The Biggest Lesson I've Learned from Cambodians

is patience. That is not to say I've become some sort of guru on the subject, but I've picked up on this aspect of Cambodian culture as best as I have been able to, and it's something I hope to bring back with me, a kind of ultimate souvenir.

If you think you are a patient person, ask yourself these questions:

Am I patient when I drive? I have literally seen things that would make most Westerners lose their minds. I have seen cars stop in the middle of a street and park during rush hour, blocking traffic behind them and sending a ripple of blocked traffic around cross streets for hundreds of meters in every direction. What do Cambodians do? Honk? Yell? Go tell the guy off? Nope. They wait. They wait knowing that yesterday or tomorrow they might decide to stop in the middle of a busy street and park.

Am I patient when I get into a fender bender? I have been in a tuk-tuk that has been bumped from behind by an SUV; I have bumped my own bike into a moto at a stop light. What happened? Nothing. The tuk-tuk driver looked back through his rear view mirror but didn't even get out of his seat; the moto I ran into didn't even look back.

Am I patient at restaurants? People here will wait interminably--and then they will wait some more. The idea of "imperative" or "must be taken care of immediately" is not in the cultural character. They will wait for service, for food, for a bill, whatever. There is none of the American sense of urgency. They will also wait for guests to arrive. When I volunteered as an English teacher, my students threw me a party on the last day class. They brought food and drink. We were all set to sit down and eat, but two students were late to class (20-30 minutes late). What did the rest of the class do? Go ahead and eat? Gripe? Nope. They waited--and the idea that we would not wait for their peers didn't even cross their minds.

Am I patient when I wait for public transportation? I have seen people wait for a bus or boat for over super long periods of time, and when said bus or boat arrives and then waits for more passengers before departing, you know what the people do? They wait. The same is true when they are waiting in any line, for anything. There is no complaining, no moaning, no cursing--just patient waiting.


When I came here, I was the model of American impatience: I need this now; I need you to take care of that now; everything was now, now, now. I have made strides thanks to my Cambodian teachers. I try to apply their lesson every time I get on my bike and head into traffic or wait at a traffic light or wait for service or even wait for my son to finish his damn breakfast.

I try to remember that there is time. There is time to wait, time to be patient, time to not get upset. The art of waiting (or patience) was one of the qualities Sidhartha claimed to possess when he wooed Kamala. She scoffed at him--as many of us would have. But who was right?

I leave you with this, and with this prepare to take my leave of Phnom Penh, Where can you bring patience to the fore? When are you most impatient? Can you find the self-equanimity to foster patience at these times, the times you need it most?  

Things are Winding to a Close

here in PP for the old Griffin clan. As things stand, we have exactly four weeks left until we leave this, our adopted home of six months. In the meantime, Julie and I are keeping busy, she with her yoga teaching and I with my writing and both of us with a lot of enjoying now all of those things that we know we'll soon miss.

I'm reveling in steamed rice and bbq pork breakfasts. These are a staple of PP. Almost every block hosts at least one street-side eatery vending this fare. And while I try to wait until about 10:00 or 10:30 to have my "breakfast," by 11:00 or 12:00 these places have run out of pork and are cleaning up for the day. After that, it's hard to find rice and pork on the street again until the next morning.

I'm also going to miss saying hello and nodding to all of the people who have become a part of our daily lives: the moto drivers on the corner, the noodle lady at the Russian Market, the fruit lady around the corner, the money-changing lady who frequently gives Sila Kai a banana or other treat on his way to school, the neighbor who sells us fresh-squeezed cane juice, the other neighbor who sells us beer, and the transvestite hair dressers across the street.

I'm going to miss bicycling through the chaos, walking through the markets, seeing monks walking barefoot down the street, riding on motos at speeds that should scare me but don't, paying 75 cents for lunch, buying fresh coconut juice for 50 cents on the street, and so many other things. But I miss home, too. I miss Red Rocket Pops (among other things), and I have pledged to eat more of them upon my return to my native land. But, for now, I'll continue to revel in those things here in PP that I'll only be able to have for a short time more.

What would you miss about your community, your life? Going to the beach? Hitting that pizza joint down the block? A favorite chill spot? Whatever it is, Enjoy it now, is what I say. Do it while you can. That's what we're trying to do here. We're trying to live the life we'll want to remember later. I wish you good luck doing it while you can, wherever it is you are right now.   

The Planes Flying

through the haze over PP always make me think of home.

I imagine myself packed up, all of our stuff either purged or packed into suitcases. Those suitcases are safely stored in the cargo section below my seat, and I won't see them again until I'm standing at a luggage carousel in LAX chatting with my best friend. I sit in my airline seat, Sila Kai contentedly settling into a movie, Julie into a book, and I wait for the stewardess to bring a round of drinks and a deliciously crappy meal, some bastardized version of chicken cacciatore. Doesn't that sound like something they'd try to replicate on an airline?

Soon we'll all be home in the sense that all of America is my home. My people live there. They speak my language--in a way that even English and Kiwis and Aussies don't. Once on the ground, my mind won't even have to translate different English idioms and colloquialisms. I'll buy a burger that first night--or something equally American--and find my way to a nice craft brew, something like a Rogue Dead Guy Ale (though maybe less mass produced). I'll tell stories about how great Cambodia was, but I'll be oh so happy to be home.

Even on the best of days, when I'm enjoying my last weeks here, when I'm unbothered by the warm puffs of moto exhaust that hit my shin as I wait at red lights, when I'm enjoying a 10 a.m. rice and bbq'd pork (strictly a breakfast offering, I assure you), or when I'm unfazed by the almost insurmountable struggle to convey the simplest idea in a foreign tongue, yes, even on those best of day, the sight of a plane gives me pause.

But when you're homesick, those planes and the change they promise can be downright melancholic. And the terrible part is that there is nothing to do but wait it out. Sure, you can get lost in the all-encompassing dark bliss of the movie theater or head off to some reproduction of an American-style bar and have a burger, but to be honest, I don't know if these things ameliorate or exacerbate the homesickness. No, I think the only thing is time. You have to stay positive and through grit and sheer orneriness will yourself back to the present, decide that you will enjoy the final days--because before long, in no time really, the wide expanses and linguistic charms of home will surround you once again.

And when you're there, when you've been a few weeks at home, those planes will make you long for foreign destinations, for adventures in far-off places, and the sounds of indistinguishable tongues. So at least there's that to look forward to.

p.s. If you want to see what we sometimes do to stave off the homesickness, check out my recent article, "Of Beer & Burgers."

Just One Cool Thing about Phnom Penh

is that you can actually live here and go about your daily business and not even know that there are major clashes that are making international news headlines. While I have been loosely following the protests, some of which are calling for the Prime Minister to step down amid rigged election results while others are now aimed at raising wages for garment factory workers, the photos I saw on-line today give a picture of a city in upheaval, a place without a safe street corner. But in general, the Kampuchean people (Cambodians) are a quiet lot. It takes quite a bit to rile them. In this case, they want $160 or so dollars a month. Yes, a month! That's for 6 or 7 day work weeks at anywhere between 8 and 10 hours a day. You do the math.

There is certainly a bit of that if you're in the right places. The locations where the opposition party has been demonstrating (peacefully) are being cleared by police. And there are certainly areas in turmoil, particularly those areas where the garment factories are. And in the past weeks, Julie and I have had some plans thwarted by marching. Most of the time, we turn around and head home--it's always best to stay out of other peoples' business. One time, we were cut off trying to cross the cross-street closest to our home, but we relaxed and waited like everyone else: no cameras, no chanting, no shenanigans.

Other than that, there is a sense of normalcy here. In fact, Sila and I were cruising our local market and doing our daily biz. As I said, most of PP is safe (for now, at least), and things progress as normal, so fear not for our safety. We are staying clear of troubled areas and will keep a watch out for any call to leave the city, but we're keeping on with our daily lives until then.

As for those, I will update in a few days with some other things going on here. Until then, if you want a quieter slice of life in and around PP, check out my latest travel article, "On the Road: Biking to Neak Loeung," which just appeared in What's Up Phnom Penh.