The Results Are In!

For those of you still following my ongoing quest to decide what to do with my life, the final results are in…

Medical Schools:

• University of Toronto: Accepted, Deferral Refused
• MacMaster Universiety: Refused

International Development Programs:

• University of Sussex: Accepted and Deferred
• University of Cambridge: Refused

With all of the applications to different programs and scholarships before my arrival, I had already spent months trying to figure out what would be the best path for my life. When I first arrived in Cambodia, I had a lot of time to sit and think, something I could do at home only rarely. Weeks passed and I was still uncertain.

There were ample good reasons to follow any given path and I could not choose between them. As so often happens in cases like this, especially when one is far away from home, I met some people who helped me reach a decision. The first was a wandering motorcyclist from Quebec. He had sold all of his possessions, to embark on a three year journey across Canada, Asia, and Oceania. His name was Jean-Marc. Speaking with him helped me immensely in trying to figure out what I wanted from my own life. He was followed by two medical residents working at the University of Toronto's health outreach program in Kep. I discovered them and the centre at which they were worked on a weekend in May. They joined me the next day on an excursion into Bokor National Park.

I spent much of that day in the back of a pickup truck, speaking with one of the residents, a man named Shaun who had lived and worked at various times in Africa, South America, and Asia. He was pursuing pediatrics in the hopes of making his career in impoverished areas. We talked about the joys and difficulties of development and the rewards and pitfalls of medicine. We were joined by a British traveller named Paul who, after a year of working in India, also had a fair bit of insight to share.

After a day spent speaking with Paul, Shaun, and Savita, the other University of Toronto resident, I came to realise that what they were describing sounded like exactly the kind of work I wanted to pursue. I wasn't ready to pursue it just yet though.

When news of MacMaster’s refusal reached me, I was scared and depressed. When the acceptance from the University of Toronto arrived, I was relieved and elated. I was also determined to continue my work here for as long as possible. My existing projects were well underway and a new project in sanitation was just beginning. The more I have learned about Cambodia, the more I have wanted to learn. There are massive problems here but also massive potential. Given the country's history, its people's hope, friendliness, and resilience, never ceases to amaze me.

I requested a deferral from the University of Toronto. They declined, citing a policy of which I had never previously heard: only those wanting to complete ongoing academic programmes were allowed to defer. I wrote an appeal by e-mail, essentially begging them to reconsider. EWB offered to make a phone call on my behalf. We must have given them pause for thought. It took them nearly a week to respond. When their response came, though it was kindly worded and the request had obviously been considered, it was again a refusal.

That news arrived two days ago. Though I still feel immensely disappointed to be leaving Cambodia so soon, I am also very excited to begin a whole new phase in my life. As many people have been telling me recently, they really need good doctors here. One with an engineering background, an understanding of some of the potential pitfalls of development work, and a grounding in the local language and environment could be very useful. I may be back one day. I hope I will.

On a practical note, if anyone knows of affordable (but not too ramshackle) housing opportunities near the UofT campus or a nearby subway stop this fall, please let me know.

Of Mewlings and Meowlings and Things that Go Bump in the Day

Somewhere between my bed and unconsciousness, in that half-awake state that comes when I’m too tired to wake up but too overheated to fall back asleep, I was dimly aware that light was starting to seep in through the window. The hammering would begin again soon. A shockingly loud crash broke through the silence. The workmen rebuilding the apartment two doors down usually like to get an early start. Today it was earlier than usual. I drifted back to sleep.

I awoke a little while later, stumbled out of bed and began staggering towards the bathroom. It was hotter than usual and I hadn’t been sleeping well. I made it as far as the door to my bedroom before a dangling seven-meter long strip of corrugated plastic blocked my path. Looking up, I realized this strip had once been part of my ceiling. Two of its neighbours were already on the floor, while another hung loosely beside it.

The roof of my flat is made of identical strips of plastic, all laid side by side. The structure is similar to the corkboard ceilings one finds in school classrooms. Between these strips and the metal roof above, a crawlspace is formed. It provides a convenient place to store electrical wiring, plastic water pipes, cobwebs, dust, and discarded animal hair. Previously, I had been unaware of the last three items on this list. Now, I found myself breathing them in with the morning air. The workman really had been more enthusiastic than usual today.

Still, something else seemed out of place. It wasn’t just the dangling bits of ceiling and the dusty furballs covered in cobwebs floating lazily in front of me. I blinked my eyes. Yes, that was it. A fresh series of paw prints was neatly laid out in the dust covering what had once been the upper side of my ceiling. I pulled on the hanging strips, loosening them from what remained of their grip.

They fell, adding their voice to the clamoring hammers nearby. The floor was a mess. Resolving to clean it later, I headed for the shower.

Srey Hem was at work that morning. I told her about the problem. “The cats again?!” she exclaimed. “This has happened before?” I asked. “I’ll call my sister,” she replied. Srey Hem’s sister is my landlady. She doesn’t speak a word of English. It took her two days to arrive.

In the meanwhile, I returned the following afternoon to find a mysterious urine-like smell had taken up residence in my kitchen. I poked my nose into the bathroom adjoining the kitchen and inhaled deeply. A plethora of smells greeted me but urine wasn’t one of them. I had eliminated myself as a suspect. Back in the kitchen, the plastic bag in which I keep my rice was mysteriously open. Some animal seemed to have been pawing through it. Was it the cats again? I quickly dismissed the thought. If some intrepid cat had leaped into my house via the ceiling, he or she would never have been able to leap back out again. As there was no cat now trapped in my flat, there was no reason to suspect one had been there before.

Eventually, I tracked down the source of the smell. Whoever was responsible for eating my rice had also taken liberties both on and under my kitchen sink. I threw out the rice, mopped under the sink, and scrubbed its top thoroughly. I settled down to cook dinner, eat, and read a book. A few hours later, I re-entered the kitchen, flicked on the light switch, and headed for the sink to clean the dishes. There was a clatter of noise to my right. I turned my head, glanced around, and saw nothing. Slowly my eyes fell on a large cardboard box in the corner, under the table where I kept my rice. Hesitantly, I shuffled towards it, nudging it with the edge of my knuckles. The curtains that my landlady had left in the box were far too light to account for the weight that I felt inside.

With trepidation, already knowing what I would find, I peeked into the darkness under the table. Two glowing eyes stared back at me. I jumped back. “Raaa-eeeenh-rrrrr!” growled the cat as it leaped out of the box and bolted for the front door, returning soon afterwards to stare at me from the entrance’s edge, its eyes full of hurt innocence. I don’t know which of us had been more frightened.

Taken During Friendlier Days: One of the Neighbourhood Cats

When Srey Hem’s sister arrived the next day, she had an interpreter and several of the workmen from the flat two doors down with her. Rather than searching for contractors, she had offered to hire them to fix my ceiling during their off-hours the next day. I explained with some difficulty that I would be away then, visiting ruins in Takeo province. Using the interpreter to work out the finer points, we arranged for me to leave my keys with the neighbours. Happy that all was resolved, Srey Hem’s sister left, complimenting on me on my Khmer on the way out the door. “You know a lot of Khmer.” she said. “No. I don’t,” I replied, “I’m learning.”

By the next evening, my roof was repaired.

Two weeks later, it happened again.

I came home for lunch from work. As I opened the door, the welcoming sound of a vicious catfight erupted from my kitchen. The ceiling in my kitchen had fallen in and two or more cats were obviously fighting over the spoils. I was frustrated, angry, and unarmed for fighting cats. The broom that I wanted to use to shoo them out was trapped in the kitchen, in the heart of the battle. I improvised.

“Raaaaeeeerrrrr!!” I meowed. The fighting stopped. “Raaaaeeeerrrrr!” I growled at them again. The fighting became more intense. There were bumps and crashes. Before my astonished eyes, the ceiling fell down on top of my kitchen table. Apparently, the fight had, until recently, been taking place not in the kitchen, but above it.

A cat leaped from the end of a newly dangling plastic ceiling strip and bolted past me towards the front door. His erstwhile opponent soon followed on his heels. I was left alone in the flat to contemplate the stunning mess in my kitchen. I resolved to spoil myself by eating at a restaurant that night.

The pattern was repeated. I called Srey Hem. Her sister arrived the next day. Confident in my ability to discuss the problem in Khmer, she had neither interpreter nor workmen with her. This was a bit of a mistake. I looked up the word 'cat' in a dictionary, added the words for 'again' to it, and mimed the actions of walking and falling, before pointing to the kitchen. Between my inability to conduct a conversation and the workmen’s inability to arrive on schedule, it was another week before they stopped me at the end of a lunch break to ask to be let in to do the repairs.

Leaning against a wall in my kitchen, I watched two of them, bouncing up and down on a two by four. One end of the wooden plank rested on the metal bars of my kitchen window. The other had been propped onto a massive triangle made of plywood and protruding nails. In the middle, these two men reattached my ceiling and wobbled, while two others provided them with moral support.

My roof was again repaired.

In the meantime, I occasionally hear noises from the ceiling above my bed. I suspect it’s nothing to worry about…

Siem Reap in the News

I gather Cambodia's been making the front pages of the world. I arrived at work this morning to find a pile of e-mails about the hostage-taking in Siem Reap yesterday. I only learned of the incident yesterday at 5:30pm when a friend e-mailed me about it as I was leaving work.

Despite being far closer to the event, there’s not much extra news that I can provide. Today’s front page article in the Cambodia Daily contains a lot of speculation and lists several of the children involved but provides very little additional information. From the different links I've received, I’ve started to piece together a bit of what happened. The most detailed article that I've yet found, both within Cambodia and from foreign services, is this one from the CBC, http://www.cbc.ca/story/world/national/2005/06/16/cambodia-school050616.html.

As near as I can tell, between four and six impoverished and none-too-bright young men from Kandal province just outside Phnom Penh drove to Siem Reap with a single gun and through unmitigated callousness and stupidity briefly made international news. They took control of a school, demanded $1 000USD, assault rifles, and enough grenade launchers to explode a small city. Control of the situation was sporadic. At least one child escaped simply by running from the building towards his waiting uncle while the hostage-takers were distracted by police negotiations. A two year old Slovak-Canadian boy was killed.

The hostage-takers demands were partially met with $30 000USD and a van that they hoped to drive across the Poipet border to Thailand. Police stormed the van. Two of the perpetrators may or may not have been killed. The others were arrested. None escaped. Selena, my predecessor EWB volunteer with IDE in Cambodia, just posted her thoughts on the subject. I think they're pretty apt.

Earlier in the crisis, the Information Minister tried to link the incident to the Cambodian Freedom Fighters (CFF), acting in retaliation for their leader’s recent arrest in California. That being said, the CFF have no history of harassing foreigners or hostage taking and their goals are strictly against what they perceive to be Vietnamese elements controlling the government. They also haven’t launched an armed attack since 2000. The Minister’s comments weren’t entirely surprising though as the CFF has provided a useful excuse for suppressing opposition and/or explaining inconvenient problems before. The Prime Minister, to his credit, stated this morning that the perpetrators were bandits, not terrorists, and offered his condolences:

"On behalf of the government and the Cambodian people, I would like to express regret and share condolences for the death of a young Czech-Canadian... who was shot to death."

A Chance to Help

Since my arrival in Cambodia, many of you have written to me. Some have expressed support for my work, others have offered sympathy for the complexities of trying to alleviate poverty in any environment. Some have told me that they wish there was something simple that they could do to help, others just wanted to say thank you for a good read. I’ve enjoyed every letter. They’ve kept me connected to my life at home and reminded me of why I’m here.

So, three months after my arrival, what conclusions have I come to? I’ve learned that development is complex but that even complexity can be overcome by an acceptance of one’s limitations, a willingness to learn, and genuine commitment. I’ve also learned that though my work here is important, much of the power in international development rests not in developing countries but in developed ones. That’s us.

In the words of a friend working in Zambia, “There are two very important campaigns on right now that I believe have the potential to help far more people than I could ever dream of over here … Mr Martin recently announced that Canada cannot afford to meet our own Lester B. Pearson’s target of contributing 0.7% of our GDP to foreign aid. We’ve committed to it every year for the past 3 decades, not having come close to meeting it. If our government, with a huge multibillion dollar surplus cannot afford this now, when will we ever be able to? …Its time we as Canadians used our voices as one to let our government know that we are willing to sacrifice a few dollars a year to make a difference in the lives of millions.” It’s not an unrealistic goal. “Five countries – Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Luxembourg and the Netherlands – have met the target. Six more, including Britain, France and Germany, have committed to do so by 2015. As a wealthy nation, we can do no less.”

From where I sit now in Cambodia, Canada’s name is everywhere. It’s on the benches built to seat visitors at the Angkorian ruins of Phnom Daa. It’s on the sign in front of the University of Toronto health outreach program in Kep. It’s even on the budget funding the Ceramic Water Purifier program on which I work. In a country where nearly half the population can’t trust the water they drink, EWB and IDE together have already brought clean water to thousands and are hoping to do so for the whole nation.

None of this would continue to happen though without a Canadian government foreign policy that accepts our limitations, is willing to learn, and remains genuinely committed to alleviating poverty. So this is me, getting on my soapbox, asking you all to help. You don’t have to come to Cambodia. You don’t have to give up so much as an hour of your day. Click on the two links below. If you agree with what either site has to say, sign its petition. If you don’t, you’ll have seen another perspective and taken part in the debate. That alone makes it worth the effort.

http://www.makepovertyhistory.ca/
http://www.acpd.ca/acpd.cfm/en/section/campaign/email/1

Something Lighter

A friend of mine, also working in Phnom Penh, is posting one photo from her life here for each day of the week. Check out http://www.scenefrommylife.com/. It's a really interesting site. Previous photographers have been in places ranging from Ottawa to Antarctica and from Lebanon to Japan. There is even a series of photos taken for each of an anonymous American soldier’s final days on a tour of duty in Iraq.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood

In between the stories of adventures, strange meetings, angst over my work, and hope for its success, is the place I come home to at the end of the day. It’s a neighbourhood where half the residents call me “Daam” because they cannot pronounce my name. It seems so similar to the ones back home to me now that I often forget the differences until they creep up on me unexpectedly, leaving me frustrated, shocked, embarrassed, or just scratching my head in puzzlement at the strangeness of day to day life.

My house is on the second floor of a two-storey set of flats, populated by middle-class Khmer families. To my right lives Sotha, a motorbike taxi driver, with his wife, his son, and his daughter. Sotha, with nearly a hundred nouns and about twenty verbs, is by far the best English speaker in the family. We’ve been communicating by gestures, bits of English, and bits of Khmer ever since I moved in. One of my fondest memories here is of the evening when he knocked on my door unexpectedly, strolled in, nervous and bold at the same time, and began to teach me the Khmer words for my furniture, food, and household knick-knacks. His daughter, Srey, about eleven years old, was with him that night. She used to come by my door and glance inside curiously whenever I lay down at the end of the day to read a book. In the evenings we’d occasionally sit outside on the second floor porch exchanging smiles and watching the world go by beneath us.

My House (Second Floor, Hidden by the Blinds)

When he’s not driving a motorbike, Sotha is also the neighbourhood chief, a government appointed position that seems to consist almost entirely of long hours in which he and his wife complete identification papers for a small fee. Despite the cultural differences, language barrier, and educational gap, they’ve become a little like an adopted family, always watching out for me. When a wandering cat caused a large chunk of my roof to fall in just as I was due to leave on a trip, they held onto my keys, letting the workmen in to repair it. I came home late one night to find that though the pegs were still on the line, my laundry had entirely disappeared. When I woke up the next morning, it was back again, neatly hung and eerily exactly as I had left it. I later asked Sotha, “Laundry, what happened?” “My wife,” he responded. Unable to go into any further detail thanks to the language barrier, we both shook our heads and laughed.

Compared to Srey’s quiet contemplation, Lita, the little girl living in the flat on my left is a hellraiser. Instead of gazing curiously as I used to read, she would run past the door, wearing ever-changing bits of cardboard, cloth, and miscellaneous junk, playing every Khmer child’s favourite game: Spot the Foreigner and Shout ‘Hello! What’s Your Name?!’ as Loudly as Possible Over and Over Again. Lita liked to adapt the rules of the game though to keep it interesting. One time she sprayed me with water whenever she ran past. When her grandmother confiscated the spray bottle, she decided that he hitting me was more fun instead. The new kids who have just moved in across the street seem to lack her enthusiasm. After only one week, they’ve given up on shouting “Hello! What’s Your Name?” entirely.

Lita’s grandmother was at first a little skeptical of my presence in the building. She’s warmed up a lot though as we’ve gotten to know each other. Before she learned my name, she used to call me “Thom-Thom.” It means big guy. When I accidentally leaked water on the apartment below me, she was the one who asked me if I didn’t have a wife to keep my house clean. When she noticed my apartment was too dirty, she marched in like a soldier with a mop ready to do battle. It took all the polite effort I could muster to get her to release it and allow me to do the job myself. She came by afterwards with her daughter. They chuckled at my efforts and told me I was free to borrow their mop again anytime. Theirs was the first and only Khmer home into which I’ve been invited outside of work. She asked me in to see her newborn grandchild. Trying to be culturally sensitive, I sat with my feet pointed outwards from the group. As it turns out, this is how women sit on a floor in the home. Men sit cross-legged. Everyone had a good chuckle and I learned a valuable lesson.

Below them lives Khon, the woman from whom I buy my vegetables in the market, her husband, and their family. I discovered she was a neighbour while investigating the renovations going on in their flat. At present it resembles the after-photo from an article about an exploding gas line. The family that used to invite me to join in playing traditional New Years games when I first arrived lives two doors down from them, under Sotha’s apartment. They run a small business selling soup, sauce, toothbrushes, and other small items. They’re also some of the most hospitable and friendly people I’ve had the pleasure to meet here.

A Nearby Gated Villa

Across the street is another business, an old man who sits on a small bamboo platform, bare-chested, his waist wrapped in a plaid Khmer sarong, staring at the road from morning until evening, selling green mangoes, snacks, and small packets of shampoo. It was through this old man that I went to investigate an apartment for rent across the street from me a few weeks ago. I can still remember the look of dismay on Sotha’s face when he spotted me from his balcony inspecting the vacant apartment. It was similar to the look I received when I later told him I had begun taking meditation classes at a Wat near the Independence Monument. Exceptions to the rule in a Buddhist country, Sotha’s family and a few others in the neighbourhood are Christian. Since he doesn’t grasp what Judaism is, he still assumes I am too. Both situations involved some hurt looks and a lot of explaining, especially with the language barrier.

Near the end of the street is a middle-aged woman who sets up shop selling deep-fried rice cakes, sometimes with banana filling. We’ve gotten in the habit of smiling at each other and she always makes an added effort to sell me what she’s got, throwing in an extra cake or two for free, when we see each other at the end of the day. Beyond her is the end of the street, a wooden shack, home to a family that sells knick-knacks and rents out time on a mobile phone for a living. They use a series of massive clay pots to store their water near the back of their house. I passed by one evening only to find a middle-aged naked man. He was washing himself with water from the pots and a bucket. I looked at him casually. He looked at me casually. Given this is how people in wooden shacks tend to wash, I was unsure of how awkward his nudity should be. I smiled a bit and averted my eyes. When I turned around a few moments later, he was gone.

Deep Fried Rice Cake Vendor

Things change a lot beyond our middle class block of flats. The gated villas of the exceedingly wealthy are within a fifty metre walk. The market is a short stroll in the opposite direction, past Sop the monkey, the neighbourhood pet. Sop spends his days leashed to an upturned metal stool, playing with children and bored moto drivers alike, begging for food, and far too often dodging abuse from young boys who have never been exposed to the concept of animal cruelty.

Sop the Monkey

Beyond the market are the beginnings of countless rows of wooden one room shacks, with room enough for a bed, clothes, cooking supplies, and sometimes even a motorbike or a TV. A fire broke out over a month ago, gutting about fifty homes only a kilometer or two away. The wooden-shack ghetto is un-navigable for a foreigner. I would have had no idea if not for news articles on the subject.

Wooden Shacks

Taking a stroll in the evening, I pass laundry services, hair stylists, and multiple NGO offices with names I sometimes recognize and sometimes don’t. I also pass children playing soccer, young adults playing badminton, and burning piles of garbage. About a month ago, I saw that a bag of garbage containing used hypodermics and assorted medical waste had exploded on the sidewalk. It’s probably better they should burn it.

With all of my focus on the problems facing Cambodia, it’s easy to lose sight of the day to day lives of the people living here. I was out for a stroll the other night, fleeing the endless shouts of “Hello!” when I realized that here was something central to my life, something neither adventurous nor development related but perhaps worth sharing all the more because of it.