Hiatus

Dear Faithful Readers,

I regret to inform you that my blog writing will be on hiatus for the next two weeks, as my parents and sister arrive in Phnom Penh this evening. I assure you, however, that I will pepper the blog with amusing stories from our trips around Phnom Penh, to Siem Reap, to Bangkok, and to Koh Chang, when I return.

Best,
Steve

Monkey Business

Last weekend, prior to going to the village in Svay Rieng, we had a busy Phnom Penh Saturday. Shanti's friend Becky arrived at 3:00 in the morning the previous night (thanks to an awful - and awfully long - bus ride). After a delicious chocolate chip muffin breakfast, we set out on the town, first to check out paintings - Shanti bought one for her sister - and then to hang out at Wat Phnom.

Wat Phnom, which means "hill temple," is thought to be the sight of Phnom Penh's founding several hundred years ago. It is now largely a tourist attraction, not only because of the impressive and unique temple itself, but because of the wild monkeys that play in the surrounding park. On several occasions prior, I had visited Wat Phnom to enjoy watching the monkeys playing, eating, and, in many ways, acting incredibly human. The monkeys have, in the past wreaked some havoc, with the government of Cambodia putting a bounty of $250 out for a few "gang leader" monkeys (AFP article here).

After a few minutes of watching the primates play, Becky decided to get some food to feed them. While the monkeys are wild, they are by no means shy. Within a few minutes they were literally eating out of our hands. They sat by our feet eating pieces of a lotus, a green, triangular vegetable that can be peeled to reveal edible seeds. Once all of the food was gone, we continued to watch the monkeys. I noticed that some of them were drinking from a small ground-level tap. Though it wasn't switched on, there was a small puddle at its base. Thinking it would be entertaining to watch monkeys play in a running water, I stepped over to turn it on. As I reached down to do so, three monkeys, all within a few feet, bared their teeth at me, Shanti, and Becky. For some reason, they were either very protective of the tap or they were fiercely opposed to playing in the water. Teeth bared, they started chasing us! Granted, these were small monkeys, no more than ten or fifteen pounds, but they were quite menacing. We actually ran a little bit, much to the amusement of the Cambodians around us, to get out of their way. This is something I will definitely have to remember when I take my parents and sister up to Wat Phnom on their visit...

Svay Rieng, Phum Ampil

Several months ago, Shanti’s NGO brought a group of about twenty villagers affected by the Khmer Rouge to Phnom Penh to tour Toul Sleng (S-21) and Choeung Ek (The Killing Fields) as part of a social needs assessment and history dialogue. The trip was very much a cultural experience for the villagers as well; none had been to Phnom Penh before and had to be taught how to use flush toilets and light switches. Though I was unable to attend the tour of Toul Sleng or Choeung Ek, I did bring ice cream, which they had never had before, to their guesthouse. Not only did they love it, but the manner in which they ate it was quite adorable: squatting in the lobby of the guesthouse in a circle.

Anyways, this past Sunday, Shanti, Becky (Shanti’s friend from Tufts), and I decided to visit the villagers. It was my first village stay and Shanti’s first without the assistance of her co-worker as translator (no one in the village speaks English). We set off for a shared taxi near the Olympic Stadium and, upon arriving at the “depot” via tuk-tuk, were attacked by taxi drivers in a far more aggressive manner than ever before. Several of the drivers tried to take our bags out of our hands and place them in their cars. Very annoying. Once we selected a driver, however, we piled in to the mid-90s Toyota Camry. As is typical of shared taxis in Cambodia, the three of us shared the backseat with a fourth, and there were four in the front; unfortunately, the driver tends to share his seat with someone else.

Despite the potential hazards of our transport, we arrived at our “transfer” point within a few hours. The local organization that Shanti’s NGO partners with picked us up and we took a bumpy forty-five minute moto ride to Phum Ampil (Ampil Village). Upon arrival we were greeted by the head of the local organization and taken to our host family’s house for lunch. Everyone was thrilled to see Shanti; she clearly made a very positive impression on those that she interacted with on the trip to Phnom Penh and on her previous trip to the village. Some of the villagers remembered me as well, smiling and saying “karem” (ice cream).

A good chunk of the village, about forty people, was at the house for lunch and after formal hellos and introductions we were ushered inside. A huge feast of rice, chicken, duck, fish, and the ever-present rice wine awaited us. Even though it was only about 11:30, the rice wine – which has the taste of vodka but isn’t quite as strong – was flowing freely and it was quite difficult to turn a shot of the substance down. The food, though, was really good. In some ways, it felt like I was surrounded by Jewish mothers, as the food kept being piled onto my plate and I couldn’t refuse. At one point I was served a chicken foot, but I managed to avoid eating it…I don’t know how I could’ve gotten that down. After eating, I realized that I was sitting with all of the women and that the men were eating (and drinking) separately. So I got up and sat with the men. A few more shots of rice wine in my gullet and they were asking me about Shanti, if we were married, and if I had bought her a ring. It made for an entertaining, if not awkward conversation.

Following lunch, we wandered around the village, stopping by various houses to say hello. Invariably, we would be invited in and offered tea, food, and/or rice wine. For the most part, everyone asked the same questions: how are we, how are Shanti’s co-workers, when is Shanti’s co-worker going to have a baby (to which Shanti replied she was “thom thom” – very big – and due in two weeks), etc. The older members of the village were especially lovable, incredibly interested in what we had to say, and particularly inviting, both with their homes and with their food. It was easy to tell that they genuinely adored Shanti and would be eager to adopt her if given the chance.

As we went from house to house, we collected a following of children as well. A group of girls must have found some make up somewhere, because a handful of them (none older than ten) were all dolled up, with lipstick, eye shadow, and blush. At first, the kids were fairly shy, keeping ten or fifteen feet behind us as we walked, but gradually they got closer and closer until they were holding hands with us. They followed us into each house, eager to see what we had to talk about with the elders in the village. They loved looking at the pictures Shanti brought from her last visit and loved posing for pictures even more. The best part, though, was watching their reaction to being able to see themselves instantly on the back of the digital camera; they were elated!

After stops at five houses (rice wine at two, food at three), we went back to the host family’s house for dinner. The feast was almost as big as lunch. There was chicken, fish (which was actually quite good), duck, rice, vegetables, bananas, and lots of ambok, a special form of rice made during the harvest season. Oh, and there was lots of rice wine too. After drinking and eating, we sat around and chatted for a few hours. The villagers were really keen to learn English, which was somewhat surprising to me, but also endearing. They would say a word or phrase in Khmer and look at us inquisitively, “Anglais?” It was quite fun. Before retiring, we stargazed for a few minutes – the clarity of the sky was really impressive and the quantity of stars was quite humbling. Exhausted, both from the amount of food that we ate and from trying to understand all of the Khmer flying back and forth, we went upstairs into the house, where the three of us (Shanti, Becky, and I) curled up on a wooden bed frame. It wasn’t the most comfortable night’s rest I had, but it was well worth it.

We woke up early the next morning to do some more wandering. There was a beautiful sunrise and a very calm mistiness over the golden, freshly harvested rice fields. We said our farewell to as many as we could, stopping for tea and food at most houses. We were back at the host family’s house by a bit before seven for our compulsory breakfast of rice, fish, and bananas. Even at 7:00am, I was offered rice wine and, though I declined, I was in the minority by doing so. I never thought I would eat so much (or so well) out in the village. By 8:00 our mini-bus arrived, and we piled in the very cramped mini bus, which fit twenty-nine of us – it was meant for no more than eighteen – plus two on the roof (also common practice in Cambodia). The villagers were quite sad to see us go and it was a bit distressing to leave them. That said, it was great to have such a positive experience and to want so much to return. The trip was a taste of what life is really like in Cambodia – poor, but incredibly warm and hospitable – and a welcome change from the big city life of Phnom Penh.

The 2007 Volleyball World Cup

The same weekend as Water Festival, Phnom Penh also played host to the start of another "major" event: the 2007 Volleyball World Cup (official site). This wasn't your ever day volleyball tournament, or the kind of volleyball that ESPN2 features on occasion (although it probably should); this was the Volleyball World Cup organized by the World Organization of Volleyball for the Disabled. In other words, all athletes had some sort of physical disability. Interestingly, most disabilities for countries other than Cambodia were the result of birth defects, car accidents, or the like. However, the bulk of Cambodia's team suffered from landmine accidents (Cambodia remains one of the most heavily mined countries in the world).

The World Cup was the first international sporting event that Cambodia hosted since the 1960s. The week-long event took place at the somewhat archaic and very art-deco Olympic Stadium, which, as I have blogged about earlier, is also the locale of some serious line dancing. Six teams qualified for the tourney, including Cambodia, Canada, Germany, India, Poland, and Slovakia.

The first six days of the tournament were round-robin matches to determine rankings and the schedule for playoff matches. Unfortunately, Shanti and I couldn't make it to any of these preliminary games. After Cambodia beat India to earn a spot in the semi-finals against Slovakia, we couldn't stay away any longer. On Friday night, we made the short walk over to the Olympic Stadium to watch the match.

Though the indoor arena was crowded, it was by no means full, and we had no trouble finding somewhere to sit. The crowd was impressively noisy and enthusiastic for its size, probably no more than 1,500. We were sitting in a section in which large Cambodian flags were being waved and there was a large drum section, which continued without fail for the duration of the match. In front of the flags, several fans danced to the rythym of the drums, bouncing in an awkward, if not amusing manner, as long as the drums were beating (i.e. the whole game). A number of fans had the Cambodian flag painted on their face and cheered in a fervor akin to an American football game. This was the sporting event that my life had been craving since arriving in Cambodia.

The match was a good one. Cambodia dropped the first set (played to 25), but won the second. Slovakia won the third, but Cambodia rallied to win the fourth and force a fifth and final set. Not only was the play close, it was of a very high level. I was incredibly impressed that teams consisting of players missing a hand, arm, or even a leg (though all had prosthetics) could play volleyball as well as they did.

Moreover, the spirit of the Cambodian volleyball players was unparalleled even to the rowers that participated in Water Festival. Throughout the match, players rallied the crowd, interacted with fans, and wore their elated emotions on their sleeves. In a country in which so many people fall victims to landmines, this group of nine men really gave those victims something to look up to and aspire to. In many ways, it is probably much easier to give up hope and beg at a tourist attraction or a market, but these individuals put their disabilities aside and made something positive of it.

Cambodia fell early in the final set. When they were down 14-10 and the announcer said that it was match point, we were taken by surprise, thinking that the fifth set, like the first four, would be played to twenty-five. But, alas, the final set was to fifteen and Cambodia could not rally to win the four points in a row necessary to force play to continue. Later a friend described our feelings of disappointment quite well: "If only I had known, I could've cheered that much harder and maybe they would have won..."

Perhaps the most amusing event of the night was when an American tried to start the wave. Those of us that grew up in the U.S. do so thinking that the wave is universal. I mean, who doesn't know the wave? Well, the Cambodians don't. Though there were a handful of expats in the crowed, trying to coax the wave out of the Cambodians, it was a humorous failure. Inevitably, the Cambodian crowd would stand up completely out of order and remain standing, eliminating any possibility of creating a "wave" effect.

Though Cambodia lost their semifinal match, they did return to play Poland in the bronze medal game on Saturday afternoon. Needless to say, we attended. Though the atmosphere was not nearly as exhilarating as the night before (after all, Cambodia did not make the finals), the arena was almost as full as the previous night, almost as loud, and almost as enthusiastic. Cambodia was able to beat Poland to take the bronze. As is fitting with their spirit throughout, the players celebrated in style. After jumping up and down and paying their respects to the crowd, they ran laps around the volleyball court, waving large, silk Cambodian flags.

Bon Om Tuk

A week and a half ago, Phnom Penh was even more of a zoo that it is usually. From Friday, November 23 through Sunday, November 25 it was Bon Om Tuk, or Water Festival. It is a celebration in which some three million people, mostly from the Cambodian countryside, converged on Phnom Penh.

While the origins of Water Festival are a bit murky, the theory that seems most plausible is that it is a loosely Buddhist festival to celebrate the coming of the harvest and the harvest moon and the end of the rainy season, as well as the reversal of the Mekong's flow (yes, the river reverses the direction in which it flows).

The Festival is celebrated with three days of boat races. Over 400 boats from all over Cambodia participate with between twenty and eighty rowers in each boat. The boats, hand-carved in wood, are elaborately decorated in bright colors and feature a small shrine in both the front and back. The rowers all have matching shirts, shorts, and hats. For many of them it is their first trip not only out of their home province, but to Phnom Penh and thus, their first experience in a city with electricity, traffic, flushing toilets and other amenities we in the Western world take for granted.

Shanti and I had both heard that Phnom Penh is absolutely crazy during Water Festival; that the crowds are overwhelming, petty theft skyrockets, and that the city becomes a stinking mess by the second day (as most of the Cambodian visitors to the city camp along the riverfront and in various parks). Despite these warnings, we, and a few other friends, made our way to the riverfront on Friday morning to check things out for ourselves.

Arriving at the riverfront in front of the Royal Palace, it was crowded, but not nearly as overwhelming as we were expecting. A large tent was set up on the riverfront directly in front of the finish line for the King, government officials, and other dignitaries. Next to this tent, there was a tent that said "Welcome Foreign Visitors." Confused, we pondered for a moment whether we were the foreign visitors being welcomed by this sign or whether it was for someone more important. As we pondered, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the tent; and equally sleek Khmer man exited, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and gold tie. He motioned for us to enter, and as we did so, he introduced himself as the Minister of Tourism.

Normally I am not one to encourage segregation between Cambodians and foreigners. In fact, I usually find such discrepancies to be quite disturbing. In this instance, however, I was happy to take up residence in a shaded tent, directly on the riverfront, and right in front of the finish line to the boat races. To really sell Cambodia to the tourists, there were waitresses selling drinks, a translator to inform us which boats were racing and where they were from, and someone to answer questions we had about the way that the races worked. At one point, we were even brought complimentary beer!

In short, the races were phenomenal. The pride and exuberance of the rowers was unparalleled to anything I've seen before (however, this will be trumped by the pride and exuberance exhibited in my next entry...stay tuned). As there are no real prizes or winners, the races were more about pride than anything else. The boats raced two at a time, from a bridge about a mile north of the Royal Palace and then paddled back upriver to race again, but switching sides (because the current is highly variable). As they paddled back upriver, the boats passed right in front of the two tents to be rallied by an announcer. Again, the enthusiasm of the rowers was enormous: they chanted praises to their home provinces, beat drums that were stashed on the boat, or even danced and we had front row seats.

After several hours of racing, we were getting a bit hungry. Someone, I cannot remember who, suggested that we run across the street to one of the numerous riverfront restaurants to bring back food. We decided on pizza. Twenty minutes later, and with three piping hot pizzas, we waltzed back into the foreigner tent, feeling like heroes. It was almost as good as ordering pizza to Barnum (some of you will know what I mean).

Side note: while in the tent, one of the Ministry of Tourism officials was pointing various aspects of the races out to me. I couldn't figured out why, but he looked oddly familiar. It was not until he said something that I remembered. I had met him the week before when we were both stuck on National Road 7 south of Kratie, some 300 miles outside of Phnom Penh because a bridge was out.

Seven hours after we arrived, the boat races finally ended for the day. Our day, however, was not yet over. In fact, we still had several hours of celebration ahead of us. Behind us, the sky was pink, yellow, and orange, and the Royal Palace was illuminated with strands of white light, putting it in the most beautiful setting in which I had seen it. Even before it was dark, "floats" - boats with elaborate designs of light - began to line up in front of the Royal Palace. Eight floats in all, from the Royal Palace, the National Assembly, and various ministries made their way slowly down the river as fireworks were set off from the opposite banks. It was beautiful and completely unlike anything I had ever seen before. The bright floats, their reflections on the river, and the fireworks overhead, made for a wonderful conclusion to a fantastic day.

That said, we needed to put a cherry on top. We wandered home through large crowds - much larger than when we had arrived, but still not as big as we were expecting - to make a batch of brownies in our new toaster oven (thanks Mom!).

Having seen enough boat racing and fireworks, we decided to avoid the riverfront on Saturday until attending a party at a friend's apartment. The apartment was beautiful, with a small terrace overlooking the river and, on this night, the chaos below. It was the perfect venue to enjoy Water Festival without being in the middle of it. At the same time we enjoyed the floats and fireworks, we noshed on catered food and sipped pomegranate margaritas from an open bar.

Revulsion

Today, Burmese Prime Minister/General Thein Sein arrived in Cambodia to much fanfare. When he arrived at the airport, the red carpet was out and he was greeted by Cambodian Prime Minister Hun Sen and other Cambodian diplomats as well as 1,000 school children.

From my office, I can see Cambodia's Independence Monument, a half-mile down the wide Sihanouk Blvd. The street, normally lined with Cambodian flags on the lampposts that do not work, now alternates between Cambodian and Burmese flags.

Just a few minutes ago, the wide boulevards outside were closed for Thein Sein's convoy. I've never seen anyone or anything so tightly guarded - and I'm an American from Washington, DC. Led by a dozen police and government vehicles, the General's Mercedes limousine was literally surrounded by a dozen of Hun Sen's personal bodyguards on motorcycles. While it is not at all surprising that the likes of Hun Sen would go to such lengths to protect such a villainous character, it is no less reviling.

Hun Sen, in a meeting with UN Special Envoy for Burma Ibrahim Gambari yesterday, refused to push for sanctions against the military regime and is likely to solidify his ties with the evil dictator this weekend. Even more troublesome, there will not be any protests this weekend against the Burmese regime; the government simply won't allow it.

Elevator Use in Phnom Penh Center

Below is an e-mail, exactly as it appeared in my Inbox, I recently received from the administration team here at Pact:

Dear all:

On behalf of Admin Unit, I would like to inform those of you who use elevator please pay attention to this statement. Based on our staff observation, it sometimes is found that there is no elevator when door of elevator opens.

We would like to draw your attention to this matter when you press button up or down on 3rd floor and the red light button of elevator shows you that it arrives. However, you must check it whether the elevator arrives or not in case of door opened before you step in. As a part of our job, we informed PP center to take care of this issue this afternoon. As acknowledged, PPC will take action to get it fixed as soon as possible. We would suggest that you should use stairs rather than elevator.

Your attention to this matter is our concern.

Before you get overly concerned, let me assure you that I always take the stairs. Though having an elevator is a nice convenience (and quite rare in Phnom Penh), the elevator is quite slow and usually overcrowded.

Kampong Cham and Kratie

Hold on to your seats folks…this trip was a bit of a wild ride (sorry for the length of the entry…)

With the entire week of work off for the upcoming Water Festival (Bon Om Tuk), I decided to head toward the northeast of Cambodia, an as yet unexplored area for me, to Kampong Cham and Kratie (pronounced Krat-Chay). On Saturday afternoon, I met up with my friend Kurt, who is based in Kampong Cham and works for the UN World Food Programme. We caught a bus up to Kampong Cham, making a quick stop at Kurt’s house before going to one of the two western-run restaurants in town. After a good meal with two VSO volunteers (one Australian, one Dutch), we called it a night.

We woke up early on Sunday to go for a bike ride along the Mekong with John, a Peace Corps volunteer based in Kampong Cham. Kurt and John both had mountain bikes, so we set off to find one for me. Though all the bike shops had some, they were new and not available for rent for a day. So instead of a mountain bike, I ended up with a red, one-speed bike with a basket in front; the kind that ten year-old Cambodian girls ride to school. To make matters worse (or more entertaining for John and Kurt), the only helmet available was a spare that Kurt had: a blue, too-small children’s helmet with yellow stars on it. Our ride was off to a good start before we even left.

Our destination for the day was a village called Srol Kong Mea, 30km south of Kampong Cham. The entire ride was through what John called the “hello gauntlet;” every kid we passed would scream “hellloooo” at the top of their lungs at least three or four times. The effect was not only a response from one of the three of us, but a warning to those kids ahead who wanted to catch sight of a barang (foreigner).

It was a really nice ride – though it did get progressively bumpy without shocks – and by a little after 11:00 we arrived at Srol Kong Mea, a cute village with a beautiful location on the Mekong. After a tasty traditional Khmer lunch at a stall on the riverfront, we tracked down another Peace Corps volunteer and hung out with her for a bit.

For the ride back, we decided to take the ferry across the river and try out the path on the other side. The ferry ride itself was an experience. After it unloaded, Kurt, John, and I hopped on to the small, rickety, wooden boat along with a few motorbikes and people. Eventually an incredibly overloaded pickup pulled up to the ferry and, without even stopping to unload the passengers or goods positioned on its roof, drove cautiously onboard.

Once across the river, the environment changed completely. Locals, Cambodian and otherwise, were far more surprised to see foreigners (too shocked even to say ‘hello’) and the scenery too changed quite a bit. Instead of flat rice fields, we now biked over rolling hills, through forests, past lakes, and by various plantations. At one point we stopped to buy some grilled bananas. Within an instant we were surrounded by some thirty-five children, who magically appeared out of nowhere. The whole thing felt quite surreal.

As we continued onward and the afternoon started getting later, we stopped to ask several people if we were indeed heading the right direction to Kampong Cham. For the most part, our informants answered in the affirmative. A little bit after 4:00, we arrived in a small town, where a group of kids led us in the direction of the bridge over the river to Kampong Cham, which was apparently another 7km away. At this point, my legs and butt, which haven’t been on a bike in well over a year, start to give a little bit. I push to get those 7km back to town. Also at this point, it starts to pour. Absolutely pour. Within an instant we’re soaked and biking through dirt that’s quickly turning to mud.

Half an hour later, and still not within sight of our destination, the rain stops. With the sun sinking lower, we pedal onward. As the clock passes 5:00, we start to get a bit worried. We stop at an intersection and ask for directions, but cannot get a clear response. We continue onward. Pedaling out into a clearing, John and Kurt stop. They know where we are. And it’s not close to Kampong Cham. The estimated that it was another 10km or so – a 10km I am practically incapable of biking – to the main highway, which leads back to Kampong Cham. It is here, and on the edge of an enormous rubber plantation, that we encounter a military man who, although quite friendly and helpful, made us a little uneasy with his automatic rifle slung around his back.

While Kurt and John speak with the military guy, I try to flag down the few and far between cars and trucks for a lift back to town. As three wet, muddy westerners with equally wet and muddy bikes, it did not seem likely we would be successful. At about 6:00, and with the sun all but gone, I flag down a pickup truck that agrees to take us into town. We throw our bikes and our bodies in the bed of the truck and hold on as we speed off.

Forty minutes later, we arrive back in town. We were a forty minute drive from town. We thanked the driver profusely and offered to give him whatever he asked for in terms of money (gas recently went up to about $4.50 a gallon here), but he refused all offers. As he did so, he confirmed what the three of us were thinking when he picked us up: if we hadn’t caught the ride (or another one), we would’ve been screwed. We either would have had to camp out with the military guy or bike through the dark, uninhabited, and dangerous (so we were told) rubber plantations to the main road.

Back in town, we went straight to dinner as well as to figure out where we went wrong. During a large and delicious meal, we scoured over a map of the region, telling the pub-owner – a British guy named Simon – about our ordeal. It turns out that at some point in our journey, we began following a tributary of the Mekong instead of the river itself. This pointed us in the complete wrong direction and despite biking an estimated 70-80km, we were still 30km or so from town. After polishing off our meal, we celebrated with a slice of chocolate cake and a whiskey on the rocks. Even better than the whiskey was the hot shower I had back at Kurt’s house. I promised myself a well-deserved massage once I got to Kratie the following afternoon.

After a tasty breakfast and a quick e-mail check, I caught the bus to Kratie. The scenery on the ride was entirely different from what I was accustomed to: rolling hills, rubber and fruit plantations, few palm trees, and a much less tropical feel. Two thirds of the way to Kratie, the bus stopped at the end of a line of cars about twenty-five deep. We all got out to see what was going on. In front of us were two bridges, one under construction and one temporary. The temporary bridge had a large truck in the middle, its front two wheels not on the road surface, but beneath it, in the middle of a large gap. As the too-heavy truck crossed, several of the metal beams of the bridge fell to the river below. I joined the crowds of people on the bridge under construction and realized we were stuck for a while. A crane was used to lift the truck out of the gap it created and workers began immediately to patch the bridge.

Two hours later, I noticed a western woman with all of her things coming from the opposite side of the bridge. I asked her what was happening and she told me that her bus driver instructed her to cross the bridge under construction and to get on the bus on the other side. I grabbed my stuff to do the same. The bridge, however, was still very much under construction; there was about a sixty foot gap between the finished and unfinished sections. The first twenty feet of the gap were connected by a narrow wooden beam with nothing below but the river, about fifty feet down. A line of people, from children to the elderly, were crossing with all their belongings despite the apparent danger. I crossed the first section slowly and carefully, thinking that someone was sure to get seriously injured. The second section, forty feet long was joined by a slightly wider metal beam with a shoddy looking mesh wire beneath. I made it across and went to the bus on the other side. The driver said he wasn’t sure what was happening, but that I should probably cross back and wait with my original bus driver, because he would not what I should do. Needless to say, I was not crossing back. After waiting another hour, one of the buses on my side of the bridge started leaving. I flagged it down and they let me hop on, thinking that I was originally with that company. We arrived in Kratie at 4:00, about three and a half hours later than expected. So much for a relaxing afternoon (I soon found out there wasn’t even a non-sketchy massage to be had).

On Tuesday I took a moto about a half hour North of Kratie to Kampie. In Kampie, I shared a boat with two Australian woman to catch a glimpse of the endangered Irrawaddy Dolphin, a rare freshwater dolphin that lives a few places along the Mekong (for more info, see the Mekong Dolphin Conservation Project). The boat ride was incredibly pleasant – we made it out to the middle of the river, tied to a branch sticking out of the water, and floated there for an hour and a half, spotting dolphins every few minutes. It was cool to see the dolphins – they behave more like whales in that they pop up for a second and then disappear for several minutes – but it was by no means exhilarating.

From Kampie I went to Phnom Sambok, a hilltop pagoda and meditation site. At the top of the first hundred or so stairs I climbed were several young monks awaiting my arrival. They spoke no English, but we were able to have some basic conversation without my saying ‘aht jul’ (‘I don’t understand’) too often. I think it was one of the first, if not the first time they were able to communicate with a foreigner and, as a result, they were enamored with me. They felt the hair on my arms, legs, and face (Cambodians are not usually nearly as hairy as westerners). The youngest one, only thirteen, even asked if I would be his big brother, a big complement. The monks gave me a private tour of the pagoda complex, posed for pictures, and showed me the inside of the temple as it was being repainted.

After a mediocre lunch back in Kratie, I took the ferry in Kratie across to an island in the Mekong, Koh Trong. This ferry was packed with people and supplies, but I was the only westerner making the journey. Several people had suggested biking around the island, but because of my recent experiences, I decided to walk instead. It was beautiful. The receding Mekong left some sandy beaches on the shores of Koh Trong and the pathway around the perimeter of the island was nicely shaded. All of the islands inhabitants, from the people to the cows, were not only surprised to see a westerner, but one that was walking around. I stopped to talk to a number of people, watched them harvest rice, and relax in the shade under their raised wooden and thatch houses. I stopped outside one house to take a picture of the grapefruit trees out front. I was soon greeted by the owner of the house, an old, happy, toothless man. Following a fairly simple conversation, I started to leave, but he insisted I wait for a moment. He cut down a fresh grapefruit for me (value $1) and refused any payment other than a few oranges I had in my bag; and this despite that he was incredibly poor. I continued on my way, turning back around to catch the ferry after a brief stop to help a farmer get his cattle over a barbed wire fence. On the return trip, a number of the kids I passed followed me toward the ferry pick-up, where they sat with me until the ferry came. I got back to Kratie just in time for a beautiful sunset – one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen – over the Mekong from the shared balcony at my guesthouse. Thankfully, I made it back to Phnom Penh without incident the following day.

A Double Entry: Independence Day and an Afternoon with a Monk

Independence Day

Last Friday marked the 54th year of Cambodia's independence from France. To celebrate, Phnom Penh's Independence Monument, the most recognizable landmark in the city - and one I pass every day on my way to work and can see from my office - was given a face lift. The exterior of the Monument was painted and a ring of fountains were added to the surroundings and lit in an impressive, if not slightly Las Vegas style manner.

The arrival of Independence Day itself resulted in what I could only expect to be a large celebration around the Independence Monument. My co-workers told me the festivities would start early in the morning. With the Friday off from work, Shanti and I roused ourselves from sleep and walked the short walk down Sihanouk Boulevard to examine the celebration for ourselves. On our walk to the Monument, we passed many schoolchildren dressed in uniforms of blue skirts or pants and white button-down shirts waving the Cambodian flag.

As we approached the Monument, we could hear a live military band playing the Cambodian National Anthem on repeat. The streets around the Monument were closed and swarming with schoolchildren. Wading our way through the sea of blue and white, we found ourselves on the inside of a large circle of schoolchildren waving flags and holding up images of the king and the prime minister. Inside of our circle was another, smaller one. Instead of the white and blue surrounding us, was a mix of navy blue, army green, white and black. The inner circle were the "important" people - the army, navy (yes, Cambodia has a navy), the prime minister's personal bodyguards, high-level government officials, and diplomats.

From what we could tell, nothing was really happening. The oddest part of the whole thing was the complete lack of "ordinary" Cambodians. The streets were lined with schoolchildren and there was the inner circle of "important" folks, but no one else. It was bizarre. After a half hour or so trying to get a glimpse of the King Father (the former king who abdicated in favor of his son a few years ago), admiring the cute kids, and fearing the armed forces and their bayonets, we left. I'm told the King Father lit a flame within the Independence Monument and even released a dove. The celebration was capped off by evening fireworks on the riverfront in front of the Royal Palace, a sight which Shanti and I could see from our terrace at home. Let's just say that America knows how to celebrate independence a bit better than Cambodia - with real fireworks and a BBQ.

An Afternoon with a Monk

After a series of telephone calls and text messages, I arranged a time to visit the pagoda of my monk friend (whom Shanti and I met on the bus to Kep). On Sunday afternoon, we hitched a moto to the temple of the Venerable (the title for all monks) Aneta (he goes by Ve Aneta for short). Upon arrival, I called him and he met Shanti and me outside. The pagoda complex was fairly small compared to others in Phnom Penh, housing the temple itself, housing for the monks that study there and visiting monks, a small Buddhist university, and a high school.

Ve Aneta ushered us into one of the buildings, little more than the shell of a building built in the 1960s, before we entered his room. It was quite austere, even for someone that does not believe in the importance of worldly possessions. There was a mattress on the floor, a handful of books, and bare cement walls. Ve Aneta had his younger brother - who is living at the temple and is essentially a "monk's helper" (bonus: his name sounded almost exactly like Shanti) - get some plastic chairs for us to sit in. We sat and chatted only briefly before being shown to temple itself. Not particularly impressive, the temple was beautiful nonetheless, featuring a life-size Buddha and a mural of stories depicting various aspects of Buddha's life.

After our tour, we sat outside in plastic chairs, just chatting. It was a beautiful day - sunny and warm, with a nice breeze - and this, in combination with the setting of the pagoda, was incredibly peaceful. It did not feel like we were situated in the middle of a bustling city populated by several million people. It was incredibly relaxing and soothing.

Though extremely poor - he was lamenting the annual fees of about $100 he pays to go to university - Ve Aneta bought both Shanti and I fresh coconuts from a passing vendor. It was an incredibly touching gesture. Within the pagoda complex, we were clearly a somewhat curious sight - it wasn't the kind of temple that tourists would wander into - and we were eventually joined by several other monks. They were very curious about all aspects of life in America and equally puzzled (and amused) by our ability to speak a little bit of Khmer. All in all it was a very rewarding and calming afternoon and one I hope to repeat again soon.

Winter Hits Cambodia

My colleagues at work tell me it is now "Cambodian winter." I laugh, but they're serious. The air conditioner is on, near full blast, at about sixty-five degrees and it's a warm eighty-three degrees outside. Granted, when I came in to work this morning it was probably a frigid seventy-eight degrees. But I don't think that that comes even close to warranting the number of winter jackets I saw on the walk to work.

Believe it or not, it's true. When the mercury dips below eighty, the Cambodians break out the winter jackets. For some, the "winter" jacket is little more than a lightweight pullover, but others take the "winter" aspect of Cambodian winter much more seriously. Some wear what look like down ski jackets along with knit ski caps. I'm hot just wearing khakis, a button-up shirt, and shoes (as opposed to the much preferred flip flops) and they're wearing ski parkas. Unbelievable.

Kep

With Shanti freshly back to Cambodia, we decided to take a quiet weekend to the quiet beach town of Kep. We caught a 1:00pm bus - which, unfortunately, did not leave until almost 2:00 - but thankfully made the trip uneventfully and without a flat tire. The fun started well before our arrival in Kep. On the bus, Shanti and I were surrounded by a group of saffron-swathed monks headed to a temple in Kampot Province. They spoke English fairly well and were eager both to practice and to chat with westerners. Shanti and I, finding monks to be both captivating and adorable, were equally eager. The discussion was fairly light, but quite cordial, and by the time we got to their pagoda (a bit of a ways before we arrived in Kep), there was an exchange of phone numbers. That's right folks, I got a monk's digits.

Anyways, having driven through Kep on our way to Kampot in August, we were eager to return. The sleepy town, about a half an hour east of the Vietnamese border, has the reputation of a very laid-back and relaxing atmosphere as well as excellent seafood (crab in particular) and beautiful offshore islands. In the 1960s, it was a favorite hangout for French expats, but the reign of the Khmer Rouge did its damage. The shells of dozens of formerly beautiful French villas line the streets of Kep awaiting restoration, only to be occupied by squatters with nowhere else to stay. With a bit of investment, Kep could easily regain the grandeur and eloquence it was known for in the '60s, though its charm will undoubtedly draw vacationers regardless.

After four hours on the bus - punctuated by a half hour stint on dirt road - we came to the outskirts of Kep at sunset with the road winding along the water's edge. A handful of islands lay offshore, the biggest of which, Phu Quoc, belongs to the Vietnamese in a somewhat contentious dispute. We caught a moto to our guesthouse. Courtesy of Shanti and as a birthday present, we splurged a bit and stayed at Veranda, which came highly recommended by a number of friends and coworkers. It was indeed magnificent. Beautiful stone walls and walkways led down to the restaurant, an open air wooden deck overlooking the Gulf of Thailand and Bokor Mountain (outside of Kampot). Separating private bungalows were wooden walkways, suspended in the trees and giving the feeling of a sophisticated Swiss Family Robinson-style tree house. We checked in and had a lovely dinner at the restaurant - spring rolls and pepper steak (Kampot is known throughout Cambodia as having fantastic fresh pepper) - while a cool breeze blew and the sun set over the water.

Retiring to our bungalow, we were playing a game of cards when my phone rang. It was the monk, the Venerable Aneta, checking to see if we made it okay, how the weather was, and if we were still planning to visit his temple in Phnom Penh. I, of course, assured him that we would and I'm quite excited about the visit. (He called again when Shanti and I were in the middle of dinner last night with some friends).

In the morning, Shanti and I caught a boat to Koh Tonsay (Rabbit Island). We shared the boat with a group of middle-aged Kiwis on holiday for a few weeks, which made for an entertaining ride. The island was far bigger and more developed - I'm using the term developed very loosely - than Koh Russei off the coast of Sihanoukville. Instead of settling with most of the tourists at the beach on arrival, we wandered around the island a bit looking for a nicer and more secluded spot. After a twenty minute walk, we came upon a beautiful long beach with soft sand. A few thatch huts and simple boats dotted the waterfront with families fishing, harvesting seaweed and kelp, or playing with young children. After saying hello, we took out our kramars - a cotton shawl-like cloth that's used for everything - and laid out in the sun. When we were sufficiently warmed, we waded into the shallow, clear, blue water sinking our feet into the softest sand I've ever felt. Sunbathe, rinse, repeat. Such was the manner our day was spent.

By mid afternoon we were heading back to the other side of the island to join our Kiwi friends for the boat ride back to Kep. We had another delicious dinner at the Veranda restaurant - enormous prawn kebabs and ribs - during another beautiful sunset.

On Sunday morning we decided to explore Kep on foot. We walked from Veranda's hilltop location down to the waterfront. It was hot, but there was a nice, cool breeze. The street along the water was lined with gutted French villas, the yellow paint faded but still visible. A few minutes into our walk, we came upon the crab market, a comparatively bustling row of about a dozen shacks, featuring fresh crab, shrimp, squid, and other seafood. Continuing on, we saw a group of four boys fishing out on some rocks. We sat on the side of the road and watched them haul in small to medium-sized fish and squid for a half hour, showing them pictures of themselves as they left to cook their catch. We completed a loop of Kep, ending up in the "downtown" area, where vendors flag down passing cars to sell bags of freshly cooked crab, ice cream, and trinkets like carved shells and bamboo bracelets.

All in all it was a very nice weekend. I'm a bit conflicted as to whether I liked Kep/Koh Tonsay better than Sihanoukville/Koh Russei. Kep was far far better than Sihanoukville: charming, peaceful, relaxing, and not at all sleazy. Koh Russei, however, felt more isolated and private than Koh Tonsay, even if it was a bit further away and slightly more difficult to access. Regardless of which locale I like better, I certainly did not think I would find so many nice beaches within in Cambodia itself, but that I would be frequenting southern Thailand instead.

The People: The Recyclers

Drum roll....And now the long-anticipated part two (part one) of the occasional series of "The People" entries...

There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of them in Phnom Penh alone. They come in all shapes and sizes. They range in age from two or three to sixty. Their clothes are ragged, but their call is confident. They operate at all times of day, from early in the morning until late in the evening. They are the recyclers.

They are not, however, recyclers in the traditional sense. They do not work for the government. They do not wear a uniform. They do not care if your recyclables are sorted between paper and plastic or what number, if any, appears on the bottom of your discarded items. So what are they?

I suppose you could describe them as independent entrepreneurs, though their activities are far from lucrative. Their mission? To collect anything left as trash on sidewalks and street corners that they or someone else might find remotely useful. Their primary concern is the collection of cardboard and bottles and cans, plastic, glass, tin and aluminum. But they will take anything discarded that can be recycled for parts or repaired for use. Broken electronics are particularly sought after.

Their day starts as early as the sun allows. Wearing worn flip flops and tattered clothes, they take to the streets armed with either a synthetic sack, the former home of twenty kilos of cement or rice, or a rickety, two-wheeled, wooden pushcart. As they saunter along, they issue a nasal utterance, “Eah Jaht…Eah Jaht…Eah Jaht,” a phrase which comes from the Vietnamese for garbage. Often the utterance is accompanied by the ring of a bell or the squeak a horn, not unlike the sound you would expect to hear from a clown’s nose or a dog’s toy, as they pass.

They are often small and shoeless boys, between six and ten years old, with dark skin, tussled hair, faded and torn shorts and t-shirt, and a long face. If you smile at them, however, their eyes will light up and a beautiful smile will emerge from a formerly somber visage. They tend to work the dirtiest, but also the most lucrative areas; those around the markets. They fill their cement sacks with bottles, cans, and cardboard and trudge to an extremely informal recycling center – there seems to be one on every other street or so – exchanging their wares for a dollar or two. It is to them that I offer a few bananas or my own neglected leftovers when I have the chance.

Just as often as they are young boys, they are fairly young mothers, perhaps in their mid-twenties. Their children may or may not have fathers, but they inevitably accompany their mothers on the daily route. They sit or stand in the rickety wooden carts, holding on to the side, their large and innocent eyes taking in the full extent of their surroundings. Throughout the day, soda bottles, empty but sticky cans of sweetened condensed milk, and cardboard boxes are piled high next to them. Their mothers tend to work the more suburban areas, canvassing various areas of the city and, once their carts are filled or the day is near its end, they deposit their findings at one of the aforementioned recycling centers.

Though they are very poor, they are indeed a staple of Phnom Penh. It is hard to imagine Phnom Penh without them, to wake up one morning and have their nasal cry or their comical squeak absent from the city streets.

Another Sunday with His Excellency

Sunday, October 7, 8:00am. I had woken up maybe ten minutes earlier (you tend to get up early here since the work day during the week starts at 7:30 or 8:00). My cell phone rings. It's His Excellency (Note: if you have not read about His Excellency, you may find background materials here). He again wanted my company for breakfast. With not much else to do for the day, I readily accept, meeting him downstairs after a quick shower and getting dressed.

Unfortunately, the Lexus was not around, so we stepped down a notch or two and took the Toyota Corolla, in which there is no DVD player or rear-view camera. After a short drive we arrived at a packed restaurant. Cars and trucks with government plates lined the sidewalk and a policeman assisted with parking. Entering the lavish two-story restaurant, I realized I was the only westerner around and, as a result, I attracted a few stares. There wasn't an open table in sight, but in an adjacent room, His Excellency spotted his wife, daughter, son-in-law, and two grandchildren (who are three and five). They had already ordered and started eating, but we joined them nonetheless, pulling extra chairs in to a now cramped table.

The menu is only in Khmer, so I order the same as everyone else: a traditional Cambodian breakfast not unlike pho, a broth with noodles, vegetables, and an assortment of meat. The three year-old, who looks more like a budding Hispanic soccer player than Cambodian with his long, curly hair, smiles at me. As he does when Shanti or I enter or leave the house, he begins waving incessantly. The difference now, though, is that he is two feet from me and I am neither coming nor going. The whole family is amused. Anyways, the meal was quite nice, though the pho's interesting amalgamation of meat was not exactly to my liking.

With wife in tow, we got back in the Corolla and started towards the house. On the way we dropped His Excellency's wife, who is fantastic, at the market to do some shopping. We continued on our way to the house and drove right by it. I had no idea where we were going.

Several minutes later I asked His Excellency, in Khmer, where we were headed. He asked me if I had any plans for the rest of the morning. I replied in the negative and, in broken English, he informed me we were going to the Ministry of Education to partake in his weekly game of petanque, the French version of bocce, or lawn bowling. His track suit now makes more sense and it came back to me that in addition to serving the National Assembly, His Excellency is in fact President (and Chief Accountant) of the Cambodian Bowls Federation. It is hard to describe my delight at this moment.

We turned into a particularly sketchy alley, made a few turns, and arrived in a parking lot. I stepped out, not sure what to expect. In front of me was an assortment of perhaps twenty-five senior Cambodian men spread across three petanque courts (I use the term courts loosely, as they were an assortment of rocks enclosed by molding wooden boards). The men were joking with each other, smoking cigarettes, and some drank a non-water substance (cough, cough, whiskey) from a water bottle even though it was only ten in the morning. I cursed myself for leaving my camera at the house.

I watched a game of the premier players. I was enormously impressed with their play, both in their ability to get the metal balls within inches of the jack, as well as their ability to, from a distance of ten to fifteen feet, strike an opponent's ball with their own in the first shot. Though I was secretly rooting for His Excellency because of his leadership in the Cambodian Bowls Federation and for his bringing me, he was easily the worst among the group. He wasn't bad, per se, but his skill did not come close to matching the others he was playing with.

After a few games as spectator, I was itching to give petanque with my new Cambodian friends a try. I was appointed 'pointer,' the first player to shoot, attempting to get as close to the jack as possible. In this capacity I held my own. When forced to be the 'hitter,' however, the player who must hit an opponent's ball away from the jack, I failed quite miserably and, as a result, instantly gained greater respect for the skill of the players I was amongst.

All in all, a fantastic morning. I can honestly say that playing petanque with a variety of government officials was not an activity in which I anticipated participating in during my tenure in Cambodia.

Siem Reap

A brief word of warning to those short on time: this entry is going to be a doozie, so if you’re short on time, you may want to focus on the below executive summary.

Executive Summary

• Incredibly long bus ride to Siem Reap (lots of traffic, flat tire, over eight hours in all)
• Siem Reap Town – a ridiculous amalgamation of very fancy hotels and restaurants catering to tourists
• Pub Street – a street in Siem Reap seemingly transplanted from elsewhere in the world. It is closed to vehicular traffic and on one night we were there a man was juggling sticks of fire in the street. Am I in Montreal?
• Kbal Spean – very cool and unique set of 11th century stone carvings in a riverbed. The detail was remarkably clear given the potential for erosion from the water.
• Banteay Srei – temple with unbelievably intricate carvings in rose-colored sandstone.
• Banteay Kdei – unexpectedly cool temple complex. It was very long and somewhat narrow and quite empty in terms of crowds.
• Angkor Thom – enormous, sprawling temple complex (three square kilometers) featuring The Bayon, The Terrace of Elephants (300 meter long series of life-size elephants), among other things. Even though it appeared to be rubble from afar, The Bayon was my favorite site in all of Angkor as it had intricate bas-reliefs and over 200 Lokesvara faces carved into the stone.
• Ta Prohm – temple ruins in competition with huge kapok trees for space, with the trees or their roots often growing through or on top of the temple or its gates. My second favorite to The Bayon.
• Angkor Wat – though a bit disappointing that large sections of the temple complex are now closed to the public, it is hard to leave this majestic masterpiece off the highlight reel. This 12th century creation is the main reason people come to Siem Reap and the sheer size of the main towers as well as the enormous bas-reliefs are a sight to behold.
• Afternoon of Relaxation – a quick lunch, reading poolside, a poolside nap, a swim, a phenomenal massage, and a conversation with the masseuses in Khmer. Perfect afternoon.
• Wat Bo – 18th century temple in Siem Reap town. Before seeing the inside of the temple itself, I sat down to chat (in Khmer) with some old monks. They gave me water, bananas, and cookies despite their own state of depravation. I took a picture of the oldest and most frail monk, promising to bring back a copy of the image in December.
• Annoyances: 1) Tourists – mainly Japanese and Chinese, everywhere. Almost always in large groups of twenty or more and, for the most part, oblivious to anyone else visiting Siem Reap. 2) Pushy Peddlers – at every stop along the way, kids offering crappy stuff you don’t want and insisting “If you buy, you buy from me!” and “You buy something?” and so on. Though cute in appearance, these kids got old quite quick.

10/8/07 – Arrival in Siem Reap
At 8:30am I caught a bus to Siem Reap. Because of the holiday, Pchum Ben, everyone was going back to their “homeland,” the provinces that they or their family grew up. Thus, the roads and the bus station were quite busy. However, Phnom Penh is still small enough that I bumped into one of my coworkers at the station. Anyway, it was a tortuously long bus ride. It took an hour to get the few kilometers to the outskirts of Phnom Penh and before reaching the halfway mark we got a flat tire. All told, the bus ride – which was supposed to last 6-7 hours – took over eight hours. Ouch.

After checking in to my basic, but cheap guesthouse, I wandered around town. In parts of the city, it was like I had left Cambodia. Five star hotel after five star hotel, restaurant after restaurant. The Old Market catered almost entirely to tourists, selling silks, wood and marble carvings, t-shirts and the like. A bit later, my friend Kurt (who works for the UN World Food Programme) arrived with his friend Tory, who was visiting and happens to be a Tufts grad; we had hit off a few nights before at dinner. For dinner, we met an Australian guy, Scott, from the UNWFP Siem Reap office on Pub Street. Going to Pub Street was like stepping into some major international city. The street itself was all restaurants, bars, and upscale shops, with the road closed to all traffic but foot traffic. While eating a mix of Western and Khmer food, a man started juggling fire a few restaurants over. Am I in Montreal? Or Europe?

10/9/07 – Temples by Tuk-Tuk
On our first day exploring the expansive temples from the Angkor period, Kurt, Tory, and I hired a tuk-tuk (a motorbike with a carriage attached) for the day. Instead of hitting the main, nearby sites first, we set off for some of the furthest away. Our first stop was Kbal Spean, about 50km outside of Siem Reap. The trip there was a beautiful drive through typical Cambodian countryside – palm trees, thatch huts, rice fields, cattle, bicycles, and naked babies. After a somewhat bumpy conclusion to the ride, we arrived at Kbal Spean, where we had a beautiful and quiet one mile walk to the site. Dating to the 11th century and spread over a stretch of about a half mile along a river, Kbal Spean is a set of stone carvings built into the riverbed. Parts of the riverbed were fully lined with round stones to make something akin to an underwater walkway. In other parts, there were intricate carvings of Vishnu and other deities. Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the site was the intricacy of the carvings, even after almost 1,000 years of wear at the hands of the small river.

From Kbal Spean, we headed 15km back towards Siem Reap to Banteay Srei. The 10th century creation of local dignitaries, Banteay Srei is the most intricately carved of all the Angkor temples. Adding to its beauty is the use of rose-colored limestone, giving the small, but nonetheless impressive temple, a pinkish hue. The details of the carvings, portraying stories from ancient Hindu scripts, were incredible. Every inch of the innermost part of the temple was elaborately carved with fine, miniscule details. Two other notes of interest at the temple: we saw a very cool blue and red lizard about a foot long nursing eggs within the cracks of the temple and throughout our visit a group of landmine victims played traditional Khmer music.

Heading further towards Siem Reap town, we stopped at Pre Rup, a more typical 10th century Khmer temple. Visitors are welcomed by incredibly steep and narrow stairs and a sign that would become familiar over the next few days: “Warning!!! Climbing at Your Own Risk.” Once reaching the top, we had a commanding view of the Cambodian countryside, a view of mountains over fifty miles away, and even the peak of Angkor Wat’s tallest tower.

Starting to get a bit tired, we planned to head to Srah Srang, a large bathing pool closer still to Siem Reap, for a beer. Instead of doing this, however, our attention was captured by the gate to the neighboring Banteay Kdei, which was adorned with four faces of Lokesvara. Neither Lonely Planet nor Rough Guides had much to say about Banteay Kdei, so we weren’t sure what to expect. Partly because it was, in fact, quite impressive, and partly because there were few other visitors, Banteay Kdei quickly became our favorite. Though not imposing, nor intricately carved – though it did feature many fine apsara dancers – Banteay Kdei was impressive as it continued for a seemingly endless distance with each corner revealing something new or unexpected. Large white kapok trees and lotus ponds only added to its beauty.

From Banteay Kdei, we decided to make a quick sunset stop at Angkor Wat. Though there was no sunset to speak of, we got a taste of the majestic enormity of the pride of Cambodia. A good appetizer, we headed back to town for a shower, a rest, dinner, and an early bedtime.

10/10/07 – Temples by Tuk-Tuk Day 2
At 4:30am I got a text message from Kurt. It was time to get up. We were heading to Phnom Bakheng, amidst the temples of Angkor for sunrise. We arrived while it was still a bit dark out and were a bit surprised to find a handful of elephants at the base of the hill waiting to shuttle tourists to the top. We made the short hike to the top as the sun started coming up, reaching it at the perfect time. We were greeted by an unexpected 9th century temple with a commanding view of the area around us, including Angkor Wat and the enormous Tonle Sap Lake. Though we didn’t get a real sunrise, it was beautiful and comparatively deserted. Adding to the aura surrounding the serene setting, chants of prayer from a nearby modern-day temple reached the top of the hill.

Now awake and hungry, we got a delicious pancake breakfast at one of the food stalls inside the immense three-square kilometer Angkor Thom complex. Finishing breakfast and wanting a nap, we instead walked along the Terrace of the Elephants, a 300m long temple wall carved with life-size elephants. Heading the other direction, we went to The Bayon. From afar, it looked, quite simply, like a pile of rubble. Once inside, however, it quickly became (and remained) my favorite site of the trip. Not only did The Bayon have large and intricate bas-relief carvings depicting Hindu scenes and naval battles, but each of the fifty-four towers within the complex are adorned with four face of Lokesvara, one facing each direction. Though it was busy, it was not difficult to find quiet and dark corners to escape to and quite often it was these spots that had the most impressive views or carvings.

After a short stop to the unimpressive – I was starting to get a bit desensitized – Ta Keo temple, we went to Ta Prohm, which became my second most favorite site. Though Ta Prohm was in comparatively poor shape, the manner in which the jungle overcame the temple was quite impressive. Enormous kapok trees grew over the gates and temple throughout, their roots strangling the entirety of the temple complex, but making it an idyllic setting. Ta Prohm was by far the most crowded of the temples – though Angkor Wat probably had a greater number of people – but here, too, it was possible to escape the crowds by straying from the path and exploring the perimeter of the temple as well as some of the more difficult to traverse ruins.

Though it was only about 1:00pm, we had already been up for over eight hours and were ready for a rest. We grabbed a quick lunch before I burned some pictures to CD, so as not to run out of space, and took a nice and much-needed nap. When I woke up, it was raining which, as we were planning to head to Angkor Wat, was less than ideal. We made the trip over anyway, and because Tory had to leave the following day, we hurried through. The bas-reliefs lining the walls – some several hundred meters long and several meters tall – were almost as impressive the main towers of Angkor Wat. Quite disappointing, however, was the fact that access to the five towers that make Angkor Wat famous were closed to the public; apparently several clumsy tourists had stumbled on the steep and narrow stairs and, as a result, ruined the experience for everyone else. Nonetheless, Angkor Wat was quite impressive, but all the hype made it a bit less so – of all the sites we visited, I’d probably put Angkor Wat fourth or even fifth.

After cleaning up a bit, we met some other recently arrived friends, Jen and Joslyn – who work for Catholic Relief Service in Cambodia – and Joslyn’s visiting boyfriend, Nir, for dinner. Heading back to the Pub Street area we got some really good pizza and wine. It’s a rough life…

10/11/07 – Day of Templing and Relaxing
With Tory on her way back to Phnom Penh and Joslyn, Jen, and Nir doing their own thing, Kurt and I again got up early – 4:30am – for sunrise at The Bayon. Though it did not come with the view of Phnom Bakheng, sunrise at The Bayon was equally impressive. Again, we didn’t have a real sunrise, but we had the entire temple complex more or less to ourselves. Like with Phnom Bakheng we could hear prayer being chanted from a nearby wat and a few monks made the trek up The Bayon to pray to some of the Buddha statues within.

After another hearty pancake breakfast, we went to one of the modern temples within Angkor Thom. Though quiet we had the pleasure of seeing an unusual sight. There were a few kids around, a few monks, and a monkey. The monkey was trying to sneak in to the temple to take the offerings to the large Buddha statue, which included bananas. One of the monks, in an unusually aggressive action for a monk, threatened the monkey with a broom. The monkey briefly scattered, but promptly returned to the monk’s dismay. The monk eventually acquiesced, giving the monkey a banana. I felt like I was witnessing a Curious George book come to life.

From Angkor Thom and The Bayon, Kurt and I headed back to Angkor Wat. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too crowded and we finally had the chance to enjoy the enormous bas-reliefs, the large complex itself, and a beautiful sky. It was refreshing to be there on one of the most important days of Pchom Ben, as there were may have been more Cambodians there – all dressed up – as foreigners. After exploring thoroughly, Kurt and I went to a modern wat on the grounds of Angkor Wat. It was packed for Pchom Ben, when, for a period of fifteen days, Cambodians are to go to the temple as often as they are able, bringing rice, fruit, and money with them. Kurt and I waded through the crowds, watched groups of people praying, and bought some Cambodian fruits, some of which looked and tasted like olives and others which looked like peanuts but were actually a small, chalky fruit.

Having woken up early, we were again exhausted and decided to spend the afternoon relaxing. We went back to our guesthouses (Kurt stayed in a nicer place, more like a hotel, with restaurant and pool). I changed into a bathing suit and went over to Kurt’s hotel. We grabbed a quick lunch at the restaurant and then sat by the pool. Kurt quickly decided to head back to his room for a nap; I read a little bit, then napped myself for a while, before going for a quick swim. After drying off from my swim, I treated myself to a massage (again, rough life…). Though I only paid for an hour, I got the best hour and a half long massage I’ve ever gotten, by far. The most rewarding part, however, was the conclusion, where, for the first time, I carried on a full conversation in Khmer, understanding most of what the women present were saying and able to respond in kind.

After the massage, and with Kurt still asleep, I headed back to my guesthouse. On the way, I got a call from Joslyn, inviting me to join her, Jen, and Nir for sunset at Angkor Wat. It was clear, and likely to be a good sunset, so I got a tuk-tuk, picked them up at the ticket station, and used my three-day pass one last time. For once, the sunset was beautiful and I saw Angkor Wat in the best light it had been in over the past three days. As it was Joslyn and Nir’s first trip, we wandered throughout the complex, enjoying the beautiful sky throughout.

10/12/07 – Departure
Though I had intended to visit a Tonle Sap Lake floating village, the one I wanted to go to, which is a bit further than the more popular one with tourists, was prohibitively expensive as I was on my own – Kurt was on his way home and Jen, Joslyn, and Nir were templing. Instead, I decided to wander around in the morning, get a nice breakfast, and perhaps to visit a wat in town. The place I intended to go for breakfast was closed, so I wandered around looking for another place to go. It was fairly early – my clock adjusted to getting up quite early I guess – so the town was pretty quiet. I happened to stumble on to Pub Street where none other than Joslyn and Nir were breakfasting. I joined them before they got their day started.

Following breakfast – again a pancake, but this time with fruit salad, and a baguette – I wandered to Wat Bo. Wat Bo is an 18th century still functioning temple in a quiet part of town. Walking down a dirt road, I managed to find it. I took a quick tour of the small complex before moving towards the main temple. Just across from the temple, I saw three very elderly monks sitting around and chatting. I went over to say ‘hi’ and they were incredibly welcoming. They, of course, spoke no English, and I again got the chance to practice my Khmer. After a few minutes of chatting, they invited me to sit with them. I took off my shoes, and sat on the prayer mat in the appropriate manner with my legs off to the side. Though the monks were thin, frail, and very poor, they promptly brought me a bottle of water, a dozen bananas, and a bag of cookies, which they insisted I eat and enjoy. We spoke for fifteen minutes or so about where I was from, how I liked Siem Reap, the places I visited, how old I was, whether or not I was married (a popular question here for anyone over say, fifteen), and so on. Realizing I was short on time, I followed a younger monk into the temple itself which had the original drawings from the 19th century, complete with scenes from every day life, Chinese men smoking opium, and even French colonizers enjoying a traditional apsara dance. Before leaving, I took a picture of the oldest and most frail monk, showing him the image. He smiled and asked if I could get him a copy of it. I promised him I would come back in December with my parents and a copy of the picture.

I checked out of my guesthouse and headed to the bus station. The ride back was not nearly as painful as the ride there; it was over two hours shorter. I also had the pleasure of sitting next to an adorable three year-old boy and his father. Every time the boy wanted my attention, he yelped a high-pitch shriek. He also enjoyed touching the book I was reading and hitting my hand with his and trying to lift it before I could close mine upon his. I suppose that’s more than enough of an adventure for now. My next entry will be a step back in time to another exploit I had with His Excellency before I left for Siem Reap, one that I think far outweighs the first.

Breakfast with His Excellency

On Saturday morning and with Shanti working for the day, I set off to the local butcher, Dan's Meats, to get some minced beef (for burgers), salami, and bacon. On my way downstairs, however, I was greeted quite warmly by the owner of our house, a man we call ay otdam - meaning "his excellency" in Khmer - and a member of the National Assembly. Our communication has always been cordial, though limited, both by his hectic schedule and his minimal English (we have, however, occasionally conversed in French).

A word on the Excellency's appearance: he is fairly short with thin, black hair, glasses, and an eager smile. He is probably in his mid-60s. He is well-dressed, wearing slacks, a short-sleeve button-down shirt, and leather sandals. He looks a bit like Mao with more hair, glasses, and a slightly darker complexion.

On this particular Saturday morning, His Excellency invited me to breakfast. He also invited my 'wife,' Shanti, an assumption I did not dispute as it is not exactly kosher for unmarried couples to live together in Cambodia (which, I might add, is somewhat ironic in the face of the flourishing sex trade). Anyways, at first I said that I had already eaten and that I was going to do some errands. Then, thinking better of my refusal, I decided that there was no reason not to join the Excellency for a meal. Sure, it is a bit awkward for someone working on anti-corruption issues to schmooze with a National Assemblyman who sits on the Anti-Corruption Committee and who drives a brand-new Lexus SUV. But I came to Cambodia looking for adventure and a one-on-one breakfast with the Excellency was sure to be an adventure.

I hopped into the Lexus, driven by the Excellency himself and not his driver, admiring the soft leather seats, the in-dash DVD player, and the rear bumper camera to assist when going reverse. Munching on fresh baguettes, hash browns, bacon, and sausage, we chatted about the basics of our lives. We asked about each others' travels (he's been to a number of places in Asia and to Europe several times), families (three sons and two daughters), and so on. He gave me a very brief history of his life (from teacher, to Ministry of Tourism official, to provincial governor, to national assemblyman).

Out of nowhere, really, the Excellency extended his arms toward me with a big smile on his face and looked at me. "You," he said, "you are my son. And your wife, she is my daughter-in-law." Needless to say, I was touched - almost as much as I was amused.

Driving back to the house in the Lexus, he played a Khmer karaoke DVD, asking me if I liked Khmer music. I agreed that I did and I believe he invited me and Shanti to join him in going to a karaoke bar, an offer I will not be able to refuse if extended. Moreover, the Excellency invited me, his 'son,' and my 'wife' to come to stay with him in Kampot (the quaint town Shanti and I visited in mid-August), an offer we will have to take him up on in the near future. Anyways, I will certainly keep you posted on any and all worthwhile Excellency-related contacts.

Badminton

So here it is, my post on badminton as promised. Initially, I was going to rail on Shanti's badminton playing (and I still will to an extent), but the focus will instead lie elsewhere.

On Monday, after a long bus ride and a bit dirty - we hadn't had a real shower in any of our accommodation in Sihanoukville - we arrived home at about 5:00pm. We quickly rushed out to get haircuts at our respective locales on our street before they closed for the night (for those of you curious, yes, I got an even better $0.60 haircut than last time). Returning and both looking quite dapper, though still stinking, we decided to shower. However, prior to doing so, we thought it prudent to test out our new badminton racquets - the British spelling is much cooler than the American spelling - on our terrace. Mind you, I was near showering state - down to my boxers - while Shanti was still wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I should note, that it is a bit taboo to be so lacking in clothing in public; men almost always wear pants despite the heat and women usually cover themselves quite fully. Anyways, it was under these circumstances that we began playing.

I will say that the lighting was a bit poor, but Shanti did not live up to expectations as a formerly excellent badminton player. In fact, prior to playing, we made a little wager asking ourselves, how long will it be until the shuttlecock (shuttlecake to some) ends up on the roof. Shanti said twenty minutes and I said far fewer. Within the first twenty minutes I had climbed out on to the roof not once, not twice, not even thrice, but four times all at the hands of my counterpart. This, however, is not to say that I am an expert, but I did manage to keep the shuttlecock in bounds. But we enjoyed our limited space and low ceiling and managed to avoid breaking anything, including the fluorescent green and blue party lights that adorn the terrace.

Whilst we were enjoying ourselves, we (and me being in my boxers alone) gained an audience from a handful of girls, say four or five of them, a few houses down with a window on the same level of our terrace. I wasn't sure if they were more amused by our poor play or my outfit (or lack thereof). Slightly embarrassed, we waved to them, receiving a prompt and enthusiastic wave back.

A few nights later, walking home from work, I passed the girls' house and one girl was standing outside. I said 'how are you?' in Khmer (sok sobei day?) while she blushed a bit, answered that she was well, and looked away . The next night, Shanti and I again put our badminton skills to the test - with much better results on both sides I might add - and again won over a large audience, complete with clapping after some of our better "points." Anyways, we've decided to invite the girls over for ice cream (and perhaps to teach us a few things, badminton style). I'll let you know when it happens.

Sihanoukville

After a good, hard week of work, and with Shanti just back from two days in a rural village, we decided to take off to Sihanoukville (known as Kompong Som to most Cambodians), a port and beach town in southern Cambodia.

The town itself has a mixed reputation among expats as it is not very aesthetically appealing and is somewhat rife with seedy Westerners. That said, the sprawling Sihanoukville offers up the best beaches in Cambodia (on the Gulf of Thailand) and serves as a good launching point to Ream National Park, a beautiful marine park boasting hundreds of bird species and an excellent day trip. Irrespective of its reputation, we were excited to get out of town for a long weekend (Monday was a holiday here celebrating the king's coronation).

We arrived shortly after 6:00, with our impression of Sihanoukville off to an inauspicious start. We directed a moto driver to a guesthouse we picked out with our guidebook. We quickly realized, however, that our moto driver was not taking us to the guesthouse we desired, but to one that pays him to take his customers there. We told him to take us to the correct location or we would find another moto driver (there were plenty around). He refused, unless we pay him double what we agreed to, so we walked on, without paying him, as he protested. After a short walk and as the sun was setting in the then unfamiliar Sihanoukville, we found a fantastic moto driver (English-speaking college student named John) to take us to the right spot. We checked in to a rustic guesthouse where we got our own A-frame 'bungalow' (I'm using that term very loosely here) complete with bed, mosquito net, and rustic, sinkless bathroom. Once settled, we set off down a dark and somewhat sketchy road toward a handful of restaurants ending up at a very nice one with the calm waves of the Gulf of Thailand lapping at the deck of the restaurant.

After a good night's sleep and a bit of early morning wandering, we checked out of our mediocre accommodation and decided to take a boat to one of the islands a little ways offshore and in the Gulf of Thailand. It was, perhaps, the best decision we made all weekend. For just a few dollars each we took a 45-minute boat ride to Bamboo Island (Koh Russei), 10km from shore. On the way there we passed a number of smaller islands and quite a few dilapidated and surprisingly seaworthy fishing boats. As we got closer, we could see a beautiful sandy beach lined with a handful of wooden, thatch-roofed bungalows. We hopped out of the boat and waded to shore along with four Spanish tourists who were also on the boat. It was gorgeous. Exactly what you think of when you think tropical paradise: isolated, soft, sandy beaches, clear aquamarine waters, tons of palm trees, and a few huts and fishing boats here and there.

Instead of remaining content with this, however, we followed the tip of a Kiwi we met at the airport in LA on our way here, and trekked over to the other side of the island. It was a short, ten-minute walk on a dirt path through the jungle (sadly it felt like more of a jungle trek than our actual jungle trek in Bokor). After passing a small and seemingly oddly placed Royal Cambodian Armed Forces (RCAF) base, we emerged into pure bliss. A long, soft, sandy beach, a few thatch huts (including a small restaurant) ,and blue sky and water as far as the eye could see. We checked in to our own cute little rustic beach bungalow (an actual bungalow this time) with beds, mosquito nets, snorkel gear, a small porch with hammock, and a view that invites you to stay forever. Besides the small family running the restaurant and bungalows, we were the only ones on this side of the island. We hopped in to the beautiful water, jumping over surprisingly big waves and even riding a few in. The water was a bit cloudy, so our snorkel gear was a bit useless and somehow while swimming, I lost my mask (a $2 fee I was willing to fork over upon checkout).

Unfortunately, the afternoon became quite windy (I would guess 50mph gusts), so we retired to our bungalow for cards and books. It cleared up after a little bit and we headed back in to the water. It was glorious. Our own tropical paradise. After we'd had our fill of beach and water, we rinsed off in the communal shower and went to over to the restaurant to break Yom Kipur fast (Shanti had joined me in fasting). Though a bit pricey, the food was fantastic - I had steak and french fries and Shanti had pasta - and the setting was idyllic. There was a magnificent sunset as we ate and played cards. Exhausted and stuffed, we fell asleep to the sound of the waves crashing ashore.

We woke the next morning to rain, which, in its own way, was quite beautiful. It poured; the wind howled and visibility was reduced to near nothing. When it stopped, we strolled down the beach, picking up shells, watching small crabs scamper about, and stumbling upon a small reef which was uncovered by the low tide. The sun finally came out and I decided to explore the water a bit more with snorkel gear. Borrowing Shanti's mask, I went out into the water. I put the mask on and dipped my head under water only fifteen or twenty feet from shore. Immediately, I saw something. Black and white, a little smaller than a football, it was an octopus! I yelled at Shanti to rush into the water to catch a glimpse. She didn't believe me. When she finally made her way in, I couldn't find the octopus. I managed to track it down though, and there was a second witness to ensure I wasn't seeing things. Trading the mask back and forth, we fought a surprisingly strong current to see perhaps a dozen different kinds of fish and some beautiful coral, but nothing as exciting as that octopus. For the rest of the trip, we kept saying 'I can't believe we saw an octopus!'

Within a short while, we had to go back to the other side of the island to make our boat back. We relaxed in the sun and explored a bit until it was time to leave. The water, though still calm, was a bit rougher than the day before and we got absolutely soaked on the way back. Instead of staying in the same place we did the first night (which was mediocre and a bit isolated), we opted to stay in a place in the town center, which, also mediocre, was at least better located. Hungry, and eager for a filling, satisfying meal, we walked over to a place called "Happy Herb Pizza" - I don't know what the deal is with all the restaurant references to weed - where we had a fantastic meal of an Italian sandwich, a calzone, a beer (for me), and a glass of wine (for Shanti). On the way back to the guesthouse, we stopped and got badminton equipment; it's all the rage here and, well, we were itching to take part (AND Shanti had been bragging about her expert badminton play quite a bit...I promise an entry on this within a few days).

Our final morning in Sihanoukville was rather uneventful, though we had a delightful breakfast at a place called The Starfish Bakery and Cafe. It's operated by disabled women and set in an oasis-like garden; I had some of the best French toast I've ever had and some incredibly fresh pineapple juice for just a few dollars. We also got some deliciously huge cookies for the bus ride back (one chocolate chip and one peanut butter). Keep an eye out for my next post on badminton, it's coming soon.

The People: Motorbike Driver

In order to keep your interest when I don’t have anything that exciting to write about, I’ve decided to start a new segment on the blog which I’m going to call “The People.” In this segment, which I’ll do every two weeks or so, I’ll analyze a typical (or perhaps stereotypical) Cambodian. Please bear in mind, however, that there are almost always exceptions to the rule and that the personas I describe are the “more often than not” of the genre.

As the heading may suggest, the first installment will be the motorbike driver.

He (it’s always a he) is waiting on every corner. He’s wearing leather sandals or flip flops, slacks (some nicer than others), a long-sleeve, button-down shirt, and, more often than not, a baseball cap adorning the logo of, believe or not, an American baseball team (unfortunately the Yankees tend to prevail, though I’ve seen Red Sox, Tigers, and Indians hats as well).

For the most part, he’s pretty lazy. He has an intersection which is his ‘territory’ where he waits for his usual customers. Throughout the day, he will move from corner to corner at the same intersection, depending where the shade is. His balance is incredible, not only in his ability to weave through the snarled and chaotic traffic of the city, but in his ability to somehow lie across his motorbike and fall sleep.

If you (you being a foreigner) are walking down the street, you will be approached by not only the driver whose territory you’re in, but by passing motorbike drivers as well. ‘Territorial’ motorbike drivers will rouse from their sleep at the corner, start their motorbike and drive the short distance from their location (as little as twenty feet) to you, using the only two words of English they know to see if you want a ride: “Motorbike, sir?” If they are even lazier, they will remain on their motorbike and shoot their hand into the air, and only if you respond in the affirmative (with a nod or a smile) will they move from their position. The passing motorbike driver will also use his scant English to solicit a customer, though he will do so as he whizzes by, almost without looking back, and continuing on his way unless he receives the answer he’s looking for.

Now, should you for some strange reason wish to walk, instead of take a motorbike, you will get a funny look, for no one walks anywhere in Cambodia except by absolute necessity (this is especially true of foreigners). Should you speak even basic Khmer (as I now can) and respond to the moto driver in the negative in Khmer (‘aht-day’- no, or ‘dahr’ – walk), he and any surrounding moto driver will start laughing hysterically. For some reason, he is incredibly amused by not only your desire to walk, but by the fact that you can speak even a word of his language. A brief note about motorbike drivers in groups: if you are walking and turn down a moto driver, for some reason surrounding moto drivers believe that you may want a ride with them (as if their moto is nicer or they look friendly), resulting in a deluge of motorbike offers (if I decide to make the twenty minute walk to work instead of moto-ing, I will get asked fifteen to twenty times if I want a motorbike).

Should you accept the solicitations, you must first bargain with the driver before getting on the motorbike. He will often start out at one dollar (or 4000 riels), though a short ride with a familiar driver is only 1000 riels. It may seem silly to squabble over as little as 500 riels (as often is the case), but it is essential to set the right price not for money’s sake, but as a matter of principle. You’re much more likely to get a good price if you can haggle in Khmer.

After haggling, you hop on his motorbike and tell him where to go. One would think that a moto driver who makes their living driving others around for a living would have a good sense of the city in which he works. This could not be further from the truth. In fact, it’s shocking to meet a motorbike driver that actually knows where he is going. What will usually happen – as I learned my first week here – is that your motorbike driver will nod vigorously, assuring you he knows exactly where your destination is. The fact of the matter is, however, that he has no idea where your destination is (and only rarely does he know the names of the most major streets) and only wants to ensure that he gets your money. If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll be in the same boat as your driver, who will just drive straight until you direct him otherwise. Therefore, it is essential to know almost exactly where you’re going before you set off. The matter is complicated slightly by the house numbering system (see prior entry ‘Going Postal’), but there is still no excuse for the motorbike driver’s ignorance of the city he lives in.

If you know where you’re going, though, the ride is quite enjoyable. At speeds that feel fast, but are actually not so, the driver zips in and out of traffic, drives on the wrong side of the street, and runs red lights and stop signs (all common practices here). Most importantly, he will get you to your destination quickly, safely (it’s all relative), and cheaply.

He is lazy yet graceful, poorly informed yet persistent. He is a motorbike driver.