Kampuchea Crossings

Bump to baby on the beaten expat track

About fieldwork: "and oh, the places you’ll go!"

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I’m more often than not in the provinces for one of my bigger projects, an STI (sexually transmitted infections) survey*. I am the only foreigner, and no one on my survey teams or the provincial offices that I interact with for days on end is competent enough in English that every utterance does not need to be repeated multiple times, loud and punctuated by wild gesturing. Even my translator needs much explaining. This can be draining…

Although communication difficulties are a given, that daily reserve of energy sometimes isn’t enough to stay afloat deep waters of frustration. Especially when you are hot, tired, dehydrated, waiting to finish the day’s work, and you catch one of your lab techs taking ice out of the cold chain for his drink. Or when you find your interviewer is brokering a deal with participants on the survey incentives so your data is totally rigged and useless. Or when one of your team physicians sells some survey supplies, and you must drive an hour for a mobile signal to ask your home office in Phnom Penh to send more. Shoot me now. I find that under such moments of duress my small brain is unable to multi-cope.

I beelined for the ice cream cart when I heard the familiar bells coming down the street, my better sense seriously impaired the longer the stint in the sticks. The ice cream man sat with me on the curb in the shade listening in amusement as I prattled away, clearly not bothering to make myself understood. Out of the periphery of annoyance two of my physicians struggled to tell me something, and they were pointing accusingly at my little stick of paradise. GO-AWAY.

“For— uh, falmad— uh, folma—,” massacred fragments of English parried back and forth until finally: “Formaldehyde!” one of them spits out with glee, and they broke into contemplative debate in Khmer. I tried to educe a connection between formaldehyde and ice cream in the meantime. But the Khmers must discuss everything. At length. A simple question like “Where is the bathroom?” will provoke a drawn-out discourse if there is more than one person within earshot of the inquiry, so you start drumming your fingers, irritatedly wondering what they can possibly be deliberating. Patience for Dummies. Many sands through the hourglass later I learned that I ingested enough formaldehyde over the past few days to preserve a cow. It is used in the street ice cream industry for its preservative qualities. Forced exhale and a glare at the sky. I tell you, sometimes I just dO NOT UNDERSTAND {{down caps down}}}.

Somehow, roughing it for a backpacking trip is vastly different than roughing it for good. But I think I’m getting used to the bucket shower and squat toilet accommodations. My biggest gripe is that the mosquito net never quite manages to keep out that one endlessly active ‘skeeter. It’s quite amazing I haven’t yet contracted dengue or malaria, given the numerous angry welts my legs and arms can boast. Knock on wood.

Some of the larger problems I encounter are not the technical kind. Such as toeing the line that return-Asian females are somehow faced with: Western aggressiveness versus conventional kowtow– finding your line and getting them to accept it. We’re dealt a harsher scrutiny than Caucasian foreigners get. Another is dressing appropriately for the boonies, where the scorching sun, ever-present clouds of dirt, and endless hours on your feet make it difficult to look presentable. Of course, the gals on my team never have a problem with it. Halfway through the day when I’ve dropped ten pounds in sweat and may as well hose down at a car wash they still look dainty and fresh and perfect. Ancient Khmer secret.

Cravings of late: Chocolate– the complete absence of that rich, calorific slice of decadence is taking its toll. One of the restaurants here had chocolate fudge cake but it tasted like something *I* would make. Needless to say, my hankering is not satisfied. Put cheesecake on that list. Yogurt, a quarter pounder with the trimmings, a slice of New York pizza, bagels. . . . {{daydreaming, drooling, drooling}}} I might have to make another “civilization” run. People here frequent Bangkok for just that– to “clean themselves” and get supplies. Sounds good right about now. . .

Edited to add, since I’ve gotten questions from some family on these. Wow, I am footnoting a blog.
* Surveys are a method of providing statistical data for programmatic objectives. In research it is conducted to develop, test, refine hypotheses. To understand conditions and demographic trends of a population, governments carry out surveys every few years. Market research, opinion polls, the census are surveys. In Cambodia because of war and conflict, survey efforts have been few, making it difficult to specifically target efforts in HIV/AIDS.

The NGO I’m working with is one of the more internationally recognized leaders in public health surveillance. With the highest HIV/AIDS rates in SE Asia, information on the population’s risk behaviors is necessary for program planning purposes. FHI has partnered with the US CDC (Center for Disease Control) and the Cambodian NCHADS (National Center for HIV/AIDS, Dermatology, and Surveillance) for a nationwide survey of STI prevalence in three high-risk populations: the homosexual community, direct female sex workers, and the police (documented to frequent brothels). A cross-sectional analysis of STI prevalence can provide a quick shot of the HIV epidemic, because STI infections are of shorter duration than HIV, and risk behaviors for STIs are similar to HIV.

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!}}

Thailand: Embrace the Chaos (Bangkok)

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I was standing at a busy intersection waiting amid a large crowd of pedestrians to cross the street, when someone pinched my butt. I glared heavenwards at the asinine behavior before turning slowly around. And looked up. And up. There was a tree behind me. And it honked. Right in the middle of the Bangkok congestion, in rush hour, an elephant is standing behind me waiting to cross the street. Where else would you see this!! Alright, ok, it’s still a novel appeal to me. I walked next to the massive creature for a few blocks, touching his trunk, his leg, a stupid smile on my face.

Thailand is the only SE Asian country to have escaped the good fortune of Western colonization, a subject of much debate as to why (that was sarcasm). Farming villages, especially those outside guidebook-assisted traffic, manage to preserve an authentic traditional culture. It is one of the last three countries in Asia (Cambodia and Korea are the others) to retain the unifying symbolism of its royal family. Like the typical middle-developing capital city assaulted by a rush of progress faster than its infrastructure can keep pace, Bangkok is dynamic, evolving, exhausting. It is extravagance and exotic refinement, hosted by a culture of reverence and hospitality, amid pollution, congestion, chaos. Streets are rapidly and irreverently stripped of local flavor in favor of sterile megamalls and concrete warrens of Starbucks, GAPs, multi-cineplexes. Professionals favor western garbs over finer traditional silks and prints. There is a concerning eagerness to emulate the standards of westernization ie Singapore.

Despite the clash of modernization with cultural identity, Bangkok offers the friendliest hospitality to newbie globetrotters and jaded planeteers alike. The population is highly literate; many people speak some english; western currency gets good mileage. Legions of tuk-tuks (tricycles), motorbikes, and taxis roar down the left side of wide boulevards that can be pedestrian-unfriendly. My jaywalking days were put to a screeching halt quite literally when I stepped off the curb looking for traffic in the wrong direction and was instantly plowed into, thankfully by only a tuk-tuk. A collective of older ladies peeled me off the street and helped me cross the street, holding my hands like I was a child. It was very cute.

Sensory speaking, I lived an impoverished age. From the moment I stepped off the plane my senses have been assaulted by the extremes of sight, sound, smell. Resplendent temple rooftops mark the signature skyline with their vibrant gold. Streets are lined with market stalls selling orchids, traditional handicrafts, knockoff-brand merchandise (of surprisingly good quality, I found), fine silks and textiles—it is a bargain hunter’s disneyland and a premier destination for vendors in the country. Pushcart kitchens and bars are everywhere. A special Thai moonshine that I swear is straight rubbing alcohol is found only on these street bars.

Seekers of Siam Exotica are not disappointed. I passed a snake blood stand and watched the vendor hang an unlucky reptile, slit it open with a razor, and drain its blood for a fresh warm shot. It supposedly is restorative for many systemic ills; only the poisonous ones will do. For dire situations, king cobra venom mixed with a bit of whiskey is the ticket. Dried gall bladders, fried hearts, pickled genitals are all readily available as well for the uncompromising palate. Flash strips and the skin trade hawking Oriental decadence waken every evening next to swanky shopping centers. Drugs of all kinds are available with the right eye contact. The basest desires transcend linguistic barriers.

And the FOOD!!! Thai food from the best restaurants can’t compare to the vibrant succulence that attack your palate and olfactory glands here. I found and devoured the remotest familiar fruit, drink, and concoction that I remembered from childhood in the tropics plus more (my palate thankfully had the good sense to stop at durian). Meals are so cheap that many apartments aren’t equipped with kitchens. Portions are small for western standards (Keith will need to purchase the kitchen’s reserves!). D and I are about a size 2 in the US; older ladies here grab our arms in good-natured ribbing and laugh at how “fat” we are (in the Philippines it was a compliment).

No standard system exists for transliterating Thai script into Roman so quick lateral adjustments are necessary. Ayutthaya on a map is easily Ayudhia on the street sign; ditto Chatuchak/Jatujak, Ratsada/Raitchada, etc. The tonal language subverts what linguistic logic I possess. Bound for Khao San, mecca for the backpackers, I kept accenting incorrectly. How many different ways one can intonate “Khao San” is beyond me, but I somehow accomplished it. I was dropped off clear across town from intended destination on the first try, and stayed to explore since I was already there. The next day I obliged the fates again after I insisted to no avail with the driver who took me to yet another part of town. Wondering if it’s possible to run out of ways to corrupt this name, three days later I was finally brought to the right place. I haven’t a drop of clue why.

There is a propensity towards kindness in the Thai personality. They’re an inherently good-natured, friendly, and peace-loving sort. To illustrate, unlike in neighboring countries that share their faith of Theravada Buddhism, deities here are benevolent beings, epics and legends like the Ramayana end happily ever after. Merit seeking acts of kindness to insure karmic goals are a life-long endeavor. Of course, the occasional miscreant exists and they have nothing to lose but a propitious rebirth higher up the reincarnation ladder (I wish my pickpocketer an eight-legged existence). This accompanies a natural reverence towards fellow creatures and Mother Earth, which sadly is quickly being replaced by materialism.

Women–a curious subject in whatever city I find myself. This influence on the hearts and minds of the generations is a fascinating watch, before eyes dismiss, look politely down, or smile in courteous greeting. It’s tough to miss the sheer will barely veiled in the eyes of Middle Eastern, Eastern European, Indian women, for instance, despite seeming constraint of culture. That spirit seems rule, not exception. But in the Land of Smiles gusto is mistaken for exception. Across this continent exists a vastly different modus operandi than what has served D and I well in the West, buttressed by a philosophy that honey catches more flies than vinegar. D struggles through this challenge, and I see the same frustration awaiting me.

Thailand: After the Tsunami (Phuket)

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White beaches. Emerald bays. Tranquility on a gentle breeze and the soft lap of water at your toes. The brilliant backdrop of a setting sun. Troubles reduce to inconsequence when Mother Earth bows kindly down, harnessing all of creation’s beauty, and places gently at your feet such romance. It is betrayal of the highest order to feel less than awed.

Phi Phi Island welcomed guests back for the first time last Tuesday since it was tragically robbed of its patrons a month ago. The tropical paradise, two hours off the coast of Phuket by boat, is alloted but a kindly dot on the map of Thailand to acknowledge its presence. But since the filming of Leonardo di Caprio’s “The Beach” on location, an atmosphere of mass tourism emerged. Thousands of foreigners descend on her shores each day, even in the off-season, ranking Koh Phi Phi one of the most popular vacation destinations in Asia. Ten meter waves, one after another, hundreds of miles per second, left only structural skeletons behind. I’d never seen devastation like this.

In the midst of taking in the destruction was an irreverent bit of wonder at things I’m not normally exposed to. Elephants, enlisted to clear heavy debris, were dispersed across the destroyed landscape. You may have seen a photo on the internet or news, of a navy frigate, catapulted over a kilometer inland and into a building, leaving a wake of skid marks through houses and streets. In one of the camps set up by the Mirror Foundation-Bangkok I got an unpleasant surprise. While seeking out the person in charge a juvenile simian plunked down, wrapped its legs around my neck, and proceeded to examine my scalp. A Thai boy walked by. “Uh–” I started, jabbing at the air in the monkey’s direction. He smiled, waved back, and continued on. (A stupid idiot who I have the misfortune of sharing a genetic makeup with once taught a pet monkey to light matches when I was in the northern boonies of Luzon, Philippines. Naturally it decided one day that setting me on fire was its goal in life. These creatures are an unpredictable bundle of mischief, vicious and vengeful when slighted, and I do not like them. NEVER cross a monkey.)

In Phang Nga, the hardest hit province, north of Phuket, English was hard to come by, and the best stunted Thai I could muster kept getting me dropped off miles before my destinations. So I spent a lot of time hitchhiking from one camp to the next, knowing only “zunami” in Thai, and pointing at a map. It was an atmosphere of mutual assistance throughout the affected areas. We were all in the same boat and everyone pitched in whatever small help they could contribute.

Everything was destroyed, with small pockets of areas just meters wide that were left physically unaffected. No one will eat anything from the sea. Thousands of people are still missing, and the count does not factor illegal migrants who’ve come through from Burma or other border countries to make a living off the tourism this area attracted. Species of sharks never before seen in the Andaman Sea have been found in record numbers. It is the creepiest I have ever felt in my life, especially at night, despite the most beautiful sunsets I’ve seen in a long time. Many private recovery teams were sent here by relatives of foreigners, clinging to the smallest thread of hope, unsanctioned by the UN and national governments. When army trucks came down the road these teams and their dogs took to discretion. I hooked up with other foreigners come through to help and we rented a jeep. Between the five of us we could communicate in 14 languages and surprisingly every single one came in handy through the days we were together, at the camps, forensic facilities, the embassies, the Phuket town hall which coordinated all efforts.

There was a particular team of two Dutch women that accosted us in the most bizarre encounter. We still to this day have no clue what to make of it. They were dressed in fatigues and sweating in the mid-day heat. When one of them approached the vehicle we asked if there was anything we can do to help. One of the girls, Ester, said they were here for recovery work. I’d heard at UNICEF earlier in the week that, under pressure from both foreign governments and Thai families, the recovery effort had been revived. By her dress, the behavior and actions of her partner and their dog, nothing seemed amiss. The partner called or whistled special commands and off went the dog in a strategic fashion, first around the small body of water next to the road, then into the water. There was a purpose to its actions, not at all random. Not long after it dove into the water the dog came up and began barking, swimming circles around one spot, not leaving it. Ester and her partner didn’t even glance at each other, and it barked more insistently. The other girl tossed a tennis ball, and suddenly the dog was at play. Game over. I have never seen a recovery operation. I didn’t know what this meant. Did the dog signal finding someone?

When Ester looked back at us she suddenly made no sense whatsoever. She needed people to help unearth the remains once she found them. Can we help? Suddenly it wasn’t a normal conversation anymore, though no one said anything. We asked for her partner’s name, the name of their hotel, their telephone number, if they were with an organization. She repeated, several times, all of this information, but we couldn’t understand a thing she was saying anymore. There were five of us in the vehicle, and all the woman said previously communicated clearly without a problem, but now we could not decipher her response to these questions. Her eyes were wild, she was agitated, almost desperate, and she kept repeating her request. It was like someone who is in shock. She kept asking for help and of course we assured her we would assist in any way we could. But this is a forensic procedure, there is a specific methodology involved, it is to be treated like a crime scene. At this point in time following the disaster it was no longer a crisis period. Experts were now on the ground and available–they needed to be enlisted, and certainly none of us had the slightest training in either the location or recovery aspect. She, given what evidence we saw of her team’s expertise, should recognize this. It was a marked change in her professional demeanor.

She wrote an overseas cellular number on a piece of paper for us. We barely drove half a kilometer to the army station we passed on the main thruway when we decided to turn around and hash the logistics of what the women needed so perhaps we can pick up supplies. This was a long side road down to the shore. There was nothing here, it was completely level without place to hide, no trees buildings or elevations, and they had no vehicle. Visibility to see a vehicle or person, even a dog, was very good for a long distance. But they were gone. Perhaps they moved on to a new location, so we drove further down, and in concentric circles around where we last saw them. Nothing. The stench of decay that was so strong when we earlier stopped was gone. The phone number they gave us didn’t work.

Later in the evening we came back to that location. An army truck was there, digging up remains from the water where the dog was. One of our group spoke Thai and he asked the men if they had seen a pair of Dutch women and a dog. They asked why we were asking, surprised. They’ve been trying to locate these women for many weeks but could not. They said that people kept “sighting” these women and the dog, who kept barking out locations of remains. But that was all our Thai speaker could get out of them and they said no more.

There is a perfectly logical explanation to all this I am sure. The five of us had a long week, and we think there was error in the translations or nuances of language that we didn’t pick up, from Ester, from the army men. Nevertheless, all week, we’ve felt and heard stories of profound restlessness. This event affected us the most. Buddhist monks were omnipresent, performing ceremonies throughout the shore towns, because a disgruntled spirit is believed to be a dangerous spirit, and the sight of them lent a transcendent melancholy to the air.

Resilience of the human spirit is nothing short of remarkable isn’t it. It is all terrible, and placed in such situation people must and will endure. A friend’s contact with miles about to expire flew me to Phuket, 860km south of Bangkok on the Andaman Sea. When I arrived here I felt an overwhelming homesickness, to be with or talk to the people I loved and missed, to hug them. Instead I was cut off from everything, and all the joy and rightness in life sapped right off. And this was before I even saw anything. It was a productive but awful trip. A friend in Banda Aceh has had nonstop involvement in his country’s efforts since day one. If I needed a break in my measly exposure of one week I cannot imagine the ghosts haunting his waking moments. Prayers and thoughts to you my friend.