Today is the end of the first day in February. All day, I was inexplicably tired and sullen even though life here at school, though busy, is going well. It's true, I have an essay on the origins of suburbia due Monday, a decision analysis concerning whether or not an industrial town should build a school now or in two years vis a vis the probability that a key local employer will relocate (thus taking tax revenues with them) due Wednesday, and more coming up, but those assignments aren't due for a while. What gives?
Laying here in bed, with a few minutes to spare, the reason behind my funk hits me: I'm homesick for Cambodia again. I don't have much time to openly dwell on my past, but in the past few days, in chance moments snatched while walking to class, my mind has wandered back to the Kingdom of Wonder.
The memories that come to me like that are so...bodily...sometimes I think I'll fall just remembering them. It's like my actual person here weighs less, or like I'm less physically alive than I once was.
What are these memories? They're somewhat composite. In many, I'm riding my bike through the wilds near my town--in the jungle, near Wats, on open plains. There was a feeling to that: to setting out to explore. Usually, there's an acknowledgement of extreme heat and of a tropical landscape. I remember Cambodia's sun, which is so fiery it can make you sick--can make you so hot you feel orange and red. Sometimes I see myself. My arms are tan and glistening with sweat as I undertake to fix my bike chain on a dirt path to nowhere. My hands get coated in chain grease, but I don't care because damnit, I'm in the Peace Corps. My memories are shaded in either greens or reds. I remember the rice fields, so emerald, or out-riding menacing thunderstorms with their flashes of lightning. I remember what it feels like to be scared of death, to be fleeing from real danger. I ride my bike endlessly, over red and orange dirt roads, with a blue sky overhead, and always a ball of fire somewhere too. I remember riding my bike, then being scared out of my wits as a snake would cross the road just under my tire. I remember being afraid it would whip around and bite me. That makes me think of a story a Cambodian told me: once, a Khmer NGO worker was driving in a Land Rover with the window down, when they saw a cobra sunning itself on the road. The guy decided to run it over, and did, but the cobra was so long and the tire only just caught it that it got whipped up and through the window caught the man's hand on the steering wheel with a fang--enough to kill him. I heard that story from a notorious liar, but even still, it scared me.
I miss so much of it. I miss my host family, and the strange yet loving connection we had. I miss teaching, and my students, and even the exhaustion of a day of lessons and running the library, because...I felt it was worth something. It was hard and hot, and I'm not sure how I made it through, but it was worth something.
The sunsets. The cool feeling at dawn. The jungles, the monks, the paddies, the lack of deodorant, flag-decorated pagodas, beating drums, vans full of seamstresses, steaming bowls of gweeteo, the mud, the feel of slicing open exotic fruits with my knife, (which I took everywhere), the tools I needed, the little I had--how everything I did have was necessary and functional. I miss the evening power outages, tucked in my room, sitting with long-sleeves rolled down, collar popped so that mosquitoes couldn't bite me to pieces. It was...so badass, so cool.
Only one person here at Cornell really cares or knows. Otherwise, I walk around with my secret-- it's tucked in my fancy pea coat (which I like a lot, by the way), or like it's written on my pampered, "soft" body. Gah--I used to be hard; able to handle so much. Once, I rode my bike 40 miles in order to illegally cross into Vietnam to buy one single coveted box of Raisin Bran. Now I can take my car to the store and buy anything. Anything!
So...yes, I'm nostalgic for my past. Grant me these rambling posts. At the very least, I need them.
Laying here in bed, with a few minutes to spare, the reason behind my funk hits me: I'm homesick for Cambodia again. I don't have much time to openly dwell on my past, but in the past few days, in chance moments snatched while walking to class, my mind has wandered back to the Kingdom of Wonder.
The memories that come to me like that are so...bodily...sometimes I think I'll fall just remembering them. It's like my actual person here weighs less, or like I'm less physically alive than I once was.
What are these memories? They're somewhat composite. In many, I'm riding my bike through the wilds near my town--in the jungle, near Wats, on open plains. There was a feeling to that: to setting out to explore. Usually, there's an acknowledgement of extreme heat and of a tropical landscape. I remember Cambodia's sun, which is so fiery it can make you sick--can make you so hot you feel orange and red. Sometimes I see myself. My arms are tan and glistening with sweat as I undertake to fix my bike chain on a dirt path to nowhere. My hands get coated in chain grease, but I don't care because damnit, I'm in the Peace Corps. My memories are shaded in either greens or reds. I remember the rice fields, so emerald, or out-riding menacing thunderstorms with their flashes of lightning. I remember what it feels like to be scared of death, to be fleeing from real danger. I ride my bike endlessly, over red and orange dirt roads, with a blue sky overhead, and always a ball of fire somewhere too. I remember riding my bike, then being scared out of my wits as a snake would cross the road just under my tire. I remember being afraid it would whip around and bite me. That makes me think of a story a Cambodian told me: once, a Khmer NGO worker was driving in a Land Rover with the window down, when they saw a cobra sunning itself on the road. The guy decided to run it over, and did, but the cobra was so long and the tire only just caught it that it got whipped up and through the window caught the man's hand on the steering wheel with a fang--enough to kill him. I heard that story from a notorious liar, but even still, it scared me.
I miss so much of it. I miss my host family, and the strange yet loving connection we had. I miss teaching, and my students, and even the exhaustion of a day of lessons and running the library, because...I felt it was worth something. It was hard and hot, and I'm not sure how I made it through, but it was worth something.
The sunsets. The cool feeling at dawn. The jungles, the monks, the paddies, the lack of deodorant, flag-decorated pagodas, beating drums, vans full of seamstresses, steaming bowls of gweeteo, the mud, the feel of slicing open exotic fruits with my knife, (which I took everywhere), the tools I needed, the little I had--how everything I did have was necessary and functional. I miss the evening power outages, tucked in my room, sitting with long-sleeves rolled down, collar popped so that mosquitoes couldn't bite me to pieces. It was...so badass, so cool.
Only one person here at Cornell really cares or knows. Otherwise, I walk around with my secret-- it's tucked in my fancy pea coat (which I like a lot, by the way), or like it's written on my pampered, "soft" body. Gah--I used to be hard; able to handle so much. Once, I rode my bike 40 miles in order to illegally cross into Vietnam to buy one single coveted box of Raisin Bran. Now I can take my car to the store and buy anything. Anything!
So...yes, I'm nostalgic for my past. Grant me these rambling posts. At the very least, I need them.
I love your rambling posts. Thanks, and keep them coming.
ReplyDeleteBlog reader, Grandma Evelyn