Steamy Stagnation

In recent days,  the temperature is steadily gaining momentum.   The midday foray across the street to forage for lunch becomes an eye-squinting sweaty march for provisions.  The hallway just outside my office is cool from the aircon leaking underneath the bottom of the doors.  As I turn move across a skybridge to another building, the heat hits like a blast from a clothes dryer. In the hospital's courtyard garden, people receiving medical care at the hospital overtake every wooden bench for lying down.  Small children sleep splayed out on the ubiquitous blue plastic chairs, their caregivers half dozing nearby.  

https://alum.mit.edu/sites/default/files/migrated/news/WhatMatters/images/choi_hawley_cambodia_man_fan_483.jpg

Everyone gets a little grumpy this time of year, sleep deprived and tired of the sticky patina of sweat, exhaust fumes and the ever-present Phnom Penh dust. I’m now using two fans  in the bedroom, angled from both floor level and wall level to keep a steady breeze moving through the night.  I routinely use the highest setting for the ceiling fan in the living room, overcoming my fear of it spinning out of control and wreaking havoc.  Its faithful whirling makes an empty beer can drift in negligible circular movements. 

This time of year I find myself drifting into the “western apartment fantasy”, a recurring vision where someone else supports my residence in an immaculately maintained building. The dream place has a shaded rooftop pool, a lovely balcony and a bedroom where high quality linens are placed on a firm yet forgiving pillowtop mattress cocooned by gentle aircon.  Several weeks ago I attended an open house reception for a building such as this, located across the river to overlook the Phnom Penh cityscape.  There was free flow wine, a lovely rooftop beer garden buffet (on the same floor as the decadent kids play room and adjacent gym) and good company with a variety of work colleagues.  Then, on the 17 flight descent  to the parking garage,  the elevator jolted to a halt, punctuated by a loud thunk.  

There was a moment of silence among the three of us.  I pushed the alarm button three times in a row.  “Hello. May I help you?”  a polite heavily accented voice answered promptly.  After stating our problem, the young voice pertly replied, “Please wait ten minutes.”   Shortly after, in what seemed like much longer with my prison mates impatiently fueling the general anxiety in the small space, the doors were forced open.  Our elevator was four feet below the floor.  We started up at the security guards, somewhat bewildered.  The rustled around, passed down an end table and then we were liberated.  “Please”, the uniformed guard gestured to another elevator. “Oh,no thank you.”, we all replied in unison.  “We’ll take the stairs.”  More and more, I find myself living with a fatiguing  frustration created from a shiny façade that hides the all too frequently shoddy infrastructure under the surface.   

http://derekwinnert.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/388.jpg

I am still toiling through innumerable projects at work, consumed with a workload that fuels impatience with my colleagues.  At times I’m dismayed about deficit problem solving skills and motivation, and incredulous of my perceptions of lack of competence.  My hopes and dreams for institutional capacity building have been foiled by the recent resignation of a close colleague, whose departure represents a huge step forward for his professional career and gaping cavern of responsibilities in the wake of his upcoming departure.  Some days I look longingly at the crisp clear photos of bluebird spring skiing adventures in Alaska and reminiscence  about cold air.   

There's a pervasive sense of being a little stuck, of not wanting to move more than you have to to get anything done.  The upcoming Khmer New Year is a huge national holiday celebrating the end of the harvest season, the arrival of the New Year angel who also heralds some predictions for the next year.  

A model portraying an angel carries a statue representing the severed
head that marks the beginning of Khmer New Year. Photo by Post Staff

 We are having the office party on April 4th, also my 52^nd birthday. This annual event has consumed significant staff time to orchestrate, plan and rehearse (something that fuels a bit of consternation.  Does it really take three people to go shopping for the staff gift?)   I've been measured for a new dress.  The seamstress is now already a day late in finishing it. 

 Most real action is getting postponed until after the holiday. Most evenings, groups of men gather with their shirts pulled up over their bellies to cool off. Everyone waits for the rains to come.   Only the trees, showing off in the middle of this languorous  season, are blooming in beautiful color and rich fragrance. 

In Transit

We sat on a bench waiting for the mini-bus in the morning.  Kampot's faded and worn colonial buildings remained stoic among the morning routines of the people in the neighborhood: the grandmother playing with her grandson, the thin man pushing the loaded cart of green coconuts, which would shortly have their tops lopped off to reach the juice through the pastel straw. 

The tuk tuk arrived  overloaded with European travelers with enormous bags.  A man emerged from the depths with tattoos peeking out from his tanktop, and forceful black frame sunglasses that framed skull nearly bald except for  with a thick set of dreadlocks emerging from the back.  The a sub-oceanic creature blinked in the morning sun's bright light, heaved the bag over a shoulder, lumbered to the bench and collapsed.

From "6 Ways to becoming a true backpacker" by Daniel McBane, #1- grow dreadlocks.

“We’re guests in the wild,” I would tell the people on our pre-trip briefings before we embarked to the wilderness. “Our job is to respect the locals, some of which will kill you if they are surprised.  So try to be  a good guest.  Be aware.  Clean up after yourself.  Respect the way things are done here.”   I dress primly when I'm on the road.

The van arrived moments later, and my traveling companion Sally and I played the “I’m in last” game.  As I slid the door closed, the tourist mini-bus inflated with an aura of transitional fatigue and dull boredom, self-importance flavored with a tinge of nonchalance.  We reached a junction and the driver muttered, “Here go to Koh Rong”.  I opened the door and stood to the side as the travelers exited.

A couple staggered out of the inside seats, stiff and limping.  The male had a fierce case of road rash on the shin, a large swatch of raw angry pink skin exposed directly to the sun.   His female companion took the worse for the wear, likely on the back seat of their rented moto bike.  Below her little denim shorts,  her leg wrapped in spotlessly white bandages from thigh to calf, abraded skin peeking out amid the splotches of purple mercurochrome trim around the edges of the wounds.  Her face had a few scratches, her eyes filled with the resigned slog of moving through a ceaseless itinerary when a more sensible idea might have been to sequester in a place with good supplies of clean running water, amply stocked pharmacy and shade. We loaded back in and headed east.

I counted the mile markers along the side until we reached the promised number of our destination in Om Chamnar.  The minibus slowed along and pulled out alongside the highway.  The horde of motodups descended upon us in a swarm.   Shortly after retrieving my bag from the back of the minibus, I placed it at my feet between my legs and began to negotiate.  An old man tugged at the handle  to claim me for himself, moaning words of Khmer that were incomprehensible in the moment.  His clothes were tattered and I was torn between the surprise of the gesture (I hadn't experienced this in Cambodia before) and the pressure to make a decision and get on our way.

The bus stop in Oum Chamnar, looking north. www.koh-thmei-resort.com

In that moment the answer presented itself when  a vital young man pulled up in front of us with his moto and said, “I know.”  I agreed and hired his friend and within moments Sally and I were headed across the highway down the dirt road to the coast.   The two motodup boys chatted away alongside each other as I took the chance to smile at Sally and share the “I have no idea where we are going” look.  The breeze was cool and crisp, red dirt roads taking us to  We pulled into a rural school yard, a team of 15 3-year olds streamed out of the building, shouting “Loi Loi Loi (money money money”, their little arms waving to come up to meet us with keen and eager faces. Moments later, as I as I shook my head to the motodup, they stopped in a stunned silence and stared.  We stopped at another school on a second attempt.  I pulled out the dictionary to show “boat” and laughter pealed among us with brilliant Cambodian smiles about the "misunderstanding".  Once we were delivered, the boys wanted more money at the dock for the detour.

On the boat ride to the island  And then I remembered the words of the old man who tried to take my bag.   He was saying, “I have no money.  I want food.”and  I realized the motodup boys had likely taken us for a scam.

Walking

Love those trees.

The moment I turn the corner of the towering palace walls, my soul feels like Phnom Penh after a hard rain has broken the escalating afternoon heat of the day.  The evening walk is a purifier, settling the anxieties of the workday and allowing for a determined stride and an observant mind to take in all elements of the community here.  Earlier this month, I lost myself in the vicious drive of a  deadline,  spiraling into the cavern of frayed nerves,  cravings for Western junk food and narrow, glazed survival mode.  Now, I was stepping out. 

The area surrounding the palace and the parallel riverside waterfront are around the corner, one reason why I am keen to keep my inexpensive apartment despite the lack of air conditioning, unending grimy dust and the decrepit furniture.  As I pass by the majestic trees that line the street and listen to the rabble-rousing of the mynas and the unceasing siren of the cicada, Cambodians are playing badminton and a posse of children rides bikes, racing them unfettered down the center line of the closed off road.  Grandmothers walk determinedly waving their arms about  through this peaceful transition zone.

To get to the river, I have to cross Sisowath Quay, a major two lane riverfront thoroughfare.   On a lucky day, I’ll be crossing the street at the same time as a group of women, who will often take my hand to navigate through the slowly creeping motorbikes and cement trucks.  The other side is a heaven of vehicle free community.  

The front of the Royal Palace.

My harbinger is a man with crippled legs sits in front of a scale, waiting for people to weigh in and give him a few reil. Most evenings the flags lining the riverbank are jaunty in the breeze.  I join into the procession: women selling pickled vegetables on their heads, all sorts of older men gathered in conversation, naked children with the telltale orange hair of malnutrition, tourists in impeccable linens,  small groups of boys playing football. The vendors with balloons crowding the back of their bicycles intermingle with toddlers bouncing in a drunken trot.  The aerobics classes congregate in rows, dancing in a small box of movements to their leader.  Most evenings the small covered boats of the river people  pull up at the base of the concrete riverbanks, discharging the children to run and the mothers to sit idly by and talk among themselves.   

If I’m lucky, I’ll see Lin and try to keep up with her for a while.  She proudly walks at least 3 laps (about 5 miles) by herself most evenings.  She owns and operates a laundry in neighborhood after divorcing her slacker husband. While some small things change through the seasons, the general tenor remains the same. My riverside walks have become a regular part of my life.

This always makes me smile.

This week marks the one-year anniversary of my job.  With new responsibility,  I've built capacity for fundraising and some other physical manifestations: weight gain, joint pains from overuse of the computer, an increasing recurrence of depressive episodes that challenge my normally positive nature and "can-do" spirit.  Since December, I’d been scheming that I would reclaim my life after Lois’s visit and the deadline that loomed shortly after she left.

 

And thus, as that milestone passed, the Universe opened with new prospects for the future. The hospital’s new leader is committed to development. I finally met with a wellness coach who is offering me support.   On Friday, I took the day off from work to go “to the mountain” to see Ratha's grandmother.  "Helend", she said when we discussed this earlier in the week, "no one will be working so you should come with me."  It was a Cambodian “triple play” holiday--the end of Chinese New Year, Valentines Day and Meak Bochea Day--and so in the early morning I was on my way to at a remote temple on the top of a hill in Kampong Speu province, a two hour westbound tuk tuk ride with my friend who sells noodles across the street from my apartment. 

Meak Bochea, the full moon of the third month in lunar calendar,  celebrates a spontaneous gathering of over 1,000 monks to hear the most important three precepts from the Buddha: do no harm, spread goodwill and purify you mind.  We stopped for breakfast and at the market to buy things, were passed by overloaded local transit and gleaming luxury SUVs headed to the province, and then down a dirt road with the large, ornate, painted cement archway.

How much do you weigh?”, they asked as we all looked at the daunting  road that led to the top.  I’d seen an elderly woman walking her way up the road just after we arrived , but Ratha would have been miffed had I insisted to take the 700 stairs to the top.   In that moment of ascending groaning moto transport, I was lifted into a different world.  Small shrines to honor specific Buddhist figures were scattered around the property.  Ratha and I walked to each one, sat and chanted with three sticks of incense clasped between our palms. At the end we nestled the sticks between the old ones to continue burning, the current honor held in place by those of the past.

After lunch Ratha, her grandmother and two old women carrying offerings went down the first shrine for some time of ceremony.  “This is my time.”, she said unequivocally, standing with a Cambodian bathing sheet wrapped around her body, and I was left to my own devices. I found my way to the very top of the hill at a now unused shrine.  I stood for some moments looking out over the top of a spire with the four faced Buddha, not only representing cardinal directions but also the sublime states of Buddhism: charity, compassion, sympathy and equanimity.

The unending landscape of dry rice fields stretched out before me.   I was taken back to my experiences in Thailand: the simple joy of the dinner delivery lady that facilitated an evening “power ride" in the forest temple across the street, the simplicity of chanting prayers to the Buddha each morning after the National anthem, and the turmoil of the past year at the hospital and its impact on my psyche. 

In this moment, well after the frenzy of a dismal holiday season and the ensuing promise of the new year, I felt a shift.  For now, perhaps I could make a commitment to recapture my spirit, to eddy out after the fantastic set of emotional rapids over the past six months and reclaim my love of exercise, whole grains, the small gifts of kind smiles and writing my own stories.   Ratha was relaxed, washed and dressed as we stood at the top of the stairs to make our way down to the tuk tuk.  “Thank you very much,” I said in Khmer, leafing through my pocket dictionary to show her the Khmer script: peaceful.

2013 Year in Review

So Not Home for the Holidays

I was filled with bliss on the evening walk home on an evening in early December. Dry season has arrived with crisp cool breezes and I was imbued with a general fresh feeling, poised for new opportunities and endeavors.   My friendly fellow knitters and I had spent the evening scheming on a new collaborative fiber art project (Storming the Cyclo 2014) at the local vegan arts café and I was happy to feel connected and directed on something other than my job.

In the midst of my internal euphoria, I was startled and saddened to see the young boy lying on the small patch of grass alongside the towering wall surrounding the Royal Palace.  Face down, he was motionless and seemingly abandoned.  I stopped for a moment and looked at him, noted the gentle rising and falling of his chest and glanced around for any adult nearby.  The storefront lights in the window of the high- end furniture store across the street illuminated the western-style bed frame and nightstand, gleaming and pristine white.  For a moment I was paralyzed by wanting to wake him up and take him home and the unfortunate helplessness that comes from being, by most practical means, unable to do to absolutely anything in that moment to help him without creating a scene of misunderstandings and inappropriate foreigner behavior.  I kept walking and he haunted me for a while. 

That experience was tame compared to India. My trip to Bangalore involved a conference on neglected tropical diseases, with international experts presenting short briefing sessions, some of which were  completely incomprehensible 10 minute speed sessions of the acronym filled, accent-laden, tiny font on complex chart PowerPoint presentations about diseases that very few have heard of.

Depicting symptoms of meliodosis, also known as "the great mimicker." It is frequently misdiagnosed. Because our lab can grow microbiological cultures, it can be identified and treated. 

These problems: leishmaniasis, schistosomaisis, lymphatic filariasis and meliodosis  plague the very poor:  insects and reptile bites, parasites, and complex bacteria resulting from substandard housing, lack of access to clean water, decent sanitation and quality health care. Because they individually impact very few, they do not receive adequate funding for research and treatment.  These diseases kill, maim and impede any progress to alleviating poverty and sustaining economic development. They are deemed neglected in contrast to HIV, TB and Malaria. 

After a few days of being ensconced in the cocoon of a nice hotel and after the close of the conference, I found a couple of colleagues who were interested in a road trip to Mysore on Sunday.  In the early morning departure,  the traffic was already apparent.   India is so noisy;  life there a barrage of honking horns, speeding vehicles and whoever happens to be in the road at the time: small dogs, grandmothers in brilliant saris and cows.

 I was already queasy from three days of the hotel’s buffet.   The hair-raising winding ascension to the mountaintop temple proved to be too much for my stomach and with a desperate, universally understood plea, I literally lost my lunch.  On our next tourist stop, my Sundanese colleague’s wallet was stolen from her purse. It was an eventful tour.

Just browsing...

After the hell-bent taxi ride to the airport delivered me with time to spare at the gate, I mulled over the cows begging at the Chamundi temple.  I saw a family drop a peeled orange on the ground. The cow stepped up and sucked it up in a jiffy and then approached the family for more, scattering the mother carrying her son and startling the grandmother into slow-motion action. Another cow scoped out the parking lot,  ambled over to the tour bus decorated with long strings of marigolds and promptly set upon eating all of them, stumbling away with the long white thread of the garland tangled around its hooves. While some seem well-fed, others were curled up on the pavement as the humans walked around them. There are always contrasts everywhere.

Sofitel Phnom Penh serves Pumpkin Poup. 

I arrived at the  evening buffet at the Sofitel on the back of a motodop. who likely makes as much money in two weeks as I was going to spend for dinner in a night.  I was invited by a friend to join her group for an expensive feast with all the fixings. However, shortly after we were seated it became glaringly apparent that the staff was both overwhelmed and clueless.  The chefs were pleading for forgiveness from the anxious Americans lined up to receive their allotted portion of the rapidly disappearing turkey; there were no cranberries.  Wisps of pumpkin pie slices were forlorn on the platters.  The disgruntled patrons began loading up on sushi and rich cheeses, I was intrigued with roast duck and the marshmallows in the chocolate fountain. What should have been great was not. 

The end of Thanksgiving week delivered the Asian version of Christmas: towering glittery purple and silver trees in the lobbies of shopping centers and upper middle class venues,  techno-electric variations of old favorites and mini-skirted waitresses in santa hats.  Many of the expats are preparing for visits home (two of my friends have not had a Christmas in their homeland for at least four years) and the juxtaposition and contrasts of my life here are achieving remarkable clarity, yet also triggering memories of a holidays spent in past jobs.

Between 1984 and 1989, I worked as a street outreach counselor in downtown Boston. My job entailed a daily patrol around the edges and peripheries of urban existence: street hustlers, punk rockers and townies kids with horrible family histories.  The youth were marginalized and always bored; the holiday season amplified the sense of disconnection and failure and of wanting and lacking. They congregated in the evening, after the blaring music was turned off and hustling shoppers laden with brightly covered shopping bags had returned to their homes.  Sometimes the  "Merry Christmas!" greetings perpetuate a myth that all of us recognize, on some level, was never really was real in the first place.  We've all had the presents that never manifested under the tree, the family gatherings that got a little creepy, the New Year’s eves where we went to bed early and just waited for the morning when it would be all over and we could begin afresh.

For the youth on the streets of Boston, the agency would plan a special day; staff were assigned to man the tables by lottery.  We put together an early holiday lunch buffet with everything, cleared the classroom floor and rented a videocassette movie.   The youth were so appreciative; not only to have a full-on stuff your face food fest, but also to have a warm, comfortable place to stretch out and relax in the middle of the day with a full belly.  The room was filled with the scent of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, punctuated with the occasional snoring and whispered commentary.  It was simply a day unlike any other; a time to capture a small gift of the generosity before the movie ended and the reality of street life resumed. 

In the midst of all of the contrasts between my expat friends and of the incredibly thin, terribly sick and unspeakably poor patients that I pass by on my walk to my office in the hospital each morning,  I'm not tuned into the Christmas spirit.  There's a longing and wistful nostalgia for the comfort of family and familiar tradition, yet my choices and circumstances have me here with one foot lightly resting on each world.   Two years ago in Thailand, it seemed easier.  I paraded my way through morning assembly in a santa suit and led a rendition of jingle bells because I was the only foreigner around.   I taught classes for the rest of the day and opened presents from home in the evening and made plans for New Year vacation on the beach.

from Phnom Penh Post. Inflatable reindeer and
glittery garland are on display everywhere.

This year, the community of expats around me creates feelings of what "should be".  There's a loose plan to meet for a river boat trip, keeping it open for people to do their own thing for dinner.  The big hotels and restaurants are putting together set menus.  My Christian colleagues have services planned.  I'm laying low, unresolved about whether it is better to spend lots of money in crowded restaurants with  casual acquaintances or if I want to find my favorite noodle shop.  I'll go to work a little late and leave a little early. I'll be surrounded by my Buddhist colleagues,cooking up plans and getting things organized in the quiet lull of the holidays while the western world carries on.

Solstice is much more meaningful for me.   I'll celebrate and exercise in the power of a crisp high weather front, consider the potential of what will transpire in the new year and bolster commitments for how to achieve balance in this crazy expatriate life of homeless children and wine bars, of great potential and crushing reality, and of the pressing needs all around us and boundless compassion.  For soon, even here on the shores of the mighty Mekong river, the light will extend farther into the evening.

Winter greetings to all from the tropics~

Equilibrium and Equanimity

There are days when “too much work” is exemplified in the moment the Spanx™ are peeled off in the work bathroom after the sun has set and the birds have begun their evening flutters in the hospital courtyard.    My epic day was, in fact, somewhat typical since returning from my writing retreat nearly a month ago.  

An early morning meeting with major donors and the VP from the states (hence a nice dress and tummy control), then diving into a 90 minute power-write into a proposal for a new TB case finding project (rebuilt ambulance for mobile chest x-ray into villages yeah!) while at the same time battling confusion around the baffling prevalence numbers from the national TB program.  A quick jaunt across the street for a the usual 75 cent lunch and visiting with international volunteers who were hanging out in the break room shortly after.  A coaching meeting with a colleague through the draft of his grant report (why does the word “has” come up every other sentence?), trotting over on my third trip across the street to the social enterprise clinic for a photo op with a Cambodian donor/patient and topping it all off with an all staff meeting where my close colleague was selected as Employee of the Month and the executive director announced his resignation.

The team decided to implement certificates instead of thank you notes for our Cambodian donors. The frame indicates a large gift.  This donor's son was trained at the hospital and she's been coming to us since 1999 for outpatient care for Type 2 diabetes.

Work is consuming my life; and for this I am resigned and a little resentful,  tired and hopeful, nostalgic for the days of yore and wondering how many times in my life I have to re-learn the same stress management lessons.   My job is a fantastic opportunity to advance an organization’s local capacity.  I’m getting paid reasonably well within the organization (but not within the market) and learning each day.  When the supervisor/colleague left in June, my position grew beyond project development, grant writing and grant management to encompass fundraising and communications, and overseeing 6 staff including a part-time western IT consultant working on an analysis of our medical record database. 

 Some work days are a roller coaster of  nagging, pervasive malaise and exhaustion, occasionally surging into an overwhelmed helplessness and moral indignation.  Other days dissipate back into a relatively manageable sense of being busy, productive, needed and appreciated.  This persistent problem of getting overly involved with work, sometimes leading to mental and physical breakdowns, has been a constant thread throughout my life.  Like the elbow of the blind masseuse that grinds into my cement shoulders to try and gain some flexibility, my pattern is that I often take drastic measures when my inner waters get too turbulent.

So little time...

I left an emotionally intense job doing social work on the streets of Boston in the beginnings of the AIDS epidemic to work my way around the country for seven years. I found peace in the great physical work of guiding on rivers, oceans and forests, and spent winters knitting beautiful hats while working at the front desk of hotels. I moved to Anchorage, bought a house and got my first real job. That involved the transition of two executive directors and an office move.   I fled to graduate school after turning around a failing consulting practice after the tragic death of a senior consultant from a brain tumor.  Eventually, although it took several years, I left for southeast Asia.  That radical departure was set in motion after managing an organization through a forced headquarters relocation that involved moving  50 staff who had been in the same building for 20 years, while designing and securing donations for the new space and preparing ground work for an ultimately successful capital campaign for a summer camp renovation.  (One summer at camp, we had problems with a pair of adolescent grizzly bears who wandered through periodically and thus I found myself thinking about shotguns and rubber bullets.)  After leaving that job at the advent of the great recession of 2008,  I supported myself with consulting projects and stressed over health insurance costs that equaled a monthly mortgage payment. A seemingly god-sent ultimate real job resulted in  a mystifying, byzantine power play and a pink slip. The dog died and my love affair with Alaska ended. 

So, now the challenge remains as I wind my way through yet another office job and organization in flux. I have only been in this position for nine months and thus,  for survival's sake, find a way to manage my stress and  find the balance between what I “should” do and the what would make me truly happy. Or at least identify how I want to spend my time here.

The “should do” category becomes a bit more looming after 50.  I’m at the place where financial planners dread. Living with diabetes has its expensive obligations of self-care. The life work I've chosen to do--standing beside the hurt, marginalized and vulnerable—has never paid exceptionally well.  I keep my expenses down, fastidiously saving for special things.   The reward of the stable monthly check in the bank account has its concurrent equally draining obligations.  Every day is a tornado of problems, needs, things to be written, budgeted, explained and the vast chasm between a far-reaching vision of what could be with the crushing reality of what is.  I have little spirit left for my creative self, and that makes me longing for imaginary greener pastures.

Heads of Hevajra and Four Dancing Yoginis, 

from the Metropolitan Museum of Art 

“God brought you to us,” my colleague said when she left in June.  “and you need to take care of yourself.  People like you, without a family, have a harder time setting the limits.”   The juggle of things that keep me awake at night coupled with the small agonies of living in a developing country and a very real lack of work support system does not make it easy here.  I'm laden with obligations given the substantial organizational investment in my salary; I work well past the time that my expat colleagues (Christian volunteers)  gather for their late afternoon carpool home.  I am the only staff person, besides the doctor on call for a very sick patient, who has non-negotiable deadlines for which failure to adhere has some  implications.  Hence the labor in the office after dark.

“Doing what it takes to get ‘er done”  has been my professional mantra of so many of my previous jobs.  Yet in a country where not accomplishing much in your desk job can be a national sport, being too stressed out among colleagues is definitely not culturally appropriate.   The wrist brace I've taken to wearing again to help with computer fatigue generates concern among staff, to which I have to reply- "really, it's just like a shoe for your hand!"  Clearly, some adjustments are needed; I started seeing a western physiotherapist last week.      

I'm finding that is the small shifts in perspective, repeated over and over again, that make a difference. Some of them, with the physio's help, need to be guided and repeated.   Adjust the posture at the work station. Hope for the best for the three giggly girls as they speed into incoming traffic. Have gratitude for the gifts of experience both positive and negative. Remember to smile at everyone.  Suck in the gut, lower the shoulders, and walk away from the keyboard.  Surround the listless baby in the begging women's arms at a major urban intersection with a fierce swath of virtual love and protection.   Reach out to a growing circle of friends and acquaintances.  Recuperate often. Breathe.

Every day is a new beginning, much like the newly emerged coconuts I saw on the motorbike taxi commute on Friday. In a swift lean in around the curve while seated sidesaddle in the fresh air of morning, I glimpsed it emerging from the top of a tall palm: tawny and rich with a hint of red, shiny with promise and potential of sweetness to come.  

 

Andy Goldsworthy, via Smithsonian

Impasse

I was horrified to see the date on the last post.    The well meaning intention to write a little something for the folks back home got waylaid by the stress of the single-minded and determined march to meet deadlines at work. In the three months and  the three international trips that occurred recently, I careened through life  like a suddenly spooked horse with blinders on. Nothing much seemed to matter except going forward. 

Opposition leader Sam Rainsey and Prime Minister Hun Sen, 17 September.
 (Xinhua/Sovannara) Globaltimes.com

Concurrently, the political situation of both America and Cambodia were both seemingly stuck in the same timeframe.  While the shutdown/debt ceiling petulant antics were only just recently bandaged in the US, the opposition party  has still not come to sit and vote in the Cambodian Parliament. The CNRP continues to stand ground that the elections were fraudulent; refusing to support the system as it stands.  Party leader Sam Rainsey will be returning from an international tour later this week and a three day rally is planned.  Previous rallies resulted in injuries, deaths and massive road closures in my neighborhood.  I watched from afar.  

Batur Hot Spr ings.  www.balijavaadventures.com

Now, after having returned back to home, I am facing my own impasse.  I’d had a list of things planned to accomplish by year end:  small improvements to the apartment, creative work, health and body related housekeeping and projects.  However, one small moment changed it all.  I was blissed out in the hot spring,  the strong stream of hot water on my tension-ravaged shoulders, when  I noticed I was the only one left still soaking.  As I hurried to find the group, my foot hit an unexpected obstacle.  A shot of pain, later swollen and painful, seemed to be a bad sprain.  I was not the perfect patient throughout the following week; soldiering on to take in temples and wild places and grabbing ice cubes, ibuprofen and compression bandages when I could.  On my second day back at work, I realized it was not getting better and trudged into the ED for a consult at the employee health clinic.  Hence the foot cast.  For a month.

In the midst of bewildering political strategies of my current home and my homeland, I’m now placed in a enforced hiatus while things heal.  Small things seem to matter more, both in challenges and in the small kindnesses.   I am counting down the days.    Here’s a few notes on the travels for those who want to read on:

On the mid-August Thailand trip, I accomplished a lot.  I went to the expat friendly hospital for an annual check-up, an eye exam and the laboratory work that can’t be performed here in Cambodia and  I had a few days with Rochelle, my good friend who lived up in the next town north.  The results from the medical exam were less than optimal—I’ve gained weight, some lab numbers are not as good as last year and I was diagnosed with optic neuropathy, which is affecting my right eye and now unable to be treated.  I passed on the recommended week-long course of  IV steroids that should have been administered in April when I first noticed symptoms.  However, weeks later and after consults with a couple of the hospital's international volunteers, I've realized that this is now my reality. Another minor annoyance in my aging body.  

Goddess statue in Freising, Germany. 

In Thailand, seeing my friend Rochelle was a great antidote to the travails at the hospital, and we had a lovely time touring around Kanchanaburi, a small town on the edge of a huge jungle of national parks and waterfalls.    On the day we signed up for an all-day tour, we soaked in some hot springs with two bus loads of Russian tourists. One of these was an obese and stern woman in her sixties, with braids wrapped around the back of her head and wearing a red bikini.   We also had a lovely ladyboy guide who diligently walked with us through the rain to Hellfire Pass; her hooded sweatshirt had two little cat ears at the crown.  There was time for a quick writing exercise and a hug before I caught the bus back to the airport. 

Three weeks later, my parents met me at the Munich airport. Dad ascended the hills of Freising to visit the cathedral, where we were lucky enough to hear the bells resound among the ancient walls.  

The next day we went onward to Innsbruck, navigating luggage and tight transitions on the train system, passing by idyllic mountain valley farms.  Mom and Dad met their professional colleagues.   I had a day on my own partake in a free mountain hike with the Alpine School of Innsbruck, with a guide who happened to be the dude that suggested that Denali National Park rangers get some training in mountain rescue.  Mom and I took the public bus system to Hall, an old city to the west while the other accompanying partners went off to the tour of the Swarovski crystal factory.   I had time to read about floods in Boulder Colorado and post-election violence in Phnom Penh. Dad went to meetings, there was a banquet and off we went to Lucerne and Zurich for the remainder of the journey, where the swans and the crisp orderliness created nostalgia for the jackets in storage and a developed civilization filled with confident bicyclists and clean streets.  It was a bittersweet departure: so terrific to see my parents in such great shape, but sad to end the plush travel lifestyle.

I returned to s a whirlwind eight days before I headed to Bali in the afternoon of the Pchum Ben holiday.  Bonar picked me up as the torrent was just starting. He navigated through foot-high lakes in the street, swearing at the driver who sped by on the left and drenched us both with flood water. (The tuk tuk's tarpaulin shelter had torn from the velcro strip in the wind and rain, leaving a gap which I had been fruitlessly trying to refasten for the past six blocks.)  

Puaji temple on Lembongen Island. A conversation with a 10 year old bracelet vendor led me here. The pink umbrella sunshade was a life saver and the fresh coconut drink at her mother's fruit stand on the way back hit the spot.  

 I had a few days traveling solo on the coast for a couple of days before joining my writer’s group.  I did some walking on a tropical island and followed clues to find a stunning set of male and female old growth banyan trees honored with a temple.  Hosted by a terrific facilitator and local guide, the next day I was surrounded by an accomplished group of writers amidst stunning mountain scenery, fruitful writing exercises and the unfettered flow of thoughts that have formed the structure for the project.  

Black and white checkered cloths drape the entrance sentinels at many Bali temples:
they represent balance between light and dark.  

At the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, I was overwhelmed and intrigued, pained and nourished,  humbled and inspired.  I realized that the process of writing takes time and (as I knew) daily commitment.    To reach a published book by 2019, there are plenty of small steps to take along the way.  Including this—my first public blog. 

With enormous physical energy required to move anywhere, I am now forced to use this next four weeks well.  My priorities have changed. I'm taking some steps to move through the impasse between the deadlines of work and my physical well-being.   I'll continue to shake my head with distant resignation at the tragic, misspent energies of American politics. I can only hope for a non-violent, nonlethal resolution of Cambodia's withering and stale political stalemate.  I'd like to reinforce  a stronger sense of balance for my self;  hone the creative compass and keep the center whole. 

Wheel of Fortune from the Tyrol Folklore Museum in Innsbruck.