Our last weekend in Cambodia, we headed south to the beach town of Sihanoukville off the Coast of Thailand. It was a pretty awesome way to conclude our first two weeks of training and transition to the next two.
After a four-hour bus ride from Phnom Penh, we arrived Friday afternoon and caught a tuk-tuk to — well, we didn’t really know where, so we just told him to take us to a “beach.” He gave us several options, noted our confusion, and just took off with us in tow. It’s just better that way sometimes.
On the drive, I was struck by the difference between the bustle of Phnom Penh and the relatively open streets of Sihanoukville. After living in Phnom Penh for two weeks, Sihanoukville seemed almost quiet in comparison. Almost. The tuk-tuk driver dropped us off at Serendipity Beach, the most crowded beach in town. It is lined by a row of thatched restaurants, so after a couple of coconut shakes and one too many vendors trying to sell us goods, we were ready to move on. We caught another tuk-tuk to Independence Beach, which turned out to be the best decision of the day. It was open, clean, and uncrowded, free of vendors and sporting only one or two quiet restaurants — basically everything Serendipity Beach was not — and to boot, showed off the most beautiful sunset I have seen since arriving in Southeast Asia. See evidence:
Saturday was the real treat. We had seen signs everywhere advertising a boat which would take us from Sihanoukville to the island of Koh Rong and back. (Personally I was especially drawn in by the offer of free food and coffee on the boat!) Sixteen members of our group signed up to go. The boat left at 9:30 a.m. and, after about an hour and a half, anchored to let passengers jump off the top of the boat, snorkel, or swim. Then the boat continued on to the island for the afternoon. This was definitely the best decision of the weekend: Greeting us was a gorgeous little island with white sand beaches, a handful of bungalows and an open-air restaurant or two. My only decision at this point was which awesome thing to do first: Swim? Hike to a waterfall? Have a cocktail? Eat my first cheeseburger since leaving America?
In the end, I ended up doing all of these things, almost in that order. And the cheeseburger was amazing.
The only bad decision I made was somehow putting sunscreen everywhere except the back of my knees. What the heck? I am Norwegian. And sort of a redhead. I don’t mess around with sunburns.
Speaking of decisions, I think the best decision of all was decided to come over to Southeast Asia and do this whole adventure thing. So far, it’s been amazing. I loved my time in Cambodia, and I have made some pretty awesome friends in the process, whom I hope to keep in touch with throughout our travels. That was a bonus I wasn’t expecting when I signed up to do this.
From here, the adventure continues: Teaching in Thailand!
Tonight is our last night in Phnom Penh. From here, we head to Sihanoukville for the weekend and then to Thailand on Sunday. In Thailand, we will begin our volunteer teaching placement and also get the opportunity to take a Thai language and culture course. It’s hard to believe we have been here almost two weeks already! I am sad to be leaving Cambodia so soon. After the initial shock wore off, I began to really enjoy it here.
So, to commemorate the end of our time in Cambodia, I thought I would create a little list titled FIVE REASONS WHY I LOVE CAMBODIA:
1. The Khmer People: Without a doubt, this is the best part of Cambodia. The people here are the friendliest group of people, as a whole, that I have ever encountered. They are smiley and easygoing. In fact, the only Cambodian person that I have seen even remotely upset is the one woman on the motorbike that chattered a bit angrily at Tommy after she almost ran him over last week. It was Tommy’s fault, and he learned his lesson about looking both ways, so really, I think her anger was just concern for Tommy’s well-being.
The Khmer people are very helpful. People who know little to no English have helped us find things more than once. (That is because we are lost a lot.) They are also polite and personable. One of my favorite people here is the man who runs the little Mini Mart next to the university where we have been taking classes. Every time I walk in, he grins and says, “Same?” which means a large iced coffee with milk and no sugar. I thought it was pretty neat being a regular after only a couple days. The only Khmer word I know, which sounds like aw-coon, means thank you, and this man smiles and nods generously every time I attempt it in my awful American accent.
2. The Other Western People: We have made instant friends from day 1 with our program mates, coming to Cambodia from the UK, Australia and the U.S. — New York to California and everywhere in between. Furthermore, my friend Andy from college and his wife Kirsten live in Phnom Penh, and they have treated Tommy and I like family. They have entertained us, fed us, showed us around, loaded our cell phones and let us do laundry at their apartment. Tommy said last week that “playing basketball with Andy was the first time I knew I was enjoying myself on this trip.”
Thanks a lot, Tommy.
But that just goes to show how awesome Andy and Kirsten are. Hopefully we can pay them back someday for everything!
3. The Markets: Markets crowded with people, brimming with food, and packed with goodies in every stall. Need I say more? We even got up an hour early yesterday to go to the “Russian Market.” (I am not completely sure what makes it “Russian.”) It’s a good thing we had to leave and go to class, or I would have spent my weekly budget all in one morning. Bartering is also great fun. I think life in the U.S. would be more enjoyable if we got to barter for everything there, too.
4. The Tuk-Tuk Rides: I LOVE TUK-TUK RIDES. Catching tuk-tuks is fun, talking to tuk-tuk drivers is fun and, as I have discovered, the most fun of all is trying to explain, in English, to someone who doesn’t speak English, where we want to go, when actually we have no idea where we are or really where we are going. It’s quite a thrill, really. It’s also when I curse myself for not knowing any other languages besides a smattering of Spanish.
I have two stories to illustrate:
Story #1 (Saved by Accident).Here is how it went on Tuesday on the way to Andy’s apartment: I showed a slip of paper to the tuk-tuk driver with street names written on it. Tuk-tuk driver peered at it for a while, excused himself, went inside the hotel and had another Khmer person translate it for him. We rode around for what felt like an hour, and when the tuk-tuk driver started doing U-turns, we realized we were very lost. However, tuk-tuk drivers do not want to lose business and will do whatever it takes to get you where you want to go rather than admit defeat. So, tuk-tuk driver pulled over and asked other Khmer drivers for directions about 15 times and did about 25 more U-turns. At one point, he looked back and said, “Do you want to get out here?”
I looked around and didn’t recognize anything. “No!” I said adamantly. The only “landmark” I knew of near Andy’s was a VIP store, so I kept repeating “VIP! VIP!”
“Wee-I-P” tuk-tuk driver repeated back to me each time. After that, when he stopped to talk to other Khmer, I would hear what sounded to me like “Blah blah blah — Wee-I-P — blah blah blah.” (Again, why don’t I know any other languages?) Eventually, we got Andy on the phone and truly by accident, happened to be going by his apartment at that exact moment. Saved! I loved the whole experience. There was really nothing to do but laugh.
Story #2 (Saved by KFC).Last night, we wanted to go the river for a boat ride. We caught a tuk-tuk and showed the young driver a hastily drawn map with street names; again, with no other means of communication between us, he peered at it for a while and got his friends to help try to figure it out. I knew no names associated with the boat dock we were supposed to go to, but I happened to know there was a KFC nearby. Finally, I said tentatively, “KFC?” All four of them lit up and began nodding furiously. “Ah, KFC!” Our tuk-tuk driver jumped in and drove us straight there. It was also awesome. Apparently I owe a little gratitude to the Colonel! (Fun fact: This KFC is the classiest KFC I have ever seen, and also has free Wi-Fi.)
After Tommy and I recovered from spider eating, we continued on to Siem Reap, where we stayed at the Freedom Hotel with our fellow trainees. The hotel was a pleasant surprise after a long, hot journey on bumpy Cambodian roads. The rooms were clean and spatious, the outdoor pool looked inviting and the lobby was full of comfy-looking couches and chairs. I slept as hard as I’ve slept since I’ve arrived in Cambodia.
On Saturday morning, we woke up early to visit some of the Angkor temples. Angkor Wat is the name of the largest temple but is often used to refer to a series of ancient temples in the area built between the 9th and 15th centuries. At that time, the Angkor region of Cambodia was the seat of the powerful Khmer empire. The most popular temple, Angkor Wat, is Cambodia’s premier tourist attraction, said to be the largest religious monument in the world. It was built by King Suryavarman II in the 12th century and, after falling into ruins for centuries, has now been restored to some of its former glory. It really is beautiful.
We visited several temple ruin sights on the way to the main attraction of Angkor Wat, including the Bayon Temple, known for its several huge stone faces:
And Ta Prohm, the “Tomb Raider Temple” for any of you Angelina Jolie fans. Ta Prohm is especially notable because of all the giant trees growing out of the stone everywhere you look:
Angkor Wat itself was gorgeous, a perfectly symmetrical, massive stone complex surrounded by a large moat and accessible only by walking across a wide causeway. Monkeys darted here and there across the walls and through the grass. Stone pillars and archways towered over our heads. It was like a dream. A rain shower added a hazy element to the scene for about a half hour in the afternoon, and when it cleared, the stone towers reflected back to us clearly in the pools of water, doubling the beauty.
Up until now, this has been a pretty pleasant story, right?: Touring famous temples with a nice group of people on a beautiful Saturday, crawling among the rocks, exploring ancient ruins of a fascinating civilization.
That’s because I haven’t been completely honest.
Here is the true story:
In fact, I am pretty sure I almost died of losing half my body weight in sweat. I had heard about the heat in Southeast Asia. I had read about the heat. I tried to prepare myself for the heat. But I am from North Dakota and WE DO NOT HAVE THIS KIND OF HEAT! The real problem is, I am the sweatiest person I know even in North Dakota. So put this North Dakota gal into the heart of hot and humid Cambodia, amongst heat-radiating stones, and make her hike up and down all day, and you will see sweaty like you’ve never seen before. The stones create something like a giant oven, slowly baking the human tourists from the inside out. Plus, women are supposed to wear long pants and cover their shoulders in order to be allowed into the temples, so wearing shorts and a tank top was not an option. I drank at least three liters of water, but it wasn’t enough.
Can a person die from sweating too much?
Halfway through the day, I couldn’t stand the soaked hiking clothes I was wearing any longer, so I stopped by a tent selling clothing and bought a white airy shirt and breathable-looking elephant-printed pants for four dollars apiece. I convinced the Khmer woman who sold them to me to hold up a blanket so I could change behind it. It would have been much simpler if my original clothing wasn’t plastered to my skin. Eventually, however, I struggled into my new clothing and felt, oh so much better. For about a half hour, until I also sweat through my new clothes. It was worth it though, just for that half hour of sweet, sweet relief.
Also, I now have elephant pants.
The rain shower that showed up in the afternoon would have been disappointing, except I was no more soaked after the rain shower than I was before the rain shower. It just gave me an excuse for why I am sopping wet in everyone’s pictures. I am not exaggerating, you guys.
That said, however, the trip to Angkor Wat was worthwhile, and something I will remember as long as I live. The temples were truly an amazing, amazing relic of a fascinating ancient culture. Human capacity never ceases to amaze me, and it only increases with every trip I take to a new part of the world. The temples’ amazingness was only rivaled by one thing: the cold shower I took afterward.
If you’re looking for me, I’ll be chugging water in Southeast Asia.
On Friday, I did something I’ve never exactly had on my bucket list: I ate a tarantula. Our group stopped in Skuon, nicknamed “Spiderville,” on our way to Siem Reap to try the famous (infamous?) fried tarantulas. Tommy and I discussed this beforehand: Should we or shouldn’t we? However, it seemed like one of those things a person should do while in Cambodia, just to say she did.
That was until I got off the bus.
Awaiting us at Skuon was a wide variety of fried bugs, literally everywhere. The bus ride had been hot and bumpy, I wasn’t feeling so great, and, seeing great piles of black crispy spiders and other insects all over the place, suddenly my desire to eat a tarantula “just to say I did” was diminished to nothing. Plus, a handful of kids were running around selling fruit to the silly American tourists and also, scaring the silly American tourists with live tarantulas.
The good news is, they targeted Tommy and not me.
The kids at Skuon are incredible salespeople. First of all, they are remarkably persistent. Second of all, they employ tactics such as crying, pleading, and chattering your ear off to get you to buy a dollar’s worth of fruit. There was one little girl whose pineapple I didn’t buy, and she gave me the most attitude I’ve ever seen from a tiny person — hand on hips, eye rolls, the whole works. Attitude clearly transcends language barriers. She also followed me to the bus when we were leaving, found my window and glared at me until we pulled away. I have to say, for two feet tall she was actually kind of intimidating.
One little girl who latched onto Tommy, however, simply employed the friendly tactic. From the moment Tommy got off the bus, she shadowed him. She showed him around, talked to him about America, and also made some hilarious comments about his eyes. “You have really blue eyes! You have long eyelashes! And they are curly, like a girl! Do you wear makeup?” She was quick to point out that she and I both had hearts on our bracelets. And she even helped us when we finally decided to eat a tarantula.
Yes, we did finally try one. And Tommy bought a bag of pineapple from her just to wash it down. Her friendly tactic worked pretty well in the end.
It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten, but it was, not surprisingly, pretty weird. It tasted like burnt char with a flavor that I can only assume is unique to spider, considering it was unlike anything I ever tasted before.
A week ago, there were threats of snow in North Dakota, most of my meals were coming from the basement freezer as I tried to frantically pack and wrap up the last few days of my job, and my little Ford Escape took me everywhere I needed to go. Now, there are warm rain showers every day, most of my meals include noodles or rice, and we ride everywhere in tuk-tuks.
I love all those pieces of home, but Cambodia so far has been pretty awesome. Tommy and I are hanging out in Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capital city, for two weeks for TESOL training before we go to volunteer teach in Thailand. We have class every day from 9:00-5:30 and get the evenings to hang out at the hotel, explore Phnom Penh, or do homework. Here’s a little update on what I’ve experienced in Phnom Penh so far:
FOOD: We have been trying some of the local food since we got here: amok, lok lak, and some strange little salt-and-sugar rice cakes I found at the convenience store, to name a few. My favorite so far was Tommy’s lok lak dish, basically a pile of beef, rice, sauce, and a fried egg on a plate. Oh man, it was good. My stomach has been a bit gurgly the last few days, but I was expecting that. At least I haven’t gotten food poisoning yet. With my luck, it’s probably inevitable at some point.
TRANSPORTATION: As for getting around, we have been escorted everywhere by tuk-tuk, which is basically a four-person carriage pulled by a motorbike. Most of the locals, however, drive motorbikes, or motos. The traffic is absolutely nuts. There are lanes painted on the roads but no one pays too much attention to them; they are more like general guidelines. The moto drivers cut each other off, travel in huge swarms, drive down the wrong lanes and pull in front of oncoming traffic all the time. They actually have amazing skills. They are within inches of an accident at all times and never even blink. They text and drive, and they phone and drive. They ride two or even three or four to a bike. We have actually seen a family of five driving down the street on one motorbike. Twice. (And people think my family is crazy.) The amazing thing is, none of them really get mad. Cambodians are cheerful. This would not happen in America: road rage would run rampant.
I am not the first Westerner to marvel at this incredible transportation system, nor will I be the last. However, Tommy and I have both agreed that the traffic is our favorite part. Especially since we’re not driving. (Then my amusement would probably turn into utter terror.) The motorbikes do look really fun, but these drivers have mad maneuvering skills which I’m pretty sure I don’t possess. They say many tourists to Southeast Asia have died or been seriously injured by renting motorbikes. Considering I really haven’t driven a motorcycle much back home, I don’t think I will try to learn how in Cambodia.
WEATHER: Cambodia is currently nearing the end of its rainy season, meaning the weather is generally humid, the temperature is in the 80s or 90s, and at least a couple heavy rain showers hit every day, lasting anywhere from 10 minutes to a half hour or more. Don’t worry; this doesn’t affect the volume of traffic. Instead, all the moto drivers come out in full force wearing brightly colored ponchos. I even saw one zooming down the street holding an umbrella during yesterday’s heavy rain.
RANDOM TIDBIT: We were quite amused to find out that you can go to the local shooting range right down the street, and for $10 you can fire off AK47’s, for $50 you can toss a grenade and for $350 you can shoot a rocket launcher. We haven’t done this yet. Maybe I will toss a grenade before I come home.
Or maybe the traffic is a big enough thrill for now.
Hope all is well back in the states! Don’t worry about me in Cambodia. For now, I’m perfectly happy eating rice and zooming around in a tuk-tuk.
We arrived last night around midnight, which back in the USA’s Central Time Zone was noon, 12 hours behind Cambodia. There was a point along the way where my morale began to drop, somewhere after 30-some hours of flying and airport sitting, 4 airplane meals and 2 hours of sleep in the last 48. After our third and final flight into Phnom Penh, we were picked up by tuk-tuk and zoomed through the streets of Phnom Penh to our hotel. It was a strange moment in my life. I was dazed from the flight and lack of sleep, the rundown streets were eerily deserted, and garbage littered the sidewalks and piled up against curbs. I had heard words like “homesickness” and “culture shock” before I left, but I didn’t think they would actually happen to me.
They did.
For a day.
When I woke up this morning at 5 a.m. and lay in bed, staring out the window, I wondered what I had gotten my brother and myself into. I clearly wasn’t prepared for this. I also couldn’t get the “free Wi-Fi” to work in our hotel room, which I had been hoping to use to contact my family and the Boyfriend to tell them I had arrived safely.
(There is a good ending to this, I promise.)
After we showered and went down to the lobby, things perked up dramatically. First of all, we ate, which hadn’t happened for what seemed like days, and plus it was something other than a packaged airline meal. Second of all, it turns out the router on our hotel floor is broken, but we can actually access internet very well from the lobby, so I got to send those “I’m here!” emails to my boyfriend and parents. Third, we began to meet people from our program as they wandered into the lobby area. Twenty-one of us from all over the US, Canada and the UK are here in Phnom Penh for our training course. Everyone was friendly and interesting. To be honest, I think that made the biggest difference. Culture shock is “shocking” largely due to a feeling of intense loneliness. At least that’s my interpretation. Meeting other friendly people who are also interested in traveling, volunteering, teaching, and working with kids changed my attitude dramatically.
Fourth, after breakfast a few of us were again escorted by tuk-tuk to The Killing Fields at Choeung Ek. It was a heavy experience, walking around the memorial site of the Khmer Rouge’s genocide of approximately 25% of their own Cambodian people. But I learned a lot about Cambodia’s history in that short hour and a half, the rainy weather felt refreshing after several days of travel, and the fellow rider in our tuk-tuk, a recent college graduate by the name of Harris, was good company. I also got to finally see Phnom Penh during the day rather than after hours at night while exhausted and shortly off the plane. So that was positive. The hustle and bustle of the city streets and craziness of the traffic was cheering and interesting, much more so than last night’s eerie ride from the airport. In the afternoon, we visited temples, palaces, and the markets that make Southeast Asia so appealing to travelers.
I’m getting the feeling that Cambodia is a pretty unique place. But over the course of our first day here, the culture shock — or just shock, whatever you want to call it — has mostly worn off and the excitement that I felt before has set back in.
I am one of those people who has always been terrible at packing. One of many things will happen on almost every trip: I don’t have the right stuff, I don’t have warm enough stuff, or, more often than not, I have way too much stuff. I like to bring way too many items “just in case.” Just in case these jeans get dirty, I should bring a second pair. Just in case I finish this book, I should bring 3 more. Just in case we want to go sledding, I better bring my snow boots. Just in case I want to check my email, I should bring my laptop. Just in case I want a different scarf with this outfit, I better bring 5 scarves. Just in case I come along a dog that needs a home, I should bring this pair of dog dishes.
Ok, it’s not quite that bad. But it’s not good.
My first trip to Europe at age 20, I learned my lesson after lugging a rather gigantic suitcase around the countryside of France. My second trip to Europe, I downsized quite a bit and still found myself with too many cute shirts that I never ended up wearing. Worse, I didn’t have enough warmth for the drizzly winter weather of England. My third trip to Europe, I downsized even more still and ended up with one small suitcase and a much more reasonable amount of clothing overall. I was making progress, slowly but surely over the course of several long trips. My slightly anal-retentive and overprepared side was being pushed aside by the general annoyance of overpacking and carrying around too many heavy bags.
This time, I am going on the longest trip of my life — a little less than three months by the time we get back — and have managed to fit everything into a backpack and one small suitcase, the latter of which I am donating to some country in Asia at the end of my trip because I will no longer need the items in it anymore. I basically had to throw my “just in case” attitude out the window. No, I do not need a laptop. No, I do not need my snow boots or 5 scarves or even 1 scarf. I don’t need a dog dish — as shocking as that is. Those things don’t matter in the end. I even replaced my stack of paper books, a great love of mine, with a small, compact Kindle and a pocket-sized Bible.
Instead, I’m trading out my material “just in case” list for a “just in case” list of a much higher caliber.
Just in case, I am going to need:
An open mind to try new things, try new food and make new friends of all types
A willing heart to serve others
A trust in God for the challenging days
An awesome traveling companion (my brother Tom)
And my journal to record every. last. detail.
Just in case you happen to be thinking of us, send a thought and a prayer our way. We will be in Asia by the time I post again.
P.S. Old habits die hard and I’m not completely cured: I did sneak in an extra bottle of sunscreen for our fair-skinned Norwegian selves, some 40% deet mosquito spray and a bag of various types of medicine… Just in case.
This boomtown girl is taking her diaries to a whole new hemisphere.
Pretty soon my brother Tommy and I will be packing up and flying out. When we land, we will be on the other side of the world.
Really!
In just a little over two weeks, we will be on our way to Asia to volunteer in orphanages and/or low-income schools — depending on where we are placed — until December. It was an opportunity I just couldn’t resist. Once the idea planted itself in my mind, quitting my job and traveling the world seemed like an easy decision. Now that it’s getting closer, of course, reality has set in. I have no idea what to pack, that tetanus and typhoid shot really hurt, I think I’m going to get lost a lot, and figuring out how to get a visa for China was not such a simple process. Easy decision? Well, when it comes down to brass tacks, maybe not so easy after all. But whether I’m ready or not, my ticket is booked and my job is on hold, and I’m going.
And I’m pretty darn excited.
Instead of teaching English to American teenagers, fighting oil field traffic and taking pictures of North Dakota sunsets, I will be teaching English to Thai children, traveling by bus and tuk-tuk, and hopefully taking pictures of karst formations near Southeast Asia beaches.
For a few months, anyway.
Then I’ll be back, ready to tell more stories about boomtown.
Tommy and I; photo borrowed from the McKenzie County Farmer
But since telling stories is what I love to do, I’m going to keep posting updates here on Boomtown Diaries about our upcoming adventures in Asia. That is, if you don’t mind bearing with me as I get lost a lot on the other side of the world.
On Saturday, she sent some brutal winds to knock over farm equipment and basketball hoops, and she sent a sky full of ice down to pummel 1100 acres of some of the most beautiful crops this family of farmers has ever seen. It’s sad to watch months of growing go to waste in one short stormy hour. It’s sad to watch once luscious crops, waving in the breeze only that morning, lying crushed on the ground.
Next year will be better.
Because like one of our neighbors said, this is “Next Year Country.”
Next year, the rain will come.
Next year, the hail won’t.
Next year, the prices will be sky high.
Next year, we’ll have our best crops yet.
Because if there’s one thing we’re good at around here, it’s looking forward to making things better, now and in the future.
Especially when this year didn’t quite turn out as planned.
I’ve been away for a little while. I’ve been in North Carolina meeting my nephew, Minnesota floating on a lake, the capital city taking care of important business (and shopping) matters.
I’m back at the farm now with the boys, preparing for harvest. A lot of preparation is needed for something like harvest: Change the oil on all the combines, set the sieves, fill up gas tanks, clean out cabs and truck beds, learn how to operate the new grain cart, stock the fridge with sandwich meat, watch the sky for dry weather, and the list goes on. Today, we moved combines, headers and trucks 20 miles to our furthest northwest field, with hopes set high to start tomorrow.
Let me tell you, things are not the same as they used to be.
When we used to move our harvest equipment, we used to make full use of highways, gravel roads, and whatever was the most convenient to move combines with 30-foot-wide headers attached, no problem. We might be passed by a pickup or two or the occasional semi, or we might meet nothing at all. We drove through town, we had entire highway lanes to ourselves, and we never used pilot cars. Western North Dakota was a whole lot of wide open space.
That was back then.
This is now. The oil field has made 20 miles seem a whooooole lot longer. And I’m telling you, it is not a job for the faint of heart. Today, I moved a combine that didn’t even have a header attached, and it was still quite a thrill. If you want to see angry men, just take up an entire lane of an oil field highway and force dozens of semis and pickups to drive 19 miles an hour behind you, unable to pass because of steady oncoming traffic. You will get middle fingers. You will get honks and glares. (You will also generally ignore them because your machine is bigger than their machine, and there is nothing you can do about the 19 mph.) However, you can’t ignore all of them, and some can get pretty ornery. Last year, one of us overheard someone at a convenience store say confidently, “Farmers and their equipment just don’t belong in oil field traffic.”
Hey. We were here first, buddy.
Anyway, this all reminds me of country singer Craig Morgan’s song from a few years back, “International Harvester.” My dad and I used to laugh about it and watch the video on Youtube. Some of the lyrics go like this:
“Three miles of cars laying on their horns,
Falling on deaf ears of corn,
Lined up behind me like a big parade
Of late-to-work, road-raged jerks,
Shouting obscene words, flipping me the bird.”
Or this:
“Well I know you got your own deadlines,
But cussin’ me ain’t saving no time;
This big-wheeled wide load ain’t going any faster
So just smile and wave and tip your hat
To the man [or GIRL] up on the tractor.”
The song is a little obnoxious, but we can relate. For one thing, we also drive Case IH (International Harvester) combines. The video even features the same model of combine that we ran for years, which I first learned to operate at age 12. We’ve upgraded since then, so the difference between our operation and the song is that we go a little faster these days. But not much. The only other big difference is instead of three miles of cars following me, it’s three miles of scoria-colored tanker semis and jacked-up pickups.
It’s just one more adjustment we have to make as we welcome the chaos of progress. But someone has to feed America, so we’re going to keep pluggin’ along in the Case International Harvesters, and hopefully for the sake of safety, we can all share the roads.
After spending three weeks in Minnesota on vacation, I came back to our farm two days ago, our farm in the middle of the oil field that has been waiting patiently for me to come back home to western North Dakota. When I turned my little SUV north onto Highway 85, I was met with the familiar line of scoria-covered oil trucks that I really didn’t miss while I was gone, but it was good to be home for the first time in almost a month.
I’m a teacher, so the summers are a blessed offering of time to get things accomplished, a luxury that doesn’t seem to exist during a school year. When I arrived at the house, I spent the large part of the day paying bills, making phone calls, planning a friend’s baby shower, organizing the fridge, and other tasks that stare a person in the face after an extended leave of absence.
Then, after checking off this great list of things, I finished the novel I had started on vacation. Then, I watched a couple shows I had DVR’d. Then, I sat there. I’m not a person who gets bored easily, but before my vacation I quit my bartending job and finished the curriculum units I had been hired to write for the high school. For the very first time all summer, I felt like I had nothing to do. I like having things to do. I like to feel, well, not worthless.
So when my brother the farmer mentioned to me this morning that if I was looking for some work, I could weed the rock gardens, I racked my brain for something “important” to do instead. (I don’t like weeding much.) But as I couldn’t think of anything and I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in the house another afternoon, I grabbed my orange-and-white gardening gloves, my sunglasses, and an iPod dock and headed out into the glaring heat to pull some stubborn weeds for a few hours.
And you know what? I liked it. It felt good.
While I was sweating in the sun, struggling against the unfriendly little weeds doing their darndest to stay right where they were comfortably rooted among the rocks, I had time to reflect on many similar days growing up. In my family, summers off from school didn’t mean summers off from responsibility. We packed up every June and moved to the farm, and while we spent a lot of time doing fun things like riding horse, driving four-wheelers, and swimming in a nearby nasty little pond, our free time didn’t come free. We had to work for it.
In those days, we were paid by my Grandpa Tim or my dad, whoever was doing the “hiring” that day, our age’s worth in dollar bills for one day of work. So, if I was 11 and I spent a day hoeing tree rows, I was paid 11 dollars that day. It seemed like a heck of a deal, because sometimes, someone delivered ice cream bars while we were working, and plus we got a dollar raise every year.
I didn’t know that I was cheap labor.
But I knew that when I went back to school in the fall, I had more money and a lot more stories than most of my friends.
As we grew older and reached high school, it was time to start saving for college, so our wage situation changed. Some of us were paid hourly. I was paid a lump sum that guaranteed I would be on call all summer for odd jobs and would run a combine during harvest. My brothers and I paid for college that way: Picking rocks, hoeing long rows of evergreen trees, shoveling out grain bins, and my least favorite, “riding the rake” — which meant sitting for hours on a wooden square fastened to an old dump hay rake. This hay rake was usually pulled by my dad or one of my brothers driving a tractor. My job was to guarantee that the lever released the hay when it was supposed to. It was bumpy, it was uncomfortable on the wooden square, it was usually hot and windy, and every so often the rake would start “bucking,” so if I didn’t hang on tight, I might end up lying in a windrow wrapped in hay.
Some of those jobs were just no fun. My favorite, however, was hauling grain in old dusty trucks to the old dusty elevator, because the old dusty elevator men would insist that I sit inside the air-conditioned office and sip a cold root beer from the ancient pop machine — I always tried to bring quarters — while they dumped my truck for me. (I’m thinking they didn’t have many tiny blonde girls as customers.) It was the special treatment, all right, and I liked to tell my brothers about it so they would hopefully be a little jealous.
My other favorite job was running one of the Case International 1480’s during harvest. Compared to the other farm jobs, this job was a luxury that we all fought over. That’s because there was less grain chaff and more air conditioning and music on the AM radio.
We worked all summer this way. Sometimes we complained, but I think we all liked it. We sweated in the sunlight, we itched like the dickens when we shoveled barley, we got covered in dirt hoeing trees – but we bonded, too. I know my dad and Grandpa liked it, because not only were they getting some pretty decent labor, but it was proclaimed to help us by “building character.” If we grumbled, my Grandpa would say, “Enthusiasm makes the difference!” or “You got to have a heart like a lion!” When he pulled up in his blue pickup to hand out the slightly melted ice cream bars, he would shout, “What a good-lookin’ crew!” I think I heard that line a thousand times.
I missed my Grandpa Tim and those good days of work while I was pulling weeds today.
I’m glad there are still weeds to pull, though, because someday I will need a character building program for my own kids, and I bet my brothers will want one for their kids, too. On a farm, there are always weeds. There are always rows of trees to hoe and rocks to pick and machinery to drive. I can’t wait to send my kids to the farm to work for Grandpa Mike and Uncle Danny. They will complain about hoeing long rows of trees and I will say, “Enthusiasm makes the difference!” They will roll their eyes and complain some more, and I will smile a little and bring them ice cream bars if it’s a hot day.
And someday, they will look back and be grateful for that good day’s work.
My brothers and I building character during harvest 2002
You may remember a popular old nursery rhyme about what little girls and little boys are made of. Little girls, of course, are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I can attest to this because I was once a sweet little girl. (I’m not sure what happened — the spice is still there, but the sugar seems to be running low.) Little boys, according to the rhyme, are made of slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails. Also, Barbie dolls. Broken ones. And I’m not trying to be gender neutral: On a few occasions my brothers dismembered my Ken dolls and/or set them on fire.
Maybe that’s what happened to the sugar.
Anyway, this Fourth of July week got me thinking: What is America made of?
If you asked this question, you would get a smattering of answers. Some might have less-than-glowing words for the U.S. in its current state of debt, questionable foreign policy and bipartisan craziness. Some might supply vague and generic answers, abstract words that in many ways have become watered-down, have lost their power and meaning. Freedom. Democracy. Rights of man. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness. Those things are important, no doubt, and we owe immense gratitude to the servicemen who have retained them for the rest of us, but sometimes American culture and politics and history books cycle the words around and around, and we lose complete sight of what they mean.
Therefore, I thought some concrete objects might help. Those old nursery rhymes were good that way. If girls are made of sugar and spice and boys are made of slugs and snails and Barbie dolls, then we need concrete objects for America, too.
America is not perfect, but it’s her birthday this week, after all.
This is what I think America is made of:
It’s a sunset over a Midwest lake.
It’s a four-legged resident of the Midwest plains.
It’s the relics of the past that America was built on.
And it’s the symbols of progress, and you wonder if you always have to take the bad with the good, or if there are better ways to do things.
There are always better ways to do things.
It’s the water towers proudly proclaiming the names of the towns they belong to.
It’s the roads that lead to nowhere, which really lead to somewhere if you don’t mind getting lost.
And it’s the dogs that accompany you along the way.
It’s adorable sundresses on those little girls that are made of sugar and spice.
And inflatable hot dogs. (Sometimes, America does make me shake my head a little.)
But the kids have fun, anyway.
It’s an outdoor concert on a hot July night.
And if you’re lucky, it’s a Guster concert. (Seriously, check them out: Your life will be better for it.)
And when the outdoor concert is in the outfield of a minor league baseball stadium, and it’s America’s birthday week, and you can sit on blankets in the grass and buy brats and beer and mini donuts, all those things make it feel even more like America at its best.
I could keep going, because America is made of a lot of things, both good and bad. But most of all, it’s made of its people: the rich, the poor, the old and young, the teachers and lawyers and coal miners and farmers and cashiers and biologists, and most importantly, the children. That’s what matters; that’s what our countrymen have been fighting for all these centuries.
Boomtown Diaries 
