machetes, pigs, and families of four

One of the strangest things that is exceptionally common in the Southeast Asian region is how much stuff the people will strap to their motorbikes. You can very regularly see entire families crammed onto one bike, typically the father driving with the youngest child standing in front of him on the foot board, the wife sitting all the way to the back of the seat, with one, sometimes two children wedged in between them. Then you’ve got the people that strap 35 tires to their seat, two feet high worth of bicycle parts, large baskets of food, literally anything they need to get from point A to point B. By far the most interesting arrangement I saw on the back of a motorbike was on our way out to these temples, I young Cambodian guy was riding along, as though nothing were unusual, with four full-grown pigs tied up-side down on the back of his scooter. Every time I saw something like this I just shook my head in disbelief, always curious how they managed to balance the loads and how catastrophic a collision would be. I ever saw a gay with a full-size dresser on the back of his scooter, which shot up a good foot or two over his head, and there was someone sitting on top of it.
The ride out to the temples, whose name I have completely forgotten, was a straight shot down a road from the center of town and out through what seemed to be to not-so-touristy area of town. Where as the center of town, on the side of the river that we were staying was relatively Westernized, but this road jetting out from town and into the countryside was completely devoid of any modern luxuries, and was far more like the road from Poipet to Siem Reap; people living on the sides of the road, children playing in the ditch, splashing and frolicking without a care in the world, completely unaware of the state they are living in, and countless merchants slinging their wares and goods to whichever passersby will give them the time.
The most notable and powerful parts of this ride were how happy all of the children were and how quick they were to wave and say hello as we passed.
Wat’s randomly and seemingly arbitrarily popped up every so often, like a lone buoy in a vast lake, there would be nothing for a few miles, and then a fantastically ornate Wat with magnificent colors and traditional architecture.
The ride ended up taking considerably longer than expected, simply because we didn’t really know how far the site was when we left, and I would highly suggest not ever riding 15-plus miles in nearly 100 degree weather while wearing denim shorts. Go figure, denim doesn’t really breathe all that well. Jenny and I were quite enjoying ourselves though; we shared a love for the masses of children we were fortunate enough to have close encounters with on this ride, and were by no means fazed by the distance. This excursion also brought the oddest and most uncomfortable situation yet, however. Every so often the kids we would pass would ask us for money or try to sell us something, but we were reluctant to stop and give them anything because we knew if we gave one of them money, we would feel terrible about not being abler to give all of them money, and I was hesitant to make one of the kids feel more important and more privileged than the others. One child in particular, was hanging with a few of his friends as we rode by, with no one else in site in either direction, and as we approached they began asking us for money with their hands outstretched, and as we passed without giving them anything, I noticed that one of the boys was wielding a machete and started coming at us as we were riding away, yelling at us in Khmer. At first I started laughing, figuring he was kidding considering how unbelievably warm and welcoming everyone else had been while in the country, but as he began closing in, not really slowing down, I decided we should probably get out of there quicker than we currently were. Jenny was becoming increasingly nervous about the machete chasing us down, and we looked at each other with a look of understanding and took off down the road as fast as our legs could take us, leaving the bizarre kid with a machete in our dust, literally.

“the alchemist” and the gift of giving it

Unsure of how long it would take me to locate Chin’s monastery, I woke up early, again, so that I could go meet him and get back in time to get some breakfast before heading out with Jenny. All I had was the name of his monastery and the district of town that it was located in. I walked across the street from my guesthouse to the hoard of drivers sitting over there waiting for someone to need a ride. I walked out of the guesthouse with the specific purpose of hiring one of them, which they picked up on right away and surrounded me as soon as I was near, all shouting prices, telling me they were the best driver for the job, that they’d give me the best tour of the city, take me to Angkor Wat, etc. Some of them spoke remarkable English, and some of them were pretty convincing salesmen, but for such a simple ride, and a remedial task, I wanted to hire one of the guys who seemed like he may not get as much work as the rest of them, so I picked out one of the older, quieter guys in the group and started trying to explain to him where I wanted to go. There was an absolute lapse in communication as he spoke no English whatsoever, but fortunately, the good willed Cambodians held no ill will towards him for my choosing him rather than them and were eager to help him figure out where I wanted to go. I envisioned this scenario happening place in Chicago, and saw the cabbies having a bad attitude towards me for not choosing them and leaving my chosen driver and me on our own, but not here, here they seemed happy to help, even with no hope for financial gain.
With a vague concept of where we wanted to go, I hopped on the back of my driver’s motorbike. I suppose it makes sense in retrospect, but since this driver probably gets less work, he was unable to afford a sweet bike like some of the other guys who were bigger hustlers, his was a mid-70’s Honda motorcycle with a seat made for about one and a half people, leaving me hanging halfway off the back while still pretty much wrapping my legs right around him.
We headed over to the vicinity of the monastery and I just started shouting the name of it to passersby as we drove trying to solicit some idea of where it was and if we were headed in the right direction. Through a series of right and wrong directions from pedestrians, we ended up on a small road that ran perpendicular to the main road through town and we headed down it. Having rained a tad the night before, the dirt road was now thick mud with several holes whose depth was immeasurable by looking at it. My brilliant driver did an excellent job of negotiating this terrible section of road, weaving clear across the width of it in an attempt to dodge certain capsizing, until we came to a patch where the road was flooded from side to side. His mantra seemed to be to just maintain velocity and we would push our way through anything, so without hesitating, we punched it and we headed straight into what turned out to be about two feet of water, hitting a relatively large pothole halfway through it nearly sending us to the ground. Somehow he pulled it off and we emerged from this swamp on the other side, unscathed, and covered in mud from the knee down. Fortunately I was wearing flip flops and the same denim shorts I’d been wearing for a week, so now I was disgustingly dirty; nothing a hose can’t take care of though.
As it turned out, we had a bit of an audience standing nearby who got a kick out of the sight of my five and a half foot driver driving a six and a half foot westerner through a massive puddle, but were the most helpful people we had come across thus far and informed us, through a lot of pointing and gesturing, that the monastery was about 30 yards down the street, in the direction we’d just come from. Thankful for their directions, but resentful of their not having been standing on the nearside of the lake, we boarded our hog and make a sweeping u-turn to hit the monstrosity head on once again, this time with a bit less speed and a good idea of which line not to take through it, and we made it through without a hitch, more mud, but no potholes.
We stopped next to what looked sort of like dorms; a row of about ten huts with monks robes hanging out to dry in front of them across the road from a temple. I got off the bike and made sure my driver knew he was driving me back and to not leave me at the monastery, and I began walking around looking for someone to ask about Chin Vanna’s whereabouts. Right as I walked into the little dirt courtyard that all of the huts lead out to, Chin emerged from one of them with the large metal bowl that young monks are always seen carrying and his robe half wrapped around him. With his upper body exposed it was clear that the students, while educated for free, are certainly malnourished; his ribs all stuck out and his arms couldn’t have been any bigger around than those of a twelve year olds. He was just as surprised to see me as I was to have him be the first person I saw at the monastery. He came over and we greeted one another. He saw that I had the book in my hand and seemed in utter shock that I had pulled through in not only buying the book but in tracking him down at his home to deliver it. I tried for a minute to ask him how his night was, how his morning was going, and what he was doing today, but soon remembered how difficult small talk is with a difficultly penetrated language barrier, and promptly moved on to the subject of the book. I looked down at the photocopied version of “The Alchemist” and handed it to him, he grabbed it from my hand with humility and seemed almost ashamed to be taking the gift, but equally as excited and thankful for it. In his broken English he said thank you and that he was really looking forward to reading it and had spent the night wondering if I would actually show up or not. I told him not to mention it and that it was a pleasure to meet him and that I was very fond of him. He then said, “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.” My first inclination was that he meant monetarily, but I quickly shed that thought and realized he meant he wouldn’t ever be able to repay the good deed. I merely told him not even to think about that, and that the only thing I wanted in return was for him to read it and allow it to do for his life what the book did for mine. He nodded his head in aggreeance, and thanked me again. Tears had welled up in both of our eyes by this time, and I continued to reiterate his dreams and told him to study hard, work towards his goals, and get out of Cambodia to raise his family out from under the corruption and aside from the poverty that his family was buried in. Unable to respond, we engaged in a long handshake, and knowing we would never see each other again, we bowed to one another, I turned and left. My driver was waiting where I’d left him, and with no way of understanding what was being said between Chin and I, by the smile he had on his face, he knew exactly what was going on. We nodded to one another, acknowledging the moment, and off we rode, down the muddy road. I looked back over my shoulder, and as though out of a movie, I saw Chin looking down at the book, and looking up right as I turned around, we made a final eye contact, he waived, I smiled and nodded, and he disappeared around the corner we just took which almost flung me off of the motorbike since I wasn’t ready for it.
Doing things for people who you will see again feels good. Giving money to a homeless person in your hometown is a great feeling, even though there is the distinct chance that you may run into them again the next time you walk down that street, but doing something completely selfless for someone who you know you will never see again, with out any form of gratification besides your own, is something that’s truly unparalleled.

cambodian cuisine

After a few beers the first of our dishes came out. Much to all of our surprise, we didn’t get filleted fish that had been fried, or anything of the nature one would anticipate getting in the States, but what we got was an entire fish, yanked out of the river the restaurant was hovering over, fried, and laid out on the plate. The fish’s eyes were intact and open, it’s mouth was stuck open and it was curved at about a ten degree angle as though it was swimming in the deep fryer and just got stuck at that angle. We were a bit taken aback and weren’t quite sure, logistically, how we were supposed to go about eating it. Savaht led the way and just reached over, grabbed a hold of the tail, and started pulling meat off it with his bare hands and chewing on it. Erick and Jenny were a bit more hesitant at first, but I jumped right in and followed suit. It tasted terrible, however, and I didn’t really get through very mush of it. Savaht loved it and waited until the very end to eat the eyeballs, which he swore are the best part. He offered them to all three of us, and we all three agreed we would take his word for it.
The karaoke was still raging next door, and we were still pushing our way through 20 Angkor Beers, which were inevitably becoming warmer as the night went on because they were merely chilled when we got them, and along with Erick and Jenny, I am deathly afraid of ingesting any form of water, liquid, solid, or gas even, in third world countries, so we were braving the oncoming warmth of the beer, and trying to get through them, just making the karaoke that much funnier. Once Savaht put the fish eyes down, the owner came over with our eel soup, which had a very interesting aroma. This, much like the fried fish, was nothing like I’d expected. I was anticipating chopped up eel with vegetables, or thinly sliced eel, or something, but was certainly not expecting to get a bowl full of broth and a full eel coiled up inside of it. Again, we all looked at each other in bewilderment, unable to decipher how to go about eating this new dish, and waited for Savaht to dig in, which in his newly drunken state, didn’t take him long. Much like the fish, again, the head was intact, eyes and all. Savaht took the liberty of dicing the eel into small segments and distributed them pretty evenly in bowls for us accompanied by the eel broth. None of us acquired a taste for the eel soup and were doing everything in our power to eat as much of it as possible, both because we didn’t want to be disrespectful and because we were all starving still.
Now very pleased with our decision to order separate items for safety sake, my shrimp friend rice and Erick and Jenny’s spring rolls and chow mein showed up. At this point I‘d gotten through about five of the beers and needed, pretty desparately, to make room for more, so I asked Savaht, who was now unable to sit up without swaying, where the bathroom was. He just pointed in the general area behind me and said, “Just go.” Slightly confused, but also having an epiphane and looking around, realizing there wasn’t anywhere in the restaurant that would facilitate a bathroom, I asked what he meant, and he again just told me to go, “over there.” I turned around and looked but there was nothing but river, separated from us by only the same three foot wall separating the restaurants, and I asked if he meant that he wanted me to pee in the river just to make sure. He confirmed and again just pointed, eyes half closed, and continued slurping down the eel. Erick and jenny both looked at me wondering what I was going to do, so I shrugged my shoulders, walked over a few yards to where some other people were eating, and peed over the three foot wall and into the flowing river below. I didn’t want to pee in front of the people I was with, I figured that’d be a bit awkward, and it proved to be incredibly normal, apparently, because the family of six Cambodians who I was peeing only a few feet from didn’t even seem to take notice, even though you could clearly distinguish the sound of my urine stream making contact with the river a good ten feet below. And this, of course, is where the fried fish, the eel, and the shrimp that I ate all came from. No wonder they all tasted a bit weird.

cambodian restaurant to die for

After the concert everyone was milling around in the foyer and we bumped into Jenny, who showed up a bit late and didn’t want to be the girl who has to stumble over everyone’s legs to get to the seat we had saved for her during a classical concert, so she retreated to a far more easily accessible seat up on the veranda. There was a donation box at the concierge, which people were flocking around to do their part, but I wanted to give my donation to the doctor himself. Erick and I waited in line behind the other people who were paying their respects to him and finally got to the front of the line.
Erick is German, but lives and works in Switzerland as an anesthesiologist, and has pretty extensive medical training. On as tight of a budget as he was on, traveling for a full year, he wasn’t able to muster up cash for a donation, but with a completely open ended schedule and a massive heart, he decided to offer his services. When we reached the front of the line, Erick spoke with Beatocello is German, which is one of three languages Erick speaks fluently and one of five languages that the doctor speaks fluently, and offered to stay and volunteer for a few weeks. Beatocello respectfully declined because he said staff is the least of their worries, and that they didn’t need the help, but genuinely thanked him for his offer, after which I told him that I had a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for what he was doing, and that while I didn’t have a lot of money to donate, I’d like to contribute what I can. He was very grateful for my donation, and wished us both luck in our travels. A modest donation of 50 dollars may not seem like a lot for a medical institution by Western Standards, but with an average monthly salary of 20 dollars per month, I paid one of the workers to keep doing what they’re doing for two and a half months.
We left the hospital feeling very good about our donations and exceptionally good that there is someone actually doing something about all that is wrong in Cambodia. There are good people out there who are willing to put their lives second to those of the people in need.
The three of us tracked down Savaht who was outside socializing with the other tuk-tuk drivers waiting to pick people up and boarded our carriage. We had arranged earlier for Savaht to take us to a restaurant that would not have seen the likes of tourists for some time if at all. He said he knew just the place, and we were off.
Thirty minutes outside of Siem Reap we finally pull off the one and a half lane wide dirt road at a little strip in the middle of nowhere comprised of a small handful of restaurants. The road had been running wearily parallel to the river for the majority of the drive, with vast fields opposite the brown body of water. These few restaurants were like an apparition, a mirage in the desert after a long days travel. The man I assume was the owner of the restaurant came out and crossed the street to greet us; he was familiar with Savaht and was very pleased that he brought us to his place. Crossing the street and walking into this entirely bamboo establishment was amazing. Literally everything was bamboo, the entryway, the ground, the bar, the walls, the roof, and all four other restaurants adjacent to this one were bamboo as well. This was a bit strange; because I certainly hadn’t noticed a surplus of bamboo plants in the minimal traveling I’d done in the country. None of the five places had signs delineating one from the other, either, which I found a bit weird. I guess if you are going to eat out here, you just know which one is which.
The record seemed to stop when we walked in as though someone walked into prom without their pants. We were absolutely the only Westerners in the place, and we couldn’t have been happier about it. Just walking into this indescribably unique Cambodian place restored all of the adventurous spirit that had been sucked out of us the night before by all of the pompous assholes in Von Dutch hats and button up shirts with diesel jeans.

the cambodian doctor, beatocello

The idea of corruption in a countries government is so surreal to me, coming from the US, that it’s virtually incomprehensible to hear how far that corruption reaches. That said, it’s easy to imagine that things like law enforcement, or the government officials themselves are corrupt, but one would imagine healthcare being a safe-haven for those who require it, a place where you would be able to expect to be treated fairly and justly. This, unfortunately for Cambodians, is equally as far from reality as the idea of being able to travel abroad. The payment for medical services is set up completely opposite of the way we know and understand it, and the idea of insurance doesn’t even register with them. In the States, you go to the hospital, and there are fixed costs for what you have done, regardless of your income, regardless of your status. An examination costs this, a bottle of pills and a shot costs that; the point is it’s standardized. When a Cambodian family comes to a hospital, the first question the doctor asks is how much money the family has. Typically, unwilling to risk their family member passing away as a result of not receiving the care, they tell the doctor how much money they have, and that becomes the price of the care. The corruption has spread to unimaginable lengths, even reaching as far as the doctors. They will take the people for everything they have, without thinking twice. A simple shot could, and usually will, cost a family their entire life savings. And if the family can’t pay, the doctor will simply turn them away. For every 1,000 children that are born, 70 of them die due to improper medical care. As a comparison, the national average in the United States, including very suburban and underdeveloped, poverty-stricken areas, is six per 1,000. There seems to be no end in sight for the people of Cambodia, simply because no one takes the initiative to change things. Which is where Beatocello comes in.
Dr. Richner has opened four hospitals in Cambodia, the one in Siem Reap, two in the capital, Phnom Penh, and one in a remote area. Taken from Dr. Richner’s website –

“In the four hospitals, Kantha Bopha I, Kantha Bopha II and Kantha Bopha IV in Phnom Penh and Jayavarman VII in Siem Reap Angkor, each year 75′000 children are hospitalized (the average length of hospitalisation is 5 days), 800′000 ill children receive treatment in the outpatients department, 400′000 healthy children get vaccinated, 16′000 chirurgical operations are executed, 12′000 birth in the maternity (designed to prevent mother-to-child AIDS and TB transmission) and daily 3′000 families receive health care education. All medical services are free of charge since the families in Cambodia are simply too poor to even make a small contribution towards these medical costs. Without Kantha Bopha, 3′200 additional children would die in Cambodia every month.
A mere 5% of the hospital’s funds are spent on administrative tasks. In order to avoid the traditional, cost-intensive hospital management and the bureaucracy going with it, we have allocated those tasks which can be dealt with locally, including logistics, to those members of the medical staff who have the necessary administrative skills. This means that your money will be spent fully for the benefit of the children in need and the Cambodian population. What’s more, we have managed further to reduce the number of foreign staff to just two. Today, Kantha Bopha is operating largely autonomously, both from a professional as well as a technical viewpoint.”

Beatocello is one of the hardest working and most dedicated people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. He gave up his life of luxury in Europe where he was a renowned musician to come to one of the poorest and most corrupt countries in the world to help the people; and he is making a fantastic difference. Not only is he providing free healthcare for the people, but he is providing numerous jobs to other would-be unemployed and impoverished Cambodians. He is a true saint.
After the concert everyone was milling around in the foyer and we bumped into Jenny, who showed up a bit late and didn’t want to be the girl who has to stumble over everyone’s legs to get to the seat we had saved for her during a classical concert, so she retreated to a far more easily accessible seat up on the veranda. There was a donation box at the concierge, which people were flocking around to do their part, but I wanted to give my donation to the doctor himself. Erick and I waited in line behind the other people who were paying their respects to him and finally got to the front of the line.
Erick is German, but lives and works in Switzerland as an anesthesiologist, and has pretty extensive medical training. On as tight of a budget as he was on, traveling for a full year, he wasn’t able to muster up cash for a donation, but with a completely open ended schedule and a massive heart, he decided to offer his services. When we reached the front of the line, Erick spoke with Beatocello is German, which is one of three languages Erick speaks fluently and one of five languages that the doctor speaks fluently, and offered to stay and volunteer for a few weeks. Beatocello respectfully declined because he said staff is the least of their worries, and that they didn’t need the help, but genuinely thanked him for his offer, after which I told him that I had a tremendous amount of respect and admiration for what he was doing, and that while I didn’t have a lot of money to donate, I’d like to contribute what I can. He was very grateful for my donation, and wished us both luck in our travels. A modest donation of 50 dollars may not seem like a lot for a medical institution by Western Standards, but with an average monthly salary of 20 dollars per month, I paid one of the workers to keep doing what they’re doing for two and a half months.
We left the hospital feeling very good about our donations and exceptionally good that there is someone actually doing something about all that is wrong in Cambodia. There are good people out there who are willing to put their lives second to those of the people in need.

cambodian book store

Back in town we were fairly hard-pressed to find a proper bookstore. Savaht wasn’t familiar with any, which is a true testament to the level of education in the country. We asked a few people and finally found ourselves in a store, which was indeed focused on selling books. The man who ran the store was a French ex-pat who had been in Cambodia for a few years and was incredibly happy with his move, although I suspect there were a few reasons he wasn’t interested in divulging leading up to his decision to hop. The vast majority of the books, in fact, I’d say at least 90% of the books were bootlegs. Much like in Thailand, copyright laws are a figment of the West’s imagination and mean virtually nothing, so you can pick up a 25 dollar copy of Lonely Planet’s Cambodia for a mere four dollars; sure, the pages are photocopied, and the pictures are typically in black and white, but 25 dollars in Cambodia is literally someone’s rent money for a month, so selling a book for that amount is highly unlikely. I browsed the selections, which were mostly a pretty even split between cheesy fiction, and history/politics. They were broken down by the author’s country of origin, a unique and questionable way to separate books, but it turned out to be effective. My favorite title was the photocopied version of Moby Dick. Unable to remember which country Paulo Coelho hails from, I struck up a conversation with the Frenchy that was slinging the books, curly mustache and all, and asked him if he had copies of The Alchemist. I saw a twinkle in his eye, which lead me to believe he was a fan of the author as well, so we talked about several other titles I’d read by him and about The Alchemist itself. I explained my reason for the purchase, was very interested in our encounter with Chin, and told me he thought I was doing a very good thing for him. The predicament that Erick and I had been discussing since leaving Chin was which language we should try to find the book in for him. His native language is Khmer, and while his English is pretty good, we weren’t sure that all of the metaphors would sink in and whether he would be able to extract the message from the book instead of just reading it as a story. We decided to try and find it for him in Khmer, but, were supremely disappointed when Frenchy told us that he was fairly well versed in Coelho’s translations, and while he has been translated to well over 100 languages, he was pretty sure that Khmer didn’t make the list of dialects. He did, however, have the book in English, so I decided to get that for him and hope that he could perhaps use the book to better his understanding of the language; I also figured it better to get it for him in English than to not get it for him at all. With Frenchy’s help I tracked down the poorly bootlegged copy, and handed over the three dollars and change that the book cost. His cash register system was top notch. He had an envelope that had a running total of the books he sold and the amount they went for, which was presumably his inventory, and a pocket in his pants from which he made change for me. Having been to France, I was expecting him to be considerably more arrogant than he turned out to be, perhaps a few years in one of the poorest countries in the world would do all Frenchmen some good. I’m unsure how one could spend any period of time in Cambodia and not be humbled. If seeing this place doesn’t make everyone aware that our liberties, freedoms, and opportunities that we take for granted were given to us simply because we were fortunate enough to be born in the west, and that we, individually, did nothing to earn them or deserve them, then I don’t know what could possibly hammer that in. At home, I wouldn’t walk a mile down the street if someone were going to give me three dollars and change at the other end, it wouldn’t seem worth it, and on the other side of the world, a 21 year old named Chin, got his heart set on a new book he wanted to read, but was unsure if he would ever be able to save enough that same three dollars to purchase it. How is that fair? What makes me so special? Why does my blue passport entitle me to the rest of the world when Chin will never be able to afford to buy a passport to go several hours west to Thailand?
After quick, cold showers, we met Savaht back out in front of The Shadow of Angkor guesthouse and were ready to go to the concert. Erick was wearing a clean, well-pressed shirt, a pair of warm-up style pants, a pair of clean walking shoes, had his hair done, and had just shaved. I, on the other hand, was still wearing the same pair of cut off denim shorts that I hadn’t changed out of nor washed thus far, the same damp-with-sweat v-neck I had worn for the last two days, flip-flops, and a sweat stained military style hat which has a wire brim enabling you to bend it to your specifications that I gave up on caring about several days ago and was now contorted in the most unorthodox shape. I was looking pretty awesome.

a young monk named chin

Once up the stairs we found that much like the other temples, there was a series of corridors and hallways which all lead to different sets of stairs going back down in different directions. The corridors all circled an area that sat atop this temple, which looked like it may have been an area where monks would gather to meditate together. This area was surrounded by hallways and towers and wasn’t visible from the ground. It could also have been a place for them to seek refuge in the event of a possible attack long ago. As we made our way around the corridors, peering into all of the rooms, wondering how many people have done this exact same loop, we came across one of the towers with a lone monk sitting on the ledge looking out over the beautiful forest. We proceeded through the doorless doorway and stepped out onto the ten-foot square platform he was sitting on, and I asked to take his picture. He was very nice and obliged with a big smile. I took his photo and asked if he would mind of we sat down. The view was breathtaking; trees and forest as far as the eye could see, so dense that it didn’t look like you could see ground even from directly above.
The monks name was Chin Vanna, which I found out after several attempts to understand what was saying. He was 21 years old and has been studying at a monastery for two years. He explained that today was a holy day so all of the monks had the day off from their monasteries and could do whatever they liked; he, like many others, chose to come to Angkor Wat to practice his English with tourists. It struck me as a bit odd though that he was there to practice his English but was sitting by himself in a very remote and secluded part of the temple. Chin’s English was fairly good for a 21 year old, but it was still very difficult to communicate. Erick and I were timid about which subject matters would be acceptable to talk about and which topics may be faux pa and off limits. We skirted around several things just asking him how his day was, where he lived, where he was from, etc. We got onto the subject of Buddhism when we asked him how long he had been studying for. My impression of Buddhism was that men became monks because they wanted to. They seemed so devoted to their religion and always have an aura or passion for what they are doing, so I was shocked when I asked Chin if he liked being a monk and he told me no. I asked him why he continued to study if he didn’t enjoy it, and he said that he studies because it is the only way he could afford an education. Chin was born in a remote province far removed from any major cities and comes from a very poor family. Education is unfortunately terribly expensive for Cambodians with respect to the average income so many, many young people are unable to attend school because their families simply can’t afford to send them. Monasteries, however, provide free education for those who are willing to commit themselves to the Buddhist religion. This was my first look into the societal disfunctionality of the country.
I will never know what it is like to be born into a class and be completely unable to climb the ladder to the upper escheat of society. Coming from a country with a lower, middle, and upper class, all of which are attainable if one so chooses, it made no sense to me that because Chin was born into the lower of the two classes (there is no middle class, only rich and poor), that he was subject to destitution his whole life. Several members of his family had been killed by Pol Pot, leaving them in dire straits only a couple decades earlier. He joined the monastery because his family was unable to send him to school, and he saw education as his only way out of the life that he so badly wanted to escape. Actually despising Buddhism, he is studying as a means to an end. He loves philosophy and history, and was surprisingly very well versed in world history, speaking at great length about dictators whom he thought were terrible, the few leaders whom he thought were good role models, and had many questions for us regarding our opinions. A bit of light was shed on the Cambodian genocide when he spoke out about Pol Pot’s regime and the utter catastrophic state it left the country in. His dream is to become a college professor and leave Cambodia to teach in a more developed country. Our mere presence brought out a sincere jealousy of our ability to travel the world and see other things first hand. This deeply saddened me both because I was unable to share my ability to do so with him and because it made me realize how much we really do take our privileges and freedoms for granted.
We spent the better part of ten minutes trying to explain the meaning of “most difficult” to him, and in the end, I think we failed. Erick asked him which of the Buddhist rules was the most difficult for him to follow. He was relatively familiar with them so he was able to speak with Chin about them and asked which was more difficult, fasting, or not being able to be with women. Chin never did grasp the “most difficult” part of the question, but explained to us that he wants to eat every day when he is not allowed to, which is from when the sun goes down until the sun comes up the following morning, but that if there was one thing he wanted to do more than anything, it was to have a girlfriend. He asked us both if we had girlfriends, and asked several questions about sex, and being with women, which surprised me because I had this ignorant perception of monks, like I said, where they were completely devoted to their religion, and here we were talking to a young man who wanted nothing more than to live a “normal” life, but was unable to because he had to make sacrifices in an attempt to one day do so. Chin’s dedication to one day achieve what has been given to me by my superior place of birth was very inspirational, his entire life was built around the prospect of getting what we are born with.
We discussed literature; Chin loved reading, but oddly enough, there weren’t very many books we had all read. One of the books Erick asked Chin about was The Alchemist, he said it changed his life when he read it but he was unable to recall the name of the author. I interjected the name, Paulo Coelho, and added that he is one of my favorite authors, from whom I have read several books. The Alchemist was the first one of his that I read and I found it very inspirational as well. Chin had never heard of it, but had me write the name of it down in his notebook that he had been taking notes in for the duration of our conversation. He asked what it was about, and Erick gave him a fairly good description of its contents and Chin was convinced that he needed to find the book. He told me that he wasn’t sure when he would be able save up enough money to buy it, but if and when he would be able to, he would certainly try to track it down and purchase it. The subject changed for a little while, during which I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that he didn’t know when he would be able to save up the few dollars that the book would cost. Despite seeing the way people were living, hearing an actual number which is completely insignificant to us be nearly unattainable for him was mind-numbing. I asked Chin if he would be all right with me getting the book for him, and I can’t imagine him looking more excited. Part of me thinks he didn’t expect me to follow through, but I think he was incredibly hopeful of my willingness to get it for him. I had him write down the information for his monastery, which we discovered was located only a couple miles down the way from the guesthouse we were staying at in Siem Reap. I promised him that I would see him the next morning, Erick and I bid him farewell, and I truly believe that all three of us were touched by the chance encounter. Erick and I spoke about it at great length and both felt like meeting Chin was one of the most eye-opening experiences either of us had on our trips thus far.

village people - cambodian style

Along the road on our way to the mother of all temples, Erick and I saw a small village off in the distance and our adventurous instincts prevailed and we had Savaht stop on the side of the road so we could go into the village and hang with the people. He didn’t seem to understand why we wanted to go commiserate with these local people when there was a world-class site seeing destination only minutes away. A site is only as interesting as the people who live near it in my opinion, so I was far more interested in jumping off of the tuk-tuk and wandering through this miniscule village not found in the Lonely Planet guide.
The thing I first noticed from the tuk-tuk was the group of about fifteen kids, ranging in age from about four to twelve, playing in a muddy puddle along side the road near the entrance to their village. Savaht kept telling us to stay and that the temple was only down the road, but we disregarded his suggestion and hopped off and started towards the children. They all immediately stopped playing and took notice of us. They were by no means shy; they exuded a child-like confidence mixed with curiosity. I photographed them for a moment, some of them posing, some of them seemingly completely unfamiliar with what I was doing, all of them willing to allow me to do it. I said “Sues-Day”, which is hello in Khmer, and they all repeated in unison, very pleased and amused both by my knowing the expression and my butchering the pronunciation. The children seemed refreshingly happy. In a country with such a sad, oppressed, and poor history, it’s fantastic that the kids are so giddy with laughter and don’t seem to understand the conditions in which they are living. Is ignorance really bliss? Perhaps the people I’ve come across in Cambodia who seem truly happy don’t understand how poor the conditions are by Western standards, or maybe they are entirely aware of their conditions but are not tied to materialism like we are and are therefore happy with their family in tact.
This village was no bigger than a little league baseball field. The perimeter was comprised of little shanties built on poles about a foot or two off the ground, which I assume was to prevent flooding in the wet season. The few people who were in their homes just watched us as we walked by, returning the formal bow that we had learned when we would do it to them out of respect. All of the houses surrounded what appeared to be a large shrine, if not a place where they worshipped. There was only one wall, which their Buddha statue sat in front of with the same incense and candles mentioned earlier, but this one was accompanied by several arrangements of flowers. A few of the men were busy constructing something which I won’t even try to describe because it didn’t look like anything I recognized and for which I cant fathom a purpose.
Modesty doesn’t really qualify as an appropriate adjective for how these people seemed to live, but it’s the closest thing I can come up with. It seemed that all modern inconveniences, including stoves, running water, proper beds, and the like were all nowhere to be found. Even in a village full of dwellings and not along the road from the border, they cooked over open fire, expelled of their bodily fluids either in a pan to later be washed or in the surrounding forest, and yet they were as welcoming as could be. Erick and I, both well over six feet tall, both very pale, and very obviously around the world on vacation, were able to make our way through the village, saying hello in Khmer and bowing to the adults, without the slightest bit of attitude or impoliteness. The hospitality and eagerness to welcome their fellow man is world-class in some of the most remote parts of the world. Americans, specifically, have a propensity to brush off those we don’t know, pass someone with a question on to the next person, or just turn a cold shoulder to those we don’t know or feel are intruding. I have found that people in all walks of life all across the globe, are far more welcoming of strangers then we typically are in the states, and this little Cambodia village was no exception.
On our way out I stopped to take a photograph of an adorable little girl no more than six years old who had been following us around the village since we entered. She gave me a huge smile full of missing teeth and had an unexpectedly content look on her face, despite her unhealthy living conditions and tattered clothes. Without being asked, I reached into my pocket and gave her the equivalent of a dollar in Cambodia currency, and she could hardly contain herself. She waited until I turned to walk away and she bolted from the tree trunk she’d been standing on and ran clear across the village to where I assume she lived to probably show it to her mother. I later found that that single dollar could easily feed an entire family for a couple days.
Savaht was waiting patiently for us when we emerged from the village, and having seen the exchange between the little girl and I, had a subtle smile on his face, almost as if to thank me for not being typical. I put an encouraging hand on his shoulder and we hopped in the tuk-tuk, en route for the grand finale or Angkor Wat, the temple of Angkor Wat itself, one of the most recognizable religious buildings in the world, and Cambodia’s national pride and joy.

Angkor Wat or bust

Angkor Wat is said to be the largest religious site in the world. Not knowing a whole lot about it prior to my landing in Cambodia, I was surprised to hear this and had very high expectations of it; due in part to Neumann’s telling me it was spectacular as well. It is located about 20 minutes from Siem Reap by tuk-tuk, and is really the only reason that people come to Siem Reap, so it was pretty clear from early on that Angkor Wat was going to be pretty crowded, but the most spectacular things in the world are said to be the most spectacular things in the world for a reason, so I was very excited about getting there.
This was still early on in my trip, so I still had the early morning excitement to get out and see things, where as Erick, my newfound German comrade had been traveling for seven months and was much more interested in sleeping in, so I ate banana pancakes and drank coffee, enjoying my priceless morning-time view of the fantastically brown river. He doesn’t seem to be able to hold his alcohol very well at all either, because when he stumbled out of his room around 9:30 he looked like hell. His hair was all disheveled; he was peering at me through half open eyes, and looked like he had a horrific headache to boot. I made fun of him since we’d only had a couple beers, and 20 minutes later he was dressed, and we were off to Angkor Wat.
We had met a tuk-tuk driver the night before who offered to drive us to and all around Angkor Wat for a good price. We agreed on eight dollars for the entire day. His name was Savaht, and having been dragged all over by every tuk-tuk and cab driver that I’d encountered thus far, I was skeptical to hire someone for the whole day, but Erick and I both liked him, he had honest eyes, so we agreed, and he said he would meet us at the hotel early in the morning to take us. He was there when I woke up, I could see him from the balcony, and he sat there, very patiently, waiting for us until we came downstairs around 10:00 to set out for the day. He was exceptionally nice, spoke relatively good English, definitely good enough to communicate, and seemed like a very genuine, good person.

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little cambodian girl

view from the trian from bangkok

hua lamphong train depot, bangkok

me photographing a cambodian girl near angkor wat