...I remembered why I came.

(Much delayed post due to lack of internet. Original composition 03/15/11)

I had woken up that morning with a raging sinus infection and thought to myself how wonderful the 17-hour plane ride was going to be with that added bonus. The remainder of the day flew by and with each passing hour I began to realize that I was getting ever closer to getting on an airplane and flying to fulfill some self-imagined delusion of grandeur where I would bring with me the countless hours of reading, research and lecture to help “fix” the problem of HIV in Cambodia.

My family had gotten together for dinner that evening and amidst all the packing, unpacking, repacking, kisses and well-wishes, I was beginning to ask myself if I was really cut out for this. Now don’t get me wrong. I knew I was going to have it made. It was only going to be six short weeks, I would be staying with my grandma who lives in my parents’ four bedroom house with western toilets and running water in a country that I had visited five times prior. Compared to most, I was going to be living it up. It wasn’t the trip itself that was rattling my nerves, but rather the reason I was going. I know Cambodia, the country and the culture, very well, despite being raised in America. There is such a complex social hierarchy that exists there it’s impossible to explain. This, I knew, would stand like a giant pink elephant in the corner of the room and will ultimately make data collection a very difficult animal to tame. I have lost countless hours of sleep obsessing over how I was going to conduct myself, how I would speak to or approach certain people. Yes, I’ll be the American, but I’ll look just like them (except plus an additional 4-5 kg), making the situation a little more complicated.

Fast forward almost two full days, (Or was it one? The time difference has thrown me WAY off.) and I’m sitting here on my laptop drinking this extraordinary cup of coffee pressed out of beans that were grown in rural northeastern Rathanakiri and my nervousness has dropped to near undetectable levels. Why? Because after all those hours of traveling, obsessing, and planning, when I looked out the window of the descending plane and saw the fields, and the giant winding river, I felt a familiar tug. When I looked out the passenger window of my uncle’s pickup and saw the stream of mopeds and caught the eyes of the little boys playing tag in front of their parents shop (the youngest wearing a t-shirt and flip flops but no pants), I remembered how much I loved this place. I came here because even though I’m “akang,” part of me calls this place my country and those faces are the faces of my people.