Wade in the water

Even before my arrival last year, I heard about the flooding during rainy season. But where I lived last year, none of the streets flooded in my neighborhood. So all that I witnessed firsthand were giant puddles on the edge of streets, next to the sidewalks. I had to cross them a few times but never walk the long way through them. This year, I live several blocks away. The house never floods, but I've experienced a good bit more flooding on nearby streets.

Sunday night, I went to a local cafe for Internet. I opted to walk instead of driving my moto, since it's only about 10 minutes on foot. Every day brings an afternoon rainstorm, but I hadn't noticed heavier storms than usual that weekend. Having crossed one small flooded section, though, I was confronted with an entire block flooded about 8 inches deep. I happened to know that alongside this block was a field where oxen were pastured each night after pulling wagons with pottery all day. This water could NOT be clean!

Just in front of it was a motodup driver who agreed to take me the rest of the way for $0.25, a bit pricy for such a short distance, but well worth it in this case. I hopped on and we began to cross. It was kinda like fording the river, for you Oregon Trail fans. His moto soon began making sounds: bug-a-bug-a-JOOT-a-bug-a-JOOT... Seconds later, it quit entirely. I sat on the back, wondering whether to give up and walk or stick it out. He pulled off a part and blew on it a few times. No luck. Then he propelled the moto, using his feet, until we reached dry ground. I realized both his flip-flops had broken along the way! He stuck them under his thighs and blew on the part a little more until it started again shakily. Success!

An hour later, I emerged from the cafe. There were no motodups in sight my entire way back. I rolled up my capris and started crossing the lake, much to the amusement of some young Khmer guys on the corner. I dind't want to pick up my feet with each step and add to the splashing, so I slogged through slowly. The longer I was in there, the more prayers I added under my breath: "Thank You, God, that I don't have any open wounds on my legs. Please, if I fall, don't let my computer land in this. Thank You that I haven't hit anything mushy yet. Please protect me from typhoid and all the germs in here. Thank You that my house doesn't flood like some of Sarah's friends' homes. Thank You that I didn't get my moto stuck in this." I arrived safely, rinsed off thoroughly below the knee, and I'm hopefully none worse for the wear. It may have taken over a year, but I'm finally initiated into Cambodian flood-wading!

Grasshopper pie

Thursday was the annual senior class "Pie in the Face" fund-raiser, auctioning off the right to smear a pie in various teachers' and students' faces. As one of two senior homeroom teachers, I was involved in helping them organize it. The first dilemma: what kind of pie filling to sue. Ready-made whipped cream is pricy here, as is shaving cream. (Yuck!) Last year's seniors used meringue, but I wasn't confident ours would succeed - making meringue is a delicate operation. Plus, with no mixer, ten pies' worth of meringue takes a lot of time and elbow grease. Finally I hit on banana pudding as an easy and cheap alternative. It seemed like a shame to waste all that food...it worked beautifully as a fund-raiser, but there sure are a lot of hungry people around here.

A team assembled Wednesday afternoon at the home of Monique, a Khmer girl who lived with relatives in California until two years ago. I knew her neighborhood was upscale, but wasn't prepared for the fishpond in the living room, the bathroom sink made of shimmering glass, or the seven servants hovering around us. When one cook finally arrived with the ingredients, we abandoned our Uno game and dove in.

We easily mixed up the pudding, and Monique even added Kool-Aid last-minute for a deep rose tone. Because of the cook's delay, the other students had to leave after we made the first of two batches. Monique invited me to eat dinner before continuing. I seized the opportunity, partly bause I don't know her very well yet, and partly because I was really enjoying our conversation. She's very American, having grown up in a mostly-white US community. It was neat talking to her about the culture shock two years ago of being treated like a princess at her parents' house. (And "princess" really is how she's treated, in terms of both privileges and responsibilities.) She became a Christian shortly after starting at Logos, much to her parents' chagrin, and struggles to find any common ground with them. During our entire dinner, her mom never once looked at either of us.

Thursday morning, the seniors added Monique's secret ingredient: fried bugs! We had beetles, crickets, and more, but the tarantulas caused by far the biggest stir. The victims were pretty grossed out, especially my roommate Megan - I didn't realize how much she dreads spiders! Thankfully, her pie just had crickets, but I'm living in fear of her retaliation. Most people were resigned to their fate, though they agreed that the smell (vaguely like vomit?) lingered for hours.

The auction started slow, but soon students really got into bidding. We ultimately earned enough for our class trip, sparing us the need for other fund-raisers we had considered. The pie filling *did* look pretty remarkable on faces, even if it wasn't the traditional look that meringue or whipped cream would yield. Even students who didn't bid were captivated as each pie was smashed on a face. Dan and Dean, our principals, were great sports. Dan ate a giant spider from his pie, and Dean took off his shirt ahead of time and let students smear the pie all over him. At the end, the victims pooled their money for the right to pie Monique out of pure revenge. I'm so glad they spared me!

Miraculous

The further I get into this school year, the more these two thoughts float around in my head:

1. This is sooo much easier than last year!
2. I am at my limit: I can't handle any more than this.

Which leads to the question, how did I do it last year? I have NO idea. How did I juggle 5 separate courses, culture shock, heat, power outages, brand-new age groups, brand-new learners' needs, and the list goes on? How did I handle my numerous commitments outside of class? I pulled that off for a YEAR? Because at the moment, with 4 courses (2 repeated from last year), I am on the verge of exhaustion.

Last year, I would constantly be tempted to give into panic attacks. "I know I was okay the LAST time, but look at this crisis now! I can't make it! Any day now, I'm going to break and everything will fall apart." Time and again, God showed me that He was faithful to renew my energy. Eventually, I started expecting Him to come through, just as he always had.

But somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that the panic was the crazy part. "I must just be a worrier - it's illogical to stress about this." I'm now realizing that from a logical standpoint, worry WAS the logical response. Any sane person would know it's not possible to do what I did last year, or what so many other Logos teachers have done. Yet we did. As my roommate put it, "Students know that we love them. But they have no idea how long ago our love ran out and only God's love was left to pour through us." My new proof for God's existence: come to Logos and see for yourself!

Same with my students. This year I've been astounded to see so many of them thriving in school and to learn more about their families' struggles. How can you possibly be working and growing the way you are? This one's mom is on drugs, that one's dad recently passed away, this one's brother was murdered, that one faces all kinds of abuse, and these ones live by themselves. How are you still breathing, let alone discussing utopian societies and Greek tragedy and college applications?

I always knew God's grace is real here, but I'm catching a glimpse of just how big it is. And I'm glad that He has me at my limit already; it will highlight His power and faithfulness once again this year. I need the constant reminders that it's not my strength that determines what I accomplish; it's only Him.

I’m baaaaack!

Miscellaneous observations since returning to Phnom Penh two weeks ago:

-Returning is so much nicer than arriving for the first time! I've loved reuniting with staff and students and rediscovering quirks and fun things from last year.

-It's rainy season, so there's a storm every afternoon. The heat is SO MUCH more livable as a result. Rain is fun! Except when you're driving a moto and it's up to your knees. Thankfully, that was my housemate, not me.

-To prevent flooding in the classrooms, they poured concrete strips for the cracks under the classroom doors. (Our school is California-style, with open-air hallways.) Mine and my neighbor's already broke when people accidentally kicked them...not hard, either. Note to self: move new books off the floor!

-Students have so much more energy and motivation when they're not melting in heat waves.

-In some contexts (ex. restaurants and grocery stores), Cambodia's customer service is phenomenal. In others (ex. Internet installation), it leaves something to be desired.

-Cambodia is awfully far from Pennsylvania. This is sad.

-Teaching wears you OUT!

-Life in Cambodia sometimes feels extraordinarily hard. And I'm not always sure why.

-Little things quickly become big things if you let them, maybe more so here than at home. If I let myself become minorly stressed or annoyed, it can turn into a crisis in no time flat. I know too many missionaries who have struggled with bitterness and burnout. I need to guard my thoughts and not give into anxiety and frustration.

-Helpful people (and they are many) keep me sane. They're like a direct injection of God's grace.

-Something I failed to notice last year: using a moto to tow a wheelbarrow. No trailer hitch or bungee cord needed, just have your passengers hold the wheelbarrow handles. Brilliant.

-When it's in season (ex. right now), dragonfruit is fantastically delicious.

-Speaking Khmer is so much more fun when you've learned a lot more words recently. I want to keep up both the studying and the speaking this year, in contrast with last year.

-God is so faithful, even when we can't see it right away!

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Safety

For months now, I've been anticipating the Motorcycle Safety course that ended last night.

Every time I mention this to people, they crack up. Those who know me from America laugh at the "motorcycle" part. Those who know me from Cambodia laugh at the "safety course" part. "Shouldn't you just pay attention? There's not much you can learn - just expect everyone to suddenly dart in and out of your path all the time."

Regardless, it seemed like a reasonable way to learn. It's more complete and safer than learning from friends on the streets of Phnom Penh or even Doylestown. It assuages my parents' concerns for me. And in PA, it's free.

From a logical standpoint, I agreed 100% that I should take it. Emotionally, though, I despised the idea. I'm a very reluctant and hesitant learner when it comes to many mechanical and kinesthetic skills. I hated learning to drive, learning stick shift, probably even learning to ride a bike back in the day. I always want to KNOW it, but LEARNING is painful.

The first time we mounted the bikes, I was terrified. I didn't know the locations of *any* of the parts they quizzed us on: engine kill switch, choke, even ignition. The instructions were frighteningly quick and involved doing things with all those just-learned parts. But not following them meant certain humiliation and possible physical danger. Each new drill that night brought panic: I'd figured out the last one, but could I do this one?

Eventually, I calmed down and realized most of the exercises were within my ability, even if it took me more practices than others to get the hang of them. (Although there was one that I never really mastered, which appeared on the final exam.) But I think that sense of terror was good for me as a teacher.

School was easy for me. I'm comfortable in a classroom, taking tests, writing papers, even giving presentations. I forget how it feels for others. There are students in my classes who feel that same sense of dread and despair every time I assign something. Many have only attended an English-speaking school for a year or two. Maybe they read slowly, or struggle to interpret literature, or always have to search for words. Regardless, school can be a scary place.

This class has helped increase my empathy for them. Just before the final exam, I was certain I would fail. There were specific skills that I consistently missed during the practices. But my instructors kept patiently encouraging me, as they had throughout the class. I slowly brought my thoughts under control and prayed for focus and the grace of God. And, to my astonishment, I got the skills right and passed the exam! I'm hoping to be a safe motorcyclist this year, but also to be an empathetic encourager for students convinced they'll crash and burn.

Growing into my name

"You look like a Chelsea." I always hear that and I never know what it means. Now, with Facebook, I can type in "Chelsea" and see thousands of profile pictures. Many of them look like sorority girls, like they go straight from the tanning salon to the beer pong tournament. That's wonderful! I've always hoped to look like them! Or maybe they mean the upscale neighborhoods in London and New York, the beverage, the hairstyle, or the boots worn by stormtroopers in Star Wars. Either way, I'm not quite sure how to take it.

It's how I got my name, though. My parents were considering the name Annelise if I was a girl, but somehow, "when we saw you, you just looked like a Chelsea." I felt somewhat like a Chelsea growing up, picturing her as someone steady rather than flighty, practical and not given to much girliness. (Although I was far too spacey to fully deserve my image of the name!) At the same time, I hated its meaning: "Port of Ships." Other girls got cool name plates with meanings like "Beloved" or "Harmonious" or "Joyful." Theirs came with amazing Bible promises tailored to their names. The lucky ones even had Bible characters or famous heroines who shared their names, whose character traits and qualities they could aspire to. My name, by contrast, wasn't available on most of those monogrammed souvenirs. "Port of Ships" smelled like fish, looked grey and dingy, and sounded like a steamboat. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

I've often wished for a more multi-cultural name. Most people named Chelsea are white Americans within ten years of my age. But if it's not a common girls' name to most people besides my peers, at least people are still familiar with it. Older adults ask if I'm named after Chelsea Clinton. When I played with little kids from the inner city, they said, "Of course - you're Chelsea like in 'That's so Raven' on Disney!"

When I studied in Europe, part of me hoped to go by my middle name, Elise. I may well have done it, except that people knew me already as Chelsea in both France and Germany. Anyhow, it worked out: I just had to tell people I was "Chelsea like the football club in England." (Works for Korean youth, too!) It's not the easiest to pronounce, but most people do OK with it, no matter their language background.

So I'm growing to accept it. More than that, I was recently challenged to appreciate it more. The subject came up at Bible study this spring, and someone mentioned the phrase "a port in a storm": a haven for people going through a rough time. Am I that kind of person? I want to be, and I think it's a trait I've been working to develop. Some of my most fulfilling moments have been listening to people experiencing difficulties and encouraging them. Maybe I finally have an identity in my name, just like the Ruths and Lydias and Hannahs I used to envy with their built-in role models. Maybe my name is finally meaningful, just as much as all those names with a cute plaque describing their significance. Maybe I'm starting to become a Chelsea.

Leavin' on a jet plane...

or rather four of them...(what kind of flight has 3 layovers, anyway?)...but I know I'll be back in August. As I write, I'm in a hostel in Hong Kong, in the middle of my 17-hour layover after a 3-hour flight from Phnom Penh. It's been a whirlwind of activities leading up to today, as the end of a school year always is: banquet, finals, awards night, goodbye lunch for departing teachers, moving my stuff to the house where I'll live next year. So despite the inconvenience, my 46-hour travel time actually provides some needed quiet time to reflect and prepare for re-entry.

I've heard that most missions agencies don't let people go home during their first two years. In some ways, I wholeheartedly agree. Going "home" for the summer, every summer, is a little too reminiscent of college and a little too far from considering a place your new home. I wish that I had time to relax in Phnom Penh, that I didn't associate it with ALWAYS having work to do and teaching on my mind. So I know that by spending the summer in the US, I'm missing out on some really valuable experiences. I know, too, that reverse culture shock is often more intense than culture shock, and that this summer won't always be easy.

Overall, though, I'm delighted about my summer plans. I've been looking forward to baked goods, berries, not being stared at, forests, and other wondrous features of my former life. And while I'm glad to be returning to Cambodia soon, a few recent events have convinced me I'm ready for a break:

1. My hairdryer melted! Concrete evidence of the intensity of hot season. I was given one that a former teacher had left, and hadn't used it all year because it's too hot to wear my hair down. When I started packing, I picked it up and found it covered in a sticky residue. I realized that my room is so hot, the plastic on my hairdryer was actually melting.

2. My neighbors invited me to watch porn! OK, maybe I'm exaggerating, but everyone on screen was nude and I didn't feel inclined to watch it with my 60-something landlord. I walked in to pay rent and sat down to chat for a minute. Then they gestured for me to turn around: "Look, Chelsea, it's in English!" I told them, "I don't think I know that movie."

3. My bed broke! I only bought it this semester, when Michaela moved into my old room. But this week, I kept hearing things cracking ominously, and finally realized that several of the beams holding up my slats had fallen out.

4. Ants infested my underwear! Why only that shelf, out of all my clothes? Why yesterday, when I've been using that detergent all year? Why underwear, for crying out loud? Nothing a little Raid can't solve, but still aggravating when I was trying to pack.

I'm already getting nostalgic about this year and missing people from Logos. I know I'll be glad to come back in 2 months. But in the meantime, I think I'm finally ready to be stateside!