Elizabeth’s

On the Road Again (Trotter Traveling Troubles)

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Two Christmases ago Kansas City was blanketed with snow. We set out cautiously from our home at the Red Bridge Church of Christ Parsonage for a Christmas morning with the Raymore Trotters. Less than a mile into our journey we watched a car spinning in the snow, unable to drive onto Wornall from the side road. A man was pushing the car, to no avail, so Jonathan stopped and pushed with him and helped them onto the main road.

Just this week Nathaniel remembered that experience. Jonathan confidently replied that a car would never get stuck in snow here in Cambodia.

It is precisely because we never get snow in Cambodia that we can go swimming any time we want.  Our favorite pool is at the Kingdom Resort 20 minutes out of Phnom Penh – where the street signs aren’t in English anymore. We’ve been planning to take the kids swimming for a couple weeks now, and they were excited to wake up this morning and get on the road. After applying copious amounts of sunscreen (Moms and Grandmas, I know you care about this detail!) we buckle up and start out, keeping a close eye on the temperature gauge. On our last Resort excursion, the radiator overheated, and Jonathan was forced to wait by the side of the road for 2 hours while a providentially placed mechanic “fixed” it. I took the kids ahead of him to the pool via tuk-tuk, but Jonathan missed out on the water fun.

So naturally, we watch the temperature gauge with appropriate levels of fear.

After an uneventful drive TO the pool, we enjoy ourselves for a few hours. When we are homeward bound again, I think to myself, in 20 short minutes we will be home for lunch and nap time. What a wonderful world!

My hopes are shattered 5 minutes down the road when we find ourselves trapped in Cambodian Gridlock.  Cambodian Gridlock is not the same as American Gridlock. Cambodian Rules of the Road do not require distinct lanes (although lines are painted on the roads). Whoever is bigger, more expensive, honks his horn first, or flashes his lights first, has the right of way, even if it means he is driving into oncoming traffic. Whoever is smaller, less expensive, or slower to honk horn or flash lights, MUST yield, even if he is in his own lane of traffic. Motos seem to be able to fit anywhere.  They fill in the cracks of traffic and keep moving even when all other vehicles are stopped. Like water molecules in a jar of rocks.

Here is a picture of traffic, the “normal, natural, right, and good” way – the American Way. See how the 2 lanes go in opposite directions but don’t interfere with each other? It’s so pretty.

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Here is a picture of traffic the Cambodian Way. It is Cambodian Free-For-All, Every-Driver-For-Himself, as each lane expands to cover all lanes, in all directions. See how it would be nearly impossible to break up? Of course you do.

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We saw construction on our way to the pool, and by now it has totally blocked the flow of traffic as cars on both sides try to barge past the block. We’re on a national highway, which means we are often driving through or avoiding pot holes that have the dimensions of car tires.  The road isn’t very wide, and the “shoulders” are mud.  But these muddy shoulders are exactly where the cars are heading in an attempt to push through Cambodian Gridlock. You know it’s bad when even the motos can’t move or when the Cambodian drivers turn off their engines, get out of their cars, and look around as if to say someone should fix this mess.

Indeed.

Our kids are tired, hot, and thirsty. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. Fellow drivers and passengers like to stare at my 4 white kids — we’re always a comical sight here.  For a while we turn off our engine to avoid overheating (we’re still scared of that radiator, because it still leaks every single night), but the heat and engine exhaust suffocate us. We turn the engine back on. We’re all a bit bored. We start to sing.  Old favorites like “Sing Hallelujah to the Lord,” “There is, Beyond the Azure Blue,” and “Jesus, You’re My Firm Foundation.”

A big truck is pushing us out of his way, so we scoot over. Remember, he’s bigger, so he has the right of way. A Lexus or two (emblazoned with the letters LEXUS) passes by us. Remember, they’re expensive so they can do whatever they want. I get this funny churning feeling in my stomach that says I’m surrounded by too many cars.  Claustrophobia is closing in. Then we hear some whistles. We see several uniformed men directing traffic.  Slowly, the car in front of us moves. We follow it. Thank you Mr. Police Men!  I realize it’s the first time I’ve had a positive thought about police officers in 4 solid months.

After a bit of zippering from 3 city-ward lanes to 2, we find ourselves behind Gourd Man. He drives a moto and pulls a wagon brimming with gourds. Enough to overflow the bed of a pickup truck.

It’s a lot of gourds. A lot of big, green gourds. Gourd Man gets stuck in the mud. Directly in front of us. He eyes Jonathan. Jonathan puts the car in park and gets out. Straight from the pool, he is wearing Old Navy floral swim trunks and University of Missouri Tiger flip flops. (Hey! No judging please. They were the only flip flops on sale in the middle of December when we were packing to move to Asia.) He wades into the mud and pushes the gourd-wagon while Gourd Man pulls with his moto. Triumph! He is unstuck. But wait, that’s a lot of mud up ahead of us. He will get stuck in the mud again, we just know it. We follow Gourd Man until he does get stuck again, but this time there’s enough “shoulder” to drive around him.  Bumpy, muddy shoulder. At this point we’re desperate to get home. Every-Driver-for-Himself, right??  We leave Gourd Man in the dust, er, mud, as it were.

Thank you, Cambodian Gridlock, for eating an hour and a half out of my precious Saturday afternoon. You will not be easily forgiven.

As it turns out, that Christmas morning with the car stuck in the snow is not unrelated to this story. It was not the last time Jonathan had to push a stuck vehicle. The only thing that has changed is the material in which the vehicle gets stuck.

A Tale of Two Toilets (Or, How I Found Myself in a Men’s Restroom in the Kingdom of Cambodia)

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I’m watching my children play at an indoor play place. A fun Friday afternoon play date.  One child suddenly declares the need to visit the restroom. This need is urgent. I reach for my backpack; it has toilet paper, wipes, and hand sanitizer. Must never leave home without toilet paper, wipes, and hand sanitizer. No bathroom in Cambodia is guaranteed to provide toilet paper or soap. Come to think of it, no bathroom in Cambodia is even guaranteed to provide a seat on a toilet, or the toilet itself.

No worries, my friend says, these bathrooms have toilet paper, and she’ll watch my other kids. With baby on hip, I take the older child to the restroom. Stall #1? No toilet paper. Stall #2? No toilet paper. Stall #3? No toilet paper. Stall #4? Jammed.  But my child absolutely cannot wait any longer, so I say I will run to get the toilet paper while you stay here. Stall #2 is chosen. Close and lock the door, I instruct.

I run for the backpack and return with it and the baby. I hand over the toilet paper. I stand in the bathroom, waiting. The child claims the toilet won’t flush. So I say, move to another toilet.  But someone will see me, is the reply I hear. I close the bathroom door and say, now no one can see you, so switch stalls. Check Stall #3. No seat lid. Check Stall #1. No seat lid. Check Stall #4. Still jammed. Back to Stall #2. Which supposedly wouldn’t flush?? But we’re American so I guess the presence of a seat is more important than flushability. I re-open the main door.

It is at this point in time that I hear water running. From behind Jammed Door #4. Oh yes, someone was in that stall this entire time. What emerges from Stall #4 is a Cambodian Man.

It begins to dawn on me that I have been standing inside a men’s room for some 10 minutes now. Of course I have been; the child with the bathroom emergency is a male child. I move out of the man’s way and inch toward the door. Feeling awkward, I ask the son if he’s done. Not yet, I hear. A Skinny Asian Dude walks in the door.

Son asks me for more toilet paper. I pull some more out of my back pack. Skinny Asian Dude is at the urinal, talking on his cell phone, positioned between me and my boy. I self-consciously look away and squeeze past him in order to give my son more toilet paper. I move toward the exit again. After all, I don’t really want to be inside the men’s bathroom. But I don’t really want to let my beloved son out of my sight in a foreign country, even for urgent bathroom business.

I move out of the way for yet another man to enter the restroom. I wait at the doorway. Several more men go in and out of there while my son finishes. I witness every single one of those skinny Asian Dudes washing his hands in the sink. Germophobe Mommy is impressed. When my little man (finally!) emerges from Stall #2, a Skinny Asian Dude dispenses soap for him and turns on the water.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now back to the 4th Floor Play Place.

Scheduling a Dentist Appointment in a Foreign Country (Or, How I Made a Fool of Myself on a Monday Afternoon)

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— By Elizabeth

I have been putting this off. Making that dreaded phone call to schedule dental appointments for our family. I must do this — finding a dentist and doctor in your host country is an important part of the re-settling process.

But calling the dentist here is not the same task it was in America. Here is my story:

The baby is napping. I inform the older children that I must make an important phone call and not to talk to Mommy. I walk into the kitchen, which is swelteringly hot, and close the door. I dial the phone number. Three rings. I hear a Small Voice. I hesitate. What did that voice say?? “Hello, is anyone there?” I hear an Asian accent. I guess it was English words, after all. I can barely hear her. She asks if I’ve been here before. I say no. She asks me if tomorrow is ok. I say, no, 2 weeks from now. (When has a dentist in the States ever offered to see me the next day??) She asks me what we are having trouble with. I say, we just need cleanings, X-rays, and my son may need sealants. I tell her my name and how many people need appointments (5), and she schedules appointments for 2 adults and 1 daughter. No, I say, 2 adults and 3 children. 2 sons and 1 daughter. Ok, she corrects it.

Then she asks for my phone number. To confirm the appointment later.

I do not have this 12-digit number memorized. I say, I need to look in my phone.

I look at my phone. I normally know how to find my number. But I cannot for the life of me figure out how to access it during a call. My phone is sopping wet with sweat at this point. I haven’t seen that before. Neither have I pressed the phone so hard against my ear before. I can barely hear this woman’s voice, and she’s clearly not a native English speaker.

It is at this point in time that one child decides to hit another, that other hits back, and the crying begins. I motion for them to be quiet and leave me ALONE, and I close the door again. I retreat to the bathroom just off the kitchen to try to continue the call.

I tell her, I can’t get my number right now, can I call you back with it? She gives me a number that will reach her personally, and I hang up. I briefly tell the children not to talk, not to hit, and can’t you see I’m busy trying to make this important call?? More crying ensues. I again close the door.

I dial the number she gave me. I hear some Asian words and read “Not a valid number” on my screen. Again I see my phone dripping wet. I try the number again. Same result.

I figure I’ll call the original number again and try to explain myself. I hear a New Voice. I made an appointment 10 minutes ago, I say, but I need to give you my phone number. She tries to make my appointment all over again. I say, I already made that appointment. She sends me to a Different Voice. I say, I already made an appointment and tell her when it should be. I am starting to wonder if I did make this appointment? I ask, is it scheduled? This Voice is louder, clearer, and more authoritative. Yes, it is scheduled. She asks me if I’ve been here before. I say no. I give her my phone number. She asks if they need to call me back?? I say, no, this is the number to call to confirm the appointment, later. Yes, yes, she understands.

Sigh of relief.

Then she asks, is there another phone number I can be reached at?? I say, there is my husband’s phone, but I don’t know the number. Let me look in my phone. I look again. Still no luck finding a phone number while I’m in a call. I am however still finding sweat all over my phone. I say, I can’t give that number to you now. Can I call you back??

No, no, she says, this is fine.

End call.

Giving Birth Across Cultures

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Those of you who have spent any amount of time talking to me know that I love birth.  I’ve read and re-read scores of books on natural childbirth, and with the help of my dear husband, have experienced 4.  So I know all about birth.  In America.  I am very much a baby regarding Cambodian-style birth.  I’ve learned a few things about it so far – from our neighbors, from my mother-in-law, and from my teammate Casey.

During language training I learned that the same word construction for giving birth is used for catching a disease. I had to laugh because in my doula training in America we hear over and over again that pregnancy is not a disease. I don’t know yet if this peculiar naming practice indicates anything about the culture’s beliefs regarding health and wellness in childbearing.

I see a lot of malnutrition here.  At our first wedding I noticed a member of the couple’s family who had no teeth and a fairly large goiter (from lack of iodine). I see children whose naturally dark hair has turned red or blonde, a sign of the protein deficiency of kwashiorkor.  There are children whose limbs have wasted away and whose tummies are swollen from marasmus, which is deficiency of both calories and protein. People’s teeth are black or missing. We don’t see this kind of major malnutrition in America.  Most of us enjoy a great deal of good health.

But a mom’s health affects the health of her baby, and breastfeeding, which should be the best form of nutrition for babies, is not extremely common.  Even moms who nurse their babies sometimes feed formula the first few days, depriving their babies of the immune-boosting benefits of colostrum.  Some claim that moms don’t produce enough milk as a result of their malnutrition.  Formula is affordable by the middle class, but not by the poor.  Instead poor moms feed their babies watered-down sweetened condensed milk.

You would think in a developing nation women have no access to pain relief in childbirth.  And if you’re thinking pain relief = the epidural, then you’d be right.  But here it’s shameful to show pain, so women are heavily drugged with narcotics during labor. One woman I met was told she wasn’t pushing well during labor, presumably because of narcotics, according to my teammate.  (To all my doula readers:  This is where the rope or towel pull would come in handy over here.)  Husbands aren’t present at birth so it’s a purely feminine affair.

After birth mom and baby are wrapped tightly to keep warm and prevent aging. Mom especially isn’t allowed to get cold the first 3 months, so she must wear long sleeves.  The downside to this practice is that there is no skin to skin contact between mom and baby, which improves the health of both in early postpartum.  For those first 3 months, though, mom isn’t allowed to do any work – not even climb stairs.  She really and truly rests from the work of pregnancy and childbirth. Dad does the work.

I love the way life here is communal. Everyone lives in community, and the moms are no different.  Some moms go to the countryside to be with their family of origin during the postpartum. This admittedly inhibits initial daddy-baby bonding, but it illustrates the network of helpers available for mom and baby.  We don’t have this same community safety net for independent American women.  In fact, trying to explain to my language tutor what a doula does was quite difficult.  It wasn’t just a language barrier; it was a culture barrier.

Indeed, I came to Cambodia with a core set of values, from a culture I considered to be “normal, natural, right and good.”  But I don’t live in that culture anymore.  I live in a new one.  May this be my prayer:  Father, grant me the grace to see the people in this culture as eternal souls created in Your image.  Let me not judge them as “abnormal, unnatural, wrong, and bad.”  Let me see their culture from their point of view and not my own.  Let me see the good in their culture and remember not to dismiss it with the bad. And let me never see any person as unredeemable.

No Pit So Deep?

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— By Elizabeth

During worship this morning, we sang these words:

Ascribe greatness to our God, the Rock,
His work is perfect and all His ways are just.
A God of faithfulness, without injustice,
Good and upright is He.
 

Later during the service, as usual, I took Faith to the unstaffed nursery. And as usual, I talked with other parents. But not as usual, I listened to one parent talk about an anti-trafficking ministry in a particular part of town. There, parents sell their children for the day, often as punishment for irritating the parents. These children aren’t permanent residents of any brothels but they’re abused nonetheless. This ministry offers daytime care for the children and parenting classes as a prevention strategy. One of their goals is to be able provide overnight shelter for the children during holidays.  These children and their parents are technically homeless, so in preparation of the holiday festivities, men, women, and children are cleared off the streets, forced into containers and taken out of the city.  Families are separated.  There are no toilet facilities in the containers. Adults abuse the children during their containment.  Afterwards children must find their parents on their own

Who does that to children? To families? To human beings?  Smells like . . . Holocaust.

After that conversation I met a lady who works with an after-care organization. They provide safe houses and counseling for rescued girls.  One of their after-care facilities is actually next door to us.  Girls living there are mid-teens who have been through the initial rescue and intensive counseling but whose homes are not safe to go back to — often because it was their families who trafficked them in the first place. We’ve noticed how teen boys flock to this house.  The woman who spoke with me today told me that these sexual issues are never fully settled for the girls. The issues return when they have their first boyfriend. The issues return when they get married. The issues return when they have their first baby.

I stood there and cried.

You see, I fell in love for the first time when I was 17. And it was beautiful. I married that same boy when I was 18.  And it was beautiful. We had our first baby when I was 22. And again, it was beautiful.

Sexual slavery did not mar the blessings of love, marriage, and babies for me. The “God of faithfulness, without injustice” was faithful for me.

Is He faithful and just for girls in Asia?

May it be that you – and I – can proclaim, along with Corrie ten Boom, “There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”