourselves at least once a day and have plenty of time to relax.

While the heat does take some getting used to and it’s not a five star resort, I love this environment. I also know that with access to clean water and food, a real toilet, and a sturdy, simple house, these people are still in the top single-digit percent of the world’s wealth. I think they think our incessant need to keep clean and be cared for is ridiculous. I’m beginning to agree with them. Americans get so caught up in the person who has more, but being here makes me want to just have enough. Family, health water, food. Okay, AC, power, and maybe internet are some additional modern inventions that I would like to have. All of these appliances and cars and antique furniture – they’re nice, but when you start thinking you absolutely need them, or worse, that you deserve them, it’s time for a trip to a lower standard of living.

While we’re in the countryside, we are helping with a service project to renovate a bathroom at the local children’s school. This morning I poured my arm strength into sanding the whitewash off of the back wall. I mainly prayed and sweated and collected dust in my nostrils, but occasionally, in rhythm with each back-and-forth rub, the syllables played in my head: vol-un-tour-is-m. It might have been a little violent. Are you catching on to my dislike for tourism? I have a deep passion for service, and I am all about adventures in places vastly different from my home, but I hate this feeling of consumption and uselessness. If I am serving halfway around the world, I want to be offering skills or knowledge not readily available. It’s monotonous and I don’t mind doing it, but the twelve year old who watched me with deep concentration and amusement could have sanded that wall, and he probably would have done a better job. I always imagine what the locals think. Look at these weak white people! They need a break every hour, they’re inefficient and whiny. And they think they’re helping? Outwardly, Dam Vuttha and the others show great care and are impressively patient with us. But I think it’s just part of the job description; they have learned how to serve the high-maintenance tourists, and they do it graciously.

Still though, I am glad to be here, in a constant state of learning about the culture and the people of Cambodia. Yesterday we stopped in what looked like the middle of godforsaken nowhere. It’s actually called Sambor Prei Kuk, the original capital of ancient Khmer before Angkor Wat or Phnom Penh, and evidence remains of its past prosperity and power. Several hundred meters down the trail, we reached a stone towered Hindu temple from the year 600. An altar which was once the pedestal for a great statue of Vishnu still stands. Today, the ruins draw tourists, but once, this was a place for holy rituals. When the country practiced Hinduism, the priest would drop water over Vishnu, and the part that ran down became holy. I certainly don’t see architecture like this every day.

We were also greeted with Cambodia’s most persuasive salespeople – the kids. Buy a scarf from me? Buy two?  One for sister? It gets annoying, but the ones in here were not quite as experienced as the city children, and thus, they were also less persistent. The first one I made eye contact with, Mana, walked alongside me through the whole forest. Their English is selective, and they sounded like repeating recorders as we walked along. “Careful, watch your step,” four times in a row by different kids. “Lion Temple,” “B-52 bomb crater.” Because they were less incessant, you could try to communicate with them. At one stop, I drew pictures on the ground, and we exchanged word meanings. As we walked, I learned, and have since forgotten, the first four Khmer numbers. The interaction was fun.

In the countryside, most people do not know English. The seventy-five year-old matriarch at our homestay is bald, hunchbacked, and usually smiling. Every time I see her, I wish I could have a long, deep conversation. This morning I approached her, pointing to myself and telling her my name. The way she is bent over, I imagined she was in a lot of pain, and I tried to ask her if she would like me to rub her shoulders, using corresponding body language; my grandmother loves that, so I figured she might also appreciate it. To anything I said, she just repeated “Khnom Menyol” over and over – “I don’t understand.” Vuttha happened to walk up, and I asked if he could tell her what I said. He said I could do what I want, but there was a hint of hesitation in his voice. He treats us so well, accommodating our every need and desire.  I get the feeling we break cultural and materialistic norms regularly (the water bowl has decreased by half a foot in the twenty-four hours we have been here, and no one has said anything), so I pressed. He told me that in this culture, it is actually very rude to touch the head and shoulders of the elders. Anyone above fifty deserves utmost respect. After living that long, one’s wisdom must be recognized. “But go ahead if you want,” he added at the end of his explanation.

There was no reason for me to already know this, but I was horrified to think I was so close to violating such an important custom. I’m even more concerned about the way anything goes for the Americans. While I am here, I want to help, contribute, and be a part of this grand country.

Mosquito nets

Bathroom

Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

Farmers save hay during the dry season so they have food
for the animals during the wet season when all of the fields are flooded

Emaciated (they all are) Cambodian Cows
Kayla, I took this picture specifically for you :-)

Many people in the countryside make bricks for a living. This is a brick kiln under construction

When it floods in the wet season, this village looks like a bunch
of floating houses. The water brings in a harvest  of  fish and marine life.

A whole (very cute) family

The river in the dry season

Power, Poverty, and Pain in Phnom Penh

I haven't had access to internet for a while... From May 11:

After two grueling plane rides of fourteen and five hours each, we landed in the Pearl of Asia - Phnom Penh, Cambodia's capital. As I entered the loading bridge, I was hit with a wave of tangible humidity. Half a world away from Charleston, the weather here is more comparable to home than Roanoke. In two days, we visited all of the key tourist sights. At Wat Phnom, a Buddhist shrine atop a man-made mound twenty-seven meters above the city streets, we awkwardly flashed our cameras amidst the chorus of xylophones resonating through the temple. Worshipers burned suffocating quantities of incense and fervently proffered themselves before the golden Buddha, praying for luck and blessings.

Wat Phnom

Over and over, we pulled our cameras out of our packs and flashed away... at the Royal Palace and the Silver Pagoda, in the National Museum of Cambodian artifacts, in the Tuol Sleng prison and the Killing Fields, both of which are reminders of the atrocious Khmer Rouge regime. The food here is amazing, and pictures have definitely been taken of each lunch dish, beginning with our first course of fresh, savory vegetables sautéed in lemon and olive oil to our dessert of deep fried chocolate and banana spring rolls. (And classmates speak of losing weight over here. Right.)

Buddha Buddha Buddha Buddha rockin' everywhere

Royal Palace

I want to remember everything and share it with you, so the pictures will continue, but I wish I didn't feel so touristy. The fact of the matter is, right now, that is what we are. In three days, I have never been so aware of my wealth. As we enter each “must see” location, there is a persistent group of aged amputees and half-naked children holding out their hand. “One dollar?” they beg. “Yes please?” My eyes shift downward and I pass by, trying to subdue my guilt.

Mere decades ago, the Khmer Rouge Regime decimated Phnom Penh. Today, the corruption of the Cambodian People’s Party, composed of select dictators who make up this so-called government, though less blatant, is not much improved. You have to be blind to miss the poverty, the prostitution, the pain…it’s rampant.

An estimated two million innocent natives were murdered during the Khmer Rouge regime. Many suspected traitors were first sent to a torture chamber, like the Toul Sleng S-21 prison we visited two days ago. Of the 17,000 victims who entered, only seven survived. They endured terrible torture - salt water doused on fresh wounds, pulled fingernails, ripped testicles, and electrocution. The mangled bodies do not look human. Reminiscent of the Holocaust, rows of pictures line the museum. Each person portrays a different emotion, seen in the direction of their brow, the whites of their eyes, the tension in their jaw. Some angry, others tired, many terrified, a handful peaceful. None smile. Even the babies, 2,000 of them, were killed, because “you can’t just cut the grass; you have to pull the roots out, too.”

Torture Room of S-21 Prison

Most of these victims were buried in one of the hundreds of killing fields located throughout Cambodia. With its dozens of large, gradually sloping holes outlined by a maze of walking paths, the one just outside of Phnom Penh resembles an unkempt golf course or a grade A beginner’s dirt bike trail. Think again. Each of these holes is a mass grave, and some hold the remains of several hundred people. In one, all of the bodies were decapitated. As I passed, I heard a tour guide explain this was because they had the body of a Cambodian and the head of a Vietnamese. In the center of the killing field, a towering glass stupa displays hundreds of skulls. The skeletal remains from the Khmer Rouge reign testify to the power of the government, and in my few days here as a tourist, I see it playing out.

Soldiers used the serrated edge of this type of palm plant to slit people's throats at the Killing Fields. (!)

When my sister was four, Pink Baby, her life-sized doll, was always in tow. A piece of plastic never received so much attention. That’s the thing, though. Pink Baby was plastic, indestructible. When she was dropped, which, though loved, happened  often, Pink Baby suffered no brain damage. Yesterday I witnessed a little girl loosely holding a scrawny, naked baby – a real one, mind you – in her arms, its head unsupported, hanging at least fifty degrees past the crook of her elbow. Only a few years older than the malnourished infant herself, she carelessly lost hold of his waist. I stared, shocked, as his soft skill inevitably hit the dirt. In a three-second wayward glance out the tour bus window, a variety of scenes are witnessed.

Later that day at the central market, I quickly emptied my money belt of all of the cash I had with me bargaining for a few gifts. On my last purchase, I even had to borrow an extra two dollars from Courtney. Afterwards, the whole group ventured over to a sidewalk technology kiosk where they sell cheap electronics the same way a New Yorker sells hotdogs. It began raining, an unexpected gift on a typically hot afternoon. As I inched backward for cover under the overhang, I bumped into a short, emaciated woman holding out her hands, rambling on in Khmer. Her grin revealed a few crooked, decaying teeth. I know the Lonely Planet travel guide advises me not to give money to the beggars or the children, but how am I to ignore the harmless woman half a foot away from me? After being refused by many in the group, she and her friend continued to stand uncomfortably close to us, motioning her wrinkled hands up to her mouth.

“I don’t have any money,” I confessed, shaking my head and opening my empty hands.

Oh God. This is the worst. I really did not have any money with me. They laughed and kept on foolishly smiling. They think I’m lying. They think I've got a few extra bills I could so easily throw their way, that I’m being a selfish white woman. I would have given it to them.

The next day, I did stick a dollar each through a chain-length fence to two small boys. I know you can’t give to everyone; you wouldn't be able to pay for your hotel at the end of the day. But I have so much, and even if they are getting money from all of the other soft-hearted tourists, I will be richer than them for the rest of my life. If I have a $20,000 salary someday, I will still be better off. It’s a dollar, and I will never miss it.

I think I’ll continue to struggle with my infinite wealth in places of poverty; when we go to the countryside, I’ve heard it gets even worse. Still, I don’t see an utterly despondent Phnom Penh. Walking around the city and flashing my camera, I capture glimmers of promise. Even with the prostitution and the genocide and the poor kids out of school, these people are some of the happiest I have met. As a whole population, their pain has brought resilience. They are polite and positive, and the natural environment, from the banyan tree to the water buffalo, exudes peace and healing.

We, the moneybag tourists with our swanky digital cameras, malaria pills, and dorky money belts, can’t change everything, but we can choose how to tour. We have a lot to learn from the Cambodians, and we can help improve their standard of living. Organizations like Friends International and Daughters of Cambodia have established restaurants and gift shops whose profits directly support the education of street kids and prostitutes. After their training, many go on to work in other hotels and restaurants in Phnom Penh. 

The delectable and authentic food is more expensive, but it’s still reasonable and so worth it. A child safe network of hotels and businesses in the area has been established who do not tolerate sex tourism. When everything is so cheap, we can afford to support these restaurants and hotels with our business. I found a corner of graffiti in the S-21 prison – “peace,” “never again,” “always remember.” It was encouraging. Likewise, the air of solemnity surrounding the killing fields is tangible, but visitors had placed hundreds of multi-colored string-woven bracelets hung over the bamboo fences around the graves. Do not forget us, they seemed to say, but you can overcome; there is hope.

I may be a tourist, but this country is giving me hope. Perhaps I am giving it a little bit too.

Halfway Highlights

Two years ago, you could have found me battling senioritis and frantically studying for an AP test at the Towne Center Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble with my classmates. In two more years, I’ll be receiving a bachelor of arts in Literary Studies, and who knows where I’ll be headed. The not knowing used to scare me, but I am learning to take one month at a time and be open to what comes my way. Had you asked the eighteen-year old Jessica at Starbucks what she would be doing in five years, she would have said teaching fifth grade. Had you asked her what she would be doing in two summers, she would have said working at camp, of course. On both counts, she would have been wrong; if we’re letting God do what He wants and we’re remaining open to the opportunities that come our way, amazing things are going to happen that we don’t have the vision to anticipate. The present, twenty-year old Jessica just finished up her RA closing duties and is boarding a plane to Cambodia tomorrow. Eighteen-year old me did not see that one coming.

Sophomore year is over. Two years. Half of college completed. Unbelievable.

While I am not sure of my future, a lot is already behind me. Here’s a recap of the most memorable parts of my second year at RC.

Kayla – There’s nothing like a best friend in close proximity. I’m so grateful I stumbled upon someone I feel as close to as my Charleston friends. Thank you for loving me and many others so well, encouraging me to have fun, being a sister in Christ, and being vulnerable. Thanks for both the laughs and the deep conversations. You are a rock star, and I love you.

New Orleans Service Trip - This trip made me realize that I would really like to be a part of the Peace Corps or Americorps after college. I returned from winter break a week early not only because I love to serve, but because I also wanted to develop friendships with people at Roanoke while I wasn’t distracted with schoolwork. That happened. Mollie, Phillip, and Griffin, second semester was way more fun with you. You bring out my NARP-iness.

Restoration – Relationships, Sunday lunches, worship, service, and vision. The Yertons, Helliers, and Ledwiths are families that mean a lot to mean now who I didn’t know a year ago. I cannot wait to see the Spirit moving and this church growing!

RA – While most third graders don’t know what a resident advisor is, I’ve wanted to be one since then. It was everything I imagined and more. My pod rocked. Girls of 271, you might be loud, but you were good neighbors. If you read this, I hope you found a community in our pod and that I helped you in some way this year.

British Literature – I did not expect this to be my favorite class of the year; I was wrong. Even when I was analyzing with a pen in hand, reading literature is the most relaxing, entertaining homework. Romanticism is my favorite era, though John Donne is a clever fellow. This class and Rhetoric (my second favorite) were good affirmations that I’ve chosen the right major.

Bermuda – Skies may not have been clear and sunny, but spring break 2k13 with Meghan and Kayla rocked. Compared to my normal six-member family troop, you just get a different kind of attention when three twenty-year old women travel together. Southwater perfume, five foot ladies (yes, Meghan got to name her drink), high-tea, Cairo dancing, and sailing in the harbor will always be cherished memories. Thank you, Fowles, for your generous hospitality. Thank you Hartley, for being an expert tour guide.

SPJA – being president of the Student Peace and Justice Association was not all fun kicks and giggles, but it felt good to be back in a position of responsibility and have the capability to create change. I definitely learned more about my strengths and weaknesses as a leader, and I look forward to applying those in the future. I hope I provided a good springboard for the club’s success next year.

Sophomore year was a time of growth, change, and, most of all, the unexpected popping up before me. I’m glad for the people and the experiences of this past year.

And now… Cambodia!