Like many carefree foreigners who suddenly find themselves with more expenses than cash, Will turned to teaching English at a small school.
It seemed like a legitimate operation. It had a great location just a few blocks away from Phsar Thmei, friendly and professional receptionists, and a computer lab for students. It even had a trendy cafe on the ground floor. The administrator was organized and enthusiastic about having me on board, promising flexible hours and as much work as I wanted. After two years as a volunteer on a meager stipend, the pay seemed quite reasonable too.
Silly, silly me.
I came to learn that this particular school's leadership had far more enthusiasm than capital or honesty. Rules for students were lax. Lesson plans were slowly paced, and tests were all too forgiving. Most of the teachers, both foreign and Cambodian, spent a lot of time playing games with their students.
After a few weeks, I was told by the administrator to slow down, follow the lesson plan exactly, and teach easy lessons that would make the students want to pay more money for more classes. This conflicted with my Prussian ideals of order, study, and yardstick-across-the-knuckles discipline, but I shrugged my shoulders and went along with it.
Teacher turnover was high. Other foreigners, older hands at the game of working in Cambodia, quickly recognized that this particular firm was destined for failure. After my first month teaching there, the pay for the Cambodian employees was delayed without explanation.
I finally began to abandon my naïve American faith in the dangers of gossip and paid attention to what others were saying. I learned that this building was something of a revolving door. One business, perhaps the American Institute for Instruction, would open up and operate for few months before going bankrupt. Then someone would paint over a few words and reopen it as the International American Institute. And so on.
Every sign was telling me to just stop working and spend my time on something more worthwhile: another job, reading, or even sitting on a balcony and counting cyclos. But the idealist in me was still compelled to honor my students. It wasn't their fault the school had the financial and academic integrity of a drunken sailor on leave.
Then a student in my “advanced” English class — a man in his 20s who couldn't say his ABCs, bragged about how he bribed his way through college (though the story was actually translated into English by another student), and repeatedly and brazenly propositioned the girls in class — came back from the testing center beaming with pride over his A. I realized I was wasting my time.
I gave my two-week notice, which was a concept that the school administrator was wholly unfamiliar with, and spent that last fortnight playing games with my students. When I showed up on payday, the administrator admitted with some chagrin that there wasn't any money and suggested I check back next week. This continued for a few weeks. Eventually, when I showed up, the place was empty save for him.
I leaned over the counter and threatened that if I didn't get my money, I'd have to talk to a lawyer and sue the school. It was a complete bluff — I doubted I could afford a lawyer, even one in Cambodia, and had no desire to brave the Cambodian legal system over a few hundred dollars from an obviously defunct organization.
The administrator glanced around to make sure we were alone and then leaned over the counter toward me. “That's a good idea, tell me if you have success. They haven't paid me for months.” I left with a sigh and didn't bother to go back. The last time I drove past, the sign said it was a Japanese school.
Will Koenig lives in Oregon. Email:
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