Party at my landlord's

My landlord had a BIG party in front of our house to celebrate their mother, now that she is 65, to thank her for bringing them into this world, wish her health and long life. The extravagance could not be expressed in words, with a giant stuppa where she sat during the ceremony, a party tent taking up three-quarters of the road and extending down in front of 6 neighbors houses, a procession of monks, chanting... I forgot to call my mom on her 65th birthday until the day after.*
The street was blocked off during the party, which was the bulk of 2 days. My landlord is of an elite, educated, wealthy family, and is an engineer with the military police.
I put on my best shirt and went down for dinner. I placed a $10 bill in the invitation envelope and gave it to the layman, an older person like a monk but not an actual monk. He blessed me and I focused on his rotten front tooth, which was now just a sliver of a tooth really. I wanted to pull it out for him. We had been taking the kids to the dentist a lot lately and they are having a lot of rotten teeth pulled out.
After receiving my blessing, I was handed a whiskey and soda, and sat down at a table with several beautiful, single women. Everyone was toasting repeatedly, drinking lots, while I would clink my glass and pretend to take a drink. I tried to explain to my hostess that I had just taken Tinidazole to treat my Guardia, so couldn’t drink alcohol for 24 hours. She basically called me a wuss, a half man, and said she had a stomach problem too, but alcohol was no problem. It was almost enough to get me to drink. She wanted me to go dancing later, and she was put the whiskey back like an Irishman (it is not traditional for Cambodian women to drink much alcohol).
About the time the food arrived, a black Hummer pulled up, right to the front of the tent, even though there was no parking space. In walked a middle aged Khmer man with a really nice silk shirt. The shirt alone made me respect him instantly. There was some to-do about his arrival, and then he was sat right next to me. I don’t remember his name, but he is a general with the military police, my landlord’s boss no doubt. He spoke a little English, and we talked a bit. He was quite friendly.
As dinner wound down, the street kids started sticking their arms through the tent’s sides asking for the empty cans, Phnom Penh’s equivalent to the Serengeti’s raven. The elite have no illusions that there are not vast problems here, as you can’t get away from the poor children. As I was slipping away from a drinking frenzy, which seemed quite fun, a few of the street kids were allowed to harvest the cans and leftovers at one of the tables. A skinny young boy was popping food in his mouth with one hand, while grabbing cans with the other. I stood and watched him with amusement before retreating to my apartment, where I spent a Friday evening reflecting on the night’s activities. Street kids and Hummers; the absurdity of Phnom Penh.

*My understanding is this Buddhist tradition is not to mark a specific birthday, but to wish good health and long life as a woman gets older.

The robbery

To say Cambodia has a crime problem is an understatement. It's not hard to figure out that Cambodia has a problem with just about everything, except perhaps fertility, which is a problem as well. Foreigners, I sense, have less problems that the Khmers, but we have plenty of problems as well (in addition to the problems we brought here). Theft is common, and you learn not to leave any windows of opportunity, or you just don’t worry too much and know that your stuff will be stolen at some point, or both.

My house was broken into in October, and while I didn’t let it affect me too much, I realized it has affected me when my heart dropped recently as I saw a face in the window one night, only to realize it was a reflection from the TV (I think it was David Hasselhoff). Anyway, I was lucky, and now lock my balcony door. Here is an e-mail I sent to my local friends 2 days later:

“You know the phenomenon where you have to tell everyone ‘the story’ when you walk around with a caste on your arm? Eventually you want to pretend you are dumb and hand out pre-printed cards detailing the events. I fear it may eventually be the same with getting robbed. Some of you heard about it and have been checking in with me (thanks so much for your concern), so I thought I could save a lot of talking and write you all about what happened. For those with limited interest I can tell you that I am fine and it’s not a great story, but here it is...

While I was sleeping Wednesday morning, someone climbed to my 3rd story balcony and cut through the screen of my door (which was unlocked). I had my bedroom door mostly shut, and they grabbed my laptop, I-pod, phone, bag and camera. They took the stairs out, and broke the lock to get my motorbike as well. They left a pair of women’s shoes behind.

Yesterday was a long day of running around to get my phone number back, getting in an argument with my landlord, ‘making-up’ with my landlord, filling out the police report... At the end of the day I was truly moved that so many people helped me, including a restaurant manager who I grabbed to help me translate (for hours). No one would take my money (the landlord gave the cop $10, he is also a policeman). Everyone was concerned and supportive, and the Khmer’s feel genuine guilt that it happened to me in their country. Through the long day, I had a responsibility to not let any bad energy go to those around me and was called to be at my best. My cleaning lady came by to check on me while the cop was taking the report (I don’t know how this news got around so fast), and he asked her how long she had worked for me. I felt bad for her and had to make it known that we have a great relationship, mostly without language. The landlord is installing bigger metal barriers to make it harder to access my balcony from the neighbors, and I realized that they felt a lot of pressure that it happened on their premises, and remembered how they are always looking out for me and my moto. I haven’t slowed down too much to think about it a lot, but am doing fine and am finding many reminders of how lucky I am and all that I have to be grateful for. I do have my files backed up, and am slowly getting phone numbers back into my phone. I even have an extra laptop, phone, and I-pod.”

In the aftermath, I realized what a big deal a robbery is to Cambodians. For them, having a motorbike stolen is equivalent to many years of savings. One of the students mothers looked at me and conveyed the most sincere, empathetic ‘sorry’ you could imagine. They worry about me, and I love them for it.

Cyclo (Psyclo) Ride in Angkor

On Dec 1st we participated in the Angkor Wat 50K bicycle rally, but we did it in cyclos. Pictured are Dennis, Michael, Katarina, as well as myself, who all alternated pedaling and riding. It was a great weekend, and well worth the effort since all the women were throwing themselves at me afterward (not really, but I kind of thought it was going to work that way). We placed last and 2nd-to-last (its hard to pedal those damned things). I thought often of my fellow MegaSaurass riders from the MS 150 in Colorado.

Recent pictures

Pictures from our recent trip to Angkor Wat.

Miracle Cream

There is a lot of misinformation here. You have superstitions, traditions that contradict science, scams, and corporate greed. While shopping in the modern Pencil Superstore, I noticed breast-firming creams at the end of the isle. One had the kind of marketing that made me think it would be a good wedding shower gift for a friend (Paige), as a joke. It was $3.60 so I was too cheap to buy it. While I stood there a petite Khmer girl, maybe 18 years old, came and grabbed one and threw it in her basket. Being outspoken and overbearing, I told her is doesn’t work. She didn’t seem to understand English, but was flustered by me speaking to her. I spoke Khmer, “at la-ow” or no good. She instantly put it back on the shelf and thanked me. Twice. She was probably from a well-to-do family, but even for the well-off here money isn’t so abundant. I passed her and her friend a few times while shopping and they giggled. I wondered why she needed to firm her breasts.

Later I made small talk with the store manager, who spoke excellent English. I brought up that I thought these creams were probably a scam. We went and looked at them, and I saw that the firming cream promised enlargement as well (a-ha). She told me that the firming does work, if you use it for a long time and rub it in a large circumference around the breast. The enlargement, she agreed, would not work.

The point is that there is no consumer protection here. The English newspaper here did a story on whitening creams, used to make women’s faces whiter. Many of them are highly toxic, and are even sold in bulk at local markets.

The Khmer Rouge targeted educated people, and most of them were killed in the war. Everywhere you look there is a need for education. An idea in case anyone wants to start a consumer education campaign here… It could be a while before the government teaches young girls about fact and fiction. I don’t wish to bash an ignorant society, but doubt they know themselves.

Mom on the Sidewalk

I was driving my motorbike a few blocks from my house when I noticed a crowd beginning to form on the sidewalk. I stopped and saw a young woman lying motionless, but fortunately she was breathing. I next noticed her baby girl sitting next to her on the sidewalk who began to cry. A female bystander pulled the woman’s shirt up, exposing her breast. The infant climbed on top of her and began breast-feeding while she was unconscious. It was a sight I will likely remember forever. When the baby finished she climbed back down and sat on the sidewalk with a smile.

I offered to pay to get her to the hospital. A tuk tuk pulled up and two concerned Khmer woman came along as we went to 3 different clinics before finding the only open emergency room, the woman gaining consciousness as we drove.

The ER looked like the infirmary in a war zone. The 6 waiting patients all had the exact description; young men, all having injuries to the face as well as other parts of the body, almost certainly from motorbike accidents without wearing helmets. The hospital staff were gathered by a desk while the patients moaned in agony, their dirty wounds left unattended. I offered to help the man who seemed the worst, and the staff indicated they were OK and rolled him out for treatment shortly after. I was now numb.

The woman was given a saline drip bag, the standard treatment for just about everything here (I have seen many people riding on the back of a motorbike with a saline bag on a pole above them). They wheeled her to what I assume is the no-money part of the hospital, a large balcony on the third floor with patience strewn across the floor. Here she became fully conscious, and decided she was ready to leave even though her saline bag was just part way into her. I think the Coke I bought her was what mostly revived her, as she said she hadn’t eaten. Others said she had been drinking and not eating, a mistake I never make. Whatever her situation, she walked out of there 1 hour after I met her, with her baby, down the sidewalk back to her world on the streets.

crash.

It was a hot Saturday night when I headed out on my motorbike to pick up Ming, the pretty Australian volunteer who’d just arrived. I had a distinct thought that I had become quite able and confident driving in the chaos of Phnom Penh as we crossed the busy road out of her guest house, and I felt proud to show my skill to the new arrival.

We drove into the slum to Aziza Schoolhouse, and I felt cool to be taking her somewhere so strange and exciting as the slum at night. It was the first Saturday night karaoke and movie night, and Ming was thrown to the front of the room to sing. She loved it and the kids were having a great time. Then the movie started; a Korean movie dubbed in Khmer with English subtitles. Kind of a love story, but apparently had a message about communication and the leading lady was often upset about the man’s inability to understand her feelings (sigh). I was reading the subtitles, but then went off in my own head and started to dream. I was so happy that the Saturday night ‘safe space for teens’ was a hit, and there was a good turn out. There were a lot of really pretty teenage girls, and I was glad they had someplace to be on the most sinful night of the week.

I started to think about my blog, and how I could describe the Schoolhouse. How could I convey what it is, in the simplest terms? “The greatest place on earth,” I thought. It may sound corny, but it was such a great moment, and I couldn’t imagine anyplace I’d rather be. Next I started to think about which direction I should drive when I left. The slum is a crazy place, particularly at night, and especially Saturday night. A local who lived there had told me not to go around there at night since a lot people smoke yama; their methamphetamine. He was specifically referring to the area about 150 meters from the school if you exit to the left. But by exiting to the right I’d have to go through a big red light district; a busy intersection with lots of bad stuff happening, but well lit. I went back and forth on which way to go, for several minutes. Eventually I decided I would go right.

We quietly exited, and drove through the red light district unbothered. Neither of us wore helmets; I had yet to buy one in my 6 months in Cambodia. We drove down a main road which was quiet at this time of night, and I was showing Ming the construction of the massive new government building beside us, as I began to make a left turn. A motorbike appeared suddenly, so I began to go back to my lane. The next few seconds were a blur, as the other bike swiped the side ours, sending us to the ground while the other bike flew into a high speed wreck with its 3 passengers. The men were laid out on the ground 40 feet away from us. One man was lying face down, and not moving. Ming was standing and she said she was fine when I asked her. I asked her again, and got the same answer. I was fine.

As I ran over to the strewn bodies, I was in a calm panic, knowing I needed to keep it together, yet thinking how I might have live life with the emotional scars of having killed or disabled a man. He was in a precarious position and obviously out cold. I quickly thought through how even if it was my fault, here in Cambodia I would only have to pay if he had died, and wouldn’t face any criminal consequences. In the few seconds before I reached them I was able to decide that I would get through it, and that a life of knowing I killed a man, accidentally, was still well worth living. I was so grateful that Ming was OK. Ming going home permanently disabled would be tough to get through.

I stepped into a pool of oil that I thought was blood, but I couldn’t tell. I helped move the motorbike off the unconscious man, and then began yelling at the locals who were trying to revive him and turn him over. They did turn him over when I turned away, and I could hear him breathing. I checked his pulse. Relief! He is alive!

“You pay for ambulance?” a cop who had arrived on the scene was asking me. “Yes. Good hospital” I responded. That question was repeated several times over the next 10 minutes, and I wasn’t sure if the ambulance was coming. The crowd grew, over 50 people were watching and I was at the center of attention. “Is the ambulance coming?” “Don’t touch him.” “Yes, I’ll pay.” “Are you OK Ming?” I was trying to do many things at once, and the unconscious man came to after 3 or 4 minutes, which seemed like an eternity. Eventually the ambulance arrived, and practically threw the recently revived man in the back. Next, the other passenger who was injured began to fight with the ambulance staff because he didn’t want to go. Eventually he got in, but they didn’t want to leave without me. I couldn’t leave my motorbike, so I sent Ming with them. Ming held up really well under some unbelievable circumstances just hours after her arrival.

At the hospital my emotional state was fragile. I cried when I went into the room where the 2 men were being treated, and the one man conveyed forgiveness. The other man seemed a bit angry. They had stitches in their knees, feet, broken toes, missing teeth, scraped faces, and I would assume a concussion. The cop left as soon as we arrived, collecting his payment for delivering a paying customer ($5 or $10) and told me that it was more my fault, but they were drunk, so I should pay for their medical bills and negotiate with the families any additional pay that was needed. Phew! Throughout it all, no one knew my name or had any way to get in touch with me.

The families and friends of the men arrived as they were put into a room for the night. The one guy’s wife had just had a baby a week before, and wore the traditional karma around her head as new mothers here do (some now wear a ski hat, through all of the sweltering heat). I paid the $210 medical bill, and offered $100 to get their moto fixed. I felt they should take some responsibility since they were drinking and driving fast. They asked for $150, and I agreed. Then they asked for $160. I refused. Negotiations ensued between my translator, Chin, and the rest of them. In retrospect, I should have just handed over the extra $10, rather than my stubborn escape on my motorbike through the crowd of skinny men. Only one man attempted to stop me, holding my handlebar as I drove off the sidewalk onto the street, trying to make me crash. The last of my depleted adrenaline pumped as I gunned the throttle and shook him off as he ran down the street after me. Chin made it out as well, and caught up to me down the street as we made our getaway. We took extra caution to be sure we weren’t followed to my house.

At 3AM I sat in my living room alone and exhausted, trying to comprehend how I was able to walk away without being injured. For weeks afterward, I would look at my foot and have intense emotions as I thought about how fortunate I was that it didn’t get mutilated in the crash. My solid metal footpeg was bent straight back, and I credit my mountain biking experience for reacting quickly. Chin, who’s grandfather is the head monk at the wat (temple) where he lives, attributed my not getting hurt to good karma from helping children.

The next morning I had to be at the school early, and was surprised to find that a volunteer was making a documentary about the projects. I was still in shock as I spoke to the camera.

A sliver of time...

Walking down a particularly narrow alley, a woman scuffled into her house ahead of us, and by the time we reached her shack, an obese adolescent had come out and was blocking our path. He was an over-sized 8 year old, retarded, and with such a big belly that from my vantage point you couldn’t see his body again until the knees, which was good, because he was stark naked. Now, while it would have been convenient to start running back the way we’d come, I decided to be cordial and say hi to the family. His mom and auntie were coaching him to ask me for money. He seemed a slow learner, but was in his early training as a beggar. He was quite a sight, so he had good potential.

He fumbled for a minute while I was thinking how weird and crazy my life had become. This was the second slum I had visited so far that day, and there’d be a 3^rd before the day was done. New slum (where the new school will be), old slum (where Aziza Schoolhouse is), and slum with the obese boy, which we just came to visit since it is a notorious slum and I wanted to check it out before I committed to the new school location. The slum where the new school will be is on a lake (also by the railroad tracks - story coming soon), and most of the houses are on stilts over the water. Today, children were swimming in the lake, and it seemed a happy scene. In my mind, I was cringing, knowing that 20,000 peoples raw sewage is dumped into the lake daily, many right next to where they swam. Skin diseases are common.

The large boy standing next to me was so odd looking, so big for his age, and I wanted to be as nice to him as I could. He held my hand as we talked to the family. He asked for money as his mom explained how he eats so much. I said “atay” (no) a few times, and the boy punched my bag. It was a sign of aggression, but was in slow motion and wasn’t threatening in the least. It was pretty weird having this naked oversized retarded boy standing so close to me.

As we walked off his mom and auntie pointed and laughed at him for being naked. His penis looked very small, especially in contrast to his massive body. My main thought was how this didn’t freak me out the way it would have 9 months ago. I remembered a day shortly after arriving here when I walked through a slum with a missionary and visited families with handicapped children, disfigured in ways I had never seen. Afterward I was in emotional shock. Not today.

On the next alley we met a woman and her 10 year old daughter who were on their way to the clinic to get their HIV drugs. Her daughter was so cute. Their house was well below the standards of a chicken coup on Uncle Jesse’s (Duke) farm. A friend of hers came over and I held her 2 month old baby. The mom is also HIV positive, and she said the baby has to be 18 months old to be tested, so she didn’t know if the baby was positive. I thought how great it would be to take President Clinton there when he visits to spotlight HIV and the work of the Clinton Foundation.

Later at the Schoolhouse, all the kids were happy and healthy, and gave me the usual grand welcoming. Today they all were extra excited to see me and give me the letters they had wrote for me, in English.