On melted chocolate and electric keyboards from Korea

As I lay here under a fan I am perfecting a new skill. It involves opening a small chocolate snack; say a fun-sized kit kat, for instance, without spilling any of the melted chocolate, placing the whole package in my mouth, and then sucking every last bit of chocolaty goodness out of the wrapper. Some folks turn up their nose at melted chocolate. To them I say, “You are a bit of sissy.” It just takes a little more work, that’s all. You only wish you had mad skills like this. I’m pretty sure this ranks up there with sheep milking. But that’s a story for another day. The point is, I am a bit of a renaissance woman. Sadly, my many talents do not extend to the realm of music. This is unfortunate because the good folks of South Korea were considerate enough to provide many Cambodian high schools with electric keyboards. Mine was one of those lucky schools. What they did not provide was someone who knows how to play them. First I need to explain that Cambodians like noise. Things that we would consider annoying they think are fabulous. Whiney electric guitar riffs 24/7? Bring it. Playing whiney electric guitar riffs with your cell phone’s mp3 player at 2am when everyone is trying to sleep? Even better. Everything here, from weddings to deaths to purchasing ice cream must be accompanied by lots and lots of noise. There is so much noise that it does sometimes bother even Cambodians. But for the most part they grew up surrounded by it, so they don’t really understand the sanity-reducing effects if has on people who were not so fortunate.

This keyboard is possibly the strongest attack on my sanity so far. It sits in the teachers lounge, at a respectful distance from the Buddha statue. And it is loud. Riem can play a little. But no else one can. Not a note. Does this stop them? Absolutely not. It amazes me how they can persevere in their “musical” endeavors, but won’t go to class because it is too hot. These people are teachers. I would say they are grown men, but that would be true only on a physical level. The keyboard hadn’t been set up for ten minutes before someone compared the microphone to a penis. But the noise. Oh the noise. They pound away, playing with the settings (they really enjoyed the animal noises). What they really couldn’t understand was that I couldn’t play it. After all, the keyboard is foreign, and I am foreign, so clearly I have some mysterious foreign connection to it. Sadly no. Also, I was bit weirded out by them giving me the microphone after the penis joke.

I don’t mean to be crude, but when it comes to genitalia, people have the maturity level of middle schoolers. Everything that could even vaguely resemble a penis has to be remarked upon. A banana placed near two small round fruits will make for hours of amusement. And it isn’t just a passing remark. People will keep saying to each other “you know what this looks like? Hahaha?” I was at a meeting about improving poor people’s access to nutritious foods when a high ranking NGO staff member called his friend over to our table to look at his exciting (or maybe excited) fruit sculpture. And women can be even worse. I was teaching female NGO staff members when one of them came in with a bunch of bananas. Another immediately declared, “It looks like a man!” A really funny joke goes something like this “Women have breasts.” No kidding. It’s really funny. Sometimes when they really get on my nerves I decide to one up them by talking about periods. That shuts them up pretty quick. Yes, friends, sometimes it is difficult to have a mature conversation when fruit, water bottles, or ink pens are on the table. (Yes I said ink pens. I’ll leave that one to your imagination)

Completely unrelated: I’m 24. Almost a quarter of century. When I think about that it seems a little strange, and I don’t feel any more mature than the grown men who laugh at bananas. But my birthday turned out to be pretty fantastic. A few days before my b-day I got sick and had to go to Phnom Penh. I really don’t like Phnom Penh. I can’t really tell you why. Maybe it’s just that I like my village more, and being away from it seems like a waste of time. Anyway, my wonderful students planned a birthday party for me. And I was scared the doctor wouldn’t let me go home in time. It was a stressful weekend, because I was sick, my wallet was stolen, with the party money, my phone, and my bank card inside, and at first the doctor thought I had a really terrible disease (I didn’t, thank God), and I had no way to get money to my students for the party. But on Sunday some of the other volunteers who were in town took me out to an Italian restaurant and then some of us watched a movie in the hotel. It was pretty great. And Riem being the doll that he is paid for everything for the students’ party. I got back to site in time to watch the meal preparation (they don’t really trust me with knives, can’t say that I blame them) and have a fantastic party. I kind of wanted to get some Betty Crocker cake mix and make it for my birthday, but Riem assured me this was unnecessary. It was a good thing too, as very little of the cake was eaten; most of was used for a food fight. Which was fine by me. I had forgotten that no Khmer birthday party is complete without a food fight. Which makes for an unfortunate laundry experience, but totally worth it. I think the reason for this is because it is an acceptable way for boys and girls to touch each other (you can’t just throw the cake at people, you have to smear it all over them). And as fun as the food fight was, had they used a Betty Crocker yellow cake with fudge icing I would have cried.

And I received some excellent goodies from the states, so thank you everyone for your cards, chocolate, clothing and assorted other treats. They were much appreciated.