As I join the mob of 8 APCA kids pedaling to Batdang School at 6:58 am on Wednesday, I realize I am more nervous, excited, and curious than I have been so far in my Cambodia adventures. Pheany warns me, “Police! Motos wear helmet!” There are two policemen standing in the middle of the road next to two small metal road blockades that warn of their presence in Khmer. The 9 of us cruise on by, but the small non-APCA boy who is tagging alongside our throng staring at the two strange white girls fails to see this fast approaching barricade. As his head it turned to the left toward us, he crashes into the barricade and falls to the ground. The policeman standing ten feet behind this scene doesn’t budge a muscle. Instead, he stares at me and as I meet his gaze it’s like he is saying, “How dare you! Look what you did!” As the smiling but embarrassed boy returns to his bike and continues to ride along our side, the 9 of us laugh hysterically. “The policeman thinks it’s my fault?” I ask, feeling apologetic. “Yes, maybe!” the children reply between giggles.

We get to school late. Which means it’s 7:02 and we’ve missed the flag raising. We park our bikes amid the hundreds of others and Jessica and I follow Chav to his 8^th grade English class. We’ve been warned about the teacher by the other APCA kids; his voice is so low that sometimes you can’t understand what he’s trying to say. We’ve also been warned that the teachers are normally 15-30 minutes late for class, since they all eat rice together at school before starting off their day. So, the three of us wait outside the classroom and try to act like this is a totally natural thing. Except it isn’t. Jessica and I are the first native English speakers to visit Batdang School, and we definitely stand out in our non-uniform clothing. Literally hundreds of students just stand and stare at us. I try to distract myself from their gazes by asking Chav about the school grounds, his class schedule, and favorite subjects.

At 7:12 the doors to the classroom open and about thirty of us enter. Jessica and I take a seat in the wooden desk behind Chav right next to a window. The room has four large glass-less windows, a broken ceiling fan, a white board, and multiple homemade English grammar posters. We sit and chat until 7:24, when the teacher enters. Just as the APCA kids greet me every day in class, we stand up and chant, “Good morning, teacher! How are you today?” The teacher responds in his uniquely low voice and asks the students to sit. Jessica and I walk to the front of the class to introduce ourselves, and he welcomes us with a handshake.  We are unsure if he knows that we are here just to observe and see what the classroom setting is like – NOT to help teach or critique his teaching. He seems content so we sit back down.

The next hour and a half is the most chaotic, confusing, and frustrating class period I have ever experienced – and I wasn’t even a student! It turns out that one of the ‘sexy girls’ is in this class, so the boys who aren’t in class during that time (or who are still waiting for their teachers to arrive) just visit right at the window. It probably doesn’t help that Jessica and I are sitting directly in their sight, but batches of noisy students slowly walk by, pause, and then stand there observing the class. Some APCA kids come by and want to chat with me through the window as the teacher is explaining what an electrician is. “Maliss, teacher good?” and “You like teacher?” the APCA kids ask me. I just nod as I fight the urge to stand up and yell, “Everybody! Quiet!”

 Besides the outside noise, the actual classroom noise is overwhelming itself. As the kids are individually pointed to by the abnormally tall teacher, they stand and recite one of the seven vocabulary words (electrician, politician, difficult, famous, next, foreign, and become) to practice their pronunciation. This is great – except for the fact that while that one student is talking, the other 39 are chatting just as loudly amongst themselves. The teacher never asks them to be quiet or addresses this noise issue. It quickly gets on my nerves.

As if the noise isn’t enough, there are the late students. This is understandable…they know their teacher will be late every day, so why shouldn’t they? Two or three groups of girls come in 30, 40, even 47 minutes after the hour. The teacher rhetorically asks, “Why are you late?” and the girls just head to their seats.

My body is on fire, sweat is rapidly dripping from every pore, and there is still an hour left. The students are reading from a Khmer-English workbook (which has its fair share of grammatical errors) but neither Jessica nor I was given one, so we just sit quietly and exchange quick glances as small mistakes are made on the board.

Finally, the class is over. The teacher approaches us and asks us if we witnessed any errors. We assure him that he did great and that he is a very good English speaker. Jessica notes one little grammatical error left on the board and he thanks us. We discuss his teaching schedule and he asks us where we are from. He welcomes us back to class next week; we thank him and head out of the classroom into the mob of students who have crowded around the doorway. As I visit with some of the APCA kids who want to know what I thought of the class, I realize it’s literally getting hotter by the minute. I have my sweat lines to confirm this.

I pedal back to APCA with a thousand thoughts running through my head and my butt on fire from the black polyester seat. I am thankful for the breeze as it tosses my skirt in every direction, providing me with some relief from the hot, stagnant classroom air.   I smile at the policemen as I briskly cruise past their black and red barricades. This time, I do not cause any innocent children to crash into the barricades, and the policemen even acknowledge me with friendly glances.  

The next day, I am asked by another APCA student to accompany him to his 11^th grade English class.  I agree, and this time we wait 40 minutes before we enter the scorching classroom. Sopheap asks if it’s okay if we pass the time by pretending he is a guide (his career aspiration is to become a guide at Angkor Wat) so we wander between the buildings and are greet by tiny 1^st graders who make the APCA kids look chubby. 

We visit with the five monks who come to my big kid class at APCA. Away from their presence, I have gotten used to calling them ‘my monks’. They are fantastic, quiet students who fail to miss a day of class. They are open to me asking them monk questions and actually find it humorous. Now, every time I go to Phnom Penh and see any monks out collecting morning alms, I say to myself, “Hello students!”

Sopheap and I enter the classroom and sit in the front row. After five minutes (class was supposed to start at 1pm, and now it’s 1:50), somebody announces that the teacher won’t be coming today because, “he is too busy”. So, I am approached by two twenty-something male students who ask if I can answer some questions. As they pull English grammar books out of their bags one by one, it reminds me of Mary Poppins and her magic purse. The students want to know about past participles, irregular verbs, and infinitives. I find out from talking with them for the next hour (the rest of the class hangs around and listen to us, visits, and talks about me in Khmer) that they also attend the small international school near the market (tuition: $5 a month) and teach ABC’s to the small children at their villages. As we are finishing, one of the students enthusiastically says, “We request you to teach us!” so I invite them to my APCA class.

Sopheap and I exit the class after saying our goodbyes and one of my monks pops out from the neighboring classroom. “Teacha! Meet my teacha!” So I poke my head in and see the same teacher as yesterday. This time, he is teaching 9^th grade, and I don’t want to interrupt. He sees me as all the monks in the first two rows wave, so I briefly talk with him as the class looks on. He explains that maybe Sopheap’s teacher failed to show up because he was busy. He is just as friendly as the day before and extends the invitation to return to his class soon.

On the bike ride back to APCA, I ask Sopheap hundreds of questions. I learn that his teacher is absent about two days each week. Sometimes he is sick, sometimes he is busy.  It’s hard for me to hide my astonishment, but I try. I can’t express the frustration I would have if I was Sopheap, because to him it’s completely ordinary.  

“Maybe you come next week!” he suggests, doing his best to hide his disappointment as we park our bikes in the APCA driveway and head to the classroom just in time for the big kid class.  Sure, I tell him, we’ll give it another try.

On my next trip to PP I read an article in the Cambodian Daily about the teachers’ salary delay. Apparently, starting in January all teachers were to receive a $5 raise per month (which means they make anywhere from $45-$150 each month). However, the administration portion of this salary increase took longer than expected, so some teachers still haven’t received their January’s salary. This means they probably aren’t too pumped to continue teaching every day, which is why during the past few weeks it’s been common to have an APCA kid say, “No study today! No teacher!”

That’s when I say, “Maybe no Khmer study, but you will study with Molly!” Then they start giggling, jumping up and down, and chanting, “STUDY, STUDY, STUDY!” Really, I’m not making any of this up.