Anth in Phnom Penh

Farewell

2007-02-14T13:25:00.000+07:00

Apologies for the long silence. It has been a whirlwind few months leaving Phnom Penh and seeing friends and family back in Australia. My next steps are to China and beyond. Given that I have moved from PP my blog is also changing location. You can now find me at No Fixed Address where MrB and myself plan to keep you more regularly updated with our travels. Thanks for reading :o)

Siem Reap (Pchum Ben Part 2)

2006-10-19T16:34:00.001+07:00

The second half of our Pchum Ben holiday was quite a contrast to the first. We arrived in Siem Reap early afternoon on the Wednesday. After driving round town and goggling at all the new development we found a nice guesthouse and chilled out until dinner. On the invitation of our friend Maylee dinner was at Hotel De La Paix’s restaurant Meric. It was quite the dinner – we had the Khmer set - traditional fare all served in various common household receptacles. My favourite food blogger also happened to be there at the time, so I shall refer you to him for a more eloquent description. It was a luxurious meal. I was reveling in the fact that I was eating truly Khmer food that wasn’t ‘cha bonlai’. The chefs even managed to rustle me up a sour soup without meat – this was of course not authentic, as no Khmer would dream of making it without fish, but at least it meant I got a bit of an idea of what all the fuss was about.

Our evening of comfort set the scene for the rest of our time in Siem Reap. We were much in need of unwinding and thanks to Maylee and Paul’s hospitality our wishes were granted. Our first day was spent lounging by the pool at the hotel, doing the crossword and eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream.

The following day we went to visit some of the farther out temples. Maylee and Paul decided to come along and our small road trip began at Kbal Spean. The road out was terrible, beyond Banteay Sray it turned into a potholed mess, and it took ages to cover the 50 kilometers. Kbal Spean is very different to the other Angkorian temples that I have seen, as many of the carvings and stone is underwater. Wet season is probably not the best time to go, as the many of the carvings are not easily visible under the rushing water. The 30 minute walk through the forest to the site from the carpark was lovely. It was a busy day, and people were running around everywhere, further downstream families were bathing.

On our return we stopped in at Banteay Sray. I had never been to this temple before and was amazed by the intricate carving. It is simply stunning and so much more intricate than many of the carvings I have seen in the major temples in the Angkor complex. We wandered around with the hordes of tourists, took photos and simply gaped at the detail.

That eve Mr B and I decided to put our Angkor passes to good use and visit Angkor Wat for sunset. We walked in the backway and scaled up the stairs right to the top, which I always find terrifying. Sitting in a little corner and looking out on the temples we mused about leaving Cambodia. However, it wasn’t time to say goodbye just yet, as will be in Siem Reap again in November.

The following day, we decided to go even further afield and head out to Bang Melea. This entailed us leaving Siem Reap and traveling down the road to Phnom Penh for about 20 minutes before turning down a road that led to the site. Previously access to Beng Melea had been restricted simply because of the terrible road condition, but as some enterprising businessman had come along and fixed up the road – with a toll booth, which requires one to pay each way – the temple is now much easier to access.

All up it took us around an hour to get out there. We strolled up the main walkway and climbed up some wooden stairs constructed so to enter the first inner wall of the temple. It was simply jaw dropping. Thankfully, an apsara authority guard decided to take us around and show us all the parts, because it was enormous. It had the proportions of Angkor Wat with the overgrown and lost look of Ta Prohm. We clambered over stones and walkways and through high ceilinged coridoors. Every now and then our guide would explain that we were in the east or west quarter, but after a while I found myself completely lost and just content to follow. The full beauty of the temple was not immediately apparent as we walked up the wooden steps but the more we explored the more we discovered. Most of the stone carvings were covered in moss and tumbling down, however some had levels of detail similar to Banteay Sray, particularly on the outer walls. After we finished the tour we attempted a small wander around by ourselves. We couldn’t believe how stunning it was. After a while, we decided to go back to the car as the temple was ridden with mosquitoes and head back to Siem Reap for our final night’s dinner with Maylee and Paul.

They took us to an excellent Japanese restaurant. The owner treated us to an indeterminate number of courses of fabulous food. Sake and beer were being passed around and finally when the courses ceased I was very full and satisfied. Cocktails at Linga bar followed and by the end of the evening all I was fit for was collapsing into bed.

Despite the previous evenings over indulgences we were up fairly early the next morning and cruised out of Siem Reap by a little after midday. We arrived back in Phnom Penh tired and frazzled after an even more stressful than usual leg back into town. The insane driving and traffic started earlier (around Skuon) and crescendoed as we reached the Japanese bridge. We drove slowly and calmly and made it home safely.

Adventures in another Kiri (Pchum Ben 2006 part one)

2006-10-14T14:14:00.000+07:00

In a brave move, we decided to spend our Pchum Ben in a ‘Kiri. Our previous Pchum Ben in Ratanakiri had been somewhat of a challenging adventure (see parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6, and yes the number of parts are positively related to the amount of difficulties encountered). This Pchum Ben though, things were going to be different. Firstly, our traveling companion in the other Kiri was safe and sound back in Sydney and most importantly, this time we had a car.

We set off the Friday afternoon before the Pchum Ben week of holiday. I had just had my final day at AQIP. Our trip was beginning and our time left in Cambodia quickly diminishing. Without much hassle we made it to Kompong Cham by evening so that we could start the real drive the next morning.

Already things were proving to be easier. There was no need for tense negotiations with transport junta leaders and my gleaming white pick-up was fresh from a service. We passed through some dusty, western-esque towns with saloon style two-story wooden buildings and a coating of red-brown dirt on anything stationary. We stopped in Memot for lunch and had quite possibly the best Cha Bonlai (stir fry vegetables, my provincial staple) I have ever had. I can’t remember the name of the restaurant, but for those keen to try it was the only one that cooked your food up fresh and it had a rabbit on the sign. As we traveled further towards Sen Monorom the dirt became redder and the forest denser and more lush.

The road was not great, but quite manageable as it had not rained for three days and had time to dry out. We arrived at the outskirts of Sen Monorom around 3pm. We couldn’t believe our luck. It was stunning, an extremely picturesque collection of rolling green hills, red dirt and jungle forested valleys. The scenery was unlike anything I had ever seen in Cambodia, and very reminiscent of Australia.

We cruised into town and found ourselves a guesthouse. We found the design of many of the guesthouses somewhat strange. As a general rule, cabins tended to be placed facing inwards with windows and balcony’s overlooking the other cabins. Behind the cabins lay a stunning and peaceful view. I couldn’t work out whether guesthouses had been constructed for a Khmer market with different holiday preferences to barangs, or just with little forethought?

After an incredibly oily dinner of fried potato chips and inferior cha bonlai we organized an overnight trek into the jungle. We were a little hesitant, given unsuccessful trekking attempts in the other Kiri, but decided to risk history repeating itself. The next morning we set out from Sen Monorom on an elephant, with two Pnong guides (the elephant’s minders) and a Khmer guide (presumably our minder). Not one of them spoke a word of English. This was entirely my fault. We had been negotiating in Khmer with a fast talking, James Bond from Stung Treng-like, young man and when informing us why the trip was so expensive: for example with English speaking guide I had jokingly said “Oh we don’t need any of those things”. Of course I didn’t actually clarify with him later on, that actually, we really did. But of course, like many of his kind, he disappeared as soon as the cash was handed over.

Nevertheless, we sallied forth, Mr B and myself on top of the elephant in a small bamboo basket. The basket was extremely cramped, we had to either sit on top of or nurse our bags, in addition to our guide’s bags. Mr B had to hang his legs over the edge of the basket and even then took up over a half of the basket and made it very clear that he was not comfortable.

Mr B less than impressed to be on the elephant

This state of affairs lasted around 15 minutes before the two of us insisted that they stop the elephant and let us down. Our guides were somewhat taken aback, but given a general reluctance to talk to us much, little was said. The next couple of hours were very pleasant, we walked beside the elephant and pushed deeper and deeper into the jungle. Whilst the beginning of our walk provided sweeping views of valleys and hills, after awhile we started to get into real jungle.

After a few hours it started to rain. The usual walking route had proved to be too narrow or difficult and so the elephant and rider had gone down a different route. As the rain started to splash down in warm, heavy drops we decided that we needed to find the elephant and make sure that all our things were covered. I dashed off with one of the guides back to the spot where we had last seen the elephant. We couldn’t see her, and so the guide delved down the thickly treed path which she had taken. Quickly, I realized that I had no idea where Mr B and the other guide were, or for that matter where I really was. My guide continued at break neck pace along the track following the deep prints of the elephant in the mud. I stood, already completely saturated, deliberating. The guide who I had been following did not stop and soon he was entirely gone from my site. In a snap decision I chose to follow him. After a few minutes I still couldn’t see the guide or the elephant, but the deep imprints in the sodden earth were enough for me to know that I was at least on the right track. As the rain continued to fall the track got more and more difficult. My feet, legs and arms were covered in scratches from the undergrowth and I had to regularly stop due to a lost thong almost being swallowed up by the muddy path. I was feeling pretty miserable. The guide was occasionally in sight, and would stop and wait for me at particularly difficult crossings. He kept on asking me where the others were and I had to keep on saying “knom at dung” (I don’t know!). As I stumbled along I started to conjure up all sorts of images of losing Mr B in the jungle. Finally we arrived at the camp spot, the elephant was happily roaming free and his minder was taking a rest, but there was no sign of the others.

We turned around and plunged back into the jungle. Ten minutes later, after revisiting all the spots where I had previously fallen over, or lost my thong, I spotted the others. Mr B greeted me with a mixture of intense relief and anger. Apparently he had also entertained various visions; one of me catching up with the elephant and continuing on without him and others of awful elephant and non elephant related accidents. We made our way to the camp and took in our nights accommodation. It was a wooden shack with a corrugated iron roof. There was a dirt floor and then a raised wooden section and no sleeping materials to be seen. Rather than start to worry about this, we walked to the waterfall that was nearby and relaxed, comparing our various jungle wounds.

When we returned, the camp had been transformed. Mattresses with rugs and mosquito nets had been set up from some mysterious storage space, there were fires inside and out, and dinner preparations were well under way. Our guides went to bed some time before 8pm after drinking some ‘sra’ that had been brought ostensibly for us, but due to its close resemblance to methylated spirits we couldn’t stomache. We figured it was probably early to bed, early to rise and followed suit.

Our start in the morning was not quite as early as we had expected. Breakfast needed to be prepared and then straight afterwards what looked to be lunch was also cooked up. The chief elephant minder had a bandage on his forehead, which he told me was because he had a headache. I asked if this had anything to do with the ‘sra’ last night, but he didn’t respond. He and the other Pnong guide then led the elephant down to the river and gave her a bath.

Finally we were ready to set off. Mr B and I decided that given the debacle of the previous day we would ride on the elephant, at least for the beginning. We were also wary of the condition of the track given that it had rained for most of the night. This time, I found the elephant immeasurably more comfortable, Mr B was right next to me and the elephant confidently and slowing plowed through the deep mud and across swollen creeks. Our return was slowed by her voracious appetite and a particular penchant for fresh green bamboo, but I couldn’t possibly criticize her given her amazing ability to climb up steep, muddy hills with two barang and a heap of baggage on her back.

Coming out of the jungle to a Pnong village

We arrived back in Sen Monorom tired and somewhat relieved. We had been talking a lot about the rain and the condition of the road out of Mondolkiri. We decided that given that it had been raining for almost a day that it would be best to go back now, whilst the road was potentially still passable rather than get stuck here after a few more days of rain. That night, I fell asleep fully clothed on the bed straight after dinner. It was around 8pm.

We woke early; me because I was uncomfortable and Mr B because he was fretting about the road. For once we moved fairly quickly and after a fleeting stop at the interesting looking Sen Monorom market we were ready to go. The trip did not start well, driving from the market at 5km per hour, the road was like ice and my usually well grounded hilux was having trouble finding its feet. We traveled the 140 kilometres from Sen Monorom to Memot tensely and slowly. There were potholes and puddles that spread along great swathes of the road with more potholes lying in wait. Five and a half hours later, with great relief, we arrived at the Memot junction. I had learnt to drive a four wheel drive in incredibly challenging conditions and the sun was shining. We decided to push through to Kompong Thom for the night and begin part two of our Phum Ben holiday the following day.

coca cola and incense

2006-09-01T13:00:00.000+07:00

It’s been an interesting day. It’s only midday and already I feel awash with thoughts and different observations. My morning started with my alarm at 7.15. I had given myself an extra 15 minutes sleep-in time as it wasn’t strictly necessary that I be in at work at my usual 7.30am starting time. Mechanically, I was out of bed and in the shower and musing about my upcoming day. I was listening to Cortez the Killer, thinking about how it is my grandmother’s birthday today and my brother's birthday was yesterday. He is going out for dinner with his new girlfriend and my parents tonight. Suddenly, I am filled with an awful sadness; I am not in Melbourne, Mr B and I can’t join them for dinner. I hop out of the shower and automatically locate some work clothes, I muse about what I would be doing if I was in Melbourne.

Today is a special day at work. We are all heading out to the Kandal seed centre for an opening celebration of the seed company. The event is to celebrate the four seed centres merging into one, and the fact that from the point of registration, the company will be a real company under Cambodian law. Our timing is perfect, we arrive just as the monks do. We are ushered into the seed centre which is a large warehouse with the seed processing and cleaning machinery and a small office upstairs at the far end of the building. A large blue plastic sheet has been laid down on the cement floor of the warehouse and a raised platform has been erected, covered in rugs where the five monks settle themselves.

I am invited to sit right at the front of the blue plastic. As usual, I would prefer to sit unobtrusively at the back, but my colleagues refuse. I notice that all the women are sitting at the front, as are all the barang. The chanting begins. The five monks are swathed in the usual bright orange cloth attire and sit quietly on the platform. In front of each is a silver plate with a glass, a bottle of water and a can of coke. I take in the incense, flowers, monks and coca cola. A curious milieu of religion, tradition and American commercialism.

The monks appear very young, ranging in age from around 8 to 18. The chanting continues, it is all in Pali. Containers of food and material are then distributed to guests. I am given a mock silver platter with a gift on top to hold. I am to keep my hands on the gift during the chanting and then we are instructed to offer the gifts to the monks. This is done and we all sit back down again.

The chanting resumes and a monk who is seated in the middle starts to dip a handful of palm fronds in a chalice of water and flick the water over the kneeling crowd. Now I realise why they wanted the “important” guests to sit at the front, so they would be assured to get blessed by the water. The water, as Boreth later explains to me, is meant to represent cool, calm and cleanness. The monks are praying for the success of the company and for all those who are associated with the company. All five monks then reach for plates of flowers and throw handfuls of petals into the crowd. It is at this point that I realise why it is sensible to have a bowed head; yes for praying, but also to avoid being hit smack on the forehead with the small sweets that are mixed in with the flowers. No damage is done though.

Sothat who I worked with in Prey Veng is seated behind me. “Anthea, have you been to Prey Veng recently?” he asks. I profess that I haven’t been to Prey Veng in a long time. “Me either” he responds shaking his head. Now that the project is over he no longer has his job there. “I miss there, I would like to go again soon”. I agree and tell him that I would too. I ascertain that the rains have come and that there has been enough water for farmers but not too much, as has been the situation in other Provinces which are now suffering from flood. It occurs to me that in my spare month coming up I could go stay in Prey Veng for a week or so. It would be a great end to my time in Cambodia – complete immersion. But I am not entirely sure how I would manage this, it would certainly be a last ditched attempt to combat my on-going sense of dislocation from Khmer people and Cambodia. Or more aptly the Khmer people and Cambodia that I first experienced in Prey Veng in early 2004. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am perhaps too comfortable in my small Phnom Penh world to really see this plot through.

After the ceremony we all congregate outside the centre where metal tables and chairs have been set up underneath a large tent. Already loud Khmer pop music is blasting from the wall of speakers piled up to the side of the tent. We sit down and a parade of meat dishes are brought before us. I sit and eat plain rice. A little later a plate of green mango and chilli is brought out. Happily, most people don’t notice my strange fare of green mango, chilli and rice, as in addition to the truckload of food, there is also a big bottle of Johnny Walker red label whiskey on every table. I look around and notice already several tables have finished their bottle. It is now around 11.30am.

Shortly after the many-course meal is consumed the dancing begins. It is only men who get up and dance, wending their way around a table, rotating their hands slowing from the wrist. The whiskey seems to have done the trick and more men are forcibly hauled on the dance floor. There are few women who work for the company and they seem to be keeping well clear. The music is cranked up a notch louder. The new CEO of the company moves from table to table, clinking glasses, smiling and talking with the guests, among whom the local police, government departments are all represented. The ceremony and party has been a success. For some, the party is only just getting started, but for myself and my fellow barang colleagues it is time to leave. We pile into one of the project’s pick-ups and head back to Phnom Penh.

On the drive back I take in the Khmer country-side, so very familiar to me now, and listen to the conversation in the car. My colleagues have lived and worked in many countries all over the world, their discussions are littered with references to other places, cultures and experiences. A sense of being part of many places and peoples pervades. Yet they all have a home-base, although for some this is not where they were born or where there families are and much of their time is spent in other places. I realise how much of an impression Cambodia has made on me, this is not something that is easily going to be forgotten or removed once I leave. There will always be a sense of just touching the tip of understanding how things work here, but that said, I have absorbed so much of this place. I do know that I am ready to leave and the anticipation of this is perhaps making me more reflective.

We arrive back in Phnom Penh a little past one and I decide to take a wander down street 63 and find some food. My stomach could do with a little more than white rice and green mango for lunch. It is raining very gently as I leave, but the sun is out and shining brightly. As I walk down the street and shake my head to proffered moto lifts the rain starts to get heavier. I duck under the awning of a spare parts shop. I am perfectly happy just to stand and wait it out. I look around at the women sheltering like me, at the motos crawling down the street their riders covered in plastic ponchos. I am glad I am here, I wouldn’t want to have not come, but this is never something that is straight forward.

The Vom

2006-08-21T08:10:00.000+07:00

Last Sunday a group of us went to Kompong Speu for the day. It was a cosy combination – my maid, Gim Lee; Mr B, Bec and Ben and their maid, Yim; plus Melissa (who’s house Yim also cleans). Yim is Gim Lee’s aunt and they had invited us all to visit their village in Kompong Speu. Preparations for the big day had been in place for many weeks. Both Yim and Gim Lee went to great pains to make sure that there was food that we liked and that we would be comfortable.

We drove up on Sunday morning in the car. After our joyrides in the back of the ute in Kompong Cham, Ben and Bec professed to be only too happy to spend the trip in the tray with a few beers, nestled among the esky, food, soy milk products and other assorted items that were being taken over. I was a bit worried about rain, but the weather just held for the one hour trip to Kompong Speu. I was feeling a bit weary after a late night experience at “The Rock” the evening before; quite possibly the most awful entertainment venue in town. I was grumpy and finding it difficult to drive and speak Khmer at the same time. Mr B took over the wheel and I got over my initial grumpiness after Gim Lee told me that she had got up at 5 am and had started preparing our lunch at 7am, which was the same time that Yim went to the market. Ow.

Yim's house

Everyone was in a bright mood, Yim kept on saying how happy she was that we were all going to her house and how that Andrew, Bec and Ben had helped so much and that she was so excited about them meeting her family. I didn’t fully understand the import of this until we arrived and I realised that she had been able to build a new house thanks to contributions from Mr B, B & B and others. The new house is made of wood, raised up on cement supports and literally towers over her old house which is a very small wooden shack, now used for preparation of food and storage. A new barbed wire fence spans her property. Yim showed us the inside of her new house and introduced us to her daughter, in a particularly Khmer matter of fact way “Joh goan sray khnom, goaut at sa’art” (This is my daughter, she is not beautiful”). Her house was immaculate and we immediately checked out all the photos of Yim when she was younger. She showed us her bedroom and we all spied the huge butchers knife wedged into the wooden slats of the wall, presumably kept there for protection.

Inside Yim's house

We were invited to sit on straw mats placed on bamboo slat beds underneath the house. I wanted to offer help but knew that any assistance would be refused, so instead we sat and watched all the activity. At this point there was mainly women and children assembled. I met Gim Lee’s mother and grandmother and a whole heap of cousins and aunts, whom I quickly confused. Ben had brought along boxes of “So Soya” products from the factory and so they were handed out to children and adults. We attempted to convey that some were for kids and that some were for adults but were somewhat unsuccessful, with Gim Lee’s yeay (grandmother) and other elderly women happily sipping on “So Soya for Kids” drinks.

Lunch

Finally the food came out. We had arrived late for Khmer lunch and so I had an inkling that everyone must be starving. All the food was placed in our little space of honour and nobody else sat down. We asked others to join, in particular Yim, but they all refused. Often in Khmer functions people eat in shifts and we weren’t sure how much cutlery there was so after hesitating for a while we decided that we should dig in otherwise the others would never eat. It looked amazing spread out in front of us and was really yummy. Yim had made a big plate of Cha Bonlai (stir fried veggies) for me, they were hot and fresh. Mr B finally tired of our ineffectual attempts to get others to eat and started picking up plates heaped with food and placing them on the other slat bed where many of the women sat. He then cleaned his own plate, knife and fork himself with water from a huge urn and handed that over too. The women found this very strange and amusing behaviour and started laughingly calling him a “nayak bomra” (waiter or maid). As soon as the food had materialised some of the husbands also showed up on their motorbikes. As usual, I noticed that the women waited until the men had got some food before they began to eat. Finally most people had eaten something, all except for Yim. When pressed she said she wasn’t hungry. I shot back that I didn’t believe her, but she responded that she was so happy to have us all here that she didn’t need food.

Yim's family

Ben trying Betel nut. The drug of choice for elderly women in the provinces.

After we had eaten the grey sky finally turned a darker shade and it started to very seriously rain. Even though we were all well under the house, the rain was so hard and at such an angle that many of us were getting wet. We huddled in closer and the wind whipped through the space underneath the house. Gim Lee ran off with an umbrella, perhaps to secure her house which was in another part of the village. And after one failed attempt to locate her and take her in the car, we drove with Gim Lee’s yeay and mother to their house so that we could bring her back out of the rain. After much maneuvering through muddy narrow lanes we arrived at Gim Lee’s house. Both her mother and grandmother sat in the car and I realised that they did not know how to get out. I opened the door for them and we all jumped out into the shelter of the small overhanging on their hut. Gim Lee’s house was about the same size of Yim’s old house. She introduced me to one of her brothers who was there. Gim Lee had wanted to show me her house, but once there, she and her mother seemed embarrassed about how the house was “at sa’art” (not beautiful). It was made of wood and looked extremely cramped for 5 people. It seemed to be withstanding the pelting rain though, so that was something. Gim Lee looked lovely and happy in new clothes; bright pink and red shirt with a black skirt with pink hem. She has beautiful long straight black hair which she had up in a pony-tail. She sat down on the wooden step to the house and I noticed her grandmother fussing about how her skirt did not cover her knees as she sat. I get the impression that she likes living in Phnom Penh, although her grandmother told me several times how much she misses having Gim Lee at home.

Yim showing her family photos on the digital camera

Back at Yim’s house we decided that it was time to make a move home to Phnom Penh. Yim sent a cousin off to forage around her vegetable patch and come back with several pumpkins and unidentified Khmer vegetables for us to take. She also wanted to give us all the left over food, but we refused and insisted that her family keep it. It transpired that quite a few of her family quite liked the idea of a lift in the car so we offered to take everyone back to their houses. I watched shocked as two elderly women went straight to clamber into the back of the ute. I stopped them and insisted that they sit inside the car, but it took a lot of convincing. We drove off and for once I felt somewhat Khmer with the car filled with people both inside and in the back. After depositing most people home we still had a couple of stray passengers who wanted to go all the way to Phnom Penh, including one of Gim Lee’s younger cousins who works in a garment factory just outside of Phnom Penh.

We drove slowly back in peak hour traffic. It had been an amazingly fun, but also sobering day. I felt completely overwhelmed by Yim and Gim Lee’s kindness and hospitality, and also somewhat subdued by the differences in our living circumstances and the opportunities available to us. The longer I live here it seems the less I am actually spending time with Khmer people and being part of their lives. It is so easy to forget what it is like in the villages. As we drive back to Phnom Penh we witness an accident which epitomizes one of the more negative elements of Khmer society. A drunk driver causes an accident and then physically attacks the driver of the car which he rammed into. How can someone get away with such contemptuous, criminal behaviour? He was wearing an army uniform and was obviously influential and wealthy. It seems that that in Cambodia with the good, you also get the very bad.

HCMC

2006-08-07T08:13:00.000+07:00

A month ago I went to Ho Chi Minh City with a group of friends which I didn't blog about. Erik on the other hand did, here is a link to his post

It was a great trip, I hadn't been to Vietnam since 2002. I couldn't tell whether HCMC had changed and become bigger and more developed in the intervening period or whether my perspectives had changed. Probably both. After living in PP, one of the key things that struck me about the Hoch was the parks and the number of wide, green spaces in the inner city to hang out in. One of my nicest moments of the weekend, was picnicking in the park with Erik, Leah, Andrew and the kids and watching Arun's excitement about being able to run around on the grass.

HCMC is a lot bigger than PP, and the traffic was crazy, but in a slightly different way. Things went faster, but were more orderly. I got the impression that vehicles were at least somewhat likely to follow generally understood rules of road law. They certainly stopped at traffic lights too. Another thing that blew me away was how easy it was to get there! The first time I came from HCMC to PP, I seem to remember it taking an extremely long time. The road was terrible and the delay at the border was long. However, these days, leaving on our deluxe bus from PP it takes about 6.5 hours to get to HCMC and the crossing at the shiny, new border was smooth and fast!

I think the big thing about the weekend though was spending some time with my travel mates. Ben and Bec, as always, are a delight to be around and it was great to hang with Erik and Leah before they left Phnom Penh. It was a new experience to be travelling with children. But a fun one (from our perspective, where as soon as tears spring to the eyes, or a nappy needs changing we can hand the child back to its parents). All the best to Erik, Leah, Arun and Nahanni back in Minnesota. We are thinking of you and miss you all.

Road Rage

2006-08-04T17:15:00.000+07:00

Last weekend we took my lovely, project funded pick-up truck out into the Provinces for a weekend ‘daleng’ to escape the increasingly suffocating Phnom Penh. Not that it’s that hot at the moment, it’s quite cool. The suffocation element came more from the rigmarole of work, eat, sleep, work…

We left midday Saturday and drove up to Kompong Cham. I am getting pretty used to driving in Cambodia by now and actually find that in some ways driving in Phnom Penh is less stressful than on the open road. In Phnom Penh, I tend to stay in second gear and slowly glide in whichever direction I want to go whilst a sea of motos and other vehicles make their ways around me. If I go slow and steady it seems that everything simply adjusts itself in my midst. Relatively simple. Outside of the capital though, it is another story. Heading towards Kompong Cham we were overtaken by a convoy of corpulent, black four-wheel drive Lexus’ being driven at obnoxiously high speeds. The standard 4WD driver seems to either drive painfully slow (as they are talking on their mobile phone) or dangerously fast. Perhaps to make up the time lost when talking on the phone these cars will at any given moment speed up and overtake any vehicle in their path, irrespective of oncoming traffic; foot flat on the accelerator and hand firmly on the horn. The car shook as the wave of black Lexus screamed past, racing to make an urgent karaoke appointment in Kompong Cham for Saturday night perhaps?

Despite our more timid speed, we made it to Kompong Cham in perfect time for sunset drinks and byo whisky by the Mekong, overlooking the Kompong Cham bridge. It seems that they are re-constructing the river front area, with flattened dirt lots where make-shift huts and people used to camp. The tiles were all pulled up along what used to be the promenade so we sat on plastic chairs in the dirt and took it all in.

wat nokor entrance

Perhaps we have been in Cambodia too long? gripped by the crossword at Wat Nokor...

It was a short weekend trip due to work commitments in PP so on Sunday we headed back home via some temples and wats. Our first stop was Wat Nokor which is a popular temple just out of Kompong Cham town. It’s a really interesting site, as it has a ruined Angkorian structure with a modern, active wat in the centre. You walk through the blackened stone entry-way created by the Angkorians and end up in a new, brightly painted wat filled with monks and begging children.

wat nokor inside

Our second stop was ‘Phnom Pro Teat Phnom Sray Teat’. This is not the more commonly visited ‘Man Mountain Female Mountain’, but a different complex which was further out of town on the road to Phnom Penh. We managed to find the two hills fairly easily but confounded the monks on top of the mountain by scrambling up the steep mountain-side rather than taking the conventional (and much more moderately sloped) staircase entrance. This was not really an act of informed choice, we simply hadn’t found the staircase given that it was down a dirt road, in front of a banana plantation. Stupid foreigners.

Phnom Pro Teat

On top of the hill was a small wat complex where the monks and nuns live and a temple. The temple was painted silver and had quite a few brightly coloured cement animals frolicking around it. We sat down to have a sip of water and an elderly nun told me that if we followed that path we would see an elephant. So we traipsed along the indicated path and there was a large, colourful, cement elephant. Interesting and random and probably not a place that a lot of foreigners visit.

the elephant

Our next stop was Tuk Cha, which is a huge dam area, which provides a popular picnicking and swimming spot for locals. Right near the dam is an area dotted with pre-Angkorian ruins, around 400 temples. Given that we were off the main road and that Tuk Cha was further west and also off the main road we decided to take the overland, scenic route. This might have been a good idea if our map had been a little more detailed. Very quickly we found ourselves cruising down dirt roads surrounded by beautiful, picturesque rice fields with the wet season rice at varying stages of growth. Ofcourse, we got lost. We tried asking for directions, but found the provincial Kompong Cham accent particularly difficult to decipher. After much to-ing and fro-ing, which enabled Bec to take a substantial number of rice paddy shots out the car window, we made it back onto the main road and eventually found Tuk Cha. It seemed our luck really had turned though, because as we pulled into a wooden, rest area overlooking the dam it started to rain. It was also getting rather late. Moods were starting to fray; I was already starting to tense up at the thought of the insanity that is Sunday afternoon traffic and Mr B had to do something approximating a 50 point turn to get the car turned around and onto a small bridge to exit. We made a cursory attempt to see the ruins, which were interesting although in a fairly dilapidated state. In the spirit of Wat Nokor, we spied one ruined, single roomed structure which had been converted into a modern house with the stone walls being used, reinforced by newer brick walls. A resourceful use of materials lying around, I suppose.

somewhere in Kompong Cham province

After a brief stop for snacks, we hit the road and after an hour or so we found ourselves in the thick of the dreaded Sunday afternoon congestion. It is times like this where you think that that you have seen the height of human stupidity and recklessness and then five minutes later someone else commits an even more spectacularly risky maneuver. We weren’t moving particularly fast and there wasn’t really much concern for our safety. We did see a lot of short calls with motos and other vehicles due to the short-sighted aggressiveness of many cars. I always seem to get this leg of the journey, perhaps because I am the more placid tempered. Mr B at times, can barely contain himself, sometimes reaching over and honking the horn at a particularly impudent vehicle whilst I am driving. My three passengers contented themselves with rolling down their windows and screaming out “Lop lop” (‘idiot’) at notably irresponsible vehicles as we cruised back into town.

It was a fun weekend, and I think everyone was glad to get out of town. It makes a huge difference to be able to drive and go wherever you want, although this does complicates matters when you don’t really know where you are going! Anyway! this post is dedicated to the Australian taxpayer. Ta for the car!

Koh Sdech: sci-fi-esque armoured sea creatures, youths and endless karaoke

2006-03-10T14:53:00.000+07:00

Last weekend I went to Koh Sdech (King Island) with Hour and an entourage of my fellow volunteers. I had no idea where Koh Sdech was, or what it was like. Hour has family who live on the island and so he proposed to organise everything.

We fronted up to the bus station at 7am on Friday morning and commenced the 7 hour journey to get to the island. It would involve a bus to Sihanoukville and then a boat from the Sihanoukville port to the island. I had been under the impression that we were going to an island around Kompong Som. However, on arrival at the port and after a glance at the signs it became apparent that we were going to Koh Kong Province and that the island was half way between Sihanoukville and Koh Kong town. The boat ride was around 2 hours and I slept heavily the whole time. I groggily awoke and stumbled off the boat. My blurry eyes took a while to adjust to the bright sunlight. We were docked at a wooden jetty. There were people, bags and parcels littered everywhere. We walked along in ones and twos to Hour’s family’s home which was around 20 metres from the jetty. Concerned that it was past 1 and that we had not eaten yet, he had arranged for lunch to be ready and waiting on arrival.

I was already feeling a bit strange. Exhausted after a busy weeks work in Phnom Penh I still hadn’t quite adjusted to the fact that I was in a new place. To further exacerbate my feelings of disorientation, Koh Sdech is quite different from other places I have been in Cambodia. There is a strong Thai influence, many of the goods and supplies are straight from Thailand and prices are quoted in Thai baht. I was struggling to understand a single word of one of Hour’s relatives only to discover that this was because he was speaking Thai.

Mid way into our meal Hour asks if any of us know what a ‘prolanka’ is. We clamber up off the wooden floorboards and go over to the edge of the back verandah (which hangs over the water) and peer down into the depths. A piece of rope is tugged on and one of the strangest creatures I have ever seen emerges from the water. More suited for an alien sci-fi horror movie than a feature of my relaxing weekend away, the prolanka has a tough helmet shaped shell-body. On its head a long, sharp beak-like thing protrudes; the perfect design to gouge brains out or some other hideous terror. The prolanka was, mercifully, not very large. A child of 6 hauled it along the floorboards and flipped it over onto its back to display folds of grey, spongy flesh which were protecting hundreds of small eggs. “What do you think?” Hour happily asked. It seems the prolanka and more specifically its eggs were going to be the specialty dish for dinner.

We were staying in the only accommodation in town, a large guesthouse complex. On entry to the guesthouse I spied a billboard which depicted the facilities of the complex. Whilst the owner of the guesthouse does seem to have quite an economic hold on the island (the sole supplier of both water and electricity) the guesthouse arrangements weren’t quite on the grand scale the picture suggested. Perhaps this is in progress. There was also an ice factory on the grounds whose generator provides the electricity. Whenever I walked by, young men would be busy hauling long rectangular metal casts around, spraying them with large hoses and then stocking the ice. Ice at first seemed an incongruous business activity for such a small island, but then when viewed in the context that the key business of the island is fishing, it is not so strange. The majority of the working population of the island are involved in fishing industry. Seafood is then transported and sold to the mainland and Thailand.

Our cabins were located down a gentle slope away from the ice factory towards the beach. The beach itself was more rock than anything else. As we paddled around the shoreline we could see medium sized fishing boats all around.

Nearby our huts and on the beach is a small restaurant with karaoke. Small boats would dock at a nearby jetty and deposit young men from the fishing boats with small denominations of riel stuffed in their pockets and an insatiable desire to sing along to Khmer pop. The existence of the fishing industry means that there are a disproportionate number of young men strutting along the one street in town. They look more Thai than Khmer, with a hint of style in their jeans and longish hair. Hour informed me that many of the young men come from villages in Prey Veng and Svay Rieng province to live and work on the boats. Drugs are a huge problem with yabba and yamma rife through the island. Fishermen take these drugs to stay awake and work longer hours. As our first night attested, many of these fishermen are so high they don’t need to sleep.

As it got dark we congregated by the shore, sitting on mats laid out on the rocks, a huge spread of food in the centre. A group of residents (some related to Hour) sat nearby. Two women crouched for hours over a small fireplace constantly churning out freshly barbequed morsels of squid. The men sat nearby talking and laughing, all the while drinking a potent mix of Thai red bull-esque energy drink concentrate (banned in Australia) with Songsom Thai whiskey, a concoction familiar to most backpackers in Thailand, generally consumed from a bucket.

The prolanka was indeed present, but this time as a salad. I didn’t sample it, but the consensus was it tasted like fish (the flesh) with bulgar (the eggs). Random interesting fact about prolanka: the male prolanka attaches itself to the female and goes everywhere with her. Where he is, for some reason, unattached and left to fend for himself he dies. The female, on the other hand, is perfectly capable of existing without a man in her life.

We finished our meal long before the food stopped being served and lay back, sated and tired. The Khmers, with more practice and stamina at this sort of event, kept going. Hour pulled out a bottle of Khmer muscle wine and we were all cajoled into taking a shot. I can safely say that I will never drink muscle wine again. I could tell by the smell that it was not a sensible thing to consume but felt that I needed to at least sample it so that I could tell my Khmer friends I had tried.

It was a fairly sleepless night. The muscle wine wreaked havoc on my head and the karaoke played on and on. I would wake up for a moment between songs under the impression it had finally finished only for another one to begin. It did stop for about an hour around 5am, but then when I emerged around 8am for breakfast it was back on again, with young men roaming back and forwards across the lawns of the complex to and from the restaurant.

On our final day on the island we all congregated around Hour’s family house. A group of us settled on steps on the side of the road eating delicious, sweet pineapple and roasted bananas. It was sunny and the village was filled with children and families. As we waited swarms of energetic kids played around us, occasionally paying us heed when someone pulled a camera out. What a strange weekend! I was finally feeling relaxed and comfortable with my surroundings. We were told the boat to Sihanoukville generally arrives around 10.30am but this could vary plus/minus several hours. Nevertheless, we piled our things together and waited on the pier. The sun was out in full force and everybody crowded about either waiting to catch the boat or to meet the supplies and families that would be arriving. I had an ongoing English / Khmer lesson with one of the towns many small retailers. We talked about how to say various phrases, such as “I have change” in English; she then brought her two children over to the pier so that they too could learn this phrase. The boat arrived only around 30 minutes after its official arrival time and we bid goodbye to Koh Sdech and its residents. I settled myself on the roof of the boat with a few others. We smeared ourselves in sunscreen and sat back enjoying the breeze, view and sunshine.

Dengue Fever in Phnom Penh!!

2005-12-22T17:00:00.000+07:00

Please don’t be alarmed. This post is not about mosquito-borne disease, but rather the biggest musical event in Phnom Penh ... well at least since the internationally acclaimed Micheal Learns to Rock came to town that is. Dengue Fever are a Los Angeles based band who cover, and are inspired by, classic Khmer rock of the 1960’s. I was very excited at the news of their imminent arrival. What was even more exciting was the coinciding visit of my little brother, an avid DF fan.

I fronted up to Pochentong airport and anxiously waited for Roh to take his first steps on South East Asian soil. In the taxi back to my house, I casually mentioned that if he wasn’t too tired we could go see Dengue Fever that night. “Are you serious???!!!!”. He was definitely up for it. However, after building up expectations of his first evening in Phnom Penh our plans were abruptly dashed. In an episode murky with controversy, Dengue Fever did not play. Seven pages of postings on Khmer440 and several letters to the Cambodia Daily later the debate was starting to get personal and worn out. Did the band pull out because there wasn’t the appropriate equipment provided? Was the stage structurally sound? Or was their lead singer being a spoilt prima donna and they just didn’t want to play???

Who knows, and everybody seems to have a different version. Either way, they played at Talkin’ To A Stranger on the following Friday night and it was awesome. Roh and I had dinner with friends before the gig and at the appointed time to leave the sky opened up and big fat drops of wet-season rain began to storm down. After refusing several “Can we go see DF yet??” requests on the grounds that “everything stops in PP when it rains like this”, we hopped on our bikes and headed over. We walked in the door and were immediately greeted by Zac, DF’s guitarist, who had spied Roh’s Dieselhead t-shirt. The evening could not have started better.

After sufficient time had been allowed for the rain to stop and for patrons to arrive, Dengue Fever took to the stage. We had secured a prime front stage spot early on. ‘Stranger’ was chockers with barang and Khmer and it was muggy and sweaty under the canvas tent that had been erected for the gig. The band came on stage and begun to play. An audible ‘aaah’ could be heard as the stunning lead singer, Chom Nimmol, swung onto stage (in particular, from the lovestruck Khmer boys to my right). Microphone in hand she started singing in her high, clear voice. The crowd started to move in time with the music, incapable of resisting the catchy beat and infectious and playful melodies.

In a beautiful moment, transcending all cultural barriers I see my brother singing along in Khmer with a young Cambodian guy he has just met. The front part of the crowd is starting to dance, with more than a hint of Khmer traditional dance moves. This was great! Roh and I both agree that the only thing missing is our younger brother Scrappy. Although, given the Dr Rock-esque keyboard styling intros of the keyboardist and his outfit of brown pin-strip pants we figure that the spirit of Simon was there at least in some shape or form.

Everyone was having a great time and I was reveling in a rare moment of unity between PP residents. It was a nice change from the sometimes extremely segregated night-life of PP. The band finished their last song and walked off stage. They were eventually lured back and did three more songs by the loud chanting ‘moy teat, moy teat…’

Photos courtesy of Pierre

It was an incredible performance; great music, talented musicianship and an enthusiastic crowd. It did really reinforce how lacking the live music scene is here in Phnom Penh. There are a lot of small venues around town that could host similar, small laid back evenings, but this just does not seem to happen. Is it that there isn’t enough music minded Phnom Penhers about with the ability and equipment to put a band together? I was talking with Zac after the gig and he was saying how he really hoped that their visit might inspire young Khmers to get into music. Most of my young Khmer friends love music, they will all sing karaoke if given the opportunity, but none of them play instruments. I can’t believe that there isn’t the interest or talent in Phnom Penh for some really good bands to develop. I suppose we need a confluence of factors, both the people to play the music, the venue for the music to be played and the support of locals coming and listening. Is this such a difficult thing??

Viva live music in Phnom Penh!

Part 6 (The Horror) The final chapter.

2005-12-07T09:45:00.000+07:00

Vern Sai to Ban Lung
Journey: 4 hours by truck
Road Condition: treacherous

About 15 minutes down the road we came to a screeching halt. Two trucks were ahead and one of them was seriously bogged in the red, sticky mud. The sun was beating down. We sat in the sand waiting whilst ahead branches and sticks were collected. We watched with bated breath as the second truck attempted to make it across the perilous stretch of mud. The bridge of branches helped but it was not enough. The road was now completely blocked off by the two huge trucks, wheel deep in thick mire. Well accustomed to such a turn of events the truck drivers and their assistants did not despair. Further branches were cut down, blocks and rocks collected and with much revving and over-heating of the truck’s engine the second truck burst free. It could now pull the first truck out of the quagmire. The trucks would inch forward half a metre at a time, and a team of assistants would run alongside, shouting out instructions and quickly pushing rocks in front of the wheels at each inch of progress. This whole episode took over an hour and set the tune for our trip back.

we watch on with trepidation from the back of the sand truck.

The trucks traveled in a convoy of five and so at every difficult stretch of road we would stop, wait, provide assistance where necessary until all vehicles were through. The trucks were pushed completely beyond capacity and after ploughing through a stretch they would sit, steam gushing out of their hoods, black smoke belching from their sides. On several occasions, we witnessed a truck take a dip in the road at such an extreme angle it almost tipped over. From our vantage point high on the sand, we would look out for possible problem spots and then brace ourselves against the side of the truck as it battled to get through huge gashes of earth and sludge.

The sun was setting as we neared Ban Lung. I looked out but the sunset was obscured by the forest that hugged the edges of the road. I rested my head up against the side of the truck and ruefully thought how typical that was of my Ratanakiri experience. But then, as the truck continued on, it occurred to me how beautiful it was; the strong lines of the silhouetted trees with the soft pink and blue hues as a back drop.

Ban Lung to Phnom Penh
Journey: 40 minutes by plane

After a day of extreme relaxing in Ban Lung, our one true day of holiday. We fronted up at Ban Lung airport and took our 8th different form of transport for the trip. It was our shortest journey and we were in high spirits. The flight was comfortable, quick, and without event (apart from the huge clouds of white smoke that emanated from the air conditioning system).

We arrived in Phnom Penh airport at midday and triumphantly walked across the tarmac into the terminal to collect our luggage. Yay Phnom Penh! I was happy to be home.

Goodbye Ratanakiri!

Part 5 (The Horror)

2005-12-07T09:44:00.000+07:00

Voen Sai to Virashay National Park Outpost (Kalangchhouy)
Journey: 20 minutes by boat and 3 hours by foot

After several false starts and some problems with our boat’s engine we were on our way to Koklak, a Prehl minority village 20 minutes upstream of Voen Sai.

From Koklak our only option was to continue by foot due to lack of road access. We shouldered our packs and had a pleasant walk through largely deserted villages (most of the inhabitants are nomadic) and rice fields bursting with ripening stalks. We passed villagers making the trek, their woven bamboo backpacks filled with vegetables or grain to sell in town. I wondered how I would manage living in a village where I had to walk at least 3 hours before I reached a town.

Rangers Outpost

The outpost is located right on the border of the National Park and is a simple wooden stilted house, with one room and a balcony. Before we can enter the National Park we need to cross a river that runs between the outpost and the park. After a lunch break we leave our packs at the outpost and get ready for our walk. We assemble bottles of water and the “leach socks” (starchy-thick cotton socks that reach mid thigh with hospital-esqe ties at the top to stop nasty leaches from crawling onto ones legs). Krishni is keen to try out the socks, but Sovann says it is not necessary yet. We walk to a section of the river which Sovann thinks will be the most suitable for crossing. We get to the rivers edge and look on with dismay. What is a bubbly, ankle deep spring in the dry season is now a roaring, cavalcade of water with eddies and currents. Andrew constructs a long piece of rope with our hammock strings whilst singing ‘Whole Lotta Love’. I stare out at the water and have a bad feeling about our ability to make it to Virashay.

We discuss our options. If the strongest swimmer can get across then the rest could follow using the rope. Sovan jumps in and attempts to cross but the rope isn’t long enough. He clambers out a fair way downstream. We are not in the national park until we cross over the river. We stand on the bank and eye of the other side. So close, yet so very far. I am not a strong swimmer and after a test swim I am pretty sure it would not be a good idea for me to try make the crossing. The current is just too strong. Sovann is a bit perplexed and disappointed when we tell him we are not going to do it. Krish seems genuinely disappointed that she does not get to wear the leach socks. Sovann proposes a swim back to the outpost (with the current) and Krishni takes him up on his offer. They climb down the bank and are quickly swept out of view. Later on Krish tells us they hit a series of rapids. Slightly panicked, she asked Sovann what to do. He replied “just lift your legs”. Thankfully by the time Andrew and I made it back to the outpost Krish was there safe and sound.

Andrew ready for the challenges of Virashay Park

Virashay Output to Voen Sai
Journey: 4.5 hours by foot
Road Condition: bad (only passable on foot)

I was woken early in the morning to face a comprehensive incursion of our living space. Tiny, biting vicious black ants had conducted an extremely successful night raid on our hut and were now celebrating their conquest in every single personal item that I owned. I stamped about, pulling up pieces of clothing and shaking them free of ants. I was not in a good morning mood. After leaving the majority of the ants behind in the hut, we set off back to Voen Sai. I traipsed automaton-like through the green forest and rice fields. It was beautiful and interesting, but at that point I just wanted to be back in Ban Lung.

The 3 hour walk to Koklak went fairly quickly and uneventfully apart from having to stop twice to remove leaches from Krishni’s legs (we should have been wearing the leach socks!). We arrived in Koklak sweaty and exhausted. The ranger in Ban Long had told us that we could get a moto from the village, but as it was wet season many of the villagers had moved elsewhere or were busy fishing. We stopped at a meeting place to ascertain our options. I crawled onto a bamboo slat-bed, took off my sodden, muddy shoes, and was almost immediately asleep. I awoke from my nap to be told there were no motos, no boat and the only way to get back to Voen Sai was by foot. This was not welcome news. But what choice did we have?

I was overwhelmed by exhaustion. I mechanically put my sneakers back on my blistered feet, shouldered my pack and readied to set off. When I first began walking that morning I had consoled myself with dreams of reclining in Yaklom Lodge with a gin and tonic watching the sunset. Now, my fantasies were much more immediate. I imagined myself sitting back in the ‘hang bai’ in Voen Sai on a blue plastic chair on the dirt floor, a cup of cold over-brewed tea with ice in my hand and the sounds of noisy karaoke dvds filling the wooden shack…. Ohhhh Vern Sai hang bai…….

Oh so happy not to be walking! The ferry to Vern Sai after walk.

We made it to Voen Sai and I did wind down in the restaurant, but not with an ice tea. Things never seem to work out the way you envisage, especially on this trip.

Inevitably, sitting in the Voen Sai hang bai, our journey was far from over. We had to make it back to Ban Lung. It was 2pm and there were no moto drivers in town.

Zero.

Ot mien.

It says a lot about your holiday when you are overjoyed at the prospect of catching a lift in the back of a big, rattly truck filled with sand.

We made a split second decision to take the only available transport out of town. We laughed and waved goodbye to Voen Sai, and nestled comfortably in the sand as the big diesel truck struggled and ploughed along the muddy, bumpy road.

Part 4 (The Horror)

2005-11-04T16:25:00.001+07:00

I awake to find myself in a little wooden hut in Ban Lung, the provincial capital of Ratanikiri. We are staying at a lovely guesthouse located on a hillside in a lushly forested area. I savour the feeling of slowly getting out of bed and not having to rush off onto any form of transport. After a leisurely breakfast we hire push-bikes and tackle the muddy, boggy road into town.

The centre of town features an independence monument which appears to be the favourite hangout for the towns goats. There are very few sealed roads and the phrase “dust bowl” comes to mind. We visit the local market which has a commanding presence in the centre of town. It is a huge cement building with modern architectural lines; older than its years, the dust and heat hastening its senescence.

After the market we visit the Virachay National Park Head Office to arrange a visit to the park. We had talked with the rangers at the office in Vern Sai but due to logistical problems had decided not to enter the park at that point (see The Horror Part 2). The National Park Officer who we spoke to in Ban Lung was helpful and informative. We left the office with plans in place, and a collection of hired hiking gear for our trip. On our way back to our guesthouse we drop into Yak Lom Lake. The lake was formed by a volcanic eruption almost 4,000 years ago and is now a popular spot for picnics and walks. I don my pants and singlet top over my bikini and dive into the cool, fresh water. After a short time, the sun begins to set in the sky. Despite the fact that we hadn’t battled with any public transport operator it has been a long day. We wearily work our way up hill on our bikes and back to our little huts.

Ban Lung to Vern Sai
Journey: 1.5 hours by moto
Road condition: extremely muddy

It was before 7am that we experience our first misadventure for the day. We had arranged for the Yak Lom Lodge landcruiser to drive us into town so to catch a lorry to Voen Sai. In a typical display of Khmer “can do” attitude the driver of the landcruiser did not wait and give way to a large truck stopped in a particularly muddy quagmire of the road and instead persisted forwards. Thirty seconds later the back left-hand-side windshield explodes inwards and the landcruiser is pinioned helplessly between the truck and the thick forest lining the road.

After some maneuvering we manage to free both ourselves and the car and make it into town. We arrive at the taxi/truck stand to discover that the 7.30am truck from Voen Sai simply has not arrived this morning. Our options are to wait for the afternoon truck or pay $30 usd for a taxi. As we are digesting this piece of news our taxi driver from our Stung Treng stint materialises and kindly offers to take us for the nominated fee. We stand around and make statements like “oooh, tly peck” (too expensive). The Vern Sai taxi dudes show some initial interest but then pay us little heed once it becomes obvious we aren’t going to pay $30 USD to travel 38km.

After an ice coffee and 20 minutes of indecision we make arrangements to take motos to Voen Sai. In true style, the inner workings of the moto-mob mean that the moto drivers that we negotiated our fare with are not the moto-dudes we travel with. At this point I am past caring. We clamber onto our allotted motos and speed off. It is a beautiful and scenic drive, and perhaps better appreciated when on the back of a moto anyway!

We spend a nice afternoon in Voen Sai. We set up camp at the Virachay National Park Headquarters and then set off to explore the local area. We hire a noisy fast boat and speed along the Tonle Se San river to visit a Tumpuan village and cemetery. The Tumpuans are a semi-nomadic, animist minority group that live in north-eastern Cambodia.

We clamber out of our boat and are escorted through the village to their cemetery. I feel a little uncomfortable about fronting up like this and our two self-appointed guides do little to assuage this as they silently and sternly lead us into thick forest dotted with wooden carved figures and small, colourful shelters.

After time passes, we chat in Khmer a little about the cemetery and the village, slowly our escort becomes more friendly. The graves are comprised of a small wooden shelter with food, incense and gifts inside. In front of this is generally a carved wooden representation of the deceased, brightly painted.

At one of the graves we come across a wooden man with metal sun glasses and a wooden walkie talkie. We find this amusing until our guide informs me that this is the grave of the village chief and that he was a highly respected man.

Andrew paving his way to animist hell...

Our next stop is two Laotian and Chinese villages further upstream. We wander about aimlessly and then head back to Voen Sai. We are going to spend the night in our hammocks strung up underneath the National Park Head Office. The aim is to get up bright and early the next morning and start our trek to the National Park with our guide. The park headquarters are quite cosy. The building is a large, breezy wooden Khmer style house with a large dirt space underneath. Krishni and I pull on our sarongs and head down to the river for our evening bath. We sit on an overturned boat in the water soaping ourselves, washing our clothes and chatting. I am feeling cool, clean and relaxed.

Part 3 (The Horror)

2005-11-02T17:38:00.000+07:00

Siem Pang to Stung Treng
journey: 5.5 hours by boat (downstream)

We get up early and jump on the earliest boat out of town. We are not entirely convinced that the first boat to leave Siem Pang will be the first boat to arrive in Stung Treng but decide to try our luck anyway. As I scramble down the bank with my pack the boat looks rather full. As is often the case with Khmer public transport, space is found for us newcomers, somehow. We nestle in the under-cover section and I try not to think about how long this is going to take!

The spare space that had been located on our arrival is slowly reclaimed as the boat picks up more passengers. After an hour I find myself compelled as the odd-one-out-barang to move onto the hot roof of the boat. From my vantage point I notice a bucket filled with scaly, writhing creatures. I go take a closer look. The bucket appears to be filled with lizards. I ask the man standing nearby what the name for this animal is in Khmer and he looks back at me sharply. Very quickly the bucket is covered up and I am back in my space on the top of the roof. I note to myself that it is best not to ask vocabulary questions regarding potentially illegal cargo and activities.

We arrive in Stung Treng and put all our energies into leaving. This unfortunately is not an easy task. We are hit by the full force of the Stung Treng taxi cartel who in a beautiful act of intimidation and cooperation refuse to take us even a kilometer out of the town unless we pay them a very sizeable sum of US dollars. Tempers are fraying and ‘We gotta get out of this place' by The Animals is on high rotation in my head. We try negotiations with a range of players in several different locations but it is to no avail. In an attempt to step around the taxi-ring we even go back to Mr James Bond (despite the fact that we had not forgiven him for ripping us off and giving us wrong advice). He was helpless (or unwilling) to go up against the taxi-junto and completely distracted by some newly arrived backpackers from Laos who he was very successfully selling over priced bus tickets to. After an hour or two of two-ing and fro-ing Andrew and I went into bat for the final time and negotiated a fare that we were vaguely comfortable with.

oh so happy to be leaving Stung Treng

This is me proudly displaying the $1USD we managed to save after our lengthy confrontation with the Stung Treng taxi-mob

Stung Treng to Ban Lung
journey: 5.5 hours by car
road condition: very bad

We set off, incredibly happy to be leaving. The car lurches and bounces along the bumpy, sticky road. I stare out the window at the lush forrest, ripe for illegal logging. We arrive in Ban Lung Ratanakiri around 9pm. It has taken us 2 and a half days to get to this point!

Part 2 (The Horror)

2005-11-01T17:40:00.000+07:00

Kratie to Stung Treng
journey: 5 hours by taxi
road condition: bad

We had heard that the road from Kratie to Stung Treng was awful. Our transport options out of Kratie were motobike, bus or taxi. Despite unpromising negotiations we decided to take the comfortable option and hire a taxi for the trip. Our driver was pot bellied, cantankerous and insistent that he would only consent to have us in his (particularly shabby) vehicle if his "wife" could come along. We agreed. In the end it was a good decision; the drive was dusty, the road was predictably difficult to navigate but the trip passed along fairly uneventfully. We arrived in Stunge Treng in time for a wander around town and a byo drink by the Sekong for sunset.

Stung Treng to Siem Pang
journey: 10 hours by boat (upstream)

Following the advice of 'James Bond', our helpful guesthouse travel guide, we decided to take a boat to Siem Pang and from there catch a moto to Vern Sai (in Ratanikiri). We had been gagging for a good boat trip and so at 6.30am on Monday morning we boarded a medium sized wooden boat and set sail along the Sen River. It was only us, the driver and one other passenger. The driver sat up back and there was a shaded narrow space along the length of the boat which you could sit under or on top of. We putted along as the sun rose in the sky and the thickly treed banks streamed past. I marveled at the bamboo trees; thick trunks of bamboo loping out over the bank and into the water. The branches were heavy with dense, dark green leaves dripping off olive green stems with the young bamboo stems sticking out threateningly, all bright orange rims and yellow spiky tops. I sit on the top of the boat and survey the passing scene. Occasionally we pass another boat going downstream. Every minute is drawing me closer to Kurtz territory.

Progress is slow and we travel in a loose convoy. We acquire some passengers from another boat and a case of beer (quite possibly the spoils of our inflated barang ticket prices). The sun beats down and the brown river quickly flows along. We stop to take on board an esky full of fish (presumably an income supplementing activity of the other passenger, who is a policeman in Siem Pang).

We arrive in Vern Sai, a small rural centre, in the north of Stung Treng. We book into the hotel (a house) and I wonder about which family member is being kicked out of their room for my 6000Riel ($1.50usd). We go for a walk around the dusty track that is the town’s main street. We locate the only restaurant and agree to wait 20 minutes for our meal (so they can go scrounge together some vegetables). I sit in the restaurant on a blue plastic chair, the bottle of “red water” on the table and lean drowsily against the wooden plank wall. It is at this point that we meet Theany, a local woman who is starting up a tour company.

Slowly, and confusingly, our situation unfolds. There are no motos available to get to Vern Sai as the road is completely impassable. We are tired and try to clarify. Theany persists in her impeccable and polite English. The only way out of Siem Pang at the moment is the way we came, by boat to Stung Treng.
"So how are we to get to Vern Sai???" we ask.
The answer is by going back to Stung Treng then to Ban Lung (Provincial capital of Ratanakiri). The three of us sit somewhat shell shocked at this thwarting of our plans. But there is nothing to do. We decide to catch the first possible boat back in the morning.

The evenings events have left me feeling tired and cranky. Determined to make something of our time in Siem Pang, Krishni and I head to the towns pagoda for a big Pchum Benh party. Much of the town is gathered in front of the Wat. A huge collection of immensely sized speakers sit on the dirt ground, pumping out a mixture of traditional Khmer music and more recent Thai influenced dance music. I sit down and refuse to dance (despite a lovely offer from the Siem Pang policeman) and instead content myself to watch. In a gender role reversal to Australia, it is the men who are rushing onto the dance floor dragging the unwilling and blushing women. Everyone seems to be having a great time. I sit smiling, watching the couples move in large circles, slowly progressing forwards, their hands twisting and twirling in deliberated, elegant movements.

(The Horror) Bad roads, transport cartels and misadventure in northern Cambodia (The Horror)

2005-10-28T09:19:00.000+07:00

PART 1

Phnom Penh to Kratie
journey: 5 hours by bus
road condition: good

Our travels in Northern Cambodia began early one Saturday morning in Pchum Benh festival. It was bucketing down rain in Phnom Penh and every poncho wearing Khmer and his dog were trying to get out of the city to spend Pchum Benh with family in the provinces. The bus station was pure chaos with drenched and dripping travellers clutching luggage all with one aim: getting on a bus and getting out of town. After an hour long wait we made it on to our bus and into a huge traffic jam. I sleepily gazed out the window as motos and vehicles sluggishly crept along the wet streets. Finally we crossed the Japanese bridge, the sun was shining and we were on our way.

We arrived in Kratie early afternoon. It is a very pretty, laid back town surrounded by lush foliage, and hemmed in by the swollen banks of the Mekong. We didn't spend much time there as our sights were set further north. We purchased a bottle of "tuk grahom" (literal translation red water, aka johnny walker red label) and went where it was all at on a Saturday night, the tukkalup stands on the riverside. Post note: Whiskey and tukkalup (blended fruit, sugar, condensed milk, egg and ice) actually works!

The Meeting 3

2005-10-21T17:06:00.000+07:00

I love the atmosphere of these meetings, the spirited discussions and playful teasing. It's great that farmers get so involved. And why not? This is their livelihood, the issues that they face every day. Generally, I get a real kick out of this enthusiasm, but today it is not so helpful. We have been given a window of one to one and a half hours and we have a lot of work to do. It's a bad time of year to be sitting around shooting the breeze about farming. At this time of year in Cambodia, its less talking and more doing. And ofcourse, in poor, rural areas it's all hands on deck. I met a family yesterday where the 12 year old son was responsible for preparing the land, planting the seed and harvesting as his father had died the year before. He stood by his mother all bones and dark skin. His face was serious as she elaborated on how many days he works and how they have little money for mechanization, inputs and hired labour.

We sit on a slat bed our butchers paper in the centre and the three of us ranged around. One group of villagers sit on another slat bed nearby and a second group on rice bags or thongs on the dirt around us. It's hot and this is taking much longer than it should. Vichet looks increasingly on edge, as the villagers become more boisterous. He moves to the second activity; he is coughing his throat hoarse from raising his voice above the clamour. I am curled up right at the edge notebook in lap quietly watching. Vichet is on his haunches in the middle, butchers paper under his feet. Everyone closes in as he deftly fills in figures "Prohile jea bon man?" (what do you estimate?) he calls out. 1 week ago he had never heard of a PRA.

We race through our second activity and declare we have only one more to go. There is one man who has been rather cantankerous from the beginning who bemoans the fact that he is being detained from his lunch. I turn around and tell him in my best khmer, and with my nicest smile that I haven't eaten yet either. It gets a laugh and he quietens down. Vichet appeals for just a little bit longer and acknowledges that we are all tired. He jokes that his throat is sore. "What will this do to my singing voice?" Everyone cracks up and immediately starts clapping a rhythm for him to sing to. Vichet responds (incomprehensible to me) and causes everyone to clap and cheer even louder. I go to the car and get more biscuits. On my return Vichet appears to be having a joke stand-off with one of the guys. It seems to be relating to an animal with horns? I do ok when we talk about harvest time, yields and rice seed but it seems animal jokes are beyond my comprehension. We get back to business.

Finally we reach the end. Everyone is restless after the two and a half hour session. Vichet declares that he is finished asking questions and that in return they can ask all the questions they want of me. If I wasn't experienced at this game I may prepare myself for queries regarding my involvement with the project and my position. The first question was "Have I really not eaten yet?". The second "Do I eat rice?" I tell them that I do. Predictably I then field how old I am (for some reason 26 years receives a round of applause) and whether I am married (an even louder round of applause to this response). Vichet and I exchange amused glances. Time to leave.

The Meeting 2

2005-10-21T17:00:00.000+07:00

Anticipation mounts. I sit, legs tucked under, in the village chiefs house as villagers enter for the meeting. I get a nice feeling about this village. The chief and his wife patter about; him collecting his records about the village and her giving us cushions and tea. They are both dark skinned with graying hair and kindly smiles. I greet villagers with a "jum riep sur" as they enter. Today we are conducting a PRA in a village who do not use the projects rice seed. Sothat has been called to Phnom Penh and so Vichet is facilitator, Naseng note taker and myself observer. I am confident in Vichet but still a little nervous about doing this without our expert adviser. Sothat has stressed how PRA is very much learning by doing, responding to people and playing it by ear. He calls it free-styling.

So here we are free-styling it in Pray Thbal village. We haul out the nom (biscuits) and there is a post sugar consumption rush of commotion and excitement from the kids. Tiny naked bodies clamber into the back of the projects ute. Samart cranks up the radio and next thing I know; not even halfway through planned activities, there is a party out on the dirt road. Vichet and the men continue to animatedly discuss whether fertilizer composes more of their yearly budget than fuel for powering water pumps. The fuel costs eventually win out. The imminent threat of rain further depletes our participants as women and children rush off to secure their grain that is drying out in the sun into plastic bags.

Maylee moves in and out of the room. Everywhere she goes exciting much comment and interest. "psaart, psaart" (beautiful, beautiful) everybody agrees. The women squeeze to be near her and compare their skin colour with theirs. I, on the other hand, am largely ignored. White, fair haired Australians are not unheard of in Prey Veng. However, Asian looking Australians appear to be a fascinating concept. There are children everywhere. They seem to adore Maylee and follow her wherever she goes. I sit with a 6 year old girl, naked except for little cotton shorts, she presses her bare belly against my foot leaning in to get a closer look at proceedings. A toddler rests against my left arm, idly playing with the ring on my index finger. I am not used to children, and at first was quite surprised by the sheer number of curious young eyes that would come and stare at the barang. I smile at the girl next to me, the warmth of these little bodies is comforting.

We finish up our session. The children have long grown tired of our talking and many of the women are absent, busy with food preparation or farm household chores. I present the village chief with his present, a kramar and we all pile back into the work car. As we drive out of the village, people look up from their work and watch us go. I sit, white and fair haired, squeezed in between sheets of paper covered in colourful writing about rice growing methods and farm income. Despite all our questions and probing I am quite sure that I am barely scratching the surface of the workings of this village.

The Meeting 1

2005-10-14T17:15:00.000+07:00

I sit in the village chief's house on bamboo floorboards. The long bamboo slats are spaced with one centimetre gaps to allow airflow throughout the house built high on stilts. As I sit I eye the family photos proudly displayed on the wooden beams; depicting stern faces in traditional dress superimposed in front of popular Khmer holiday destinations. Around 20 farmers come along to the meeting a mix of men and women, old and young. Children, barefoot and wearing cotton pants squirm in mother's laps. Elder men sit legs spread, with kramas wound around scrawny waists, all wrinkles, muscle and veins.

Sothat sits in the middle of the room and reigns supreme. He is in his element facilitating Participatory Rural Appraisal (PRA) activities. Large sheets of butchers paper are spread out on the floorboards in front of him, with colourful labels covered in squiggly Khmer text. The villagers are deeply involved in an exercise where they rank the advantages of different types of rice seed varieties. A heated argument erupts over whether the quality of one variety should be given a (very high) score of 5 or 4. A farmer leaning against a wooden beam loudly interposes, a gold watch glints on his wrist his voice rambly and raspy. A woman with baby and krama in lap screaches back and everyone laughts. Sothat lets out the characteristic Khmer "eeahh" sound, a wordless response which conveys a meaning of joking displeasure. More laughing ensues.

I sit dripping in sweat, quietly watching. I have helped design the exercises but from the moment of arrival in the village I become a fairly useless appendage. The discussion continues. I am slightly concerned that the project's brand of seed has been given a top score of 5 for all criterion. Perhaps we are being told what we want to hear? I am loosely following the animated discussions, but reserve comment aware of the fact that much of the detail is lost to me in the fast paced, clipped colloquial Khmer.

I help hand out biscuits, and pass around plates heaped with wafers and sweet biscuits stuck together with cheap icing. At this point of proceedings the only concrete thing I can conclude from the PRA exercises is that farmers like biscuits.

The meeting is finished and we wend our way out of the village. It is past 4pm and at this time of year and day the village is a hive of activity. We pass men and children sitting atop muddy buffalos, wooden carts filled with bright green bundles of rice plant stems for animal feed. Women in baggy pants with kramas tied around their waists stroll by shiny knives in their hands fresh from the field. Small children abound; naked, intensely brown and with swollen hungry bellies. As we leave the village everything is lush and green, with plots of rice as far as I the eye can see. The bright green squares of younger unflowered crops mixed in with the squares of faded light green crops, ready for harvest with their stems bowed heavy with grain. As I look out at this green shaded, textured, patchwork quilt of landscape we drive to town for the night. I am exhausted by the days work.

A conversation with a policeman

2005-09-09T17:00:00.000+07:00

I was cycling down street 63 heading home for lunch when I was abruptly stopped on the corner of Sihanouk Blvd. After stepping in front of my bike a policeman motioned me out of the chaotic lunch hour traffic and onto the street corner. I asked him in Khmer whether he spoke English and he said “ba”. This unpromising start proved to be misleading as he then proceeded to tell me in perfect English that I was riding down a one-way street the wrong way. I pointed to the countless examples of other vehicles that were also flouting this law and he sternly replied
“They are wrong; you are wrong.”
I remained reticent, silent.
“Because you are wrong you will need to go to police station, and then you will have to do two day course on the road laws of Cambodia.” I blinked once or twice in surprise but bit my tongue. It was tantalizingly tempting to inquire about what was covered in the two-day road rule course. If such a thing actually existed it would almost be worth attending for the comic value. I can see it now, lesson number one would cover the 3 cardinal rules of Cambodian traffic:

1. Honk before you do anything.

2. In all possible circumstances, black, shiny Lexus Prados ALWAYS have right of way.
Or more generally, the vehicle of the highest value has right of way in any given situation.

3. The correct route to your desired location is the most direct one, irrespective of actual roads, traffic islands, roundabouts or other vehicles.

The policeman looked at me sternly as I contemplated my situation. Leaning towards me, he says “Or you have other option, you can not attend driving school and can instead pay me fine.”
Ah-ah, now we are getting to the crux of the matter! I believe that the standard “fine” for such an offence is a few thousand Riel for a Khmer on a moto. I wasn’t sure what the going-rate for a barang was, but decided whatever it was I was not going to pay it. I flashed him a look of sincere concern and then lied.
“But, I have no money on me.”
His brow furrowed at this piece of news.
“Where is your money? You have money, no?”
“Um, well, yes. I work for the Australian government, I am a volunteer. My money is at my home.”
With these two pieces of information, his commanding manner slowly melted.
“Volunteer? No salary! Do they pay for your accommodation?” he asked, interested.
I informed him that they did.
“Are you married?”
“No”
“How old are you?”
“26”
“How much longer you stay in Cambodia” . . . I cover the well-trodden territory of these questions and then politely ask,
“Can I go?”
“Yes.”
At this, I quickly hop on my bike and cycle off down the right side of the two-way Sihanoukville Blvd. As I pedal the policeman recedes into the background, to my right and left vehicles whizz past, effectively turning a two-lane road into a (at minimum) four lane thoroughfare. At the independence monument roundabout I follow usual practice by entering the roundabout with a gang of other vehicles and forcibly drive through, such that the vehicles on the roundabout have to give way to the vehicles entering the roundabout. Once off the roundabout, I prepare to take a left turn by crossing over to the left side of the road at the first gap in traffic and cycling along on the wrong side of the road until I reach my desired street. At all times I am careful to weave around the fruit and baguette food carts that are pushed into on-coming traffic and across the road without any consideration to other vehicles. After wending my way through the narrow alleyways of my neighborhood and stopping to give way to honking 4WDs I make it home. I marvel at how this milieu is now second-nature to me. I think that I might be quite a dangerous proposition when in a car and back in Australia!!

Field Notes Part 2

2005-08-16T12:29:00.000+07:00

It’s a Friday and I am out in Kandal again. The rice paddy we are in is very well irrigated meaning that I am ankle deep in mud and when I squat to count seedlings my bum gets wet. To make matters worse, this farmer has thrown in excess of 30 kgs of seed on half a hectare of land. Consequently, I am counting at least 900 to 1000 seedlings in each square. A farmer ambles along and stops to chat. He is barefoot, wearing three quarter length khaki pants, a ripped shirt, kramar around his neck and an army camouflage cap. He seems very taken by me and is constantly looking at me whilst chatting with Vichet about what we are doing. When he realises I speak some Khmer he comes over and asks me how old I am and whether I am married. I tell him and he smiles broadly, gold teeth flashing. “I am 36” he informs me, and then “you are very white”. I smile unsure of whether to say thank you or not, instead I say nothing and return to my seedlings. After a minute two more of staring the farmer goes on his way.

Back in the village I need to go to the bathroom. The village chief’s wife escorts me through the dirt laneways, past barking dogs to what is probably the only bathroom in the village. It is a squat toilet, with a bucket of water in the pitch dark. I am thankful, this is immeasurably better than the alternative: careful use of a sarong in the field. Afterwards I am kindly led as show-and-tell to a group of villagers who are sitting under one of the bigger houses. They sit me down on the slat bed and an elderly women scoots over to kneel right in front of me. Her hair is shaved, she flashes a toothless smile at me. I am not quite prepared for the attention and the onslaught of Khmer that comes next.

In a very friendly way, she proceeds to inspect every inch of me; her bony dark hands touching and prodding, all the while commentating for everybody’s benefit.

“So white”

“Very hairy arms”

“Is this silver? How much did it cost?”

I blush a lot and attempt to answer. There is a lot of discussion and laughter, most of which is entirely incomprehensible to me. I cover the key questions and explain that I am 26, and no, I am not married yet (in Khmer this statement is not correct unless you say “yet” at the end). She fingers my poly-cotton shirt and tells everyone it is silk.

“from France?”

I tell her that I am Australian and that my shirt is Australian too (although made in China would probably be closer to the truth).

“You look French”

“I’m Australian”

She remains unconvinced and defiantly says “French; their shirts the same”

Rather than argue I decide it is time to find Vichet and Chandra. I “chum riep” my way out of there.

Vichet is interviewing a farmer under her house on the other side of the village. The whole family is around, with the children playing in the yard. She tells us that they have had their rice seed for 2 years. They bought it from another farmer as it was known to be good seed. I am distracted by her youngest child who is toddling about wearing a yellow singlet and a smile. She is munching on a piece of corn and squatting in the dirt. As I look at her thinking how cute she is she takes a crap; with no underwear or nappy it mostly falls to the ground and mingles with the dirt. Later on, our interview concluded, her father scoops the baby up, hand on her bottom and places her on his lap. He dangles her proudly. I give thanks that I am in a country where women and men do not shake hands.

A chum riep greeting later we are on the road and on our way back to Phnom Penh. This white, hairy armed, city girl is rather tired. We enter the outskirts and are hit with the offensive of Friday peak hour traffic. Streams of young women piled on trailers towed by motos flow out of the city away from the garment factories, towards their families in the Provinces. I go home, wash the mud and dirt of Kandal off and then head towards my little make-shift family for an after work drink at the extremely un-Provincial Foreign Correspondents Club.

2005-08-11T16:26:00.000+07:00

Ploughing in Snuol Village this morning

2005-08-11T16:19:00.000+07:00

Snoul Village, Takeo

Field Notes Part 1

2005-08-08T17:45:00.000+07:00

We cruise into Takeo in our shiny, white landcruiser at 9.30am and stop for a brief meeting at our Provincial head office with Phal the Takeo Coordinator. Half an hour later we are back on the road with one ute, one landcruiser and six people (including two drivers) off to Sam Rauon village. Once in the village we are invited to sit on a wooden slat bed under the house of the key village member involved in the project. Phal introduces me, explains what I am doing and asks if there are any questions. The family smile and say no, they have already established what they want to know. Phal explains to me that they asked the most pressing question on arrival, as I was getting out of the car. This was ofcourse: “Is she married?”. We get down to business.

This is the first in a series of visits I am undertaking through the project areas in south-east of Cambodia. The aim is to look at the quality of rice seed used by everyday farmers. To do this, we are collecting small samples of seed and also conducting some field tests if the farmer has planted her/his seed recently. We are now in rainy season, and true to form it starts to bucket down soon after I settle on the wooden slats. But the downpour only lasts ten minutes. It’s raining, but not enough. The past five years have been characterised by severe drought after severe drought. This has made the already difficult life of the Khmer farmer even more desperate, and in Takeo it is even worse than in other areas of the country. Currently farmers in Takeo are faced with the gamble of planting now and hoping enough rain falls or waiting until the season really sets in and hoping it holds out. This is a risk that involves extremely high stakes. I survey the palm lined paddy fields and wooden stilt houses; it looks peaceful and picturesque, but there are some very harsh realities that underlie this panorama.

One of the rice paddies we were working in.

I ask the family questions about their rice seed and their farm. They happily answer. This family have had their seed for 20 years. Each year they save some of their harvest, store it for 9 months, and then clean and dry it ready to plant into the earth again. Vichet and I go out into their field and place down our metal rod 0.25m by 0.25m squares. I squat on my haunches and slowly count the amount of rice plants in my square. I ask Vichet how to say “working under the hot sun” in Khmer. He laughs and tells me. For eighty percent of Cambodians this is just life, but for this pasty faced, white girl these conditions are somewhat novel.

Vichet, my counterpart, working under the hot Cambodian sun.

close-up of my counting square

Later that evening I talk with Phal about his perceptions of agricultural practices over the past 20 years. He tells me that less people are transplanting (growing rice in a nursery and then planting in the field once the seedlings are established) as costs have risen so much and labour is too expensive. This is compounded by the not insignificant flow of young women out of rural villages and into outer areas of Phnom Penh and Kandal to work in huge textile factories. This has reduced available family labour for farmers who just do not have the money to hire help. This has real ramifications for the yield that farmers get on their crops and the amount of food they have to feed their families.

After the morning in Sam Rouen we head to a village further north. I ask Chandra, our driver, how far it is. He informs me that it is 16km.
“Oh, so if we are meeting Mar Ouen there at 2pm we don’t need to leave for half an hour?”
Chandra shakes his head. The road is bad and it will take 40 minutes. We need to leave straight away. There has been a significant improvement in the roads through Cambodia, even in a year, and definitely since I first came here in 2001. However, the smooth, mud free, bitumen expanses tend to only be found on very major routes. Takeo to Kompong Thnal is definitely not one of these. The bad road is bad due to some serious mud, creating a majorly churned up, treacherous surface. I learn how to say the car is “bouncing all over the place” in Khmer, which sounds something like the English word “roulette”. It’s certainly a gamble whether we are going to make it to this village without getting bogged or overturning the vehicle. We make it, and I crack everyone up by using the roulette word incorrectly and saying the “road was bouncing all over the place”. Surely it is a matter of perspective?

Grass Eating Rabbits and Happy Pizza

2005-07-22T18:00:00.000+07:00

Its Saturday in Phnom Penh and I meet Jono at the Boom Boom room by the lake. This is a fairly uncharted part of town for me. Whilst accomodating a significant proportion of PP's barang members at any given time. Buong Kak is a far cry from my high fenced, landcruiser driving, NGO ridden, neighborhood. More closely resembling a shanty town this is, for some visitors, the main experience of life in Phnom Penh. Thong wearing, shaggy travellers amble through the dirt, narrow guesthouse and restaurant filled alleways. Quite a few of the guesthouses offer accomodation for free as long as you buy a meal. There is a lot of dirt, tin and western comfort food.

After casing out the pirate music options (which are impressively extensive and predictably cheap) Jono and I settle in at one of the many guesthouses that line the lakes shores. We order an ice coffee, mango shake and vegetarian pizza. I ask the woman at the desk to make the pizza "happy dtoich dtoich". The restaurant juts out over the lake and it is quite hot with no fans, still heat and the sounds of lapping water. We play some pool with varying consistency and soak up the atmosphere of idle travellers, hammocks and photocopied books about Khmer history.

After an extended wait (nobody is in any hurry over here) our pizza arrives. It is hot, of unknown potency and delicious. Jono, who was only going to have one slice, is lured in by the taste of crusty base and cheesy cheese. He throws caution to the wind and devours two more pieces. We sit back, sated and expectant and then head home to take a nap.

I awake at 7pm groggy and disoriented. My room and circumstances gradually take shape around me. I blunder out of my room and make some coffee. Jono is also recently risen. He knocks on my door and asks me to give him a hand as Narith (our guard) is trying to tell him something. I go out front and attempt to make sense of the situation. Through a mixture of Khmer and gesturing I gather that Narith wants to cut our grass but needs to buy shears to do so. He is asking us for $6 so he can buy two pairs. I am not convinced that I fully understand given that I do not know the Khmer word for grass or shears.

Our landlord pops his head over our fence and Jono attempts to clarify in French. He looks confused and doesn't seem to respond with his usual fluency. Another head emerges and a third language is introduced. The head belongs to our landlords friend who speaks English. We inform her that Narith is trying to tell us something but we are not sure we understand, could she check? A flow of Khmer follows and then French, Jono bursts out in English "a rabbit?". Finally, it is explained for me in english. It seems Narith was saying that he could buy us a new rabbit given that we had lost our old one.

More multi-lingual fracas occurs and Jono explains in both French and then English that we do not want a rabbit, and would prefer that Narith did not go and buy us one. I am speechless and racked with noiseless giggles. The landlord, friend and Narith leave and Jono and I sit out front rocking around with uncontrollable laughter. We settle down and then Jono says imagine if we had just given him the $6 usd he had asked for 2 "shears". The mental image of our astonishment at Narith arriving home with two rabbits is too much, i lose it again.

We pull ourselves together enough to get changed and onto motos out to the far south of town where the Cambodia Daily houses its foreign staff. For the second time that day I am in a very different part of town. Huge mansions abound with uniformed guards lounging outside. The house where we are going is no exception. Apart from a large collection of shoes piled by the doorway it appears uninhabited.

We leave our footwear with the others and enter. There is a ramshackle pile of empty boxes and junk furniture on the right of the entranceway and ahead of us is a staircase. On the first floor it is equally deserted, a huge coridoor stretches out before us with many closed wooden doors lining its length. I feel like we are in an abandoned hotel. We ascend to another level where faint strains of life can be heard. It seems there is a party. It is located on the roof.

As the house is big, the rooftop is, unsurprisingly, similarly proportioned. In the centre is a collection of couches, chairs and stools filled with people. I drink some terrible red wine and am introduced to an assortment of Daily workers and others. I gaze out across the rooftops and feel completely detached from conversation. The rooftop is pretty dusty and a crumbly section appears to once have had the ingredients for a bar. I ask around whether this building used to be a hotel, but no one knows. Looking out I see other similarly expansive rooftop spaces, fairy lights and backyards with pools and barbed wire fences. Very little is shiny and new, it all harks back at least ten years. I imagine crazy parties bursting with young UN workers (yes I have recently read "emergency sex...") But this time has long past and right here and now I am feeling listless and disinterested.

We move on. The next party is in my neighborhood at an elegant french colonial ground floor apartment. We are greeted with jazz and dancing. I mingle and talk about blogs, travelling and music.

The night wears on. There is a spirited dancing and shouting along to "I come from the land down under". Perhaps it is time to leave? But to where? My original crew have long gone home, and Andrew has recently headed homewards (without his shoes). I decide to follow suit (but with footwear) and end up in my room. Its 6.00am and I collapse into bed. I am loving living in this town, it is such a easy and enjoyable city to be in. But tonight, I am aware that the gloss is starting to wear off. Us Intake 13 AYAs have almost hit the 3 month mark and perhaps everyone is feeling it in some shape or form?

Six days later, I am sitting in my living room. Jono and myself are filling the recently returned Stewart in on the rabbit story. It seems that I somehow got the wrong end of the stick. According to Jono, Narith did not think that we had lost a white rabbit, but was simply asking whether we wanted a pair of rabbits to manage the grass. So after all that, our initial translation was not so far from the truth!
"No one said anything about us losing a rabbit!" (this is from Jono)
"How did you get that story??!" (this is Stew)
Obviously something affected my ability to draw logical conclusions... I take the easy way out and blame the pizza. Once again, I am in my house and beside myself with laughter. I reckon I can handle at least another three months of this.

In contrast

2005-07-22T15:39:00.000+07:00

Phnom Penh on a Sunday arvo.

aaah, relaxing in Sihanoukville

2005-07-22T15:37:00.000+07:00

Bec and Andrew wandering along with some of the beach kids.

Escape to Snookeyville

2005-07-13T17:30:00.000+07:00

I decided to skip town on Friday. It was a much needed attempt to break out of my increasingly entrenched habit of hedonistic weekends in PP. With our favourite partner in crime out of the picture and in another country, Andrew and I figured now was the time to get away from it all. We took Friday arvo off and arrived in Snookers (aka Sihanoukville; located 226km south east of Phnom Penh) around 5pm. We were greeted by heavy downpour and an onslaught of moto dops. Undeterred by exorbitant transport costs and hostile environmental conditions we got ourselves down to the beach and in possession of a thatched bungalow with a balcony. Andrew pointed out that most Khmer would probably be extremely puzzled by our choice to pay USD$10 per night to stay in what is ostensibly a traditional Khmer dwelling with a few modifications for barang tastes (like beds not on the wooden floorboards). The bungalow was nestled up on a slope, with a great view of the beach. I thought it was perfect.

Not too early on Saturday morning we joined forces with Bec. She had come down for a work conference and was foregoing a four hour bus, with karaoke, journey back to PP with her work colleagues to hang out with us. Our plan was to hire motos and go exploring. However, this was not to be easily achieved. None of us had our passports with us and the moto hire outlet (for some reason) would not accept a Victorian, ACT or NSW drivers license instead. We dejectedly tried again at another place. At first, they were very receptive: two motos were fetched, forms were filled out, and our spirits buoyed. But alas, the same problem re-surfaced. We cajoled and pleaded and finally after a lengthy half Khmer-half English exchange we handed over $10, three Australian drivers licenses and Andrew’s business card. I donned my red helmet, slipped the key into the ignition and we readied to depart. It was all smiles and farewells, and then ‘oh, you do know how to ride moto, yes?’ But it seems the answer to this question was not so important and we were off down the slope, motos gleaming in the hot sun.

It was an extremely pleasant day. I felt a wonderful sense of abandon, driving my red moto on the beach, burning along the white sand with the waves lapping at my wheels. There is really nowhere in this country where motos do not go. My feelings of unbridled joy were somewhat dampened by an untimely collision with a sand bank, but apart from some momentary feelings of embarrassment, no harm was done. This was not the only time I led my poor moto astray. After negotiating a particularly nasty stretch of boggy, sticky track we were faced with the option of tackling a steep hill or turning back. I was not prepared for the latter and optimistically discounted the difficulty of the former. Next thing I know we were halfway up the hill, drawing a crowd, tired, sweaty and stuck. I was grimly determined to get my moto up that hill. But after two failed attempts, one of which may have involved me being thrown to the ground and the moto rushing into the side of the road and sustaining some injury, Andrew took over. Through a combination of strength and maneuvering he got the poor, little machine to the top of the hill. On a positive note, this incident provided much entertainment for the locals. Thankfully, after the hill it was smooth driving into the sunset. We returned to the beach and found a restaurant which served yummy mediterranean food and even managed to produce an affogato. After a chocolate crepe and then beers on the beach I decided it was time to crawl into bed.

The next morning was stunning, with clear blue skies and sparkling water. We wandered along the beach and chatted with the many children who employ emotional blackmail and extremely cute facial contortions to try and sell you fruit, bracelets and shells. Unfortunately, our time was up and we had to bundle onto a bus back to the capital. My arms now heavy with shell bracelets and my head firmly against returning to work I wished that I could have just one extra day. But it was not to be, at 5pm we entered the outskirts of Phnom Penh and were greeted by the bedlam that is Sunday early evening traffic. Oh, the trials and tribulations of being a volunteer worker in Cambodia!!

BongThea signing out.

Back to MVU

2005-06-20T15:00:00.000+07:00

A group of 3rd years with me at Wat Bo Phnom for a 'beginning of rainy season' festival

Light years away from Java Cafe, the Heart and frozen mango daiquiris, I am deposited on a dusty, chewed up, quagmire of a road and excitedly greeted by my former students who wait for me outside the gates of Maharishi Vedic University. Everything is immediately familiar and comfortable. I will be staying in Ratha's house but Channat and Sokchea will come over to sleep (we all sleep in the one bed) and the rest of third year will be constant visitors. I am swept along on a wave of goodwill and sillyness back into their world of study, Curriculum Vitaes and playful teasing. I have a wonderful weekend.

The women prepare huge group dinners. We sit down on mats with our bowls heaped with rice. Meat and vegetable dishes are carefully spread out and arranged in the centre. Shoving huge forkfuls of rice into their mouths they tease each other incessantly with odd nicknames. I am used to hearing Sopheap call Thilda a 'pig' and Hull calling Chea 'small eyes', but I can't quite get into the spirit of things. It is common to comment on someone's appearance and attractive qualities are perceived rather differently. Last year, it took me a while to digest the fact that when the student's said to me 'teacher, you have such a long nose!' that this was meant to be highly complimentary. This year, Hull greets me with the statement "Nea Krew, you are more beautiful and fatter than before!"... urrmm, thankyou Hull.

After eating the women go outside and clean up. As the guest of honour I am encouraged to stay away from cleaning. Instead, I am to recline and talk with the boys about their worries and concerns of finding two month work-placements. After the first day, I denounce my guest status and pitch in with the cleaning. Forming a huddle, we squat, flat footed our knees approaching chin height. We use three tubs, detergent and our hands either rinsing or washing bowls and cutlery in the tin tubs. With 6 women working, dirty dishes for 20 are clean in no time.

I am constantly humbled by my inability to do basic things. On my first night, Channat has to show me how to take a bath. I hover ineffectually whilst she pumps water and arranges buckets. I am at least a little practised with the bathing thing, but am still not capable of doing it fully in public. In rural areas, women generally wash outside at the pump wearing a sarong. For the truly experienced, no towels are involved; one simply holds the tube-sarong away from their body and pours water in and after some scrubbing dries off with the dry-outstretched section of the sarong. I cannot tell you how much difficulty I have washing myself properly and remaining decent.

Everyone seems to tell me that someone else has a boyfriend/girlfriend but no one will actually admit to it themself. In a quieter moment when it is just Liev, Chea and myself, Liev tells me that she does have a boyfriend who is studying agriculture in fourth year. Chea who has no boyfriend spiritedly retorts that she has no time for boyfriends, she is busy studying! She points to Liev "for her, it is all over." it is a bit hard to gauge the full meaning of this statement given translation difficulties. But it seems, that in Cambodia you only get one shot at love. I talk with them about how they feel it is important for women at MVU to be careful as often boys will have 'university girlfriends' and then leave them for a girl in their village with whom their parents will have an agreement with. Whilst things are definitely changing in Phnom Penh, in rural Cambodia once a woman has a boyfriend she is meant to marry him. 'Breaking up' is not an option! Such a thing can seriously damage a woman's reputation and prospects... and don't even mention sex before marriage... over here, kissing before marriage is taboo. It once again brings back the fact that the world these women face is so different to the one I experienced at university! Yet there are similarities and whilst these women may not drink beer and pash boys, by going to university a much wider world of freedom and experience has opened up to them than that available with their families in their villages.

On Sunday afternoon we prepare a huge 'desert' party. All the women are busy, bent over vats of bubbling, simmering sweet stuff. The party is at Meath's (aka#1 DJ irrigation - as his eyes are often moist... go figure??) house. It is a straw and wooden hut which he shares with a first year student. Meath's family live in a nearby district. He built this house himself after his first year, as riding to and from his village each day was taking a toll on his studies and his ability to participate in extra-curricular work in the evenings. Meath used to be my interpreter and he is just wonderful, always greeting me with a huge smile on his face (aka#2 DJ smile). After three different types of traditional Khmer desert we all stretch out, our bellies full. It is at this point that I field the usual requests of "Nea Krew, sing to us!". They love to sing. I compromise and teach them "under the bridge" by RHCP (only because some of them know it already) and we all sing together. They love it. "Chupadum" (from the beginning again) they call as soon as we finish. We clap hands and smile. I am reminded of why I was so keen to return to this country.

On Monday morning I am awoken at 5.00 am to prepare for my journey back to the big smoke. It will take an indeterminate amount of time; dependant on passengers, the ferry at Neak Louen and a whole range of other incomprehensible factors. I walk to Cho, the nearest village, accompanied by a fare-well party of 9. The van/minibus is already obscenely full and my students look downright distressed at the thought of me having to cram inside. Chy Meath orders several people to move and demands a choice spot by the window for me. I take a deep breath and squeeze in. I am handed some traditional rice sweets from the boys and the girls give me a bag with water and a little tin of milk inside for my breakfast. I am very touched by their care and thoughtfulness. We sit, the engine running, incapable of moving even a limb for a further 20 minutes. An additional passenger turns up and jams herself into a space unfit for a small child by crawling through an open window. From this point, all other passengers pile on the roof. Finally, with much horn honking, the van pulls out of the market place and we begin our meander out of Prey Veng. I wave goodbye to my students and feel a bit teary. I settle in for a long ride and haltingly pendulum back to my life in Phnom Penh.

Nea Krew signing out.

Preparing dinner at Rotha's house

2005-06-18T15:11:00.000+07:00

My street

2005-06-18T15:00:00.000+07:00

My house

On the Rails in Phnom Penh

2005-06-13T04:00:00.000+07:00

And here I am again...

I am less than 200km away from Takeo, but in many ways a universe of distance. I am sitting in Java, hung over as a dog, fuzzy headed and completely sleep deprived. I feel crap, and am further depressed by how common this weekend experience is becoming. The soft jazz, aircon and delectably western menu is soothing, reassuring but ultimately nothing short of more panadol and an afternoon sleep is going to fully fix my problems. I hate sleeping away my weekend days it feels very wasteful.

It was a fairly typical weekend night. We started at home, I set up my ipod and speakers in the living room and Stew and I kicked back out front, drank beer and talked about how good 'Sambanova' by Pnau is. Andrew rocked up with a mate from Sydney and we graduated to G&Ts and dinner was ordered in. Post preparatory showers (gnt in shower), clearing of takeaway containers and helmet fetching we were on motos and off to Salt. Once inside, 6 of us nestle on two couches on an upper level with beers and cocktails littering our coffee table. We look down on the stark walls, measured use of neon lighting and discuss how this bar could be in New York; the framed and spotlighted Cambodian flag, rainbow flag and two pictures of the King are a nice Cambodian, yet distinctly un-Cambodian touch.

The night is waxing and for some reason unrelated to good sense or taste I am back on beers and in the Heart of Darkness. Yes, it is a club. And yes, it is actually called the 'Heart of Darkness'. Tonight it is packed to the gills. I am in the centre of the crush, beer in one hand dancing to Justin Timberlake. Yes, I am having a good time. I am surrounded by Khmers dancing with Khmers, bearded backpackers dancing with Khmers and expats dancing with all of the above. The women are scantily clad for Cambodia, yet this club is a fine balance of modern PP and sleeze. This is my second time here and I am semi-disappointed by the amount of good, clean, fun everyone is having. At least at Riverside Club you get frisked and run over with a metal detector on entry. 'The Heart' (as it is affectionately known) is notorious, but from my perspective very few foreigners or Khmer are totally off the rails in Phnom Penh, or if they are they are doing so in other establishments. The night is waning, and Stew and I are the last ones remaining of our original crew. I am drunk and the room, its lines and my lines start to waver and bend. Time to go home.

Free Agent Cambodia signing out.

A trip to the Takeo office

2005-06-09T03:00:00.000+07:00

scene of the Takeo shoe incident

On a quick viewing, Takeo leaves the newly arrived visitor with an impression of a dusty, forgotten backwater. A long time ago it was probably quite a charming provincial centre with all the trappings of French architecture and monuments that are accorded such a town. These days I don't think one could even honestly describe the buildings as holding a faded charm. Many are decrepit, crumbling shells filled with refuse and riddled with bullet holes; aging signs of destruction being worn away by neglect and the elements. Yet, somehow this depressing list of characteristics come together to be somewhat the opposite. The burnt out, shot out central edifice is now used as a market and is surrounded by worn, dark skinned Khmer swathed in checked materials, who sit and swat flies away from their limpened produce. The administrative buildings that checker the middle of town are either totally beyond use or just manageable. Many are covered in wild, verdant green bushes adding bundles of colour to the yellow and blue faded French walls and roofs.

I step out into the main roundabout in town, which is anchored by a large, red Angkorian modelled structure (rather reminiscent of the Independance Monument, except on a smaller scale). Immediately, I attract attention. It is nearing the end of siesta, yet still very hot. What is that barang srei doing? Where is she going? Does she need a moto? I am innundated with curious looks and offers of transport. A dude from the AQIP office cruises by, stops and pats the back of his moto seat. I decline and offer the implausible and bizarre explanation (to Khmer ears) that I want to walk. He smiles, shrugs and motos away.

I revel in my 20 minutes of freedom before having to return to work and potter a little further away so I can take a photo of the Independance-Monument-like structure. It is at this point that my new white sandals completely fall apart. Not just one strap breaks, but somehow two unconnected pieces of synthetic material (no leather for this animal loving girl) break at the same time. Crap. I limp over to a stone snake statue in the centre of a traffic island and inspect the damage. Pretty bad. But then, what does one expect for $3 at Psar Orsay? I throw off the other shoe and carrying my sandals in my hand I pad gingerly across the road; read broken crusts of asphalt and hardened dirt. If I hadn't attracted attention before, I certainly have now. At the entrance of my guesthouse the owners are chilling out still in siesta mode (some people seem to manage this all day). The lady owner is in a hamock and speaks to me in Khmer. I guess that she says something like "Why are you walking around barefoot in the heat of the day you silly foreign woman?" I attempt to say my shoe has broken but am flustered and forget the word for broken. I manage some muttered, incomprehensible words followed by a flow of embarassed words in english (equally incomprehensible to this woman). I escape upstairs.

Up in my room it takes five or so minutes to apply safety pins into the flimsy synthetic and secure the straps back in place. It will work, but I am not sure for how long. I smile wryly to myself. Working with limited resources was a key part of the selection criteria for this job and what better example then fixing shoddy footware in rural Cambodia with 2 safety pins? I walk downstairs and the owner, still in her hammock, calls me over. I lift my big toe to display the safety pin underneath. She makes a noise of displeasure and kicks of her shoes. "Use mine" She emphatically points at her shoes to back up the Khmer words.

I love it. How often in Australia would someone offer their shoes to a complete stranger without even a thought?

Ferry crossing at Neak Loeun: I am sitting beside my driver, in air-conditioned comfort inside one of works elephantine white 4WDs.

Life in PP

2005-05-06T19:00:00.001+07:00

Rice plot near Takeo town: this is the sort of thing I go look at when not in the office! The water is from a nearby irrigation channel which was built by the project.

This post is actually taken out of a letter I wrote after being in Phnom Penh for 2 weeks. I am posting some of it as it gives a bit of a feeling of my initial impressions of this place.

It's Friday afternoon after my second day at work and I am fresh from a session at a nearby internet cafe. I am striding down Sihanouk Avenue a big smile on my face. I am oblivious to the peak hour traffic which wends its way around me. Still beaming, I look up to see a cyclo driver patiently cycling beside me trying to attract my attention (my distraction is such that I have no idea for how long he has been shadowing me). I shake my head and dip back into my thoughts. On the phone, I was asked whether I am having a good time here. I am definitely having fun. Phnom Penh is a fascinating and multi-faceted city. I love the dirt, narrow alleys with overhanging bouganvillias on high fences and the small community feel of my neighborhood. I get a kick out of going to the many markets and using my crappy Khmer to bargain. I like this town for it's extremes and excesses, yet this is also something that repells me; the huge mansions, Lexus four-wheel drives with tinted glass to hide the identities of their powerful passengers, the fat, middle-aged white men with young Khmer girls in their laps and the raggedy clothed kids that look up at me with wide-eyes and cry 'nyam, nyam'.

My image of Phnom Pehn was even more challenged by my two day trip to Takeo and Kandal, two provinces to the south of the city. It was definitely an interesting trip. My first trek out into 'real Cambodia' (ie anywhere that isn't PP) since arriving. A driver took me out of PP in one of work's gleaming white four-wheel drives through the dusty, bumpy roads. Despite a few sporadic downpours in the city the rainy season hasn't come yet and so the country is incredibly dry. It is not a sunburnt reddy brown like Australia; instead, muted tones of light dust and faded green palm trees break up the wide humid expanses. Last time I was out here Cambodia was in the middle of a drought and things were extremely desperate. To my eye not a lot has changed. Paddy fields are alternated with small, poor villages filled with life and people. I felt very incongruous in my big, white car.

Turning my attention back to PP peak hour, I place my life in the hands of a system which has a facade of utter chaos (I like to tell myself it is a facade, perhaps the hideously high road toll says otherwise). I walk unstopping across a major intersection and ignore the waves of traffic bearing down on me. I see bare barang elbows and knees, holding camers snapping shots of the independance monument; Khmer's in cars and on motos piled high and stuffed full of people and things. It's not uncommon to see entire families of 5 on the one moto.

I make it to my house. My haven of comfort and safety. Our guard swings our big corrugated iron gate open for me and I step into my front yard. Our guard has a gold tooth, is lovely and always helps us around the house. It is an on-going battle to properly pronounce his name. My housemates and myself are in complete disagreement about his age. I am finding it very difficult to guage age here, many middle-aged people look so much older. Perhaps a result of such a terrible history?

We are very proud of our yard. It is made up of red paving and a grassy patch with lots of plants, a papaya and a longan tree around the edges. The front of the house has a thatched roof overhanging with small pot plants dangling down attached by wire. We have invested in two huge, comfy chairs (perfectly designed for curling up in, feet tucked up) and a small, rattan coffee table to sit outside under the straw awning.

After a lukewarm G&T in our front garden (our fridge instructions are all in Chinese and consequentlywe are having trouble with some basic operations). We bade goodnight to Severith and take motos to 'Elsewhere'. I hop off the moto from my side-saddle position and walk through the front gates into another world. In those several seconds of entry I experience one of those moments where everything seems to slow down and you notice random things that stick with you. I catch a flash of Andrew's very cool $2 USD new shirt from Psar Thmay, Stew's moto helmet slung carelessly from his fingertips; I am wearing green thongs and my fringe has gone all curly from the humidity. As we walk, in front of us unfolds a beautifully plush garden with electro, deep beats reverberating, somehow, from every shrub, palm and blade of grass. There is a pool and an elegant, colonial/asian style stone house dominating the background. I am confronted with a rather disarming atmosphere of privilege.

I sip my $3USD Mohito and discuss with Krishni and Stew our thoughts and perceptions of PP. This is a night where I am going to spend around $USD20 which is equivalent to two weeks wages for a teacher, policeman or low-level government worker. I am really going to have to resolve how I feel about these things. Meanwhile, free vodka shots are being laid out across the bar and people have stripped off and are playing in the pool. I stay out till past 4am.

2005-04-23T08:00:00.000+07:00

"Ladies and Gentlemen we will soon be arriving in Phnom Pehn. Please fasten your seat belts, stow your tray tables and bring your seats to their full upright position. Local time is 6pm and the temperature outside is 38 degrees. Please remain seated until the craft comes to a full stop and the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign. We thank you for flying with Vietnam Airlines and wish you a safe and happy time in Phnom Penh".

Aaaaaahhhhhhh.... I'm back!