2012 Year in Review

The sheer amount of life that occurred in 2012 astounds me. It’s impossible for me to believe that everything happened that did, and yet it did. Somehow.

The list is endless, the highlights are: 

• I fundraised, choreographed and rechoreographed, workshopped and coached, and then shepparded and took care of three dancers to perform in a festival in Paris, a stressful, frustrating, and magical time that took me back to my beloved city and back among my friends, and left me with something to be really proud of. 
• I graduated magna cum laude from Columbia University. 
• I co-produced a showcase, fought and coached dancers much more experienced than me in two pieces, and somehow got it onstage in Manhattan. 
• After a semester of planning, applying for a grant and not getting it, communication, I bought a one-way ticket to the other side of the world and left Manhattan in the middle of the night like a refugee, flying 16 hours in the company of the Indonesian navy.

And then there was Cambodia.

And I don’t know what to say about that, except that it was nothing like what I expected and now I’m having trouble remembering what it was I was expecting. I have no ability to intellectualize the country. I wasn’t lost, or changed, or fundamentally altered as in Paris, at least, not to my knowledge, but I must be because this place which was so strange is not so much anymore.

In six months, I found four jobs, two apartments, several friends, got to a very basic level in the language, organized a showcase, danced in a performance, gave four workshops to over forty students, got addicted to rice and learned how to deal with fish heads, got in one bike crash, one moto accident and several more near misses, got sick a couple times, spent two weeks in Siem Reap and saw the temples, learned and taught Thriller, met some amazing artists, and rethought my entire life plan at least twice.

The highlights are:

•  The first time my kids invited me to eat with them after the workshop performance.
• Meeting Linda, who I’m still looking for,
• Dancing in a real performance again, and
• All the many times I looked around and realized I was the only Barang, and yet being totally accepted by the surrounding crowd.

The greatest gift I received this year was a realization sometime in September that had been germinating for quite some time, since I met the Beyond in Paris. I had been obsessing over the latest One That Got Away, and the Ones Who Got Away before that, and feeling down about learning that I was making half as much money as I thought I was.

Resistance is the struggle between what is and what you think should be. Let go of what should be, embrace what is, and create from there.

I found a way to live out the axiom that things are the way they are and that’s that. I don’t believe there is any other or higher meaning than that. It’s just the way it is and everything is always perfect, even if it was different. Every possible reality is as perfect as this one is. 

And the resistance went away. I enter the next year much more peaceful, and much more zen. I know what I have, what I don’t, and that’s where I begin.

In the next year, I’m looking forward to seeing what comes of this crazy adventure called Cambodia. I’m looking forward to:

• Taking some time to rest and relax and process, having not done so in a year,
• My trip home and to Paris in March and April to reset and touch base with the places and people I love the most,
• Setting a show of my own in motion here and moving towards my dreams,
• Improving my Khmer and deepening my understanding of Khmer culture and life,
• Being open to the richness and vibrancy of the arts and of life here with all of its caveats,
• Keeping in close contact with the people I love the most and hopefully seeing some for visits here, and
• Traveling around the region, saving a little money, and getting some things on my wishlist.

The past two years I've ended these year in reviews with little sayings, goals I guess, what I want people to say about me, but this year I have nothing, in line with my realization. What is, is, what I am, I am, where I am, I am. Sometime along the way, that became enough.

Merry Christmas from the Pixie Dust Chronicle!

I'm a day late, I know. Although I did have my computer with me the past four days spent in Kampot in a beautiful guesthouse right on the river, I used it to skype my family and check Facebook. I quite ambitiously brought a book, my notebook and journal, and some markers with me, thinking reflection would come in the form of words, but as it turns out there was no reflection and more of just staring at the world going by.

I'll publish a 2012 year in review in a bit here, but I will say that it has been one year of complete insanity, and I haven't stopped moving since Christmas last year. This vacation -- somewhat ill-timed as there still remains a shit ton to do and projects in full swing and projects just getting started -- was so, so necessary. I needed the four days of not thinking, which was startlingly successful consider my usual issues with remaining thought-free.

It was a great vacation. We rented motos and puttered into town about once a day, exploring the villages and the salt flats in the area or just poking about Kampot, which is a very sleepy, small town, where the most activity happens on the trampolines randomly set up in the middle of town and everything is 'close to the durian," a large and random sculpture of a durian in the middle of a roundabout.

The rest of the time was spent at the hotel, eating or sitting by the pool, or talking, or swimming in the river. We swam across the river one day, which was lovely. And eating. There was Christmas to be had, and a huge barbecue that included an entire pig, a tree to be trimmed, Christmas cookies being baked by a couple other guests (who were actually some friends of mine -- small world here!!), skype calls to make, greetings to be had.

The motos, by the way, were fully automatic, which means you sort of perch on top of them. Both hands have brakes and the right hand has the accelerator, which I found confusing. They are also much heavier than you think, and especially compared to a bike they are much less agile, however much they look like toys in the hands of the teenage drivers. Figuring out the balance was a challenge, especially on the very bumpy dirt roads from town to the hotel.

So naturally I had to bail a couple times as I was learning how the thing worked, one time when I was trying to turn for the first time (oops), once when I was trying to pass a bike on the tiny backroads in the little surrounding villages and discovered I was heading directly for a very unflexible looking piece of palm tree, and stopped too quickly, and once when I apparently revved at precisely the wrong moment on a piece of mud and dropped the moto on my foot -- and sliced it open from sole to heel on the inside of my ankle.

So there was a trip to the hospital in there and a lot of blood, but six stitches and some bandages later I was patched up nicely and busy thinking how I might get in the pool while leaving one foot out of the water. It is still quite sore and quite annoying, and I still get the willies looking at it (fortunately I don't have to, it's covered most of the time). I suppose I could take it as a sign to never get on a moto again, but I don't think I will. I've never done it before, I don't know how to deal with mud and dirt, and I'll probably learn.

Also, better to get the crashes out of the way first, right?

Foot cut open or not, it was a lovely, lovely Christmas and vacation. Kampot is much, much windier than Phnom Penh and therefore much cooler (I wished I had brought a cover up for the evenings!). Amazing how different weather can be just a two hour drive away. There were even hills there, adding some texture to the incredibly flat landscape around here. The dirt was this lovely burnt orange, there was real grass and actual birds, and getting back into Phnom Penh today was a shock of people and traffic.

The only thing wrong was not having my family around and I missed them terribly, especially with my sister having some serious health issues and the family kind of tense, worried, and waiting. Still, through the miracle of skype we were able to spend my Christmas morning and their Christmas eve together. It wasn't perfect, but it was still beautiful.

It was my first Christmas in the blazing sunshine, certainly.

I've sent most of my Christmas greetings already from email and Facebook, but just wanted to post it here. Here I am, in Cambodia, celebrating Christmas in 90 degree weather.

Craziness.

Go away, borohte: "Foreign Living Art"

After filming the informal showings during my summer workshops, and collecting the footage filmed by my translator on his iPhone, (and minus all the footage from my solo workshop thanks to an ill-placed spectator), I had a lot of film, and a friend of mine named Bernadette Vincent mashed it all up into a lovely reel style 7 minute video (link is here).

Cambodian Living Arts, who after all, facilitated the workshops, picked up the video and put it on their website and facebook, and prompted an entire cultural debate.

One person said, this isn't Cambodian, CLA used to do good work but now this? He asked, shouldn't it be called Foreign Living Art instead?

Others responded that this IS living art, it evolves and grows and creates. But it is destroying my culture, the guy repeated. Only Khmer can save Khmer culture.

He's not alone. For many people it is a legitimate fear. How do you deal with a generation more interested in contemporary than the classical? People here have seen their culture almost entirely vanish during the Khmer Rouge. There are no teachers, masters left. No wonder they are anxious. They have only begun to reconstruct, and now this western kind of culture is mixing in with the old and they worry, and perhaps rightly, about that what came before.

I'm sure you know where I stand. You can't keep culture in a box. I responded at one point, but I'm not trying to save Khmer culture. I'm just here to teach and encourage and experiment and learn. My background is in Western dance, and that's the only thing I know how to teach. The students enjoy it and I try to encourage them to be proud of their work, take control of their art, and be unafraid to create.

Is that destroying Khmer culture? Am I distracting them from focusing on what's important? Is it the west doing what the west does and would every one be better off if I took my westernness to the west where it belongs?

Of course I don't think so, and of course I don't know for sure. I think it's not about any one culture but the cross-culture, two fundamentally opposing cultures and dance learning from each other to explore what's possible.

Is that destroying Khmer culture?

Honestly, I think that'd be giving myself FAR too much credit.

Tuesday Night Chatter

I have other things I can probably be writing about, like all the various things I promised.

But I'm just going to put this here, these little thoughts on a Tuesday night that I am actually convinced is Wednesday night. I'm not sure why, but I think it has to do with the fact that one of my students who usually has rehearsal on Wednesday came today after missing last week, in theory to rehearse and actually just ended up hanging out.

Some of the pieces are in decent shape, others that have barely started 4 weeks out and appear to be moving at snails' paces, choreographers who show up with no idea what to teach dancers and then ask ME to do it (whoa whoa whoa there suckers, that's cheating). All of the choreographers need coaching not about dancing but about leading, how to get and keep dancers' attention and what to do with it once you have it.

I decided to attempt to cook something besides dumplings and salad for dinner tonight, and made an omelette of epic proportions with red onions, some mushrooms that for whatever reason looked good at Lucky (I don't even like mushrooms I don't think, not unless my Dad cooks them with an unhealthy amount of butter and garlic), speaking of which garlic, cherry tomatoes, and cheddar cheese.

Honestly, it wasn't really that good. Maybe I didn't add enough butter, though I suspect it is the lack of spices instead. Well, hey, I tried. Tomorrow it'll be back to pasta and the tomato basil sauce I have. I don't eat khmer food for dinner as I don't know how to make it and don't want to eat out.

Speaking of which, that is money, which is required to eat out, I realized that my health insurance that I had bought for six months was expiring at the end of this month and decided that basic or not, having the option to get flown out the country in case of an emergency is kind of important in the case of, so I renewed it. The premium went up, and a lovely lass named Sallie Mae has gotten my attention...hello to the world of paying back student loans. Thankfully my monthly payment is very low as thankfully Columbia didn't make me get too many loans, however --

Well, it just makes me feel like an Adult with a capital A.

I've started taking some time in the day when I'm home to sit out on my balcony and watch the world outside go by; I spend too much time on the computer anyway and I've been craving time to just process and deal with the insanity of the past five and a half months, during which I didn't really have much time to process and blasted through as I tend to do.

Now, with an indefinite amount of time here and a brain too full, a few set projects for the next month or two, I'm trying to take some relax time. My instinct is to run to the next thing and try to figure everything out now, but I really don't want to. I get the guilty twinge that I'm wasting time and I should be figuring out how to start the company so I can do so as soon as possible, but then I'm just like, chill.

Realistically, nothing is going to happen until after I get back from the States and Europe in mid-April, and probably not until Season of Cambodia is over in May. Sure, that's another five months from now, but who cares. If that time is well-spent processing, researching a bit, and resetting, so that when I do tackle the next big project, I can do so with full attention and energy, five months is nothing.

Anyway I think my point was, I like my balcony. I like my street. I watch all the various lives going by and existing and watch the tin roofs and palm trees and speculate on how many apartments go for in the Cambodian equivalent of a high rise across the way. I wonder why the neighbors are boxing up twenty wireless keyboards, and if the other neighbors are ever going to let the dogs out of the alley where they keep them, and if the empty lot across the way is ever going to be used for more than a parking lot.

And that, these days, is familiar. Times change.

Me vs the Motos (I always lose)

The bikes are at the bottom, competing with the cyclo taxis for last place, but since a loaded cyclo is not stopping as quickly as a bike, the bike get the bottom spot.

Next are the motorbikes, who all have inferiority complexes and like to think they are on top, even though they're smaller. They also think they're faster than everyone else, which isn't true, everyone goes at right about the same pace. But the motos think they're fast and they think they're important, and they always cause the most trouble.

Next are the tuk tuks, though they are arguably below the motos, as even though they are bigger they are slower. I can't figure out how they got the reputation for driving too quickly.

Up next are the smaller cars, which are usually somewhat unobtrusive but bigger than the rest.

Then the large SUVs, the number of which is booming as the nouveau-riche find various ways to show off, and so the bigger and the more prominently "lexus" is splashed across the side, the better. The drivers, usuall checking or talking on one of their three iPhones, know they are bigger than everyone and just go when and where they want -- except they, unlike the motos, stop for red lights.

Above this is a collection of large lorries and trucks, and in and out of the above mess are your various moto trailers. Not counted are the vendor carts, usually on bicycle or moto, puttering along.

In the U.S., if there is no light and a four way stop, everyone will stop and one by one go in order. Here, everyone goes forward until someone is in their way, and then waits to sliver through whatever available space they can find. Red lights do not mean stop, they mean if there is traffic, stop, and if not, go.

There are the hotshots on their absurdly large motorbikes that you sort of crouch strangely atop and blast through traffic, something that motos piled with young school students also do. One of the worst is, I think, the female drivers, who are really quite passive-aggressive. They sit with their knees held daintily together, and worm their way through the traffic, pulling past so close you just have to brake and let them pass.

Someone is always getting cut off. Someone is always going down the wrong side of the street, and there is always a near collision between someone at least once on every ride. People seem to accept these as everyday, as they don't honk, just screech the brakes and wait to see who will move first. At most a dirty look or two is exchanged.

The horns are used instead just to warn people they are coming.

Although I know how to deal with it, it's always stressful and I still get frustrated with the moto drivers. I think if they just learned that red light means stop, and the city invested in some stop signs, already life would be improved.

And in the mean time -- I'll just keep getting cut off.

Sibling/Sweetheart: The more confusing nuances of the Khmer language

In Khmer, you call people different things depending on their age in relation to you. There's no real equivalent in English except maybe "Sir" or "Ma'am" as a sign of respect. However, in a culture with family as the central unit, everyone is part of the family, sister or brother, or aunt and uncle.

The one you hear most often is "bong", which is used for anyone older than you but roughly in the same generation. It can mean sister or brother, sometimes to avoid confusion "bong bproh" or "bong srey" (older brother, older sister). When trying to translate, Khmer people often call me "sister", which is much nicer than "lady" as you get on the street, or "madame" which I hear sometimes, and one time "sir" (after which the guy seemed surprised I didn't say anything back!)

If someone is younger than you, you say "oun" (like 'own'), which means younger brother or sister. For those much older, the men are "pu", or uncle, and the women are "ming", or aunt, though someone once told me  you should always call women "bong" to avoid insulting them.

Often people will ask how old you are so they know the appropriate way to call you. Somewhat confused by the whole thing, I asked what you do when the person in question is right around your age, in which case apparently you just use the name.

However, that isn't the most confusing thing, as "bong" and "oun" can quite confusedly also mean "honey" or "sweetheart." In a relationship, the woman calls the man "bong" and refers to herself as "oun," and vice versa. While I have all sorts of things to say about how this sets up the hierarchy of the relationship, it certainly does throw a wrench in things.

Apparently, to avoid confusion, a guy friend will call a girl "pah-oun". I can't remember if there's a way to avoid confusion for the opposite situation, probably just with the name, or with someone older than you, you can default to "pu", but that also seems strange to me.

I have not yet figured out why in the world the same word means brother/sister and sweetheart, and naturally you could make all sorts of nasty jokes about it but I'm sure in the end there's a reason for it. To me it is heartily confusing.

Generally speaking, I call the students I know are at least four or five years younger than me "oun", four or five years older than me "bong", and names in between. I'm trying to be careful about what I call the servers as sometimes I'm pretty sure they are younger than me. The instinct to guess ages to know the proper title is definitely going to be ingrained soon if not already.

And in the meantime, hope I don't accidentally call anyone sweetheart. Or if I do, it's obvious that I actually mean brother or sister.

Professionalism, Performances, and serious Déjà Vu

I suppose it's anywhere you go, the madness and the last-minute nature of things. Anywhere you go something goes wrong on opening day, Cambodia or New York or Paris. However, add in all that and mix with cultural and language differences, and you get quite a mess.

The one problem with the arts scene in Cambodia is the lack of venues, for performance and for rehearsal. The only "western" style professional theater is Chenla, which is kind of on the outskirts of town. I don't know the rates for that, but probably fairly expensive. But aside from that, it leaves few options.

I was asked by a friend to perform for the year-end school of the new ballet school in town (my friend runs it), and immediately agreed (especially seeing as I wasn't being recruited for a ballet, but a contemporary piece.) The piece ended up being a 15 minute duet (including a five minute solo) with a lovely Scottish woman, and it's been incredibly nice to have some time to just do what someone else tells me to do instead of the madness of creating, producing, and etc.

The evening was rounded out by a one-act ballet provincial style, with bales of hay and all the other various props that go in ballet-ballets (so much ballet...), including a posse of ten or so kids to hop in a circle at various intervals, and a community outreach contemporary piece, performed by eight Khmer students. My friend is determined to put together a professional school and not just the place you send your kids to fluff about for awhile, and he's doing a pretty good job of it. He has a real passion for teaching and it comes through.

He rented a theater called "the Department of Performing Arts." I am not sure if classes take place there or really what it is for, but it is hidden back amongst the houses around it and you have to be looking to find the alley way that leads to it, a large, somewhat oddly shaped building with stairs unnecessarily wrapping around it. It looks big, but isn't particularly, seating 150. The stage is a decent size, but there are no dressing rooms or backstage areas. The bathrooms are downstairs and you have to go outside to find them. Mirrors for makeup don't seem to exist anywhere. The stage is wood and nails creep up here and there.

In addition, nobody bothered to tell us that while we could be in the space all day, if you run the lights that long they burn out, and halfway through the afternoon all the dimmers blew, leaving us with access to the four mains onstage and the bank of spots in the front of the house. The only way to turn them on and off was by unplugging and plugging the cables. On or off, no in between, and the production staff decided to blame  us for using the lights so long.

That pushed the rehearsals back, the hair and makeup people were running late, the people coming to do the hair for the community piece were late, the film crew turned up two hours late, and with my friend overwhelmed and running around, it was left up to me and my duet partner to warm up the kids.

I don't know how to warm up a bunch of seven year olds, but nevertheless, we played some silly games. They ran around. I taught them a bit of Thriller. They got bored. We stretched, they were even more bored. But we'd wasted ten or fifteen minutes and they pronounced themselves ready to dance.

A word about the kids -- all expat kids, their parents here for work. French, British, American, earnest and adorable, asking endless questions and adoring the older dancers, their hair in two french braids and little dresses (the one boy in green trousers and a white shirt). They were all me, fifteen years ago. I could see it so clearly, their parents helping with the show like parents do anywhere. Only in Cambodia. It's just where they live, nothing special. Back in America, they say, it was like this, but I don't know here.

It was such a mind-twist for me, to see myself as I was fifteen years ago, the little ballerina girl with the blond hair and hamming it up, but here, in Cambodia, in this somewhat rickity, imperfect theater.

The show sold out. They had to turn people away. Everyone had a good time, the lights didn't look awful, and no one was any the wiser. I didn't overbalance on the tilt. The kids were great. The community piece looked beautiful in a shadowy light, with their white costumes and crazy hair.

I guess, wherever you are, the show must go on.

Apologies, and what to expect

I've been so bad the last couple months. I hardly write, and when I do, it's become a study in how-much-gillian-has-to-do and complaints about being tired or this or that.

It is true that I've been incredibly busy and will continue to be for the next month at least. However, I'm going to try and be better about the blog.

Expect in the next couple weeks to find :

-- recounts from a day trip to Kien Svay and picnics Cambodian style,

-- a more in-depth discussion of the hierarchy of traffic and vehicles,

-- a full update on the new project with my students and the ups and downs of trying to teach professionalism,

-- a new job announcement and all of the stories of its process and actualization, and

-- news from Kampot, where I will be spending Christmas.

Cheers!

Christmas finds its ways to this side of the universe

I suppose with a strong expat community and a commercial potential, you'd expect such a thing to happen. It's a chance to sell merchandise, and that above anything seems to highly motivate the local businesses to go all out in what they understand Christmas to be.

The local movie theater in the city mall has a tree and "Merry Christmas" strung up from the ceiling, which was bizarre enough, and then Lucky Supermarket got in the act, plastering its windows with tree stickers, displaying stacks of Santa chocolates, outfitting their entire staff with Santa hats, and playing "We wish you a merry Christmas"  on repeat.

As far as I can tell, the locals treat it was some bemusement, but I would guess as a grand opportunity to sell stuff, which is unfortunately what Christmas is about everywhere. It is kind of sad, though, a little upsetting, to see that part of it in its extreme -- for most people, I think, Christmas is the commercial but also the family time, tradition.

Here it's just the commercial without the tradition or the idea of spending time with the family. You can sense the locals don't give one whit about the holiday itself or what it may or may not mean. Maybe they see on TV  what it's supposed to be like, and I think they really are trying to recreate it for all the crazy barangs, but with this kind of confused distance.

Essentially, it's the side of Christmas I am not at all a fan of, and I'm already sick of it.

In the mean time, today is December 1st. It is hot today. There has been no real change in the weather, though I think it is slightly less hot than it was. I miss the cold and watching the seasons change.

Hot winters and Christmas in the Cambodian supermarkets -- the best word I can think of for it is surreal.