You might have noticed, if you've seen me recently, the necklace I always wear. It's a Maori hook, from New Zealand. Bone, in the shape of a fish hook.
A kiwi recently told me the origin legend of New Zealand, that the founder discovered first the southern island, then threw out his fish hook and snared the north.
It's a symbol of abundance, and good luck, but, he said, it's more about finding home -- especially finding home wherever you are. Hooking the other island.
I've worn it pretty much nonstop since my mom gave it to me in March this year. Right now, it's making me think about home, and being where you are.
It's been three weeks and change since I arrived in the charming city of Phnom Penh, the usual time for vacation, when everything is still new and exciting and interesting. The shine blinds you everywhere you look, and I charged into it like a bull into the sunset and leaving the Princess behind in happily ever after.
But now it is week four, when things are settling in, work is starting. Not as many meetings, not as much going on, not as much to deal with. Now is the time when I'm making a routine, when earning money is becoming not a priority but really essential to me staying here.
It's part of the adventure, of course, when you start to realize that this isn't a vacation, and even if you knew it all along it takes some time for your soul to get the memo. "Knowing" things doesn't necessarily mean you believe them, if you'll permit me a confusing explanation.
I don't want to say it's bad -- besides not believing in the word or the concept itself, I think it's just one color among thousands. But it is a transition, and I admit to finding myself a bit adrift this week.
What can I tell you? The adventures, while I'm sure they are still happening, don't feel like adventures, they feel like life. I spoke about choreography at a Phnom Penh expat staple called Nerd Night, in a shady club in the Red Light district turned auditorium for an evening. The bartenders couldn't believe all the people whispering to order beers so everyone else could hear the speakers, and the girls who 'work', all prettied up, played on their cellphones, bored out of their minds.
The black light made all the reds neon-orange and the whites shine clear, and the disco balls played tricks with the lights. All while a few passionate people stood onstage and presented about a topic, using 20 slides, 20 seconds each slide.
Or maybe we can talk about how the fruitseller, sort of my friend now, convinced me to buy a somewhat mysterious fruit that took me several good minutes of searching on google to identify as a papaya. For the dollar I paid for it, I suppose it isn't too much of a waste to throw away; as much I am somewhat opposed to the principle of doing such a thing, it tastes horrible to me.
Driving is always an adventure but I've learned to drive just as badly as the locals and get along just fine. I'm logging the kilometers on that bike, a one-speed pretty little piece of work that goes only so fast as I pedal, and is a real pain in a headwind, as has been happening much too often for my taste recently.
I've learned my way more or less around the city, I still can't speak Khmer but have picked up a few more phrases. I'm busy trying to convince my students that having a finished solo on the second day of an entire week dedicated to creating them is not quite what I'm after. I'm teaching English here and there, and my newest challenge is dealing with a cute, but hyperactive, four year old who has a speech delay and a mother who wants a native speaker to talk to him.
Maybe I'm imagining it, but on my usual routes the guys who hang out along the streets seem to know me, because while they still stare, I don't get the same yowls as before. Maybe they're learning, like my soul, that I'm staying for a bit.
Well, I am. I've been craving western goodies and snacks, which I'll indulge. A few things to remind me of home, until where I am is enough -- and as it will.
As it is already becoming.
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