I “get” tourists. I understand why someone would want to see a new place.
But being from Alaska, I also “get” why locals usually hate them: they never leave anything better than they found it, and consumerism is like a full-force, commodifying disease.
So, I definitely understand why residents of Battambang are probably quite entertained (and perplexed) by the Wolverines. I can see the questions written on their furrowed brows as they zip by us on motos, head after helmeted head whipping around to do a double take:
Why are they raking the leaves?
Why is this gang of white people carrying hoes and a weedwacker while biking?
Why are they cleaning the gutter?
Why are they sweeping the sidewalk?
Should I be concerned for my bodily safety with this guy biking next to me with a pickaxe?
We do make for quite the sight: seven foreigners on the sidewalk sweating in the morning heat to do odd jobs that nobody else seems to want to do.
Every morning, we have done manual labor of some sort for 3-4 hours. Some days it’s been cleaning Street No.1, one of the main streets of Battambang. Another day, we went to a BrightStart center to clear the overgrowth of weeds that covered a big chicken coop. We’ve painted our hosts’ church. We’ve raked 2 giant mounds of dirt into a volleyball court for a local church. Blisters and storytelling have filled my mornings as I sweat more than I ever thought possible as we move dirt from one place to another.
In the afternoons, we teach English in a 1(ish)-hour tutoring session to our classes. In that setting, I have found it’s easier to communicate love and Jesus to my students: I can give them a compliment, I can smile, I can give a hug. I can laugh with them and tell them that Jesus loves them, and that that’s why I’m here.
But for the many other hours of ministry, I don’t use my words. It’s through my physical work and presence that I communicate Jesus.
On our very first day cleaning Street No.1, a Khmer man stopped and struck up a conversation with our host.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “My people don’t care about this. It doesn’t matter. You’re working for nothing; nobody cares.”
My host explained that we were cleaning the streets because Jesus loved them, and that because we follow Jesus, we were serving them-loving them.
While the man’s words weren’t exactly encouraging, and I was taken aback for a moment, I knew that his words weren’t true. The attention our actions received from passersby spoke exactly the opposite sentiment: people would yell “Thank you!” from their motos, and some even stopped and helped. A guy driving a van gave us all water.
It was clear that it mattered. Cleaning their city and making a sidewalk usable again did mean something. People cared. They recognized that we were doing something for them. Our actions told them that they and their city were worth the sweat and blisters.
Battambang isn’t super touristy (at least not right now), but since it’s not too far from Siem Reap, it has a few attractions and tourist traps. I’ve seen tourists here, and I can’t help but pine for the days when I could wear shorts and tank tops. But as much as I would love to dress like a European on vacation, I’ve become glad that our host advised us not to. It’s a basic truth, but appearances make a difference, and especially in Cambodia.
“You’re foreign, and they will see you as money. They will pay attention to you because they might be able to get something from you.” My host told us the hard truth. “Gaining their respect is even harder when you show, through your dress, that you don’t know or respect their culture.”
I believe this works both ways. I don’t want them to see me as money, and I don’t want them to think that I see them-or their culture/city- as something to buy. I want them to pay attention to me and the message of Jesus because they feel loved-not because I might give them something worldly. I’m not a tourist looking to spend money, and it’s obvious (I mean, not only are my knees and shoulders covered, but I’m also biking around with a rake…) I’m trying to show, through my actions, that they are worth more than a price tag.
My effort was never more reaffirmed than it was this weekend, when my team and I decided to go on the Bamboo Train, one of the things tourists do in Battambang. It was our off day, and we decided to see what all the hype about the Bamboo Train was about.
As it turns out, the bamboo train is this little open platform (made of bamboo I’m guessing…?) that zip along some sketchy train tracks at pretty high speeds, considering there aren’t seatbelts or anything. It’s a nice 15-20min ride on the platform, and the breeze felt nice on that hot day.
At the end of the tracks were shops with all kinds of tourist wares hanging from their ceilings and fronts: elephant pants, cheap dresses, and tons of t-shirts with the Bamboo Train “logo” on it. As soon as we got off the platform and our driver announced we would take a short shopping break, and I mean immediately, children swarmed us with bracelets that they were selling, surely for someone else.
When I told them I didn’t want a bracelet, they thrust their pinkies at me, saying “Okay. But if you buy you come to me, okay? No second no third. PROMISE!!” And so they followed on our heels and at our elbows, insisting, “Like bracelet? Handmade! If you buy, you come to me…”
The boys and girls couldn’t have been older than 12, and I would guess most of them were between seven and ten. They had multiple sales pitches for us, “You want Christmas present?” “You can take home to friends!”
It was clear that they saw only saw us as a way to make money-and really, they’re not exactly wrong to peg the tourists in such a way. Unfortunately for them, my team and I weren’t tourists and we didn’t have money to blow. Instead, I turned the conversation back to them: “What is your name? How old are you? Do you go to school?”
At first they would sidestep the questions, getting back onto the topic of the bracelets and money without skipping a beat. But after a few minutes they realized I truly wasn’t interested in what they were selling-I was interested in them. They started to return the questions, and I had quite the guessing game going on with them to guess where I was from. As I teased and talked with them, I looked around and saw my team doing exactly the same thing: none of us were shopping, and all of our attention was on the children. Jami, our Squad Leader, was seated in the dirt talking to a girl who could’ve been a toddler.
I think in that moment, I saw a very clear picture of what it can look like to live missionally.
Hannah, Dylan, and I struck up a conversation with one of the girls who had first approached us. We complimented her on her English, and though she brought up her bracelets every few sentences, she quickly settled into the back-and-forth banter. She was bright and witty, and called us out a few times, saying “I don’t believe you!” and even teamed up against Dylan with Hannah and I (example: when his team phone rang, we all went, “oooo” but she blurted out, “Is that your BOYFRIEND?”…it was great.) We handed it right back to her, though: when we asked her how old she said, “I don’t know! All I know is money.” And even though I laughed and we all shot back, “I don’t believe YOU!” my heart tightened. Yes, that is word-for-word what a 12-year-old girl told me.
Did she really believe that? That all she knew, and all that she could be seen as by foreigners, was money? How often had she been blown off because she was selling something? Who had seen past the cardboard roll of woven bracelets and saw the girl, and so many others, who needed to be shown that she was worth more than what she was selling? My team and I refused to let the children assume our interest only went as far as the material level.
When our platform driver called us to go, we high-fived her and some of the other kids, telling them it was nice to meet them. We told our new friend to keep studying English because she was already very good. As we clambered back onto ours, another platform rolled up with fresh tourists. Mid-wave, the children’s eyes darted and their little feet hurried to the new prospects.
“If you buy, come to me…”
On the way back, I replayed our interactions with the kids in my head, wishing we could build relationships with them and not leave like everyone else. And suddenly, I was so thankful for the opportunity to do the manual labor that we’ve been doing this month.
I was thankful to have a way to love and serve Battambang, in both the secular and Christian/missionary communities. I am thankful to be able to show them that I don’t see them as a check mark on a sight-seeing list, and that I have something so much more valuable than money to give. I could tangibly show them that they are loved and worthy, and invite them to see not only themselves different, but us as well. They’re worth every blister and every sunburn. They’re worth the discomfort of wearing long pants in a 90-degree December.
I was raking a volleyball court into existence the other day, and my once-light-purple-shirt was drenched in sweat in less than twenty minutes. We ran out of water, so Jon and I went across the street to ask a restaurant if they had bottled water. We walked in absolutely filthy: me, drenched, and Jon, also drenched, with an extra layer of dirt covering his back and sprinkled in his hair. A family stared at us over their pleasant breakfast buffet. The Khmer waitress probably regretted handing me the water bottled that I (naturally) immediately spilled and, consequently, became a walking mud puddle.
I read the questions there, too, even from our fellow foreigners: “Why do these people reek? Why are they so dirty? What in the world are they doing here?” It seems we Racers can’t escape the fact that we, certainly, are different.
I’ve learned that that’s the point of living missionally, though: let them stare. Let them question. Let them go, “Same same…but different?” (as in, they’re also foreigners…but…not tourists?).
Let them notice the difference. Ultimately, let them see Jesus. Let them wonder at the Light they saw in the dark.
