Kampuchea Crossings

Bump to baby on the beaten expat track

Cambodia

4 Tips on appliance use in Cambodia

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Psar Thmei. Hair dryer. It came home with me cuz my hair is in the growing pains stage and needs assistance.

Forty seconds into my first use of this death contraption I smell rubber. Mind you, these events occurred in a split nanosecond just a tad ahead of reflexes, lest y’all fancy some darwinian goal of mine to improve the human genome.

Air came out of all the holes of the main unit. The cord overheated, burned my arm, and melted plastic dropped on my bare foot. A small plastic clip at the intake in the back of the unit popped loose and pieces of broken filter screen were sucked into the motor. After a small explosion at the outlet where the appliance was plugged into, sparks flew and the heating element burst into flames.

Oh and my hair caught fire so I dropped the flaming gizmo in the sink.

I’m no longer growing my hair.

Tips for using electronics and appliances in Cambodia:

1. Appliances in the market are discarded products from Chinese factories that did not pass safety inspections and quality control. Don’t waste your money (although in 2005 there were few options).

2. Cambodia’s voltage is 220AC, 50HZ. The plugs are not standardised and due to imports from Vietnam and Thailand, all sorts of variations exist. Use an adapter.

3. Use a converter plus surge protector.

4. Most electrical outlets are not grounded. Electrical systems in new buildings constructed in 2007 onwards have a better chance of complying with international safety standards but it is not mandatory. If anyone has a tip for how to deal with this, I am happy to hear it, especially for computers.

Fish tales and banana jams– Koh Kong or BUST!!!

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The blistery summer sun finally yawned and shifted attention elsewhere, allowing a lively tropical storm to play in the Cardamom Mountains. Screeching winds and driving torrents of rain obliged the topographical audience of trees and flora to bend and sway in spirited waves. Onstage in the heavens thunder raged while spectacular light shows illuminated our path. Range Rover engineers were done proud on those unpaved jungle passes. Such backdrop commands resonance with the soul, a harmony of earth and spirit, a communion of–

–what the–?

As we awaited transport to cross the river, a curious contraption, defying the tedium of logic, bobbed into view. It asked to be stared at rudely. The apparatus comprised planks of wood wrongly secured atop three rowboats tied together, and was propelled by a small outboard motor looking for all the world embarrassed at such indignity. Fierce currents crashed around rocky protrusions in the water as our vehicle boarded the raft. Sigh. This is for the brave of heart, and I can only doggie paddle. My useless colleagues are unperturbed.

I used to wonder at some of the stories from the field. But they were written in the stars and I am now convinced. At the next channel crossing, at a restaurant stop, my autopilot checklist overlooked a key variable. [Minimal animals, check. Refuse control, sigh, check. No (uh, cross out)– Minimal (mmh, not quite)– PASSABLE! odor, check. Staff lacking symptomatic lesions, scratches, welts, redness in the eyes, swellings, festering wounds, other evidence of disagreeable heaven-forbid-transmissible condition, welllllllllll–squirm–sigh–oh alright, check. All systems go.] Nature called– texted, actually (calls are expensive in these parts). This way, pointed the cook cheerily, and the corners of my relaxed disposition soon dropped. A stilted outhouse stood over the water three meters into the river, the toilet a hole cut out of the wooden floor. Like Koi in a pond trained by daily feedings that an approaching human meant chow, finned creatures and what appeared to be a pig (who knew pigs swim) gathered enthusiastically beneath the outhouse at my approach. As I prematurely thanked lucky stars that I did not have fish or pork, the iced coffee I’d just consumed snickered at departing wits: the icehouse was next door downriver. [Sigh Of Relief exit stage right. Gag Reflex enter stage left.]

Nestled with its back to the jungle, embracing the Gulf of Thailand, lacking paved roads and bridges, far, far from Apple Pie and Elvis Impersonators and the newly snuck-in UN Ambassador and Gray Bureaucrats sealing the fate of the virgin oil field just discovered off its coasts, the poor island city of Koh Kong bears all the charm of an isolated seaside town, where the pace sips a coconut-papaya shake beneath a swaying waterside palm. Its proximity to Thailand allows it to siphon electricity and cable channels from its neighbor. But the conduits are shut down during heavy rains, pitching Magnavoxes and Pioneers and the karaoke on all three city streets into silence. Despite the severe poverty, its people are a positive lot with a ready smile, and they know that better days are coming.

Besides the offshore drilling that will replace the venturesome capitalist’s ten-cent-coconut-papaya shake (or was it a mango-coconut-papaya shake?) with a martini-shaken-not-stirred-charge-it, there is the planned highway linking Koh Kong with Phnom Penh. The ink had not dried on the approved construction project when land prices soared to US levels and hands shook on business deals. The initial phase bulldozed the road in front of our survey site, and access to the health center was via large mounds of dirt and a displaced canal, so off went the shoes and hitch went the britches. But it is rainy season and, really, water buffalo dung is just mashed vegetation.

How can you build Character when it keeps trying to escape?

That’s when the banana dropped. A little Khmer girl was scampering about in the dilapidated clinic, daughter of one of our interviewers. In her small hand was a small banana, peeled, the sweet kind, the kind you can pop whole into your mouth it is that small. Banana scrawled itself onto my mental shopping list while the banana in the little girl’s grip fell to the ground in a careless instant. Unfazed, she picked it up, took a bite, and looked about. I sought cover. But little girls with dirty little bananas in their dirty little fists are quick and the banana was soon being offered to me with the sweetest smile. Kick her, dirty banana will go away, Evil Nat rasped. Angel Nat on the other shoulder —it’s got wings— said kindly, Take the banana.

All eyes turned towards this unfolding drama. Kick her— The little girl looked at me. Take the banana— My team looked at me. Kick her— I looked at the banana. Take the banana— The banana looked at me. [Overhead two pressure systems collided. Tears from timid clouds rained down.] Everyone on my teams are Khmer, hired and paid by NCHADS, —It’s dirty!!— the STI surveillance unit of the Cambodian Ministry of Health, —That isn’t the point!— in turn receiving funds from the US-based ngo FHI, —Kick her!— which in turn works with monies disbursed by the big kahuna in the alphabet soup of development, USAID. [The cauldron of the heavens bubbled and boiled over as oxygen molecules fleed the scene.] As the only foreigner I’m the manifestation of privilege, –Take the banana!– dollar behind the paycheck, a face to link to the billions in foreign aid each year. Each move however insignificant, —Kick her!— in judging eyes directly victimized by our policies, is America incarnate. [Electrons hissed and prepared for landing. The very air cackled and spit!!] Take the banana!! What are you gonna do, the silent universe vortexed ominously. Kick her!! What are you gonna do, the wealth of nations sneered. Take it already!! Kick her!! Take thE BANANA!! KICK H– WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO, you arrogant, bomb-happy, neo-colonialist hypocrite preaching at masses too starved to care– KICK HER!!! TAKE THE BANANA!!! –trawling the world looking for more–more!!–like you don’t have enough and wheRE ARE YOU GONNA GET IT YOU’RE AT THE ENDS OF THE EARTH HERE!!! [Roar of thunder!!!] WHATAREYOUGONNADO?!?!?!

[Tha-dump-tha-dump-tha-dump. . . ]

I took the banana. And crossed bananas off the shopping list.

Cambodia: How to do the Poipet Border Crossing

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Border crossing from Arranyaprathet, Thailand, into Poipet, Cambodia, is more stressful than the other way around. The casinos are right on the border, with sellers and market stalls outside. $40 rooms are had here if the onwards journey is postponed and a night’s stay is necessary. Otherwise, the main street just straight out from the border is lined with guesthouses of various price ranges. My $3 room was clean with a solid lock on a rickety door. The bus station was off this main road to the left, if walking away from the border, for my early morning bus ride.

If you purchased a trip from Bangkok to Siem Reap (Angkor Wat) or Bangkok-Phnom Penh, there is the possibility of a scam in Poipet. This can go along the lines of the bus breaking down, so if you want to get to Siem Reap or PP by nightfall, you have to pay extra to get on a bus that was leaving “right now” and happens to have extra seats. That’s an extra several dollars to $15.

If you took the train from Bangkok it will be around 2-3pm by the time you cross the border and need onwards transport. Touts of all sorts will approach you with options. Be mindful of the following ticket prices to adjust your bargaining (Phnom Penh-Siem Reap is roughly the same distance as Poipet-Phnom Penh, and also Poipet-Siem Reap as this latter trip’s road is in BAD shape):

A one-way ticket on a comfortable, clean, air-conditioned bus with a bathroom from Phnom Penh-Siem Reap costs around $12-$16. The cheapest ticket option where locals can ride roofside on a packed ‘taxi’ minibus for this same trip is around $3-6.

Just remember: If you haggle too hard, you’ll get shafted and may end up in another town altogether, late in the evening with no options (like we did, see below). Keep your cool, ask questions, pay fairly, and you’ll get safely to your destination.

My second trip through Poipet:
see my first border crossing into Poipet

First we stopped in Bangkok.

Although K has been to red light districts before, nothing quite prepared him—or me—for the Patpong mob scene in Bangkok. (Ah that mob scene was only the beginning…) That friendly smile…? It translates to “FRESHIE/SUCKER” hereabouts where people need just the slightest encouragement to keep harassing you for handouts or a sell. The gals came twelve-strong to our table in one of the fine evening establishments—with a ladyboy along just in case Keith’s taste ran the other direction—in a show of pressure that other foreigners walking in did not get. Tiny Asian gals crowded around K, who was trying to keep a shocked expression under control (unsuccessfully) at the whole situation and the vaginal acrobatics happening onstage. It was quite the amusing scene, until I saw one of them grab at his money and he let her take off with it.

–I did not! That was small change from the beers— which was about 20 dollars for two bottles, I might add. {{Edit to add upon K’s insistence that the girl only managed to get a 20baht note from him, which is about $0.50}}}.

So the next day I not-so-jokingly mentioned that if he EVER went out to Patpong for a bach party one day I will have to put a lock on him—

–A chastity belt-of-sorts? The boy asks, pleased at my apparent jealousy.

NO, a lock on your wallet, said I crossly.

Bangkok had all the comfort of any large bustling city. I was keen on the chocolate cakes here, which were moist and dense like a good cake should be (Cambodia did NOT get this memo). There is clean food (or minimal rotavirus–hey what’s the plural of virus? virii? viruses? anyone?), malls (there are no malls in Cambodia–not a huge loss, but the AC’d interior of a mall is nice once in a while, not to mention clothing designs that run around the vicinity of “normal”), and movie theaters (my movie critiqueing is getting dull by the day in Phnom Penh–we only have Khmer movies there). Oh and the pagodas and wats and the large Emerald Buddha that the Thais stole from Laos but tell tourists its theirs (the Laotians are quite bitter about this).

Bangkok was nice. But soon I sadly conceded that we must move on from the comforts of the big city. Onward ho, to a Kampuchean adventure.

K canNOT miss out on the experience of Poipet, so we did the do-it-yourself-border-crossing en route to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat in neighboring Cambodia. We hooked up with two female backpackers from the UK and New Zealand for the trip from Poipet to Siem Reap (and Angkor Wat)—for safety, I erred in assuming–and the combination of so much white skin put more than a bit of attention on us. The English hereabouts Cambodia is fine up until the actual exchange of cash, after which suddenly linguistic faculties fail and our deal with the locals to take us to Siem Reap went down the drain. There was no improvement in the road between Poipet and Siem Reap from when I came through a few months ago, so we bounced around the back of the flatbed of the pickup truck transportation we found, hanging on to our backpacks for dear life, which were sitting atop heaps of smelly days-old river catches. Those gaping patches of bridge?—our driver hummed right over them without hesitation. And what we thought was our transport to Siem Reap instead dumped us in Sisophon, three hours short of our destination, for a scam stop.

–As soon as our pickup truck rolled into Sisophon a feeding frenzy of the street sharks descended. Loud, broken English and Khmer were hurled about around us, and all we could make out was that they wanted us to get on another pickup and pay more. Now the thought of leaving the containers of fish I was forced sit on was appealing, but the deal we made was to ride this crowded (fish containers, old Khmer ladies, kids, and some dead unplucked chickens) pickup from Poipet to Siem Reap… not pay more money in Sisophon. The gals were quite aggressive back to our scammers, and they finally talked the guys down to a reasonable fee, but the journey doesn’t go smoother from here.

For some reason the men in the truck decided to abduct us. Having no familiarity with Sisophon, I looked at N, who through her work in the country knew the road we were taking was not the road to Siem Reap, but by then it was too late. They drove too fast for us to jump off, in circles to disorient us, and straight into a slum area, telling us we need to “come in and talk.”

Finally the vehicle slowed down and as the driver changed gears to reverse the truck into a gated house I jumped out of the back and grabbed everyone elses bags. N and the Brit followed suit. Luckily the Kiwi didn’t pass out from fright. Amid angry yelling back and forth from the men telling us we should come back and “be reasonable” we started trekking up the road away from the house, expecting at any moment to have a confrontation. They were demanding payment, for what I have no idea since they didn’t take us anywhere. We were all truly apprehensive about the whole event and I was mentally calculating which of the men needed to go down first should they decide we needed to be rounded up and marched back. I was afraid they might come after us with weapons; from my readings on the web that scenario certainly was not so farfetched in this country. Thankfully they let us be, perhaps they were too dumbfounded at our decisiveness, or they thought we would be too scared to walk out of this neighborhood and come crawling back for their help.

Luckily N had her phone, via which she beseeched upon her Khmer colleagues back in Phnom Penh to guide us back on track. We were in the middle of slum areas, with no idea where the bus station or the city proper was, and everyone on the sides of the road looked for all the world hostile and unfriendly. Four foreigners sporting large backpacks trekking about lost makes for quite a target, but we were not hassled. N called her translator and asked her to tell people around us to point us in the general direction of the bus station, and she sought random women posing relatively small threat to us to hand to phone to so that the translator can instruct the lady to point us to the direction we were seeking to go. She did this systematically several times for over an hour to make sure we were still traveling in the right direction, so that we finally managed to arrive, haggard, hungry, dirty, tired–but in one piece–at the bus station.

The moment we arrived we thought we made another mistake. It was filthy there, with garbage everywhere and stray animals poking their noses into everything, searching for food. Several broken-down stripped pieces of improvised transport littered the area. There were only men there, about a hundred of them, all gaunt, rags hanging off their starved frames, eyes gleaming like hyenas looking for meat. We stuck out like a beacon and they all immediately descended upon us in droves to offer their services, tripping over each other and trying to outscream everyone else in their desperation to make some money that day. Fist fights broke out around us as they beat on each other for our attention, and Nathalie, unknown to me until much later, was punched in the lip in the melee. I steered the other two girls over to where I saw a uniformed officer. When Nathalie saw our intent she hastened over and told us NEVER to seek police help if we were in trouble. We looked around and there is literally NO help available should these people decide to get some mob action started to take our shoes, clothes, bags, or money, and that is the most sinking feeling in the world. In not so few moments I found myself cursing the existence of this country and wondered for the millionth time what my wife was thinking when she plunked herself down on this hellhole.

The Khmer street sharks did not leave us be, crowding around and forcing their services on us–a moto taxi, a hotel room, food, etc etc– and we could not get a moment’s peace to even converse with each other to get a plan in gear. You just can’t think in that situation! Finally N broke away, snarled at the ones who followed her to get away, and got back on the phone. She asked her colleagues at the NGO in Phnom Penh to help us obtain a taxi out of Sisophon. Finally, after what seemed like days, via contacts of contacts from Phnom Penh to Battambang to Sisophon, her friends were able to help us get a legitimate taxi driver at the bus station and negotiate a fair fee for our onward transport. We were back on the road–the right road this time–to Siem Reap when the heavens opened up and poured down a storm.

Welcome to Cambodia! Why did we leave Bangkok???

And all this time with me yelling, “NO smiling! Hard look, hard look! You’re giving them reason to harass us!!!” Poipet is one of the most notorious border crossings, but nothing prepared us for that ordeal. I did not expect the chain of events we went through, and I just thank my lucky stars that I had some Khmer friends just a phone call away to help us.

Despite that nightmare, I am actually still quite taken with this country, which has a lot of potential and promise in its future. K understandably was not so keen on the whole scene, but after spending some time in Phnom Penh with me things slowly got better. It is still quite primitive for what he is used to. I think the way he handled the whole situation just made me fall more in love with him. Sappy I know, but how many people can find a gem of value in an experience like that, especially when it was unnecessarily forced upon him by someone who claims to love him?! What a trooper I married eh?

–Yeah, great experience of a vacation N, thanks– {{I didn’t hear sarcasm in that did I? he he}}}

Cambodia: To temple To Temple (Angkor Wat)

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Despite previous hysterics I’ve decided there’s an alluring charm about this unyielding landscape. It’s a tough adjustment, still is. One thing about traveling/living abroad that is nice in the short term is that you’re constantly engaged, stimulated, surrounded by people. But for the long haul it’s a revolving door of expats– they’re just passing through and do not stay in your life. Absence of the friendly face that knows, understands, or plain amuses you is draining. So I was much excited about the prospect of a friend of a friend coming into the country to see Angkor, though I knew little about this boy beyond his kind streak of saving your wits and handing them back to you when you’ve lost it in horrible places like POIPET. Happily– hopefully both ways– he turned out to be fairly cool!

Being “local,” albeit brand-new, apparently affords me a bit of aptitude on local lore in his erroneous estimation. What’s the time span on Angkor building activity? he asked. Uh . . .six centuries, said I with much authority. note to self: look this up. Where did they quarry the stones from? Locally, not far at all. note to self: look this up. How’s the crime situation in Phnom Penh? Not bad. note to self: look this up. Also noting the sidewise suspicious glances he started tossing my way.

It was a six hour drive from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, onboard the most well-run outfit I have seen thus far in Cambodia. There was assigned seating, we left almost on time, and they served bug-free pastries in a clean box with a bottle of “Elvis” brand water. I gratefully noted that buses are not equipped with those hideous Turkish toilets that seem all the rage here in SE Asia. We even got a take-off spiel that prompted Nirmal to crack on the airline frustrations of the bus company’s managers. To top it off there was the notable absence of missing patches of highway, making for a smooth unjarring journey. And unlike my errantly intrepid assumption of the availability of friendly hospitality in Poipet, in Siem Reap it was a given, making it easy to wing an itinerary. Ah the small luxuries I have descended to waxing lyrical on. By random choice we ended up with the nicest of drivers, who took us to the nicest of guest houses, and as soon as we booked our rooms he collected his commission for taking us there.

Travelin’ commandos: what one place on this planet just blew you away– by mystique, raw beauty, feat of humanity? Mohenjo-Daro, Petra, Machu Picchu, Kanchenjunga, the Bagan Plains?

It’s hard to imagine how old buildings and fallen stones overgrown with trees can move you to tears, even in state of disrepair. At Ta Phrom, the complex expression of art is magical, sacred, a powerful testament of man’s homage to his god. The jungles took possession of this monastic Buddhist complex in a morbidly curious way. Massive white root systems of fig and banyan trees, almost menacing, as if still growing before your very eyes in a horror scene, twist into and around the cracks and fissures of stone pillars. The sun’s rays diffusing through the canopy imparts an ethereal glow to the seeming-petrified state of ruin. Integrity of the monuments’ architectural design is intact, curiously enhanced by the force of nature in a parasitic vice. India takes over administration of this particular site from the French, and there is much resistance to reconstructive/restorative work that removes these trees.

One of these grace the Lonely Planet Cambodia cover with a very stooped old man sweeping the ground. As we turned the corner we hit a dead stop, cuz there he was, the very same man, wearing the very same clothes, still sweeping the grounds of his beloved wat as he was when the LP photographer came through to capture the 5th edition photo.

The Temples of Angkor comprise many hundreds of complexes, temples, and monuments in a 77square mile area of northwestern Cambodia. It is the legacy of an ancient Khmer empire, one of the greatest existing engineering and architectural achievements of the Ancient World. Angkor Wat is a vast spread of a city whose dimensions, art, and architectural features are metaphorically paralleled to Hindu philosophies and the spatial universe. It is also one of the largest known religious structures, with bas-reliefs carved into gallery surfaces to teach the religious epics of Mahabharata and Ramayana. Most proceeds from ticket sales to the Angkor archaeological zone go to a petroleum company called Sokimex. Odd arrangement, but questioning convoluted logic gets tiring and thus I regrettably can impart not a drop of clue what that’s about. So with passes clutched deftly in hand– our permission to wander the landmined acreages of Angkor– we took off for a dizzyingly full day of wat-sighting, with just a small break in the dead heat of day when brains hereabouts stop functioning, fixated completely on the one thought: I think I’ll just sit in a puddle. Otherwise we took in as many sites as our helpful tuk-tuk driver Longpok cared to show us: the Bayon, tribute to narcissism; the massive labyrinthian monastery of Preah Khan; delicate carvings on the stone pillars of Bantae Srei, tribute to the then-king’s mother; and impeccably restored Bantae Samre, to name a few.

Grave miscalculation by this neo-nomad brought us to Angkor Wat before sunset, when the entirety of the region’s travelers had also synchronized to arrive. We beelined for the central tower and shimmied up to the summit view of the vast royal city. It is a precarious 65meter (213feet) ascent at a steep 70 degree angle. How ancient peoples managed stairs about a foot and a half in height with barely a step to solidly plant much past the balls of your feet is counfounding to me. I hug-crawled up, grappling anxiously for hand- and footholds and ungraciously scraping my face and body in fear that a wisp of breeze would pluck me off. It is this way in the ruins of Latin America as well, and it is scary, without landings or railings to hold on to, so I am forced to sing songs like “A-B-C-D-E-F-G. . . .” to keep calm. For the descent NG offered helpfully to carry his binoculars, which I hogged during the trip, presumably so it won’t be damaged in the event I take the fast way bounce back down to the ground. “To help you,” he insisted, all innocence.

The visual impact of the sheer size of Angkor Wat was not delivered with the awe-inspiring punch as expected. Our approach was punctuated by the steady din that accompanies crowds; quietude was not to be had even atop the central towers where the view alone ought to inspire wordlessness. Cell phone conversations in all manner of languages pierced the air. Parents yanked whining kids along, and backpackers debated the evening’s haunts. We paused dutifully for armed and trigger happy commando tourists in fierce assault on the galleries of bas-reliefs, cameras slung about their chests like ammo belts. And the sun set behind mortal-brown clouds of dust stirred up by tuk-tuks and package tour buses roaming about the lot outside the western gate, across the immense span of moat. Weariness displaced the wow factor, with another visit required to truly afford it justice.

So I’m adjusting to the rythms of the country. Summits are scaled by attitude, yes?, and old comforts, conjuring up unbidden like a mirage for a stranded soul, daily resigns further along the periphery of awareness. From the avant-garde sophisticata of the Northeast US to the progress-cum-reinvention of the Asian Southeast, it is a contrast of worlds. I’m still inundated by new experiences: juggling dual currencies; ads and billboards communicating in three to five languages; an erratic mobile phone situation (Cambodia is a tad behind the curve negotiating bilateral agreements for connections). At this stage of (under-) development Cambodia’s pollution is still localized, not yet an ominous haze engulfing the skyline, but it still draws grievance of sinus activity that in this current climate of bird flu paranoia elicits a wave of alarm from people nearby. But not to worry, as our best medical minds (I hope) are on this puppy . . . a-choo. I also decided at some point that hunger is an unhappy state of being, so I’ve resumed eating in Cambodia, where rotavirus glee emanates palpably from each bite (eat me! me! ME!).

Then the nag of things missed which can’t be nursed with distraction: (KK might just have to top that list!) My jetta! Being driven around doesn’t compare to workin’ the gears and eating up the miles. Sports!, ohhhhh to burn holes in the ground!, pound the ball!, harness all frustrations and tear into a split burst of action! My sedentary reflexes are withering by the second and what I wouldn’t do to–hmmmh . . . well now if that doesn’t provoke a thought . . .

{{thinking. . . thinking}}} . . . –! ! !

Ok bye I go now

Cambodia: “Logic” in My New Life (or Lack Thereof)

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(Note regarding last post: I admit naive existence by my reaction to Poipet, of all border towns, and am duly humbled and impressed by y’all’s courage under fire. I remain in anticipation of genuine notoriety ahead!)

Lunch was a hearty bowl of steaming soup. I dug in. . . . Uh-huh, I don’t eat that {{taking out a pig knuckle}} . . . Mmm, chicken feet {{chuck}}. . . Hadn’t had innards in a while {{chuck}}. . . What-is–??–{{scrutinizing from different angles. . . chuck}} . . . By the time I was ready to start there were a few noodles left in my bowl and four dogs waiting expectantly at my feet. Meals are a Fear Factor challenge without the prizes. The psychology part can be overcome, it boils down to digestive prowess—and a good medical evacuation plan.

A third world state of affairs bypass logic for lottery in Kampuchea. I was looking for a friend’s place and passed a row of houses addressed 41, 9, 243, 245, 9 (in that sequence, and yes you saw 9 twice). After a sufficient amount of cursing I looked around, hoping to find a baraing (foreigner), because even English-speaking Khmers are little help. (For no apparent reason street names or currency denominations will just change.) Postcards: one person in the entirety of the country was delegated monopoly on the photo stocks here, and capturing the unrefined splendor of Cambodia was not his forte. Mail: don’t bother. Internet: user-resistant. ATMs: none. Bring all the money you will need into Cambodia with you and stuff it under the mattress against your better judgment. I was told by the bank teller to go “upstairs” when I flashed my ATM Visa card. After two dark flights of stairs and down a narrow musty labyrinth I came upon a small closet of an office with a bare light bulb, one desk, and one very small old man with a receipt book who told me in French that the wires are down and please come again NEXT WEEK. As in, I clarified, many DAYS from now? Oui, he nodded.

#!@%&!@#$

Transport: There are bus stops but no buses. There are no taxis. Most roads even in the capital city of Phnom Penh are unpaved. Stop lights are a senseless piece of adornment to be ignored at convenience. I still spazz a twitch when my motodup makes a left on red and plows intrepidly into the oncoming traffic. While walking I look alertly in ALL directions, not just BOTH ways, because all manner of wheeled transport hum right along every crack of space, kicking up thick clouds of dirt which I am convinced obstruct reason somewhat. Public transportation comprise motodups (drivers with motorbikes) and cyclos (bicycle-driven rickshaws)– good luck communicating in ANY language theirs or yours. In eagerness to earn as much cash as possible, they nod affirmatively when asked about a destination, then rocket halfway to Vietnam before you realize in panic that this navigationally-challenged psychopath has not a drop of clue where you just told him to go.

First impressions indeed at Poipet. Infrastructure is in hideous disrepair. I am not an engineer, but watching foundation being laid is a worrisome sight. I cringe every time a truck drives by and shakes the building I’m in. On a decrepit one-lane bridge in Kandal province, as I erred in apprehension over a cheery gust of wind, unsecured planks of wood or steel shifted about beneath our tires. Drivers tear through the narrow roads, passing on the left, the right, on the grass, between pedestrians and streetside stalls– with chickens and livestock scurrying out of the way. I must mention that fellow riders are belting out folk songs throughout these suicide jaunts, while my life flashes before my popped-out eyeballs and thoughts along the lines of “WE’RE-ALL-GONNA-DIE” cycle through my consciousness.

I never worried about medical insurance in the US or while traveling, but statistically in this raw environment I have a high probability of needing emergency evacuation to Singapore or Thailand at some point. Regulation is cockeyed. Valium and Cipla are available over-the-counter, but in the latest blip of attempt at regulation, you need a letter from the Ministry of Health to obtain migraine medicine (hello? prescription?). As a result, microorganisms have reached critical levels of resistance to the bastions of antibiotics straight out of the pharmaceutical pipelines. Hygiene: what’s that? (Try not to eat in Cambodia). Medical and clinical science education: not accredited (Kudos to whoever braves a root canal in Cambodia). I want to tattoo a credit card number on my forehead: “If found unconscious please medevac OUT of Cambodia PRONTO.”

The food is adequate (read: be afraid). It’s a different culinary experience to my street corner binges in Thailand. Were it not for the endless other elements in Khmer society vying for damage to my person, there would not be a second thought to snarfing what morsel crosses my path. However, with a maximum lifetime allowance in mind, I must budget my behavior accordingly. Many an unsuspecting digestive tract– sturdy ones at that– have been felled by the multitude surprises this cuisine has to offer, that I am loathe to challenge the fates quite yet. There are things in their food– THINGS— that Phnom Penh must boast a robust sanitation system. {{Whining, wringing fingers:}}} And the bathrooms, the bathrooms!– FINE latrines though they may be by local standards–you do not want to be that acquainted with them. So I sadly stick to things whose nutritional content has been heat-beaten out of it, and hencewith I’ve found Khmer preferences to run in the flavour vicinities of bitter, sour, and salty. {{{sigh}} Someday when intestinal difficulties move higher up my priority experiences of Kampuchea I shall endeavor to elaborate further on this– the cuisine, not its digestive repercussions.

At least I caught the cool season hereabouts Indochina at a mild 90+degrees, dry as a bone. I’m burnt like a rice farmer and am very often hot and sticky. I went for a haircut and my Khmer apparently came out as “take it all off” instead of “trim it just a wee bit”.

: –

Ah well, a new look for a new life.

For women, Cambodia is a shocking sweep back in time for misfortune of birth. Virtue is paramount: rape victims are forced into the sex industry for lack of options, thanks to unforgiving social stigmas. This attitude is so entrenched that girls will actually drop enrollment and proactively shop for brothels. Propriety dictates single women be chaperoned by a family member in social situations. And while wives are expected to be obedient and faithful, society encourages men to keep several bedmates. (I do not understand royal dynamics yet. I expect an openly gay King to liberalize a few things somewhat, but I won’t hold my breath).

All Khmers are survivors, and as with anyone who has undergone trauma, there is a gravity to their spirit. People as young as 30 bear psychological remnants of the Khmer Rouge purges. The genocide that tyrranized Democratic Kampuchea just three decades ago stripped the country of its entire educated population. The reign of terror ended only in 1998 with the death of Pol Pot, without justice meted out, leaving the country scarred and exhausted. Today over half of the population is under 14 years old. Literacy struggles around 30%. Cambodia ranks 130 out of 175 countries in the Human Development Index (HDI). It is a clean administrative slate hospitable to and eliciting a steady flow of aid, creating an NGO economy, from which of course corruption took firm hold. There is evidence of families pimping children out to beg, severing their limbs or pouring battery acid over their face, to better tug at the empathies and wallets of foreigners. Human trafficking, the slave trade, a child sex industry are all rampant. It is an international effort to curb the markets for abuse here. I still reduce to verge of tears when I’m approached by uniformed men with rifles demanding my passport in rapid language beyond my grasp, in areas where I’m the only baraing, because it is not so long ago that foreigners, especially US Americans, were terror targets. But I suspect these problems are the reason why I’m accosted.

Throughout all this we have the UN presence to thank for the fortressed neoclassical French villas which comprise the Boeng Keng Kang section of Phnom Penh, home to the expats. I cannot fault such havens amid abject poverty and the daily dose of heinous realities that blow right through the psyche. This country tears every foreigner away from known comfort zones. It is a lot rougher than I expected, and my travel trepidation level is daily readjusted. I thank my lucky stars for friends across the borders here who keep regular tabs on me. And a husband who can read logs like this and still remain eternally supportive.

Cambodia: Poipet Border Crossing

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First impression via point of entry is a curious introduction to a country. Express arrival through sterile gateways is had at the airport, with greeting that is composed and targeted. Would you like a Starbucks au lait, a shuttle to our white beach resorts, wine and dine at our five star establishments. How modern we are, let us show you (can you tell what parts of the world my travels take me to). The overland route goes through back doors, where a country is less prepared to receive guests, exposing social ills and systemic inadequacies, or perhaps better displaying an old world charm and raw beauty. Given time and energy, I attempt this passage.

And then there was Poipet.

The train ride from Bangkok to the border town of Aranyaprathet was uneventfully peaceful. With the tropical landscape rushing past my window, it was a tranquil start to the two-day journey. There I was able to hitch a ride to the border aboard a tour bus en route to Siem Riep and the premier destination in Cambodia, Angkor Wat. After the usual song and dance with immigration officials I crossed into Poipet and the Khmer Kingdom. (Overland border crossing is just the most paranoic encounter for me. The worst I expect is a fee scam. But what if they deny me entry? Or worse, confiscate my passport, my one internationally recognized proof of existence?).

And here it had to happen, a vicious assault of the worst kind. I was in a cafe with my adopted tour group pondering absently at the ache in my joints. Eight hours on an unpadded wooden seat can wreak havoc on the most tolerant constitution, more so for taller Westerners with less wiggle room for long legs. I always wonder what can pierce the everlasting good spirits of my 6’7″ husband and imagining Keith with me in those moments makes my heart smile.

Through this reverie a soft papery fluttering, too late, caught my attention. WELCOME to Kampuchea, prime real estate for the ubiquitous cockroach population of the large kind, equipped with the unfortunate mechanism of flight. The foul creature that fixated on me crawled for refuge down the front of my shirt as I flew into a fit. The next few moments were a blur until I snapped to sense and stopped, and found myself standing smack middle of upturned chairs, table, and parted crowd. A dirty little Khmer boy scampered after the creature, caught the lunch escapee in one hand, and dumped it into the fryer at the front of the cafe. Lordy if this isn’t a sign.

For my bright and cheery outlook on travel, I cannot find one good thing to say about that abominable hellhole this side of the planet. Poipet is a crossing point that opened to foreigners in 1998, and it instantly built up around the opportunities that presented. It’s described as a Wild West town, and the lawless atmosphere this implies is not exaggeration. Children cling to your sleeve and pursue handouts en masse, then kick your backpack as you walk away. Motorbike drivers crisscross insistently in front of you, undeterred by NO in Thai, Khmer, English. A growing mafia with the singular objective of scamming a deal aggressively harass travelers and are outright belligerent when refused. . . . And that is the tamer part of the scenario. Where normally I’d push positively onward, in this town my optimism reduced to irritation then alarm as darkness approached. I was actually disappointed to the brink of tears to see the last foreigner leave for Siem Riep and was tempted to talk my way again onto one of their groups.

I wanted OUT of Poipet ASAP, but the next means out to the part of the country I was bound for did not leave until morning. In my years of living in Harlem or traveling new cities, I’d never felt my sixth sense buzzing, not to be ignored, even in the dead of night, like it did in Poipet in broad daylight. I bought my bus ticket, hurried to my room, jammed the nightstand against the door, and rearranged the layout to maximize my advantage in case of intrusion. I lined up what belongings I could use as a weapon on the bed, near reach. It’s the kind of place where you keep your clothes on and sleep alert with your hand wrapped around a sharp object ready to spring the commotion rather than wait for it to happen to you. I am forever thankful to a new pal who kept calling/texting to check on me, offering to pay my taxi back to Bangkok should I decide to return “home”. He rescued my sanity that day and night. {{{You’re the bestest, Nirmal–yet again!}}}

The sun awoke over Kampuchea with the brightest crimson glare, and I concurred most crossly. I found to my complete disgust at the BUS station that I was traveling via PICKUP truck. While it is not uncommon hereabouts, balancing precariously on the sides of the flatbed is a recipe for pain. Besides that I was the only female of fourteen riders none of whom could I communicate with, and besides THAT it is a dusty nine-hour ride to Phnom Penh, which is WHY I wanted a BUS, with MANY people, PADDED seats, and AIR CONDITIONING. Of course that ticket man was nowhere to be found at 6am. So while waiting to leave, all manner of Poipet’s biting insects descended on me. Expletives I never knew I had in arsenal erupted to surface and hawkers converged when it registered that I wasn’t Thai or Khmer. Finally, half an hour past the appointed departure time we left. On the way out we passed a row of thatched-roof abodes that might’ve passed for the cutest stilt houses were it not for the fact that they were IN Poipet. Do you know they even had the NERVE to erect a sign entreating travelers to Please Come Again– lousy filthy &%$@! {{{fists in air}}}.

NOTHING in the Khmer countryside was alluring; it was barren and lifeless with an occasional lone coconut or palm in the distance, even the jagged rocky excuses for elevations looked wasted. The roads were in HORRIBLE condition, with massive craters the size of small Pacific islands marring our path so the truck drove a swerving tango, rattling my senses ad infinitum. On the flatbed were sacks of pineapples, and when I fell on one from a jolt of exuberant driving across a series of chasms I nearly flipped myself over the edge in haste to avoid impaled death by pineapple. In the middle of a rickety one-lane bridge as I erred in apprehension over a cheery gust of wind, our driver stopped, got out, and rearranged an UNBOLTED plank of steel to cover a gaping hole that an entire vehicle can plunge through to the muddy waters not a very near distance below. Finally I had it, anything was better than this. So I got off at the side of the road and flagged down the next runt of transportation that chugged along, where I squeezed between a pregnant lady who needed all the space she could hog, and her sack of durian and jackfruit (another spiky stinky blob of a fruit straight out of a science fiction scene). Unbelievable. Reality just sucked at that point so I forced a nap.

First impressions indeed–I am now here, in this broken country with a tragic recent past, I’m getting a new cellular number, I’m searching for a new address.

By the way, for those of you in touch with my parents, I appreciate not a word of these scenarios coming around their way! While I love them dearly enough, the wildest adventure of a paper cut sends them reeling into a doting frenzy, so my placid Tales of Asia back home are benignly uneventful, which pleases them. I’d rather not shatter their notion of my posh care and accommodation with a college friend in Bangkok whom they’ve come to know and trust. {{I shudder the thought if they knew the truth about you, Doualy!}}