It Was Bound to Happen

Before I woke up on Friday, the electricity went out. It didn't take long for my room to become a sauna. I tried to think of it as the opportunity to sweat in the dark. I managed to get dressed thanks to the tiny flashlight I brought. (I guess the good folks at the Duke Travel Clinic know a thing or two.) I noticed the overcast sky as I left my room but had no clue that within minutes a mini monsoon would ensue. I tried to think of it as an opportunity to sweat in the rain. All I could think of was how wet I would be when I finally arrived at work. Ev suggested wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt and carrying my school clothes--another example of being smarter than the problem. (I am told that soon the rainy season will begin and to expect rain like this every day, sometimes all day. I'm trying to think of it as an opportunity...never mind.) To make matters worse, our regular driver, Savon was off for a few days. (His wife just delivered their first child, Clin.)

"The Grade 12's" (as they are called)

During first period, my room was used as the location for the senior class meeting, half of whom I've never met. Don't get me wrong, like all the kids at ISPP they are very well-behaved and very polite. But, this day was their last day. Think there was some excitement in the room? OK, so there I was chaperoning a bevy of super-charged teenagers, when what I really wanted was to lie down in an air-conditioned bedroom and sleep another two hours. My day started badly and didn't improve much as it continued; until...

Monika

...last period on Day Ten (Friday). That's when I teach 9B, which features some of the nicest children ever including Monika and Somaly--Giggle I and Giggle II. Teachers' dreams, both of them; they are smart, kind, and sweet young women who cannot help but brighten the days of everyone they meet.

Somaly

After school there was a faculty meeting. (On a Friday? Hold on, this one was different.) The director gathered the staffs of both campuses (elementary and secondary) to share the findings of the evaluation teams which finished their work this week. Needless to say, the results were very positive. But like every administrator who ever tricked any staff into anything, Barry takes care of his people--there was great food, red wine, and (sorta) cold beer. Swear to god. (Does this guy know how to treat a staff or what?)

Did I mention it was Friday? After all that and a couple of tuk-tuk rides in the wildest, most congested traffic to date, I found my way to the FCC.

Oh yeah, I mentioned Savon's new son. Last week I asked Savon what he would name his new baby. He told me "Clin." Then he added, "My name is Ton. My son is Clin Ton, like the American president." Savon then asked, "Is OK Sir?"

You Might Be Surprised

You might be surprised by all the western influence on every day life in Phnom Penh. I know I was. Before I left home, I worried a little about several things: How would I communicate? How easy is it to exchange US dollars and understand local money? How easily will I travel around town? (I also worried about creature comforts like food and clean clothes, but thanks to Jim and Eveline and their employees, Savi, Srey Neang, and Savon, this creature couldn't be much more comfortable!)

Savon

In terms of communication, there have been plenty of times when I struggled to understand what was being said; and plenty of times when I had to repeat and rephrase what I was saying, but the fact is that most service workers (drivers, restaurant workers, shop owners) speak and understand English. As far as money goes, the preferred currency is the dollar. No coins are used; for amounts less than one dollar change is given in riel (4000 riel=one USD). As far as getting around town, for weekday travel I use Eveline's driver, Savon. On the weekends it's a matter of flagging down a tuk-tuk driver. For a nominal fee (usually one or two dollars) the driver will take you, and if need be, wait for you.

Savi

Except for occasional thousand year old buildings, tropical foliage everywhere, and classic French inspired architecture, Phnom Penh "feels" very western. For example, the vast majority of the signage is in English. From the street signs to the store fronts, English language dominates the landscape. Although the streets have names such as Norodom Blvd and Pasteur Street, each was designated numerically by French designers years ago; and although the streets are not consecutive by number, they are easily followed.

Is Louisiana known for chicken?

Phnom Penh is similar to any large city in the USA in many respects. It has the same problems (overcrowding, trafficking, crime) and it provides the same municipal services (trash removal, police, etc). The differences though are matters of degree. The finest health care in the world is available throughout the USA, not the case here. The police at home "protect and serve;" here the police are feared. I am told they are corrupt, and they often solicit petty bribes from the same citizens they are duty-bound to protect. Even the simple things we take for granted and expect without a second thought (like trash removal and recycling efforts) are very different here. Yes the trash truck runs on a schedule, yet there seems to be little effort to clean up the many piles of trash and debris around the city. (To their credit though, Cambodians are incessant sweepers. Especially in the early morning, many people can be seen sweeping sidewalks and gutters.)

I've been here for parts of three weeks and can honestly say, much to my great relief, my worries were unfounded. Phnom Penh is not the west, I know; but sometimes it sort of feels that way.

It's Like He Said

Srey Mom

My friend, Mark always says that in any school there can be only one goal: to improve student achievement. From the guy who cuts the grass to the bookkeeper who writes the checks, the goal remains the same. It's the same for the lunch lady, the band director,the football coach, the custodian, and the principal as it is for the people who teach the children. He's right you know. Think of it this way: if the grass is cut during exams, students would be distracted and wouldn't perform as well. If lunch is not appetizing and served in a timely manor, students become less prepared for the rest of their instruction. If the band director and the football coach motivate their players, those kids are more eager to attend and do well. You see his point.

Nitor and VK--notice the pseudo man-hug

As somewhat of a visitor to ISPP I am afforded a unique opportunity. From the first day, I have asked myself this question: Is student achievement everybody's goal? I haven't drawn any conclusions--yet. (Let me repeat an earlier observation--somebody has taught these kids something. They are excellent writer's in addition to being well-behaved and eager to perform.) I know what I see and I know what I hear. The principal's guiding question is always: is it good for kids? He wants to know if decisions are being made for the well-being of children or the convenience of adults. The director/superintendent (Barry Sutherland) stated publicly he wants a direct reference to learning in the revision of the school's mission statement.

Johanna and Chloe

Being the boss is about keeping sight of the horizon--the big picture. Being a teacher is about rowing the boat. Every day I am reminded of the awesome power teachers possess. We make decisions, dozens of them, that directly affect the lives of our students. We design and implement meaningful activities designed to increase the students' knowledge and improve their academic abilities. That is certainly no different than I am used to.

Konstantin, Ke, and Niko

As the lessons mound up, and the days go by; I think more and more often of the good folks at Overlea High School (Baltimore County Public Schools) where I used to work. I have more and greater respect for them and the work they accomplish every day. Since I retired four years ago, I can't say I miss the work; but I sure do miss the people.

The National Museum

On Sunday I went to the National Museum. Upon arrival I was approached by a woman carrying a newborn baby and also by a boy about nine years old who was carrying a thermal cooler full of bottled water. She was begging and he was selling. She was insistent, asking repeatedly for a dollar. I told them both to catch me on the way out. The woman followed me to the entrance of the museum grounds, still pleading; but the boy pointed to the ball cap he was wearing and said, "OK mister you look for green hat."

Statue of Ganesha--god of wisdom and education

Sure enough when I left the museum, there he was. "OK mister now you buy." He was as charming and polite as he could be--after all I was the one who told him to watch for me on the way out. "2000," he said (meaning 2000 riel, 50 cents USD). "You get two for one dollar, OK?" he asked. I replied, "How about one for one dollar?" "OK, mister. Thank you," he said with a big smile.

I was half a block away when the woman with a baby caught up. She resumed demanding a dollar. I checked my pockets. I had a 20 USD note and Cambodian 100 riel note. I gave her the 100 riel. She took it and said, "Noooo, 100 not enough money." She's right, too. Two and one-half cents USD doesn't go very far even in an impoverished country like Cambodia.

The FCC and my First Week

The view from the FCC

The Foreign Correspondents Club was named as such during the war years because of its popularity with the journalists. With its prominent location on the Riverside along the Tonle Sap, the FCC is a restaurant and watering hole still extremely popular among tourists and expatriates. The restaurant seating shares a space with an expansive veranda replete with the bar, a balcony lined with stools, arts and crafts style lounge chairs and a pool table. Although under cover the entire restaurant is essentially outdoors so the view, the street-sounds and the continuous breeze make the FCC the perfect spot to spend my first Friday after school.

Seating at the FCC

One week down and six to go. My first week was full of many fairly predictable things: meeting the students, getting used to the routines and responsibilities, and delivering the curriculum. On the first count, I can honestly say, the kids are wonderful. They are kind and considerate, and I am impressed by their level of performance. Almost every child speaks more than one language. They are well-spoken, and they are excellent writers. The routines are not at all what I'm used to. Attendance is reported electronically. Daily announcements are delivered via email (and read to the students). For various reasons including the lack of necessity, there are very few duties: no hall duty (no halls); no lunch duty (no need). I have "gate duty" on Monday mornings. When I asked what my responsibilities were, the principal said, "Greet the students." (I've had the sneaking suspicion that my post-retirement destiny was to become a WalMart greeter, so this seems like excellent training.)

That brings me to the reason I'm here: delivering the curriculum. I'll be the first to admit that I was a little rusty at first, but it didn't take me long to get in the swing. I have enjoyed preparing supplemental materials and planning the lessons. Some lessons went well and some were great learning experiences--for me.

On the Riverside at night

One day in class a boy named Nitor raised his hand. I called on him and he asked, "Are you going to be our teacher next year?" "No," I told him, "not unless you can convince a couple of kids in Raleigh North Carolina to move here." As if on cue, at that very moment the principal walked into the room. "Nitor," I told him, "Ask Mr. Canavan what you just asked me." Nitor hesitated a brief second looking for a way to rephrase the question.

Finally he said, "Mr. Canavan, can we keep him?"

The Russian Market (part 2)

Eveline selecting a pair of pants

(I recently added photos to the journal entry: The Russian Market (Psar Tuol Tom Pong). I inadvertently posted the journal entry before the photos were ready. Please revisit that entry.)

Today Eveline and I went to the Russian Market. The place is such a confusing maze of rows and alleys, I was impressed by her knowledge of the market. She could tell me where to find any particular thing. "Down this aisle you can find clothes" or "Right down here is where they sell antiques." She was like the best English speaking tour guide you could want. (As many times as she has been there, seeing someone driving a moto in one of the extremely crowded aisles always seems new. Today was no exception.)

Because I didn't bring any dress shirts to Cambodia (and I'll need one to wear to the graduation ceremony at ISPP) Eveline suggested that I have one made. Precisely where she knew they would be we found the tailors all working diligently at their sewing machines. I met a man (and his wife and young son) who promised to make me a shirt in a day for $15 (material included; an entire suit takes fewer than five days and costs $50 USD).

This was my second visit to the Russian Market and I saw it in a brand new light. The Cambodian vendors, who are mostly women, are shrewd business women not used to giving away their merchandise-- while bargaining just enough to complete the sale and just enough to make a profit. Somehow it works; ultimately everyone is satisfied.

At one stall I admired a hand-carved (so they said) Hindu inspired statue of Ganesha (the elephant symbolizing the god of wisdom and success. Only after I bought it did I learn that Ganesha is the god of education, knowledge, wisdom, literature, and fine arts--go figure).

It went something like this: "Today for you I sell at 25. Every day I sell for 30 but not today." "Fifteen," I said. "For you only today I sell 22. You buy 22." "Twenty?" I asked. "Cannot do 20. 21 you buy. That's it Sir 21." Twenty-one it was.

I said, "ar kun." "Ar kun," she replied and smiled.

The tailor's wife and son

The Russian Market (Psar Tuol Tom Pong)

For shopping, especially souvenir shopping, nothing quite compares to Psar Tuol Tom Pong, otherwise known as the Russian Market. It apparently earned its nickname in the 1980's because of its popularity with Russian expatriates. Consuming an entire city block, the market, which is all under roof, is a labyrinth of walkways connecting hundreds of stalls. The vendors sell an impressive range of handicrafts and fake antiquities, including miniature Buddhas, silks, jewelery, and luggage. One section featured accessories and auto parts for motor scooters (everything from exhaust pipes to engines). There is a food court (if you can call it that).

You can find a large selection of western clothing, partly because there are many brand name factories in Phnom Penh. Although you can easily find such labels as Banana Republic, Columbia, and Gap, buyer beware of suspicious labels like "Calvin Clein."


The market is an experience not to be missed. It is dark and hot and the air quality is awful. It's crowded beyond comfort. The floor is a series of concrete peaks and valleys. The merchandise is packed and stacked so tightly that browsing is reduced to wide-eyed staring in amazement. All that said, the place is an adventure. The vendors could not be nicer. They often greet the customer with promises of the best deal in town, "Hello Sir. I make for you big bargain." The key word is bargain. They expect the customer to haggle, therefore their first price is never the one you can expect to pay. One word of advice though: if you see something and you want it, buy it because there is no guarantee that you can find your way back to the same stall twice.

Tuk-Tuks

Although the guide books refer to them as remorque-motos, everybody else calls them "tuk-tuks." Inexpensive, comfortable ways to get around town, tuk-tuks are two-seat carriages pulled by motor scooters. Apparently, tuk-tuks are a fairly new addition to the tourist industry in Cambodia, coming from places such as China, Thailand, and India. Although all tuk-tuks have the same basic design, they differ greatly in style, age and cleanliness. Some drivers have remodelled their tuk-tuks to include a supplemental gas tank in the form of a five-gallon plastic jug duck taped to the carriage with a siphon hose to feed the scooter's gas tank. (I can only imagine the headline: AMERICAN TRAVELS IN BLAZE OF GLORY-- literally).

Drivers generally travel very slowly by western standards. They possess absolute nerves of steel. It is common to see them (and anybody else) traveling the wrong way on a one-way street if it's convenient to them; or turn directly into on-coming traffic without the slightest hesitation to make a u-turn or drop off a passenger--everyone else simply adjusts! My favorite example so far though happened a few days ago on Sihanouk Blvd, which is four lanes, two in each direction. It is extremely busy all the time with hundreds of motos (motor scooters), tuk-tuks, bicycles and taxis. Crossing the street on foot is very challenging if not impossible. We were on our way to the Lucky Supermarket (the one with the Buddhist temple in it), which would prove to be on the opposite side of the highway--of course, why make it easy?

For several hundred yards in that stretch of Sihanouk Blvd the on-coming traffic is divided by a concrete barrier (I guess to discourage turning, which is all but impossible anyway.) Upon approaching the concrete barrier our driver simply crossed over the double yellow lines (tell me why there are lines) directly into the on-coming traffic. (I do admit that for one of only a few times, I became concerned. I wasn't sure if it was more like being in a Monty Python movie or being the pretty girl tied to the board in a knife throwing act.) No horns, no yelling, no problems--everyone else adjusted; delivered safe and sound, sort of.

They Say You Don't Forget

It's been 34 years since I first stepped in front of a classroom full of students--my students; and 17 since the last. Today was my first day at the International School of Phnom Penh (ISPP). You know the expression "It's just like riding a bike"? Well, this wasn't exactly that; it was more like riding a roller coaster--no matter how many times you've done it and despite how long it has been since you've ridden one, each time feels like the first time.

Because of the schedule I met four of my five classes: one grade 12, two grade nines and a grade six. (I'll meet the other grade six tomorrow.) These students are living examples of multicultural. They are from or have lived in Australia, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Cambodia, Canada, China, Denmark, England, Ethiopia, Fiji, France, Soviet Georgia, Germany, Guinea, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Netherlands, New Zealand, Philippines, Romania, Russia, Rwanda, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Tanzania, Thailand, Uganda, USA, and Zimbabwe. Collectively they speak a dozen or more languages and have literally traveled the world.

For now it's all new--for them and for me. I'm sure the novelty will wear off--at least for them but maybe not for me. Day one is in the books. Now I just have to repeat that 29 times.

S-21 Tuol Sleng (Not for Young Readers)

The information conveyed in this installment is not appropriate for young readers.

On April 17, 1975, 35 years ago to the day, on orders of the infamous Pol Pot, Security Office 21 was created. Once the grounds of Toul Svay Prey High School, today it stands as the Toul Sleng Genocide Museum. Today I visited this notorious killing site, a place where thousands of otherwise innocent Cambodian citizens were incarcerated, interrogated, tortured, and killed.
I know it was largely due to the heat, which is more arresting today than any other in my short visit, and I suspect it was partly due to the graphic display of the genocide which took place on these grounds; this was literally a nauseating experience. Seeing in the multiple torture cells the actual bed frames, leg irons and blood stains of the victims along side wall-sized photos of the last 14 corpses (as found in 1978 by liberators of the prison) made each room more difficult to experience than the previous.

The flowering trees on the grounds of S-21
stand in stark contrast to its history.

I am told that 75% of Cambodia's current population is younger than 26 years old. If this is accurate (simple observation seems to confirm it), it speaks volumes regarding the mass genocide attributed to the Khmer Rouge. This legacy is not a proud one, but one placard I found read: Keeping the memory of the atrocities committed on Cambodia soil alive is the key to build a new, strong and just state. Furthermore, the crimes of the inhuman regime of Khmer Rough public plays crucial role in preventing new Pol Pot from emerging in the lands of Angkor or anywhere on Earth.

Wat Phnom

Phnom Penh was founded at the current site of an active pagoda known as Wat Phnom. Sitting atop just about the only hill in town, Wat Phnom is a place of constant activity. Crowded with the curious (like me) and the faithful, Wat Phnom is one busy place. The entire site is surrounded by a traffic circle replete with vendors, tuk-tuks, and countless motorbikes all in perpetual motion around the shrine. Situated within the grounds are the temple, shrines, fortune tellers, vendors and beggars. Also there, making perpetual journeys around the traffic circle is an elephant offering rides for a fee.
The site is also home to a pack of monkeys (do monkeys live in packs? flocks? prides? broods?), who as local lore would have it are not too shy especially in the presence of food.
The large stupa contains the remains of King Ponhea Yat (1405-1467) who moved the Khmer capital from Angkor to Phnom Penh in 1422. Featured at Wat Phnom is the alter of Lady Penh, who is said to have fished a floating Koki tree from the river in 1372. Inside the tree she found four Buddha statues. She built a hill (phnom) and a small temple (wat) at what is now the site of Wat Phnom. Later, the surrounding area became known for the hill (Phnom) and its creator (Penh), hence the name "Phnom Penh."

Losing Sight of the Shore

There is an old expression that says something about never actually getting anywhere until one first loses sight of the shore. Well guess what...today I lost sight of the shore, sort of, at least for a little while.

Where I was (Jim and Ev's house) and where I wanted to go (the Royal Palace) are well within walking distance; however, as my sweat-soaked clothes can attest, it is way too far to walk in this heat (although I think today is a little better because of some cloud cover). None of that constitutes leaving the shore. Merely walking through the front gate onto nearly deserted street 222 and hearing the slam of the steel gate closing behind me--that is losing the shore. Less than six seconds later I heard the gate reopen and Jim call to me, "Do you have money?" which was his way of asking if I needed to revisit the procedure for hiring a tuk-tuk driver (and if I was able to avoid paying more than the $1.50 it would cost). After a brief summary I walked to the nearest intersection. Before long a tuk-tuk driver pulled up (going the wrong way on a one-way street...oh let's be honest there is no such thing a wrong way--not when drivers are constantly headed in all possible directions at all times). As rehearsed I said, "The Royal Palace please." He responded by saying something that sounded a lot like "palace" but the look on his face told the tale. On cue we both retrieved our trusty tourist maps of Phnom Penh (mine in English and his in Khmer). We soon agreed on a destination and I was off.

After a tour of the palace and lunch (more authentic Cambodian food), I began looking for the coastline. As it turned out, it was a simple matter of telling a tuk-tuk driver "Street 222" and we were off. I admit to a certain sense of relief as we turned onto Jim's street. Ahhh...back on the shore.

Man It's hot here

They told me. I believed them. I'm here. They were right. Now I know for myself...it's hot here. Oh I was warned. Everyone familiar with Cambodia told me about the heat. The guide books are perfectly clear. In just my first full day, I know first-hand the effects of this oppressive heat. The temperature is one thing, the humidity makes it feels all the worse.



Just stepping off the airplane at the airport, I was hit by a wall of hot air. It was 90 degrees at 11 o'clock at night. When I finally got to bed, sleeping was a challenge despite how tired I was after almost 24 hours of flights. I turned off the air-conditioner and just used an electric fan. Wrong. That was fine to go to sleep. Staying asleep, well that was a different story. Needless to say, with the return of the air-conditioner the room cooled off just a bit and I was able to fall back asleep.



Phnom Penh is city of smells, some good and some, well, let's just say not so good. In my limited experience with the motorized transports known as "tuk-tuks" I have traveled to several adjoining neighborhoods. From my perch in the tuk-tuk I could smell some wonderful incense and some wonderful food. I have also smelled some of the most profuse odors ever. From one street to the next you can see piles of trash and a magnificent palace. You can smellboth beautiful fragrances and head-turning odors. The heat and humidity sure don't help.

The Quietus Hit Him

I could feel it--following me, sort of sneaking up on me, watching me. Sure enough, when Debbie and I got out of the car at RDU yesterday morning it finally got me. It wasn't at all unexpected though. I knew it would happen. When the time to finally say goodbye arrived, I knew I wouldn't be able to. Sure enough, I couldn't. I didn't. In fact, I didn't say anything--at first. We stared at each other and I smiled that little nervous smile that I do when nothing else occurs to me. Nothing else occured to me. That's when the reality of this thing got me.



Shortly after we managed to part a very different form of reality was waiting for me at the ticket counter. The first person who offered to help me sorted through a bundle of pages looking for my name. He informed me that I wasn't listed and asked if I was sure I had the right airlines. A reasonable question I suppose. I assured him I was and inserted a credit card into the kiosk and sure enough I was listed.



That much accomplished I turned to face the man behind the counter. After he learned my name he spent a considerable amount of time staring intently into his computer monitor while typing various codes and letter combinations all in an effort to check-in my two pieces of luggage. Finally the quietus hit him and the typing slowed down considerably while the staring seemed to intensify. He began looking for assistance from the woman two stations away. She was busy. We waited.



I asked if there was a problem (as there certainly seemed to be). He mumbled somethng about needing a visa to enter Korea (which marked the first time I heard such a thing.) Tired of waiting, he walked to her station and implored her to help him. When they returned they both began staring into the depths of the monitor. She informed us both that no visa was required for Korea but one was required to visit or work in Cambodia (which I knew could be procured at the airport in Phnom Penh). It took them several minutes to undersatnd what they were reading. At one point she asked me the purpose of my visit to Cambodia and the length of my stay. I told her 60 days to which she responded a Cambodian visa would expire in 30 days. The devil was in the details. After a few more anxious moments she declared that all was well and I was allowed to pass. However, my bags still weren't checked in.



The larger of the two was on the scale. The man said, "This one is over (weight). Can you take some stuff out of it and put it into that one?" They were both packed so full that his idea wouldn't work. Then he said the magic words: it's six pounds over; that'll cost you $200. (My backpack suddenly got six pound heavier!)



My current reality includes sitting in the Incheon Airport waiting for the third and final leg of the trip. Just five more hours and I'll begin my next two months from home.

An Opportunity Not to be Missed

Long before the reality of my present situation became crystal clear, Jim and I traded emails in which the notion of visiting Cambodia was discussed. I even asked him if any long-term substitute positions were available. I think I used the expression "keep me in mind". It did and he did, too.

This opportunity wasn't the first time the idea arose. Last year (with very little notice) a position was discussed. I didn't have to think very long about it because the timing just wasn't right. I would have had very little time to get inoculations and I would have missed several family birthdays--lets just say it wasn't going to happen. But what did happen was I started thinking about the missed opportunity. I quietly talked myself into the belief that after all these years I still had what it takes to leave home for two months, travel half way around the world, and (as importantly) teach again.

I began my career in public education 34 years ago as a fifth grade teacher in the Baltimore County Public Schools. After serving 11 years in elementary school, six years in middle school as an English teacher, and 13 years as a high school administrator including nine as principal, I retired. Four years ago my wife and I moved to Wake Forest, NC to be closer to our daughter's family. Meanwhile I've been filling my time by reading, traveling, and holding several part-time jobs. After 17 years away from the classroom I do admit to being somewhat nervous about what lies ahead.

This time I had plenty of time to think about it before I accepted the position. Unlike the previous assignment, this one felt right. Plenty of lead time, plenty of time to prepare for the classes (thanks in large part to the teacher I am replacing), and plenty of time to convince myself that this was an opportunity not to be missed.

Two Months from Home

In five short days I will spend two months from home. I'm sure at some point I chose to make this happen but no matter how hard I try I can't remember what possessed me to agree to do so. I think it was a fishing trip I took nine months ago with my good friend, Jim Canavan, who happens to be the principal of the high school at the International School of Phnom Penh.



There's something about floating about on Deep Creek Lake in western Maryland on a beautiful summer day (only occasionally stopping to rebait or refresh) while talking about nothing and anything that fools one into thinking that every day could be just like that one. Maybe that's when the topic first arose that I could at least visit Jim and his wife Eveline in Cambodia let alone unretire long enough to serve as a long-term substitute at his school when the opportunity arose.



Sure enough it did (the opportunity is a six week "materity leave" starting in April). Somewhere along the line I agreed to the assignment (teaching English to 5th, 9th, and 12th graders) and that's why I'll soon spend the next two months from home.