Deep Sea Fishing in Sihanoukville

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

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

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?

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

Barack Hussein Obama is my president.

From American Winter to Cambodian Winter

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...

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...