Your Phnom Penh Pal

The Mystery of the Late Night Knocker

2009-05-29T02:37:00.003+07:00

Every night at about 10pm - the same time that we are treated to an emotional rendition of "Hotel California" - we hear a strange knocking noise. It almost sounds like someone is playing a wooden cowbell. So one night, we ventured out to the terrace to observe the wooden knocking.

It is exactly what it sounds like: a guy walking down the street tapping on a block of wood with a chopstick. Our minds fill with the possible purpose of the wooden knocker. Is he selling drugs? Or women? Or worse? A few minutes later, as we stand and contemplate, another wooden knocker walks by on a perpendicular street.

With piqued curiosity, I asked one of my co-workers the next day. When I explained my concern that the wooden knocker may be involved in illicit activities, he laughed. Apparently the wooden knocker - and his counterparts across the city - sells noodles. He parks his noodle cart on a street corner and walks through the neighborhood, advertising his wares with his wooden knocking. That will teach me to assume the worst when it comes to sketchy goings-on on the streets of Phnom Penh.

Scuba Diving in Cambo

2009-05-21T03:01:00.006+07:00

A few months ago Shanti and I were at a party with a group of friends when I overhead one of them mention that she was planning to get scuba certified. Moreover, a group of our friends wa going to Sihanoukville to dive together. I had always wanted to do a scuba course but was inevitably short on time, money, or both.

The day after the party, I went to Scuba Nation’s Phnom Penh branch and signed Shanti and I up for the PADI Open Water Diver course. Once we completed the course, we would be able to dive to eighteen meters (about sixty feet) and would be certified for life. I attacked the course book with relish and watched the complementary DVD over the next few weeks.

With the dive trip fast approaching, Shanti and I scheduled our pool dive for a Saturday morning. We met at the Scuba Nation office and drove up to the Long Beach Hotel in Tuol Kork. It felt a bit funny to be carrying all of the dive equipment – tanks, masks, fins, BCDs – through a hotel to its swimming pool and it felt even stranger when we realized that there was a wedding going on by the pool. Naturally, the wedding guests were intrigued and crowded around us; it was certainly a unique experience to be surrounded by 100 people watching your every move when you’re wearing nothing but a bathing suit (especially so for the ‘scantily’ clad Shanti and Vicky, our instructor). For a good fifteen minutes, an old man, glued to his seat, kept pointing at us and laughing. The large audience put some unneeded added pressure on Shanti and me. Once in (and under) the water, however, our movements warranted less interest and the wedding-goers left us alone.

After setting up our equipment and putting it on, we entered the pool and, over the next several hours, learned how to scuba dive. Within a few minutes of getting in the pool, we were transformed to fish breathing under water. Though it was a bit tricky to get a feel for everything given the conditions of the pool (shallow, small, no current, freshwater), Shanti and I were both surprised at how easy the entire process was. We did a run through of the drills we would have to complete in the open water to receive our certification and excitedly awaited our dives in Sihanoukville.

A few days later we caught the Mekong Express bus down to Sihanoukville. We had a nice seafood dinner on the beach and retired early, eager in anticipation of the next day’s dives.

We were up early in the morning for the drive to the Sihanoukville port where we set off into the Gulf of Thailand. We passed the Japanese navy conducting joint exercises with their Cambodian counterparts as well as the bizarre James Bond-like Mirax Resort. We went past Koh Rong Samloem until we reached Koh Tang, about four hours off the coast. As we approached, we donned our gear and prepared for our first real scuba diving adventure.

Within moments we were off the boat and in the water, descending to forty feet below the surface. There was no current and the visibility was good, so we settled on the seabed to begin practicing the necessary skills – mask clearing and replacement, hovering at the sea floor, controlling our breathing, navigation, etc. It was both amazing and disorienting to look up towards the surface, which appeared within arm’s reach. A multitude of vibrant fish and coral surrounded us on all sides with our divemaster, Klaus, pointing out particular items of interest. It’s hard to describe the sensation we felt when we began to swim around; it was somewhat akin to floating, but with a bit of work involved.

The time that we were underwater – one hour – went incredibly fast; it felt like we had been under for about fifteen minutes. With two dives already under our belts, we did one more quick one at sunset to complete our controlled emergency swimming ascent (CESA), a frightening and counterintuitive maneuver. With a mock CESA, your air is turned off when you're forty feet down and you need to swim to the surface with the one breath you have, exhaling the whole time (because the air in your lungs expands as you rise). After a delicious dinner on board, the novice divers donned snorkeling masks and followed the experts around as they did a night dive.

We woke up early for two more dives. As we gradually fine-tuned our skills, we were able to pay greater attention to our surroundings – the brightly colored tropical fish and corals, the crystal clear aquamarine waters, the landscape of the seabed, and the way the sunlight danced at the water’s surface.

All in all it was a phenomenal experience and a skill I look forward to using throughout the world.

Karaoke with His Excellency

2009-05-13T01:56:00.004+07:00

I'm now back in the U.S. and starting to catch up on posts. I'll try and post several in the next couple of weeks. Here's the first:

It came about innocently enough. After several breakfasts, a few family lunches and dinners, and an election victory celebration party, His Excellency hinted at his desire to take us to karaoke. Having enjoyed our previous encounters with His Excellency and curious to see what karaoke means to a National Assemblyman, we were eager to accompany him.

Following several failed attempts to set up a mutually agreeable time, we finally managed to pick a Saturday evening that we were free and that worked for His Excellency. In his spotty English, he explained that we should be ready to go at 7:30pm. As we cooked dinner, we called to confirm the time and place. We were instructed to meet in front of the Cambodiana at the agreed upon time, 7:30pm.

At 7:15pm we left the house via tuk-tuk and headed for the Cambodiana. When we arrived, His Excellency's big black Lexus was already idling out front. We hopped out of the tuk-tuk and were greeted by His Excellency, who rolled down the driver window as we approached. As we climbed into the backseat we were introduced to his assistant, sitting shotgun, a round, portly man about the same age as His Excellency. Throughout the night, he didn't say one word to us, in either English or Khmer nor did he sing at all at karaoke.

We drove north along the river and cut west on Russian Boulevard before turning off onto Street 109 where we arrived at a very sketchy karaoke club. The building was several stories high with neon lights - including the telltale red - adorning the outside. A young and attractive hostess (probably also a prostitute) showed us into the elevator and took us to a private karaoke room with a long leather couch, glass tables, and a large television.

We ordered a round of drinks - beer for me and Shanti, tonic and lime for His Excellency and his assistant - as His Excellency started us off with a few songs in Khmer. Unsurprisingly, he was quite a good singer. And although I'd like to think that Shanti and I had a pretty impressive song selection ("Don't Stop Believin'" and "A Whole New World" were among our picks), we couldn't match the singing of His Excellency.

Throughout the evening, His Excellency and his assistant had the "accompaniment" of two much younger Cambodian women. Although they just sang and danced - someone had to make the headbopping and fist-pumping of His Excellency's assistant look better - we had little doubt that they would do far more than that. On the whole it was quite a strange night, but I suppose we should not have expected differently from a Cambodian National Assemblyman.

Hiatus

2009-04-03T13:26:00.003+07:00

Faithful Readers -

First, I apologize for the lengthy hiatus since my last entry. Second, let me apologize in advance as it may be some time before my next post. After nearly two years, I will be leaving Phnom Penh and Cambodia to return to the U.S. Fear not, though, I still have plenty to write about and upcoming entries will include:

Karaoke with His Excellency
PADI Scuba Course and Diving
The Mystery of the Late Night Knocker
Cambodian Wedding Photoshoot
An Aziza Pizza Party
Travel entries from upcoming trips to: Indonesia, Vietnam, and Japan

While there is still much more to write and reflect upon, I would like to thank you for giving me a venue to share my experiences in Cambodia. I hope you have enjoyed reading the entries as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

The Cambodian Pajama Pants Dance

2009-03-11T06:45:00.001+07:00

I've been in Cambodia for more than a year and a half now and, until yesterday I did not yet own Cambodian pajamas. Cambodian pajamas are thin and soft cotton garments in obscenely bright colors (neon yellow and orange come to mind) and seemingly out of place cartoon patterns. The pajamas often come in a set of pants or shorts and a long-sleeve or short-sleeve shirt and are worn throughout the day. They are particularly popular with women shopping in the local markets or just out and about around their neighborhood although they are most entertaining (and perhaps endearing) on young children. I've often admired the pajamas from afar and nearly as often remarked that it would be fun to have a Cambodian pajama party.

Yet I never acted upon my not-so-secret desires to join the Cambodians unknowingly already at their own pajama party. Yesterday though, Shanti and I were at the overwhelming and maze-like Olympic market fabric shopping. Shanti mentioned that we should, after all this time, get some Cambodian pajamas. I was immediately distracted from looking for material to make dress shirts. We hunted across the sprawling second floor until we found a few pajama vendors.

Not really wanting an entire set (it's just too damn hot), I waded through a pile of pajama shorts, finally coming to the perfect pair. Blinding neon yellow and with a cartoon hippopotamus theme, the shorts are emblazoned with the word HIPPOPOTAMUS over and over as well as short statements like "Hippy Boy Club" and "Is My Life My Funny Day" and cartoons of hippos swimming, snorkeling, picking mushrooms, and the odd jack-o-lantern. In short, they bring me to a sunny disposition not entirely dissimilar from their coloring and cartoon pattern.

Naturally, I tried them on as soon as I came home. I'm not sure if the happiness the shorts brought me - and the resulting frolicking - was more entertaining to me or Shanti. Later in the evening I was still sporting my stylish new threads. With a cool breeze blowing from our terrace and into the apartment, we went outside to enjoy it. Or I should say that Shanti went outside and I danced out as gaily as I have danced in recent memory. The breeze was quite refreshing. The call of "Hello" from our neighbor across the street and her commentary on my dancing skills, less so. Much to her entertainment and my embarrassment, she caught my whole jig. Shanti, of course, enjoyed my embarrassment almost as much as my dancing.

Swimming with the Aziza Kids

2009-02-23T07:52:00.001+07:00

Last week, we decided to take the younger kids from Aziza swimming (we had taken the older kids in December), hoping it would be a nice break from the school itself and a temporary escape from everything that has happened in the last month. On our visits to Aziza in the days ahead of the adventure, we were regaled by a dozen kids asking if they were among the lucky that actually got to go and when we would actually be going. It was clear that they were very excited by the prospect of an hour or so of swimming.

We showed up at Dey Krahorm mid-afternoon on Sunday. A mass of about twenty kids ranging in age from three to twelve waited under the stairway that leads up into the apartment building. As we approached, we were greeted with big smiles and a loud "Hello Steoo [Khmer pronounciation of Steve meaning "gangster"], Hello Shanti!" Each kid had a small bag complete with swimming attire (i.e. another pair of shorts and a t-shirt that they didn't mind getting wet) and a krama or small towel.

Because there were at least thirty kids to take, we arranged to take two groups of about fifteen. To make sure no one was excluded we tried to ensure that there was a list created by one of the teachers indicating who would go each week. The "list" that we acquired, however, was made with red colored pencils and in the scrawling English handwriting of one of the younger students (she and her sister were at the top of the list which included mostly girls and twenty-one as opposed to fifteen kids). Since they were ready, however, we decided to take the unfairly decided group of kids, assuring those that weren't going that they would definitely come the following week.

The twenty-plus kids, Drew, Amanda (an occasional volunteer), and Ruby (Amanda's dog), piled in to two tuk-tuks. We cringed at how tightly packed in the kids were, yet Shanti, Sofia, and I began the short bike ride to Romdeng. Romdeng is a restaurant operated by Friends International, an organization that helps street children with school and practical job training skills in a variety of fields. Within the last few months the restaurant moved to a beautiful colonial villa complete with a small pool.

We arrived at Romdeng at the same time as the tuk-tuks. Though we had arranged the visit with Romdeng in advance, there was near immediate chaos. The kids streamed in towards the pool. A tour group of middle-aged westerners dining on lunch in the formerly tranquil garden looked on with a mix of horror and amazement. A French couple with three small children in the pool had the look of people about to be run over. We rounded up the kids so we could explain who we were. A few of the staff led us and the kids to the tables they had set up for us.

Within a few minutes, chaos returned. The kids had changed into their swimming gear - some wore jeans and longsleeve shirts both because of modesty and a desire to retain lighter skin while others had Cambodian-style pajama shorts (brightly-colored shorts with a random assortment of patterns) - and jumped into the pool, or at least to the steps at the shallow end of the pool and the landing at the deep end. Few of the kids knew how to swim. We - Shanti, Drew, Graham, Sofia and I - jumped in to the pool, which was as shallow as three feet and as deep as almost six feet. Our task for the afternoon quickly became clear; we spent the next hour and a half shuttling kids from one side of the pool to the other, dunking them under water, trying to teach them how to swim, and watching them crawl along the edge of the pool and splash each other. Drew and Graham, each nearly six and a half feet tall, took on the responsibility of shuttling up to four kids each at a time.

One of the younger girls, with floaties, noisily kicked her way across the small pool, cautiously avoiding the outstretched arms of kids who wanted to give her floaties a try for themselves. The youngest girl, only about three and normally very shy, gleefully splashed around at the deep end landing. She took a liking to Shanti and, after a bit of tutelage, she quickly became one of the better swimmers in the group. One of the boys who is incredibly gentle but had shown some troubling signs since the eviction, came back out of his shell to be the happiest that we had ever seen him.

After over an hour of swimming, splashing, shouting, and shuttling, the kids were starting to get cold. It was late afternoon and the pool was no longer in the hot sun. The kids wrapped themselves in their towels and kramas and slipped into the pump room to change out of their swimming clothes. One of the boys acted as the guard, ensuring no one tried to get into the room while another kid was changing. A separate group of children went to the bathroom to change, leaving their flip flops on the welcome mat outside the door. Another few kids took the fresh coconuts we had gotten them to drink and smashed them open on the tiles by the pool. I couldn't help but smile thinking that few of Romdeng's other patrons put the fresh coconuts to as full a use as they did.

The following weekend, we returned with the other half of the kids. Though a more subdued group, they were very interested to learn how to swim and, of course, they thoroughly enjoyed being shttuled from one end of the pool to the other.

After both trips to Romdeng, an exhausted group of kids and volunteers shuffled out of Romdeng and piled back into the two tuk-tuks. In the year that we've been volunteering at Aziza, these were among the best afternoons we had with the kids. More importantly though, it seemed to be a good and much-needed escape for the kids, many of whose lives have been thrown upside-down in the past month and who rarely have the opportunity to step outside of the cycle between school, home, and Aziza and into an oasis like Romdeng.

Valentine's Day in Cambodia

2009-02-16T08:23:00.001+07:00

It is amusing how seemingly western holidays are adapted in countries like Cambodia. I have noted this phenomenon previously around Christmas, but Valentine's Day is another example.

Several weeks ago, Shanti got me an early Valentine's Day present from Russian Market. While she went inside to pick the gift up, I waited outside with our bicycles. A friendly and curious tuk-tuk driver struck up a conversation with me in a mix of Khmer and English. Thinking that he would have no concept of Valentine's Day, I told him that I was waiting for my girlfriend, who was getting me a Christmas present. He smiled and nodded and then said - again in a mix of Khmer and English - "Well it's almost Valentine's Day. You better get her a nice present."

More recently, a few days ago, while I was at Aziza, one of the older students asked me what my plans were for Valentine's Day. I told him that I wasn't sure yet, but asked if he had any suggestions. He said that I "should buy at least one rose" and that if I "put two candles on the table while you are eating dinner, it is very good." I replied that these were solid recommendations and that it sounded like he'd put some thought into them, though when I asked what he was doing, he only smiled and blushed and said he had no plans.

Valentine's Day was even on the mind of one of the girls that watches His Excellencies grandchildren. She asked us all about traditions in the U.S., if I had bought Shanti flowers, and what our plans were for the day, saying it was a good day to share with "your special". She was at least as embarrassed as the Aziza student when we asked her what her plans were.

Valentine's Day, or Tungai Bon Sangsaa (literally Day of the Sweetheart Festival), is taken to the extreme in Cambodia. If Hallmark executives could dream up the ideal Valentine's Day, from a marketing sense, Cambodia would be perfect aside from the fact that greeting cards are not very popular. In the days ahead of Valentine's Day, little street stalls spring up on every corner, selling roses, chocolates, balloons, and stuffed animals. This culminated in a climax on the day itself in which hordes of teenagers gathered around the street stalls, which were now every few meters on major thoroughfares (Shanti and I counted at least eighteen such stalls on Sihanouk Blvd. between Norodom and Sothearos, a distance of no more than a few hundred meters).

Sometimes though, the concept of the holiday is not very well understood. Outside of Lucky Market, the western-style supermarket, a tent was set up selling cake and, for some reason, candy canes (clearly left over from Christmas). Inside, chocolates were on sale with seemingly misplaced messages, like "Recover Well." Perhaps in anticipation of the Valentine's Day break-up? Or, perhaps more realistically, a recognition of the need to "recover well" from an over-the-top Valentine's Day.

Deep Sea Fishing in Sihanoukville

2009-02-09T08:23:00.001+07:00

Several weeks ago and before the destruction of Dey Krahorm, we organized a weekend with a group of friends to do some deep sea fishing off the southern coast. While I didn't want to be away from Aziza so soon after the eviction, I also knew that I needed a mental break. So on Friday at 3am, a group of twelve of us met at Savin's family's restaurant to meet our chartered van (we decided to leave at such a bizarre time because of a friend's birthday the night before and the need to be on the boat at first thing in the morning on Saturday). It was a quick ride - only three and a half hours - but the van wasn't the most comfortable for stretching out to get some extra sleep.

At 7am we checked into the guesthouse where we would be spending the night, picked up a few supplies (water, beer, breakfast) and went to meet our captain for the day. Brian, a large - in all senses of the word - Kiwi in his late fifties or early sixties with a big, gold, pirate-style hoop earing in his left ear, walked out of his bar/shop, The Fisherman's Den. He put on a shorty-style motorcycle helmet and hopped on his motorbike, complete with a sidecart. He appeared to be the perfect deep sea fishing captain.

After a short ride through Sihanoukville and past the main port, we arrived at the dock and boarded the fairly traditional Cambodian fishing vessel; made almost entirely of wood and about sixty feet long, painted a mix of blues, from the vibrant aquamarine that mimicked the clear, shallow waters of the tropics to a deep royal blue. A crew of two Cambodians started baiting ten rods as most of us climbed a steep ladder and settled on the warm, sun-soaked terrace above deck. Within a few minutes we were on our way out into the Gulf of Thailand.

Not five minutes into our journey, one of the two lines trolling the waters caught. One of the Cambodian crew rushed over to start reeling our potential catch in. Our friend Josh scurried down the ladder to take over the reel from the crew. Fifty meters behind the boat, a large fish thrashed at the surface of the water. Surely that couldn't be the one Josh was reeling in... Yet it was. After a brief struggle, we had dinner and a three and a half foot barracuda on board.

Once the initial excitement passed, we sank back into the deck chairs on the terrace. Sihanoukville slowly faded as we rumbled past some of the smaller offshore islands and made our way to Koh Rung Samleom, a fairly sizable island about two hours off the coast. Split five to each side of the boat, we dropped our lines, baited with squid, shrimp, and small fish, to the bottom, about 100 feet down. Sporadically, we caught an assortment of small fish, none more than a foot long, but each with beautifully intricate coloring. As soon as we caught a fish or had had our bait taken, one of the two deckhands was immediately besides us, removing the fish or re-baiting our hook. Their attentiveness was quite impressive. We kept most of what we caught, either as bait or as dinner once we returned to Phnom Penh.

At around noon, we took a break from fishing and took a dip in the water by a deserted beach. The water was cool but refreshing and my feet enjoyed the feel of the defined ridges of soft and pristine sand formed by the waves. We swam about, snorkeled, threw a frisbee around, and sat on the beach and let the waves splash through us. Even Brian went for a swim in a bright red speedo that was a bit too revealing.

The crew called us back on to the boat after an hour and greeted us with lunch: a delicious hearty beef and potato stew with baguettes. Accompanied by a beer, lunch was all the better. After lunch and a much needed catnap above deck, we resumed our fishing. For the remainder of the afternoon, we caught only small fish of less than a foot each, but at a pretty good rate of close to ten each. As the sun started to set and sparkle upon the water, we headed back to port. It had been a wonderful day already and we still had our barracuda dinner to look forward to.

After a shower and a change we were back at the Fisherman's Den, this time for dinner and what a feast it was. Brian had the perfect batter for the barracuda - flavorful but light and crispy - to go with chips and salad. And there was so much of it! As hungry as the thirteen of us were, we couldn't even finish the one barracuda. That said, several of us did manage to find room for the Italian-style gelato across the street from our guesthouse.

I had only been fishing a few times before in my adult life and I'd never been deep sea fishing, let alone deep sea fishing in the tropics. There were few things I've done that have been more satisfying or relaxing. Sitting at the stern of the boat, reel in one hand, beer in the other, with the sun warming my back and the breeze cooling it, was simply delightful, and the perfect respite from the bustle of dusty Phnom Penh.

Human Wrongs: The Aftermath of the Dey Krahorm Eviction

2009-02-03T09:07:00.003+07:00

PLEASE DONATE: Village Earth (preferred) and Changing the Present (Cambodia projects)

It has now been over a week since the eviction of Dey Krahorm. Though the dust has begun to settle, the trauma and injustice remains. On the Sunday morning after the eviction, I biked over to Aziza for a meeting with Drew and some of Aziza's students. I walked under the stairway belonging to the Soviet-style apartment building, and to the narrow path that grants the only access to Aziza and a few other houses. Street vendors' carts were bundled up against the fence that blocked the entrance to Dey Krahorm and they lined the path back towards Aziza, flies hovering around the exposed Chinese sausage and chopped onions. The walkway underneath the building was dark, muddy, and full of trash. And it smelled like it. Thin strips of cardboard boxes and wood were placed intermittently across the walkway so that walking through the filth was minimized. Every few steps, though, resulted in a slight sinking into the mystery muck.

It was hard to recognize Aziza as I rounded the corner and approached from the side (as opposed to head on); the brightly colored paintings adorning the outside of the school were meaningless without the necessary space to create perspective. Inside, a range of students and their families were passing around steaming plates of rice and vegetables. Everyone over ten looked exhausted and broken, with slumped shoulders and deep circles around eyes normally so vibrant and animated. Drew gave a much needed pep talk, praising everyone for the way the handled themselves the day before and reassuring everyone that Aziza would still serve as a focal point for the community and would help coordinate assistance to students and their families.

Shanti came straight from the airport to Aziza and, after getting a tour of the devastation from ground level, we headed up to the roof of the apartment building. The entire area was totally unrecognizable. It was almost hard to feel anything looking down at Dey Krahorm; it was so foreign-looking that it didn't at all evoke the memories of the past year. Within the nine acre plot of land the only thing that remained standing was the bare tree trunk and broken picnic table on what used to be Aziza's concrete playground. The pace at which debris was being removed was startling.

Though I was exhausted, Shanti convinced me to go to the LICADHO office to visit the families staying there. As soon as we arrived, we noticed a few of the families hanging around the outside of the building. The pleasure that our presence brought them was palpable. Whether it was the joy in seeing something familiar after a traumatic thirty-six hours or the gesture of just showing up, illustrating that we cared more than simply teaching and playing with their kids, I am not sure. But it seemed that the fact that we were there truly meant a lot.

We worked our way inside the LICADHO office to where the families were staying. On the ground floor offices were makeshift sleeping quarters with a few rooms devoted to meetings to help evictees register for compensation. Not recognizing anyone, we went upstairs, where we saw many familiar faces. We were greeted by big hugs and equally big smiles from about a dozen kids and smiles just as broad from their parents. Almost everyone was wearing "new" clothes courtesy of donations made to LICADHO. One of the boys, about seven years old and usually fairly reserved, grabbed my moto helmet, placing it on his head and running around encouraging others to hit him as hard as they could. Another boy, about the same age, and usually a bit goofy, was much more subdued than usual; he seemed to grasp the weight of the situation more clearly than others. Other kids simply wanted a hug and to hold our hands. We gave several of the families leftovers from the copious amount of food His Excellency's family bestowed upon us for Chinese New Year.

It was great to see everyone so happy, though I knew that it wasn't true happiness. The reality of the situation - that they had no home, little money (if any at all) and only a very temporary place to stay - had not yet sunk in. Despite everyone's apparent happiness, it was extremely difficult for me to see all of these people in such an artificial environment and outside of the context of Aziza. Regardless of what they had or had not done, these were all good people and each deserved so much better than the situation allowed. The visit, though, had certainly been worthwhile and I was glad Shanti convinced me to go. As we left with heavy hearts, we promised to return the following day.

Though most people were not around when we stopped by on Monday - they were negotiating with the municipality of Phnom Penh and 7NG - we spoke with the director of LICADHO. She was surely extremely busy, but she took some time to give us an update on the situation and to show us a slideshow of the eviction. It was the first time I had seen or really heard about how violent the earlier parts of the eviction were - tear gas, beatings, and the savage destruction of homes.

The following day we visited Aziza at lunch. Most of the students under twelve were creating drawings of the eviction on white computer paper with colored markers. Most of the drawings showed backhoes knocking houses and trees down, stick figures crying, and Aziza as a rare bright spot. On one of the drawings, a girl had written "I am scared 7NG kills me" and "I see ghosts" in English. It was very difficult to watch how some of the students internalized the previous Saturday's events. That said, people seemed a bit more settled than a few days before and were starting to figure out how to move forward, with and without the $20,000 they hoped 7NG would provide (in an unsurprising change of heart, 7NG took the offer of monetary compensation off the table and said the only possible settlement would be an unfinished home at the relocation site).

On Wednesday we stopped by at lunch again with fruit. Shanti, Mike, and I facilitated discussion with some of Aziza's leadership students and they really seemed to step in to take a leadership role, each assuming responsibility for ensuring a particularly needy family was equipped with basic necessities and organizing to make sure that young children had someone to look after them and older kids made it safely to school every day.

We returned briefly in the evening to drop off some extra blankets and sheets for everyone that was still using Aziza as a temporary shelter. Meta House, the German House, was hosting a tribute of sorts to Dey Krahorm, with a photo exhibit of the iconic apartment buildings and a recent documentary on the community. After it was over, Drew gave an update of the current situation and a few of the students spoke to the crowd of about fifty about how the evictions affected them. While it was hard to watch them get so emotional about the injustice of their situation, it was impressive to see them maintain control and, at a minute's notice, address a crowd of fifty in clear, articulate English.

As the week continued, a sliver of additional normalcy seemed to come with each new day; kids returned to school, fewer people relied on Aziza for food and shelter, and more people were finding permanent or semi-permanent places to stay. But a bitter taste most certainly remained. The realization that there was little I or anyone else could do about the injustice inherent in the situation was humbling. The community I had come to know and enjoy over the course of the past year was scattered, and to an extent, broken. Because of a lack of options and fearing they would get nothing, a number of families moved to the relocation site; students are shuttled back and forth the 20km to Aziza every day by a van hired by Drew. While the tug of distance will surely pull many members of the Aziza family out of its grasp, for the moment, the extended family remains close.

Since my last post there has been some good additional blogging/reporting that's worth looking over: Jinja has a good round-up of news, blogs, photos, etc; On Photography's before and after photo blog is particularly powerful; Ka-Set has another good piece; and David Pred of Bridges Across Borders has an excellent editorial.

Human Wrongs: The Eviction of Dey Krahorm

2009-01-27T08:36:00.010+07:00

PLEASE DONATE: Village Earth (preferred) and Changing the Present (Cambodia projects)

I woke up early Saturday morning after an unusually late night out. In the five hours that I was asleep, I got two text messages, both from Drew, the project manager at Aziza, the schoolhouse where Shanti and I have spent nearly every Sunday afternoon for the past year. The messages were rather urgent; today was the day.

Aziza is located in Dey Krahorm, meaning 'red earth', a community that has been under threat of eviction for the past several years (for a little more background, see my previous blog on the area). After the sweeping parliamentary election victory by the ruling Cambodian's People Party (CPP) in July 2008, concerns over evictions in Dey Krahorm mounted, but were moderated by the fact that several eviction deadlines had come and passed over the course of three years with no action. Over the last few weeks, however, things escalated, seemingly for the worse. The development company that claims title to the land, 7NG, upped its compensation offer from $15,000 to $20,000 for families willing to leave their informal settlements. Alternatively, residents were offered a home in a relocation site 16km outside of Phnom Penh. Though the offer of a new home sounds reasonable, it is highly undesirable because of its distance from Phnom Penh and the work opportunities that the city offers as well as the incomplete state of the houses themselves (not to mention the lack of access to water, electricity, and other essentials). Moreover, the offer of $20,000 is still well below the market value of the land, worth about $75,000 per plot depending on size, and is not nearly enough money to buy a new house in Phnom Penh (the unsustainability and high cost of renting is also a major turn-off to residents). Therefore, residents were forced to take a dangerous gamble. Do they give up their legal (and moral) stand and accept the paltry offer or do they wait it out, risking the very real threat of a violent forced eviction which leaves them with nothing?

Back to Saturday morning at 7:30am. I checked the messages I received from Drew. The first, received at 2:30am while I was asleep, informed me that the police had set up blockades around the Dey Krahorm community. The second, received just a half an hour before I woke up, said simply "They are tearing down houses by Aziza right now." I immediately snapped awake. Shit. This is it. I called Drew and asked him what I should do; he wasn't sure if I would even be able to get in, but I quickly dressed and biked over to meet Mike, a friend and supporter of Aziza, at his house near Dey Krahorm.

From Mike's house, we walked over towards Dey Krahorm, first south along the new development of shops and apartments along Sothearos Blvd. There was a large blockade at the southern tip of the new development, where the Almond Hotel is located. The street was blocked off to all traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Dozens of onlookers, mostly Cambodian with a sprinkling of foreigners, watched with a mix of curiosity and disdain. With their backs turned from the destruction behind them, dozens of police, military police, and others in official looking uniforms stood with their arms crossed. Some were in full riot gear with bullet proof vests, shields, batons, gas masks, tear gas canisters, and AK47s. Mike and I looked at each other, nodded, and started walking back north to the access road that we normally use to get to Aziza.

While the access road was blocked, the barricades were set back such that we could walk under the maze of open-air stairways belonging to the old Soviet-style apartment and on to Dey Krahorm. We walked through, joining a few dozen people at another police barrier. Still unable to gain access, a different approach. We climbed the stairway we had just walked under and walked through the apartment building parallel to the access road. The hallways of the building, which I had only entered once before, were dank, prison-like tunnels of darkness. When we reached the square of light at the far end, we were able to descend the stairs and gain unrestricted access to Dey Krahorm.

The sound of backhoes and bulldozers reached us from the south and the pungent smell of raw sewage, freshly snapped trees, diesel fuel, and the dust of families' accumulated belongings pierced our noses. As we rounded the corner to Aziza, I could see that most of the houses in the area were still standing, though people's belongings were scattered across the ground in haphazard piles, each of which represented a family. There were bed frames and dishes, wicker cabinets and plastic chairs, small gas stoves and extension cords, fluorescent lights and photos of family weddings and even of Hun Sen, the Prime Minister, and everything else that was remotely worth saving. Around each pile of what looked like junk - but was in fact one family's existence - was a collection of desolate souls looking for answers to an obvious question.

Despite the circumstances, I was greeted warmly by the kids that I had watched grow up over the past year, the youngest of whom surely didn't understand what was happening. Briefly, I played with them and gave them hugs, trying to push away my distaste for the wanton destruction happening just a few hundred feet away. I walked from family to family bowing my head in respect, finally arriving at Aziza itself. Inside were the youngest and most vulnerable residents of the extended Aziza family living in Dey Krahorm. A half dozen kids under three years old played with makeshift toys oblivious to the unknowns their immediate future held. Two young mothers breastfed infants not more than a few months old each. A teenage girl who had been in a motorbike accident the night before and broken her collarbone lay in a corner with her face a manuscript of pain. I wondered how much of the pain was from her broken collarbone and how much of it was for her broken community.

Back outside, I surveyed the surroundings. Old and middle-aged women peered out of the back of the apartment building. Men, including a handful of military police, gathered on the roof for what was probably the most all-encompassing view of the destruction. People even watched from the southern extreme of Phnom Penh Center, the modern office building which houses countless businesses and international NGOs.

The backhoes advanced, much more quickly than I anticipated. I sat with one of the girls, about ten years old, that regularly attends school at Aziza. She looked at me with eyes that had seen more than any ten year-old should. She came over to hug me and started to cry on my shoulder.

As I took everything in, Drew returned from discussions with LICADHO, a human rights NGO, and Bridges Across Borders, a housing rights NGO. Having been up and at the school since 2am, he looked tired and weary, but determined. He told Mike, me, and the best English-speaking students that trucks would take people and their things to the relocation site and, at this point, going there was there best option at the moment. The students then went to each family and explained the situation.

Shortly thereafter, Drew and Mike went to attend a press conference, jointly held by the Phnom Penh municipality and the developer. Not long after they left, the backhoe was upon the homes directly by Aziza. I scrambled to help people move their belongings away from houses that, within a few minutes, would be nothing but scrap wood and metal and memories. With one swipe of its giant, cold, metallic arm and in what seemed like a mix of absolute recklessness and calculated precision, the backhoe mercilessly destroyed the cobbled together dwellings. First went the house that the hip hop dancers lived in. Next, the one that our favorite two-year old kid called home. A strike of the backhoe hit an underground septic tank, sending raw sewage out across the ground and towards people's possessions. Again, a scramble to get things out of the way. The shop where we used to buy bottles of water, gone. Nearly nothing escaped the destruction wreaked by the backhoes and the bulldozers that followed them. Frogs, lizards, and enormous rats scampered from the piles of trash and rubble away from the backhoes. Palm trees eighty feet tall were nothing more than debris after an instant. All we could do was watch and stew about the stunning injustice of the situation.

By 11:00am, the nine acre plot of land was almost totally flattened. Demolition crews, working with axes, hammers, and mallets, worked their way through the rubble like a pack of locusts, destroying anything with the gall to remain standing. The community watched in terror, guarding their piles of belongings, the little they had left. An old woman, krama wrapped around her head, paced, sobbing and murmuring her grievances to no one in particular. It was done; there wasn't anything that people could do to recover the dwellings they had called home for up to fifteen years.

Grim, Drew and Mike returned from the press conference. They met the Deputy Governor of Phnom Penh and the spokesman for the Council of Ministers (the most powerful arm of the Cambodian government), but it was unclear if they would be able or willing to help. New reports from LICADHO and Bridges Across Borders came in about the relocation site, 16km from Phnom Penh. The first trucks of evictees were dropped off with all their belongings outside the site. The houses were not complete - they were just four walls, no roof - and there was no water, food, electricity or even materials to build temporary shelters. Moreover, there are no schools or health facilities in the area, let alone access to work opportunities. Without really doing a full assessment of what it entailed, LICADHO offered to temporarily house residents in their offices. We now encouraged most of the families that we knew to take this route - there would be shelter, food, water, and legal support.

From 11:00am to 2:00pm, we scurried around, collecting scrap wood and metal for families to sell or help rebuild shelter elsewhere. A few more supporters of Aziza arrived with lunch and water for the community. I was hungry - I hadn't eaten all day - but unlike most others, I knew that I had food waiting for me at a safe and warm house later in the day. I walked around with one of the older students collecting people's phone numbers so that we would have a way to keep in touch once everyone was scattered. We stuffed trucks with people's belongings and paid off the drivers to take them to the LICADHO office as opposed to the relocation site. I played with our favorite two year-old one more time. Somehow, he got a hold of a box of matches, and knew how to light them. I took them away and he started bawling. Not wanting this to be our last memory of each other, I relented and gave them back. A moment later, he was on a truck with his older brother and mother and a handful of others. Watching that first truck leave was one of the hardest parts of the day. A number of kids I had taught and played with over the past year were leaving. I had no idea if I would see them ever again. And under these circumstances.

The enclave of people around Aziza was one of the last left in Dey Krahorm. By 2:00pm almost everyone had been shipped off to the relocation site, the LICADHO office, or found temporary shelter with friends or family. The only people that remained were some of the older students who lived in the building or the school itself and the foreigners who had connection enough with Aziza to be there. Work crews in groups of brightly colored shirts - red, green, yellow - were scattered about the site, clearing the remainders of brick and cement foundations. All of the entrances to the community were sealed off with metal sheeting and a few spot welds. As soon as the fences were complete, people worked feverishly to send scrap materials, appliances, and furniture over the top of them. In flip flops, I walked with a few others through the sludge of a year's worth of accumulated garbage and sewage to lift a bureau and a wardrobe over the fence.

A small work crew approached the playground - a small slab of concrete - in front of Aziza with a small, loud, and rickety generator. They brought green metal fencing as well. We immediately grasped their intentions. The developer claimed the right to the land literally up to the back of the Soviet-style apartment building and planned to fence off the entire backside. While this demonstrated how fabricated the land title to the area is - there is always a buffer of a few meters - it was a significant problem for Aziza and several other residents. Most apartments go all the way through to the front of the building, but others, including Aziza, have only "half" an apartment, accessible only through the rear. If the back entrance were sealed, all possible access to the school and people's homes would be eliminated. And this after 7NG assured Drew that there would be a space for students to access the school.

The 7NG workers approached with the fence and the fifteen of us that remained - half foreigners and half older Aziza students - stood in the doorway to the school, preventing the fence from being put in place. As two of the teachers for Aziza tried to negotiate with the developers, Mike called the spokesman for the Council of Ministers, who agreed to come and try to help. Drew, through one of the teachers, called the chairman of 7NG who refused to negotiate; he suggested that the fence be put in place and that we could discuss the situation the following day. Having heard more than enough bullshit spew from that man's mouth, we knew not to trust him. We also called friends in the press to get them to come and act as eyewitnesses.

One of the workers, a chubby Cambodian in US Army fatigues was particularly hostile, yelling at us and refusing to give an inch of space in front of the school. Mike brought the spokesman over and he began to negotiate with the Cambodian in the army fatigues as reporters from the Cambodian Daily appeared. Though he did not stay, the spokesman enabled true negotiation to take place and the teachers were able to get the developers to agree to a half meter buffer. However, we were not satisfied with just over eighteen inches of space, not even enough for two people to walk past each other. When the developers realized this they began, without warning, pushing the fence towards Aziza as hard as they could. The sharp metal bottom of the fence lifted in to the air as we pushed back with all our might. The physical struggle lasted about two minutes. At one point, I caught the eye of the photographer from the Cambodia Daily and I could tell that he fought to hold back his tears in what must have seemed like a futile struggle. The Cambodian students cried freely. When the fence finally came back down to the ground, it was about three meters from the entrance to Aziza and, thankfully, no one had gotten hurt. With a better bargaining position, we were able to get a one meter wide corridor along the back of the building from a house a few doors down from Aziza to a passable tunnel-like section of the building. We measured out our small victory with chalk and the situation began to calm as the fence was put into place.

As we stepped out from behind the fence, we took stock of everything that had happened. It was nearly impossible to believe that, just a handful of hours before, a community of several hundred people was sleeping peacefully in what was now a barren wasteland of rubble and sewage. Trucks were carting away both as fast as they could. The entire area was completely unrecognizable and, in some ways, this made it heard to feel anything at all.

Those of us that were left walked through a hole that had been caught in one of the metal fences to the front of where Aziza was located. We sat and over a few minutes, tried to comprehend what had happened in the course of the day. With rubbery legs, I walked with Mike back to his house, hopped on my bike and went home. I was able to get in touch with Shanti, who was in Laos and, as best I could, recap the situation.

After I scarfed down some leftovers, I took a hot shower and tried to rinse myself of the dirt as well as some of the guilt I was feeling. I had a home to come back to. I had a refrigerator from which I could withdraw food and, should it empty, I could easily get more. I had a shower with warm water which I could use at my leisure. I had so many things that the people in Dey Krahorm never had and never will or lost indefinitely today. The sense of injustice was oppressing. What were these people's homes and livelihoods taken away for? So a developer can start to build another skyscraper that has no place in Phnom Penh? And then there was Aziza and all of its beneficiaries. Thirty or forty percent of Aziza's students lived in Dey Krahorm, as opposed to the apartment buildings. Where would they go? What would their families do? Would I get to continue watching them grow and develop? Would I even get to see them again? The sickening feeling in my stomach grew as I thought about what those students and the Dey Krahorm community had lost. And Aziza was a key part of that community, offering English and computer classes and leadership training to supplement an insufficient (and expensive) public education. These activities also provided an atmosphere of hope; a bright spot in a community often blighted by the ills often associated with overwhelming urban poverty: violence drugs and prostitution.

Though some of these students will no longer be able to go to Aziza, this is not the main concern on our (or their) minds right now. We must help to get these families and their children on their feet. Ensure that they have a place to stay and food to eat. We must help them to get some compensation for the homes that are no longer. Drew and everyone else affiliated in some way with Aziza is committed to providing whatever assistance we can, even if a student is no longer able to attend classes at Aziza.

Please help out Aziza and the residents of Dey Krahorm by donating to Village Earth or through the Changing the Present website and selecting Cambodia-related projects. If you live in Cambodia and want to make a donation more directly, post a comment with your e-mail or phone number and I will put Drew in touch with you. Even if you are not able to contribute, a note of support to Drew (drewmcdo@msn.com) would be much appreciated.

I will continue to provide updates on the situation as I continue to process everything that happened. For more information, see these articles, blog posts, and photo sets: Ka-Set, Jinja, Phnom Penh Post as well as this video and editorial, BBC and several photo sets, including LICADHO, John Vink, these two Flickr sets, and Ka-Set's multi-media slideshow.

Is Your Refrigerator Running?

2009-01-23T08:14:00.001+07:00

Because ours certainly isn't. For the second time in about year, I've managed to break our little refrigerator. I celebrated Obama's inauguration late Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning, planning well enough in advance that I was able to take the day off on Wednesday. After seeing Shanti off to work, I watched the Obama's hop from inaugural ball to inaugural ball and perused newspapers and blogs for insights into what was a truly historic day.

By late morning, I was feeling a bit lazy. Wanting to be productive without overexerting myself, I decided to take on our refrigerator in what has become a fairly routine ritual. We have a small and cheap fridge that doesn't have a separate door to the freezer. In order to access the freezer we must first open the main door and then open a shoddy plastic door. It is only then that we find ourself in the minuscule freezer, better known to us as the "ice cave" for its ability to transform itself into what must be the fastest growing glacier in the world. The result is that the already tiny freezer gets smaller and smaller as the ice expands. Unchecked on a regular basis, we would be totally without a freezer.

And it had been a while since I last did some work on our ice cave. As I do perhaps every other month, I took a hammer and a chisel to it and slowly started to chip away at the ice, as thick as three or four inches in some places. Just as I was finishing, I placed an ill-advised strike. A faint but audible hissing commenced and was soon followed by a rather queer smell. Had I not faced a similar situation about a year ago, I may have panicked and somehow tried to find access to some sort of Cambodian poison control (probably better known as a medivac). However, since I was already an expert in causing refrigerator damage, I simply tried to patch the hole with a variety of insufficient patches (duct tape, electrical tape, poster tacky, super glue, etc). Failing miserably, I informed the family downstairs and they called for repairmen, shaking their heads at the stupid barang all the while. Let's just hope that two times is the charm for me to actually learn my lesson...

God Bless America

2009-01-21T07:39:00.001+07:00

Barack Hussein Obama is my president.

From American Winter to Cambodian Winter

2009-01-13T12:26:00.000+07:00

Last year, I blogged about the warm 'winter' temperatures and Cambodians' fondness for neon-colored winter coats and knit hats. Now, in mid-January, winter is in full swing and even I am feeling the effects.

After spending two weeks in temperatures often freezing or below in the U.S., I was looking forward to returning to the tropical climes of Phnom Penh. What I returned to, however, was Cambodian winter. Though I have yet to adorn a winter jacket or a beanie, it feels chilly to me even though I know the temperature is hitting 80 (27 Celsius) during the day and doesn't ever drop below 65 (19 Celsius) at night. Perhaps it is a bit colder this year than last year. Perhaps I am more acclimatized to the tropical heat than I realize. But I certainly haven't had the fan on the past few nights, I dread leaving the hot water of the shower in the morning, and I've consciously worn long-sleeve shirts to work (whereas normally I'd opt for a polo or button-down t-shirt).

While I giggled at and perhaps even mocked the Cambodians that were shivering in their down jackets last year, this year I sympathize. If I'm feeling the effects, than certainly they are. So buy up those sweaters and jackets at Russian market, turn off the fan at the foodstall in the market, and enjoy that extra cup of tea. If I were staying through next winter, I'd probably join you.

Lucky for Me...

2009-01-08T12:06:00.003+07:00

I got back to Cambodia late on Sunday night after a wonderful trip to the US. At first, I thought I had totally beat jet lag. I got a decent six hours of sleep Sunday night and woke feeling refreshed on Monday. By late afternoon, however, I was exhausted and, unfortunately, couldn't resist falling asleep at about 6:30pm. I woke at 1:00am absolutely unable to fall back asleep. I had a Bailey's on the rocks, nothing. I read for a bit, wide awake. I ate a bunch of food with a glass of milk, sleep still nowhere in sight. This, of course, made for a tough Tuesday, especially since I was to meet Shanti at the airport at 11:00pm. I nodded off a bit before leaving for the airport, but otherwise stayed awake for a full 24 hours, which led to a 'too tired to sleep' sort of sleep.

Wednesday was even tougher than Tuesday. I managed to make it until about 3:00pm, when a band started practicing for the evening's January 7th celebrations in Hun Sen park. Side note: January 7th is a controversial holiday which, to some is a celebration of the overthrow of the Khmer Rouge, and to others is a more somber date marking the start to the Vietnamese occupation of Cambodia. Anyways, the music, and the bass drum in particular, was extremely loud, penetrating my headphones and completely disrupting my concentration and causing immense frustration. I left work early to finish a few things from home.

On my way home, I stopped at the cell phone company, MobiTel. Since returning to Cambodia, I realized that I was unable to send any text messages, a significant problem in a country in which this is the preferred form of communication. Between the lack of sleep, the loud music, and the cell phone issues, I was not exactly in the most pleasant of moods. So when, as I parked my bike outside of MobiTel, I was struck with bird shit, I was none too pleased. I have heard and have been told that to be struck with the waste of a bird is lucky, but I can assure you that the moment that you are struck by flying fecal matter, luck is most certainly not the thing that comes to mind.

After a few minutes, however, I had to at least chuckle. After all, who even knew that there were birds in Phnom Penh? And maybe, it was in fact lucky. Perhaps it was because of the bird poop that I slept eleven hours last night. And perhaps it was the Ambien...

Homeward Bound

2008-12-19T10:18:00.001+07:00

I'm off to the U.S. for a few weeks of vacation and time with family and friends tomorrow, so you'll have to wait a little while longer for another post. My apologies! Happy holidays and happy New Year to all!

Farewell from His Excellency

2008-12-19T07:48:00.002+07:00

At about 10:00pm last night, Shanti and I headed downstairs with her bags as she got ready to leave for the airport and a two week trip to the U.S. Downstairs, chatting away on his cell phone was His Excellency. We waved to His Excellency and carried Shanti's bags out to the waiting car. As we were loading it up, His Excellency came out into the middle of the street to give Shanti an excessively long hug.

We walked back over to the car to finish loading it and explained to His Excellency that Shanti was leaving for the U.S. and would be gone for two weeks. When he learned that I was not leaving until the following night - and that we would be on opposite coasts for our trip - he put his arms around both of us, pushed us towards one another and, in accented English, said only "kiss, kiss." Trying to stifle our laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, I managed to give Shanti a kiss on her forehead much to the pleasure of His Excellency. We are eagerly looking forward to our next adventure with His Excellency, which may in fact be a long-anticipated karaoke gathering upon our return.

Madame Cindy's

2008-12-08T11:42:00.000+07:00

It had been a while since I've done something unusual in Phnom Penh, so a few Saturday's ago, Shanti and I joined a number of friends on a little adventure. We went to Madame Cindy's, a gay friendly bar that features a drag show on Saturday nights. While Thailand has a large, thriving, and openly gay community, homosexuality is still taboo in Cambodia, so I was a little surprised that such a thing even existed.

I'd been to a few drag shows in Boston - one of straight dancing and singing and the other a drag musical - and I've spent a bit of time in Provincetown, so I had an idea of what to expect. The bar was pretty chic, with a handful of tables, some on the ground in the traditional Khmer style, and a small bar next to a stage with glittery curtains. The drinks were ridiculously expensive for Cambodia - $3 for a soda - but since there was no cover charge, I felt obligated to get something.

The bar slowly filled in with a mix of young Khmers and a few older expats. Then Madame Cindy showed up, a tall, incredibly slender Khmer man with a tattoo on his left arm and wearing a white dress with black polka dots, high heels, and long, elegant black gloves. He (she?) posed for a few pictures with admirers and then went backstage to help the other performers prepare.

The show was short - thirty minutes - and, well, lackluster. About ten Khmer men in drag performed half a dozen songs. For all but one of the songs, there was no dancing! I was shocked! And this was particularly disappointing as there was no actual singing! And, no offense to the performers, but the lip-syncing was terrible! I can understand that there is a language barrier and not all of the performers can speak English, they could at least mask their language skills with some dancing.

The highlight of the performance was most certainly the outfits. With garments Cambodia's main export, buying fabric and getting clothes custom-made for next to no cost. As a result, most of the skirts, dresses, and blouses that the performers wore were quite beautiful. There was one exception - an absolutely dreadful performance by a guy wearing a ridiculously leopard-print outfit and, for some inexplicable reason, was outfitted in blackface.

All criticisms aside, it was good to look around the room and to see all of the young (probably gay?) Khmer teenagers and twenty-somethings. They were probably not out of the closet to their families, but with Madame Cindy's they have a safe place to meet other people like them and an outlet for discussing the issues they face. It was fun, but I would probably suggest waiting a few years for the show to improve before going yourself

Vietnam, Sort Of: Part II

2008-12-03T17:44:00.001+07:00

With our short, scattered time in Saigon over, we set off for the airport to go to Phu Quoc. It was the quietest, least bustling airport I've ever been to. It was remarkably stress free; there were no long lines, no one was in a hurry, and we were easily able to get on an earlier flight. It was a short forty-five minute flight to Phu Quoc and a very enjoyable one at that.

Flying over the Mekong Delta was incredibly impressive, especially at the end of the rainy season; all of the land was covered with a thin layer of water. There were no roads as far as the eye could see and the only huts lined banks of small rivers. Clearly the only way to get from one place to another was by boat. The other thing that made the flight enjoyable (and that makes every flight in Asia enjoyable) is that despite the flight's incredibly short duration, the flight attendants managed to serve everyone a drink. American-based airlines could really take a lesson from those operating out of Asia.

We arrived in Phu Quoc, grabbed our stuff and were met by a throng of taxis, each of which wanted nearly $10 to drive us to the destination of our choice. Having consulted the trusty Lonely Planet, we knew that town was a short 200 meter walk away and that the resorts began shortly after that. So we hoofed it. Motos and taxis tried to pick us up (for even more inflated fares), but we shook them off more as a matter of principle than anything else.

We passed through Duong Dong, the main town on Phu Quoc and still the hotels and guesthouses were not in sight. By the time that we had been walking for about an hour, we had only passed the first few hotels, each of which were more expensive than we wanted. Shanti and I convinced her parents, who were now carting wheelies over dirt road, that we would go ahead, find a place to stay, and pick them up. The two of us stopped in about five hotels and resorts with little luck. We wandered into a new and air-conditioned travel agent's office and the friendly young woman began calling around.

Forty-five minutes later we were picked up by a van from Kim Hoa Resort. We picked up Shanti's parents and made our way to the hotel which was still a few kilometers further down the road than we had made it. Thanks Lonely Planet! The resort itself looked pretty nice, but the driveway and beach were all lined with somewhat bizarre over-sized plaster sea-faring animals, like crabs, lobsters, fish, and mermaids. It was certainly a sight to be seen.

Eager to finally hit the beach, we dropped our stuff off and grabbed a quick lunch at the restaurant. We then spent the afternoon relaxing on the beach. We were on the southern end of Long Beach, which was less crowded than other stretches, though nothing was very crowded. The water was quite nice and I've always loved when there's a gentle slope out to sea and, as you move forward, you can feel the ridges of sand formed by the waves. So it was a well-spent afternoon of reading, swimming, and napping.

As the afternoon turned into evening, the sun turned a bright red color and the sky followed suit, with reds, yellows, oranges, and blues creating a truly breathtaking sight. The photographer in me had to leave the dice game we were playing every few minutes to snap another picture. With the sun down, we grabbed dinner at the hotel, a little over-priced but the grilled prawns in tamarind sauce were particularly delicious. Before going to bed, we booked a combination snorkeling, fishing trip for the next day.

The following morning we were picked up by a van filled with about ten other tourists and made the drive down to the southern tip of Phu Quoc, the fishing village of An Thoi. The drive was beautiful, following Long Beach south for several kilometers, with occasional fishing huts dotting the landscape. The An Thoi port was crowded with wooden fishing boats, some outfitted with huge sets of bright lights, presumably for squid fishing.

We had an extremely slow boat ride out to some of the more distant An Thoi islands. Several of the islands had sizable fishing villages located on the coast, but the rest of the island looked fairly uninhabitable. We finally made it out to the fishing grounds and spent about an hour fishing with just a line wrapped around some plastic. Somehow, the captain was catching fish left and right, but no one else was catching anything. By the time we finished, Shanti's dad and I managed to catch one small fish each.

We then gave snorkeling a try, but the water was not all that clear and the tide was strong. The snorkeling was a bit better at the second stop, but it didn't compare to Pulau Perhentian, where I had been just six weeks earlier. We had fresh fish on board for lunch and we all got to try freshly caught sea urchin: a bit salty, but not bad with a squeeze of lime. After lunch we headed back to shore and took the van to Sao Beach, a gorgeous beach, with the finest, whitest sand I've ever seen. We spent a little time relaxing and swimming there before heading back to Kim Hoa for sunset, which was almost as beautiful as the night before.

On our last day on Phu Quoc, we did some more relaxing, reading, and swimming. Shanti, her mom, and I took a long walk down the beach around lunch time to look for a place to satisfy Shanti's Italian food craving. We managed to find a place with very good food, but, as one might expect, the Italian was a bit subpar. More relaxing in the afternoon and another game of dice as we were lucky enough to have a third gorgeous sunset. Expanding our horizons from the Kim Hoa restaurant a bit, we wandered down the beach to grab another delicious dinner.

We left early the next morning for the airport to catch our flights back to Saigon and then, for me and Shanti to Phnom Penh. On the whole, the trip was very relaxing - which I certainly needed some of - but I don't think I got quite as much of a cultural taste of Vietnam as I was hoping for. All the more reason for a return trip!

Vietnam, Sort Of: Part I

2008-12-01T08:17:00.003+07:00

The morning after the free ride we enjoyed from His Excellency, we set off for Vietnam. Saigon, now known as Ho Chi Minh City, our initial destination, was a mere six-hour bus ride from Phnom Penh. The ride was largely uneventful. Once we crossed the border, however, I noticed a number of subtle differences from Cambodia. First, and most obviously, the road was nicer and traffic laws appeared to be adhered to. Everyone riding motorbikes wore a helmet. Even in rural Vietnam, most houses had TV antennas. In actuality, we didn't pass through too many "rural" areas. Shortly after crossing the border, we were essentially in the massive and sprawling suburbs of Saigon.

We were dropped off in the backpacker area of town and wandered down the street until we found a decent-looking guesthouse. We climbed a few flights of stairs and threw down our things. From above a fairly major intersection, we had a good view of a jumbled mass of electric and telephone wires as well as the activity below - dozens of motorbikes, cars, cyclos, food vendors, tourists, etc.

Back outside, we looked for a spot to grab a snack settling on an Italian place down the street. Afterwards we wandered in to a travel agency to book flights to either Dalat, a cool mountain retreat in south-central Vietnam, or to Cat Tien, an isolated marine national park off the southeast coast. All flights were sold out for the times we were looking for. We regrouped, tried another travel agent, and thought about going to Hue, Hoi An, or Danang (between the two), in central Vietnam. Either the flights were completely booked or we could only get a ticket for one leg of the trip. We were shocked! We regrouped again and settled on Phu Quoc, an island off the southwest coast of Vietnam and actually much closer to Cambodia than Vietnam (it's visible from both Kep and Kampot).

After a quick stop at the guesthouse, we headed for The Rex, a high-end hotel with a roof-top veranda, for a drink. We walked through rush hour to get there - a sea of motorbikes packing the streets and making any street crossing a real-life game of Frogger. Along the way, we passed a bustling market, stopping in to look around. There was a beautiful array of silks and an impressive stock of Vietnamese coffee amidst more touristy knick-knacks.

The Rex was a thoroughly worthwhile stop. The drinks were pricey - about the same as the U.S. - but worth it for the combination of their strength and the atmosphere. Spending an hour in the gardened veranda was simply a wonderful way to spend a bit of time at twilight and debate politics (which we did). Pretending like we were staying at The Rex, we asked the concierge for a dinner recommendation. It was just a short walk away in a very fancy part of town; the street were lined with the stores of top designers like Gucci, Prada, Armani, etc.

The setting for the restaurant was quite fancy, but with live traditional music and a view of the street below, the ambiance was enjoyable. I, however, was unable to enjoy either the ambiance or the food. The dumplings I snacked on at the Italian restaurant made me violently ill during dinner, relieving me of my appetite and quite a bit more. What's a trip to a new southeast Asian country without some stomach problems though? Back at the guesthouse, and with the irritant seemingly out of my system, I felt much better. Exhausted, I crashed hard.

We woke early in the morning and, with my appetite back in full, grabbed a delicious breakfast at a small food stall outside the guesthouse - flat white noodles with tofu, bean sprouts, crunchy fried onions and a twist of lime. From breakfast it was off to the airport to see just what Phu Quoc was all about.

Come on and Take a Free Ride

2008-11-26T12:44:00.001+07:00

For Water Festival, we headed for the foreign visitors tent, much like last year. It was clearly much better-advertised than last year, however, as the tent was practically full of tour groups wearing matching shirts and the steps in front of the tent, which were empty last year, were packed with foreigners. I won't repeat the details of the boat races or the atmosphere - they were largely the same as our first trip to Bon Om Tuk.

Once the boat races ended, we were again treated to a wonderful display of "floats." Over a dozen boats were outfitted with the emblems of various Cambodian ministries in elaborate and hulking displays of light. After the sun set, the floats headed upriver as fireworks went off behind them. It is at this time of day that the Water Festival is at its busiest - most of the villages that flock to Phnom Penh have seen plenty of boats, but few have seen a true fireworks display or anything akin to the floats.

Attempting to get from the foreign visitors tent to streets that were not closed to traffic - probably about half a mile - was difficult to say the least. I have never been packed into a crowd so tight in my life. It was exactly the kind of situation that the Embassy or the State Department tells you to avoid when traveling to domestic situations - if a fight were to break out or somebody were to start pushing, several people would have easily been trampled. It was not until later that we realized that people were crowding so tightly to catch a glimpse of the King, who was about to make his way from the VIP tent on the riverfront back to the Royal Palace.

We managed to find our way to Street 184, usually closed to the public, between the Royal Palace and the National Museum. We walked briskly away from the waterfront along with throngs of others. About halfway to Norodom Boulevard, where the road blocks ended, a big black Lexus SUV came up behind us. Even though there are hundreds of such vehicles in Phnom Penh alone, I always try to peer inside to see if it is His Excellency. In this case, I didn't see His Excellency, but I did recognize his driver and handyman. As I waved, he pulled up along side us. What are the odds? Tens of thousands of people walking down the street, hundreds of VIP cars, and we manage to run into His Excellency?

Though the car was mostly full, we squeezed in - me and Shanti's parents in the back with His Excellency's incredibly elegant wife, His Excellency up front, and Shanti and an RCAF officer (a bodyguard for His Excellency?) in the trunk. Though it was a bit cramped, it was definitely the best option in terms of transport; there was certainly not to be any haggling with price gouging tuk-tuk drivers tonight.

The Reverse Skin Tax

2008-11-24T08:04:00.001+07:00

Leaving Memot early the morning after Sarath's wedding, we headed back to Phnom Penh. As Water Festival (Bon Om Tuk) began that afternoon, it was one of the worst possible days to be traveling to Phnom Penh. The population of the city supposedly doubles for the three-day festival from roughly three to six million people, and many of the villagers coming to town were doing so at the same time as us.

An additional concern was that at some point in the day - no one seemed to know for sure when - the bridge across the Tonle Sap would be closed to vehicular traffic. For most of the trip, the traffic wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting; in fact, we were making really good time. About fifteen kilometers outside of town, however, we came to a dead stop. Over half an hour we moved perhaps a half kilometer. Shortly thereafter, we came to a checkpoint. Several police officers were waving all minivans (the typical, cramped, and overstuffed method for travel) to the side of the road. Apparently, only private vehicles were allowed past this checkpoint and everyone taking minivans or buses had to get out at this point and take either a moto or a tuk-tuk the 15km into town.

As we pulled up to the checkpoint, we were waved to the side of the road. The driver pulled up to one of the police officers and, in Khmer, said that he was transporting foreigners back to Phnom Penh. The officer simply nodded, and waved us down the road in which we were just about the only vehicle with more than two wheels. Just before we got to the Japanese Friendship Bridge across the Tonle Sap we came to another checkpoint. The driver tried the same technique as before, but to no avail. We were directed into a dirt parking lot, from which it was implied we would gather our belongings and walk across the bridge and back in to town.

Clearly all of us preferred to take the van all the way into town to be dropped off at our houses. So one of my coworkers and I (both foreigners) hopped out and, in Khmer, explained to the police officers that we were just coming back from a work trip to the provinces. He asked why we hadn't come back the day before, when the roads were open, to which we replied that we had to work. He seemed to mull this over for a minute, before waving our van over to him. As he did so, he gave us a nod, and we were on our way over the bridge. While crossing, one of my Khmer colleagues said, rather straightforwardly that it was because of us foreigners that we were allowed through both checkpoints. I joking replied simply "you're welcome."

It was a really interesting dynamic though. There is absolutely no way that a van full of Khmers would have been able to convince a police officer to let them through because they were coming back from a business trip. Perhaps if there was a bit of money involved or the driver was well-connected (what well-connected Khmer drives minivans for a living though?) passage would be a possibility. While we all felt a little uncomfortable with the special treatment we were getting, I suppose it was some pay back (pardon the pun) for being charged higher prices at the market, for travel, and other things. It would be much nicer, however, if we were on more level social ground, but it's going to be a long time before anything of that nature happens.

A Village Wedding

2008-11-22T14:04:00.000+07:00

The morning after dancing the night away at Vuth and Cina's wedding, we woke relatively early to celebrate Cambodia's 55th Independence Day, a rather communist style parade featuring tens of thousands of civil servants and floats from various ministries and the military. Early on Monday morning, Shanti and I and Shanti's parents piled into a minivan with about ten of my coworkers to set off for the wedding of one of my coworkers in Memot District, Kampong Cham Province. The four-hour ride was quite pleasant; it was nice to get out of Phnom Penh and see the rice fields at their peak.

We arrived at the bride's house, several kilometers outside of Memot town and right on the national road, just in time for a quick lunch. As with most village weddings, a huge tent containing dozens of tables was set up on the dirt in front of the house. There were relatively few people around - the traditional ceremonies that take place in the morning were over - so we had a quiet lunch and took the minivan into town to settle in to our guesthouse.

We relaxed a bit and then a handful of the foreigners in the group decided to go for a walk about town. The six of us were probably the most foreigners Memot had ever seen and the sight of us was cause for significant commotion. The fruit vendors were quite amused that we could speak a bit of Khmer and the moto drivers were certainly perplexed as to why we were in town. We stumbled upon a small, but interesting archaeological museum covering ancient civilizations in the surrounding area before going back to the guesthouse.

After some more relaxation we got suited up for the wedding and took the van back to the bride's house. Although it was not very crowded, there was a line out front of people waiting to get their pictures taken with Sarath, my coworker, and Kimhuch, his bride, under the archway entrance to the wedding tent. Next to the archway was a typically over-edited photograph of the couple in which they were a ghostly pale (pale skin is highly desirable across Cambodia and much of Asia and is seen as of a higher class than darker skin). Rising up from the entrance was a bamboo pole with two huge megaphones attached, one pointing in each direction the road went. The megaphones blasted music from a live band loud enough for neighbors several kilometers away to hear (another symbol of status is apparently letting as many people as possible know that you or your kin are getting married).

As we posed for pictures with Sarath and Kimhuch, a small gathering of local kids surrounded us, curious at the sight of so many barangs. We were seated at a table with discarded napkins, fish bones and other debris in a ring around the chairs, the typical disposal method for weddings. We were served a meal similar to but not quite as fancy as Vuth and Cina's wedding and were greeted with an endless supply of beer. A crew of several dozen local kids scanned the tables for those finishing their drinks and quickly snatched empty cans from the ground, a $0.03 per can gold mine.

The live band was quite loud and apparently caught the attention of the entire area. By the time it was 7:00, about an hour after we arrived, a crowd of several hundred villagers - not guests, merely onlookers - surrounded the wedding tent. The crowd quickly doubled in size once some of the barangs got up to dance and soon all of us were dancing in the best Khmer style we could, much to the amusement of the locals. It was simply amazing how many non-guests had turned out simply for entertainment. Obviously not too much happens in Memot, but I had to wonder if the crowd size was a standard or if the presence of foreigners had a particular drawing power.

At one point, a little before Sarath and Kimhuch were to make their entrance, a lotus flower fight broke out between some of the barangs and the local kids. Though it seemed as if everyone was having a good time with it, the bride's mother did not look amused. With several more beers in our bellies and another hour of dancing under our belts, we were exhausted. And it was only 8:30pm. Such is life in the provinces - it begins as soon as the sun is up and ends shortly after it goes down. Sarath's wedding was incredibly enjoyable, but in an entirely different way than Vuth and Cina's. It was certainly a unique experience that I will not soon forget.

A Phnom Penh Wedding

2008-11-19T12:42:00.000+07:00

Shanti’s parents arrived in Phnom Penh at the beginning of November just in time for a flurry of activity. With the end of the rainy season comes two things: weddings and the Water Festival. Over a period of four days, we had two weddings to attend, including most of the traditional ceremonies for one of them. The first wedding was for Vuth, a friend of mine and one of Shanti’s former co-workers, and Cina, who has been an extremely helpful and reliable travel agent since shortly after we arrived in Phnom Penh.

While I don't want to overplay it, I'd like to think that Shanti and I had a little something in establishing Vuth and Cina's relationship. They knew each other before we arrived and there seemed to be some attraction, but a dinner at our house was one of the first times they had truly spent time together. Shanti and I also enthusiastically coached Vuth on courting Cina. Regardless of the importance of our role, we were excited for the first wedding in which we were friends with both the groom and bride.

The wedding was a typical, if not slightly lavish, Phnom Penh wedding. A large tent was set up in the street in front of Cina’s house on Friday and a few traditional ceremonies (which I was unable to attend, but Shanti and her parents were) were held for family and very close friends. I got off work in time to catch the end of dinner and offer my congratulations to both Vuth and Cina.

Early on Saturday morning the festivities continued with a procession of food and other gifts to Cina’s house; it was definitely the longest wedding procession I had ever seen. Throughout the morning were a number ceremonies in which we had the honor to participate as much of Vuth’s family, from Battambang, was unable to attend the wedding. There was the ribbon-tying ceremony, the hair cutting ceremony, a blessing for ancestors, a blessing from parents, all facilitated by a pushy emcee.

Following an afternoon of relaxation, we reconvened – men in dress pants and a shirt and women in slightly ridiculous silk wedding outfits – at Lucky Star restaurant. The restaurant is in fact a series of banquet halls used primarily for enormous Cambodian weddings. Vuth and Cina’s accommodated approximately 500 people, a relatively common size for urban weddings. After a greeting from Vuth, his groomsmen, and the bridesmaids at the entrance to Building A, we were seated for a typical meal of several courses: first, cashews, spring rolls, fried fish cakes, and other appetizers; second, a kind of crab soup; third, a salad of noodles, seafood, and pomelo (similar to but sweeter than grapefruit); fourth, fish; fifth, rice with chicken; and sixth, a small dessert and fruit.

Throughout the meal a live band played and Vuth and Cina’s friends rose to the stage and sang their favorite songs. There was a lot of fairly raucous dancing, at which Shanti’s mom excelled. I certainly hadn’t ever seen her mom boogie like she did and I think Shanti was equally impressed and amused. This was, in fact, the only thing a bit unusual about the wedding: how lighthearted the evening seemed to be and how happy the guests were. Most weddings are fairly formal affairs in which strict protocols are followed. The singing and dancing and general joyousness at Vuth and Cina’s certainly broke from the norm in this sense. It was, at least for the moment, the most fun I had ever had at a wedding.

Back to Kep

2008-10-29T14:52:00.003+07:00

With Shanti returning from Nepal on Friday and her parents arriving next weekend, we decided to skip town for a relaxing weekend in Kep. I took Friday afternoon off and we caught the afternoon Hua Lien bus that goes to Kampot via Kep. The road that we took, I think it was National Road 3, was in absolutely terrible shape, most likely because it was the end of the rainy season and from poor maintenance. Bumpiness aside, it was a smooth ride and we arrived in a cloudy Kep late in the afternoon.

A tuk-tuk met us where the bus dropped us off to take us to Veranda, where we stayed the last time we were in Kep about a year ago. It was a relatively amusing tuk-tuk ride; we started up the hill to Veranda, but the tuk-tuk couldn't make it carrying both me and Shanti, so I hopped out to walk. Shanti was eventually forced out as well, as the hill was just too step and the tuk-tuk just too weak. We checked in and were led through the Swiss Family Robinson-style walkways to the same bungalow we had last year.

We dropped our stuff off and walked down to Kep's locally well-known crab market. In the mornings, vendors wade out into the water to their traps and bring the freshest crabs imaginable to their patrons. Beyond the market is a row of perhaps twenty shacks with metal folding tables and plastic chairs serving the best seafood in Cambodia and some of the best in the region. Shanti and I made our way to Kimly, a popular spot with foreigners because of their English menus. We got a table literally over the Gulf of Thailand, with the waves gently lapping at the wooden pillars holding up the restaurant. In the distance the sun was setting over Bokor Mountain and Phu Quoc. It was an idyllic setting for dinner.

Though the menu was full of interesting options, from very traditional Cambodian fare to shark and stingray, we ordered one of the house specialties, whole Kep crab fried with fresh Kampot green pepper and, I think, honey. It was so delicious that, as we were leaving town on Sunday we bought a kilo of fresh crab to take back to Phnom Penh with us.

On Saturday we woke to a downpour of rain, a downpour which continued practically ceaselessly until we left. If we had not been to Kep before and were planning to go to Rabbit Island or the caves at Kampong Trach, we would've been quite disappointed. However, since we were just after a relaxing weekend, it was actually really nice as it forced us to simply unwind, read and play cards.

The rain stopped long enough on Saturday afternoon for us to go for a walk, looping from Veranda to the crab market and around the coast to Kep Beach. As the sun started to set, though, we headed back to Veranda to enjoy the view from the fantastic terrace restaurant. The sunset was magnificent, with the whole sky glowing a golden color and the sun creating a shimmering reflection upon the water. By the time we finished dinner it was pouring again.

We woke to more rain on Sunday and after some relaxing and a few more games of cards, we tuk-tuked to Kep Beach to catch the bus back to Phnom Penh. As we waited for the bus to make its way from Kampot, it really dumped; and the resulting flooding was very impressive. A lake, at least ankle deep, covered the entire road (a problem that could easily be fixed if any effort was put into it) as children frolicked in it, dogs hopped across it, crab vendors trudged through it, cars splashed across it, and motos stalled. The most amusing thing about the rain, however, was that despite (or because of?) the downpour the water was packed with Cambodians, all fully dressed in pants (some jeans) and t-shirts. (Because of the combination of modesty and the desire for light skin, you will find few Cambodians that strip down into what Westerners would consider traditional swimming attire). Not only was it an entertaining sight, but it was interesting to think how different the beach would look on a rainy day in the US.

Malaysia Part VI: Melaka

2008-10-21T19:24:00.003+07:00

Kuala Lumpur's Puduraya bus station was absolute chaos. There were dozens of ticket windows for dozens of different bus companies. For buses that were about to leave men stormed up and down the aisles shouting the names of his company's about-to-depart destination. There did not seem to be any order to how the ticket windows were organized; each bus company posted its routes on the window and patrons were either expected to know which company to use or to brave the crowds and peruse each window individually. I finally stumbled upon a guy yelling Melaka, gave him some money and headed to the correct platform. It turned out the bus wasn't leaving yet. In fact, it didn't ever show up. We got stuffed onto a beat up school bus of sorts that was already mostly full.

A slow and fairly uncomfortable three hours later, we were at the bus station outside of Melaka (for some reason most of Malaysia's municipal transport hubs are inconveniently located outside of the city necessitating many taxi rides). I ended up at a charming guesthouse across from a mosque a block off of Chinatown's main shopping street. I dropped my stuff off and walked over to the historic colonial part of town, where the Dutch, Portuguese, and British had set up shop over the last 500 years. The Studhuys town square, St. Paul's Church (with a view out to the Straits of Melaka), and the other buildings were charming, but the area was a bit too overrun with tourists for my taste. I did, however, enjoy the brightly-decorated trishaws which blasted 80s pop music, like "Don't Stop Believing" and the "Final Countdown."

Starving, I headed back across to Chinatown looking for lunch. I stopped at a small restaurant packed with old, contemplative Chinese men drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and ordered the house specialty, chicken satay. It was the freshest and most delicious satay I've ever had, with just enough bite to keep me honest and cucumbers to cool me down.

Refreshed, I wandered down Jalan Hang Jebat, Chinatown's main street. It was a bustling mix of modern shops selling knick-knacks, dusty antique shops selling highly overpriced trinkets - I saw a Guinness pint glass on sale for $50 - and art galleries. Regardless of the product being sold, every house's windows were beautifully painted in bright colors and intricate designs. It was the perfect place to do a photographic study on windows and doors.

Continuing my wandering, I passed by beautiful Chinese temples and stumbled upon a batik gallery. Batik is a technique of painting on silk using what looks like a quill to outline a design with hot wax; once cool, the wax acts a barrier to paint spreading beyond the desired region and I had the pleasure of seeing an artist at work. Rounding a corner in a quieter part of town, I noticed a parade coming my direction. The police were closing streets one by one and it was clear that hundreds of people, some in elaborate silk costumes, were involved in the parade, including many floats. As the parade passed, I stopped a boy that looked like a boy scout and asked him what the parade was for. He looked at me blankly and, in the most matter of fact statement I've ever heard, replied "The birth of God." I was too stunned by his nonchalance to ask him which God. Hot and tuckered out, I went back to the guesthouse for a shower and a rest.

Since it was my last night of vacation, I intended to make myself presentable - at least more presentable than I had been for much of the past week - and treat myself to a nice dinner. As I was wandering to the fancy Malay-Portuguese restaurant I had in mind, however, I noticed that Chinatown's main street was closed to cars and motorbikes. Intrigued, I went over to discover that a huge night market was being set up. I walked through to get a sneak preview and then decided to get a few beers at the beautifully colonial and perfectly located Geographer Cafe. I got the absolute best table possible and sipped deliciously cold beer as the market took shape. These were probably some of my most content moments on a trip of much contentment.

Ogling the street food vendors with a few drinks in my belly and hunger lurking, I opted out of the fancy sit-down dinner and set off to enjoy the wonders of street food. I'm not sure exactly what I ended up with - something like a spring roll, some sort of fried prawn puff, some spicy vegetarian Indian food, sweet barbecued pork, sweet dough rolled in crushed peanuts, and the Melakan specialty pineapple tarts. And all of it was not even $5. Good choice. Moreover, the open market was incredibly fun to walk around and was bustling with (mostly local) activity.

There were a number of particularly entertaining sites that are worth a brief mention: Chinese temples were turned into karaoke joints and aerobic dance classes. There was a huge stage for karaoke at one end of the street, complete with tables and chairs for onlookers. I couldn't help but admiring the dance moves of an older Malay man (sorry, I only got a video). Then, just as I was about to call it a night, I stumbled upon a street show. Nothing like juggling fire or magic or any of that nonsense. I mean a real street show: a guy trying to hawk some ridiculous product. In this case it was a stocky, middle-aged Chinese Malay guy, speaking a mix of English, Malay, and Chinese. He had gathered a crowd of several hundred and he was selling some sort of pain-killing ointment. I will give him credit for being able to hold the crowd and for his great sense of humor (even if I couldn't understand everything he was saying). But the true selling point of his show was how he demonstrated that the ointment worked. The man took a fresh green coconut - hard as a rock - stood on two clay pots and managed to punch through the flesh of the coconut using only his hand in four jabs. In a great show of theatrics, he then had his assistants pour the ointment all over his hand and after a few minutes, he paraded his hand, not at all swollen or bloodied, around the crowd. And people absolutely ate it up, buying up to ten bottles of the ointment at about $7 a bottle. It was like being in an infomercial and surrounded by a whole group of people who actually believed that the product being sold to them wasn't a total farce. This in and of itself was almost as amusing as round two, where our entertainer elbowed through another coconut in a series of three blows. Knowing that this would be hard to top, I called it a night.

On Sunday, my final morning in Malaysia, I relaxed before catching a taxi back to the bus station. At the bus station, I caught a bus to Seramban, where I transferred to a bus to the airport. Arriving about an hour and a half before my departure, I asked where to check in, forgetting that Air Asia is in a different terminal than the other airlines. So I had to take another taxi the fifteen kilometers around the back of Kuala Lumpur International Airport to the Air Asia terminal. A somewhat stressful end to an absolutely wonderful trip. I certainly hope that I will have the opportunity to return to Malaysia and explore in more detail.

Malaysia Part V: Kuala Lumpur

2008-10-20T07:55:00.001+07:00

I arrived in Kuala Lumpur (KL for short) late on Thursday night. Not wanting to repeat my late night search for a guesthouse, I borrowed my taxi driver's phone to call a few places to see if rooms were still available. On the drive into town I had a very interesting conversation with the cab driver who, like almost everyone else I met, spoke very good English. We talked a lot about corruption and how it manifests itself in Malaysia, the typical tourist and tourist season, and the Hari Raya holiday. He was an incredibly nice guy and very sharp; part of me wondered why he was a cab driver. The guesthouse I stayed at, Le Village, wasn't nice, exactly, but it was cheap, well-located, and had a lot of character.

I woke up and set out early on Friday, heading for Masjid Jamek, a beautiful nearby mosque. It didn't open until 9:30, however, so I wandered somewhat aimlessly for the next hour. I went up through Little India - which really did feel like being in India - and popped into a bustling restaurant for breakfast. I had no idea what to get, so I just told the waiter to bring me whatever he recommended - some delicious dahl wrapped in naan and with four different sauces. As I ate, women in brightly colored saris gossiped and men smoked cigarettes and talked politics (not too long ago there were serious protests by the Malaysian Indian community who felt shortchanged by the government at the expense of ethnic Malays).

After breakfast, I continued my wandering around, passing beautiful Chinese temples and an intricately decorated Sri Maha Mariamman Hindu temple. Continuing on my tour of religious establishments, I made my way back to Masjid Jamek. The Moghul-influenced architecture was beautiful and the setting, at the confluence of two rivers dotted with palm trees, was equally impressive. Though unable to actually enter the mosque, I wandered around the premises and enjoyed this oasis of peaceful quiet within KL. The friendly Filipino imam even chatted with me for a few minutes.

From Masjid Jamek I walked over to Dataran Merdeka (Independence Square), where Malaysia declared independence just over fifty years ago. The huge area of green was flanked by a beautiful mix of colonial and contemporary buildings, some housing government offices and others museums. Unfortunately, because of Raya, most of the museums were closed. Instead of learning about history, I opted for current events, grabbing a copy of The Straits Times, Malaysia's English-language newspaper and just sat in the park relaxing.

Back on the tourist trail, I made my way to the old train station, an absolutely gorgeous amalgamation of European and Malay architecture. Across the street was the almost as impressive offices of KTM, the Malaysian railway authority. From there, I walked over to the Masjid Negara (National Mosque), a modern mosque with a two-hundred foot minaret and a really interesting classically Islamic eight-sided star design covering the entire complex, from the marble walkways to the grass surrounding the palm trees. I made a quick, but worthwhile stop in the Lake Gardens, a huge park area, and the butterfly park contained there within.

Touristed out for the day, I took the impressively efficient and cheap commuter rail to the Petronas Towers, at over 1500 feet, recently the tallest building(s) in the world. Before admiring them, however, I went to enjoy an English-language movie, a comfort Phnom Penh does not have on offer. Though the movie I saw was terrible, it was really nice to plop down in an air conditioned and munch on popcorn and sip on a Coke. After the movie, I wandered around the mall, in sheer awe of the consumerism around me, a consumerism Cambodians can only dream of. While I didn't have any desire to shop, I did take advantage of the culinary delights on offer, like Dunkin' Donuts and Auntie Anne's Pretzels.

I left the mall to enjoy the view of the Petronas Towers, which were indeed quite beautiful, as well as the people watching, which was fantastic. There were stylishly dressed teenagers (I did find it a bit ironic that it was acceptable for teenage girls to wear tight jeans and a tight shirt along with their headscarf), lots of cute kids, and I think a pretty good taste of every day life for people living in KL. I sat and enjoyed for a couple of hours, waiting for the sun to set and the towers to be lit up. Now exhausted, I headed back to Le Village and called it a night.

I was up early on Saturday and walked over to Chinatown for breakfast - a couple of donuts and a curry puff. After a bit more wandering, I got my stuff and headed for the bus station to catch a bus to Melaka.

While I don't typically like big cities when I'm traveling, Kuala Lumpur (or KL) really grew on me. I was intrigued by KL's ethnic diversity and history and its effects on the current city - a thriving Chinatown and Little India, fantastic cuisine, and beautiful architecture. If I had a choice of where to spend my time in Malaysia, KL wouldn't be anywhere near the top, but it turned out to be a wonderful place to spend a day and a half.

Malaysia Part IV: Pulau Perhentian Kecil and a Few Hours in Kuala Terengganu

2008-10-16T07:41:00.000+07:00

Following my morning perusal of Kota Bharu, I headed for the bus station to catch a bus to Kuala Besut, the small fishing town where boats leave for the Perhentian islands. I arrived at about 8:30am and, unfortunately, the bus didn't leave until 9:30. As I was waiting around, I started talking to an interesting couple: a Frenchman, teaching French in China, and his Chinese girlfriend, a civil engineer in France. While we chatted, a taxi driver approached us and offered to take us to Kuala Besut for $3 per person, just slightly more than the bus. We agreed and set off.

Our taxi driver turned out to be quite a character, a very good tour guide and an equally good insight into life in Malaysia. He provided a bit of background about himself and his nine children, Raya, the amount of freedom he has in Malaysia (he argued that he was incredibly free), crime, foreigners (and how the Perhentians are not a good place for family because of the scantily clad beach-goers) and so on.

An informative one hour ride later and we were at Kuala Besut, where we bought boat tickets to the Perhentians. On my more limited budget, I decided to go to Perhentian Kecil's Long Beach, more of a backpacker scene than the bigger Perhentian Besar. After a bouncy forty-five minute ride into the South China Sea we were between the two beautiful islands. The water was a surreal blue and the beaches were white, sandy and dotted with palm trees. Because of the upcoming Hari Raya, many of the bungalows and restaurants scattered across the beach were shuttered. I managed to find a nice bungalow right on the beach, grabbed lunch and spent most of the afternoon with my feet in the sand and the clear, blue and shallow waters. It was definitely a bit odd going straight from one of the most conservative cities in Malaysia to a beach of well-tanned, bikini wearing twenty-something westerners. That said, I knew the next few days were going to be the type of laid-back atmosphere I was looking for.

Later in the afternoon, I decided to walk over to Coral Bay on the other side of the island. It was a short walk with some interesting red-barked trees and a handful of monitor lizards. The other side was absolutely beautiful. Though the beach was a bit rockier, there was an idyllic pier extending out into the water. I spent at least two hours simply enjoying the view of the schools of fish in the water and the sunset over other islands in the distance. All of the guesthouses and restaurants at Coral Bay were closed so I was one of only a few people around. It was some of the most peaceful time I had on the whole trip. Heading back to the other side of Kecil, I had a pleasant dinner and a couple of beers at one of the two restaurants that was open and
called it a night.

On Wednesday morning I decided to go on a snorkeling trip and see just how beautiful the surrounding reefs were. Seven of us shared a small motorboat, including a few Spaniards, an Australian, and our comical captain. At the first stop, Turtle Bay off of Besar, I immediately regretted not having bought an underwater camera. A few huge (about 5ft long) green turtles surrounded the boat, occasionally popping their heads above water for air. We admired them for a few minutes and then hopped in to join them. The clear water made the turtles easy to spot and follow. It was hard not to admire the way they glide - almost fly - through the water. I was able to get so close to one that I was able to pet it when it came up for air.

Our next stop was a bit further down Besar. As we hopped in to the water, our captain threw bits of bread at us. We were immediately surrounded by hundreds of tropical fish of at least a dozen varieties. The tide was quite strong - and remained so for the rest of the day - but the fish were beautiful. There were far two many different species to count, from black and white striped fish to totally iridescent to neon. And then there were the sharks. Only small (2ft) reef sharks, but wild sharks nonetheless. At first it was a bit scary and exhilarating, but then it just became a challenge to follow them as they worked their way through the water.

Heading further south along Besar we stopped at another reef, probably the best, with absolutely gorgeous coral. Neon green brain-like coral and bright purple and brown coral shaped like clams. The variety of fish here was also better than at any other stop. I spotted an eel (electric?) eating a fish. A full-grown shark (6ft) swam right at me and got within fifteen or twenty feet, later catching an unlucky fish in an incredibly quick attack. This was certainly the best snorkeling I had ever done!

We had a leisurely lunch in Perhentian Village before making two more stops, neither of which featured anything remarkably different from what we had already scene. The last stop, however, was at the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. The color of the water was remarkable
and the sand was the finest I have ever felt. As a self-admitted mediocre swimmer, I was exhausted. I spent the remainder of the afternoon and the following morning relaxing on the beach and on the terrace of my bungalow.

On Thursday I took a boat back to Kuala Besut and caught a local bus down to Kuala Terengganu, from where I would catch my flight back to Kuala Lumpur. It was a slow, but enjoyable two-hour ride as we passed mosques and madrasas, farms, and big feasts celebrating the end of Ramadan. I had a few hours to kill before my flight, so I wandered over to a guesthouse. Because of Hari Raya - a festival in which most people go to their home villages in rural areas - the streets were absolutely empty. The guesthouse I went to was actually closed, but they let me drop my stuff off and even cooked some food for me.

With a bit of time, I wandered around town a bit. There was a beautiful mosque near the guesthouse as well as a really nice palace, used for official state functions. The streets were bizarrely empty though. There was absolutely nobody around. Other than the McDonald's, almost everything was closed. I did manage to find a few friendly vendors selling songkok, prayer mats, and a number of other Islamic goods. I stumbled into the small Chinatown and particularly enjoyed the variety of brightly painted windows at every shop front. Back at the guesthouse before my flight, I heard the call to prayer coming from the Zainal Abidin mosque at sunset. Not a bad way to end my brief stay in Kuala Terengganu

Malaysia Part III: The Jungle Railway and Kota Bharu

2008-10-15T11:46:00.005+07:00

At 9am on Monday morning I caught a wooden longboat back to Kuala Tembeling and out of Taman Negara. There really is no way to describe the boat ride other than extremely pleasant. Other than spotting a few colorful birds, I enjoyed the sun on my shoulders and the peaceful ride. Once back in Kuala Tembeling, I caught a bus to Jerantut, the town that is, for many, a launching pad to Taman Negara.

In Jerantut by lunch time, I walked over to the train station to catch the so-called "Jungle Railway" up to Kota Bharu. The railway is notoriously slow, stopping at countless stations as it makes the journey from Gemas in southern Malaysia to Kota Bharu in the north. That said, it is supposedly a beautiful ride through pristine jungle and rainforest and passing by small town Malaysia and magnificent caves and limestone outcroppings. Regardless of its pros or cons, I wanted the Jungle Railway to be my mode of transport northbound.

When arriving at the ticket counter, however, I was told that all classes were sold out for the 12:45pm train because of the fast approaching Hari Raya (the feasts that accompany the end of Ramadan). Alternatively, I could take an 11:00pm or 1:00am express train, but that would defeat one of the main reasons I wanted to take the train - to see the sights and get a taste of rural life in Malaysia. I could also take the bus, but that, to me, was equally unappealing. I asked if there was any way that I could get on the 12:45pm train. It turned out that there was. If I paid double the regular fare (25RM or about $7.50) I could get on the train without a guaranteed seat. I'd say it was a pretty raw deal, but it was my best option.

I waited on the platform for a half hour until the train rumbled up to the station. As I got on to the car I asked if I was permitted to sit in an unoccupied seat, dashing towards some of the few open ones once I received a reply in the affirmative. Just after settling and as we were about to leave, the ticket holder for my seat appeared and I was forced to move. However, I found a seat (in fact, two!) within the same car. Thankfully, I was able to retain these two seats to myself for the duration of the lengthy journey.

Initially, before it started raining and the sun went down, it was extraordinarily hot. And smelly. (I detected a healthy mix of vomit and B.O.). Once I got used to it, however, I was able to appreciate my surroundings, both within and outside the train. The train itself was relatively clean and modern, with restrooms on either end of the car and comfortable seats with a decent amount of legroom. I was the only westerner in the car, with the rest of the travelers appearing Malaysian with a sprinkling of passengers of Indian descent. Almost all of the women on the train were dressed conservatively, wearing headscarves and baju kurung, a beautiful, long and flowing silk tunic and skirt covering everything below the wearer's neck except their hands and feet.

The view outside the train was beautiful. We passed through small towns, palm oil and rubber plantations, pristine forest, rivers, mountains, caves, and particularly interesting limestone outcroppings (especially around Gua Musang). As the train ride went on, I noticed that the girl in front of me, sitting next to her mother, kept turning around and smiling at me flirtatiously. She finally got up the courage to say something to me in perfect English, of course: "Your eyes are very beautiful." I thanked her and we talked here and there over the next several hours. My spelling could be way off, but her name was roughly Azien and she was nine years old with chubby checks and warm eyes. She was very curious about what I was doing in Malaysia, where I was from, where I was going, and so on. Each time she had something to ask me, her head would pop up above the seat and she'd say "Uncle, uncle!" to get my attention. Her mother, Kelaya, was also very friendly and even invited me to stay the night at their house and spend Raya with them. Their house was a bit out of the way and, with limited time, I had to politely decline her offer.

After about nine hours we finally arrived in Wakaf Bharu, the closest stop to Kota Bharu. I caught a taxi into town and managed to find a decent hotel, Suria, which had a nice-sized room, cable television, hot water, and air conditioning (all for only $18). Starving, I headed for the night market. Even though it was now almost 11:00pm, the market was absolutely packed and incredibly vibrant. I was the only white person around and it seemed that everyone else was Muslim and wearing traditional dress. The women were wearing beautiful silk baju kurung of all colors and admiring those up for sale at the market and the men were all trying on new songkok (traditional head covering). The market was just so full of life! I think this was the first time that I truly felt I was in Malaysia. Although I did attract some suspecting glances, I never felt the least bit unsafe, in part because I knew that, unlike Cambodia, no one around me was drinking. It was quite a nice feeling.

Having perused the market for snacks and finding nothing but dried fish and baked goods, I headed back towards the hotel where I had seen a street vendor. There was a long line, so I knew it had to be good. Moreover, I hadn't really eaten any street food yet and the culinary selections in Taman Negara were somewhat limited. When I got to the front, it was not traditional Malay fare on offer, but hamburgers with a Malaysian twist. I got two of them and joined others on the street to chow down. Not the most traditional meal, but it certainly satisfied my stomach.

Following a good night's sleep and my first hot shower since arriving, I set out to explore Kota Bharu in the daylight. There were some interesting architectural sights, including some beautiful museums and a palace. Most of the action, though, was in the morning market, a circularly domed market with a ring of meat and fish vendors around the outside and vegetable vendors in the middle. Like the market the night before, it was incredibly lively and very-well organized. I spent a good half an hour on the second level just watching the activity below.

Though I wished I could stay in Kota Bharu a bit longer, I had packed a lot in to the twelve hours I was there and I was ready to hit the beach at Pulau Perhentian.

Malaysia Part II: Taman Negara

2008-10-11T10:10:00.004+07:00

On Saturday morning I hopped on the overly air conditioned bus and set off for Taman Negara, which is widely believed to be the oldest pristine rainforest in the world (at 120 million years old, it was unaffected by the ice ages). For the most part, it was a very enjoyable ride. We passed Bantu Caves, a huge limestone outcrop of caves in the suburbs of Kuala Lumpur and, once outside the city, everything was incredibly lush. There were small towns, but it seemed like we were out in the middle of pristine rainforest, dotted with palm oil and rubber plantations, for the duration of the journey. That said, there were some interesting contrasts, in particular the signs notifying travelers of approaching rest stops. For the most part, the signs looked completely normal - petrol, lodging, bathroom, food - but at each stop and often next to one of the fast food establishments (McDonald's) was the symbol for a mosque. Now, not every rest stop actually had a mosque, but each had a room dedicated to prayer.

After a three-hour bus ride we arrived in Kuala Terembeling, the ferry launching point to actually enter Taman Negara. I grabbed a mediocre fried noodle lunch and hung out on the riverfront, enjoying the relaxing silence that surrounded me. People arrived at a steady pace until there were about thirty of us ready to head to the park. Our luggage was hauled down the steep embankment by a mine-like cart as two porters held on.

In groups of ten we were loaded on to three wooden longboats with motors, cushions, and life preservers (which we were asked to wear for the duration of the journey). Once we left the area surrounding the small town of Kuala Terembeling, it was a beautiful boat ride. The water was quite murky, but the rainforest was lush and dense and often accompanied by inviting sandbars. As we got closer, I spotted a few monkeys hanging out on a limb over and a number of cool birds, many of which swooped and dove around the water and through the trees without any seeming method to their madness.

While beautiful, after almost two hours, I was antsy to get moving. At about 4:00pm we arrived in Kuala Tahan, a small village that sits across the river from Taman Negara. I scurried up the rocky beach to find a place to stay for the night, ending up in a decent, but characterless bungalow a bit off the beaten track. I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, treating myself to ice cream (something I did a few too many times on my trip), and making a stop at the ranger station across the river to figure out what would be feasible over the next day. With the advice of a helpful ranger, I decided to spend the morning doing a short loop and the afternoon hiking out to a hide to spend the night. With not too much to do for the remainder of the evening, I crashed pretty early.

Planning to get the day started shortly after sunrise, I was awake while it was still dark out. I took a quick cold shower to wake myself up, threw on some lightweight canvas pants and set off across the river for the park. I had wanted to get some water before crossing, but nothing was open yet, so I was forced to make a stop at the resort by the ranger station. It cost $6.50RM (about $2) for a half liter bottle of water, the equivalent of which cost merely $1RM on the other side of the river. Ridiculous!

Anyways, I set off to the loop to the Canopy Walk and Bukit Teresek in reverse as the Canopy Walk didn't open until 9:30am. As soon as I was off the property of the resort and in the rainforest, I was absolutely drenched with sweat. I was surrounded by the sounds of dozens of kinds of insects calling out, the chirp of several kinds of birds, and an occasional rustling in the trees indicating the presence of a monkey. The sounds were so peaceful and authentic, it was hard not to just stand there and enjoy them.

Initially the terrain was pretty flat, but the path was criss-crossed by the roots of trees in all directions. About ten minutes in to my hike, I heard some rustling in the dense forest; something brown and with a stubby tail about the size of an average dog darted off away from me. I later found out it was probably a barking deer, not all that uncommon, but more than most people see, especially that close to park headquarters. As I cut away from the river, I headed straight up Bukit Teresek, a steep climb for a view of the surrounding rainforest. It didn't matter that it was only 9am, it was hot and more humid than DC at its worst.

Once I made it to the top, the view of Kuala Tahan was completely shrouded by fog. Enjoying the quiet, I relaxed for a minute before going to the far side of the hill. Though there was still much fog on the other side, the hills of the rainforest beyond peeked out above. Surprisingly exhausted, I sat for a minute to enjoy the silence and check out how many leeches I had picked up on my way up. Three brown leeches managed to wriggle through my wool socks and had grown from perhaps half an inch to three inches. Though a nuisance, they didn't really hurt and I was easily able to flick them off (their extremely effective anti-coagulant, however, ensured that I continued to bleed for another few hours).

From Bukit Teresek, I headed down to the Canopy Walk. I had seen some pictures of the Canopy Walk and I thought it was one bridge strung between two trees at canopy level, 75 feet above the ground. I was also expecting it the Canopy Walk to be quite touristy and over-hyped.
When I arrived, however, I was told by park staff that there were a total of ten bridges strung between the trees, some of them over 100 feet long. I climbed a wooden staircase to begin the walk. The setup was impressive if not a little discomforting: a v-shaped net of rope with metal ladders topped by wooden planks and strung with some metal cables between the two trees. Though it looked quite secure, it bounced up and down and swung side to side with every step. As someone susceptible to being afraid of heights, it was certainly a test. As I walked on, however, I enjoyed it quite a lot. I was one of only a few people on the walk at the time, and the sights and sounds were certainly worth taking in. I spotted a large monitor lizard on one of the first bridges, a number of birds, and some very prehistoric-looking plants.

Having completed the Canopy Walk, I set off for the final part of my morning loop. Almost back to park headquarters, I was started by a wild peacock, walking right across the path in front of me. It allowed me within ten feet before it disappeared into the thick forest surrounding the path.

Back at my guesthouse, I took a well-deserved shower, changed clothes, and treated myself to a big lunch before setting back off on the trail. I headed for Bumbin Blau, a hide a few kilometers from park headquarters, where I planned to spend the evening and hopefully to see some wild animals. The hike - especially with a full pack - was quite strenuous and, again, I was drenched. Aside from the plant life - blue ferns, giant trees, and vines intertwined with other plants and crossing over the path - and the sounds, it wasn't too exciting, but it was just nice to get out there and enjoy the rainforest. As I approached the hide the path was blocked by a large downed tree. I was able to find the path on the other side, but immediately following, another large tree was down. I tried to hack my way through the forest, but on my own and unable to find the path on the other side, I reluctantly headed back to Kuala Tahan.

Since I wasn't able to spend a full night in the rainforest, I decided to go on a night safari - a 4x4 ride through a nearby palm oil plantation. Ten of us packed into a pickup truck, with the driver inside, six in the back and three on the roof (including me and a spotter, with a bright spot light). For a while it seemed as if the only thing we would see was the house cat we saw on the way in to the plantation. However, we soon saw a six foot long baby python, two leopard cats (about the size of house cats, but with the same spots as leopards), two wild pigs, some kind of fox, and a few different kind of birds. It was pretty cool and I definitely enjoyed riding on top of the pickup truck (don't worry Mom, we were only going a few miles an hour).

Exhausted, I crashed hard and prepared to head back to Kuala Terembeling the next morning and on to Jerantut and the "Jungle Railway" up to Kota Bharu in the northeast of peninsular Malaysia.

Malaysia Part I: Arrival in Kuala Lumpur

2008-10-09T12:42:00.003+07:00

Two weeks ago, I shipped out to Malaysia for the Pchum Ben holiday. In a word, the trip was fantastic. But this being a blog, I'm guessing that just a word won't do. Over the next few entries I'll try to provide the details of my trip. I hope you enjoy.

Leaving Phnom Penh on the Friday afternoon before Pchum Ben was quite amusing. At the airport were close to a dozen people I knew, heading off for Thailand and Laos. There were very few westerners on my flight to Kuala Lumpur, but I happened to know a couple of them through a friend. The AirAsia flight, although a little late, was uneventful aside from the fact that I sat next to a very flirtatious Cambodian woman and her mother. That was a little bizarre.

Upon arriving in Kuala Lumpur, I made it through customs without a problem (though everyone seems to take a long look at that Afghanistan visa…) and got my pack and joined the other people I knew to share a cab into town. We first stopped at an ATM which was, of course, broken. As we waited for it to be fixed, a passerby informed us that there more ATMs inside. When I stepped over the red velvet barrier surrounding the ATM line, however, I knocked down the whole series of stands – perhaps about ten. Not even an hour in Malaysia, and I’m already causing trouble, not a good sign of things to come.

After successfully taking money out, we found our cab and began the long journey into town (for some reason, the Malaysian authorities decided to put the airport 60km from Kuala Lumpur). My travel companions were meeting a friend and I decided to tag along hoping he would have a suggestion of a cheap place to stay.

The infrastructure leaving the airport was very impressive. Lit ten-lane highways with a speed limit of 110km/j (the “j” stands for jam, hour in Malay). As we got closer to town, high-rise apartment buildings dotted the landscape and we could see the beautiful Petronas Towers and the Telekom Malaysia tower.

We arrived in Kuala Lumpur a bit after 10pm and I set off looking for a guesthouse following recommendations. I first stopped at some of the specific ones that were suggested. All three were fully booked. But each was helpful in pointing out other guesthouses in the area that may have vacancies. One guesthouse owner even used her cell phone to call a few different places to see what was available close by. I followed her advice and stayed at a mediocre place called Trekker Lodge in a dorm (all that was available).

Before crashing for the night, I booked a bus and boat to Taman Negara, my destination the following morning.

I woke up early on Saturday morning and headed to an ATM to take a bit more money out. Diagonally across the street from my guesthouse was a small food stall, busy with people getting their morning coffee. As I passed by, I was greeted by a handful of transvestites (or “man-ladies” as the locals call them) and was invited to join them. I politely declined much to their disappointment. Returning from the ATM, I was again solicited for company (and even chased!). I uncomfortably headed back to the guesthouse where I caught a minivan to the bus station.

Since I was a bit early, I had a little time to wander around Chinatown. The streets were not yet bustling, but many vendors were setting up their stalls and shops and the food stalls – with noodles, soups, and fried goods (like donuts and curry puffs) – were preparing for the morning onslaught. I also stumbled upon a bizarre second-hand market in a very narrow alley. A mix of Malay, Indian, and Chinese men (Malaysia's diversity amazed me throughout my trip) - huddled over blankets spread on the ground selling the most random assortment of goods I've ever seen assembled in one place. On a piece of cloth of only a few square feet one individual seller would have jeans, DVDs, antique-like trinkets, car parts, and a hodgepodge of other items, none of which looked particularly appealing. With the bus leaving shortly, I headed back to the station and got ready for my trip to the oldest rainforest in the world.

Road Rage

2008-09-24T17:36:00.000+07:00

So I said I wasn't going to write any more blog entries until I got back from Malaysia and believe me, that was my intent. But my commute to work today got my blood boiling. Today is Constitution Day - one of twenty-eight national holidays - and the swearing in for the National Assembly (you may remember that the elections were held in July); although there has been some controversy surrounding the swearing in - the two main opposition parties are planning to boycott what they deem a fraudulent election - there is no reason for the government to be concerned about major incidents.

Without the day off, I didn't realize it was a public holiday and I set off for work at my normal time, at about 7:15. As I headed down Sihanouk Blvd. across Monivong, all seemed normal. When I arrived at Norodom, however, the street ahead of me was blocked, which is not entirely unusual. So I headed south on Norodom to 294, a route I often take to work. Street 294, however, was also closed. So I headed north to Street 240. When I arrived at Street 19, however, the road was blocked in two directions (naturally the two directions that lead to my office): Street 240 heading east towards Sothearos and Street 19 heading south back towards Sihanouk.

I tried to push my bike through, but a military policeman stopped me. In Khmer, I told him that I needed to go to work. He said I would have to wait like everyone else and believe me, there were a lot of people waiting. I said, again in Khmer, that they can't just close all of the major roads in the city. He just looked at me with contempt. Finally, a few motos trickled through the barricade going east on 240 and I was able to push my bicycle past, though as I did so I knoced the MPs helmet off his bike. He pointed to it and not wanting an incident I picked it up, muttering insults under my breath as I peddled off.

Going east on 240, I turned right just before Sothearos to pass in front of Wat Botum and headed back towards Sihanouk. Again I was met by a roadblock, but I was able to convince the police to let me through as my office was now literally across the street. The 1.5km bike ride took me nearly thirty minutes and now, over an hour later the roads are still closed and are likely to remain so for the next several hours.

Why would the government close access to some of the most major thoroughfares in the city? A show of strength? Security? To me, it's quite ironic in that it is displays of force like this - where the best interest of the people is nowhere on the government's radar - that actually make people think about creating security incidents in the first place. It is no wonder that Cambodians, especially those living in Phnom Penh are extremely cynical about everything government-related.

UPDATE: More than three hours after the roads closed, they were reopened at about 10:35am.

UPDATE 2: The roads closed again this afternoon from 1:45pm to 5:15pm. I got stuck by the Independence Monument for fifteen minutes as Excellencies whizzed by in their motorcades of Lexuses and Mercedes. My Cambodian colleagues tell me that it will be like this for the next two days. Unbelievable.

MIA

2008-09-23T15:42:00.002+07:00

Sorry I've been so MIA on the posting. I've been absolutely swamped at work for the past couple of weeks - an excuse I can use only so many times. The good news is that things should now be simmering down. The bad news, at least in the short term, is that I'm heading to Malaysia for vacation on Friday for about a week, which means no posting for a little while longer. However, it should mean that I'll have some great stories upon my return. Thanks for bearing with me.

Spoiled Rotten

2008-09-12T09:09:00.000+07:00

For those of you that follow this blog regularly and especially for those of you that have come to visit, you know that Shanti and I are not exactly roughing it here and, in fact, we're living quite comfortably. We are by no means near the top of the economic stratosphere, either Cambodian or expat. We have yet to get a Lexus, do not yet own a mansion, and do not sport the same amount of bling as the typical Cambodian elite. Moreover, we do not have a housing allowance or get home leave, we do most of our own cooking, eating out only occasionally, and we clean our own house. That is, until now.

After a month of strenuous work schedules and several weekends of travel, our apartment was an absolute mess. The floors were dusty, the kitchen and bathrooms were grimy, and things were just generally in disorder. Expecting our busy schedules continue over the next several months and not wanting to live in filth any longer, we caved and hired some cleaning help. Although we felt guilty about getting someone else to do our dirty work for us, we saw it as an opportunity to provide our wonderful tuk-tuk driver - Red, who I've mentioned before - and his family a bit more money.

This past Sunday morning, Red's wife and daughter and one of their neighbors came over. Over a period of about five hours, they did the most thorough cleaning this apartment has probably ever seen. They did everything from the basics - floors and bathrooms - to the minute - taking apart and cleaning our electric fans - to my least favorite task - ironing my pants and shirts. As guilty as I felt about having someone else clean our apartment for us, they got it much cleaner than we ever would have been able. It's also possible to think about it in terms of helping Red's daughter, an exceedingly bright young Cambodian, save some additional money so that she might have the opportunity to go to college. Regardless, I think it's a scenario in which everyone wins. Or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself as we get spoiled rotten.

Odd Occurrences

2008-09-09T12:03:00.002+07:00

This past Friday marked a string of bizarre incidents which I feel are worthy of sharing. First, on Friday morning I got sick. It doesn't sound that odd, I know, but, as many of you know, I pride myself on having a god-like immune system. A cough and stuffy nose were soon accompanied by a fever, headache, body aches, and nausea. I managed to last through the entire work day, but spent the entire weekend in bed with all of the above symptoms, each staying with me through Monday morning despite medication.

Now I don't mean to imply that when I get sick, things get wacky, but weird things were definitely happening on Friday afternoon. At around 3:30 as the monsoon rain clouds formed in the sky, I looked out my office window - with a pretty good view of downtown Phnom Penh I might add - and noticed a small funnel dropping partly from the clouds toward the ground. Although the funnel remained at least 100 feet off the ground while it lasted, it was quite surreal. From what I know and have heard, Phnom Penh does not experience regular tornadoes. The funnel floated in the sky for about half an hour and then disappeared. Unfortunately, I did not have my camera with me at work to capture it.

Shortly after the funnel incident and with my ailments seemingly getting worse, I headed home. As usual, I unlocked my bicycle in the parking lot and started riding out of the main entrance to the Phnom Penh Center office building complex. I have a pretty good relationship with all of the security guards that man the small motorbike parking lot as well as the ticket booth for cars - they usually smile at me, ask me how I'm doing, and poke fun at the fact that I ride around on a bicycle. As I biked by on Friday, however, the three guards by the ticket booth jumped back from their chairs in three different directions. I stopped and couldn't help but giggle at how ridiculous - and well-coordinated - their leaps had been. It was not until I stopped that I noticed a long and slender neon green snake slithering up one of the guard's motos. Luckily no one was bitten.

Quote for the Day

2008-08-29T07:55:00.003+07:00

At Physique Club in the Cambodiana Hotel a new list of rules and regulations has been prominently posted. I found one of the rules particularly humorous:

"Please use deodorize if necessary. (Foul body odor is offensive)."

I can't say I disagree, but I am very curious as to how this will be enforced.

A Fish "Massage"

2008-08-27T08:42:00.001+07:00

This past Sunday we headed for another of Phnom Penh's bizarre offerings: a fish "massage." Popular in Malaysia, recently opened in the Washington, DC area and, oddly enough, of Turkish origin, the fish massage entails sticking your feet into a pool with several hundred garra rufa fish or "doctor fish" which nibble at your dead skin, essentially giving you a pedicure. We knew of several people who had been before - a few in Malaysia and a few in Phnom Penh - each of which found the experience worthwhile.

So it was on Sunday morning that we headed to Monorom Professional Massage with a group of five other friends. We were welcomed by a staff of several and ushered into a unisex changing room. Once inside, we were given lockers and issued our outfits. The girls were given bike shorts and sports bras and the guys were given incredibly small and tight bike shorts. The only time I'd ever worn something so tight was when I was too young to dress myself and was issued a Speedo as a bathing suit by my parents. In addition to our "swim" gear, we were given silk robes and shorts which made me feel as if I were prepping for a kickboxing fight.

Once changed we were shown into a small chamber with what looked like a ten person hot tub. We removed our silk robe and shorts and, one by one, we crawled into the pool so that we were sitting at ground level with our legs out straight. The doctor fish immediately flocked to our feet and began nibbling at our callouses and dead skin. It tickled tremendously. To ease the tension a bit and help us relax, Wes and Savin mixed champagne and sugar cane juice cocktails and turned on their iPod docking station. After a few minutes of uncomfortable ticklishness, we settled in for a half hour of munching.

I'm not sure that I can say that it was relaxing, but it was certainly a unique and enjoyable experience. Throughout the process, the fish continued to nibble and did not seem to be satiated even when we left. During our time in the pool, they did make more room in their bellies so to speak, relieving themselves in the pool and revealing what looked like miniature onion strings. After a half an hour though, my feet and the other areas in which I got attention from the doctor fish - hands, legs, even chest - were indeed much softer. Putting our silk robes back on, we hit the showers and changed out of our hot pants and back into our clothes.

I can say quite confidently that I never thought that I was going to pay to have my feet nibbled by fish. But I can also say quite confidently that I have come to expect the unexpected. For $5, it was certainly a worthwhile experience (I wouldn't shell out the $50 they're asking for for the same amount of time at the spa in DC) and one that I will repeat with visitors to Phnom Penh.

The Chinese Noodle Restaurant

2008-08-25T08:37:00.002+07:00

On Monivong, four blocks south of Sihanouk lies a nondescript restaurant with a red and white sign reading "The Chinese Noodle Restaurant." It doesn't look like anything special, but it most definitely is.

Entering the restaurant, you first pass the main kitchen which is, in fact, outside. To the left are pots of boiling water and a glass case which features some of the signature dishes. To the right is a metal butchers table used for rolling out several varieties of noodles by hand; during the lunch and dinner hours, one of the employees is usually tossing the dough into the air, kneading it, and stretching it out, certainly in and of itself worthy of a trip. Inside the restaurant are a dozen metal folding tables, each of which has four pink plastic lawn chairs around it. To the back of the restaurant is a sort of bar and refrigeration unit as well as a wall-mounted television which usually plays Chinese-language kung fu movies, the news, or more recently, the Olympics.

The clientele at the Chinese Noodle Shop is quite diverse. It is certainly a popular spot with westerners (as many NGOs are close by), but there is always a mix of Cambodians and Chinese and often with an odd and seemingly out-of-place sprinkling of Mormons. The staff is all Cambodian, save the "manager" who is Chinese. We have never seen her smile, but she is courteous and direct when handling the bill. We're not sure that she speaks any Khmer, so upon leaving, we are sure to utter "shay shay" (thank you in Chinese) instead of "aw koon."

As soon as you are seated at one of the extremely ordinary tables, you are brought mugs of Chinese tea. On each table is the menu, under a layer of clear plastic, napkins, bottles of fish, soy, and chili sauce, sugar, a mixture of soy sauce and chilies, and toothpicks. As one might expect of a noodle shop, noodle dishes feature prominently on the menu, but there are also dumplings and veggie and tofu dishes.

I was lucky enough to be brought to the Chinese Noodle Restaurant shortly after arriving in Cambodia. As suggested by my host, I ordered the boiled dumplings and created a concoction of soy sauce and the soy/chili mixture. A few minutes later a plate of a dozen steaming dumplings arrived. Though fresh out of a pot of boiling hot of water, I dug in and certainly did not regret it. The dumplings were probably the best I've ever tasted, though to this day I'm not entirely sure what they're filled with; I think pork and chives.

The first several times that I went with Shanti and others, we ordered only dumplings, sometimes getting boiled, sometimes getting fried and sometimes getting both. It was not until a few months after we began to frequent the noodle shop that we expanded our repertoire. At first we expanded to a fried noodles with beef dish - phenomenal - which is a mix of the fresh noodles, egg, onions and carrots. Eventually, we added the fried green beans with garlic and mushrooms. Now I'm not one to get excited about vegetables, especially cooked ones, but these green beans, just drenched in garlic, are the best cooked vegetable I've ever had and are quite possibly, my favorite dish. We have tried a number of other dishes, including some of the other veggie dishes and some of the tofu dishes, but I think we're pretty happy with the combination of dumplings, fried noodles with beef, and green beans.

It's quite difficult to describe how good the noodles, dumplings, and green beans actually are, but if the number of trips made to the noodle shop by people visiting Phnom Penh is any indication, well, they're pretty damn good. In just four days in Phnom Penh, my parents and sister went three times. In about two weeks in town, Justin and Ashley went about a half dozen times. Shanti and I usually go at least once a week.

Wouldn't going out so often get expensive, you may ask? Ah, now that's where the true beauty of the Chinese Noodle Restaurant takes effect. A dozen dumplings: $1.20 (formerly $1); fried noodles with beef: $1.70; the green beans: $1.50. Thus, a typical lunch costs roughly two dollars a person, a price as easy to swallow as any of the restaurant's specialties. When I return to the US, the Chinese Noodle Restaurant and the tradition of going weekly, will be one of the things I miss most.

A Weekend with His Excellency

2008-08-17T12:30:00.005+07:00

Earlier this week, His Excellency approached Shanti, inviting us to join him in Kampot for a celebration of his recent electoral victory. Though we had planned to go to Phum Ampil in Svay Rieng with Shanti's friend Peter, who was in town for a few days, the idea of celebrating anything with His Excellency was too good to pass up.

Throughout the week we gathered additional information about the trip and the celebration: that the whole family would be there, that we could dress casually, and that we could get a ride down to Kampot on Saturday morning - hopefully in the Lexus. His Excellency's grandchildren were incredibly excited about the possibility of being able to dance and play with us and we were looking forward to another trip into the unknown and perhaps at gaining some additional insight into our landlord's life and family.

On Saturday morning, after running a few errands, we met on the ground floor of the house. His Excellency had gone to Kampot on Friday and his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren had already left. A bit after 10:45, a van with "State" plates pulled up and we were ushered inside. Through a mix of Khmer and English, we found out that we were sharing the van with part of the National Assembly's media team, including a photographer and a videographer. We sped down to Kampot at roughly 100km/h, bouncing around in the back of the van, much to the amusement of the driver.

A lunch stop, three bathroom stops, and about four hours of jostling later, we passed through Kampot town and, several kilometers beyond, pulled on to a dirt road to a guesthouse. About a half kilometer further, the road forked to the right and we saw His Excellency's Lexus as well as the son-in-law's car. We were a bit confused: had His Excellency booked out the guesthouse for us and his family?

When we got out of the van, we were immediately greeted by His Excellency's wife and his English-speaking granddaughter who lives in Sihanoukville. Again, through a mix of English and Khmer, we learned that in addition to owning the beautiful riverfront land that the guesthouse sits on, they have an expansive fruit plantation for a total of about ten acres. We were shown to our incredibly nice bungalow with a cement frame, thatch roof and wooden porch, jutting out over the river. The view was phenomenal and, as with most trips to southern Cambodia, we were immediately relaxed. As we were chatting, the granddaughter was sent away and returned a moment later with two dozen fresh bananas.

After settling in a little, we wandered around the property. The fruit plantation was very impressive: a mix of bananas, mangoes, papayas, longyens, mangosteens, pomelos, milkfruit, jackfruit, durian, and several kinds of fruit we couldn't name. It quickly became quite clear why they like spending so much time there and, I must admit, we felt a bit foolish for not having made the time to join them sooner.

As we took a more thorough tour of the guesthouse, we chatted with the owner, who agreed that it would be incredibly difficult to find better landlords. He also went on to describe His Excellency's wife's fondness for the fruit plantation, saying that most days she's around she wades into the fruit trees in her pajamas and with a sickle and that she knows each plant on the ten acres. Following our chat we went in search of His Excellency's house. It was a bit off the river amidst fruit trees and definitely one of the coolest houses I've seen in Cambodia. It was made entirely of wood and had three levels - very unusual for rural Cambodia - with most of the space outside and only a few interior rooms. His Excellency's wife welcomed us inside, family members spilling over on all levels and the grandchildren splayed out asleep on the top floor. After a quick tour of the house, His Excellency's wife gave us her version of the tour of the plantation; it was evident how proud she was.

Sitting on the porch of our bungalow, we enjoyed some of the deliciously sweet and fresh bananas and relaxed before the evening's celebration. The English speaking granddaughter came to practice her English with us for a little while, informing us that the party tonight was going to be a big one, with three or four families and perhaps twenty-one people. After a bit more relaxing, we got dressed for the evening, with Peter and me in khakis and short-sleeve collared shirts and Shanti in a skirt. As we wandered out to the cars, we felt quite under-dressed. All of the men were in dress slacks, closed-toe shoes, and most were wearing long-sleeve button-down shirts. We shrugged and set off into Kampot town.

After crossing the bridge from the far side of the river, we took the first right. Immediately, we could see that the street was lined with dozens of shiny black Lexus SUVs and Mercedes sedans. The van stopped and we were ushered out and into the venue, a Chinese school, by a security guard. There were already several hundred people present, most dressed far from casual ,including more people wearing ties in one place than I've seen in the last year combined. As we were taken to our table, everyone turned to look at the barangs; we were, of course, the only white people around and it would remain so for the duration of the evening. We sat at our table in awe of how big the event was - there was a band set up, seating for about 500, and a VIP stage and table. We wondered who else would be making an appearance besides His Excellency.

Seats continued to fill as it approached 5:30. Then the cameras rushed to the entrance to capture the entrance of the first VIP. It was His Excellency, looking very sharp in a Chinese-style black bureaucrats uniform. He was followed by his entire family and many others in an entourage of several dozen. The cameras followed his entrance and it was not until then that we realized that the whole event - the cameras, the 500 people, the band - was for His Excellency. After handshakes and hellos, he took his place on stage and in Khmer, an emcee welcomed everyone.

Over the next half hour, we gathered a general understanding of the proceedings; basically, a listing of who had donated what to the party over the previous year. Then, His Excellency gave a speech. We didn't really have any idea what he was talking about, but we were surprised to discover how good a speaker he was. He seemed to place emphasis in all of the right places and his words were well accentuated by his hand motions. We were definitely impressed. His Excellency's speech was followed by a ceremony in which envelopes, presumably with money in them, were handed out to fervent party supporters and a number of guests received medals, including one of His Excellency's sons.

And then the beer began to flow. Each table of eight was given either one or two cases of beer, which quickly made it in to the glasses and then the bellies of those sitting around it. In Cambodian culture it is impolite to take a sip of your drink without first inviting those at your table to join and it is equally impolite - practically impossible - to refuse an invitation. Therefore, every time that you want to take even a sip, it becomes a long, drawn-out cheers, which can often lead to a "lug die" or bottom's up. Over the course of dinner - about an hour and a half - I'm pretty sure that our table went through close to two cases and it left us a bit, well, intoxicated.

And then there was lots of dancing. We joined most of His Excellency's family in dancing around a table in the traditional Cambodian style. As we did so, we inevitably got laughs and pointers from other guests, including a particularly jolly taa (grandfather) and yay (grandmother), who gave Peter a solid pat on the behind. We continued to dance for some time and before we knew it, almost everyone had left and most of the tables and chairs had been packed away. Despite this, we continued to dance, even unsuccessfully trying to persuade His Excellency's driver and grandchildren to join us. At the rather premature hour of 9:00 the party ended and we piled back into the van, where our fun continued. We took silly pictures and, for some reason, started a round of 99 bottles of beer on the wall (we made it to 74 by the time we got back).

Before departing on Sunday morning, there was a beautiful sunrise over the river and Peter went for a quick swim across the river for an impressive back flip off a rope swing (yes, it looked awesome). We had to leave a bit early in order for Peter to catch his flight back to the US, but we will certainly be back, though I can't imagine that there will be as big a party next time...

A Word on Bus Travel

2008-08-13T15:05:00.004+07:00

It's been over a year since I got here and I've spent enough time on buses that I find it somewhat remarkable that I haven't posted specifically on bus travel. Traveling by bus in Cambodia is often exhilirating, loud, disgusting and uncomfortable and rarely does it get you to your destination quickly. More often than not, the buses are a model of inefficiency, though they are quite cheap.

By western standards, Cambodian roads are terrible. The national roads - note they're not even called highways - are barely two lanes wide without any sort of divider or shoulder and often lacking in the pavement department. Adding to the levels of exhilaration (some may say discomfort), it is almost immediately apparent that the rules governing road use appear to be practically non-existent. There are a few that I've picked up on though. The size of your vehicle is directly proportional to the amount of power you are able to wield, placing buses and trucks high on the totem pole and pedestrians very, very low. When passing or attempting pass a vehicle, it is essential to beep your horn as many times and as loudly as possible, to warn the vehicle you are passing to stay to the right and often to slow down so that you don't slam into oncoming traffic - there doesn't seem to be any sort of rule disallowing passing around corners or when there is traffic coming from the other direction. Oncoming traffic will flash their lights at you to ensure that you are aware of their presence, but rarely will they slow down.

Adding to the excitement further is the mix of transportation aloud on national roads:

Taxis (i.e. Toyota Camrys) packed with eight people, including two in the driver's seat.
Minibuses meant for fifteen people packed with either: thirty people plus five or six people on the roof or a ridiculous amount of one kind of product, like several tons of pineapple or an equal amount of cement.
Private cars, often Cambodia's elite, driving their Lexuses and Mercedeses with total disregard for anything else on the road; it is not unusual for these vehicles to be traveling over eighty miles an hour despite poor road conditions.
Motos, usually just a few people, but sometimes loaded with sacks of rice, crates of piglets, chickens hanging upside down, mattresses (I've seen up to four), and sometimes carts attached with rice, wood, or recyclables packed fifteen feet high.
Trucks, always overloaded and either moving incredibly slowly and blocking traffic or frighteningly fast.
Buses which look modern, but are all but. If they're running properly, they dominate the roads, driving all other vehicles on to the non-existent shoulders. However, they are often not running properly and you will often see them on the side of the road making repairs.
Tractors unlike any seen in the west - they're twenty feet long, with the engine about ten feet in front of the driver, who has long metal poles to steer. Often used as local transport, with field workers stuffed into a cart attached.
Bicycles, usually hordes of kids in blue shorts or skirts and white button-down shirts leaving school.
Ox carts carting clay pots.
Horse carts, more like pony carts which sort of resemble an Asian version of a Greek chariot.

Back to the bus. If you're going to Siem Reap or Sihanoukville, it's possible to spend a few extra dollars on an "express" or "limousine" bus, which is slightly newer and better maintained. However, for all other destinations, you will be rocking out on an old piece of crap. Fabric will be missing from seat cushions, air conditioning will only work for the first five minutes, seats will not recline, etc. However, despite the generally poor quality of buses, each and every one is equipped with a DVD/VCD (video CD system), which, for the duration of the ride, blares one of three things: Khmer karaoke, poorly dubbed kung fu movies, or slapstick humor (not all that far from the Three Stooges). About thirty minutes into the ride, you're ready to get off. Lucky for you, the bus makes an obsurd amount of stops, letting passengers on and off, seemingly at random.

Depending on the length of your ride, you will also make several stops for food. Trips from three to five hours will make two stops and those over five hours will make at least three stops. For some reason which I have not yet determined Cambodians use travel as an excuse to absolutely pig out, chowing down at every stop and stocking up with food for the ride to the next stop. Fruit is popular as are eggs, fish, sticky rice dishes, and pre-packaged snacks. I wouldn't be surprised if the average bus passenger spends more money on food in a four-hour journey than on the journey itself (usually about $5). Now, I have absolutely no problem with gorging oneself on tasty snacks. However, the combination of stuffing oneself with the startling propensity towards road sickness is unsettling. The problem is so bad that the bus companies often hand out black plastic bags at the beginning of trips for passengers to use as a receptacle for the "return" of all of the food they just consumed. It does not seem to me that anyone has made the connection between eating absurd amounts of food and getting car sick.

Despite all these factors, buses are the way to go. As I've already said, they're cheap and I'd say the best way to get you from A to B, unless, of course, you want to splurge on a private taxi. If you're prepared for a rough ride, the ridiculousness of the sights and sounds can become quite enjoyable.

Hellloooo

2008-08-11T16:32:00.003+07:00

Nearly two weeks without an entry. Unacceptable. Not that I'm here to make excuses, but there are two reasons for lack of entries: 1) lack of inspiration (no need to worry, I have several good ideas for the next few posts) and 2) the visit of my good friends Dave and Allison.

My residence in Cambodia as well as my persuasive rhetoric convinced Dave, one of my best friends from college, to make the journey to Southeast Asia before starting graduate school this fall (that's right folks, in six short years he will be a Dr. Dawg). For the first week he traveled with his sister through Chiang Mai and Luang Prabang, before meeting up with his girlfriend Allison, to travel through Vietnam and Cambodia.

The duo arrived in Phnom Penh on Tuesday night. On my way to the airport to meet them, in my chariot (otherwise known as Red's tuk-tuk), where I had a most unpleasant, but entertaining experience. It had been raining the whole day - it is in fact the rainy season now - and the road out to the airport was flooded in spots. About halfway to Pochentong, a moto sped by, just as we were crossing an enormous puddle, spraying me with mud, literally from head to toe. Though disgusting, I couldn't help but laugh. It was exactly like in the movies. Anyways, when I got to the airport, I told Dave and Allison that I was so excited to see them that I shat my pants, not too far from the truth.

In the short time they were in Phnom Penh, we had a wonderful time together. Dinner at Khmer Surin, half-priced pastries at Lucky, fruit-tasting and a wander through Orussey Market, feeding the monkeys at Wat Phnom, strolling through Central Market, lunch at Chinese noodles (more on that in a forthcoming entry), dinner at Lim Try Restaurant (more on that in a forthcoming entry too - see I told you I have a lot of ideas...), lunch at Friends The Restaurant, a trip to the National Museum (my first!), Russian Market, dancing at the olympic stadium, and dinner at a random restaurant on our street. Not bad for 2.5 days, especially considering I wasn't with them the whole time.

They left for Siem Reap on Friday morning and I intended to meet them and Shanti, fresh back from the US, there on Saturday afternoon. We had a really nice, very relaxing time in Siem Reap. Relaxing by the pool, reading, delicious Amok dinner, and more relaxing by the pool. It's hard to believe that our string of visitors is going to dry out for about two months. If you want to visit in September or October, just let me know...

Election Monitoring in Kampong Speu

2008-07-31T20:16:00.005+07:00

This past Sunday marked Cambodia’s fourth parliamentary elections since the UN came to Cambodia in the early ‘90s. As an interested observer in Cambodian politics since I arrived, I registered to be a local election monitor with COMFREL, the Committee for Free and Fair Elections in Cambodia. Some 10,000 monitors were fielded for Cambodia’s 15,000 polling stations, with a majority of them coming from COMFREL. Most observers were either Cambodian or foreign observers sponsored by foreign governments.

When I registered to monitor, COMFREL asked me where in Cambodia I wanted to go. I responded by saying that I would be happy to go anywhere outside of Phnom Penh that was “interesting.” They stuck me in Kampong Speu, one of Cambodia’s poorest provinces, about 50km southwest of Phnom Penh, and representing six of Cambodia’s 123 seats at parliament.

I took a minibus down to Kampong Speu on Saturday morning and planned to stay with my friend Matt, who is based in “The Speu” with the World Food Programme. Matt had two other friends coming to the Speu to monitor for the Australian government. This ended up being quite a blessing, as we were able to explore a bit on Saturday in an Australian government Land Cruiser. We went through Chbar Mon District which encompasses Kampong Speu town, to Kong Pisey, driving over back roads by pagodas and through villages. It was a great way to get an introduction to the province we would be traversing as election monitors the next day.

Early on Sunday morning I met my translator, Virak, outside of Matt’s house and we set off. Our first stop was a primary school in Kampong Speu town. We arrived about a half hour before the polls were to open to conduct a number of checks. I walked around the outside of the polling station and immediately observed a police officer and a military police official in uniform, a possible attempt to intimidate voters.

When I entered the polling station, it was set up exactly as in the UN-developed video I was shown at my COMFREL training. There were a number of political party observers and about half a dozen election officials. There were tables for the polling station chief, for checking people in, issuing ballots, polling booths, the ballot box, and dipping voters’ fingers into indelible ink. The empty ballot box was shown to the observers and sealed and a number of other checks were made prior to opening the polling station.

At precisely 7:00am, the polling station opened to the crowd that had already gathered. People filed in an orderly manner, one at a time. They showed their identification card and voter information sheet to an election official before being issued a ballot. They then voted in a polling booth – a table with a three-sided metal screen creating some privacy. After a vote was cast for one of the eleven parties, the voter showed the official seal on the ballot and stuffed it into the ballot box. Next, they reluctantly stuck their fingers in a container of indelible ink, which left their fingers looking purple (and would continue to leave them purple for a week).

Eager to see something a bit more rural, we left the primary school and made a quick stop for some noodles for breakfast. At breakfast we met COMFREL’s provincial coordinator, the woman in charge of monitoring the elections throughout the province. Though she couldn’t speak English very well, she insisted that Virak and I join her for the day. So after breakfast we headed north to Somrong Raung District where there were reports of election officials refusing an election monitor entry to the polling station. Once we got there, however, the monitor had been let in and everything was running smoothly.

From Somrong Raung District, we headed about 40km southwest to the quite rural Phnom Srouch District. It was evident there was a fairly serious problem at the first polling station we visited. Outside each polling station is a list of names of voters who are supposed to vote at that polling station. Outside this first polling station were several dozen voters scouring the list trying to find their names unsuccessfully. A circle formed around us as voters voiced their complaints. They were clearly upset that, despite having all necessary information and having voted at the same location the year before for commune elections, they were unable to cast a ballot. We took down their information and set off for other polling stations in the district.

At each station we went to the story was the same. There were numerous voters unable to cast their ballot because their name was not on the list outside the station. People estimated that as many as 4,000 voters’ names were missing in Phnom Srouch District alone - probably a mix of village chiefs intentionally eliminating names of those associated with the opposition and the National Election Committee attempting to clean up the rolls by removing ghost voters and duplicates (though I assume that it is more of the former). At about the same time, I got a text message from COMFREL in Phnom Penh warning us that missing names was a problem countrywide, particularly in Phnom Penh. Though we helped voters fill out complaint forms, it is unlikely that they had an affect; the ruling party has a total stranglehold on the country’s political system, controlling the private sector, the media, and the entire political system, top to bottom (including the national, provincial, and commune level election committees which review complaints).

It was getting late so we headed back toward Kampong Speu town. A few kilometers outside town we stopped at a polling station to watch the station be closed down. After the morning rush, most polling stations were pretty quiet and only one voter came through in the last half hour the station was open. The closing of the polling station took quite some time – sealing the ballot box, counting the number of ballots cast, and so on. I watched the counting for about forty-five minutes before heading back to Matt’s house to catch a ride in the Land Cruiser back to Phnom Penh.

On Monday morning when initial results were reported, there weren’t any surprises. The ruling party claimed an overwhelming majority of seats (between 88 and 91 of 123, up from 73). Though the opposition has claimed that 200,000 people were unable to vote in Phnom Penh alone, international observers put the estimate at closer to 50,000 nationwide; a high number to be sure, but not nearly high enough to impact the outcome. The election was widely viewed as free and although perhaps not fair, an improvement over previous elections in terms of electioneering.

Carole King’s Jazz Café

2008-07-26T07:54:00.002+07:00

For Justin and Ashley’s last night in town, we decided to go out with a bang. After a nice dinner at a Nepalese restaurant, we headed to Carole King’s Jazz Café. Yes, I said that right. Carole King, the songwriter and folk singer and jazz café. The two have next to nothing in common. Even more amusing, however, is that Carole King’s Jazz Café is not, in fact, a jazz café, but a karaoke joint.

We walked in to the karaoke bar and were immediately greeted by Cho, the Korean owner, with a business card. He rearranged tables for the seven of us and we took in our surroundings. The place was small and cozy with Christmas and stage lights. The walls were adorned with an extremely random assortment of pictures, from scenes of Europe and Southeast Asia to the Mona Lisa. Save us, the clientele was entirely Korean businessmen.

We let the Koreans, including Cho, take the first few songs, which were sung in both Korean and English, as we perused the extensive selection of songs. Andrew, Shanti’s co-leader for the trip of American high school students to Cambodia, started us off. A former a cappella singer in college, he could bust it out and he did with his selection of the ballad “On the Wings of Love”. The fifteen people in Carole King’s loved it. Immediately after the completion of the song, Andrew was greeted by a hat full of money – some Korean, some Cambodian – and a round of beer from the Korean contingent.

Over the next two and a half hours, we belted out hits like “Don’t Stop Believin,’” “Livin’ on a Prayer,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and “Red Wine.” It was incredibly fun, but the best was yet to come. As the Korean contingent shuffled out, the lone woman in the group stopped in front of Andrew, who continued to impress with his singing throughout the evening. “You’re a very good singer,” she said, and then whispered in Andrew’s ear. Over and over she said something to the group and then whispered in Andrew’s ear. It was not until later that we found out that whatever the woman said to the group, she repeated into Andrew’s ear in a more seductive voice.

Wiped out, we called for the bill. As it came, Cho, who was now our very good friend, shuffled over and took a look. He looked at Savin, Ashley, and Shanti and said “My friends [the Korean clientele] think American girls…” and then he paused as if he was about to sneeze and it all came out at once: “VERY SEXY! WOW! VERY SEXY!” Cho looked at the bill, which was $19.50. Again, it looked as if he was about to sneeze: “$15! SEXY LADIES: $15! NO SEXY LADIES: $20!” For those of you following along at home, Cho would have raised the price if we weren’t accompanied by sexy ladies.

As we departed, Cho walked us outside and gave each of us a handshake, and then the hugs started. He gave Justin a big bear hug, saying “I rrrove you! I rrrove you forever!” Now, I hate to be stereotypical, but there was no “l” when he said love. In fact, the whole experience felt like a stereotypical Korean karaoke experience in all the best ways. We will definitely be going back, but we’ll have to round up the sexy ladies first.

Pyongyang

2008-07-20T11:40:00.000+07:00

Fresh off a relaxing weekend in Koh Kong, I needed a jolt to get myself back in the mindset of a much nuttier Phnom Penh. What better way than a trip to Pyongyang? I know what you’re thinking, Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, doesn’t exactly sound like an ideal destination and I would probably agree with you. Pyongyang, the restaurant, however, guaranteed an entertaining evening at the very least.

Cambodia’s ruling party has cordial to warm ties with North Korea. The reclusive country has a beautiful French colonial villa in the heart of Phnom Penh as its embassy and since my arrival in Cambodia a year ago, Phnom Penh has been visited by the North Korean premier Kim Yong-Il (no relation to Kim Jong-Il), during which time the streets of Cambodia were lined with North Korean flags.

North Korea’s presence in Cambodia goes beyond its embassy and official state visits, though. The government owns and operates two restaurants in Cambodia, one in Phnom Penh and one in Siem Reap, supposedly the only two in the world. It is rumored that everything – the food, the décor, the waitresses – is imported from North Korea. rumored to be the only two of their kind in the world. Again, I used Justin and Ashley’s visit as an excuse for an excursion sure to border on the bizarre.

Pyongyang (the restaurant) appears no different from a popular Khmer restaurant on the outside – expensive cars parked outside, neon lights, and so on. In fact, I had passed the restaurant on numerous occasions without knowing its story. Entering it, however, was stepping into another world. We were warmly greeted by blinding fluorescent light and coolly greeted by a North Korean woman in traditional dress and showed to a table to take in our surroundings.

As we surveyed the restaurant, we noticed about a half dozen other westerners and at least one hundred Korean tourists. There was a small stage at the front of the restaurant with a flat screen TV showing a loop of nature-related scenes, presumably from North Korea. The walls were lined with paintings similar to the images on the television, only more fantastical. Shortly after we sat down, two men in what I'm assuming is traditional North Korean dress - a very baggy, faded brown wool suit - sat at a neighboring table. After a quick drink, the men disappeared to a back room, probably to engage in the illicit activities the restaurant is rumored to profit from (drug smuggling, money laundering, etc).

Perusing the menu, we decided on an order of kim chi (a Korean classic), a duck dish (ironically on a hot plate shaped like a cow), a beef dish, and of course, a few beers. The kim chi arrived almost instantaneously with peanuts and something not dissimilar to tempura. When the main dishes arrived and we failed to follow our waitress’ gesturing, we were given a cold look that, in my imagination, summed up North Korean sentiments to Americans.

Once our surprisingly good food was finished, the real fun began. A handful of the waitresses swooshed to the stage in their bright uniforms. One turned on a keyboard, while another picked up a mic and started singing in an opera-like voice, while others still began to dance (with nature scenes continuing to play on the television). The entire crowd seemed to be snapping pictures, save a group of teenage boys next to us who were dressed in a most curious way (my personal favorite was the guy with a buzz cut, blue batman hoodie, and white plastic aviator-shaped sunglasses). Immediately bored with the performance, they took out a handheld gaming device.

The dance performance was followed by a raucous violin performance, a drum and dance performance, and another dance with singing. It took a few performances for us to realize it, but about halfway through we determined that the entire show was a fake. The violin – not performed live. The singing – lip-synching. The drum – barely used. The dancing was the only thing that could not have been staged. As soon as the show was over, all of the Korean tourists made a beeline for the door. It was bizarre on all accounts, but certainly worth the visit.

Koh Kong

2008-07-18T09:07:00.001+07:00

With Justin and Ashley in town, I took a day off work to spend a long weekend with them in Koh Kong, one of the few provinces I had not yet visited. Koh Kong is Cambodia's southwestern-most province. To the west lies Thailand, to the north the largely pristine and uninhabited Cardamom Mountains, and to the south the Gulf of Thailand and a number of tropical islands. To get to Koh Kong, it is necessary to cross four large rivers, which, until very recently, were only passable by ferry. With bridges over each of the crossings complete, travel time to Koh Kong was cut in half. Thus, this was the perfect time to go - it is now relatively accessible and Thailand's former Prime Minister Shinawatra has yet to invest the several billion dollars that he hopes to develop the province.

So it was in this context that we departed for Koh Kong, practically to Thailand, on Friday morning. For the first half of the journey, we were on National Route 4, the same road that goes to Sihanoukville. Once we arrived at Sre Ambel, however, we turned west. After passing through the outskirts of Sre Ambel, the scenery changed dramatically. The terrain was no longer flat and we were surrounded by lush, green, pristine forest and jungle. I hadn't been anywhere else in Cambodia so devoid of human presence. With each small but steep hill the bus slowly summitted, green jungle stretched for miles without any sign of villages or farmland.

About four and a half hours after leaving Phnom Penh, we arrived at the fourth river crossing in the village of Tatai, our launching point to Rainbow Lodge. Upon the recommendation of a few friends, we made a booking at the eco-lodge about twenty kilometers from the town of Koh Kong, which, like many border towns, has a rather unseemly reputation. After crossing the bridge on foot, we tracked down a green and blue wooden boat - our transportation to the lodge.

After a nice twenty minute cruise down the crystal clear river, we noticed a number of bungalows with thatch roofs sticking out above the forest. Shortly thereafter, we docked and climbed up a narrow dirt path to the restaurant and sitting area. There, we were given a welcome by the British owner Janet, whom we came to enjoy like a slightly crazy aunt. Justin put it well when he described Janet as someone that unexpectedly received houseguests - she frantically scampered about cooking meals and making other arrangements and was extremely apologetic for any and every shortcoming she could possibly imagine (that the lodge was at capacity for the first time, that our bungalow had a mosquito problem, that they were out of ham, etc.) She told us how we shower in river water, that electricity is provided by solar energy during the day, and that for $0.50 a day we could have as much water as we liked provided we didn't discard our plastic bottle.

Immediately relaxed, we sat around snacking, playing cards and enjoying the sounds of nature that do not exist in Phnom Penh. By late afternoon we worked up enough of a sweat playing cards to jump in the river. The water was incredibly clear; so clear that if the bottom was covered with sand instead of mud and rocks, I think it would have been like swimming in the Caribbean. After wearing ourselves out, we returned to the sitting area for more cards and a healthy dose of red wine.

Though the dinner was slow - an hour between the end of the main course and dessert - it was delicious: onion soup, an Indonesian lemongrass pork dish, and chocolate and banana crepes. Between the food and the wine we crashed hard pretty early.

We woke to a beautiful sunrise and, over breakfast, decided to take a boat trip to a nearby waterfall. More cards sustained us until we left the lodge in late morning. The sun was blaring during the half hour boat ride, which dropped us off at a gorgeous cascading waterfall. Setting our things down, we scampered over extremely slippery rocks, through the bushes, and swam upriver a bit to reach the base of the waterfall, which we then climbed. Though a workout, the setting was entirely laid back and once we reached the top, we were rewarded with cool pools and underwater "armchairs."

Scampering back down the waterfall, we had a lot of fun letting the current take us back to our things and a picnic lunch. In fact, we enjoyed it so much, we scampered over the rocks a few more times just to be taken downriver again. We spent the afternoon swimming, climbing on the rocks in the middle of the river and playing childish "king of the mountain" type games. It was delightful.

We returned to the lodge in late afternoon to read and play cards before the BBQ dinner that was planned. Again, dinner came about a bit slowly (and certainly wasn't helped by the large and unexplained boom we heard from the kitchen during preparations), but the grilled pork, prawns, rice salad, were delicious. Again we crashed hard with bellies full of delicious food and wine.

On Sunday morning we woke and, unfortunately, had to leave. It was a great, relaxing weekend though, and incredibly well-priced. Lodging and food for two days as well as the boat trip came out to just over $40 per person. I will definitely consider returning.

Bizarro Bowling

2008-07-16T07:51:00.000+07:00

About two months ago, I heard something that changed my life. Phnom Penh has a real, ten-pin bowling alley. As a formerly avid recreational bowler – I was a keen student of Bowl America, Bethesda Naval Lanes, as well as various duckpin bowling centers – I was ecstatic. The opportunity for me to actually go, however, did not arise until my friend Justin, an equally avid bowler, arrived from the US for a two week visit.

Having given him and Ashley a taste of Cambodian culture after the Embassy ordeal – markets, tuk tuk rides, Khmer food (off the street and from quality restaurants) – I felt a brief return to American culture in Cambodia appropriate. I called Red, our amazing tuk tuk driver; he’s one of the few who speaks English well, knows exactly where he’s going and won’t try to gouge you on price. When he arrived, I asked him to take us to Parkway, where the bowling alley was located. He, of course, knew its precise location even though I could only offer a vague idea of where I thought it was.

As he dropped us off, we were confronted by a building of several stories which looked, more or less, like a shopping mall. On the ground floor we passed a very out of place health club, which had a decent looking swimming pool. Things only got stranger and sketchier from there. Even though it was relatively early on a Wednesday night, there was no one around. We wandered past empty shops selling stylish clothing following poorly placed signs in the direction of the bowling alley and other entertainment. We climbed two sets of empty staircases past an oddly contrived garden scene with plastic deer and other animals, before passing a room full of billiards tables and an empty dining area.

Finally, we came to the empty bowling alley. It was, I must admit, a very nice looking alley of about ten lanes. Though I couldn’t figure out what was going through the designer’s head when they put it on the third floor. How terrible it must have been working in the shops below as westerners and Phnom Penh’s elite took to the lanes.

We picked out shoes for $1 a pair, with mine being the only ones that looked remotely like bowling shoes; throughout the night we came up with various analogies to describe Justin’s white shoes, from ballet shoes, to Saturday Night Fever shoes, to boxing shoes, to who knows what else. Settling down on our computerized lane (I might say that it was the same computer system with the same animation schemes as Bethesda Naval) and attended to by half a dozen bored staff, we ordered a few beers and the fun began.

None of us bowled well the first game; we couldn’t remember the last time we’d been at a ten-pin lane. We were thoroughly entertained by the echo chamber the bowling alley appeared to be in – bowling balls hitting the lane or exploding across the pins made defeaning noise. About halfway through the second game, which was going much better for all of us (I ended up with a very respectable 173), a group of Cambodian men arrived to roll a few lanes over. They were clearly at home here and looked like decent bowlers even if they were using light balls. Their bowling mannerisms, especially a particularly chubby bowler, provided entertainment beyond the game itself.

Following one and a half hours of bowling and with a few beers in our bellies, we went in search of food. The bowling alley’s canteen didn’t offer anything besides pre-packaged snacks and the sketchy Parkway’s stores were all shuttered. We opted to make the evening more American still and headed into the empty Lucky Burger, a not-so-fast food burger joint. We were enthusiastically greeted by the staff and ordered, you guessed it, happy meals. To be honest, they were surprisingly satisfying. But not nearly as satisfying as three games of bowling and the knowledge that I was able to do so in Phnom Penh.

Happy Birthday America

2008-07-14T08:08:00.001+07:00

Apologies for the lack of posting of late. I have been swamped at work and busy entertaining friends from the US. However, I should be able to make several posts over the next two weeks detailing some of my adventures.

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On America’s 232nd birthday, I didn’t do anything special. My friends from the US, Justin and Ashley arrived the night after and I decided to give them the best cultural introduction to Cambodia I could muster: a July 4th celebration (on July 6th no less) at the US Embassy.

As we drove around the back of the Embassy toward the entrance, it was clear that there was a party going on. Red, white, and blue streamers and balloons were everywhere and amenities such as a moon bounce, food stalls, a large tent, and a stage dotted the landscape of the Embassy lawn. After passing through a security check, we began spotting a number of friends among the few hundred people gathered.

Though we arrived a bit after the event started and missed the singing of the national anthem, the Seventh Navy Fleet Band (aka The Orient Express) was up and kicking and the highlights of the afternoon were yet to come. We chatted with friends until it was announced that the dunking booth was about to open. We all flocked to watch young kids try to dunk the Ambassador, who was on the chopping block first. Pat, who is not a young kid, but who is from the same town as the Ambassador, purchased a few balls and managed to sink him on his first toss, a beauty. It was quite satisfying for us, so I can’t imagine Pat’s pleasure.

With Pat’s triumph behind us, we wandered around the booths of food and drinks, picking up a beer and, in my case, a donut courtesy of USA Donuts. Next, we settled at a table with friends to listen to the rock stylings of The Orient Express, a mix of recent classic American rock and, rather oddly for a celebration of America’s Independence, some British and Australian songs. It was a surprisingly good time.

The oddest event of the afternoon, especially in the context of Cambodia, was a hot dog eating contest. Contestants – unfortunately Pat was not among them – had five minutes to scarf down as many hot dogs as they could. The display was not nearly as impressive as watching Kobayashi “compete,” but it certainly gave a distinctly American flavor to the atmosphere. After returning to watch The Orient Express rock out a bit more, we departed, with a clear pride for our home nation’s ability to throw a great party.

The Election Period Update

2008-07-08T11:37:00.002+07:00

So we're now ten days in to the election period. Many of you have asked if the pace and insanity of campaigning has continued at the rate that it started. Thankfully, I can report that it has not and that things have calmed down a bit. Despite my co-workers warnings that the noise would continue endlessly for the entire month, there are not loud rallies outside my office every day (in fact, there haven't been any since the first day). That said, cars and trucks with loudspeakers and the occasional convoy does go by, disrupting work or dinner for a few moments at a time.

There does still some to be a greater fervor about the air than a typical non-election period day, however. Political stickers and posters adorn many cars and nearly every house and shop, sometimes despite the owners' preferences.

This past Saturday I attended a training to be a local election monitor for the Committee for Free and Fair Elections (COMFREL). The training detailed many of the irregularities that we should expect to see - campaigning on election day, military officials in uniform at polling stations, etc. Reports of violence are somewhat rare and down significantly from previous elections, but this may be solely because the ruling party's positions are so consolidated that it's not necessary to use force. That's all I have time for now, but more updates soon!

The Election Period is Upon Us!

2008-06-26T17:12:00.001+07:00

It is precisely thirty-one days before Cambodia’s parliamentary elections (which occur every five years) and there is not a soul in Phnom Penh that does not know it. At 5:00 this morning, Shanti and I heard cars and trucks going by our apartment blasting fuzzy music from loudspeakers. Fairly certain it wasn’t a mobile wedding (or funeral), I put my thinking cap on and realized the “election period” – I think that’s official terminology – starts today.

By the time I got to work this morning, Sam Rainsy Party (the main opposition) supporters were gathering in the park outside my office. Truck after truck (Internet news sources say hundreds of vehicles in a row) after moto after moto with SRP supporters in white hats and t-shirts, waving flags and banners with the SRP candle logo poured into the park area blaring Cambodian music and announcements from oversized loudspeakers. It was incredibly loud and distracting. The rally, which continued to gain supporters throughout its duration, lasted about forty minutes before supporters marched down Sihanouk Blvd, clogging traffic on an already over-congested thoroughfare (It is also worth noting that the municipality of Phnom Penh issued a statement to ban such processions yesterday). Though relieved that I could stop staring out the window in amazement and get to work, I soon realized that this was not in fact the case.

For the better part of the morning, processions of various parties – FUNCIPEC, the Human Rights Party (HRP), Cambodian People’s Party (CPP - the ruling party) – descended on the parks surrounding our office, departed and returned within an hour. A vicious cycle of noise and distractions. My co-workers tell me it will be like this every day for the next thirty days until the actual day of elections. How am I supposed to get any work done? And how am I supposed to get through each day without consuming an entire bottle of painkillers to dull the throbbing pain from the incessant noise? Only the next thirty days will tell…

Back to Kampot

2008-06-23T10:06:00.002+07:00

On Monday about two weeks ago I headed to Sihanoukville for a week-long staff retreat. Though we were staying within a five minute walk of the beach, the weather was horrendous for the entire week, save one afternoon when the rain held off for long enough for a pick up game of soccer on the beach. So instead of sticking around Sihanoukville for the family portion of the retreat (Thursday night to Saturday), I headed for Kampot on Friday morning for a weekend of relaxing and eating.

The two-hour minibus ride along the coast and with Bokor Mountain in the background was beautiful and uneventful. We arrived in Kampot town shortly after ten and I began wandering around looking for a moto. For once, there weren’t any to be seen. As I walked away from the river towards the market, it started to rain. Finally finding a willing driver, I headed back towards the river in the direction of Les Manquiers, our guesthouse for the weekend. Once outside of Kampot, the road immediately turned to slick red mud. After a few kilometers of bouncing along, we came to the guesthouse, behind an iron fence and amid much greenery.

The setting was beautiful. Two large wooden houses, a few gazebos and a series of about eight wooden bungalows with thatch roofs lined the river amid beautiful gardens and large mango trees. I checked in for the group of about fifteen that was expected to show for the weekend, and was shown to a three-person bungalow with a wonderful view of the river and Bokor National Park. Immediately after unpacking, the pace of everything slowed considerably and in the best way possible. Relaxation took over in a way I had not yet experienced in Cambodia. I read for a few hours on the porch while it absolutely poured before returning to the main house for a delicious plate of fried rice with shrimp, some bananas, and some phenomenal banana pastries hot out of the oven. My hearty meal was followed by an equally hearty nap.

At around 5:00, most of the crew for the evening, mostly NGO-types, arrived. They settled in and then we all met at one of the gazebos that stuck out over the river for the first of several consecutive happy hours. Over the course of the evening we cleaned them out of big bottles of Beer Lao, about twenty bottles the size of forties. By 9:00, an unbelievable array of food was brought out: salad, shrimp, fish, pork tenderloins, and fruit for dessert. With excellent food and drink (and decent company) we hung out late into the evening.

Radios blaring at full volume. It was 6:00am and a parade of fishing boats headed upriver for a day of fishing. I wasn’t ready to be awake yet, but it didn’t seem like I had a choice, so I popped my head outside. It was gorgeous. The sun was rising behind the bungalows and its glow covered the river, the brightly-colored boats passing by, and sections of the mountains beyond. I threw on shorts and a t-shirt and walked down to the river to enjoy the beautiful surroundings.

After going back to sleep for a bit, I headed back to the gazebo to read. A long table was set and I joined one of the others for a beautiful breakfast spread: fresh baguettes, jam, marmalade, peanut butter, chocolate spread (even better than Nutella), fruit salad, fresh orange juice, coffee, and tea. We sat for hours as others straggled from bed for breakfast, to read, and to chat. By late morning, and after several days of sitting around in Sihanoukville, I was getting a little stir crazy. The rain had stopped and it appeared it wouldn’t start up again for a while, so I took a kayak out and up river. As I fought the deceptively strong current, I passed a wedding and a school and came upon some mangroves. It was incredibly creepy paddling into them – it was deathly silent and there was no sign of activity of any kind. I paddled deeper and deeper until there was nowhere else to go but back, half expecting a snake to lurch towards me at any instant. I continued upriver until it looked like it was going to rain. Not until I started going downriver did I realize how strong the current actually was. It took a fraction of the time for me to get back that it took me to go upriver.

When I returned, most people were in the exact place that I left them. A few people jumped in the river to swim, and to our amusement, went nowhere despite their best efforts to swim against the current. By the time we had our light lunch we were joined by a few more people. We spent the afternoon reading, chatting, napping, and sipping on glasses of red wine. Pretty rough day.

The wine flowed into the evening and I taught the minority of men to play cards (one of the few redeeming qualities of the retreat was learning to play Cambodian-style cards). We played until we were presented with another phenomenal meal. Again, heavy on seafood, with fish, shrimp, and a delicious dish of beef and fresh green beans. And again, we talked late into the evening.

We slept in late on Sunday and were again greeted by a wonderful breakfast. We reluctantly packed up our stuff and drove off to Kep for lunch. Though none of us were hungry, we stopped at one of the seaside shacks that have made Kep and its crabs famous. We had some delicious crab with Kampot black pepper (supposedly the best pepper in the world) as well as some squid with the same pepper and honey. Not a bad way to end a wonderfully relaxing (and delicious) weekend.

Just Another Day in Phnom Penh

2008-06-18T14:22:00.000+07:00

Faithful readers: let me first apologize for the long delay in this post. I was (unfortunately) at a staff retreat all last week in Sihanoukville and in Kampot for the weekend. I also (even more unfortunately) had to move back to my apartment and out of the house sitting gig, so I’ve been busy with that.

Anyways, about two weeks ago my boss’ wife, Leah, invited me to join her and some others on a trip to Celliers d’Asie, a Phnom Penh area wine and liquor wholesaler. After confirming that my friend Erin, who was in town at the time, could go, I decided to go, hoping that I wouldn’t have to buy too much wine and that the wine was not ridiculously expensive.

Sharing a tuk-tuk with my boss and Erin, we headed for Celliers d’Asie, a few kilometers from the main part of town and under the Japanese Friendship Bridge. We arrived at a fairly non-descript warehouse and wandered in. There wasn’t anyone else around. Finally, after wandering into parts of the warehouse we probably weren’t supposed to be, we found Dominique, the general manager and our host for the evening. He escorted us into a surprisingly upscale and cozy tasting room with a nice round wood table, comfortable office chairs, and bookshelves full of different varieties of wine. Who would’ve thought, in Phnom Penh?

As we waited for the rest of our entourage – my boss’ wife and two other middle-aged couples – Dominique showed us some descriptions of the wines we would taste. Once the others arrived, Dominique, who is French in all the best ways, disappeared and reemerged with half a dozen bottles of wine and array of tantalizing victuals including bread, brie, blue cheese, ham and pâté. He informed us that since my boss’ wife is such a good friend (and, I assume, such a good customer) we would not only get five-star treatment but discounts on his normal prices. In fact, the price list even had a column for “special Leah prices.”

Just a brief aside on how small the world and Phnom Penh are: Erin sat next to a woman named Anne, who was not only from Buffalo (like Erin), but went to school with Erin’s childhood babysitter (still an incredibly close friend of Erin’s family) and it is highly likely that Erin babysat Anne’s niece and nephew. When they are both back in Buffalo later this summer, Erin is going to take them out on her sailboat. Unbelievable.

We started with a handful of white wines, mostly of the chardonnay and sauvignon blanc varieties. Once six bottles were opened and nearly drained, we switched to red, tasting a few shirazes, cabernet sauvignons, merlots and a pinot noir. I was quite surprised at the high quality of wine we were tasting for such a seemingly low price; of the eleven bottles that Dominique opened for the eight of us, none was more than $16.

Early on in the tasting process Erin and I realized that we were comparatively inexperienced wine tasters compared to our companions, not that it mattered much. As the wine continued to flow, with less and less being poured into the bucket provided, we all became experts on the flavors of our wines – fruity, sharp, oaky, acidy, peppery, hollow, full, etc – as well as on our long-forgotten French, much to the amusement (and perhaps chagrin) of Dominique. It was tremendously fun though seemingly quite out of context; it was as if the setting for Sideways had been moved from the wine valleys of Napa to a warehouse in Phnom Penh.

The icing on the cake, if you will, was the “dessert” Dominique shared with us. He opened a $150 bottle of cognac that was so smooth and tasty that I was immediately transported to my mansion (perhaps thirty years in the future) with myself sitting in a stiff but expensive-looking chair in my red silk smoking jacket and sipping this cognac.

As we wrapped up, three hours and far more inebriated than after we started, I ended up with two bottles of merlot (at $8 a pop, not at all pricey, but certainly more expensive than the $2.50 table wine Shanti and I are used to) and Erin with a bottle of South African wine. We stumbled outside and headed home to leftover Indian food and bed, even though it was not even nine o’clock. I am coming to realize more and more to expect the unexpected of Phnom Penh…

Laos Part VI: The Journey Home

2008-06-07T08:16:00.000+07:00

After nine days of travel and countless adventures and misadventures, it was time for us to head back to Phnom Penh. Easier said then done. Though we were expecting a long day, we were not expecting it to be as long as it was.

At 8am we were picked up on Don Khone by a wooden longboat, which took us back to the bustling village on the mainland. From there, we were directed to a transport stop rife with about twenty backpackers. We settled in at about 8:15, assuming we were to leave shortly. We didn't. Finally at 9:30 we began to load up two minivans with backpacks and backpackers. The half hour shuttle to the remote Voen Kham border crossing was uneventful. At the Laotian side of the border, we needed to get an exit stamp and pay a $2 "processing fee" (double the usual $1 because it was Sunday). Since my Lao language skills weren't exactly up to snuff, I had no way to refute the charge, but I vowed not to give a penny to the officials on the Cambodian side of the border.

Once we had all gotten our stamp and paid our $2, a process that took no less than thirty minutes, we walked the half kilometer across the border to the Cambodian checkpoint. Since Shanti and I already had our visa we were able to go straight to customs, unlike our traveling companions who all had to get visas. The customs official scoured over my passport, my
Cambodian visa, and all my other visas (for no apparent reason) and then calmly asked for a dollar. "Aht mien loi," I said (I don't have money). He chuckled a bit and let me continue on. Since I was one of the first to go through, everyone after me was able to repeat the same words to avoid paying the unofficial fee. After about forty-five minutes we were all through. But we couldn't leave yet. Not only were we waiting for our transport (the minibuses we took to the border did not cross it), but we waited for a few other backpackers who were coming to the border via a different vehicle; there simply weren't other options for them.

Finally we were off to Stung Treng, presumably the location where we would be split into different transport going to different places (Phnom Penh, Siem Reap, Kratie, etc). When we arrived at a restaurant a few kilometers from town, we unloaded all our stuff from the bus and were told that we had an hour for lunch.

Two hours later (it was now 2:30pm), we finally started loading the one bus that was going to take us all to our destinations. The bus - not even full-sized to begin with - was missing half of its seats. I have no idea where they were, but they had simply been removed and replaced with wooden boards stacked three feet high. Luckily, Shanti and I had been pushing the man in charge (Mr. Model of Inefficiency himself) to get things moving for a while and were able to climb onto the bus early and claim real seats. About a half dozen other souls were not so fortunate.

Leaving Stung Treng - which we knew to be at least eight hours from Phnom Penh - a bit after 2:30, we were not happy campers. We made our way south slowly, stopping to drop people off in Kratie and to let all the backpackers get out and smoke. When the driver tried to get them moving, they completely ignored him. Oh, backpackers. As much as fun as it was to listen to their stories about doing drugs and finding themselves, it was not exactly the kind of crowd that Shanti and I wanted to share a confined space with for an extended period of time.

At about 6:00pm we stopped for dinner in Snuol. This was bad for two reasons: 1) it meant that we were taking the roundabout way to Kampong Cham from Stung Treng through Snuol instead of along the Mekong and 2) it meant that we were still at least five hours from Phnom Penh. We had a bit of food and clamored back onto the bus.

Deprived of stops every thirty minutes, our traveling backpacker companions started smoking on the bus. Shanti politely asked them to stop to no avail, even after loud coughing noises. Then, using a tactic known as a "white lie," she informed them that she was asthmatic and that the smoke was bothering her. Did they stop? No. They finished their cigarettes and a half hour later moved to the back of the bus to smoke there.

Shortly before 10:00pm, we dropped a few poor souls in Kampong Cham. They were going to Siem Reap, but would have to wait until the next day to catch a bus there and waste another day traveling as Siem Reap was still five hours away. Onwards we went, finally finally arriving in Phnom Penh at nearly 1:00am. We tried to talk to the bus driver to get him to drop us at (or near) our house to no avail. We caught a tuk-tuk and crashed hard, cursing the inefficiencies of Cambodian transport and the fact that we had to be at work in seven hours. I can safely say we will probably never cross that border again.

Laos Part V: Si Phan Don

2008-06-05T05:57:00.003+07:00

Having safely escaped from the crazy owner of Mi Thuna guesthouse, we headed south for Tha Khek, about three hours from Na Hin. The ride was fairly uneventful, save the cute, old sawngthew driver, who clearly took a liking to us. Once the passenger in the front seat cleared out, he let us sit up there and tried to converse with us in Laos and impress us with high-pitched Laotian music.

We got to Tha Khek in late afternoon and checked in to a backpacker guesthouse for a few hours to rest, shower, and eat. Realizing we hadn't eaten anything all day, we were quite hungry and chowed on healthy portions of western food and big bottles of water. After a shower, a nap, and a quick Internet check, it was off to the bus station for us.

We took a night bus from Tha Khek to Pakse, another welcomely uneventful leg to our journey, and arrived at about 6:30, where we were immediately transported to a sawngthew to go to Si Phan Don, Four Thousand Islands. A few hours later and we were in a bustling village on the banks of the Mekong at the widest point on its 2,700 mile journey (during the rainy season it spreads across over eight miles). We plopped our packs in a motorized longboat and set off for Don Khone, a slightly less touristy and backpackery island than the more popular Don Kong and Don Det.

As we made our way to Don Khone, it was easy to see why the area we were in was called Four Thousand Islands, especially as the rainy season was just starting and water levels were fairly low. Our captain was skilled at dodging in between shrubs and trees that poked above the surface, sometimes going right over the smaller ones. It was almost as if a forest was growing at the bottom of the river and the amount of the forest that showed itself depended on the water level. It was quite impressive.

As soon as we arrived on the banks of Don Khone, we were greeted by "Papa," the proprietor of Some Chin's Guesthouse. We checked out the bungalows and for just $5 and decent quality, they certainly met our standards. Before exploring, we settled in and took a lovely and much-needed nap. When we woke up and wandered around a bit, we were quite pleased with our selection. The island was beautiful and quiet, with only a few other tourists around, and presented a good mix of western amenities (like guesthouses and restaurants) without it feeling like tourism had overwhelmed the culture or traditional village life.

Wandering around, it was hard to ignore the former colonial French presence, which left a bridge to Don Det and several classically styled colonial buildings in its wake. We grabbed a delicious lunch near the bridge - Shanti finally got some of her Lao coffee - and strolled around a bit more before returning to our guesthouse to read and play cards. Again we were greeted by Papa who excitedly informed us in his broken English and with not just a hint of lao-lao on his breath that we were invited to join him for a barbecue. "Fish - no money. Lao-lao - no money. Beer Lao - money." We eagerly agreed to join him.

We watched a beautiful sunset over the Mekong, a Beer Lao at our fingertips, from the deck of the guesthouse and then retired early for the evening.

We climbed out of bed and through the mosquito netting fairly early the next morning, borrowed bicycles from Papa, and set off to find breakfast. With the cuts and scrapes on our arms and legs it was a bit tricky to maneuver across the bumpy dirt path, but eventually we made it through the main village on Don Khone and to the waterfalls of Li Phi beyond. Though supposedly not as impressive as the Khon Phapheng falls a bit further south, we were impressed nonetheless. Even though the river was at just about its lowest point, water cascaded powerfully over large rocks and trees through a number of canyons in all directions. Falls like Li Phi made it very clear why hydropower is all but taking over the Mekong, with little regard for the environment or the effect it may have on countries downriver.

From the falls we headed down to a small, secluded beach of sorts where a fisherman returned to shore with a pretty good catch. Eaten by mosquitoes, we didn't stay on the beach long. We headed back to the main village and across the bridge onto the southern part of Don Det. It was a pretty quiet set of stilted huts and a few guesthouses and restaurants. The highlight, was certainly the smiling pig fast asleep in the mud.

After a delicious riverside fruitshake, we returned to our guesthouse and settled on the porch of our bungalow with our books. Within a few minutes, Papa came over to inquire if we were still
interested in joining the barbecue, reminding us "Fish - no money. Lao-lao - no money. Beer Lao - money." We said we would join him in a bit by bicycle, but apparently we had failed to understand that this was a journey made only by boat. So we grabbed a Beer Lao and our cameras and joined Papa in his wooden longboat for a journey into the unexpected.

Despite having a had a bit of lao-lao already (in fact, we all took a departure shot), Papa was an expert navigator. After about fifteen minutes of dodging shrubs, debris, and a few rapids, we pulled into an inlet. Two old Laotian men grinned at us, either because they knew we were about to have fun or because they knew we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

Once the boat was tied up, we followed Papa, plastic beach bag complete with lao-lao and spices for the fish, across rice paddies. We paused for another shot of lao-lao. Ten minutes later we finally came across the river and a beautiful, raging, waterfall. Papa scurried down the steep bank to inquire if there was any fish to be had, but returned only with a fish about the size of my pinky. Still flopping around, he handed it to me to carry for no apparent purpose and we continued down the river.

As we followed him through the forest and the river, over slippery rocks and all else, we noticed an array of elaborate wooden ramps and baskets across the river, all for catching fish. Papa goaded us to cross a narrow and rickety log bridge with nothing but raging rapids below. I didn't want to cross it before drinking any more lao-lao and I certainly didn't want to cross it after. He offered a hand, but we politely refused. Disappointed, he went across to gather fish and friends. When he came back, he again urged us to cross, pointing and saying "waterfall" while mimicking the motion one makes when taking a picture. Though we couldn't be convinced, there was plenty of fish and lao-lao to be had. Both delicious. Well, the fish, barbecued right in front of us, was delicious, the lao-lao was strong and made for an incredibly enjoyable afternoon.

Even with more lao-lao in his belly, Papa was an excellent navigator. Upon our return, we again settled on the guesthouse deck as the sun set, this time with some company in the form of a few Canadians and Dutchmen. There is nothing quite like kicking back with a Beer Lao and watching the sun set over the Mekong. Unfortunately, our journey back to Phnom Penh started early the next morning, so we retired early, satisfied that we finally got some time to relax to enjoy the true pace of life in Laos.

Laos Part IV: Na Hin and Tham Kong Lor

2008-06-01T09:56:00.002+07:00

Frustrated with our experience at the travel agency and ready to move on to our next destination, Shanti and I headed for the Luang Prabang airport to get back to Vientiane. We stumbled upon a tuk-tuk at a standstill with a passenger inside; the driver offered a lift anyway. Our company to the airport was a fascinating Turkish character who had just opened a guesthouse and we just happened to be interrupting his downtime with his favorite driver. He spoke with a thick accent and in a sing-song voice as he offered cynical observations of life in Southeast Asia. The next leg of our journey was off to a good start.

After a quick overnight in Vientiane, we set off for Na Hin, a small town a few hours south and a bit inland from the main road. To get there, we took a bus to the crossroad that headed inland, hopped out, and joined about ten others in the back of a converted pickup truck, or sawngthew as they're known locally. As we headed inland, the scenery became more and more beautiful, as jagged limestone cliffs reached out from flat farmland to touch the pale blue sky. Unfortunately, our view was obstructed a bit by being in the back of the pickup.

We arrived in quiet, remote, and beautiful Na Hin in early afternoon and got a room at Mi Thuna, a guesthouse highly recommended by Lonely Planet. We were hoping to go to Tham Kong Lor cave - a monstrous cave 300 feet wide, 300 feet tall and five miles long with a river running the length through a limestone mountain - that afternoon, but we were a bit short on time, so we borrowed bicycles and went into "town" to look around. In a small tourist information center, we inquired about getting to the cave. We were told there were only two ways to go: to rent a moto at 100,000 kip (about $11) or to take a sawngthew at 11am and spend a night in a village. We didn't have time to do the latter, so we opted for the former, but went looking around for a cheaper place to rent a moto. We spent the afternoon just relaxing. Playing cards, reading, and enjoying the sunset over the limestone mountains along with an extremely popular Beer Lao.

We woke early the next morning and set off on a moto rented from the owner of the guesthouse. The road was new and the scenery was gorgeous. A valley of electric green rice fields flanked on every side by lush and jagged limestone cliffs. About halfway there, and driving through a village, a chicken jumped into the middle of road, practically underneath the front tire of the moto. My natural instinct was to swerve and avoid it, but on the gravel road, we instantly skidded out.

It all happened in the blink of an eye and, even now, I have trouble recalling what actually happened. The first thing I remember, after making sure Shanti was ok, was practically the entire village swarming around us to make sure we were ok, to move the moto out of the road, collecting the peg that had broken off (the one the passenger puts their foot on), and running to get a bottle of UN-issued iodine and cotton balls. We both had some pretty good scrapes, but thankfully, nothing more serious. We cleaned ourselves off with the iodine, cotton balls, and the antiseptic wipes we had and pondered whether we should return to Na Hin or go on to the cave. After a short discussion, we decided on the cave.

We set off slowly, but hopeful that the cave was going to be worth the trouble. After about forty-five minutes (at about 8:15) we arrived in front of a sign indicating we were indeed at Tham Kong Lor. But there was no one around save a few kids who were chatting, fishing and swimming. Neither our paltry Laos, nor our slightly more advanced charades were able to get us any information about where to find a boat and a guide to lead us through. Though a bit concerned that no one was around, we enjoyed the beautiful pool at the caves entrance and used the opportunity to clean ourselves off a bit more.

After about fifteen minutes some men appeared with professional looking headlamps and wooden longboats. We followed them on a short hike to the entrance of the cave and then descended down a set of steps carved into the limestone. We watched another pair of boatmen, drag their wooden longboat into the cave over a waterfall. As we descended into the cave, down carved limestone steps, guided only by the light from the cave entrance and a weak headlamp, bats swirling around our heads, it got much cooler. We arrived at the boat as our guides were charging the batteries of their headlamps in the near pitch black. And then we were off.

The boat moved slowly through the cold, shallow, water. Only once we rounded a bend that put us completely out of sight of the light of the entrance, did we really begin to appreciate the magnitude of the cave. The echo of the boat's motor, the sound and feel of water around us and the beams of headlamps flashing left and right were the only things to prevent us from thinking that we were not in a cavernous bottomless pit. Of our two guides, one sat in the front, navigating; when he noticed shallow water, he would point either left or right, in the direction of deeper water, instructing our other guide, at the back of the boat, which way to go. As it was, we still had to get out and walk a bit, not the easiest thing to do in a fast flowing river with a slippery and rocky bottom in limited light.

At one point, we stopped, following one of the guides up a steep and slippery limestone embankment. He led us a dazzling display of stalagmites and stalactites. On our way down, I pointed at a spider I saw under the guide's headlamp. He grabbed a rock, darted over to it, made some sort of a biting symbol, and then smashed it with a dead-on throw of the rock. Turns out it wasn't a spider, but a fairly poisonous scorpion. Lovely.

We carried on simply in awe of how big the cave was and how small we felt. After over an hour of near total darkness, we saw a light in front of us. Before we could exit the cave, though, we had to pull the boat up a small waterfall. The first time failed miserably as the boat filled completely with water and had to be let downstream so it could be emptied. Once we did emerge, though, Shanti and I both gasped in awe, much to the amusement of our guides. It was tremendously beautiful.

We floated upstream for a few minutes, enjoying the surroundings, before heading back through the cave. Despite the moto accident, this was definitely the highlight of the trip thus far and well worth the trouble. Absolutely beautiful and off the tourist track enough that it felt, to an extent, as if we were discovering the cave for the first time.

We moto-ed back to Na Hin without incident, that is, until we got there. The Mi Thuna guesthouse owner was not there, but her daughter saw our scrapes and asked if we were ok. We replied that we were, but that a small piece of the moto had broken off. A few minutes later her mother returned and was livid even before we had a chance to explain ourselves. She had no concern at all for our well-being, immediately launching into a tirade about how we were bad moto drivers and that we drive too fast. We apologized and offered to cover the cost of repairing the part, up to 50,000 kip or $6 (something we knew would cost about $2 in Cambodia). When she asked for 500 baht (an odd request, as the baht is Thai currency), about $15, we refused and she became increasingly irrational.

I was too worked up to go with her into town to a moto shop, so I asked Shanti to go instead. They came back twenty minutes later, neither looking very happy. As Shanti tried to explain what had happened in town, the woman continued to yell and scream, not even offering us a chance to explain what we were willing to do to make amends. Let me first say that numbers in Laos are very similar to Khmer, so Shanti and I can understand them quite well. So at the moto shop in town, when the estimate when from 30,000 kip (about $3) to 50,000 (for which a receipt was written) to 60,000, Shanti knew exactly what was going on. A new 50,000 kip part was fitted, but supposedly it didn't fit quite right though it looked ok to Shanti), so they assumed a new piece would cost 120,000 kip (interestingly, about the same amount as 500 baht...). Shanti flat out refused to pay that much and, as a result, got yelled at in front of the whole town by the crazy guesthouse owner.

Once back at the guesthouse and being called "bad people" (in another context, she may have called us "sharks"), we decided it wasn't worth arguing any more. As she stormed off, I put 50,000 kip in her office and we left to catch a sawngthew. Tens minutes later, still discussing the matter as we wound back through the mountains, a moto rapidly closed on our pickup truck. It was the guesthouse owner, screaming like there was no tomorrow. She cut the sawngthew off and flat out refused to accept our 50,000 kip, shoving it into the pickup. Satisfied she had made us feel (and look) terrible, she drove off with exactly what she deserved: nothing. At least in my opinion, if she wasn't prepared to accept a reasonable price, she didn't deserve anything at all. All that we could hope for was that our next stop, the ultra-chill Si Phan Don (4,000 islands) would be just that - and no more crazy people.

Laos Part III: Trek and Village Stay in Luang Prabang

2008-05-28T19:53:00.001+07:00

Having crashed early on Sunday night, we were up early on Monday morning. We set off to find a place for breakfast and stumbled upon a vibrant morning/vegetable market. Organized on a small street, people had set up their wares on straw mats on either side of the street. The variety and colors of the goods available was quite impressive. From the market we wandered a bit more eventually settling in at a cafe on the Mekong.

After a quick bite, we headed back to the guesthouse, where we were to be picked up for our trek. On the way back, we stopped at a small wicker shop that had small rattan balls that are popular for soccer. Though we didn't buy anything, the wrinkled old men behind the counter were extremely friendly. If we hadn't already booked the trek we certainly would have accepted their invitation to visit their village and drink "lao-lao" (homemade whiskey).

Catching a van at the guesthouse, we left Luang Prabang town and headed for the countryside. The scenery changed dramatically within a few kilometers: we were suddenly in the midst of lush green limestone hills. After a beautiful and winding drive of half an hour, we were dropped off in a village, where we were greeted by a group of smiling kids in the cab of a truck. A short walk through some tall grasses later and we ended up on the banks of a small but swift river, which we crossed via wooden longboat. Once on the other side, we started our ascent, first to a Hmong village and eventually to a Kmu village.

On the way, our guide pointed out unusual insects and a plant that you could use to blow bubbles. It worked even better than most bubble wands that you buy for that purpose (believe me, I liked bubbles as a kid). Despite the heat, and the climb, the scenery was beautiful. Everything was incredibly lush, save the plots of land that were being stripped and burned for farming.

Side note: throughout the trip it was weird to see deforestation in the context that we did. Usually, when I think deforestation, I think of the big and powerful logging companies or individuals, and not the farmers who are just trying to eke out a living. As tough as it was to see so much barren land, it was hard not to feel at least a bit of sympathy for the people who worked tirelessly to clear it just for the sake of self-sufficiency and without realizing the negative impact that it has.

Just before reaching the Hmong village, we stopped for a delicious lunch: fresh spring rolls, sticky rice, steamed fish wrapped in banana leaves, and a good mixture of things that tasted a bit like salsa which we ate with the sticky rice. The Hmong village was very small and quite poor though nestled in a beautiful area of the mountains. We stopped at a stand where they were selling handicrafts, bought a few things, and chatted with the villagers a bit through our guide.

Moving on toward the Kmu village, we spent quite a bit of time hiking through dense, damp bamboo forests. At several points, we had to walk through the mud on rods of bamboo and, of course, I had a misstep which covered half of my shoe in my mud. Though unfortunate, I was far luckier than Shanti, who slipped off a piece of bamboo and got her entire shoe stuck in the mud.

Shortly thereafter we got to the Kmu village, a fairly large village with about eighty stilted wood and thatch huts in an incredibly serene setting. After wandering around the village, playing with some cute kids, we crashed in our stilted wooden hut with mattresses on the floor, mosquito net around us. I woke up before Shanti, so I took a journal outside and half started to write an entry and half played with the kids around me: a young girl in particular, who was shy but enjoyed playing hide and seek, and a baby boy, who was pudgy and adorable, especially as he splashed around in his wash bin. He was incredibly content in my arms.

We had a decent dinner of sticky rice and vegetable soup (definitely too many veggies for my liking) and then things got a bit weird. Our guide got a big jug of lao-lao (whiskey) and started passing shots around with a handful of the village watching, not unlike one would drink rice wine in rural Cambodia. Nothing too unusual about that. But when young boys, who looked like they were six or seven, were lured to the table with candy and all but forced to drink some whiskey, it made Shanti and I quite uncomfortable. At first, we thought it might be a cultural thing, so we didn't say anything. As a second round of shots started to go around and as our guide was calling on these young boys to sing we had had enough. We told our guide that we didn't think the children should drink, but he didn't seem to pay attention. I grabbed the glass after he placed it in front of one of the boys, taking the shot myself (I feat I repeated a few times), before I tried to offer some to our guide. He just looked at me, smiled and said "No drink, no smoke." At that, Shanti and I went to bed, assuming (rightly so), that without us around, the party would end.

Back in bed we talked about how uncomfortable we both were, how terrible it was that alcohol that was probably paid for with our money was going to children, and what we could have done differently and what we could do the next day. After a long, frustrating conversation, we went to sleep.

The village in the morning was beautiful, as the sun rose over the limestone cliffs in the distance and piglets ran about. We had a quiet, beautiful, and uneventful two-hour hike to a river where we caught a longboat back to where we were dropped off the day before. Our captains were both cute, toothless, cigarette-smoking old men who guided us down the river for another hour and a half or so.

As we caught a van back to Luang Prabang, I confronted our guide about the night before, asking him why he "No drink, no smoke." We also tried to explain that the happenings had made us very uncomfortable but our efforts were fruitless, largely because of the guide's mediocre English. Unsure if our experience was typical, we thought it prudent to talk to the travel agency we booked through (assuming that if it was unusual, they would want to know).

Our experience there, however, was one of the most frustrating imaginable. As we recounted our experience to the person we booked through and another guy, we got blank stares. We explained that the event made us very uncomfortable, that we abhorred the fact that our money went to purchase alcohol for children, and that this was in no way the kind of tourism we wanted to support. The guy we were talking to could see absolutely nothing wrong with our trip, even defending the actions of the guide and explaining that this was "part of their program." If it was part of their program, who enjoyed it? Were people just too timid to speak up about it? Angry, frustrated, and understanding that we weren't going to get anywhere, we stormed off resolving to do the only things we could: tell Shanti's influential friend in Vientiane, Jacqui, what happened, and encourage all of our friends that go to Luang Prabang to spend a few extra dollars on going to a travel agency that focuses on eco-tourism or community development. Though the bulk of our trip was quite lovely, we certainly would have shelled out a bit more money to have avoided the experience of the night before.

Laos Part II: Luang Prabang

2008-05-25T12:34:00.001+07:00

First things first: I have finally found the time to post pictures from our trip to Laos. Now on to Luang Prabang...

Flanked by two rivers, the Mekong and the Nam Khan, and surrounded by lush green, and sharp limestone mountains, the setting for Luang Prabang is tough to top. In 1995, the town of about 25,000 became a UNESCO World Heritage Site, ensuring that its historic collection of temples as well as buildings featuring colonial French architecture would be preserved. That it is a World Heritage Site, means it has become very touristy, even in the off-season (I can't imagine it during peak time), but it has managed to retain an incredible amount of charm.

Anyways, on Sunday morning, Shanti and I caught a tuk-tuk from Jacqui's house to the airport to set off for Luang Prabang. After an uneventful, but bumpy flight on a small prop plane, we arrived. Taking a pickup into town, we dropped off our stuff at a cute guesthouse recommended by a friend, and began wandering toward our lunch destination, where we planned to meet my boss and his wife (also in town on vacation). We walked down narrow side streets, not even wide enough for cars, but vibrant with shops, people, and greenery. Though we found my boss, we were unable to find the restaurant (we later found out it was closed on Sunday). We did, however, end up having a tasty, if not slightly overpriced meal at one of the restaurants right along the Mekong.

From lunch, Shanti and I set out to try to figure out what we wanted to do for the next two days. Though Luang Prabang was wonderful, it is perhaps best known as a launching off point for trekking, village stays, trips to waterfalls, etc. After much debate, we settled on a two-day trek and village stay (more on that in my next entry) and continued to wander around Luang Prabang.

We spent a little bit of time going to a couple of Luang Prabang's thirty-two wats (temples), some of which date back to the 1500s. At one of the wats, we even caught a young monk by surprise as he was doing a headstand. Before I could snap a picture though, he darted off with a sheepish smile. As the sun began to set, we headed up Phu Si, a hill that rises 300 feet above town and offers fantastic views of the surrounding area. Some 250 steps lead to the top of the hill through forest and flowers and past various temple structures. The view was indeed amazing, not only because of its sheer beauty, but because of its lush color and apparently pristine state. After Phnom Penh, it was so refreshing to be somewhere replete with natural beauty, yet also equipped with an appreciation for that beauty.

Traversing down the other side of Phu Si, we came upon the other side of Luang Prabang along the Nam Khan. It was decidedly quieter, less touristy, and more authentic feeling than the Mekong side of town. We sat for a few minutes, watching young children fish and swim in the water, and an older man shape the frame of a wooden longboat.

Heading down an alley past food stalls and families enjoying the cool early evening, we emerged in the middle of Luang Prabang's night market as it was being set up. It was so clean, organized, and spacious (both in terms of size and ease of walking down the aisles) that it made Cambodia's markets look quite deplorable. The variety of the goods available, as well as the range of colors, was simply remarkable. Because everything was so beautiful, particularly the silks, we wandered back to our guesthouse a bit slower than anticipated, but vowed not to buy anything until after a short rest and shower.

Cleaned and refreshed, we set back out for the market, which was now basking in the light of paper mache lamps and other bare bulbs under red tents. Everything was so vibrant! As we were wandering through, we stumbled upon an alley with small food stalls. We passed steaming piles of sticky rice, fresh and fried spring rolls, and a variety of soups and meats. Starving, I grabbed a few spring rolls (they were a bit greasy, but quite delicious).

Once we had collected a few gifts and souvenirs, we treated ourselves to a Lao-style massage. It was kind of an odd time to get one, about 6:30pm, but we were ready to enjoy the fact that we were on vacation. The one hour massage, $4, was incredible and we stumbled back outside somewhat disoriented and ready to go to sleep. Though we had planned on going out for a nice dinner, we were too beat from the massage. So as we left the market, we stopped at a row of sandwich shops and got one of the most delicious (and cost effective) meals of our trip: a baguette filled with grilled chicken, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, a bit of mayonnaise, and a healthy dose of sweet chili sauce, all for just over $1. It was so good, we grabbed the same thing on our way to the airport when we left Luang Prabang two days later.

Laos Part I: Vientiane

2008-05-20T14:19:00.001+07:00

On Friday evening Shanti and I landed in quiet but quaint capital of Laos, Vientiane. We were met at the airport by a friend's taxi driver who took us immediately to her house, a few miles outside of town and ideally located right on a bend in the Mekong. It was a beautifully remodeled traditional Laos house made completely of wood and decorated with wicker furniture, woven baskets, and so on. Even better though, was the view west, perfect for sunsets, across the Mekong and into Thailand.

Though our friend, Jacqui, (in actuality she is someone that Shanti has worked with) was not around, we were met by her cook/maid, San, who greeted us quite warmly and rather humorously, assumed we were fluent in Laos; she just rambled on while Shanti and I looked at her bewildered. Even once she came to realize we didn't understand what she was saying, she'd rattle things off at a mile a minute and once finished, would inevitably chuckle.

Before dinner, we walked down the dirt path along the river in either direction for a bit and, because it was late afternoon, there were a good amount of people out exercising. It felt safe, it was clean, and just seemed so much more put together than so much of Cambodia. We returned to the house by dusk and were greeted with an enormous traditional Laos meal, a mushroom soup, a salad, and a delicious lemongrass chicken dish. After a bit of reading and relaxing, Jacqui came in and we caught up a bit and crashed for the evening.

We awoke the next morning to an absolute downpour. Not the ideal weather for biking around town as we had planned. We tried to wait it out, but it just coming, so we shared a tuk-tuk (a brilliant concept that should be adopted in Cambodia) into town to rent bicycles anyways. We ended up with bikes perhaps even cooler than the one I had for my ride in Kampong Cham: mine was neon yellow and green and, of course had a basket in the front and Shanti's was so rusted that the color was unidentifiable.

We set off with no particular destination in mind (not the best plan in a downpour) and after five minutes and a thorough soaking, we ended up in front of the Lao National Museum, the perfect rainy day destination. The size of the museum was rather small, but it's scope impressive: from dinosaur bones found in Laos to modern day. The contents were mainly focused on 500AD to about 1200AD, though there were significant exhibits on the colonial era and on modern history (mostly deploring the "American imperialists and their lackeys" and extolling the virtues of communism).

Though the rain showed no signs of letting up, we continued on our way, going to a few of the temples in downtown (a term I'm using very loosely for a town with a few big streets and no traffic). Most dated to the 18th or 19th century and were fairly well maintained as well as absolutely beautiful. They were not dissimilar to Khmer temples, except that they were cleaner, in better shape and featured a drum tower, usually a few stories tall, which Khmer temples do not.

Temporarily templed out, we stopped for lunch near Nam Phu, a trendy and touristy part of town with narrow side streets and tasty cafes. By the time we finished, the rain had all but stopped and we went to the impressive Wat Si Sisaket, the original home of the Emerald Buddha (which now resides in the Royal Palace complex in Thailand). What made the temple so interesting was that there were hundreds of niches built into all of the walls, each of which contained at least two Buddha statues, leading to a total of several thousand statues.

From Wat Si Sisaket, we headed for Patuxay, the Arc de Triumphe of the East on the Champs d'Elysee of the East. From afar, Patuxay and the surrounding gardens are gorgeously out of place, appearing to belong in France or Italy. From closer up, though, it is possible to tell that the monument was never finished and it takes on a kind of ugly cement appearance. We paid the $0.35 to climb to the top nonetheless and it was well worth it. We had a fabulous view of the "city" and the surrounding hills from seven stories above the ground (it is quite possibly the tallest structure in Vientiane).

While walking around the surrounding gardens and snapping a few pictures, we were approached by a young Laotian guy eager to practice his English. He asked how we were, how long we had been in Laos, where else we were going and so on. The highlight of the conversation though, and the only reason this story is worth repeating is that in the middle of our chat, he pointed from Shanti to me and back and asked, with a curious look, "Love you? Love you?" apparently asking what our relationship was to one another.

Setting off on our bicycles once more, we rode up to That Dam, a historic monument extremely important to Laos, but wholly underwhelming as a tourist attraction. We promptly left (after paying a premium to get in), returned our bicycles and wandered through the nearby market. The market, unlike those in Cambodia was clean, well-organized, and with wide enough walkways that you rarely had to push past anyone. The beauty of the silks (and the variety) was simply overwhelming.

We had some delicious Shanti-made gnocchi for dinner and, exhausted, called it quits for the day.

On Sunday morning, our last bit of worthwhile time in Vientiane, we walked with Jacqui along the dirt path for a few kilometers, passing beautiful wooden homes, fish farms and a few temples. The tempo, as with everywhere else in Vientiane, was markedly more relaxed than almost anywhere in Cambodia. After our walk and breakfast, we set off for Luang Prabang and northern Laos.

The Dog-Friendly Java Cafe

2008-05-09T12:59:00.001+07:00

Just a quick side note folks: I'm going to be in Laos for the next nine days, so I won't be posting, but I hope to have some good stories upon my return.

This little number is going to be a two-for: a description of Java Cafe as well as a little anecdote related to Java.

Java Cafe, located just off of Hun Sen Park on Sihanouk Boulevard is an expat oasis. I learned about it early on in my time in Phnom Penh when I was looking for a job; several recommended it as a place to hang out, check e-mail (wireless Internet), and, in fact, many of my networking-type meetings were held at Java.

Unless you know exactly where it is though, it can be tricky to find, as it's down a small alley and up a somewhat hidden set of stairs. Walking up the stairs, you emerge onto a lush terrace, cooled by ceiling fans and shaded by a roof. There are plants hanging over tables and adjacent to the roof of the driving school below. The few outdoor tables are highly coveted and the frequent Java-goer knows to make a reservation in advance as, during lunch time, a table is hard to come by. Stepping past the outdoor tables and a magazine and newspaper rack, you enter the cafe itself, complete with fairly open spaces, comfortable wicker seating, and an ever-changing art exhibit adorning the walls.

The food, though a bit pricey (especially at night), is delicious. The salads, the burgers, the dinner entrees, everything that I've had there has been quite good. With some kind of a shake or a smoothie, it's hard to imagine a better or more idyllic meal. Because of the locale and the tasty western food, Java serves as an excellent escape from the hot, dirty, and often stinking streets of Phnom Penh. It is order in a country that is so often chaotic.

Now on to the anecdote. As I mentioned earlier, with our house sitting gig, we inherited a pet dog: Einstein. Being a progressive, western-style cafe, Java allows well-behaved dogs on the terrace and, as a result, Einstein's owners often bring him along for dinner or a drink. Our first night of house sitting, the house (and Einstein) owners took us out for dinner at Java with Einstein. Still back at the house, as soon as he heard the word "Java," Einstein went nuts, jumping around and eagerly running toward the door.

Arriving after a walk over, Einstein paraded upstairs like he owned the place. In a lot of ways, it seemed like he did. He received a warm greeting from the staff, who knows him well, and just as good service as any human patron. Water was promptly delivered for us as well as Einstein, and after ordering a round of drinks, we ordered dinner. With everyone ordered, the waitered sort of smiled and asked, "And the usual for Einstein?"

A few minutes later and Einstein's ears and eyes perked as a plate of bacon was brought over. Breaking the pieces into smaller bites, his parents fed him bit by bit, telling him to "take it easy" with every bite. While certainly an amusing spectre, on some levels we felt a bit guilty that, in a country in which not everyone can afford to eat meat on a regular basis that a pet dog was getting restaurant-made bacon. Despite the guilt, Shanti and I brought Einstein back to Java this past weekend to enjoy an afternoon of reading, iced tea and coffee and, yes, bacon.

Steve Goes to the Circus (Sort Of)

2008-05-07T10:56:00.001+07:00

Three weeks ago I was in Boston for the weekend and the Barnum and Bailey Circus was in town. I joked with a few friends that it would be a lot of fun to spend a few of my limited hours in town at the circus. Now back in Phnom Penh, the circus is in town, and I’m going.

Cambodia’s “National School of Circus” (yes, that’s actually what it’s called) was performing in Phnom Penh. Our friend Pat, who I work with and who now volunteers at Aziza, suggested we check it out. For 3000 riels ($0.75) we really couldn’t go wrong.

Meeting our friend Wes, we tuk-tuked to the Chenla Theater in the western part of Phnom Penh which, ironically, is not an area that westerners tend to frequent. We arrived at a surprisingly attractive theater about twenty minutes before the show began and made our way to the ticket booth. Ready to fork over a few thousand riels for the tickets, we were shocked to find that the show was sold out. We skeptically added our name to the wait list and did just that, surrounded by a healthy mix of foreigners, Cambodians, kids, parents, and twenty somethings.

Ten minutes after the show began and still waiting outside, my name was called and we were finally able to purchase tickets. Unfortunately, we missed the “Opening Parade,” the “Solo Contortion” and most of the “Balance Act.” However, we were seated by the time the clowns came on. Let’s just say that it was a uniquely Cambodian clown performance (i.e. physical comedy in its most basic forms). The premise was that the clown was in fact a dentist and had a patient with a sore tooth. For the first few minutes of the performance the clown did everything but actually come near the sore tooth – he stood on top of the patient, chased him around with a drill, and even played proctologist, inserting an oversized hypodermic you know where. Makes sense for a circus geared towards kids, right? After much tomfoolery, the clown was able to extract an oversized sore tooth with an oversized wrench. While the Cambodian audience was eating it up, the ex-pats were either dumbfounded or horrified.

The clown was followed by a magician who, despite his nice suit with gold sequined trim, was mediocre at best. He did fairly standard scarf-in-hand type magic, though he did manage to pull a few chickens out of his hat (I don’t know that there are many doves in Cambodia…). The magician was succeeded by a hula hooper, who, in my opinion was the star of the show. She could flip hula hoops up from the ground and send them up and down her body, do six to eight at a time on various parts of her body (knees, hips, chest, arms), and concluded by spinning at least ten hoops around her waist at once, looking a lot like a slinky.

After the hula hooper and a team of jugglers, there was a “circus drama” performance depicting Khmer mythology intertwined with gymnastics and contortions. The story was that of Hanuman, a white monkey general who tries to rescue a princess by building a bridge across the ocean. The performance was fairly light, but certainly both captivating and entertaining. All in all, it was a great, cultural way to spend a few hours and not a lot of money. If they come back to town, I would definitely spend another evening as an audience member.

As Good As It Gets

2008-05-04T22:45:00.001+07:00

A week ago Shanti and I moved into a new house. Don’t worry, we’re still paying rent to His Excellency, but we’ve got a temporary gig house sitting for one of my senior level coworkers while he and his wife go on leave to the U.S. It took little convincing to get us to agree to such an appealing favor.

The house is located on a quiet side street a block off of Sihanouk Boulevard and just a two minute bike ride from my office. Though it takes a skilled and steady hand to undo the lock on the gate (reach through a roughly cut hole in the metal gate up to your shoulder and fiddle with the padlock), those that can are rewarded handsomely. A stone driveway opens up to the house, surrounded by tropical looking plants and trees, including a mango tree that is now bearing fruit.

Entering the house, the lower floor is very open and largely unfurnished, save a couch and a worn pool table. The large and modernly-equipped main kitchen is down here as is the washing machine and some storage rooms. Walking up the cool, stone stairs, the first room you come upon is the main living area of the house. It is very well decorated with a mix of African and Asian art and beautiful and comfortable wood furniture. To the immediate left is a dining room table and straight ahead are two couches, two chairs, and two coffee tables. The room is beautifully lit with tall, silk lamps and dim overhead lights. It is an incredibly relaxing place to dine, work on a laptop, or curl up with a book (the selection of which leaves the book lover bewildered for lack of time). Just off this room is a small terrace replete with various potted, tropical looking plants which we have yet to take advantage of.

Turning left at the top of the stairway, you pass an office, a guest room, and a second kitchen, which serves more as a bar and snack center than a kitchen. Moving onwards and there is the master bedroom, with a tremendous amount of space despite large bureaus and a four post bed.

And then there is Einstein, the Ethiopian part dog, part wolf, all pet. At first glance, he is very intimidating: large, husky-like, ears pointed, and large teeth. Despite the menacing appearance, he is really sweet, following Shanti and I around the house, waking us up in the morning by jumping onto the bed and subsequently us, and greeting us warmly with a circular tail wag when we return home.

Even better than Einstein is the staff. Chandy is the cook and, along with one of her sisters, the cleaner for the house. She loves to cook and it shows. Since we arrived we have eaten like a king and a queen, with a mix of Khmer and western dishes ready for us when we come home for lunch or dinner. Her son, Visal, who accompanies her to work, is one of the cutest kids that I have ever seen. He’s eleven months old and has an incredibly expressive face which immediately recognizes me with a silly looking smile. He often reaches his arms out towards me asking to be held. I could sit and watch him for hours on end. Thea, the guard, is an interesting fellow. He’s probably just a few years older than Shanti or me, and very sharp.

Already, it feels like every day is a vacation to an extent. Most of our meals our made for us, the house is cleaned for us, the laundry is done for us (including ironing, thank goodness), and we’re left simply to enjoy. For all of the above reasons, the next five weeks are going to be simply delightful. Shanti even jokingly suggested that we cancel our trip to Laos to be able to stay put here. Are we a little guilty about being so young and having it so good? Of course. But are we going to take advantage of it while we can? Definitely.

The Jews of Cambodia

2008-04-30T17:32:00.000+07:00

Cambodia is a country that is 95% Buddhist. Although many Americans do not know this, they know that there can't be many Jews in Cambodia. I am told that there is one Cambodian Jew, a rural villager who knew nothing about Judaism until he was introduced to the entire religion by a dream. I was not able to find any information on this said individual, however.

Cambodians aside, though, there is a sizable ex-pat community in Cambodia and in Phnom Penh especially. Among these few thousand people, there have to be at least a few Jews, right? In fact, there are several dozen of us. I was first introduced to the Jewish community in Phnom Penh at a Rosh Hashanah dinner in September. Though fairly small, the gathering brought together some twenty Jewish ex-pats of various ages and nationalities. Some time between Rosh Hashanah and Hanukkah a Jewish listserv of sorts emerged. I found myself on an e-mail list of Cambodia's Jews. The list had some fifty names on it. Fifty Jews in Cambodia!

I met a greater number of my people, perhaps forty of them, at a Hanukkah party in early December. Menorahs were lit, latkes were eaten, and dreidels were spun. Fortunately, no Mainschewitz was to be found anywhere. There were Americans, Belgians, Poles, Frenchmen (and women), and even a Kiwi!

I know what you're thinking. Big deal. A handful of Jews get together for the main holidays. Not so I tell you! In fact, a large party was organized for Purim, a holiday in which you're supposed to cross-dress and drink so much that you can't tell the difference between good and evil. Sadly, I was unable to attend this amusing, drunken affair.

More recently, however, it was Passover. Unfortunately for the Jewish ex-pats of Cambodia, Passover fell during Khmer New Year, a time when Cambodia is brutally hot and everyone able to escapes to a beach or a cooler climate. Fear not! Following Khmer New Year, and on the last day of Passover, a massive Seder was held, with over forty people in attendance. Though it was the most rushed, chaotic Seder I've ever been to (and I've been to my fair share of chaotic Seders), it was great to be able to connect with a community of Jews in Southeast Asia.

I apologize for the rambling and seemingly directionless nature of this entry, but it was one that I needed to write. Especially for my grandparents, who I can picture chuckling to themselves and shaking their heads as they read this when I e-mail it to them. I'm sure to get some reply, eventually, asking if rat was served at the Seder. Oy...

There's a Red House Over Yonder

2008-04-29T07:53:00.000+07:00

I’m not sure yet, but this could be the first in a series of Phnom Penh dining establishments that we: frequent; have long wanted to try; or have some particular interest in.

At the corner of our fairly quiet residential block there’s a Singaporean restaurant called the Red House. As the name suggests it is literally a red house, though more of a maroon or blood red than bright red. On the bright yellow and blue neon sign at its exterior it says that it’s known for seafood. Every night, it is absolutely packed. There are cars (mostly Lexus, Mercedes, or Toyota Landcruisers, often with “state”, “police”, or “Royal Cambodian Armed Forces” license plates) lining every block in every direction. From our terrace, we can see the commotion as the parking attendants try in vain to assist the restaurant’s patrons with parallel parking. Traffic often backs up in all directions for a few blocks.

Every time we notice how busy Red House is, we remark that we should eat there. We’ve even spoken to the other barang (foreigners) on the block about how we should organize a group outing to the popular spot. As of a week ago, however, the expedition still had not happened.

And then along comes Chapman, one of Shanti’s friends and high school teachers. He was a PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer to the layman) in Nepal and after returning to his Nepali village for the first time in over twenty years, made a trip through Phnom Penh to see Shanti. Convinced that he had to take us out to dinner (even though he stayed at a guesthouse a few blocks away and not in our guest room), he suggested a meal at the popular Red House restaurant.

On Wednesday, after work and after a delightful hour-long massage, we made our way over to the mysterious Red House. The parking attendants – I hesitate to call them valets because they don’t actually park cars, just assist the owners in parking – smiled as we entered the glass double doors. To our right were a variety of aquariums and bins filled with water and various creatures from the sea (i.e. dinner). We immediately got the sense that this was not a place that foreigners frequent; the bright and open restaurant, though not packed, was busy with well-dressed Asian businessmen, families, and government officials. Needless to say we felt a bit out of place in our cargo shorts and t-shirts.

We sat down and were immediately brought a wooden bowl of roasted, salted peanuts (an appetizer perfected by Cambodia). After ordering a few beers, we took a look at the extensive menu. The specialties were clearly seafood and we were shocked to see the prices of the fare. Although all dishes had three sizes – small, medium, and large – the cheapest item on the menu was about $6, usually enough for a nice two-person meal or several meals off the street. Lucky for us, Chapman was treating.

With beer in hand, we settled on a medium order of garlic and chili prawns and a medium order of BBQ Guinness spare ribs. When the food came, we were surprised at how small the portions looked, especially for the cost. However, everything was spicy and delicious and more filling that expected. I’m not sure we would go back though, especially since the meal cost what Shanti and I usually spend on a week’s worth of food. Red House clearly caters to a more upscale local crowd. That said, we broke the mystery of the Red House over yonder.

Back in Cambo

2008-04-21T11:36:00.002+07:00

Dear Faithful Blog Readers,

I apologize for the long gap in posts, but I ended up being pretty busy back in the US of A. Now that I'm back in Cambodia, I should be able to post more regularly and will probably provide a few anecdotes about my time in the US before resuming my regular observations about life in Cambodia.

Your USA Pal

2008-03-31T12:11:00.004+07:00

For the next 2+ weeks, I will be back in the US and therefore, unable to attend Khmer weddings, eat unusual meats, or make mundane observations about life in Cambodia. However, I will try to make a few posts on my return to the States and the culture shock that is sure to ensue. (One friend recently commented that it takes a few days to determine if the state that you are in is a result of a) jetlag, b) emotional trauma, or c) both). I'll keep you posted.

The Composer

2008-03-27T11:32:00.001+07:00

This past Friday my friend Pat invited me and Shanti (and my friend Liora who was in town) to attend an art opening of sorts hosted by his family. The event was held in the gallery by Wat Phnom, which Pat's uncle is in charge of operating.

When we first arrived, we weren't sure if we were in the right place. Because we looked like tourists and because it was a private event, we were initially discouraged from entering. I spotted Pat inside though and we worked our way over to him. As a live band played Khmer music, both old and new, Pat gave us a tour of the facilities. His uncle had just completed a series of large dioramas depicting various periods, from the Angkor empire of the thirteenth century to the present day.

After our tour we were seated at a table with a group of Khmer people, friends of Pat's aunt and uncle. We were supplied with ample beer and Johnnie Walker (they love the stuff all over Asia) as well as fresh spring rolls, noodles, and curry. We nibbled at our food, sipped our drinks, and chatted a bit with our table neighbors, most of whom spoke limited English.

About thirty minutes into our meal, a man came over and very enthusiastically - and in very good English - introduced himself and his son as composers. We were quite interested and encouraged him to join the band for a song or two. He promised us he would play an English song so that we could sing along. Before the next song, he told us that composing was only his hobby, his actual job was working for the National Police. He handed me a business card - a photocopy of his ID - to reveal that not only was he in the police, but that he was a Lieutenant Colonel. A Lieutenant Colonel composer??

As he took the stage he picked up a guitar and started singing a popular 80s love song that I know only by its chorus, "when you love someone/somebody" (it's not Bryan Adams). His singing, which was quite good and without an accent, was rivaled only by his guitar playing, which was excellent (he even took a solo!). Cheering him on at the end of the song, we shouted "mouy tiet" ("one more") and he obliged without hesitation. It was a very impressive display and I now have his card in my wallet to remember him by and, more importantly, to help me out if I get into any trouble.

Thorn's Wedding: Day 2

2008-03-24T12:10:00.001+07:00

4:00am. The loudspeaker above the wedding/circus tent wakes me up with some early morning chanting. I was planning on getting up at 5:00am, but this was an unexpected (and unwelcome) early rousing. I laid in bed trying to get a bit more rest before finally getting up a bit before 5:00am.

Just before six the first ceremony of the day began and I believe it was a ceremony blessing ancestors. The ceremony was short and fairly uneventful. Prior to the next ceremony, the groom’s processional, I got to put on the first “fun” outfit of the day: white pants with a bright blue and shiny Chinese-style button-up jacket. With Thorn and the other groomsmen, I posed for a few pictures before heading back down to the living room.

Though it was only 7:30am, about 150 people had gather at and around the house for the groom’s procession. Back in the day, the groom and the bride were from the same village and the groom would, with his family and friends, walk to the bride’s house carrying food and gifts. In modern times though, people gather at the bride’s house with trays of fruit and meat and baskets of flowers and at the designated time, they walk about 200 meters away from the bride’s house before returning back. As the best man, I walked right behind Thorn and his parents, carrying a big basket of flowers. Arriving at the wedding tent, the procession was seated in a rectangular manner, with Thorn and his parents making up one of the short sides and guests seating themselves on the long sides. Phea and her parents then exited from the house to accept the gifts presented to her. I have never seen so much food in one place; it was really unbelievable how much fruit, meat, and pastries were brought to Phea and her family.

By the time this ceremony was over, I had been awake for five hours and I hadn’t eaten anything. I was starving. We had a delicious and spicy pho-like soup for breakfast, with noodles, chicken, mint, chilies, and bean sprouts. After wolfing it down with a Coke – it felt like lunch-time – it was time for more ceremonies.

The knot-tying ceremony (no seriously, that’s what it’s called; I wonder if this is where the expression “tying the knot” comes from…) followed the procession. During this ceremony, thin red (good luck) – strings are tied around the bride and groom’s wrists by family members and close friends, who then bless them. I had the honor of doing both. Though we had just eaten an hour and a half before, it was time for lunch, where, again, Thorn’s father heaped tons of rather unappetizing soup into my bowl. Luckily there was a good amount of rice and beef with green peppers to satisfy. Stuffed and exhausted, I was glad to have a few hours to nap and relax.

A little bit after 3:00pm Shanti arrived after an equally long and uneventful bus ride as me. We went to say hello to “the crew,” and they were almost as excited to see another foreigner as Shanti was to meet Phea. We hung out a bit and snapped a few pictures before going to relax a bit more prior to the big party in the evening.

When I returned to Phea’s house for the wedding reception, it was time for fun outfit number two. Before I got dressed though, I tied Thorn’s dad’s tie for him; it is not unlikely that it was the first time that he ever wore a tie. When it came time for me to get dressed, I kept my black pants on and instead of a shiny blue jacket, I was given a shiny pink one. That’s right folks, I wore a bright pink jacket. I think that it is the first and quite possibly the last time that I will ever wear pink. Shanti, of course, was incredibly amused. After some giggles and some pictures, it was time to begin greeting the guests. As the guests arrive, the groom and groomsmen and the bride and bridesmaids stand opposite each other in front of the entrance to the wedding tent.

For nearly three hours we greeted the nearly 300 guests that arrived, sitting down and standing up like a game of stationary musical chairs. Halfway through the greetings, I went into the house to change into fun outfit number three. I switched back to the white pants, but the pair I tried on was way too tight and way too short. I was given another pair that was a bit longer, but still too tight. The seamstress loosened them a bit, but they were still the tightest pants I had ever worn. Every time I crouched down, I thought a seam was going to rip. Not ideal for the kind of up-and-down greeting I was to be doing for the next ninety minutes. The jacket, also white, was tight as well and I was unable to move my arms far from my side. Though quite uncomfortable, I must admit that I was highly amused by the outfit, which was topped off by a stylish red bowtie.

The greetings were followed immediately by the wedding procession formally entering the party and a number of other traditions. Thorn and Phea were introduced and asked a few questions by the lead singer of the live band. And then I, unexpectedly, was called to the stage to give a speech. Me? I may be the best man, but the only people here that speak English are me, Shanti, and Thorn. What the hell was I going to say and not make a fool of myself? So, I made a fool of myself. “I’m going to speak in English, since my Khmer isn’t very good…” Ouch. I recovered though, to give what I would consider a descent speech, saying that I was honored to be the best man and that I hoped that Thorn and Phea would be as happy for the rest of their lives as they are today. Following a few words from Thorn and Phea’s parents, Thorn and Phea had their first kiss and began the cake cutting ceremony, which starts with an onslaught of confetti and silly string. Thorn then fed cake to Phea’s parents and vice versa.

With all the ceremonies over, it was time for some fun. I changed into fun outfit number four – the too-tight white pants with a neon green jacket and took a number of pictures with Thorn, Phea, and the rest of the wedding party. Looking at my watch I realized it was already 9:30pm. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch at about noon and needed some food. As soon as I sat down at Thorn’s parents’ table, Phea’s father said that I really needed to get up and dance. I politely declined, saying that I would dance in a few minutes, once I had devoured the cashews, spring rolls, rice, shrimp salad, beef and pork that lay before me. The food was washed down by the glass of beer that Thorn’s dad ensured was full and cold.

In a few minutes he was back, and Shanti and I had no choice but to show off our severely lacking Apsara dancing skills. We lasted a few dances before taking a short break. Then it was back to the dance floor for more Khmer-style dancing. After a few songs, and a slow dance, Shanti and I called it a night. We thanked Thorn and Phea and their parents and, as we headed back to our guesthouse, managed to find a slice of wedding cake. Exhausted, we crashed hard despite the loud wedding music that continued just outside our window.

Thorn's Wedding: Day 1

2008-03-21T13:17:00.000+07:00

On Saturday morning, I roused myself just before six in the morning. I hopped in the shower, shaved hurriedly, and set off for the bus station. The seven and a half hour ride was fairly uneventful until we arrived at Banteay Meanchey, where, because of the poor road quality, we were forced to slow to about thirty kilometers an hour. As we trudged along, an incredible amount of dust was kicked up, making it hard to see what was ahead of us and sending stifling particles of dust through the air conditioning.

By about 2:30, I arrived at the transport station in Poipet. While most of the things that I had heard and read about Poipet were extremely negative, my initial impressions were fairly neutral. It certainly wasn’t the most attractive town that I had been to, but there wasn’t anything particularly offensive about it. I made my way to my guesthouse, booked in advance by Thorn, and discovered it was literally across the street from the wedding at his wife-to-be’s house.

Shortly after checking in and about to hop in the shower, I got a message from Thorn saying that I should join him for the cleansing/hair-cutting ceremony. Foregoing the much-needed shower, I rushed to put on my black dress pants and a white button-down shirt. I strolled across the street, through the enormous rectangular red and yellow circus-like tent, past the four person traditional Khmer band, and into Phea’s family’s living room, which had been transformed by colorful flowers, baskets of food, and brightly dressed bridesmaids and groomsmen (Thorn had a stand-in for me since it was possible I would be late). As I sign of respect, I bowed as I entered, finding a seat among Thorn and Phea’s families.

During the cleansing ceremony, various family members of the bride and groom bless them, spray them with perfume, and pretend to cut their hair, so that none of their past misfortunes remain. Throughout the ceremony, a male MC, who was old, toothless and elaborately dressed, sang and danced. Though I didn’t really understand what was going on, the ceremony was quite beautiful and I frequently made eye contact with Thorn, who looked as happy as he should have been.

Following the hour-long ceremony, we had a few minutes to relax. I was finally able to meet Thorn’s wife, Phea – who is shy, but beautiful – and both of their families. Besides Thorn and two of his groomsmen no one spoke English at all, so I got a good opportunity to practice my Khmer. Thorn’s father, an adorable and quite humble farmer, was especially welcoming.

After putting on a striped tie (for I now was officially the best man), I headed downstairs for a ceremony in which Thorn and Phea would receive a blessing from several monks. Five monks sat on the floor before us and Thorn, Phea, one of the bridesmaids, and I, sat opposite them. When praying in the presence of monks, it is necessary to sit with both of your legs out to one side, a very uncomfortable position for an inflexible non-Buddhist. During the ceremony, the monks chanted at length, Thorn and Phea’s parents blessed them, and even I had to follow others’ lead in a bit of praying, putting my palms together in front of my chest, then flat on the ground, and then back in front of my chest in sets of three. Though the hour-long ceremony was fascinating and the chanting both beautiful and mesmerizing, my legs began to give way toward the end.

Following a shower, it was time for dinner, where I had the honor of sitting with Thorn’s parents and some of his other close relatives. We had an assortment of Khmer food, which, for the most part was quite delicious. The one dish I didn’t particularly enjoy, the soup, was the one that Thorn’s father insisted I consume incessantly. Once finished with dinner, one of Thorn’s relatives asked me if I could “puk sra” (drink alcohol). I assured him I was able and joined most of the older gentleman around a table for several rounds of some kind of paint-thinner like whiskey with soda water. Though lacking in taste, it was quite nice to feel so included in all of the events and to be immediately such a part of the family.

Dinner was followed by a ceremony blessing Thorn and Phea’s parents. For the ceremony, Thorn sat behind Phea’s parents and vice versa, holding an umbrella over their heads to symbolize a reversal of the protective role that parents traditionally have for their children. To this point, Thorn and Phea had changed outfits for every different ceremony, whereas I had consistently worn the same thing (though I was assured this would not be the case the following day).

While waiting to head into downtown Poipet to stroll around the five-star hotel-casinos, I chatted with Phea’s grandmother. I had a bit of trouble understanding her and she had to repeat herself several times so that I would have a shot at guessing her meaning. A bit frustrated with my lacking Khmer skills, she gave me a little slap to the face, which I’m told, is the greatest sign of endearment a “yay” (grandmother) can show someone of my age.

Heading into Poipet, my eyes met the most bizarre thing I’ve seen in Cambodia since I’ve arrived and I like to think I’ve seen some strange sights. Enormous hotels were practically on top of each other, each with bright Vegas-style neon lights. I can’t imagine a greater juxtaposition with the modest and austere Cambodian countryside just a few kilometers away. As we walked around, a live band performed on a huge stage to a few hundred curious and relaxed onlookers. Thorn told me that there was live music every night – Phnom Penh is lucky to get a sizeable concert once every few months. Having seen enough, we headed back to Phea’s house and I crashed for the evening.

The Best Man

2008-03-14T08:05:00.002+07:00

Sorry folks, but Part II on Aziza is going to have to wait a few more days. Why, you might ask, is the entry getting pushed back yet again? Well, some of you may remember my friend (now my "brother") Thorn from my adventures in Battambang all the way back in September. I have kept in close touch with Thorn and even saw him again when I was in Battambang for work last month. Shanti also hung out with him when she was in Battambang for work.

Anyways, just before the last time I saw him, he informed Sister Shanti and Brother Steven that he was going to get married soon - these things happen quite quickly in Cambodia. Very exciting news indeed and when I had the chance to hang out with Thorn in Battambang last month, we discussed his fiancé and wedding plans in great detail (it sounds much more girly than it was).

The story of how he and his fiancé, Phea, met is worth recounting briefly. Phea, who lives with her family in Poipet - a town on the Thai border - was trying to call her uncle in Battambang, where Brother Thorn resides. Instead of her uncle, she got Thorn. They struck up a conversation and then proceeded to speak on the phone on a daily basis until they could finally meet. They spent several days together in Poipet, with Thorn winning over her family, as well as a short trip to Siem Reap. Phea then met Thorn's parents and all was set in motion for the parents to meet and give the go-ahead for an eventual marriage.

When I saw Thorn in February, the date for the wedding had not yet been set and he was weighing whether the wedding should be very soon - Phea's parents wanted her to be married sooner rather than later, as she had already been courted by several men (despite being only twenty), and was likely to be happiest with Thorn - or towards the end of the year and after he graduates from college and would be able to truly provide for his new wife. They decided to take the fast route and will actually spend the first eight months of their marriage apart, with Thorn finishing his studies in Battambang and Phea living with her family in Poipet (they're about two and a half hours apart). Once Thorn graduates, they will live together wherever Thorn is able to find work.

Fast forward to Wednesday. I received a text messages from my dear Brother Thorn: "Hi my brother, how are you? I'm now staying with my wife Phea. We are cooking together. Hey brother, could you please to be my best man? That would be great if you can do. Please let me know if possible. Blessing."

Me, a best man? At a traditional Khmer wedding? I promptly called Thorn back telling him how honored I was to receive the offer. What, I asked, does being the best man entail? He told me that there was not so much responsibility, but that I would have to change outfits often (the groom changes about ten times during the course of a wedding, the bride even more and the best man matches the groom). Though I am going to be late to the ceremony, which starts at 9:00am on Saturday and continues through Sunday, Thorn said this was not a problem. So, I'm going to be the best man!

I'm getting up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to catch an eight-hour bus to Poipet (which everyone says is the armpit of Cambodia - more on that when I get back). I'll be there for thirty-six hours of wedding celebrations and then it's an eight-hour bus ride back to Phnom Penh. It is sure to be an interesting, photo-worthy and blog-worthy experience.

Africa in Cambodia

2008-03-10T08:40:00.004+07:00

The living in Southeast Asia is fairly cheap and easy. For that reason, the region – and Cambodia in particular – attracts a very interesting ex-pat crowd. There is the large and international NGO community (mainly from Western nations), working on everything from repairing cleft lips to promoting favorable policies for the large disabled population to more traditional development. There are those that work in business, from small restaurants to multinational companies (largely Chinese and Korean). There are the English teachers, usually young and carefree, mostly floating through their lives. There are the sketchy old men, often called “sexpats” who come to Cambodia in search of its seedier side. And then there are the Africans.

Every week Shanti and I see handful of young African men – it’s always men – wandering around Phnom Penh. How, we wonder, do these men end up in Cambodia? It seems an unlikely place for an African man to settle – it’s far from home and they don’t seem to fit into any of the aforementioned ex-pat molds. So where are they from and what are they doing in Cambodia?

It took a friendly encounter at Elsewhere’s famous (infamous?) first Friday (of the month) party to find out. As a group of us sat poolside on bamboo mats sipping wine and listening to Elsewhere’s perennially cool music, it unexpectedly started to drizzle. We sought shelter by the covered bar. Our friend Pat struck up a conversation with a Cameroonian named Julio – pronounce the ‘j’ – who was part of a larger group of men from Cameroon. As the conversation continued and Shanti and I joined, Julio revealed that he was a club soccer player, as were all of his friends. Though he was a recent arrival to Cambodia, he has been playing in Asia (China, Indonesia, Malaysia, etc) for the past several years. In Cambodia, there is a limit of five foreigners for each club team, but the majority of those foreigners are from West Africa. So now we know. To celebrate, we’re going to cheer Julio on at the Olympic Stadium in two weeks.

Part II of Aziza coming soon...

Monsoon in the Dry Season?

2008-03-07T13:58:00.002+07:00

It has been several months since it has really "rained" in Phnom Penh, though there have been a few spells of drizzle. That's how it's supposed to be. Cambodia is in the middle of the November to May dry season, where it gets progressively drier and progressively hotter. But last night something strange happened. The Phnom Penh sky darkened at an usually premature hour. The wind picked up speed and it brought with it the incredibly strong scent of rain. Never before did I think that rain could have such a distinctive smell.

At just after 6:00pm, the sky was pitch black and the wind was howling. As it started to rain, I stood on our terrace in both amazement and pleasure, splashing around in the small puddles that were forming like a five year old in galoshes discovering the joy of puddles for the first time. To not have rain for so long and then to have it all of a sudden - and unexpectedly - was surprisingly wonderful. A half hour later and the deafening roar of rain was drowning out all other sound as Shanti and I made dinner. It was so loud that I turned our music off because neither of us could hear it anyway.

Before sitting down to eat, we brought a plate of fruit down to His Excellency's family. His son-in-law, who is incredibly well-traveled and intelligent, yet quite humble, greeted us with his surprise over the rain. "This never happens," he said. "I guess global warming is coming to Cambodia..."

The Aziza Schoolhouse Part I: A Description of Dey Krahom

2008-03-04T09:41:00.000+07:00

About two months ago Shanti and I started volunteering at an organization called Aziza, a schoolhouse located in the slums of Dey Krahom (Red Earth). The slums start just after you peel off of Sothearos south of Sihanouk - they're visible from my comfy, air-conditioned office. There is an incredibly long row, perhaps a third of a mile, of bland, austere, dilapidated Soviet style "apartments." A jumbled mess of electric wires and plastic plumbing pipes connect various apartment to one another as they intermingle with plants and drying laundry. Once cement-colored, the outside of the apartments are now dark gray or black and, in some places green and covered in mold where pipes leak. Beside the apartment building is a cobbled together shanty town, with homes made from either whatever was available or affordable - tin, thin strips of wood or bamboo, plastic tarps, etc. Among the shanty dwellings the stench of garbage and sewage is strong and there is rubble everywhere. When Shanti and I bike in, we pedal over garbage, broken bricks, and slabs of cement. Each time we wonder if we'll pop a tire.

Within the last few years, the value of land in Cambodia, and Phnom Penh in particular, has skyrocketed. In the last seven years, one square meter of land has gone from $500 to $3,000. The result is that the powerful and politically connected use their might to acquire valuable land in an unwholesome and unsavory manner, paying off government officials, obtaining "legal" land titles, or simply by evicting residents through brute force and intimidation.

Enter Dey Krahom, in the heart of Phnom Penh's boom and with a prime location literally across the street from the National Assembly. Three years ago, a supposed spokesman for the residents of Dey Krahom - who didn't have the authority to be such a spokesman - agreed to a deal with construction company 7NG to vacate the Dey Krahom area in exchange for land twenty kilometers from the city and a few thousand dollars, a raw deal for residents sitting on land worth an estimated $44 million. Since then, there have been a number of incidents involving 7NG officials in collaboration with the police, resulting in injuries to residents and further intimidation. Some think the effort to provoke the residents of Dey Krahom is a pretense to have them arrested and thus, evicted. In the past several months a number of structures have been destroyed at random, including, in November 2007 (before Shanti and I started volunteering), the schoolhouse originally occupied by Aziza. The destruction of the remaining shanty homes and the apartment buildings, and the souls that occupy them, seems imminent, especially now that the construction company has legal title to at least some of the land in Dey Krahom. For more information on the case, a local human rights NGO, LICADHO, recently issued a very interesting and troubling report.

Unfortunately, Dey Krahom is by no means an isolated case. All across Cambodia and especially in rapidly developing and resource-rich areas, such as Phnom Penh, Siem Reap, Sihanoukville (on the beach), and Rattanakiri and Mondulkiri in the northeast, poor and vulnerable villagers are at risk of losing their lands and livelihoods. It is one of the most pressing issues facing Cambodia today and the only resolution in sight for those facing eviction is just that.

Is It Blogging If You Don't Actually Post?

2008-02-29T15:28:00.003+07:00

I apologize for the lack of posts in the last two weeks. I haven't been feeling like an inspired writer. However, I promise to post early next week, probably on Aziza, an organization where Shanti and I have been volunteering for a few hours a week. Though I haven't been writing, I finally uploaded more pictures from the past two months in Phnom Penh. You can enjoy them here.

The Year of the Rat

2008-02-18T07:52:00.001+07:00

As China ushered in the New Year just over a week ago, Phnom Penh was celebrating too. Many Cambodians have Chinese blood and celebrate both their Khmer and Chinese heritages. Throughout the first several days of the new year – the celebration is fifteen days in all – large trucks full of costumed dancers canvassed Phnom Penh, performing traditional dragon dances for those willing to cough up a bit of cash.

While watching the Super Bowl, I met a Cambodian-American who recently moved back to Phnom Penh. She invited me and Shanti and another friend to go to her family’s restaurant to see a dragon dance up close. The performance was quite impressive, with a half dozen boys suiting up into three dragon costumes. Before starting their dance, we all got to try on the dragon mask. For the next forty-five minutes we were entertained by the shaking, jumping, and teasing of the three dragons and the banging of a dozen different drums. Before leaving though, the dragons rushed into the restaurant with the crowd following closely behind. A number of oranges – good luck – were left on the floor and after “eating” them, the dragons peeled the oranges and arranged the sections into intricate Chinese lettering on the floor.

A few days later, I ushered in the Year of the Rat in a different way than I intended. Traveling for work I accompanied a coworker to the remote province of Banteay Meanchey. With a friend of his, we went to lunch. After we had a round of Coke, a plate arrived on our table. I immediately recognized the plate of food as three fried rats. Many Cambodians had told me that field rat is delicious, but I was not eager to find out for myself. Though the heads were removed, the claws and all else reminded. Thinking that this may be my only choice for lunch, I grabbed a rat and started nibbling, silently praising the waitress for at least bringing a good lime and pepper dipping sauce. I doused the bit of fried rat meat and thinking of anything else I could, ate it. As long as I could use my imagination, it didn’t taste that bad with the sauce and a few gulps of Coke. When I had “finished,” an enormous fish was brought out and I had no choice but to curse the rat that was not the main course but the appetizer. Let’s hope eating the Year of the Rat is good luck…

Yes We Can

2008-02-15T13:08:00.004+07:00

On Saturday, February 9th, it was not just the residents of Louisiana, Nebraska, and Washington that flocked to the polls to vote. American voters, registered with Democrats Abroad (myself included) headed to none-other-than USA Donuts in Phnom Penh to cast our votes in the Democratic primary process. For the first time, Democrat expatriates get a say in the party nominating process, receiving a total of eleven delegates at the National Convention (there is no equivalent for the GOP).

So after running some errands, Shanti and I grabbed our passports and set off for USA Donuts. USA Donuts is a quirky restaurant/market owned by a Cambodian who fled to the U.S. during the Khmer Rouge years. Though we had never been before, I had met the owner during Water Festival, where he had set up a riverside stall. "I buy at Costco!" he yelled out to the throngs of people passing by. Now, several months later and at USA Donuts itself, it appears as if we have entered a Costco/Dunkin Donuts hybrid. Half of the shop is stocked with bulk goods (a dozen boxes of Kraft Macaroni and cheese in one package, enormous boxes of cereal, a gallon of Mrs. Butterworth's syrup, etc) and the other half is a homey donut shop.

When Shanti and I arrived at about mid-day there was a relatively sizable crowd of perhaps seventy-five filling out paperwork outside, browsing about in the store and, yes, eating donuts. Across the street from our polling place two tuk-tuks were parked with large Obama '08 banners across them. It was the perfect combination of American political culture and Cambodian transportation culture. After chatting a bit with several of the people we recognized and filling out a simple form, we cast our ballots. In exchange, we were given a delicious glazed donut hole. What better way to fulfill your civic duty in Cambodia than by meeting friends at a donut shop?

Though the full results are not yet in (Internet and fax voting continued through February 12th), I am pleased to report that Barack Obama won the paper vote quite handily (78% to 21% for Clinton). The story was covered not only in the local English paper, The Cambodia Daily, but also in the San Francisco Chronicle.

A Moment

2008-02-07T14:11:00.000+07:00

Yesterday, I was riding home from work on my bike when I shared a moment with a fellow bike rider. As I pedaled down Street 294 towards Monivong, I pulled alongside a Khmer guy about the same age as me. For a second, our eyes met and we smiled at one another, acknowledging our shared existence. At that very moment all of the differences between us dissipated. I wasn't American and he wasn't Cambodian, I wasn't a foreigner and he wasn't a local and neither our education levels nor our material wealth mattered. Riding side by side for the length of the street, about a kilometer, we were just two guys on our bicycles and we could have been anywhere at any time. Though it was the kind of connection that isn't easy to come by and certainly isn't long lasting, it was strong enough to make me wonder how different - or similar - the world's people really are.

Are You Ready for Some Football???

2008-02-05T14:44:00.000+07:00

For some reason, I was particularly excited about the Super Bowl this year. Am I big football fan? No, but I do enjoy watching the Redskins win. Am I Giants or Pats fan? No. Had I been following the playoffs closely? No. So why the excitement? To be honest, I'm not exactly sure. Part of the reason, I think, is that I miss the good ol' U.S. of A. sometimes and that the Super Bowl was a connection back to the homeland.

Now, you are probably asking yourselves, do they get American football games on TV in Cambodia? The answer: occasionally. But for the Super Bowl, I wasn't taking any chances. A few friends and I planned to go to The Gym, which bills itself as "Cambodia's premier sports bar and pub." The problem? There's a twelve-hour time difference between the east coast of the U.S. and Phnom Penh. That's right folks, kick-off was at 6:30am on Monday. No worries though, because I got the morning off from an understanding boss. And even though Shanti thought I was (and thinks I am) crazy, I woke up at 5:45am, showered, dressed in my work clothes, and set off, in the dark and rain - yes, it rained even though it's supposed to be the dry season - to The Gym.

The crowd was a bit sparse at first, but ex-pats, some of whom I recognized, filtered into an ideal setting for watching sporting events. There were three projection TVs (I'd guess 60" each) in addition to about two dozen smaller sets. I grabbed a table with a friend and we had an excellent, and comfortable, view of one of the projection sets. While many of the bar's patrons had a drink in hand - be it beer, screwdriver, or tequila sunrise - I elected to forgo an eye opener. I was hungry though, and it just didn't seem right to have pancakes or an omelette during the Super Bowl. My solution? Why a cheeseburger of course! In case you're wondering, it was delicious.

The only disappointment was the commercials. Since the bar had satellite television, I figured we might get some of the Super Bowl ads from the States, but this was not the case. Luckily, the game was a good one and actually warranted my attention. The crowd, for the most part, was pretty passive. There weren't any die hard Giants fans, but there was one hardcore Pats fans. Those familiar with the Boston-area would join me in calling him a Masshole. He wore a Tom Brady jersey and made it very clear to customers as well as those on the television, that he was supporting the Pats. Gotta admire how much those Bostonians love sports...

With the game over and a cheeseburger and a Coke in my belly, I headed off to work.; somehow the work day is that much better if you go in two and a half hours late after an exciting football game.

A New Low

2008-02-04T12:07:00.000+07:00

On Saturday Shanti and I were running some errands around Central Market and Sorya Shopping Center, Cambodia's premier mall (though it's not exactly a mall by western standards). As we were leaving, we were approached by a slim, middle-aged western man. He wore pants and an old t-shirt and had short, red hair and dirty teeth. After confirming that we spoke English, he told us that he was Australian and that his bag - including all of his money and credit cards, but not his passport - had been stolen by a tuk-tuk driver at Russian Market. Shanti and I listened intently as he told us that the Australian Embassy was closed and that he needed just a few dollars to make a phone call to Australia to have some money wired to him. It was a compelling story, so when Shanti started to open her purse to give him $1, I grabbed her arm and shook my head no. I was told the same story by the same man perhaps three months ago near the Royal Palace. When I told him that he tried a similar tale on me a few months back, he looked stunned and quickly walked off. I related the story to another friend who confirmed that he too was approached by the same man with the same story within the last several weeks.

The man's presence in Cambodia is troubling, if not angering, for a number of reasons. The first time I saw him, I assumed he was traveling through Cambodia, not staying a long period of time. His reappearance confirms that his ploy is working well enough that he has chosen to stay and it is safe to assume he comes with a host of problems - I wouldn't be surprised if his desire for more funds from tourists and ex-pats is fueled by a drug problem or involvement in the thriving sex tourism industry in Cambodia. Most aggravating, however, is the mere presence of a clearly successful western beggar in Cambodia (when so many Cambodians are more deserving). The icing on the cake is that he places blame on a Cambodian - the tuk-tuk driver that supposedly ripped him off - as his reason for asking for money. The believability of his story (Shanti has had her bag stolen) is as frightening - surely if I was in his supposed position, I would want help - as it is unfair to the people of Cambodia. They deserve better than to have their name tarnished or the few tourist dollars that make it to a beggar's pocket pilfered by such a man.

Breakfast with His Excellency's Grandchildren

2008-01-30T08:39:00.000+07:00

His Excellency has a number of adorable grandchildren spread across Cambodia. One of them, who is about ten, lives in Sihanoukville and can speak basic English fairly well. When Shanti and I first arrived in Phnom Penh, she was instrumental in ensuring that we had some semblance of an idea of what was happening around us. On a recent trip to Phnom Penh, she expressed the desire to practice her English with us. We invited her to join us for chocolate chip and corn muffins and some chatting in English last Saturday morning.

On the morning in question, however, she was nowhere to be found. Having bought juice and just baked a dozen muffins, we went looking for her. While we were unable to find the Sihanoukville granddaughter, we did find His Excellency’s Phnom Penh grandchildren, a charming five year-old girl and a rambunctious three year-old boy.

The five year-old is adorable. She wears cute dresses, always has her hair done nicely, and just as frequently a smile on her face. She is learning English and from rote memory goes through the entire alphabet, “A is for Apple, I spell A-double P-L-E.” Her younger brother, whose curly mullet makes him look more like a Latin soccer player than a Cambodian, is a total enigma. Though initially shy, he now enjoys such activities as riding around his bicycle naked and saying “Bye-bye” to Shanti and me in an extremely deep voice over and over.

Anyways, the two of them came up and quickly made a mess of our table. A bite of this muffin, a bite of that muffin, a sip of juice, and then it was off to play. First it was our guitar, which the little boy strummed with no regard for the strings. Next it was soccer and badminton on the terrace, and after that it was sitting on the hammock, and then it was back to soccer and sliding around on the terrace. Within a half hour I was exhausted, so I told the kids five more minutes. Five minutes later, it was one more minute, and then one more minute, until we had been playing for an hour and a half.

The following day, at the first sight of us, His Excellency’s grandchildren invited themselves upstairs for another bought of soccer, guitar, sliding on the terrace, and sitting in the hammock. Though we had things to do, it took an hour to our free ourselves from the surprisingly strong grasp of a three year-old and a five year-old. And although we cannot communicate all that well, the kids absolutely love us and, I have to admit, it is kind of fun showing Cambodian kids how American kids play.

The concern now, however, is that any time His Excellency’s grandchildren catch sight of us, they’re going to want access to the Garden of Eden of our terrace. Earlier this week, when I was having one of my coworkers over for dinner, His Excellency’s grandson asked Shanti if he could come up and play when she got home. When she told him that he couldn't, he started to cry, "But I want to play with the Barang (Foreigner)," in Khmer. He, of course, proceeded to tell none other than His Excellency. Hopefully we’re still on his good side…

A Break In, A Lock Out, and A Wedding

2008-01-24T14:26:00.000+07:00

A Break In

At 4:30 in the morning last Tuesday, Shanti and I were woken by a rumbling. At first, we thought nothing of it; the wind usually blows our doors a bit, a feral cat can sometimes be heard shrieking, and, during the rainy season, the rain can pound the metal roof. After several minutes, however, we were convinced it was neither wind, nor rain, nor cat. We lay in our bed, stiff as boards, contemplating what we should do.

I volunteered to peek out our bedroom window, which looks into the living/dining room and out on to the terrace. As I drew the curtains back just enough to be able to see from the darkness of our bedroom to the darkness of the terrace, I could have sworn I saw the silhouette of a figure moving about. Closing the curtains, I turned to Shanti, "There's somebody out there." She thought I was joking until she saw my face.

I tried calling the police. My phone didn't work. Shanti tried with her phone. No answer. She called His Excellency. He picked up, but in his freshly-awake state, he didn't understand. I called back, saying "robber" and "help" in Khmer. He said he'd be up in a few minutes. Between the time I called him and he came up, the shaking stopped. Frightened and hidden in our bedroom, we heard His Excellency call us to the terrace. I checked to make sure it was him through the window and we headed outside.

His Excellency came upstairs with a full entourage - his lovely wife, his driver, his maid, and two girls who help with the kids and around the house. The driver, wielding a flashlight, searched around for signs of an unwanted presence while His Excellency calmed Shanti and me. Pointing to the barbed wire around the terrace, he told us we were safe and that in all the years he had lived in the house he had never been robbed. A short, but thorough search revealed nothing. As the entourage headed downstairs, we thanked them and began to head inside. And then, on our welcome mat, I noticed something: a whole lot of feathers. The cat, it seems, killed a bird while banging up against our door. It brings a whole new meaning to the term 'cat burglar'...

A Lock Out

After the "break in" incident, we couldn't fall asleep. I went in to work not feeling well and ended up returning home at 10:30 with a bad stomach virus. I split the remainder of my day between the bed and the bathroom. By evening, having taken some medicine and drank a lot of water, I felt a bit better. My friend Nick, whom I had worked with in Washington, was heading back to Australia the following day and I wanted to say goodbye to him, albeit quickly, before officially calling it a night.

As we were leaving, I asked Shanti if my keys were on the table. Receiving a reply in the affirmative, I locked our bedroom door. My keys, however, were not on the table. They, along with Shanti's, were in our bedroom and without them, we couldn't lock our front door or get back in to the house. Shanti went downstairs to get a spare key. The maid came up with a bucket full of keys, each apparently to some room in the house. Of the perhaps 100 keys, none of them worked.

Not feeling well, and annoyed at the obstacles between me and going to bed, I sat and watched as events unfolded. The driver came upstairs and he too tried all of the keys with the same result. He then tried reaching through the bedroom window to open the door, also unsuccessfully. His next plan was to somehow climb up into the rafters of the guest bedroom and over to our bedroom. Thankfully, he thought better of this and headed into a storage room. He grabbed a long plastic pipe and a small piece of metal wiring and headed into our kitchen. He turned on the stove and did something which I could not see. After a few minutes he emerged with the piece of metal wire molded into a hook and attached to the end of the pipe. Skeptical, and still annoyed, I watched as he pushed the pipe through our bedroom window, over our bed, and to our nightstand, where my keys lay. On his second attempt, he was able to lift the keys, pull them over the nightstand, the bed, and through the window. Unbelievable. Not only do I live with His Excellency, but with His Excellency's driver, the Cambodian MacGyver. We set off for to say good bye to Nick and, though I only lasted twenty minutes, we made it.

A Wedding

On Wednesday evening, fully recovered from the stomach bug I had the day before, Shanti and I went to our first Khmer wedding, for our Khmer teacher, Sokha. In preparation, Shanti had a traditional Khmer wedding outfit made: a patterned silk skirt and a silk blouse. Though the blouse is usually absurdly overdecorated, Shanti had hers made in a more simple fashion, with a little bit of lace around the neckline only. We set off with the invitation, which had a map in Khmer on the back, and our favorite tuk tuk driver. We got a little bit lost on the way to the bride's family's house outside of town, but such is life in a world of unmarked, unlit, unpaved roads.

From far away, we could hear the music and see the lights. We pulled up and, as is the Khmer tradition, an enormous tent was set up outside of the bride's house and an enormous speaker system blasted Khmer music (if in an urban area, the wedding tent would have blocked public streets and the music blared until three in the morning). We were greeted at the entrance by the bride's parents, who ushered us inside. Looking around the several hundred guests, the women's outfits were ridiculous. Bright-colored dresses, like orange, pink, and yellow, with lace, trim, sequins, frills, and everything else you can imagine. Their makeup was equally garish. Meanwhile, most of the men - myself included - wore very unassuming clothing; slacks and a button-down shirt.

There were no assigned seats, so we just sat at a vacant table, as one of Shanti's co-workers and others filled in around us. As soon as we sat, we were given drinks and the first of many courses of food. One man at our table insisted on filling our drinks every minute or so and bowing to us in some sort of a traditional Khmer "cheers." While eating, Sokha and his bride, Chea Kim, scurried about making sure everyone was having a good time and somehow finding time to change their outfits several times.

Just as the main course came, the cake cutting and other traditions were to occur, so we got up to watch. Rows of people formed a path from the entrance to the cake, which was a massive three-tiered cake that had plastic bridges to additional cakes on either side. As Sokha and Chea Kim walked the gauntlet, everyone threw flower petals at them and once they arrived at the cake they really got it: all the kids had silly string and confetti which were mercilessly sprayed at the groom, bride, and cake. Once the cake was cleared (mostly) of silly string, six pieces of cake were cut, one for the groom, one for the bride, and one each for their parents. First, the groom and bride fed cake to the bride's father and mother, respectively, and next fed the groom's mother and father. After Sokha fed Chea Kim and vice versa, it was time for the big kiss(es). Traditionally, the groom kisses the bride on each cheek and the forehead before she does the same, the first time that one has kissed the other. Though the tradition of abstaining from almost all physical contact may be changing, it was fairly evident that this was Sokha and Chea Kim's first kiss. Their cheeks grew red, even through the rouge that was spread on their cheeks.

Following the first kiss, at which most of the men were as rowdy as high schoolers, there was much dancing. Shanti and I were poked and prodded into joining in, dancing around a table, apsara-style. Somewhat grudgingly we obliged and danced much to the amusement of the mostly-Khmer guests. It was quite fun and certainly an experience. Before departing, we were issued an envelope, in which we gave our cash "gift," the custom for weddings and most other celebrations.

Side Note: The King

2008-01-23T09:17:00.000+07:00

In Thailand, they absolutely adore the king. King X has been the crowned King of Thailand for over sixty years – he just celebrated his eightieth birthday – and his popularity is as strong as ever. For someone from a country without a monarchy, it was absolutely baffling to see how much the Thais love their king. Though King Sihamoni and his father, King Norodom Sihanouk, are revered in Cambodia, the Thais take their reverence to a whole new level. His presence and image is absolutely everywhere. On entire faces of skyscrapers. In every shop and restaurant. In taxi cabs. In movie theaters (as described below). On t-shirts – every day we saw dozens of yellow t-shirts bearing the logo of the king. On the highways lined with billboards of the king and his wife.

At one point in our travels across Bangkok by taxi, traffic came to a complete standstill. Though it was rush hour and traffic was indeed bad, there seemed to be no reason for us to be fully stopped. The wide boulevard we were on had four lanes in each section and had dividers between every two lanes. The two middle sets of two lanes were both closed completely. Our taxi driver turned to us to say that we were very lucky, the king and his convoy was going to drive by. Sure enough, after a ten minute delay a convoy of BMW police cars and a cream-colored 1950s Rolls Royce whirred past. The cab driver was not at all mad at the delay; he bowed as the king passed and just kept saying how lucky we were to see the king on our first trip to Thailand.

The Fam Part VII: Back to Bangkok

2008-01-22T10:00:00.000+07:00

Following an uneventful van ride back to Bangkok – in Cambodia there would be no such thing as an uneventful ride anywhere – we settled back in to The Davis. We spent the afternoon relaxing before a fancy dinner at the Banyan Tree, a sixty-two store hotel with an outdoor restaurant on the roof.

I dressed in the nicest clothes I brought: linen pants, a polo shirt, and leather sandals. Unfortunately, it was not nice enough. When we arrived at the restaurant I was informed that men had to wear closed-toed shoes . Instead of kicking me out, however, I was provided with a hideous pair of black, backless loafers that were at least three sizes too large. As I slipped the loafers on, my sandals were courted off via tongs. I have a hard time recalling any other moment in which I felt so insulted – my feet and sandals were (and are) clean and certainly did not need to be carted off with tongs in the same manner one might expect a butler to dispose of a dirty diaper.

As I trudged upstairs to the roof, almost falling several times, all of Bangkok lay before me. The view was absolutely incredible, reminding me of being atop The Empire Building in New York. Bangkok’s skyscrapers were all lit up, the roads were lined with miniature cars, and, despite the lights, the stars were our roof for the evening. We were showed to our table and sat down to what was perhaps the fanciest meal I’ve ever had. A beer, which on the street would cost about $0.50 was $8 and the dinner menu featured, get this, a $200 steak. We started with drinks, cocktails for the ladies, a beer for my dad, and a glass of wine for me. Shanti’s drink, one of the house specialties, came in its own bowl of dry ice. Unbelievable. Our salads and appetizers were fantastic and were separated from the main course by a delicious raspberry intermezzo. The main courses were equally scrumptious; my steak (not the $200 one) was, unsurprisingly, the best I’d had in months, and Shanti’s chicken, my mom’s pasta, and my dad’s steak were all equally tasty. As we looked at the dessert menu, a tasting platter of desserts came out – apparently the five or six minutes we waited for our drinks was too long for their rigorous service standards, so dessert was on them. Despite the sandal/tong incident, I’d have to give the food and service a solid two thumbs up, though I don’t think I’ll be going back any time soon on my budget.

After a good night’s sleep, we were up and, unfortunately, it was time to say goodbye to the fam. With their bags packed, they checked out of the hotel and with a tear-filled farewell, set off for the airport. Though it was certainly hard to see them go, it was a fantastic trip with them – and hopefully for them.

With the parents off, Shanti and I still had almost the whole day to do what expats from Cambodia normally do in Bangkok: see a movie and get a massage. We wandered down to The Emporium, a ritzy shopping mall with designer stores and a movie theater, looking to see our first English-language movie in the theaters since arriving in Cambodia. Having no idea what was playing, we decided to get tickets for “I Am Legend,” the Will Smith movie because I vaguely remembered hearing that it got decent reviews. For the movie we had assigned seats which we chose from a computer screen upon purchasing our tickets, which were only about $4. On our way into the theater, we stopped for popcorn and a soda, getting a large of each for only $2 total; it’s amazing what they can get away with charging for the same thing in the U.S. After a series of mediocre previews and a return trip to the concession stand to get more popcorn, an announcement came on to pay respects to His Excellency, the King of Thailand. About ten seconds into the announcement, Shanti and I realized that we were the only ones in the theater still seated. We hopped to our feet and I tore of my hat to appropriately show my respect. (More on the King of Thailand in my next entry…). The movie ended up being awful, but it didn’t matter. We got to see a movie in the theaters.

Immediately following the movie, we strolled into a massage parlor for a Thai style massage. What better way to end a mostly relaxing vacation with a movie and a massage? With the massage over and feeling like lumps of jello, we managed to make it back to the hotel to pick up our bags and catch a taxi to the airport. Except for a few additional antennas on the trunk, the cab looked like any other in Thailand: a bright pink Toyota Corolla. As soon as we were inside, however, we knew it was no ordinary cab. On the sun visor was a small video screen. In the dash was a DVD player as well as what looked like a soundboard. The next thing we knew, a DVD was popped in, a microphone was tossed to the back seat and we were singing karaoke to the likes of Elvis and Christina Aguillera. Let me just recap here: dvd video karaoke, complete with a mic system, in the back of a taxi on the way to the airport. I think Shanti and I were even more entertained than the driver of the cab, who looked pretty entertained. The only disappointing thing about the ride was that the driver was too good at the driving part of his job. He navigated traffic so well that it took a mere thirty minutes to get to the airport, thus limiting our karaoke time. The cost of the ride was also nearly half of what we were told to expect, so we gave him a generous tip before embarking on a trip back home to Phnom Penh.

The Fam Part VI: New Years and More in Koh Chang

2008-01-21T10:51:00.000+07:00

For New Years, the Aiyapura had an elaborate buffet dinner and various activities planned, flew in a band from the Philippines, and was going to set off fireworks at midnight. We arrived, dressed to the nines. We were greeted with a variety of tacky metal pins and guided towards the cocktail table. Unfortunately, there were only two choices: fruit punch and neon green punch with alcohol. We found our table and ordered some drinks; again, we were disappointed with the complimentary offerings – soft drinks, juice, wine, and beer. The selection of food, and the intricate manner in which various fruits and vegetables were carved was impressive. It tasted almost as good as it looked. The delicious food was offset by the entertainment, which, putting it mildly, left something to be desired. The “band” was little more than a synthesizer and two singers, a man and a woman, who sounded worse than the performers at the karaoke bar next to our house in Phnom Penh. Worse still were the activities planned by the resort. For some reason, they were geared toward the handful of children under ten as opposed to the overwhelming majority of adults. By 9:30, we had had enough. We retired to our villa, napped and woke up to see the somewhat impressive display of fireworks at midnight. Probably the last time I spend New Years at any sort of resort.

Our final full day in Koh Chang started unexpectedly early. We had been trying to sign up for an elephant trek, but were told that all were booked solid until after we left. If we left that instant – at 8:30am – we could make it.

We grabbed a few snacks from the buffet breakfast and hopped into the back of a pickup. From the coast, we drove inland toward the mountains. After a twenty minute ride we arrived at a clearing in the middle of forest and rubber plantations with a handful of stilted thatch huts.

Shortly after arriving we were assigned to an elephant in pairs, with Melisa deciding she wanted to fly solo and getting an adorable, younger elephant. We climbed up the stairs of one of the stilted huts and, from there, kicked off our flip-flops and hopped from the hut to the basket on the back of the elephant behind a Thai guide, who was perched on the elephant’s head. Shanti and my feet were on the elephant’s neck, which was surprisingly soft, a little bit squishy, and covered in small, somewhat bristly hairs.

We sauntered off, a line of three elephants, into the forest on a narrow, and at times steep, dirt and rock path. With each step the elephant took, we swayed to one side. I’m not sure that I would describe it as a comfortable form of travel, but it certainly was entertaining and I think our appreciation for the character of elephants grew tremendously. My mom looked a bit horrified (or was it sick?) at first, but she quickly enjoyed to grow the experience as much as the rest of us.

My sister’s elephant was not only the cutest, but the most mischievous. Every few minutes he stopped for a bit to eat, to play with some branches, or to get a drink of water, coming close to spraying my sister and her guide. About halfway into the trek, my sister was able to take over at the helm. She hopped from the basket to the elephant’s head, while the guide went ahead on the path and issued commands to the elephant. I soon got my turn and it was quite fun. It was a bit unnerving to jump from the basket to the elephant’s squishy head, but once there it was wonderful. We learned the commands for “go” – really the only you needed – which was more or less just a loud grunt.

After switching with Shanti and completing our trekking circuit, we descended from our elephants and fed them whole bananas, which they ripped out of our hands with the forceful power of their trunks. Next, it was time to swim with the elephants. The elephants that my parents and Shanti and I were on lumbered into the creek and kneeled down so that only their heads and a bit of their backs were showing. My sister and Shanti jumped in first and from the looks on their faces, the water was quite cold. They swam over to the elephants and climbed on to their backs. When the guides shouted “typhoon,” they sucked water into their trunks and sprayed directly behind them onto Shanti and my sister. This happened a half dozen times, soaking them both. Much to my pleasure, I followed suit and was quickly cold, soaked, and happy.

We returned to Aiyapura, reveling in the unique experience we just had, and sat by the pool, relaxed, and read for the afternoon. At 5:00 we took a van toward White Sand Beach to catch the sunset. We went to an off-the-beaten-path guesthouse for a drink as the sun dipped lower and lower, before it began sinking into the Gulf of Thailand. From the guesthouse, we set off for town to have dinner on the beach. As one might expect, it was wonderful. Our feet dug in the sand as we dined on a mix of Western and Thai dishes and sipped on cocktails – my sister’s “sex on the beach” was particularly entertaining.

The Fam Part V: Koh Chang, The First Few Days

2008-01-17T08:29:00.000+07:00

After a tasty buffet breakfast at The Davis, we hopped in a sleek and spacious van for the five hour trip to the Aiyapura on Koh Chang (Elephant Island). The trip, on divided highways most of the way, was smooth and quick, delayed only slightly by having to take a ferry across to the island itself. Even from afar the island was gorgeous and much larger than either Koh Russei or Koh Tonsay off Cambodia’s southern coast. The shoreline was sandy at points, rocky at others and tall, craggy peaks dotted the inland portion of the island.

The road from the ferry to the hotel was a taste of what the island as a whole was like: windy and steep, but lush with greenery and small rubber plantations. Upon arriving at the Aiyapura, we were greeted with cold, fresh coconut juice and orchid bracelets. The view from the resort’s restaurant was breathtaking: sandy and rocky beaches, palm trees, the aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Thailand, and the series of hills from which Koh Chang got its name. The resort complex was so large that we were taken to our room by electric golf cart. My sister and I immediately made a pact to “borrow” one before our departure (sadly this did not happen).

Our accommodation was incredible. We had our own private gate which opened to a courtyard and a narrow walkway between two small villas. At the end of the walkway was our own private pool. To the left was the “kids’” villa, complete with a terrace with a similar view to the restaurant, a hot tub, big open room with beds for me, Shanti, and my sister, a large bathroom, and an indoor as well as an outdoor shower. My parents’ villa had an even larger open room, an even bigger bathroom (complete with bathrobes and slippers), and a private sauna. Let’s just say we ended up spending a good deal of time just hanging out in our seaside villas.

Once settled we had a delicious lunch at the Aiyapura’s seaside, as opposed to balcony, restaurant next to a small, man-made beach. As we dined, we noticed a handful of peacocks, male and female roaming the grounds. This place was ridiculous! After finishing our meal, I caught a tiny crab on the beach. We headed back to our rooms to relax, read, and enjoy the beautiful scenery and fresh air.

For dinner, we took a van up and down an incredibly steep and windy road to White Sand Beach. Though the ride was only ten minutes, it gave us a good taste of the island’s geography. White Sand Beach itself was an interesting spot, a mix of backpackers and resort-goers; it felt like it could have been a strip of beach on the American east coast. The two-lane road leading to the beach was lined with bars, restaurants, souvenir shops, and guesthouses. Wandering down to the beach for dinner, however, we immediately realized that this was one of the nicest beaches – soft, cool, powdery sand – we had ever been to. We dined with our feet sunk deep in the sand. We caught a “taxi” – a pickup truck with seats in the bed of the truck – back to the Aiyapura much to my mother’s horror.

On our first full day at the Aiyapura, Shanti and I took a kayak out, crossing the bay to the string of hills that look like an elephant. The trip over was fairly smooth – we had a good rhythm and the tides with us. Once we arrived on the other side, however, the wind had picked up and the water was much rougher. Though it wasn’t as difficult as either of us anticipated, it was more of a workout than expected. After a good buffet breakfast, we took towels and books to the pool. A few hours later, we took the resort shuttle to White Sand Beach. We had a tasty lunch on the beach and then set up shop on the waterfront. The water was so warm, clear, and shallow. Wading out a hundred yards, half our bodies were still exposed and we could see a handful of striped fish interested in our feet.

We took the 5:30 shuttle back to the resort, which turned out to be a mistake as we had to leave the beach just as the sun was setting. We promised ourselves we would return on our last night. Exhausted, the kids villa ordered room service and crashed while the ‘rents went down to the waterfront restaurant for a snack.

The next day was a day of relaxation (as if what we had done already was strenuous). We spent time reading on the terrace of our villa, in the hot tub, and down by the pool. For lunch we ordered at the pool bar, which was literally in the pool. There were stools built into the water and a bar sunken below pool level where food and drink was served. After more relaxation by the pool, we had a drink at the pool bar, courtesy of Shanti. It was a rough couple of days…

The Fam Part IV: Bangkok

2008-01-14T13:02:00.000+07:00

Early on the morning of December 27th, the fam, Shanti, and I headed back to the beloved Pochentong International Airport to go to Bangkok. It was my first time leaving Cambodian soil in over five months. Though I had heard from several people that going to Bangkok for the first time was a shock to the system - especially after being confined to Cambodia for five months - nothing could have prepared me for what Bangkok was actually like.

The airport itself was a spectacle. Not only massive, but beautifully designed in a modern style, complete with all the efficiency and technology one might expect in a large American airport. Though the airport was impressive, there were far more seemingly mundane details about Bangkok that caught my attention. The fact that there were efficient and cheap metered cabs - Phnom Penh barely has taxis - that drive across the superhighways criss-crossing Bangkok boggled my mind. The road out of the airport and into downtown Bangkok was wider (twelve lanes), smoother, and better constructed than any road I had been on in Cambodia. In fact, on the way to our hotel we easily went much faster, by land, than I had at any time traveling around Cambodia. Moreover, the skyline, although it should have been unsurprising, caught me off guard. In Phnom Penh, the tallest building is a mere fifteen stories tall. Bangkok alone has at least ten buildings of fifty (that's 5-0) stories or more. I quickly learned that Bangkok is also home to a dizzying array of chain stores and restaurants. There is a 7-Eleven on every corner, McDonalds, Starbucks, Marriot, Armani, etc. Cambodia has none of this...yet (KFC is planning to open a branch some time this year, but that's all there is - not that I wish there were more).

So even from the half-hour ride from the airport to the hotel I was a bit wide-eyed and overwhelmed. We checked in to our hotel, The Davis, and relaxed a little. And it was a good place to relax. We had an enormous amount of space, comfortable beds, bath robes (any hotel that provides bath robes is a winner in my book), etc. Relaxed, we set off for a tailor. While my parents got measured for suits and my sister for pants, Shanti and I wandered around. We immediately realized that Bangkok was even less "walkable" than Phnom Penh. The sidewalks are clear of debris as well as vehicles, but the city is so sprawling that it doesn't really make sense to walk anywhere, especially with cheap cabs, a subway, a sky rail, and even public buses. Nonetheless we wandered, stumbling upon a beautiful, green park. People were jogging, biking, doing judo, etc. Though Phnom Penh does indeed have a nice array of parks, they are overly-manicured and not suitable or large enough for running.

We had a delicious dinner at a Thai restaurant (how could we not eat Thai food?) down the street from our hotel. The food, especially the spring rolls, were universally good, though much spicier than anticipated, even though we had requested that it be mild. My sister, a devoted foodie who enjoys Thai food in particular, was in heaven.

The following day, and our only full day in Bangkok, we managed to sleep quite late for the first time. Once up, and having missed breakfast at our hotel, we went to a nearby supermarket to get a snack. From there we caught a taxi to the riverfront Shangri-La Hotel, where we planned to take a boating tour of some of Bangkok's canals. One hour, seven kilometers, and a mere $3 later, we arrived.

We hopped from the docks to a wooden longboat with a loud lawnmower-like motor. The operator was a relaxed, young guy, perhaps thirty, sporting board shorts and aviators. Already south of the downtown area, we headed further south down the main river, the Mae Nam Chao Phraya, as Bangkok’s skyscrapers faded behind us. After about fifteen minutes of passing apartment buildings, ports, and hotels, we turned into a canal. While we waited to be transported from the river to the lock to the canal itself I admired the small shrines at the bow and stern of each of the longboats beside us. Now I’ve never been to Venice or Amsterdam, but I sort of imagined that Bangkok was Southeast Asia’s version of these two European cities. The canals were narrow, perhaps thirty feet wide, and wound all across various parts of the city. For the most part we passed houses, but sprinkled in were apartment buildings, factories, shops, and pagodas, which were much less prominent than those of Phnom Penh.

Snaking our way back north, we passed some of Bangkok’s larger and more intricately decorated pagodas, Wat Arun and Wat Kalayanamit. We finished our two hour tour at the docks by the Royal Palace. As we walked toward the entrance, a swindler tried to convince that the Palace was closed for a special ceremony and that we wouldn’t be admitted anyway in shorts and sandals. However, we pressed on to find that the Palace was in fact open and that there were complimentary sarongs and pants for those dressed inappropriately. As soon as we entered, I regretted it to an extent. A sea of tourists flocked from building to building within the enormous complex, immediately overwhelming me, the small-town Phnom Penh boy. Though the various structures within the Royal Palace complex were certainly beautiful, the crowds - and the size of the massive complex - made it a bit harder to appreciate them. It was hard to take a step without bumping into someone or blocking a photograph. As we wandered through, the crowds dispersed a bit and we took some amusing pictures with the Palace guards.

From the Palace we managed to catch a taxi to Jim Thompson’s House as long as we stopped at two tourist depots along the way. By making quick stops at these massive retail outlets, we were able to get the taxi for a mere $1.50 and the cab driver, who seemed nice enough, got coupons entitling him to gasoline. Jim Thompson was an American entrepreneur who famously brought Thai silk to Western markets. His “house” is now a museum and a shop of very high quality (and very expensive) silk goods.

Following a brief fitting at the tailor, we grabbed a bite for dinner and called it a night. The next day, we were off to Koh Chang (Elephant Island), off of Thailand’s southeast coast.