2/2/09
Jasmine Lodge
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Yep...Cambodia is definitely trying to kill me. Or at least sending its guest rooms to attack me.
It was a sunny, quiet, peaceful afternoon and I was almost out the door to go explore the bustling streets of Siem Reap. I had just applied a healthy coating of DEET over every square inch of exposed skin (I figure it's healthier than Malaria) and went to wash the excess from my hands. Now, the bathroom faucet has been dripping all morning, something a tad bit annoying, but I was ignoring it just fine...perhaps I should stop doing that. I scrub off the glossy film lacquered on my hands and give the handle a firm tug closed. A thick steady stream continues to pour out. So I pull again, still no progress. Deciding that one more nudge should do the trick I give it just a LITTLE bit more...only this time instead of shutting off, I watch in horror as the metal base shreds and comes away in my hand. "Fuck!!!" I scream in protest as a geyser erupts from my once unassuming bathroom fixture. "Shit...shit...shit.." Only a second passes and I'm out of the war zone with the door pulled closed behind me, looking over my now soaked shoulder and listening to the menacing hiss muffled behind the thick plastic barrier. Luckily, the entire wash room is designed to become the shower, complete with slanted floors aimed toward a drain nestled in the corner. Even so, I know I don't have a lot of time before the volume of the water overwhelms it and begins to flood the rest of my room. I continue to evoke the helpful spirits of the bathroom gods with the oh, so spiritual mantra "shit...shit...shit..." as I quickly access the situation. I'm on the third floor and I have to go down a thin metal catwalk, two flights of stairs and up another set to get to the front desk. Towels or anything else I have handy won't do shit to stem such a violent hemorrhage, but I decide to brave the downpour and check if a shut off value is hiding under the sink. I pause for a second at the door and listen, trying assess how pissed it is.
Maybe it's not that bad...
I open it up to a porcelain and linoleum cell, utterly possessed and vomiting undrinkable water on every surface.
"shit...shit...shit"
I duck down and check the pipes.
No valves.
Apparently I've only angered the gods.
Slamming the door behind me once again, I shake some of the water from my hair and have to allow a small smile to the comical nature of the situation.
Fuck it. It's time to run for help. Sprinting down the gang plank and careful not to lose my footing as I navigate the slick stone steps two at a time, I make it to Reception. Soo, who speaks some English, is behind the desk and I frantically pant something to the effect of "room 12...sink broken...water everywhere..." accompanied with wide sweeping gestures. Thankfully, he quickly snaps too, yelling across the balconies to someone who can presumably help. A minute of equally frantic Khmer and he nods to me, calm again: "Yes, okay."
Um...okay? You sure? Not getting any other clues from him I quickly trudge up to my room. Hoping he understood, I come to find my front and bathroom doors wide open and the water still gushing. "Fuc..." but before I get out the last "k" I hear the squeak of metal and the maelstrom subsides, slowly drizzling to a halt. The man I always said "hi" to in the halls rounds the corner and smiles a huge greeting to me. "You're my new best friend!" I say and he smiles back. I try to help him sop up the water but he shoos me away, apologetically saying it'll be an hour until it's fixed. "Yeah! Fine! Perfect!" I mime that I'm going to be gone for a long time and that he can take as much time as he needs. I try one more time to offer aide but he merely shakes his head "It's my works," he insists. I reluctantly gather my stuff and fight the urge to kiss his rings as I back out of my room, almost bowing to my new found savior.
The sun is still shining, and even a bit of a breeze picks up as I exit the front walkway of Jasmine Lodge. As I make my way further from the ordeal and my adrenaline slowly drains, through the waves of relief, one horrible thought creeps up to the surface: I'm never going to hear the end of this...
Yes, Dad, I know...
"When am I ever going to need a wrench?!"
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Yet Another Place That Feels Like Home
29/1/09
Jasmine Lodge
Siem Reap
Is it weird that the only thing I've eaten so far today are mangosteens and insects? I didn't think so.
I arrived in Siem Reap yesterday and I have to tell you, yes I'm excited about the ancient temples waiting for me just a few kilometers away, yes, I'm thrilled that I've been inducted into a really chill group of travelers just arrived from Bangkok, and yes, I'm relieved that what little sickness I felt yesterday has already passed. But what eclipses all of that? I. Love. This. Room.
Besides being palatial (twice the size of my cabin back home), I'm three stories up and have my own little make-shift balcony, complete with wooden lounge chair and coconut bird feeders to attract flocks of little brown songbirds to serenade in the mornings. The cold shower is actually a tad bit luke warm, the fan is mounted high on the wall, but not looming over anyplace that could hurt me if it decided to lash out (an important consideration I've learned). Deadbolt on the heavy door, for peace of mind...and oh yeah, two beds. Complimentary water and toilet paper (yes those are not 'givens' here in Cambodia) plus free breakfast in the rooftop restaurant and the free book exchange make the $6/night completely worth it. Good thing too, considering the battle I had to wage to get here.
My day began boarding a small van crammed with about 12 people, bound for a bus waiting to take us up through most of country on what was advertised as a 6 hour bus ride to Siem Reap. How long did it actually take you might ask? What with stopping for petrol, two bathroom breaks, a pit stop for lunch, plus letting locals off at various little villages along the way? 6 hours. It was amazing. Transportation that actually delivered exactly what it promised. I still can't get over it.
The ride seemed a bit longer though, as we were apparently assigned seats. Mind you the tickets we were sold didn't have numbers on them, and when we boarded the bus we handed them dutifully over to the nice man ushering us on. I found an open window toward the back on the side I knew would overlook the river as we went...only to be kicked out by a Chinese couple waving a different colored ticket than mine that bore seat numbers. Okay, I move a couple rows away, this time to be mimed at by the man who originally took my ticket that I need to gather my stuff and follow him. "What'd I do?" I wanted to pout. He leads me to an empty aisle seat next to a 30-something western man and hands me one of the original tickets which he writes the seat number on. Great. Thanks. And so it was that I met Chris.
The man I was assigned to was a French expat who had lost his job in New York. We make small talk, and develop a fairly good banter about psychology, photography, and of course cover the basics: where exactly are you from, how long have you been traveling, how long are you going to travel, what are you doing when you travel and where else have you been...I think that's all of them. Anyway, its a pleasant enough ride, though I start to realize he falls into the category of what I refer to as a "crisis traveler." This is someone who, unhappy with a completely stable life they've built for themselves (he had a job in Paris after New York) decides to leave, fly by the seat of their pants and explore the world. Which is great! They're excited, they're starry eyed...but they're also scared shitless, have no idea what they're doing and consequently, want someone there to hold their hand. I can already tell he sees me as a potential travel partner. Problem is, I've had two long term companions on journeys (Zach and Jon), and I know the feeling you have to have to be willing to spend everyday with someone and trust yourself being alone with them in unexplored country...Chris does not evoke this feeling.
Unfortunately, by the time I realize what he's thinking, I've already mentioned what guesthouse I'm planning on staying at. As we pull up to the swarm of tuk tuk and moto divers I spot my name scrawled on a piece of paper being waved about in the crowd. Of course. The bus company in Phnom Penh sells your name to drivers up in Siem Reap, who then take you to guesthouses where they get a commission for every foreigner they wrangle in. I bypass my sign and find another driver- "Jasmine Lodge?" He knows it, nods his head and points me towards his tuk tuk. Meanwhile Chris has found his name and is gathering his bag. All set to do the obligatory "Good talk, good luck, here's my e-mail," send off, my goodbye is cut off by him saying "so, I'm going to try your place: Jasmine Lodge?!" Great...perfect. I rejoin my driver and we head off.
After spilling onto the main road way, dodging potholes and running over a goose (it's okay), we ended up curving off onto a series of side streets. Unfortunately for him, I'm fairly good with directions and had consulted a map before leaving. I tap his shoulder and point west, insisting Jasmine is that way. He reluctantly pulls over on the side of the road. He concedes that he doesn't want to take me to Jasmine because they have their own drivers there and he won't get money from them. Plus he wants to be my driver for the temples, which won't happen if I stay there. I explain that I already called Jasmine and that they're expecting me. He's not impressed. I tell him I'm not going to take a tuk tuk through the temples and that I'm opting for the less expensive moto. Still doesn't budge. Running out of ways to make him take me, I simply say "Fine, I'll get out and find another tuk tuk who WILL take me where I want to go." He asks me why I want to go to Jamsine. I'm about to explain that I researched it and for the price it seems like a good place when he follows his question up with "you follow your boyfriend?" Considering he's back in the states, that throws me for a second. Then I realize that he's referring to Chris, having overheard him taking to me about Jasmine. "...Yes. Yes, exactly, I need to follow my friend." Sulking the whole way, he begrudgingly turns back down the alley and eventually delivers me in front of my new home. I give him an extra 1000 riel ($.25) and say I'm sorry as he drives off, moping.
As I've already expressed, I couldn't be happier with the three story, warm burnt orange building that greeted me. I go up to reception, check in, drop my bags and somehow end up hanging out with two Chileans, a Swiss chick and a Canadian guy. We stay up in the restaurant well into the night, swapping stories and taking turns buying rounds of Angkor Beer and Beer Lao. I introduce them to the gourmet quality crickets I have with me, and even get one to try a beetle. When fatigue finally claims us, I trudge up the narrow metal catwalk to my glorious room and choose which bed I'm going to sleep on for the night. I fall asleep reading a mystery/suspense novel I exchanged my Dexter book for and thinking about the fresh tropical fruit salad that will be waiting for me in the morning. Mmm...
Yeah, life in Siem Reap is pretty sweet.
And I haven't even visited the temples...
Jasmine Lodge
Siem Reap
Is it weird that the only thing I've eaten so far today are mangosteens and insects? I didn't think so.
I arrived in Siem Reap yesterday and I have to tell you, yes I'm excited about the ancient temples waiting for me just a few kilometers away, yes, I'm thrilled that I've been inducted into a really chill group of travelers just arrived from Bangkok, and yes, I'm relieved that what little sickness I felt yesterday has already passed. But what eclipses all of that? I. Love. This. Room.
Besides being palatial (twice the size of my cabin back home), I'm three stories up and have my own little make-shift balcony, complete with wooden lounge chair and coconut bird feeders to attract flocks of little brown songbirds to serenade in the mornings. The cold shower is actually a tad bit luke warm, the fan is mounted high on the wall, but not looming over anyplace that could hurt me if it decided to lash out (an important consideration I've learned). Deadbolt on the heavy door, for peace of mind...and oh yeah, two beds. Complimentary water and toilet paper (yes those are not 'givens' here in Cambodia) plus free breakfast in the rooftop restaurant and the free book exchange make the $6/night completely worth it. Good thing too, considering the battle I had to wage to get here.
My day began boarding a small van crammed with about 12 people, bound for a bus waiting to take us up through most of country on what was advertised as a 6 hour bus ride to Siem Reap. How long did it actually take you might ask? What with stopping for petrol, two bathroom breaks, a pit stop for lunch, plus letting locals off at various little villages along the way? 6 hours. It was amazing. Transportation that actually delivered exactly what it promised. I still can't get over it.
The ride seemed a bit longer though, as we were apparently assigned seats. Mind you the tickets we were sold didn't have numbers on them, and when we boarded the bus we handed them dutifully over to the nice man ushering us on. I found an open window toward the back on the side I knew would overlook the river as we went...only to be kicked out by a Chinese couple waving a different colored ticket than mine that bore seat numbers. Okay, I move a couple rows away, this time to be mimed at by the man who originally took my ticket that I need to gather my stuff and follow him. "What'd I do?" I wanted to pout. He leads me to an empty aisle seat next to a 30-something western man and hands me one of the original tickets which he writes the seat number on. Great. Thanks. And so it was that I met Chris.
The man I was assigned to was a French expat who had lost his job in New York. We make small talk, and develop a fairly good banter about psychology, photography, and of course cover the basics: where exactly are you from, how long have you been traveling, how long are you going to travel, what are you doing when you travel and where else have you been...I think that's all of them. Anyway, its a pleasant enough ride, though I start to realize he falls into the category of what I refer to as a "crisis traveler." This is someone who, unhappy with a completely stable life they've built for themselves (he had a job in Paris after New York) decides to leave, fly by the seat of their pants and explore the world. Which is great! They're excited, they're starry eyed...but they're also scared shitless, have no idea what they're doing and consequently, want someone there to hold their hand. I can already tell he sees me as a potential travel partner. Problem is, I've had two long term companions on journeys (Zach and Jon), and I know the feeling you have to have to be willing to spend everyday with someone and trust yourself being alone with them in unexplored country...Chris does not evoke this feeling.
Unfortunately, by the time I realize what he's thinking, I've already mentioned what guesthouse I'm planning on staying at. As we pull up to the swarm of tuk tuk and moto divers I spot my name scrawled on a piece of paper being waved about in the crowd. Of course. The bus company in Phnom Penh sells your name to drivers up in Siem Reap, who then take you to guesthouses where they get a commission for every foreigner they wrangle in. I bypass my sign and find another driver- "Jasmine Lodge?" He knows it, nods his head and points me towards his tuk tuk. Meanwhile Chris has found his name and is gathering his bag. All set to do the obligatory "Good talk, good luck, here's my e-mail," send off, my goodbye is cut off by him saying "so, I'm going to try your place: Jasmine Lodge?!" Great...perfect. I rejoin my driver and we head off.
After spilling onto the main road way, dodging potholes and running over a goose (it's okay), we ended up curving off onto a series of side streets. Unfortunately for him, I'm fairly good with directions and had consulted a map before leaving. I tap his shoulder and point west, insisting Jasmine is that way. He reluctantly pulls over on the side of the road. He concedes that he doesn't want to take me to Jasmine because they have their own drivers there and he won't get money from them. Plus he wants to be my driver for the temples, which won't happen if I stay there. I explain that I already called Jasmine and that they're expecting me. He's not impressed. I tell him I'm not going to take a tuk tuk through the temples and that I'm opting for the less expensive moto. Still doesn't budge. Running out of ways to make him take me, I simply say "Fine, I'll get out and find another tuk tuk who WILL take me where I want to go." He asks me why I want to go to Jamsine. I'm about to explain that I researched it and for the price it seems like a good place when he follows his question up with "you follow your boyfriend?" Considering he's back in the states, that throws me for a second. Then I realize that he's referring to Chris, having overheard him taking to me about Jasmine. "...Yes. Yes, exactly, I need to follow my friend." Sulking the whole way, he begrudgingly turns back down the alley and eventually delivers me in front of my new home. I give him an extra 1000 riel ($.25) and say I'm sorry as he drives off, moping.
As I've already expressed, I couldn't be happier with the three story, warm burnt orange building that greeted me. I go up to reception, check in, drop my bags and somehow end up hanging out with two Chileans, a Swiss chick and a Canadian guy. We stay up in the restaurant well into the night, swapping stories and taking turns buying rounds of Angkor Beer and Beer Lao. I introduce them to the gourmet quality crickets I have with me, and even get one to try a beetle. When fatigue finally claims us, I trudge up the narrow metal catwalk to my glorious room and choose which bed I'm going to sleep on for the night. I fall asleep reading a mystery/suspense novel I exchanged my Dexter book for and thinking about the fresh tropical fruit salad that will be waiting for me in the morning. Mmm...
Yeah, life in Siem Reap is pretty sweet.
And I haven't even visited the temples...
Quick Rant #4
And yes, I've have pages of alternating rants and raves regarding Phnom Penh. It was a fun way to kill time when I was eating yesterday.
Rant #4: Tuk Tuk & Motodrivers
I find myself actually pausing sometimes before exiting the staircase into the main lobby of my hostel. Reason being, as soon as you round that corner- "Hello, Miss, Tuk Tuk?" "Whereyou go?" "Motobike?" "Killing Fields?" or even the more familiar "Sara, hello beautiful, moto today?"
As always I reply, "No, walk today."
"Walk, walk, walk. Always walk. No good!"
"Walk very good!" I counter,
"Maybe moto tomorrow?"
I shrug
"Okay, I wait for you!"
Ugh. Creepy,creepy. But harmless.
The harassing is understandable- they've got to make a living after all. The leering is unfortunately common thanks to my pale skin and the fact that I'm always smiling (I am in Cambodia after all). But what really 'grinds my gears' is when I'm sitting in a restaurant, halfway through a bowl of curry and Tuk Tuk drivers stop and ask if I want a ride. Dude. I'm stationary, I'm chewing. Does it look like I need a fucking ride? I have to say though, the instance that trumps all the others, was when I was asked if I need a moto, while I was sitting on the back of a moto. I couldn't even find an expression, much less words to go along with them before we veered off down a side street. Wow...I still don't know how to respond to that one. At least I never have a problem finding a ride!
Rant #4: Tuk Tuk & Motodrivers
I find myself actually pausing sometimes before exiting the staircase into the main lobby of my hostel. Reason being, as soon as you round that corner- "Hello, Miss, Tuk Tuk?" "Whereyou go?" "Motobike?" "Killing Fields?" or even the more familiar "Sara, hello beautiful, moto today?"
As always I reply, "No, walk today."
"Walk, walk, walk. Always walk. No good!"
"Walk very good!" I counter,
"Maybe moto tomorrow?"
I shrug
"Okay, I wait for you!"
Ugh. Creepy,creepy. But harmless.
The harassing is understandable- they've got to make a living after all. The leering is unfortunately common thanks to my pale skin and the fact that I'm always smiling (I am in Cambodia after all). But what really 'grinds my gears' is when I'm sitting in a restaurant, halfway through a bowl of curry and Tuk Tuk drivers stop and ask if I want a ride. Dude. I'm stationary, I'm chewing. Does it look like I need a fucking ride? I have to say though, the instance that trumps all the others, was when I was asked if I need a moto, while I was sitting on the back of a moto. I couldn't even find an expression, much less words to go along with them before we veered off down a side street. Wow...I still don't know how to respond to that one. At least I never have a problem finding a ride!
Ode To a Mangosteen
I realize that the last entry I posted was, well, just a BIT of a downer. Sorry. I know you probably just want the happy little adventurous anecdotes to skim through while putting off work. Its depressing nature is probably why it took me so long to write it, too. So, to balance out the traumatic images you may now associate with SE Asia, I hope to lure you back to finding it a favorable place with a little tribute to one of it's many mouth-watering fruits.
Ahem:
.......................
I polish the dark ruby soaked rind of the small orb as if it actually were a precious jewel. I tease the tops of my fingers over the small button leaves, tickling the tiny nub of a stem with my thumb, until the temptation breaks me.
I have literally been waiting years for this moment.
I work my fingers under the small scooped leaves and slowly pry them away, until the center connection concedes, popping off the superfluous foliage to reveal a small dime-sized divot.
Perfectly ripe.
I start to salivate in anticipation.
I dig my finger into the waiting hole and tentatively work it back and forth until the skin gives. I then grip either end of the opening and gently squeeze both sides, until a crack forms and splits the thick meaty rind in two, revealing my prize...
A small white citrus gem glows back at me.
I peel a glistening wedge away from its companions and let the wet segment slip between my fingertips. I raise it to my mouth and let it slide across my lips, piercing it on my front teeth, letting the juice pop onto my tongue and drip down the crevices of my fingers...
And here's where have to cut away.
I wish I could describe the taste to you, but at this point, all else fades away as I melt into it, and lose myself in a sort of sensory overload as it were. I can tell you my eyes fluttered into the back of my head. Besides that, any other description might be deemed a bit too graphic for blogging.
Whoever decided apples were the fruit of temptation?
Ahem:
.......................
I polish the dark ruby soaked rind of the small orb as if it actually were a precious jewel. I tease the tops of my fingers over the small button leaves, tickling the tiny nub of a stem with my thumb, until the temptation breaks me.
I have literally been waiting years for this moment.
I work my fingers under the small scooped leaves and slowly pry them away, until the center connection concedes, popping off the superfluous foliage to reveal a small dime-sized divot.
Perfectly ripe.
I start to salivate in anticipation.
I dig my finger into the waiting hole and tentatively work it back and forth until the skin gives. I then grip either end of the opening and gently squeeze both sides, until a crack forms and splits the thick meaty rind in two, revealing my prize...
A small white citrus gem glows back at me.
I peel a glistening wedge away from its companions and let the wet segment slip between my fingertips. I raise it to my mouth and let it slide across my lips, piercing it on my front teeth, letting the juice pop onto my tongue and drip down the crevices of my fingers...
And here's where have to cut away.
I wish I could describe the taste to you, but at this point, all else fades away as I melt into it, and lose myself in a sort of sensory overload as it were. I can tell you my eyes fluttered into the back of my head. Besides that, any other description might be deemed a bit too graphic for blogging.
Whoever decided apples were the fruit of temptation?
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Killing Fields...I have no witty title for it.
1/27/09
Killing Fields of Choeung Ek
Outside Phnom Penh
Dragon and butter flies dance in clusters above the unassuming grass-covered graves, a tranquil juxtaposition to the severe granite tower of some 9,000 skulls, many burnt or bludgeoned to save bullets, glaring at my back. The echoes of the past terror that was once bred here still resonates with frightening force. It feels strange to shiver in such a blazing tropical climate. Threads from the clothing belonging to victims of the Khmer Rouge reach up from the ground, grasping at my feet, begging for some aide. But how the fuck am I supposed to help a piece of clothe? The bone scratches the bottom of my sandals and I let out a long, defeated breathe. Amidst the sorrow-filled compound I become more and more frustrated at my impotence. What more can I do, but attempt to comprehend as best as I can, record what I see and share what I feel with those who may not know about this inhuman massacre. So I guess that's what I've charged myself to do with this entry. Here's what I understand.
Let the history lecture begin:
.............................
The Khmer Rouge, under Pol Pot's leadership, implemented one of the most bloody revolutions the world has ever seen. Their goal was a Communist ideal "Year Zero," money was abolished, cities abandoned and Cambodia transformed into a Maoist, peasant-dominated, agrarian cooperative.
Over the course of four years, hundreds of thousands of Cambodians, including the majority of the country's educated people, were relocated to the countryside, and tortured to death or executed. Thousands of people who spoke foreign languages or even just wore glasses (suggesting they were literate) were branded as 'parasites' and systematically killed. Hundreds of thousands more simply died of mistreatment, malnutrition and disease that spread rampant across the country. In total, about two million Cambodians died between 1975 and 1979.
To top it all off, when the Vietnamese invaded and overthrew the Khmer Rouge, millions of Cambodian set off on foot to find out if family members had survived. The harvest that was neglected and the resulting famine of 1979-1980 claimed another couple hundred thousand more.
The Khmer Rouge, having fled to the jungles, continued to wage guerrilla warfare through the 1980's until their eventual disbanding in 1998, (yes, it was that recent), when Pol Pot died. He never had to answer for what he did.
(Note: Tomorrow, Feb. 7, the first officer of Khmer Rouge will stand trial for war crimes, perhaps finally beginning to offer some small peace to this devastated country).
.................................
So here I am, at one of the most famous execution sites, the final resting place of at least 18,000 souls.
Painfully aware of the layers of remains I'm walking over, I come to a banyan dubbed "The Magic Tree," where they apparently hung a speaker playing music loud enough to drown out the screams of the executed. I continue along the trail, pockmarked on either side with 5ft divots I know are more mass graves. Walking through there, I let my camera hang heavy around my neck and begrudgingly let it hit me. My first clear thought since I entered the gates over an hour ago: "This place reeks of...grief." Waves and waves hit me then, but despite my throat choking and closing up, I don't cry.
Somberly I pack up my gear and hurry out to my waiting motodriver. I think of him and the countess other men who make a living shuttling foreigners out here everyday. I wonder if they're numb to it, think of it as another tourist attraction, or if they stand there, leaning on their bikes, staring at the tower, wondering if a lost loved one is in there. What a horrible reminder regardless. I'm glad my driver doesn't speak English, and is less anxious to try to communicate after I established a low price for the ride. I really don't feel like talking. What would say anyway? "I'm sorry? That's so tragic? So sad?" Nothing seems like an appropriate consolation. In the end the only phrase I speak for most of the day is a thank you "Akuhn" when I pay my driver out front of my hostel. I lock myself in my room, review my pictures for a bit and try to understand what I just experienced. I'm not sure I have. After all, I still haven't cried.
Killing Fields of Choeung Ek
Outside Phnom Penh
Dragon and butter flies dance in clusters above the unassuming grass-covered graves, a tranquil juxtaposition to the severe granite tower of some 9,000 skulls, many burnt or bludgeoned to save bullets, glaring at my back. The echoes of the past terror that was once bred here still resonates with frightening force. It feels strange to shiver in such a blazing tropical climate. Threads from the clothing belonging to victims of the Khmer Rouge reach up from the ground, grasping at my feet, begging for some aide. But how the fuck am I supposed to help a piece of clothe? The bone scratches the bottom of my sandals and I let out a long, defeated breathe. Amidst the sorrow-filled compound I become more and more frustrated at my impotence. What more can I do, but attempt to comprehend as best as I can, record what I see and share what I feel with those who may not know about this inhuman massacre. So I guess that's what I've charged myself to do with this entry. Here's what I understand.
Let the history lecture begin:
.............................
The Khmer Rouge, under Pol Pot's leadership, implemented one of the most bloody revolutions the world has ever seen. Their goal was a Communist ideal "Year Zero," money was abolished, cities abandoned and Cambodia transformed into a Maoist, peasant-dominated, agrarian cooperative.
Over the course of four years, hundreds of thousands of Cambodians, including the majority of the country's educated people, were relocated to the countryside, and tortured to death or executed. Thousands of people who spoke foreign languages or even just wore glasses (suggesting they were literate) were branded as 'parasites' and systematically killed. Hundreds of thousands more simply died of mistreatment, malnutrition and disease that spread rampant across the country. In total, about two million Cambodians died between 1975 and 1979.
To top it all off, when the Vietnamese invaded and overthrew the Khmer Rouge, millions of Cambodian set off on foot to find out if family members had survived. The harvest that was neglected and the resulting famine of 1979-1980 claimed another couple hundred thousand more.
The Khmer Rouge, having fled to the jungles, continued to wage guerrilla warfare through the 1980's until their eventual disbanding in 1998, (yes, it was that recent), when Pol Pot died. He never had to answer for what he did.
(Note: Tomorrow, Feb. 7, the first officer of Khmer Rouge will stand trial for war crimes, perhaps finally beginning to offer some small peace to this devastated country).
.................................
So here I am, at one of the most famous execution sites, the final resting place of at least 18,000 souls.
Painfully aware of the layers of remains I'm walking over, I come to a banyan dubbed "The Magic Tree," where they apparently hung a speaker playing music loud enough to drown out the screams of the executed. I continue along the trail, pockmarked on either side with 5ft divots I know are more mass graves. Walking through there, I let my camera hang heavy around my neck and begrudgingly let it hit me. My first clear thought since I entered the gates over an hour ago: "This place reeks of...grief." Waves and waves hit me then, but despite my throat choking and closing up, I don't cry.
Somberly I pack up my gear and hurry out to my waiting motodriver. I think of him and the countess other men who make a living shuttling foreigners out here everyday. I wonder if they're numb to it, think of it as another tourist attraction, or if they stand there, leaning on their bikes, staring at the tower, wondering if a lost loved one is in there. What a horrible reminder regardless. I'm glad my driver doesn't speak English, and is less anxious to try to communicate after I established a low price for the ride. I really don't feel like talking. What would say anyway? "I'm sorry? That's so tragic? So sad?" Nothing seems like an appropriate consolation. In the end the only phrase I speak for most of the day is a thank you "Akuhn" when I pay my driver out front of my hostel. I lock myself in my room, review my pictures for a bit and try to understand what I just experienced. I'm not sure I have. After all, I still haven't cried.
Monday, January 26, 2009
It's a Lovely Room of Death
1/25/09
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
So...Cambodia is trying to kill me. Okay, that might be a bit of an overreaction. To be fair I can't be certain that it is actively trying to off me as I'm only privy to one attempt...but that's enough right?
So there I was, sprawled out bare ass naked across my luxurious double bed, fast asleep folded in my blanket of humid muggy night, when BOOM! CRACK! SHATTER! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! (gotta love the onomatopoeia) and I was somewhat awake, but definitely upright. I'm not sure if I actually said "I didn't do it!" but I certainly remember thinking it loudly enough. I fumble for the switch and click on the florescent tube on the opposite wall. My first panicked thought was regarding my camera, but I quickly spotted it secured where I left it. It only took me a split second after that wave of relief subsided to notice the shards of plastic and metal scattered across my body. "What the...?" I follow the bigger pieces off the bedspread and find the intended weapon of my demise battered on the floor. The ginormous overhead fan that had been making that awful screeching noise and now disintegrated. Apparently it had been less of a squeal and more of a death rattle. It takes me a second to fully comprehend how bad that could have sucked if I had been two feet over on the other side of the bed. Note: for those of you who doubt that it matters what side you sleep on but you have an instinctual preference anyway...just go with it. It might be the key to adverting catastrophe.
So, naturally, I pack up my shit, get some clothes on and wait patiently for someone to pay for Internet time at the front desk. Even though I know he won't understand I couldn't resist saying "Hi, yes, um, my room tried to kill me." Expectantly greeted by his perplexed look I then rephrase my story, utilizing props and wild gestures to act out the scenario. He just sits there, unimpressed like I was complaining about the cold water or some stupid falang shit like that. No, no, no. Not overreacting about missing luxuries- appliances trying to kill me! Big difference. Still, he says "tomorrow. Fix tomorrow." I counter with "New room?" only to be rebutted with "No. Chinese New Year. Full." Of course...damn Asian holidays. I ask if other hotels have rooms. He says no, but I go around and check anyway. Yup, sure enough, SOL. I fins one for three dollars, but it wasn't even remotely worth it. So, dejected I come back to the hotel and settle for demanding a new fan. "Tomorrow." "Tonight? Please?" I have to admit I smiled a lot, knowing he had a little bit of a crush on me. He smiles back, "Okay, wait." He disappears behind the door into the restaurant next door and returns triumphantly with a nice, safe standing fan. "Ahp Khun, Ahp Khun!" I thank him enthusiastically and trudge up the stairs to my room.
Lying in bed, the thought occurs to me: 'Should I be worried about visiting the Killing Fields tomorrow?' After all, if there was ever a place for this country to do me in, the aptly named massacre site would be a rather fitting and poetic place to do it.
I glare warily at the bright red fan at the end of my bed and position it facing away from me, just in case. Who knows, it might launch it's front spokes in a projectile attack when I'm sleeping. Not that paranoid a thought considering the last one staged an airborne assault. I brush off the remaining fragments of it's predecessor and resume sprawling. "Goodnight, Evil Room of Death.
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
So...Cambodia is trying to kill me. Okay, that might be a bit of an overreaction. To be fair I can't be certain that it is actively trying to off me as I'm only privy to one attempt...but that's enough right?
So there I was, sprawled out bare ass naked across my luxurious double bed, fast asleep folded in my blanket of humid muggy night, when BOOM! CRACK! SHATTER! CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! (gotta love the onomatopoeia) and I was somewhat awake, but definitely upright. I'm not sure if I actually said "I didn't do it!" but I certainly remember thinking it loudly enough. I fumble for the switch and click on the florescent tube on the opposite wall. My first panicked thought was regarding my camera, but I quickly spotted it secured where I left it. It only took me a split second after that wave of relief subsided to notice the shards of plastic and metal scattered across my body. "What the...?" I follow the bigger pieces off the bedspread and find the intended weapon of my demise battered on the floor. The ginormous overhead fan that had been making that awful screeching noise and now disintegrated. Apparently it had been less of a squeal and more of a death rattle. It takes me a second to fully comprehend how bad that could have sucked if I had been two feet over on the other side of the bed. Note: for those of you who doubt that it matters what side you sleep on but you have an instinctual preference anyway...just go with it. It might be the key to adverting catastrophe.
So, naturally, I pack up my shit, get some clothes on and wait patiently for someone to pay for Internet time at the front desk. Even though I know he won't understand I couldn't resist saying "Hi, yes, um, my room tried to kill me." Expectantly greeted by his perplexed look I then rephrase my story, utilizing props and wild gestures to act out the scenario. He just sits there, unimpressed like I was complaining about the cold water or some stupid falang shit like that. No, no, no. Not overreacting about missing luxuries- appliances trying to kill me! Big difference. Still, he says "tomorrow. Fix tomorrow." I counter with "New room?" only to be rebutted with "No. Chinese New Year. Full." Of course...damn Asian holidays. I ask if other hotels have rooms. He says no, but I go around and check anyway. Yup, sure enough, SOL. I fins one for three dollars, but it wasn't even remotely worth it. So, dejected I come back to the hotel and settle for demanding a new fan. "Tomorrow." "Tonight? Please?" I have to admit I smiled a lot, knowing he had a little bit of a crush on me. He smiles back, "Okay, wait." He disappears behind the door into the restaurant next door and returns triumphantly with a nice, safe standing fan. "Ahp Khun, Ahp Khun!" I thank him enthusiastically and trudge up the stairs to my room.
Lying in bed, the thought occurs to me: 'Should I be worried about visiting the Killing Fields tomorrow?' After all, if there was ever a place for this country to do me in, the aptly named massacre site would be a rather fitting and poetic place to do it.
I glare warily at the bright red fan at the end of my bed and position it facing away from me, just in case. Who knows, it might launch it's front spokes in a projectile attack when I'm sleeping. Not that paranoid a thought considering the last one staged an airborne assault. I brush off the remaining fragments of it's predecessor and resume sprawling. "Goodnight, Evil Room of Death.
Extremely Brief Update
1/24/09
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Day two in Cambodia and I still have both my legs firmly intact and not blown off. Must be doing something right. I slept fairly well, despite the appliances of my room cavorting together to make my night miserable. My overhead fan, though a very important piece of equipment, screeches out a high pitch wail for oil every full rotation. Traveling in uncomfortable circumstances has prepared me for such little annoyances though and I can easily ignore it. Luckily, the sound is rather high pitch and melodic so I can convince my tired brain it's merely some exoctic tropical bird. Seems to be working so far. Aside from that, the basic buzzes of powerlines outside and the din that seaps through the thin walls are merely little welcoming whispers of the region and don't really bug me.
Speaking of which, I have yet to encounter a single mosquito. When I first noticed their absence I figured it might as the little refuge girl had warned in the second Alien movie: "they mostly come out at night...mostly." (yes, I just quoted Aliens. Are you really that shocked)? So, naturally when night fell on my first day I was backed onto the corner of my bed, clutching my DEET and preparing for the impending attack...it didn't come. Yet. Though mark my words, when I see the squall of Volkswagen sized harbingers of Malaria rushing my way, I will be ready. Oh yes. I will be ready.
Note: I may have watched one too many Southeast Asian guerrilla warfare movies prior to coming here...
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Day two in Cambodia and I still have both my legs firmly intact and not blown off. Must be doing something right. I slept fairly well, despite the appliances of my room cavorting together to make my night miserable. My overhead fan, though a very important piece of equipment, screeches out a high pitch wail for oil every full rotation. Traveling in uncomfortable circumstances has prepared me for such little annoyances though and I can easily ignore it. Luckily, the sound is rather high pitch and melodic so I can convince my tired brain it's merely some exoctic tropical bird. Seems to be working so far. Aside from that, the basic buzzes of powerlines outside and the din that seaps through the thin walls are merely little welcoming whispers of the region and don't really bug me.
Speaking of which, I have yet to encounter a single mosquito. When I first noticed their absence I figured it might as the little refuge girl had warned in the second Alien movie: "they mostly come out at night...mostly." (yes, I just quoted Aliens. Are you really that shocked)? So, naturally when night fell on my first day I was backed onto the corner of my bed, clutching my DEET and preparing for the impending attack...it didn't come. Yet. Though mark my words, when I see the squall of Volkswagen sized harbingers of Malaria rushing my way, I will be ready. Oh yes. I will be ready.
Note: I may have watched one too many Southeast Asian guerrilla warfare movies prior to coming here...
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