Bamboo Trains and Pigs on Pot

March 29, 2009

Battambang is about half-way between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh – a good place to break an otherwise rather long bus trip. It's a pleasant city, with wide tree-lined boulevards, and a nice walkway along the river. And, compared to many Cambodian cities, it's relatively clean. There are garbage cans on the street, and people actually use them. Battambang is also a cultured sort of place, with a number of universities, schools and colleges. You see people reading. Many of the townspeople speak English.

We were taking an evening stroll when we came upon several groups of people – all women – doing dance aerobics to disco music in the park. It was so great. They were having such a good time, dancing in long lines, following a male(!) leader. Some of them were singing along to the lyrics as they pumped their arms and kicked their feet.

Other people were getting their exercise by walking with gusto, playing badminton, or playing a kind of hacky-sack game with a shuttle-cock. Other people just sat in the park watching the action, talking, or eating food from the many stalls set up along the road. Corn on the cob, sandwiches, fruit, drinks. It was like a fair. And... it happens every evening! What a great thing!

While we were in Battambang we hired a couple of guys to drive us round the countryside. Our first 'stop' was the 'bamboo train.' This is an ingenious idea – a low-tech way of using the railroad tracks for small scale transportation. Here's how it works. The 'train' is just a single 'car,' which consists of a small wooden platform (about 4'x6') covered with a bamboo mat. The platform sits on the track atop a couple of sets of miniature train wheels. An engine about the size of a lawn-mower engine is perched on the platform over the rear set of wheels. And a belt attached to the engine and the rear set of wheels provides the power that scoots the 'bamboo train' along the tracks. Simple, cheap and very effective.

Once our train was set up on the track, we piled on with our drivers and their two motorbikes. We were given pillows, and sat at the front of the platform. Our drivers sat on their bikes. The 'engineer,' who looked like he was about twelve years old, filled the engine with gas, then started it up and off we went.

We had to stop a couple of times and unload everything when we met up with another 'bamboo train' coming towards us that was more heavily loaded, and therefore had the 'right of way.' One was carrying a big load of wood with a small woman on top. Our train was speedily unloaded, the engine, platform and wheels removed from the tracks, and the woman and her wood carried on. Then our train was reassembled, and we were on our way again. Fantastic!

Apparently the 'bamboo trains' will soon be a thing of the past, as the governments of Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam have plans to use the line for a new train that will go from Bangkok to Saigon. It's a great idea, but it will require all new track. The tracks we were on were as wavy as a couple of wet noodles – it was a very bumpy ride! So, in terms of the new international train, we'll believe it when we see it.

Back on our bikes, we puttered through the rice-paddied country-side and a few small villages with no electricity or running water. There were hug cement urns outside every house. They get filled with water every week or so – more often in rainy season, when its so much easier to collect. The houses were mostly made of wood and up on stilts. Some had palm thatch rooves, others corrugated iron. They appeared fairly neat and clean, and the people looked well fed. Kids had clothes and shoes.

We saw several groups of school kids riding bikes. All had white shirts or blouses and dark pants or skirts. All also had big smiles and yelled happy “hellos” at us. They see very few tourists, and seemed truly thrilled – almost awed – to see us.

Given what we've heard about the rural poverty here in Cambodia we were fairly favourably impressed. Our driver said that the rice crop had been good this year, so the villagers were well fed. His family, like other families, owns a two hectare plot of land on which they grow rice. It yields around 700 kilos of rice a year. He comes from a family of nine children. The rice they grow is enough to feed them all with just a little extra that they can sell. They all do something else to make money. He's a motorcycle taxi man.

At one point we saw a great big pig happily sleeping in the shade of a tree.

 “They feed them marijuana!” my driver yelled. 

“What?” I called back over the roar of the motorcycle engine. “What did you say?”

"They feed them marijuana to make them eat more and sleep a lot. So they get very fat very fast.”

"Do they smoke it themselves?” I asked. 

“What?” He yelled.   “The marijuana. DO THEY SMOKE IT?” I yelled back, going through the motions of holding an imaginary joint to my mouth and inhaling.

He laughed at that. “No, they don't smoke it, they eat it. You know, like 'happy pizzas.'”

But the people, unlike the pigs, are neither fat nor sleepy. They don't get enough to eat to get fat, and anyway they work too hard.

If I lived in Cambodia, I'd like to be a pig. 

Angels in our Midst, Kratie Cambodia

March 29, 2009

It's funny – and wonderful – how one sometimes gets the messages one needs most at the right time, but from the most unlikely sources. This is a story about angels.

I have recently been through yet another difficult time with my family of origin. It's a large family, dominated by my eldest brother, who consistently ridicules and bullies other members of the family – particularly the females.

This behaviour has been going on for so long unchallenged that it has become accepted as 'normal.' As I'm the only one who doesn't accept it, I'm frequently identified as the disruptive and unwelcome element.

On this occasion, my brother has decided to ostracize me from a family discussion. (I had the audacity to ask some questions about his points of view.) The rest of the family has decided, as usual, not to say or do anything about this discriminatory behaviour. They don't want to 'get involved.'

But as I am smarting from this latest family sting, two angels bearing messages of love and appreciation came my way. Just when I needed them, there they were.

The first is an old friend 'back home' who I haven't heard from in months, but who has been reading my posts from Asia.  She wrote:

“I've just read all of your letters (some for the second time) in one go tonight. Jules, you are a marvellous writer All of your pieces have been so interesting and elucidating. I have laughed and sighed, and definitely been envy-green of your Phu Quoc beach days (daze). But the little girl, Alberta, touched me the most. ...I just saw the movie, "Slum Dog Millionaire" last night, and your "Alberta" could have been in some of those scenes. I hope she writes her way out of poverty. How does it feel for you to have to walk away from her, and others like her, how do you get past what I imagine would be a deep sense of powerlessness and frustration, to say nothing of sorrow....aaah, that old wheel of life, it just keeps turnin' around.”

I am elated. How wonderful to hear that someone thinks I'm 'a marvellous writer,' and that my scribblings have moved them to laughter and sighs. And how wonderful that she understands and appreciates the sentiments that underly my writings.

My second angel was someone I'd never met. We were checking out a different hotel, looking for one with hot water which ours claimed to have when we took the room, but admitted they didn't have when we pointed out that the water heater in our bathroom didn't seem to be working... .

She came bounding up the stairs – young, fresh, attractive – and full of energy. We struck up a conversation right away. As she was clearly Asian, but spoke impeccable English, I wondered where she was from. Singapore? Hong Kong?

“China,” she said. “I'm from Shenzhen, a city in Guangdong province, in the southeast of China.” She's here in Kratie, like us and most of the other tourists, to see the rare Irriwaddy dolphin. (There are apparently only about 100 left, so their days are numbered.) We agreed we'd all go together a little later that afternoon.

The trip to see the dolphins involved a half-hour ride in a tuk-tuk, and then an hour in a little wooden boat drifting about in the middle of the Mekong River watching for dolpins. We saw lots of them – likely the same ones numerous times. There's a resident 'school' of around 16 of them in this area.

The outing gave us a chance to get to know Hebe (pronounced Heebee) a little better. The first thing she said, when she got into the tuk-tuk with us, was: “When I saw you I thought you must be a movie star. You are so beautiful and you have that, what is the word, that air of elegance about you that movie stars have.”

Now, for a 58 year old woman with white hair who wears no make up and definitely does not consider themselves even remotely beautiful, let alone like a 'movie star,' these were more than just 'encouraging words. This was downright dazzling!

“Elephant,” I said. “You think I'm elephant!” Her English is good enough that she got the play on words right away, and laughed. She gave me a hug. “Yes really, I think you're very elephant!”

She is not only really (and truly) beautiful herself, but clearly has a winning way with people. Unfortunately she had managed to hit her head that morning, opening up a gash on her forehead which she'd covered with a large bandage. I asked her about it. She said she'd walked right into a metal pipe that was sticking out into a sidewalk area from a construction site.

“Was it dirty and rusty?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “it was.” “Do you know about tetanus?” “Yes, but I don't have to worry, I'm from China.”

I told her why, even if the cut was small, she did need to worry – especially here, in a country like Cambodia, where medical facilities and resources are, to say the least, very limited. I told her I'd take a look at the cut for her after dinner.

Meanwhile, as luck would have it, I saw another young woman at the restaurant we were having dinner at.  She looked like she might be working here in Cambodia, and I decided to ask her if she knew anything about health care facilities here in Kratie, and specifically about the availability of tetanus vaccine.

As luck would also have it, she was a health care worker, and she knew a lot about the facilities and resources here. Furthermore, she volunteered to ride her bicycle up the road to see if the doctor's clinic was still open, as that's who had the tetanus vaccine. She came back to say that the clinic was open, but the doctor was not there. However the midwife who worked with him was, and she had agreed to administer the tetanus vaccine.

When Hebe came to meet us at the restaurant she had barely sat down and ordered her drink before I'd convinced her that she should go and get the tetanus shot. The health care worker got a waiter at the restaurant, who was a friend of hers as well, to take Hebe to the doctor on his motorcycle. Meanwhile I went across the road to a clinic and asked the doctor's assistant there if he would look at the cut and put some antiseptic on it. He said he would.

Hebe came back about ten minutes later, and I didn't even let her sit down before I shepherded her across the road to the clinic. There the doctor's assistant, likely feeling somewhat intimidated by a white woman who he thought was a health worker (me), suggested that I look at the wound and apply the antiseptic. He would watch.

As it turned out the gash, though long, was fairly superficial. I dabbed it with povidone, which stings, and the doctor's assistant and I agreed it would be better left to the open air. We thanked him profusely, all bowing to one another in the charming Asian way, and then Hebe and I went back to join our men at the restaurant.

At the restaurant we talked about China, and Hebe and her man invited us to visit them there so they could cook us up some 'real' Chinese food with fresh fresh vegetables and seafood.

When we parted company for the evening, I told Hebe I was sorry if she felt that I had pushed her to do something she wasn't sure she wanted to do, but I cared about her and knew she had only a limited time to get the tetanus short. “And now,” my husband added, “you can step on all the rusty nails you want to and you won't have to worry!”

Hebe put her arms around me and said: “No, I don't feel bad at all! I am so glad that you helped me. Thank you for looking after me. You are a good friend. I love you.”

The next morning we met with Hebe for breakfast. I told her I had written this story, and that she was one of my angels. She gave me a big smile and said “You are my angel too.”

And when she wrote her address for me in my book, she added the note: “You're the sunshine in the day that brings a lot of happiness. You make my days in Kratie enjoyable. Please come to visit!”

Hey, what more positive messages could I have received at a time when I was feeling unloved and unappreciated? Here's to the angels in our midst – may we all have many, especially when we need them!

Post script: My third angel appeared the day after I posted 'Angels in our Midst.' This angel is someone I don't know, and will likely never meet – an online reader who, after reading some of my scribbles, took the time to send me a message. Here's what it said:

"Hi,
I just wanted to say how impressed I am of the journey that you and your husband are on. The fact that you left everyday life as you used to know it, to seek adventure is so fascinating. You're proving that nothing matters; your age, jobs or living situation; you're always able to explore the world. It's nice to know that one don't have to see everything there is to see before settling down..
I hope you have a fantastic time during your trips!"

Good and Bad Tourists, Phnom Penh

 “The good ones are the British, Americans, Canadians and Australians.  The bad ones are the Russians, French, Spanish and Israelies.”  He waved his hand dismissively to emphasize his point, “The Israelis are the worst.”  Thus spake someone with good reason to know – a Cambodian tuk-tuk driver at Angkor Wat. 

He had just finished helping us out by translating a slightly complicated communication with our own tuk-tuk driver, whose English was very limited.  We were trying to find yet a third tuk-tuk driver, who was the driver for a French Canadian gal we'd met inside one of the many Angkor temples who was looking for a new guest house.  We'd told her we were at a good one, but we couldn't remember its name.  But we'd given the guest house card to our tuk-tuk driver.  So we wanted to get it from him and give it to her driver.

 

As it turned out, her driver had taken off.  According to our Zarathrustra, he'd taken off because he was hungry and had no money.  His services had been arranged through the woman's guest house, and they had not yet paid him.  He'd been driving her for two days, and had several more to go.  He picked her up at 7:30 in the morning, drove her around the various temples all day, and dropped her back at her guest house at 6:30 or 7:00 at night.  Almost a twelve hour day.

 

But the real problem, Zarathrustra told us, was that the woman had not made sure that he got something to eat when she stopped for lunch.  Here's how it works.  If the tuk-tuk driver takes his riders to a particular food stall, and they eat there, then he gets fed for 'free' – that's his 'kick-back.'  But if the riders do their own thing for lunch, he gets nothing.  Because this guy hadn't been paid, he also had no money to buy himself something to eat.

 

“The British, Americans, Canadians and Australians are good.  They think about their tuk-tuk driver.  They understand how hard the drivers' lives are.  They are sympathetic.  When they go to lunch, they make sure that the tuk-tuk driver eats too.  The Russians, French, Spanish, Israelis – they don't care.  They don't think about their drivers.”

 

Zarathrustra was middle-aged, well-educated and well-spoken.  He was not an 'angry young man' or a 'bitter old man.'  He spoke with quiet authority, and a great deal of compassion.  If we'd had more time, we would have sat down with him and talked about the myriad social issues associated with tourism in Cambodia.  

 

Although tourism brings in literally tons of money into this impoverished nation, little of it gets to those who need it most.  The government rakes off almost all of it. There are more Lexuses in Phnom Penh than I have seen anywhere.  And most of them are owned by government officials, politicians and Cambodians who have gotten rich quick on the tourist boom.  

 

The rest of the luxury cars are owned by the various foreign government 'diplomats' and NGO workers whose pockets are overflowing with foreign aid money.  When they're not driving their air-conditioned 4WD Lexuses around, they can be seen hanging out together at chi-chi bars and high-end restaurants, guzzling specialty drinks (no plebian beer for them!) and downing plates of gourmet 'fusion' foods.  

 

Just a few feet away, on the street, destitute men, women and children beg for scraps.  None of them pay any attention to these people.  They're not here for them.  They're here for themselves.

 

But the most interesting thing, to us, about Zarathrustra's sweeping generalizations about good and bad tourists, is how frequently we have heard exactly the same sentiments expressed by locals in so many countries we have visited.   Furthermore we have heard the same sentiments expressed by other travellers.

 

Israelis are particularly disliked, for their rudeness, arrogance and just plain bad manners.  The only people I have ever seen put their feet up on the table in a restaurant are Israelis.  Some people suggest that we are just seeing the obnoxious Israelis – the young people who have just finished their two years of military service and are 'cutting loose.'  Maybe so.

 

French are also disliked for their arrogance, and their determination to speak no other language except French, no matter where they are.  After three years of having our cheery 'hellos' – and even 'bon jours!' - icily ignored by the French, we gave up greeting them.  Now we wait for them to say something first.  In the two years since we've adopted this approach, less than a handful of French tourists have said a word of greeting.  Tres amusant, non?

 

The Russians exude a heavy domineering, glowering presence.  They also tend not to smile or speak to other travellers.   One gets the impression of a kind of zenophobic superiority.  But to be fair, they don't appear to be having much fun among themselves either.  Perhaps it's just not in their nature.

 

By contrast, the British, Americans, Canadians and Australians are almost uniformly friendly and out-going.  One can count on them to smile and say 'hello.'  More importantly, one can count on them to help out when needed, to offer information, to lend a hand.

 

Zarathrustra and others like him offer us travellers something important: a window on ourselves.  They give us an opportunity, in the words of Robbie Burns, “to see ourselves as others see us.”

 

Like it or not, every traveller is an ambassador for their country.  It's up to every one of us to make sure that we are 'good' ambassadors.

 

 

 

 

 

Pov the Cyclo Driver goes to the Lake, Siem Reap, Cambodia

March 2009

When we were in Siem Reap we splurged and bought seven-day passes to 'Angkor Wat.' We didn't spend all day tramping around temples, but started late, around 10:30, when the large groups of tourists were already leaving to go to fancy restaurants for lunch, and ended most days by 3:30 or 4. We took our time, as long as we wanted, looking at the awesome stonework, the beautiful and intricate sculptures. We just sat in the midst of the ruins and imagined the spectacular ceremonies that might have occurred there.

We hired a great cyclo driver named Pov (pronounced 'Bo'), who drove us from temple to temple, waiting for us as we explored. He was lovely. Careful, considerate, and always ready with a wonderful warm smile. Once our week of temple-hopping was done, we asked Pov to take us out to the biggest lake in Cambodia. It's a lake fed by the mighty Mekong, and it's level changes dramatically depending on the season. There are a number of famous 'floating villages' on the lake that tourists go out to see, generally in large groups on special 'tourist boats.'

We dislike tours, and had decided we didn't want to be part of that scene, but just wanted to take a drive in the country and see the lake. We'd been advised by several travellers, and by the blurb in our guidebook, that we would not be able to get anywhere near the lake unless we went on a tour, but we decided to give it a try anyway. We're intrepid that way... .

We drove out through paddy fields and small villages, following the course of a stinking polluted 'river' into which poured all the sewage and garbage from houses and shops all along it. We saw kids swimming in it and women bathing in it. It's all they've got.

As we neared the lake a couple of guys on motorcycles came up beside us and motioned for us to stop. Pov finally did, although he knew we were not going to want to talk to these guys. They were trying to sell us $15 tickets (each) for a boat ride on the lake. We just kept repeating “no boat, no boat,” and finally they gave up with us. Pov got quite a kick out of all this, and although his English was very limited, he was clear about one thing: we did not want to take a boat out onto the lake.

A little further on down the road, now almost at the lake, we were motioned to stop at the 'Boat Tour Operators Committee' centre. The guy who motioned us over looked almost like a police man. Pov stopped; he seemed a little anxious. The guy started in on us about how we had to buy tickets for a boat trip and how we couldn't go any further down the road. I was having none of it. I just repeated my mantra, “no boat,” and added “now going, now going down road.” And motioned for Pov to go.

The official looking guy gave up, and off went Pov, at this point almost delirious with his association with people with such power. He was grinning from ear to ear.

Then we got to 'the lake.' But of course it wasn't the lake at all. It was what looked like a land-fill – a vast expanse of bare dirt covered in litter and bisected by a muddy river lined with....more litter and a gaggle of tour boats! There was a kiosk and a barrier across the road. But now Pov was feeling empowered. He barely slowed down as he yelled to the two guards that his passengers were just going to take a look at the lake, not ride in a boat, and we sailed right around the kiosk. I loved it! Good for Pov!

Then there we were, looking down on the pathetic sight of a muddy litter-filled river and a lake nowhere in sight. A young fellow came up and asked if we'd like to go out to the lake in his boat. “Where is it?” I asked. He pointed down the river. It was a small boat, with maybe a dozen seats. “How much?” I asked. “Thirty dollars.” “Twenty,” we countered. “O.K.” he agreed, without a moment's hesitation, “twenty.” “And,” I added, “our driver comes with us.” The guy looked dubious. “Twenty-five,” he said. You have to pay for the driver. “He's Cambodian!” I exclaimed. “He shouldn't have to pay. And he has to come,” I added, darkly, “he's our body-guard.” The guy laughed and said “o.k., $23.”

Pov was thrilled. This was the first time he'd been out to the lake, and definitely his first time in a 'tourist boat.' He stretched out in one of the seats at the back and drank everything in.

It took around 10 minutes to motor down the river and get to the lake. The floating village was right there. It was pretty interesting – quite a large and very permanent collection of buildings – houses, stores, schools, restaurants – all loosely grouped together. Some were on stilts, some were more like barges. Many were colourfully painted; some were pretty dilapidated. It was a real community, interestingly of mostly Vietnamese (not Cambodian) fishermen.

We stopped at a restaurant and tourist trap store that had a cage filled with crocodiles. There was also an enclosure filled with big flapping fish. Pov enjoyed hob-nobbing with the tourists, looking at the crocodiles, laughing at the fish. When we got back to the boat there he was, sitting in the driver's seat pretending to drive the boat, a huge smile on his face. Just that image alone – of Pov lost in childlike glee at the wheel of that boat – was worth the entire trip to me. There was no time for a photo – it's a memory I'll have to keep in my mind.

Alberta at Angkor Wat

March 15, 2009

 

Ankor Wat

“If I tell you the capital of your province, the capital of your country, the population of your country and the name of your prime minister, then will you buy my postcards?”  She was maybe ten years old, no less ragged than the rest of the kids who roam the temple grounds at Angkor Wat, trying to sell postcards and trinkets to tourists.  But she was different: a wiley entrepreneur, she had an angle, and she knew how to use it.   

When she came up to us, postcards in hand, we were eating soup at one of the food stalls in the temple grounds.  She opened a pack of ten postcards and shuffled through them distractedly, looking neither at them nor at us.  Her eyes were already scanning the other tables, searching for other potential customers.  Although I wasn’t particularly interested in buying them, I was intrigued by the girl, so I asked her “how much?”  

She looked us up and down, assessing the size of our pocket-books.  “Two dollars,” she said.  “Two dollars for all ten.” 

 

“I thought they were a dollar,” I countered, and thus began our unusual 'negotiation.'

 

“What country are you from?” she asked.  Her English was perfect – no missing articles or prepositions, no 'accent.'  And I knew she likely spoke French, German and possibly several other languages just as well – whatever language tourists speak.

 

“Canada” I said.  By this time I was looking at the postcards.  

 

“What province?”  she asked.  “British Columbia,”  I responded, surprised that she actually knew that Canada was divided into provinces rather than states.   

 

She knew she had me hooked, and popped her question. “Will you buy my cards if I tell you the capital of your province, the capital of your country, the population of your country and the name of your prime minister?”  Of course I would, if not because I wanted them, then simply because such initiative deserves reward.

 

She struck a pose worthy of any stage, and started her recitation:  “The capital of Canada is Ottawa.  The capital of British Columbia is Victoria.  The population of Canada is 34 million.  [I didn't know that!]  And the Prime Minister of Canada is Stephen Harper.”  [I wish I didn't know that.]  

 

That was good enough for me, but she wasn't finished yet:  “The capital of Ontario is Toronto, and the capital of Quebec is Quebec City.”  All in perfect English.  

 

Then she asked, “what is the capital of Alberta?”

 

Was this a trick question?  Was she testing me?  I hesitated.  Was it Calgary or Edmonton?  “Edmonton,” my husband responded.    

 

Apparently the question had a purpose.  Upon hearing the answer, that little wisp of a girl spirited a notebook and pen out of the folds of her skirt.  She leafed quickly through the pages, all of which were filled with lists in neat Khmer writing.  She found the one she was looking for – the one headed ‘Canada.’  

 

She asked me to repeat the words “Alberta” and “Edmonton” so she could get them right.  I broke them down into syllables, repeating “Al-ber-ta” and “Ed-mon-ton” several times as she wrote.  She wrote them in English and in Khmer.  We went on to Sa-skat-chew-an and Re-gi-na and Man-it-o-ba and Win-ni-peg.  She repeated the sounds after me, determined to get them right.

 

I gave her the two dollars, but what I really wanted was to give her an opportunity she will likely never have – an opportunity to have a house and three square meals, to play with other kids, to go to school.  Such a bright and motivated child, she could do anything.  And yet here she is at Angkor Wat, another ragged urchin, selling postcards.

 

Cambodia is full of kids like this, selling and begging on the streets, at the tourist attractions.  Most of what they get goes to their adult 'handlers,' who sit somewhere just out of sight.   

It’s easy to control them: they are motivated by hunger and poverty.

 

The magnitude of the problem of poverty and the legions of hungry street kids in Cambodia competes for ascendancy and indelible memories, in tourists' minds, with the awesome magnitude and splendour of temples like Angkor Wat.  

Such contradictory images:  it’s a struggle to hold them both in one’s mind.

I will remember Angkor Wat as one of the most amazing archeological sites, one of the wonders of the world.  But I will also remember that little girl, whose name I did not ask.  For me she will represent all of the beggar children we saw in Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and China.  As an aid to memory, I’ll give her a name: I'll call her 'Alberta.'   

Note: the picture above is not of the girl who was selling post-cards.   

She's a little younger - maybe in a few years it will be her turn.