Adventures with strangers

Some people think life in Cambodia must be constantly exotic and inspiring. Let the record show: despite being far from home, my life is often pretty mundane. In April, walking the dog I was sitting was the highlight of most days, a break from typing, reading, and Zoom meetings from my living room. Sound familiar?

But every now and then, a day hurls enough comedy, tragedy, and adventure at me to make up for months of monotony. 

One of those surprising days happened two weeks ago Tuesday. And it all started with walking the dog.

Remember the dirt alley next to my house that I passed through four times a day on Agrippa's walks? The one where kids always stopped us to say hi? I started recognizing more neighbors there. I stopped a few times in front of an open door where a woman inside looked at me. I smiled. She didn't.

One day, there was a much older woman sitting in front of the door. "What animal are you kids looking at?" she asked. I realized she was nearly blind. "A dog," they replied. "Oh, I like dogs too," she replied warmly.

The next afternoon, both women were waiting by my gate for us. "Could you please give me money?" the elderly one asked. "I don't have a family. I need food and medicine. I'm 95 years old." I was startled - I’ve never seen people begging near my house, though my neighbors have a wide range of income levels. 

Puzzled, I looked at "Auntie" for verification, who nodded while "Grandma" sat serenely, inches from Agrippa's massive frame. "I'm not her relative. I just found her a couple days ago, sleeping on the street. I felt bad for her so I invited her into my home. Her only living relatives are teenage street kids with no phone numbers. She got stuck in our area because of the lockdown and I can't get her back to them. I've been trying to buy medicine every day for her but it's expensive. She has a chronic condition." Auntie gestured at evidence of her guest’s poor health. I was embarrassed; Grandma wasn’t.

Was Grandma really 95, a quarter-century past Cambodia's life expectancy? When had she become this vulnerable, and how had she landed at Auntie’s? Whether or not the whole story was true, clearly neither woman was wealthy. Nor were they closely related: I couldn’t imagine a Cambodian disrespecting their mom enough to claim she was actually a homeless stranger.

I gave Grandma some money and offered to take them soon to a Christian clinic that partners with churches and NGO’s to offer discounted rates for low-income Cambodians. Though it was my first time referring patients, I was much more comfortable covering medical care than giving cash like I’d just done.

I returned to Auntie's house two days later with a medical form. Grandma was lying on the floor shirtless with her back to the door. She was barely conscious and didn't move the whole ten minutes that the rest of us struggled with her form. 

"She won't eat or drink. She wants her grandkids," Auntie told me.

"Should we still take her to the clinic? It’s an hour away and it doesn’t take overnight patients. Maybe she should just rest."

"No, she needs a doctor. If she gets better, I can take her to look for her grandkids… she knows their general area. And I have a throat tumor, see? It’s why I can’t work. I have to take meds every day or I'll die." My medical vocab isn't that great, and Auntie's raspy voice was hard to understand through her mask. So even if Auntie had a correct diagnosis, I’m not sure I heard it right.

"OK, we'll ask the doctor to look at you too." I asked if I could pray for them both, and nobody minded. I kept praying that evening, feeling very hesitant and out of my depth. If nothing else, I’ll get to know them better through this trip, I told myself. I’ve been wanting to reach out more to neighbors and show Jesus' love. This could be my chance. I practiced a brief Gospel presentation just in case.

The next morning, it took us 30 minutes to get a groggy Grandma into a shirt, shoes, a mask, and a neighbor’s tuk-tuk (motorcycle taxi). "The doctor will give you an IV so you'll feel better!" Auntie told her brightly. Auntie's 16-year-old granddaughter "Kunthea," who'd come along to help out, nodded. Auntie's cheerfulness faded as we drove on and on. "Does this hospital have good doctors?" 

"Yes, very good. And we can trust them to tell us the truth." I just hoped our trip wasn't in vain. Auntie had wanted to let Grandma sleep in, and we arrived 90 minutes later than the recommended time for new patients. Thankfully, it wasn't too crowded. The staff asked us the standard questions about Covid exposure and symptoms, took our temperatures, let us in, and helped Grandma into a wheelchair - what a relief!

Signing in was comical. I misread the handwritten Khmer on our first form and copied Grandma's name wrong. Her medical history was blank. Same with her address and phone number. For her birthdate, I wrote 1925, shocking the receptionist. Her health complaints were vague. I felt like the kind, polite staff weren't sure what to do with us.

Next, I joined Grandma and Kunthea in the waiting area, sending Auntie inside to register. "But I can't write!" she protested.

"OK, then dictate to the receptionist."

Ten minutes later, she hadn't emerged. Instead, the receptionist came to ask if we could help tell her Auntie's info. I couldn’t, and neither could Kunthea. "What do you mean, you don't know your grandma's name?” asked the startled receptionist. “What do other people call her?" Kunthea shrugged shyly. (Later Auntie told me Kunthea went to elementary school but had trouble learning.)

"Auntie knows all this. Can't you just ask her?" I pleaded. 

"I can't. She's already inside." I was baffled, but the receptionist had already walked away. Later, we learned Auntie had been coughing and they’d sent her to the Covid isolation area. I told the staff that Auntie’s cough was probably from her chronic throat condition, but they said to go ahead with Grandma’s appointment and meet Auntie at the end. What choice did I have?

Kunthea smiled when I returned to the waiting area. "Just now, someone was telling us about Jesus. I like hearing about him. I used to go every week to a kids' program near my house. People told stories and gave us snacks, but now they've stopped meeting." 

Delighted, I asked if she remembered any stories about him, but she said no. "I love stories about Jesus too," I told her. "Maybe we can read one together today." 

Grandma's turn came to check vital signs. To everyone's chagrin, she kept pulling off her mask. I put it back on, feeling bad for her. It was my fault she was going through this discomfort, and I still wasn’t sure the clinic would be able to relieve her symptoms. 

"Has she eaten or drunk anything today? You need to make her," the nurses admonished us as they sent us back out. We tried, with other patients looking on across the waiting area, but Grandma was too stubborn. Kunthea, on the other hand, was happy to share my snacks and water. "I usually get to eat just once or twice a day. What about you?" Oof. No wonder she's so thin. 

They called Grandma back in to take a blood sample. Grandma was not happy. Neither were the nurses, when they saw her low oxygen levels. They consulted with each other, then took her temperature. She'd passed the temperature check at the entrance, but now she was definitely feverish. "Take Grandma to isolation. You can meet Auntie there." 

A friendly isolation nurse asked me, “Auntie seems like a really kind person. Is she Christian?”

“I don’t think so…” I asked Auntie and she said that she was. I was surprised - I thought I’d seen a Buddhist shrine in her home. She added that she misses her old church and can’t read the Bible on her own. I offered to read a Bible story aloud later and she seemed pleased.

The nurse returned with our receipts and told me, “Please take them both for a Covid test, pronto. Let us know the results." Auntie and I reassured an anxious Kunthea that needing a test didn’t necessarily mean you’d be positive.

As we loaded Grandma back into the tuk-tuk, the staff reminded us, "Please go right away to the Khmer-Soviet Hospital!" 

The driver turned to me, alarmed. "Why do you need to go there?" These days, it's used exclusively for Covid testing and treatment. I told him tests were needed, and he grew agitated. "Don't tell them I was your driver! They'll lock me up too! I'm not going to that place!" 

"No, we don't have Covid," Auntie snapped. "Everyone's fine. We're going home. And we’re dropping off Grandma on the way." She muttered about the strict hospital staff, started a rapid phone conversation, and occasionally slapped Kunthea, making me wince. Every five minutes, Auntie coughed, making the driver wince. Kunthea was squished up front next to him. Grandma was squished between Auntie and me. Whatever germs were present, we were sharing them all.

Grandma's hand resting on my leg on the way back

I didn't argue with Auntie. It was already 11:30, and we’d been together since 8. We were all tired and thirsty. Was it OK to buy water on the way if we might have Covid? What about lunch? How long would we have to wait for tests? Would our driver abandon us and leave us to prop Grandma up for hours? Could we find another driver willing to pick us up from the testing center? I was overwhelmed, but I knew they needed these tests. 

I let us go all the way home, right past the Covid testing center and 30 minutes farther. As we piled out into the crowded alley, rumors started flying before I could even pay the driver. "Is it Covid?" someone asked. 

"Of course not!" Auntie retorted. “That’s ridiculous!” 

Once we'd gotten Grandma into the house, I pulled her aside. "Eat lunch and take a nap, but we’re going at two for Covid tests." To my surprise, Auntie didn’t argue.

Fortified by lunch and water, I booked a new driver with a bigger tuk-tuk so Kunthea could sit in the back with us. He kindly agreed to wait with us so Grandma could stay in the tuk-tuk. I was so grateful! Kunthea and I took turns guarding Grandma’s side of the tuk-tuk since she kept trying to stand and threatened to tumble to the ground. Our driver seemed remarkably unfazed, even with two terrified testees gasping and wheezing loudly nearby.

The staff said they couldn't test Grandma and Auntie, who hadn't brought ID along to verify their address and phone number. “But you have to – another hospital sent us here and said they have to be tested!” Meanwhile, the Christian hospital was calling me to ask if the tests were completed. We finally convinced them to list my contact info instead. After that, Auntie and Kunthea quickly made it through the line, and the staff tested Grandma right inside the tuk-tuk. Amazing!

On the way back, Auntie was desperate to drop Grandma off. I told her we should wait for the test results before sending her somewhere new, but Auntie directed the driver to another part of town. She called someone and yelled for a while before giving up and telling the driver to go home. “They’re still locked down,” she sighed, defeated.

I flipped my Bible open to Mark 5, where Jesus heals the dead girl and the sick woman. It was so perfect, my eyes welled with tears. I don't think Auntie was really able to concentrate on my narration, but she told me it sounded pretty. I told them, "Jesus loves old people and young people, people who are sick for a long time and a short time, people with and without a family to help them. He even called the penniless, sick woman his daughter."

When we got back, Auntie started telling neighbors, “It's fine, we tested negative. I told you we would!” I wasn't sure when to expect results, but I knew she didn’t have them yet. She invited me inside to sit and chat, and I thought, Why not? If they have Covid, I’ve already had plenty of exposure to them today. So I sat with her family for ten minutes, sipping on the cool water they brought me. 

A man around Auntie’s age coughed frequently. His skin was covered in red circles, indicating he’d done cupping recently. Auntie told the hospital she didn’t know anyone with symptoms. This is crazy. Why did she want to go with us if she was afraid of testing? A pale young man, shirtless with a necklace and an asymmetrical haircut, asked about my age, my marital status, and if he could add me on Facebook. I almost refused, but I let him send a request. A young woman with tattoos, probably his sister, asked, “So you helped today because of Jesus?”

"Yes! He's the reason I have hope, the reason I want to show love to Cambodians!" They told me they were "all three" religions - Christianity, Buddhism, and... something else I didn't recognize. I summarized the story I’d read that afternoon with the three women, and told them a one-minute version of what Jesus has done for us, the first time I’ve shared with a group. They listened attentively. Then I went home, took a hot shower, boiled my clothes, and disinfected my bag and its contents. That's when I realized I'd never told Auntie's family about the results not being in yet.

I spent most of the evening on the phone. My landlady Pheak asked me to self-quarantine until I knew the test results in a day or two. My neighbor Rachana kindly agreed to walk Agrippa for me. The isolation nurse from this morning and the young man (Auntie's son) both asked me to verify Auntie's story about already receiving negative test results. I’m so glad I added him! Now I can communicate with their family. I asked him to have the whole family stay inside while waiting for results. On behalf of his family, he thanked me again for my help. Thanks for what? My impression is that nobody with Covid wants the government to know, unless they need serious medical attention. I wondered if Auntie was ranting about my meddling.

I was sad but not surprised the next evening to learn that all three women were positive. But there were more surprises ahead. My next two weeks would be homebound, but far from mundane.

Continued in Part 2...

Locking down with a new roommate

When my roommate moved out last July, I wondered, "Should I look for someone new?" While I'd never wanted to live alone, I was a bit commitment-shy. I work mostly from home in general, a lot more people have been working from home because of Covid, and it seemed like an intense adjustment to be together 24/7. Since my rent is affordable, I decided to wait until I found someone I knew well.

Then lockdown started last month, and to my surprise, two days later a new roommate arrived. My first male one, at that!

As roommates go, he's been pretty easy. He's laid-back and social. He loves how I cook chicken, and he never complains if I leave dishes in the sink. He doesn't mind if I have work to do, but while he's the strong silent type, he's always up for spending time with me.

Yup, Agrippa is a great dog.

This wasn't my first time sitting for him, but it felt different. Previously, I've watched him at his owners' house while they went on vacation for a few days. This time, his new owner dropped him off at my house before heading to the US for a few months. She planned to leave him with another family I know, but discovered he had a fungal infection on his rear that was contagious to kids unless they washed their hands well. Understandably, with a 7-year-old who loves lying all over the dog, they were hesitant, so I agreed to take him until he recovered. Today, the first day lockdown was lifted, he moved over there (another surprise - I thought I had about a week left). 

On a Thursday four weeks ago, his owner asked me to watch him, the same day that we started a city-wide lockdown. On Saturday, outdoor exercise was banned. On Sunday, Agrippa arrived. On one hand, lockdown seemed like a perfect time for dog-sitting... he wouldn't be lonely and I wouldn't be away when he needed to be let out. On the other, I wasn't sure about this "no-exercise" thing. Agrippa has lived with foreigners all of his nearly five years. He's used to being walked mornings, afternoons, and (very briefly) evenings. And while my landlords later gave me a key to the rooftop for rainy days, Grip thought it was too clean to poop on.

But he loved being off-leash in an open area!

In Khmer culture, he's an anomaly, even though German Shepherd mixes are really common here. But Khmer dogs are usually tied up, locked inside a gate, or roaming free, not taken for walks. So I wasn't sure "I have to walk my dog" would count as an exception to the policy, and I wasn't sure I had an alternative. So I braved the streets with him, hoping that if I stuck with quiet streets close to home, wore a mask, and social distanced, I could get away with it. I soon discovered that...

1) The few police that passed us didn't care, and

2) Walking a dog is difficult when the neighbor dogs aren't used to it. 

Many dogs are raised to guard and protect their homes and owners, and they take this duty seriously, often chasing passersby well beyond the property line. It's one reason I don't like jogging alone (there's some safety in numbers) and am always ready to slow to a walk if I see a dog approaching me. One of my landlords' dogs feels this way even about people, and as a result is always separated from the renters by a chain-link fence. Last week he clawed a little boy, the great-nephew of his owners, who has lived on my side of this fence since before the dog was born. He barks at anything that moves. But intruder dogs are especially suspect, for him and for others in the neighborhood.

Soon my neighbor, the one whose son got clawed, gave me a stick. "Use this to help break up the dog fights," she told me. "Otherwise it's too dangerous to walk him by yourself." I felt empowered, but even with the stick, I was experiencing multiple adrenaline rushes (or "cardio bursts"?) per walk. I experimented with various streets near my house, but most of them had dogs that would try to attack Agrippa, and confrontations seemed inevitable when both ends of my block had pairs of aggressive dogs. Grip is great at staying calm to a point, but when they get too close, he'd lunge back at them or wriggle out of his collar, running off to safety. Would he ever engage in an all-out battle? I didn't think so, but I didn't want to find out. 

Then I tried the alley.

Looking back at my tall green building from the far side of the alley

By cutting through the alley next to my house, I could get to an adjacent street and continue on a loop where the few dogs soon left Agrippa in peace. I rarely jog or drive that way since the alley isn't paved, but it made our walks so much more enjoyable. 

Faithful greeters

We weren't the only ones who preferred this route. The kids in this alley had been missing a playful Golden Retriever, Mango, who moved away a week before Agrippa arrived. I made the mistake of telling them he was friendly and telling them "Wash your hands!" instead of just saying "Don't touch," and soon it was too late - they'd all rush up to him each afternoon, disregarding instructions. (At least they mostly avoided his infected rear.) I was so happy to get to know a few of the kids that I'd often seen playing in front of my building - I don't usually hang out there like Mango and his owners did. Within a couple weeks, they were telling me stories and giving me hugs. Teens were stopping us to ask questions about what he ate and how much he cost. One of the worst "culprits" was my downstairs neighbor's helper, whom I barely knew before Agrippa arrived. We'd get to the gate and she'd hold him hostage for several minutes of petting. It took forever to get past them and start our walks. I didn't really mind. In fact, I relished the idea that in lockdown of all times, I was connecting (however slightly) with all these new people. 

The helper and another downstairs neighbor coming to say hi...

... and to pick sour mangoes from the tree down below (why have I never done that?)

I've always heard that babies and dogs are a great way to start conversations on walks. It's true! All throughout our route, neighbors would stare and comment. "Yikes, he's so big!" "Does he bite?" A few picked up their children or backed away looking concerned. They were torn between responding to him as a threat (a large, unfamiliar German Shepherd approaching them) and as a novelty (a dog on a leash with a foreigner). I kept calling out, "Don't worry, he's gentle! He doesn't bite!" And gradually, they got used to us. 

One grandma would sit in her hammock out front with a grandson, telling him "Look at the dog!" Others taught me the word for "German Shepherd" and told me about their love for dogs, or asked me why I knew Khmer. Kids asked me, "What did he eat today?" and "Is he a police dog?" and "Does he need a leash because he was hit by a car?" Still others, complaining that "Agrippa" was a hard and unusual name (can you blame them?), found all kinds of ways to mangle it. They often settled on "Kiki," which is kind of like the middle syllable repeated, and a common way in Khmer to call a dog toward you. I even saw a few other dog walkers - not on the streets, but at the tiny park a half-mile away. I realized Khmer people had a broader range of attitudes toward dogs than I'd previously assumed. 

Meeting a friend's dog at the park

I wasn't sure how long it would take Agrippa to recover from his fungal infection. About ten days in, I took him to the vet, who said he was doing much better but needed to return in 2 weeks. I decided to do that follow-up appointment next Tuesday before passing him onto the next family. I didn't mind the extra time with him, though he didn't love being blown dry after his weekly baths (treatments for the fungus) and had a special knack for spitting out his pills no matter how well I buried them in chicken. 

We tuk-tuked through flooded streets and past police barricades to get to the vet

Walking Agrippa was less intense than my occasional HIIT workouts and twice-a-week jogs, but also more fun... and more consistent, so probably as good for me overall. Compared to driving or jogging, I had time to slow down and notice faces and flowers, puppies and produce vendors (forced to go mobile during lockdown). I discovered a beautiful, massive vegetable garden just 2 blocks away, and a small recycling center even closer, where some of Phnom Penh's poorest live and work. I always try to smile at the "Aichai" workers when they go by, but I never thought of them as my literal neighbors. Last week, when the government allowed exercise again, a neighbor from my building joined me on several walks. Across from the recycling center, a home/restaurant had a sign: "Mangoes, 1500 riel per kilo" (17 cents a pound). We sat and watched while a grandma and her grandkids picked 8 pounds of mangoes for us, as another granddaughter entertained her baby sister and laughed at Grip for drinking rainwater from a bucket.

Walking Agrippa led me straight into one of the biggest adventures I've had here, one that's still unfolding, which is the reason he left early. I'll probably post about that story soon. (Update: Here's the sequel!) But while most days with him weren't thrilling, he brought warm fuzzies to lockdown. Thanks, Grip! 

The case of the disappearing produce

 The answer was obvious - why was she denying it?

I was already frazzled. I was suddenly cooking dinner for six people, hoping to drop off some of the food before biking with a friend at 5. I dragged myself out in the mid-afternoon heat to buy groceries. My first stop, for meat at the grocery store, was quick. My third stop, for fruit at the open-air market, was quick. But the middle one, for vegetables, took longer. For one thing, I was buying a lot more veggies than usual. For another thing, "Auntie" was extra chatty that day. 

As her moy or loyal customer, I've been buying from Auntie for over three years. She knows I always prefer my fabric bags to her plastic ones, she gives me fair prices, and she smiles at me good-naturedly, even when I make dumb mistakes in Khmer. But she's less of a talker than I initially expected. I've never felt the closeness with her that I did with my pre-2015 seller, Little Sister, who patiently conversed with me in Khmer and still remembered specifics about me when I visited years later. Still, if Auntie's not too busy, we’ll exchange a friendly comment.

Saying goodbye to Little Sister

On Saturday, Auntie sighed that customers were down due to Covid. I told her I was buying extra to cook for a crowd, but it was my new bag that got her attention: bright blue canvas from a nearby supermarket, sturdier and bigger than my usual bags. 

"This is from Thai Huot?" 

"Yes, have you been there before?"

"I live near it. How much did it cost?"

"Ninety cents, but I can use it a long time." She was silent. I knew that must sound like a lot to her for something that just holds food. Unlike supermarkets which charge 10 cents, traditional markets can still give away free plastic bags, though they're pretty thin and flimsy. Full of imported goods, Thai Huot probably wasn't in her price range. 

"Do you live with your daughter?" I tried to continue the conversation. Her daughter sometimes helps sell.

"Yes, with all five of my kids."

"Everyone still lives at home? Isn't your daughter married?" 

"Yes, but she still lives with me. And my husband. He lost his arm in a moto crash and had to stop working as a carpenter. Our lives are hard. How much money do you make?"

A typical question here for foreigners, and not my favorite, but I gave an approximate answer anyway to show her that I valued our relationship. She packed up my bright-blue bag and accepted my $5 payment, much higher than most of her customers would spend at once.

Our conversation continued another minute or two before I reluctantly pulled away. Wow, maybe after three years, I was finally getting to know her! 

After grabbing a dragonfruit from the fruit seller, I continued home, only to realize my veggies were missing. Silly me, they must still be with Auntie! Come to think of it, I couldn't remember loading the bag onto my moto. I sheepishly drove back, knowing she'd laugh at me. 

Auntie was busy out front, so I went to the scale where she’d weighed and loaded up my veggies. She stared at me in confusion. "Do you need something else?" 

Hadn't she noticed? "I forgot to take my veggies with me. Did you see them?" 

"No, you took them with you."

I looked around her stall in disbelief. Nothing blue in sight. Now other customers were staring at me too. 

My mind raced. Maybe I'd left the bag by the stairs up to my apartment. Maybe on the shoe rack outside my apartment. Maybe... 

Maybe I was already late cooking dinner, and I needed those veggies NOW.

I drove off in a frenzy to check at my building. Definitely no veggies. They had to be with Auntie! Why would she steal them? How short-sighted, to steal a bag of veggies and forever lose a moy. Two Khmer friends were there, and I explained the situation. They looked at me skeptically. "We don't think your moy would do that to you." But where else could the vegetables be? I even checked with the fruit seller, knowing I'd only dismounted my moto for a second to take money out of the seat. How could anyone have stolen this bright, heavy bag from the hook beneath my handlebars? 

I returned half a block to Auntie.

"You're back! You couldn't find them?" 

"No, Auntie. Could you please look again one more time? Maybe you just didn't see them." I pleaded with her, convinced I hadn't taken them with me. Her denial made me think she'd intentionally taken them and distracted me, hoping I'd carelessly drive off without them. I knew that directly accusing her wouldn't end well - she'd never admit wrongdoing, and I might even make others around us suspect her, which would fill her with shame and anger. My only hope was to offer her a way to save face and restore the situation. 

"They're not here. You took them. I already told you. Do you need to buy everything again?" I loaded up the plastic basket again, angrily picturing her inwardly mocking me. "Sure, whatever," I muttered flusteredly. "I'm already late making dinner. My guests are coming." I hope you're happy, making $10 on me in one day. You'll never have my business again. I bet your husband never lost his arm. And if you have five kids at home, why is only one ever at your stall? I raced home with the veggies, missing the bike ride but calming down in time to enjoy the evening's visitors.

I'd love to clear her name, but I can't see another plausible explanation. I don't know if she planned from the beginning to be extra-chatty in hopes that I'd forget, or if she just saw me distracted and went with the flow. She probably hoped that she was the first of five stops so I wouldn't be sure where I lost the veggies. 

Most crimes in Phnom Penh are crimes of opportunity: picking someone's pocket on a crowded street, stealing a moto from an open gate during a noisy monsoon rain, running an errand for the boss and giving back too little change. Petty thieves have taken my purse, camera, and helmet. If it seems low-risk, some Cambodians will place loyalty to family and close connections ("this can help us pay the bills or get ahead") above honesty with a more distant connection. Auntie's snatch from a moy was unusual, but part of a broader pattern of corruption here that many of my friends decry as unfortunate but inevitable. Few would feel guilty about dodging taxes or sneaking through a red light. Paying bribes is often essential for getting things done. Playing the system is much easier than fixing it. 

I've forgiven her, but I haven't gone back. Two Khmer friends recommended that I not return to her, confirming my instinct. One said that though I could buy from her occasionally, the moy relationship can't be restored, and lots of other vendors could use my business. The traditional Khmer way is not to pursue truth and apologies: it's to pretend everything's OK until you can't, and then sever ties, usually permanently. I've felt awkward shopping at other stalls near hers - I'm sure she sees me sometimes, so I just try to go to the farthest one and avoid looking in her direction. 

I feel for Auntie, though. As she well knows, five dollars means so much more to her than to me. The difference between our lives weighs on me. Writing this post made me imagine her life. She's old enough to remember the late 1970s Khmer Rouge era, where betrayal was rampant and deceit was key to survival. Children were brainwashed to rat on resisting relatives. Doctors trying to avoid execution tried to pass for illiterate farmers. Parents and older siblings risked death to pocket food from the fields for starving toddlers. I've heard several Cambodians bemoan this period's devastation of community trust to this day. What did that time teach a young Auntie? How many of these lessons got her through the '80s and '90s, in a nation crushed by economic collapse and guerilla warfare? How is she passing them on to her children in this latest widespread crisis?

I'm pretty sure telling people "Just have integrity" won't do much. So what could I do? Obviously, I can promote external accountability by checking that I have my purchases before I leave and avoiding repeat business with those who rip me off. But heart change is slower and harder. I can do my best to model integrity. I can try casting vision, pleading with teachers and parents to teach the next generation differently than they were taught. I can pray for the Holy Spirit to give people new hearts that want to love and imitate the God of grace and truth. And I can help disciple Cambodian believers to bring their whole lives under His authority, trusting that He will provide all their needs as they live uprightly. It's not easy for Cambodian Christians to be honest here in a sea of deceit, but it sure stands out when they do.

Bonds that build maturity

What kind of relationships have undergirded, or undermined, your journey toward adulthood? According to Dr. James Wilder, there are two competing types, based primarily on either fear or love. Our maturity depends on the relationships we have experienced. "Becoming mature requires bonds between people - these bonds are the foundation on which maturity is built." 

When I asked my team's former leader, Lynette Cottle, for the most important topic she'd addressed with Cambodian teachers in her seminars, she told me to read Wilder's book The Life Model: Living from the Heart Jesus Gave You. There, Wilder outlines a course of emotional maturity that cannot progress faster than our physical maturity, but may lag behind it or even get stuck in an early stage. Many American adults, he claims, still have the emotional maturity appropriate for an infant or child, far into their physical adulthood. The key to getting unstuck? Love bonds.

Fear bonds are based on "avoiding negative feelings and pain," while love bonds "are formed around desire, joy, and seeking to be with people who are important to us." In the former, people's primary motive in the relationship may be the fear of "rejection, shame, humiliation, abandonment, guilt, or even physical abuse." Why do we want to arrive punctually, save money, speak kindly, or eat healthy? Because we're focused on what could go wrong in our relationship if we don't. These fears can inspire positive short-term changes in our actions. But they promote blame-shifting, anxiety, guilt, and hiding that ultimately clog our minds and block our growth. "We become emotionally paralyzed [and] operate far under our potential."

By contrast, loving relationships involve authentic joy at spending time together. Wilder argues that our brains have a "joy center" in the pre-frontal cortex that helps us be resilient and return to joy from painful emotions and stressful experiences. Love bonds build our "joy strength," which in turn "lays the foundation for all other maturity and growth," empowering us to work through our pain and move on. Loving connections inspire people "to remain faithful under pressure, to help others be all they were created to be, to be willing to endure pain in order to be close to those we love, and to tell the truth even when it hurts." Love surpasses fear and banishes it from our focus. "'Perfect love casts out fear' (1 John 4:18)." While love and fear can mingle in a relationship, one will eventually dominate and overshadow the other. Maturing involves abandoning fear bonds and embracing love bonds so that "we are guided by goals we desire, rather than by avoiding the disasters we fear." 

A chart from Chapter 2 of Wilder's book

How do we change our bonds? We need to examine our emotions, the seat of our motivation. What emotions did our parents or guardians use to motivate us as children? If fear was prominent, we'll pursue self-preservation above all else, focusing on avoiding pain even when the pain is not likely to overwhelm us. By contrast, if adults around us primarily showed us love in childhood, we'll have a big head start in the maturity process. 

How can you spot each kind of bond with children? Wilder doesn't spell it out, so I've been trying to think through my own experiences. In a love bond, it's not that parents are saints with infinite patience and wisdom. But they're trying. They take time to play games with their kids without checking their phones, not because the game is great, but because their kid is. They say "Let's clean it up together" when a cup gets knocked over again. They say "I'm sorry I yelled at you" when needed. They look for chances to praise their children when she works hard on homework, or when he uses self-control, or when they are kind to each other. They try to hug their kid just as tightly at the end of a frustrating day as at the end of an easy one, and to value the aspects of their kids that are the parents' opposites. They're happy to talk when their adult kids call, whether it's been a day or a month since last time. I've never been a parent, so I don't know how hard it is in real life, but I'm convinced that 1) it's very hard indeed, and 2) a lot of parents I know are doing a brilliant job. Thank you to everyone who made this paragraph easy to write.

Of course, that's not the only kind of childhood people have. I've heard parents shame their kids using words like, "Your messy room is a disgrace to our family!" or "You're such an erratic driver, your friends won't want to ride in your car." In Cambodia, I've heard, "Don't play sports or you might get an ugly scar!" and even some empty threats to young children like "If you keep doing that, Mom will stop loving you." A lot of times, I think it's more subtle: parents and teachers who criticize more often than they praise, or who don't show delight in spending time with the child. It's easy to use fear and shame to control the behavior of others, especially kids, but these techniques carry a heavy cost.

As a result of too many fear bonds, some people are afraid to make an impact on others. They may "withdraw, placate, entertain, or please others" to avoid shame, confrontation, or rejection. But Wilder points out that if I stop acting like myself, my goal of self-preservation has already failed because I've lost my "self." Conversely, other people fear losing control of or impact on others. They may try to control others using anger, contempt, rejection, and the "silent treatment." Their main impact on others is to create pain and perhaps cripple others' emotional development... not most people's desired legacy.

Wilder proposes that each level of development has a set of tasks we must master regarding our fears in order to change fear-bonds back to love-bonds. We must work through each stage in order, and it's never too late. I'll list one sample task from each level:

1. Infant maturity - recognize the fear (what am I really afraid of?)
2. Child maturity - recognize my part in the fearful situation
3. Adult maturity - stay in relationship while letting others have fears
4. Parent maturity - take some shared responsibility for the fears of younger minds
5. Elder maturity - help "at risk," isolated, and marginalized people with their fears

Three processes work in tandem: belonging, recovery, and maturity. When we belong to a spiritual community, receive specific help to overcome trauma and addictions, and have guidance and encouragement in the maturing process, we can experience long-term healing and growth. 

I've been reflecting on my own relationships. I told my parents the other day, I'm so thankful for their loving presence from childhood to present. Their love bonds have helped me grow and mature with a lot less baggage than some people around me. That's worth celebrating! That doesn't mean that I never act out of fear in my friendships and connections. Since reading The Life Model, I've been trying to spot and reject fear as a motivator, asking myself, "What would love look like here?" That's especially true with friends who seem controlled by fear, since those two forces can battle each other in relationships. I have hope and peace in the knowledge that true love can overcome fear - both mine and my friends'. 

What about your experiences? It's common for fear bonds to dominate, but change is possible! Our "joy center" is in the only part of the brain that never stops developing. There's no shame in finding ourselves at a lower maturity stage than our age, but we don't need to stay there. Who do you know who seems to love you fearlessly? Could you ask them for help in learning to act out of love like they do? (And don't say nobody does. We're all invited into a loving relationship with God, who knows all our secrets and is still absolutely delighted to spend time with His children.) As we embrace loving relationships, both giving and receiving, we'll be on our way to ever-increasing maturity. We all have a choice and an opportunity to keep growing into the heart Jesus gave us, a new heart that says "no" to fear and "yes" to love. 

Recently, I've loved hearing stories from some people who grew up with major fear bonds and are being set free by the love of God and His children. God hasn't yet brought reconciliation in their biological families, but they've received a lot of healing, maturity, and strength through loving relationships in their spiritual families. As a result, they can love others well, even their difficult family members.

I'm still learning how to teach this topic to Cambodian teachers. Honestly, my last training was a bit of a dud. I think there are a lot of reasons: for example, this group didn't know me well, this topic wasn't a high priority for them, I let the training go too long, and I relied too much on discussions instead of varying the activities. Teacher training is a big learning curve for me, and I'm embrace the learning opportunities and acknowledge that I'm still new at this.

Teachers have such a huge impact on the next generation. I want teachers to get excited about the opportunity they have to show love to students, propelling their students toward increased emotional maturity. I want them to reckon with the long-term cost of using fear to produce short-term compliance from students, which is how most of them were taught. I want them to care about their students, including the slow learners, including the disrupters, and use that care as their main motivator for students to do the right thing. Last time, I'm not sure most of them got there. 

I can make my training more interactive, provide more concrete examples, and find snappier ways of explaining things. But if my alterations are driven by my fear of failure, it's all a waste. The most important thing I can do to help Cambodian teachers embrace love bonds is to model love in all our interactions... especially when the training's not going how I'd hoped.

Woman at the Window

Lately I’ve felt a bit too close for comfort to the protagonist of the thriller novel Woman at the Window. The title character, recovering from recent trauma, lives alone and fears going outdoors. She spends her days drinking, watching old Hitchcock movies, and spying on her mysterious new neighbors. I’ll let you guess which of those statements apply to me, but definitely the spying does. Read on, and see if you can blame me.

I live up two flights of stairs in a rowhouse, known in Khmer as a pteah laveng, which my parents like to call a “potato van.” It has five rooms in a row… living room, 2 bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen… connected by a long, thin hallway. Many pteah lavengs have windows only on the far ends, but since I have an end unit, in addition to my south windows in the living room, every room has windows facing west.

In the living room, facing north

My western windows have always overlooked a mostly empty lot with a small, unoccupied, traditional wooden home in the corner below my kitchen. (My teammates around the corner say its owner, an elderly woman, passed away before I moved here in 2017.) This is great for natural light and airflow, though the extra sunlight during peak hours does make it hotter than necessary. The house’s yard was a throwback to a decade ago, when most of this neighborhood still felt like a traditional village. A massive jackfruit tree extends across windows in two rooms, sweet aromas wafting inside when fruits ripen. Several piengs – waist-tall jars of water, ubiquitous among Cambodians without indoor plumbing – dotted the grass and brush that had grown up around the house.

One day in mid-December, I heard a ruckus and looked out to find construction workers starting to demolish the house with their bare hands, so close I could have passed them a cup of water, with their soundtrack notably featuring Ed Sheeran's "Dancing in the Dark." At least the noise should be short-lived, I reasoned. There’s not much house to remove. I forgot to factor in the concrete stairs, though.

Then I realized: if the house is going, something new must be coming. The workers left a lot of the rubble where it lay, but began smoothing out the rest of the lot and trucking in sand. As is common, they lived on site, sleeping in hammocks under the jackfruit tree, which suddenly smelled a lot like cigarettes. (Most are probably from provinces several hours away and move around to each job.) A couple of small kids played in the sand. My horror mingled with intrigue at the flip-flop-shod workers welding and wielding jackhammers. Day by day, the lot was transformed.

Into what? I didn’t know, but my guesses abounded. Cambodia has minimal zoning restrictions except inside gated communities, so other lots on my street contain:

• A bus parking garage
• An ice factory
• Some sort of clinic?
• A motel advertising “3 hours = $5” on gaudy neon signs
• Three apartment buildings for lower- to middle-class residents, one of which boasts a nail salon, a seafood restaurant, and two dry-goods shops
• About 10 upper-class single-family villas ranging from classy to ostentatious
• My building, somewhere in between the other social classes
• And last but not least, the headquarters of the obscure Grassroots Political Party

The latest addition to our street, on the other side of my house, took over a year to build.

Basically, it could have been anything. 

I worried that it would be a big apartment building like the one that now dominates my northern balcony view. I might lose all my natural light and airflow out those western windows. But to my relief, they almost immediately began building two long, thin brick structures. 

Next, I surmised it might be two one-story buildings with small apartment units in a line, like the building just past it (the red roof in the above photos). Those are common in my neighborhood. 

 

Similar apartment buildings seen out my kitchen door 

But then they added a square structure with bricks around the perimeter, centered around a large tree in the middle. A courtyard? Apartment buildings never had one of those. And what were the new smaller buildings off to the right?

Eventually they filled in the bricks with concrete but still didn't add any walls. One new building looked suspiciously like public restrooms... apartments would have their own bathrooms. It didn't bode well.

One day, a truck arrived with bamboo, grass, and woven reeds. Within an hour or two, the brick square had become a hut enclosing the tree. This is 2021, in a quickly developing suburb of the nation's capital. Thatched huts are no more normal here than they are in Washington, DC. Must be something touristy, I told myself.

Finally, a new building went up just outside my window, on the site of the original wooden house. Akin to a motel, it was likewise a single story and contained a line of rooms too small even to be $50-a-month studio apartments.

And so I wasn't surprised, only gloomy, when my neighbor broke the news to me. "The workers told me it's a beer garden." Well, there goes the neighborhood.

I have visited beer gardens before. Germany had some very nice ones, with tasty bread and sizzling meat, in scenic locations where I could sit and talk peacefully with classmates. Please don't think of that when you hear this term. Cambodian beer gardens are as tasteful as Hooters, and sometimes a good bit less legal. There are probably ten or more of these fine establishments within five blocks of my house. They're only one step less shady than the giant, windowless KTV (karaoke) buildings. At each, girls sit out front, two lines facing each other, in short skirts and high heels. Salons like the one on my street rely on these girls, who need perfect hair and makeup every night. Many vulnerable young women start out as "beer promoters" or "hostesses," accompanying male clients in drinking, flirting, and singing karaoke in return for tips and/or low wages. The job often leads to illegally forced abortions, prostitution with or rape by clients at nearby guesthouses, and a heavy burden of shame. A 2012 Unicef report estimated 35,000 of these "entertainment workers" nationwide, mostly in Phnom Penh. 

That week, nice cars showed up bearing a family in formal clothing, probably the owners. They planted sticks of incense in a line in the dirt and disappeared into the hut, where monks chanted to bless the new business. Day after day, well-dressed people in fancy vehicles kept milling around and laughing together. I couldn't tell if they were clients or owners. 

Around then, a big orange sign appeared, with parking attendants sitting out front to direct people in. Less than a month after the first roof panels were pried off the old wooden house, this beer garden was open for business. Like most gardens, its chosen beer brand (Ganzberg) is a prominent part of the sign. The restaurant's name is literally translated as "Shade rose-apple cool heart," but I think it means something more like "Calm in the shade of the rose-apple tree." But it's a mango tree inside the hut, so I'm not sure where the rose-apple is.

The red arrow shows my apartment

Another Ganzberg beer garden displays typical simple plastic chairs and metal tables - 

I'm guessing this one has similar furniture

The limited parking area remained packed daily with nice cars. From what I could see, the kitchen wasn't getting much traffic. What about this basic hut with no A/C, limited food and hygiene, and ongoing construction appealed enough to draw these big shots for hours of their afternoon? I was baffled why they wouldn't drive five or ten minutes to somewhere more upscale.

I kept bracing myself for nonstop karaoke eight hours a day, like several other places near my house. I might need to move... I've learned to work from home during intermittent karaoke down the street, but nonstop out my window is too much... there's a limit to how often I can visit cafes to get peace and quiet... will it keep me up every night? Will I have to dodge drunk drivers?

Despite the occasional warblers and a constantly full parking lot, singing has been much rarer than raucous laughter and general hanging out. So far, there's actually less karaoke here than at the seafood restaurant just past it. (The video below features one renowned singer.) But the danger's not over yet. All karaoke places were officially closed last spring due to Covid and could reopen in July only as "restaurants," which has reduced but not eliminated karaoke in my neighborhood. Covid might be the last defense protecting my ears and sanity from a constant barrage of noise. Time will tell.

Another encouraging sign is the chairs out front. Though I've seen some girls walking around inside, I'm not sure if they're employees, and I haven't seen any sitting at the entrance. Instead, it's been men like the parking attendants, or conservatively dressed older women. That lends support to the theory that it's an ordinary restaurant. (Basically every restaurant here sells beer.) Furthermore, the posted hours are 10:30 AM to 9 PM - lunch and dinner hours - rather than early evening through the wee hours, like a bar or KTV. (It's still blared some 10:30 PM karaoke and other music, though.) Khmer friends confirmed that this seems to be an ordinary restaurant. One theorized that its appeal lies in the atmosphere inside. 

However, I'm still nervous about that building adjacent to mine with the line of tiny windowless rooms. What's that about? It doesn't seem very family-friendly. 

When they added a tin roof, blocking my view inside, the rooms still had dirt floors and bare concrete walls, lending few hints as to their purpose. We'll see what happens when that building opens. In the meantime, they've installed green plastic netting to keep the parking area cooler, which effectively blocks most of my people-watching. (If only it were sound-proof too!) Thus ends my illustrious career as Woman at the Window.

The other day, it finally dawned on me that while my curiosity may be harmless, my fretting was and is pretty selfish. Shouldn't my heart break more for the women risking their safety, reputation, and hope at places like this all over my neighborhood, than for myself risking my concentration due to noise pollution? Am I praying for Cambodian men to be transformed by Christ into people of integrity, or just for this one business to fail and stop interrupting my life? I conveniently ignore the darkness here, but if I really loved Cambodia, I'd fight for change. Lord, please make me more like C.T. Studd, who wrote:

Some want to live within the sound of a church or chapel bell;

I'd rather run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.

I don't expect any imminent rescues, but maybe driving past my new neighbors can remind me to pray.

2020 20's: A found poem

(To create this found poem, I looked back at all the numbered entries ending in 20 in my gratitude list this year. I reworded many and rearranged them all, but preserved the content, trying to capture moments of gratitude throughout the year.)

2020 brought me

all kinds of surprises, not just the hard kind,

but also the church lady who told me she prays for me daily

(it was our first-ever conversation but I’m on the church’s list)

and the gorgeous tree that arrested me on my run through the park, whose mere photo awakens a sense of longing. 

(Maybe Niggle painted it?)

Thanks to Covid,

My graduation from leadership training was delayed,

giving me extra Skype encouragement from my mentor;

I learned about ancient Rome with my friends’ 4^th grader;

and I pulled off “Cordoba” on guitar, delighting my dad.

God provided, not just enough food, but tasty food:

Luscious pastries before we watched “Mulan,”

chicken marinated in Italian dressing,

homemade pizzas providing much laughter and invitations to creativity with Cambodians when the oven broke midstream.

He provided learning resources:

Khmer picture books to share with my coachees,

rich, clear resources on assessment from someone who left his heart with Cambodian teachers,

strategies for introverted teammates to courageously plunge into community time,

quality English books to help kids (including my favorite ones) learn about Himself.

God loved me through people:

my parents offering wise suggestions in a sticky situation,

considerate fellow campers driving me safely up the mountain on their motos and limiting my load to hold,

a friend who spent hours helping me process one morning.

What am I grateful for in 2020?

Plenty.