Two days ago, he was sitting in my class. Today I was sitting at his funeral. This skinny little line between life and death is so terrifyingly easy to cross—but only one way.

I thought they were joking, the other students, when I walked into the classroom this morning and they told me that most students wouldn’t be there, that there was an accident yesterday, that Bora died, that they were going to Kompong Chhnang Province for his funeral. They were smiling. Laughing. I looked from one to the other. “Are you serious?” “Yes, teacher. Bora, who sits in the back. He’s dead.” Still smiling. And those seconds, those long seconds it took me to realize that these were not joking-around smiles but crying-is-unacceptable-so-we’ll-laugh-instead smiles, took me from confusion to disbelief to fighting back tears. Unacceptable.

Cancelled class, walked back to the office, found the Korean IT volunteer there. Told him the story, had a brief conversation about how accidents are so common in Cambodia, how there aren’t so many in Korea. Heard Lauren walk through the door. “Erin, I heard a student passed away—” Looked up. Nodded. “Mine…” Choked on my words, on my tears, and he’s gone, and life is cruel and life is short and life is…over.

Students came, told me a car was leaving, did I want to come? No, I… Yes, I… don’t want to, but I need to. Cancelled classes for the rest of the day, stuffed a roll of toilet paper in my bag to clean up my face, joined my smiling, dry-eyed students for a three-hour trip in a rented van to Kompong Chhnang, to Bora’s house.

I’d seen and heard dozens of Khmer funerals in the streets, but this was the first one I’d been to. Big outdoor tent, chairs draped in golden cloth, traditional music and chanting blaring through the speakers. Greeted Bora’s father, ate rice, picked up more details of the story. Yesterday, 3:00. One moto, three people. One van. One fateful second. Two dead. Twenty-one years old. No one knows who took him to the hospital. No one could even recognize him. Dear God…

Went inside to pay our respects. Torn between the toothless old women who pressed sticks of incense into my hands, guiding me toward the coffin, and the pair of Christian students who told me we shouldn’t do those things. Sat in front of the coffin, held another student’s hand as she wailed, asking forgiveness for never telling him about Jesus. Watched as Bora’s friends carried his body to the monks waiting in the truck. Walked in procession through the streets with my flowers and incense. Was secretly grateful when the sky cried with us, soaked our clothes and concealed our tears. Said goodbye one last time.

What would I have said to you, Bora, if I had known it would be my last chance? How can I make sure the rest of you know how much you mean to me, before this bitter, beautiful life is over?

I put some new and not-so-new photos up from random weekend activities over the past two months: visits to friends, the Mekong River Swim, another wedding, camping, ruined temples, a zoo, and a community forestry project. No wonder my host sisters have been complaining that I'm never home to play with them.

Last week I was biking home late at night (and by late, I mean 8:00) from a friend’s house after a trip to the zoo and some ruins on a mountain. For better or worse, I’ve lost most of my fear of biking at night, but that doesn’t make me immune to problems. Everything was going fine until I ran over one of the ubiquitous shards of glass that litter the streets, which blew my tire with a sound like a gunshot. I didn’t know where I’d find a place to get it fixed since few people are out on the streets at that hour, but fortunately, there was a streetside moto/bike repair outfit still open just down the street. I pushed my bike over and, thanks to my recent Khmer lesson about mechanical difficulties, explained my problem. The mechanic agreed to help, so I sat on the worktable and waited while he went to work. Of course a white woman sitting by the side of the road with a bicycle is conspicuous, but I’m used to the staring and didn’t let it bother me too much until a moto with three drunk and noisy men in their twenties pulled right up onto the curb beside me, nearly falling over in the process. The mechanic put my bike aside and set to fixing their moto, which I wouldn’t have minded so much except that it meant I had to sit and wait while the three of them watched me for awhile, talking amongst themselves and pushing each other toward me, and then sat down next to me. I was pulling off a passable act of ignoring them until one came up next to me with the predictable line: “Hello, wassaname?” Even under normal circumstances, I’m not in the mood for this, but this guy reeked of alcohol, and I was decidedly unimpressed. I kept ignoring him until he started pushing me, to which I responded, in Khmer, “I don’t want to talk. You’re drunk. I don’t want to talk to you.” Maybe not the most culturally appropriate response; maybe I could use some lessons on being polite and reserved from Khmer girls. But sometimes I’m just not in the mood. After pushing me again, he went and sat down behind me with his friend. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but I picked up enough to know that they were talking about me, and that it wasn’t very nice. I finally turned around and told them, “Don’t talk behind the foreigner’s back—she knows Khmer. That’s inappropriate.” The guy just looked at me and kept going, “Huh? Huh?” I wondered if I had completely butchered my message in Khmer until his friend repeated to him word for word what I had just said. Ha. At least his lack of understanding was due to his inebriated state and not my lack of intelligible Khmer. In any case, they stopped talking about me, at least as far as I could tell. When their moto was ready, they left without much fanfare, much to my relief. Good grief. And they wonder why I don’t want a Cambodian boyfriend. How have I gotten to be so cynical?

Hello all! I've been back in Phnom Penh for over a week now, but I'm just getting around to uploading the photos now. (Since we have three days this week off for the King's birthday, I have time to sit at an internet cafe.) I won't go into detail about the trip here because I wrote some pretty extensive captions on the photos, which you can check out here. Hope you enjoy them.

For now, I'm enjoying this holiday just to stay at home. (Mind you, I use the phrase "stay at home" loosely. Meaning that I'm not taking any bus or plane or train trips.) Time to do laundry, clean the bathroom, do jigsaw puzzles and play games with my host family, and spend time with various Cambodian friends around Phnom Penh. On that note, I just got a phone call from one of them saying I should meet her for dinner. Right now. Who says you can't be spontaneous in Cambodia? Soum lie haey!

Really, that could be the title of just about any blog post I've written this year. I have never before encountered a country with so many holidays. I have to admit, it is good for all of our mental health, if not for covering the English curriculum.

This time around, surprisingly enough, the holiday is not a national holiday, but the annual MCC regional retreat in Laos. It's conveniently placed smack in between the two Khmer New Year holiday weeks and the King's birthday holiday week in May, which means I've taught for four days since the New Year, will leave for Laos tomorrow, and will come back on May 5 to teach for three more days before the week off. And then the week after that has two one-day holidays also. I'm not complaining, mind you. I feel incredibly spoiled. But it makes it extremely difficult for me and my students to get into any kind of learning/teaching groove. Would you believe that I actually miss my classes when I'm gone? I wonder if my students feel the same way. Hmm. No, let's be realistic. I know what it's like to be a student. They're loving the extra time off.

In any case, it's time for me to go teach my last class, so I'll sign off for now and check in again in May with some adventure stories and photos from Laos. Until then.