THE SCHOOL BELL RINGER IS EARLY TODAY. Only boys and men ring the bell, usually someone from the high school administration office, occasionally a privileged male student. Sometimes they ring the school bell at quarter to seven, sometimes quarter past. Close enough. The sub-director is the worst bell ringer of all. He takes a hammer to an old rusted wheel dangling outside the office, bangs the bell softly at first, then hard, soft, then hard, like a lousy lover. Goes on for flipping ever, on and on. Finally, ends the concert with a big bang. Then the bulky loudspeakers are rolled into the schoolyard, and the school director steps into the sun to address the students: boys on one side, girls on the other, circle the statue of King Jayavarman VII. The school director always, always blows into the microphone, makes it buzz and squeal, then huffs again and launches into his usual diatribe. He's a small, neat man, dedicated and kind, yet this morning's address is a rerun of a familiar reproach: be on time, pick up trash, get a haircut—and tuck-in your shirt! He yells into the microphone like he’s addressing raw recruits for boot camp. Scold you so! After this morning ritual, students go to their classrooms. I follow: a Peace Corps volunteer, their ETTT: English Teaching and Teacher Trainer.