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.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Back to Battambang
On Friday, I took off from work early to catch a bus back to Battambang, a city in the northwest of Cambodia. Uneventful bus ride except for two things. First, in addition to the usual karaoke music videos, the bus driver played a live performance incredibly popular with passengers featuring a cross-dressing Cambodian man (complete with moustache) speaking in a falsetto voice. Second, a small box fell off the top of the van in front of us. The driver honked, flashed his lights and motioned at the van, but it took several kilometers to get them to pull over and eventually turn around.
Upon arrival in Battambang, I checked in to a cheap guest house ($4/night) and wandered around a bit. There was a carnival going on along the river, complete with the most rickety Ferris Wheel I've ever seen, bumper cars, kiddie rides, and carnival games, which I unsuccessfully tried my hand at. After a brief visit to the carnival, I walked over to a park bustling with activity. People were walking, jogging, and yes, line dancing. Though it did not compare to the thousands at the Olympic Stadium, I was able to capture a video which I'm hoping to post. It was also in this park that I met a very interesting guy named Thorn (pronounced more like Torn than Thorn). He spoke good English, proudly told me he converted to Christianity, and offered me some popcorn. After chatting for a few minutes, he offered to be my guide out into the country side the next day. I accepted, and headed off to dinner at a place called "Smokin' Pot," which attracted an interesting assortment of foreigners. I had some delicious loc lak; it wasn't as good as The Elephant Walk, but for $1.50, I wasn't going to complain. With a happy belly, I retired to the guest house for the evening.
I woke up early, excited to hit the road. I showered and turned on the TV to see none other than my Baltimore Orioles on ESPN. They, of course, were losing, but it was still a good way to start the day. Thorn arrived a bit before 8:00 and we set off. Just a few kilometers outside of town, the road became dirt and bumpy and the scenery changed rather dramatically. Stilted wood and thatch huts dotted the road, which was bustling with kids playing, people working in rice fields, and people transporting goods. It was beautiful and no words (and not even my pictures) can come close to doing it justice. For the majority of the day I was the only foreigner around and, as such, was treated as a novelty. Every kid that sold me beamed a fantastic smile, waved, and yelled "Hellloooooo" as we whirred by on Thorn's motorbike.
After a somewhat bumpy and surprisingly exhausting 25km motorbike ride, we arrived at Wat Banan, a Buddhist temple complex dating back to the 7th century that is often referred to as a "mini Angkor Wat." Several kids accompanied us up the 358 steep stone steps (the only way to reach the temple itself), using fans to cool us down in the already hot and humid morning. We reached the top and had a beautiful view of the incredibly flat rice paddies and jungle that surrounded us. After checking out the temples (probably the oldest man-made structure I've ever seen), we trekked down the back side of the hill through a papaya plantation to some bat-inhabited cave temples. It was about as cool as it sounds, which is pretty damn cool and a nice break from the heat of the morning.
Back at the motorbike, we set off for Phnom Sampeu, a modern, still-in-use temple on the top of a mountain and the site of more caves and a Khmer Rouge camp. The road to Phnom Sampeu was even more taxing than that to Wat Banan. My butt quickly became sore and I got a few blisters on each hand from holding on to the back of the motorbike. But again, the ride was gorgeous. The steps up to Phnom Sampeu were even steeper and more numerous than those up Wat Banan. Thorn and I stopped several times to catch our breath and have the sandwiches and snacks I packed for lunch. Once at the top, we descended down a long stairway into another cave temple. Climbing again to the top, we examined the brightly colored temples and the magnificent view. From the top, we descended again into another area of the temple with two enormous statues of Buddha, one sitting and one lying down. We were greeted by a handful of monks and a handful of monkeys. From here, we descended further into another cave, which had been converted into a temple and a memorial for the nearly 2,000 who perished after being pushed into the cave by the Khmer Rouge. The case full of human bones only added to the creepiness.
Descending the steps that we originally came up, we headed on even worse dirt road to Kamping Poy, a lake created by a Khmer Rouge-era dam (the construction of which resulted in the death of some 10,000 people). Ironically, the locale is now used by many Cambodians as a popular holiday destination. Before arriving, we stopped to get some delicious fried bananas - my favorite food here. After asking Thorn if we were almost there several times like a five year-old, we finally arrived and was quite relieved to get off the motorbike. For about $0.50 you could rent a thatch hut on the lakeside and just sit in the hammocks provided and relax. We did just that for an hour and it was fantastic. Some kids came to over to check us (me) out. As usual, whenever we stopped, everyone found it amusing that I could speak even a little Khmer. They provided great practice without knowing it!
Our final stop of the day was to be Wat Ek Phnom, a 10th century hilltop temple. We set off, traveling along a dirt path - it wasn't even good enough to be called a road - along an irrigation ditch with rice paddies on either side. About halfway through the tortuous 30km ride back to the main road, it started pouring. It felt fantastic. I didn't even want to put my raincoat on. Instead, I used it as an added layer of protection for my cameras in my backpack. By the time we got to National Route 5, I was far too exhausted for another steep climb and probably even to appreciate Wat Ek Phnom, so I decided we should just go back to Battambang.
After a short rest, Thorn picked me up to take me to the place he was staying and so that he could copy my pictures to his computer's hard drive. Just a few kilometers outside of town, it was a nice house where Christian converts were living and were led by a young, scrawny, Cambodian pastor, who, upon my arrival, was teaching a handful of people how to "dance hip-hop." It was quite bizarre and felt quite sterile. I was glad to leave.
I again had dinner at Smokin' Pot because it was so good and cheap. While there, I met a cool Australian guy named Harry (or Haaa-rry) who was traveling around for a few weeks. He'd traveled fairly extensively in Asia on previous trips - Vietnam, Laos, Thailand - and had some good ideas of places to go and things to see. We finished our dinners and walked over to a place called the Riverside Balcony Bar, which, as the name implies, was a riverside balcony bar. We kicked back a few beers (at $0.60 each) and just talked about all the things that travelers talk about - home lives, politics, other travel, impressions of Cambodia, music, etc. It was a nice, enjoyable evening and it was complemented by a very good sleep.
Sunday morning I wandered around Battambang a bit before catching my bus back. I had a fantastic baguette and some oranges (Battambang is known for its oranges, which, ironically, are green), sat along the riverside, and wandered in and out of shops selling paintings and stone carvings. On the bus back, I sat next to another Cambodian, Pheak, who was eager to practice his English and "make friendship" with a foreigner because he had never had a foreign friend before. Besides being perhaps a bit too eager, he was quite nice and shared the food he purchased on the way - oranges, a weird cactus looking plant called 'chou', peanuts, etc. It was a long bus ride, but we made it back in one piece and luckily missed the torrential rains that hammered Phnom Penh over the weekend. All in all an excellent weekend. I look forward to my next adventure, wherever it may be.
Upon arrival in Battambang, I checked in to a cheap guest house ($4/night) and wandered around a bit. There was a carnival going on along the river, complete with the most rickety Ferris Wheel I've ever seen, bumper cars, kiddie rides, and carnival games, which I unsuccessfully tried my hand at. After a brief visit to the carnival, I walked over to a park bustling with activity. People were walking, jogging, and yes, line dancing. Though it did not compare to the thousands at the Olympic Stadium, I was able to capture a video which I'm hoping to post. It was also in this park that I met a very interesting guy named Thorn (pronounced more like Torn than Thorn). He spoke good English, proudly told me he converted to Christianity, and offered me some popcorn. After chatting for a few minutes, he offered to be my guide out into the country side the next day. I accepted, and headed off to dinner at a place called "Smokin' Pot," which attracted an interesting assortment of foreigners. I had some delicious loc lak; it wasn't as good as The Elephant Walk, but for $1.50, I wasn't going to complain. With a happy belly, I retired to the guest house for the evening.
I woke up early, excited to hit the road. I showered and turned on the TV to see none other than my Baltimore Orioles on ESPN. They, of course, were losing, but it was still a good way to start the day. Thorn arrived a bit before 8:00 and we set off. Just a few kilometers outside of town, the road became dirt and bumpy and the scenery changed rather dramatically. Stilted wood and thatch huts dotted the road, which was bustling with kids playing, people working in rice fields, and people transporting goods. It was beautiful and no words (and not even my pictures) can come close to doing it justice. For the majority of the day I was the only foreigner around and, as such, was treated as a novelty. Every kid that sold me beamed a fantastic smile, waved, and yelled "Hellloooooo" as we whirred by on Thorn's motorbike.
After a somewhat bumpy and surprisingly exhausting 25km motorbike ride, we arrived at Wat Banan, a Buddhist temple complex dating back to the 7th century that is often referred to as a "mini Angkor Wat." Several kids accompanied us up the 358 steep stone steps (the only way to reach the temple itself), using fans to cool us down in the already hot and humid morning. We reached the top and had a beautiful view of the incredibly flat rice paddies and jungle that surrounded us. After checking out the temples (probably the oldest man-made structure I've ever seen), we trekked down the back side of the hill through a papaya plantation to some bat-inhabited cave temples. It was about as cool as it sounds, which is pretty damn cool and a nice break from the heat of the morning.
Back at the motorbike, we set off for Phnom Sampeu, a modern, still-in-use temple on the top of a mountain and the site of more caves and a Khmer Rouge camp. The road to Phnom Sampeu was even more taxing than that to Wat Banan. My butt quickly became sore and I got a few blisters on each hand from holding on to the back of the motorbike. But again, the ride was gorgeous. The steps up to Phnom Sampeu were even steeper and more numerous than those up Wat Banan. Thorn and I stopped several times to catch our breath and have the sandwiches and snacks I packed for lunch. Once at the top, we descended down a long stairway into another cave temple. Climbing again to the top, we examined the brightly colored temples and the magnificent view. From the top, we descended again into another area of the temple with two enormous statues of Buddha, one sitting and one lying down. We were greeted by a handful of monks and a handful of monkeys. From here, we descended further into another cave, which had been converted into a temple and a memorial for the nearly 2,000 who perished after being pushed into the cave by the Khmer Rouge. The case full of human bones only added to the creepiness.
Descending the steps that we originally came up, we headed on even worse dirt road to Kamping Poy, a lake created by a Khmer Rouge-era dam (the construction of which resulted in the death of some 10,000 people). Ironically, the locale is now used by many Cambodians as a popular holiday destination. Before arriving, we stopped to get some delicious fried bananas - my favorite food here. After asking Thorn if we were almost there several times like a five year-old, we finally arrived and was quite relieved to get off the motorbike. For about $0.50 you could rent a thatch hut on the lakeside and just sit in the hammocks provided and relax. We did just that for an hour and it was fantastic. Some kids came to over to check us (me) out. As usual, whenever we stopped, everyone found it amusing that I could speak even a little Khmer. They provided great practice without knowing it!
Our final stop of the day was to be Wat Ek Phnom, a 10th century hilltop temple. We set off, traveling along a dirt path - it wasn't even good enough to be called a road - along an irrigation ditch with rice paddies on either side. About halfway through the tortuous 30km ride back to the main road, it started pouring. It felt fantastic. I didn't even want to put my raincoat on. Instead, I used it as an added layer of protection for my cameras in my backpack. By the time we got to National Route 5, I was far too exhausted for another steep climb and probably even to appreciate Wat Ek Phnom, so I decided we should just go back to Battambang.
After a short rest, Thorn picked me up to take me to the place he was staying and so that he could copy my pictures to his computer's hard drive. Just a few kilometers outside of town, it was a nice house where Christian converts were living and were led by a young, scrawny, Cambodian pastor, who, upon my arrival, was teaching a handful of people how to "dance hip-hop." It was quite bizarre and felt quite sterile. I was glad to leave.
I again had dinner at Smokin' Pot because it was so good and cheap. While there, I met a cool Australian guy named Harry (or Haaa-rry) who was traveling around for a few weeks. He'd traveled fairly extensively in Asia on previous trips - Vietnam, Laos, Thailand - and had some good ideas of places to go and things to see. We finished our dinners and walked over to a place called the Riverside Balcony Bar, which, as the name implies, was a riverside balcony bar. We kicked back a few beers (at $0.60 each) and just talked about all the things that travelers talk about - home lives, politics, other travel, impressions of Cambodia, music, etc. It was a nice, enjoyable evening and it was complemented by a very good sleep.
Sunday morning I wandered around Battambang a bit before catching my bus back. I had a fantastic baguette and some oranges (Battambang is known for its oranges, which, ironically, are green), sat along the riverside, and wandered in and out of shops selling paintings and stone carvings. On the bus back, I sat next to another Cambodian, Pheak, who was eager to practice his English and "make friendship" with a foreigner because he had never had a foreign friend before. Besides being perhaps a bit too eager, he was quite nice and shared the food he purchased on the way - oranges, a weird cactus looking plant called 'chou', peanuts, etc. It was a long bus ride, but we made it back in one piece and luckily missed the torrential rains that hammered Phnom Penh over the weekend. All in all an excellent weekend. I look forward to my next adventure, wherever it may be.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Lunch in the Park
On Wednesday, I had a delightful lunch by myself on a bench in a park across the street from my office. After fifteen minutes or so, an obvious alcoholic came and sat next to me, offering me some of his booze. I thanked him, but declined, explaining (in Khmer) that I had to go back to work soon. We proceded to sit in silence for several minutes. And then he became my Khmer teacher (or at least tried to become my Khmer teacher). He picked up a coconut which someone had drank from, pointed to it and said the word for coconut in Khmer - I forget what it is because he wasn't a very good teacher. Then, he put both of his hands by his side and lifted them up, urging me to repeat the word several times. This happened several times for a few different words. After that, he took his half drunk bottle of booze and hid it in a bush in the park and walked off never to be seen again.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Burning Down the House
After getting up on Saturday morning, Shanti and trekked to a hardware store a few blocks away to get a hammer and four strands of white Christmas lights to decorate our apartment. In the store, they plugged the lights in to prove to use that they were working and we bought them for about $1 per strand.
Upon returning home, we strung the lights up around the family room/dining room (see the result here: http://good-times.webshots.com/photo/2187272930101814057HvbAWI). The first and second strands went up and worked without a problem. We put the third strand up and couldn't plug it in - the metal part of the prong was pushed back in to the plastic part that housed it. I used my pliers to pull it back out. Again, I couldn't plug it in. I tried a third time using my pliers (and wearing orange rubber gloves just in case). The lights worked! For a second... Then there was a few sparks from the plug and the power in the entire house went out.
We rushed downstairs to our "host family" to convey what had happened in an interesting mix of Khmer and English. Their driver/fixer/translator (who speaks a very little bit of English) came up and somehow was able to restore power. He then went back downstairs to return with a box of 8-mode colored Christmas lights. What Cambodian househould just has those things lying around?? Though we said we wanted what lights, he insisted that we keep them and informed us that $1 Christmas lights are "aht la-aw" (not good).
Upon returning home, we strung the lights up around the family room/dining room (see the result here: http://good-times.webshots.com/photo/2187272930101814057HvbAWI). The first and second strands went up and worked without a problem. We put the third strand up and couldn't plug it in - the metal part of the prong was pushed back in to the plastic part that housed it. I used my pliers to pull it back out. Again, I couldn't plug it in. I tried a third time using my pliers (and wearing orange rubber gloves just in case). The lights worked! For a second... Then there was a few sparks from the plug and the power in the entire house went out.
We rushed downstairs to our "host family" to convey what had happened in an interesting mix of Khmer and English. Their driver/fixer/translator (who speaks a very little bit of English) came up and somehow was able to restore power. He then went back downstairs to return with a box of 8-mode colored Christmas lights. What Cambodian househould just has those things lying around?? Though we said we wanted what lights, he insisted that we keep them and informed us that $1 Christmas lights are "aht la-aw" (not good).
Sunday, September 2, 2007
A Fun Friday
Friday was a good day. Normal day of work in the morning. At 11:00am I got a call from my camera repairman. After nearly three weeks of working on my digital camera (which got a bit of water/condensation in it on our boat trip in Kampot) and completely taking it apart, it was fixed for a mere $35.
Picking it up at lunch, I then met Shanti at an oasis of a coffee shop/restaurant called Java Café, which has wireless Internet access, a jungle-like deluge of plants, and a view of the Independence Monument. It’s an ex-pat stomping ground and it’s got great food. I had a delicious mozzarella cheeseburger with the best fries I’ve had in Cambodia thus far.
Friday evening, Shanti and I met a Kiwi friend, Anna, at her house before going out on the town. She was home with another Kiwi, Rachel, and a fantastically interesting Algerian guy named Irad. We had met Irad at a dinner two weeks before and it was really good to see him again. He’s working for the Catholic church as a doctor, spending most of his time in rural southern Cambodia and a few days a week in Phnom Penh. He had some fantastic stories, like:
Picking it up at lunch, I then met Shanti at an oasis of a coffee shop/restaurant called Java Café, which has wireless Internet access, a jungle-like deluge of plants, and a view of the Independence Monument. It’s an ex-pat stomping ground and it’s got great food. I had a delicious mozzarella cheeseburger with the best fries I’ve had in Cambodia thus far.
Friday evening, Shanti and I met a Kiwi friend, Anna, at her house before going out on the town. She was home with another Kiwi, Rachel, and a fantastically interesting Algerian guy named Irad. We had met Irad at a dinner two weeks before and it was really good to see him again. He’s working for the Catholic church as a doctor, spending most of his time in rural southern Cambodia and a few days a week in Phnom Penh. He had some fantastic stories, like:
- how at a hospital in Algiers, a gang fight between two rival factions broke out with him caught in the middle. He hid in an operating room as the two groups fought, peeking out occasionally to see if he could escape. Seeing a doctor caught in the middle, the two gangs agreed to “pause” their fighting and let him escape.
- how when he got his Cambodian driver’s license, he, a proud Algerian with a seemingly French background, was given an “Indian” nationality because the Cambodians didn’t know any better.
- how a fake policeman pulled him over in Cambodia demanding money. He drove away and stopped on a quiet side street, while the man claiming to be a policeman followed him. He got out of the car, took the key to man’s motorbike and then started demanding money from him. Unbelievable…
Anyways, after hanging out for a bit, we went to a bar/Pakistani restaurant called Monsoon. The owner, an Australian woman is good friends with my friend Nick, who I worked with at CSIS and who worked in Phnom Penh for a year. The food and drink there was quite good and it was a particularly interesting scene this evening as they were celebrating their second anniversary of being in business. The crew was mostly ex-pats (as opposed to tourists), with some American, some Aussies, some Europeans, some South Asians, and even a few Africans.
After a bit of time at Monsoon, we went to a nightclub called The Heart of Darkness and known affectionately as “The Heart.” We entered to gothic interior, thumping bass, and hundreds of Cambodians and a few tourists and ex-pats letting loose. There was a middle-aged Cambodian man doing an informal pole dance, an older Chinese man trying to dance, but failing miserably, a young Cambodian who dressed like Jimi Hendrix and danced like Michael Jackson, and Irad, who danced in cheery French manner. Kris Kross and other early ‘90s hits blared on the speakers along with recordings that clearly didn’t make it to the American markets.
Going Postal
Recently, Shanti got word that one of her former professors was going to send a book to our address here. Not knowing what to expect from the Cambodian postal service, we feared the worst. Wednesday night, just over a week after it was sent, we got a slip at the house to pick up the package. On Thursday, Shanti went to the post office nearest to our house (just two blocks away), thinking the package would be available there. However, the package was not there, it was at the main post office, in a beautiful colonial building in the northern part of the city.
After our lunch, we went to the post office, which is closed from 11:00am to 2:00pm for a cushy three hour lunch. We arrived at 1:58 and walked in to the office and went to the proper “small parcels” counter. At first, the gentleman at the counter paid us no attention, watching some B American action movie. Finally, he turned around to acknowledge us.
“I’m sorry, it’s not yet two o’clock. You’ll have to wait maybe two more minutes.” He turned around to continue to watch his movie. We waited at the counter. He offered us a seat against the wall, we declined and stood at the counter. While waiting, we met a Belgian man who had had bad experiences with the postal service. His present package was sent three months before and was still missing. His previous one arrived after four months and was missing one of the three bottles of “cham-pagn-ya” he was sent.
Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, we got some help. A woman disappeared with the package slip and returned with nothing. A man disappeared with the package slip and returned with the package. There was a 2000 riel ($0.50) pick up charge. Shanti only had a ten. The woman that originally helped us began searching through her personal wallet for change. She disappears into the back with money. She returns with change and we escape from the post office with Shanti’s package and the correct change.
From the post office, I took a moto first to Shanti’s office to drop her off and then to a meeting with a local human rights organization, LICADHO, to meet with someone to discuss land titling and registration issues (more on work soon). The address was house #16 on Street 99.
A word on street and house numbers. The North-South streets in Phnom Penh have consecutive odd numbers, starting in the East and moving West and the East-West streets have consecutive even numbers, starting in the North and moving South; it’s a surprisingly good system. The house numbering system is not quite as effective.
Anyways, I made my way to Street 99 and tracked down #16, a non-descript looking house, which did not look like a major local NGO. I rang the bell and a small Cambodian boy answered. “LICADHO,” I said. He rolled his eyes and pointed down the street. It was 100m further on. In Phnom Penh, residents can choose their house number – there is no system for street numbering whatsoever, so oftentimes there are several houses on the same street with the same number.
After our lunch, we went to the post office, which is closed from 11:00am to 2:00pm for a cushy three hour lunch. We arrived at 1:58 and walked in to the office and went to the proper “small parcels” counter. At first, the gentleman at the counter paid us no attention, watching some B American action movie. Finally, he turned around to acknowledge us.
“I’m sorry, it’s not yet two o’clock. You’ll have to wait maybe two more minutes.” He turned around to continue to watch his movie. We waited at the counter. He offered us a seat against the wall, we declined and stood at the counter. While waiting, we met a Belgian man who had had bad experiences with the postal service. His present package was sent three months before and was still missing. His previous one arrived after four months and was missing one of the three bottles of “cham-pagn-ya” he was sent.
Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, we got some help. A woman disappeared with the package slip and returned with nothing. A man disappeared with the package slip and returned with the package. There was a 2000 riel ($0.50) pick up charge. Shanti only had a ten. The woman that originally helped us began searching through her personal wallet for change. She disappears into the back with money. She returns with change and we escape from the post office with Shanti’s package and the correct change.
From the post office, I took a moto first to Shanti’s office to drop her off and then to a meeting with a local human rights organization, LICADHO, to meet with someone to discuss land titling and registration issues (more on work soon). The address was house #16 on Street 99.
A word on street and house numbers. The North-South streets in Phnom Penh have consecutive odd numbers, starting in the East and moving West and the East-West streets have consecutive even numbers, starting in the North and moving South; it’s a surprisingly good system. The house numbering system is not quite as effective.
Anyways, I made my way to Street 99 and tracked down #16, a non-descript looking house, which did not look like a major local NGO. I rang the bell and a small Cambodian boy answered. “LICADHO,” I said. He rolled his eyes and pointed down the street. It was 100m further on. In Phnom Penh, residents can choose their house number – there is no system for street numbering whatsoever, so oftentimes there are several houses on the same street with the same number.
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