Something Beautiful

Yesterday was beautiful.
Pursat, however, isn't beautiful. But you don't need to be in a beautiful place to have a beautiful day. Even by Cambodian standards, Pursat is somewhat of a shit-hole.  In many ways, it's like Yakima, Washington. It's flat arid, and devoid of culture. Like Yakima, the town stretches forever along on an ugly strip of road.
Even the buildings are ugly. Pursat used to hold Khmer Rouge prisons during the Pol Pot era of Democratic Kampuchea. Unfortunately, they're still in use, but run by a different government. The prisons look like some really shady, cheep motel in Tijuana that just happens to have barbed wire intertwined with everything. It would almost fit to have a sign that says, "Bienvenido al Motel del Khmer Rouge."
Another major blemish is the town market. Surrounded by decrepit buildings, this market looks like a third-world country fair. The main building is large and metal, and looks as if it's supposed to hold livestock. Instead, it holds shops that sell three-dollar jewelry and Chinese laundry soap. Surrounding the market building, there are food stands under dirt-caked multicolored umbrellas. The whole place smells like mutilated fish.
But, like anywhere, Pursat has its charm and wonder. Parked in the center of the Pursat River is a former warship that has been converted into a park. A golden bridge leads to the island that has a playground, pagoda, track, and stage. The charm of this park-island stems from its randomness. No one would expect to see such a thing in the middle of  rural Cambodia.
 I traveled to this island with my friend Kimmeng yesterday. It's only about one kilometer from Sustainable Cambodia, and we take our bikes. After we pay our parking fare, we walk around the island. Sometimes we people-watch, sometimes we go on the playground or in the pagoda. But my favorite activity of all is the exercise-dancers. Every day, at around 5:00 p.m or so, a group of about 30 people gather in front of the stage and dance to Khmer-techno music.
I'll usually join in, trying to match my steps with the others. Of course, I draw a lot attention because I'm a foreigner, and I try to put a bit of extra pizazz into my step. It's amazing how quickly the sweat starts to drip. I had done this dancing before, in a much different environment; a camp in the Poconos with a bunch of Jews, under the banner "Schvitzing with Corrie" (the word "schvitzing" means "sweating" in Yiddish). 
Dancing is personal to me. If I could go back in time, I would have been a ballet dancer, a boy who pulled his leotards over his legs every afternoon from the age of three. Consequently, I feel a sense of loss when I cannot dance, as if being close to what I could've been makes me realize what I'm not.
Last night, there was a Khmer dance that I'd been determined to learn. I must confess that I'd wanted to learn this dance ever since I came to Cambodia. After multiple tries with different groups--one at the Olympic Stadium in Phnom Penh, and another one at the boat-island--I was frustrated with my inability to master this dance.
Yesterday, I had a choice. When the music came on, I could get frustrated over every little step, or I could trust myself, trust my body, to dance in the right way. You need to see something in its entirety to capture it's true nature.
Something changed within me yesterday.My body became one vessel, instead of fifteen body parts trying to move to a rhythm. Control and serenity replaced frustration.
Dancing there was like entering another world, a world that you fully understand upon arrival. For the first time, I felt synchronized with the people of Cambodia.
There I was, a white boy from the rez, finally able to dance one of the hardest Khmer dances. Being there, my body moving in harmony, I felt light.
It was something beautiful.

Bloody Blood

Somebody was murdered in my room.
No, don't worry. It wasn't yesterday or the day before. But it did happen. Two years ago. Before Sustainable Cambodia bought the property.
I was spared the gory details (as much as I wanted to hear them), but I do know that, in the middle of the night, a man and his girlfriend killed the occupant in cold blood.
This story is not an urban myth. It's true. Talk to anyone in Pursat, especially the police, and you will hear the disturbing news.

Besides the murder, my room is not unique. There's a bathroom with a toilet and bath, and a room with a bed, a television, and a desk. The window has bars on it to keep intruders out, and the fence outside the window has barbed wire curled along the top. The door has a lock (I locked myself in this morning), and there are security guards who open and close the gates at the campus.

In other words, there's no shortage of protection.

I used to think that a room carried it's past, like a car carries the stench of its former owner. My father's bedroom, for example, gave me the creeps, and I was convinced that something bad had happened there. Everytime I took a shower in his bathroom, I ran through his bedroom just so that I could avoid the monster that was creeping up behind me, or the glowing face I swore I saw in the closet. This fear wasn't a product of my childhood imagination, either. My mother felt the presence. My sister felt the presence. Even my brother felt the presence. My father, though, was quite content with this room, a room reminiscent of an ugly cathedral built in the 1970s. Sleeping in that room was like taking part in a re-make of "The Exorcist." The only thing lacking was the devil-girl and organ music.

But I have never felt such a presence in my room at Sustainable Cambodia. There is no monster lurking behind the door, or cadaver beneath the sheets. The only creepy thing is the sound of a gecko at night (first it gurgles, and then it lets out four consecutive "NUH-UHS," as if it were a parent scolding a child). I have to stretch my imgaination to believe that, just two years ago where I currently sleep, a corpse lay in a pile of blood awaiting the cleaning-woman the next day.
Despite hearing the news of this murder, I continued my nightly routine of reading Stephen King's Desperation before going to bed. It's almost comical: here I am, in a room where someone was hacked to bits (and it was hacking, not shooting), and I'm reading a book that's supposed to make me scared. Nevermind reading a horror story before bed, I'm doing it in a murder-room. But that's just a testament to how the space feels: normal.
There's a silver-lining to everything, and I'd say that this whole situation is building my character.
At least when I go back home in a year, I can rejoice in not sleeping in a place where someone was murdered.
But then again, one shouldn't assume anything........

A Man's Boobs

If you head northwest on National Highway 5, from Phnom Penh, three-story apartment buildings will give way to petrol stations interspersed with one-room shanty-shacks. Eventually, rice fields will take the place of the petrol stations, and the shanty-shacks will be further back in the fields. Of course, there will be less of them as rice fields overtake everything else.

At the point at which you see rice fields interspersed with shanty-shacks, buckle your seat-belt and pull out your pillow; that's all there is until the provincial capital of Pursat four and a half hours away.

The proper way to travel to Pursat is by bus. Never travel with Phnom Penh Sorya Transport Bus Service. There is no air conditioning and, on a typically humid day, the bus converts into a sauna. I am truly sympathetic if you happen to be sitting next to an American, especially if that American is slightly overweight. You see, with morbidly obese people, you can easily switch seats because anyone can see that you're suffering. But, with the plump-bordering-on-fat person, it's harder to convince the conductor of your troubles. And when it's an American who happens to be sitting next to you, that's the worst. They most often just ate the crappiest crap they could find in the Lucky Supermarket before boarding the bus.

When you see such an American boarding a bus, put up your white flag because there's nothing you can do. Looking out the window, evading eye contact, does not work. Fate has a strange way of gluing westerners together in a foreign setting. Call it the white man's burden (actually, don't call it that. REALLY don't call it that. I'm begging you. That's awful). A cringe graces your face as you sense them stop at your seat. You can feel the bus shake as their cellulite-padded butts slam the seat. They always let out that "AHHH...UGHHH...it feels so good to sit down" grunt, as they tip their head back with that helpless, guppy-like expression. They say it to no one in particular, and you wonder whether it was an attempt at a conversation starter. What are you supposed to say? Oh, yeah, it sure is great to sit down. I mean, not with you, of course. You're such a sloppy American who probably only came here for the cheap sex and you most likely view this place as just another Guadalajara, Belize, or Hawaii. But I sure hope that the seat is wide enough to fit your ass because I don't want to be stuck here when the conductor has to grease down the sides!


On second thought, you keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately, they can't quite do the same.

Despite your one-word answers to their mundane questions,  they persist in their never-ending interrogation.

How many brothers and sisters do you have?
Four.

What do you like to do on the weekends?
Nothing.

I like red. What's YOUR favorite color?
Blue. 

I sure like pistachios. Do you?!
No. 

Words are not the only things that cause you to hurl.


The food exits their bodies three ways: their burps, farts, or--worst of all-- their vomit. You can smell the digested (or lack thereof) french fries as it stinks up your space. Then they talk about their indigestion (a typically white-guy thing to do), and insist that you identify with their problem because you, too, happen to be a Caucasian male.

(I caution you, though. As justified as you may feel in your curt manner, something strange may happen. You may begin to feel a kinship to this man, the man who finds this country as foreign as you do. When and if this connection develops, crush it. Otherwise, you may realize that you, too, are just as vulnerable and alienated as this man happens to be.  It's much easier if you turn his attempts at conversation into static noise. Play it safe; listening leads to understanding. In other words, you become that man, that poor fool who has found himself 8,000 miles away from all that is familiar.)

By the end of the ride, the sweat has gathered around their moobs and you can see their mammories through their cotton t-shirt. As you stand in the bus aisle (crunching your body to avoid physical contact, of course) they smack your shoulder, and say, "Good luck, man! It sure is a ZOO out there!"

Your shoulder moistens as the sweat of their hand seeps through the cloth of your shirt. With one fell swoop, you jump off the steps, gather your bags, and there you are! Pursat! The Emerald City! The Big Apple! The Land of Opportunity! The city on a hill (well, in a rice field)! So amazing, it's the Dayton, Ohio, of Cambodia!

But you catch yourself. Yes, you're just as ignorant as that American man on the bus.

In Cambodia

I'm currently sitting in the T.C. Internet Shop on Sihanouk Blvd. and
I am listening to "Dark Fantasy" by Kanye West. It's a strange
juxtaposition. Almost everywhere I go, people recongize me from last
year. It's a constant stream of "Hey! I know you!"

Upon arrival, I realized that I had not applied for a visa
(whoopsie!). I got yelled at by so many immigration officials and the
woman who was supposed to meet me at the airport failed to show up. I
was greeted by a sea of Cambodian faces, and each of their faces held
an amused look: what is this white boy doing--dressed like a boy
scout-- all alone at midnight?

Like last year, stepping through those airport doors brought  me
into another dimension. Had I stepped back in world history or in my own
personal history? Whatever the case, this reality was a bit warped, convincing me that
history cannot repeat itself.

After about a half hour of calling the woman who was supposed to meet me,
I decided to look for a ride. A man, who looked like a bull-frog with his big, half stuck-out eyes, seemed approachable enough. He was a tuk-tuk driver and we got into it.
Here's a somewhat accurate transcript:

(Pochentong Airport, 12:04 a.m.)

Me: I offer you two dollars!

Driver: No! Bram (five) dollar!

Me: Thlai nas! (Very expensive) Kgnom haoy buy dollar  (I offer you three dollars).

Driver: Ate! (No!) Five dollar!

(I start walking away)

Driver: Okay, sir, three and a half dollars!

When in doubt, walk away. They'll always lower the price to something
more reasonable. At some point in our conversation, a group of about twenty Cambodians--mostly men--gathered around us on the airport curb. They laughed at my proposals and my face flushed red from their stares.

I agreed on the price, and rode off with him into the relatively cold night.
We got lost and, after I guided him to the guesthouse, I paid him the full five
dollars for his patience. It gave me something to feel good about in my stupor.

Then we parted ways.

The Pull

I've been reading a lot of Paul Theroux's The Great Railway Bazaar.
He's the kind of travel writer that I would like to be; he describes everything so thoroughly that my surroundings fall away. I am the one in the train, on my way to Madras, Vientiane, Bangkok, Teheran, Bombay, etc. The only difference is that I bring my own experiences to this vision. I imagine, for example, that the smells in Madras are similar to the smells in Cambodia simply because that is all I know.
Or, I imagine that the beggars on the side of the railroad tracks, the ones that Theroux describes throughout India, are the same beggars that I saw in Phnom Penh; the child cradling his emaciated sister in his arms or the paraplegic begging for money outside of Psar Orussei.
This sort of thinking happens everyday. When my grandmother describes her back pain, I immediately feel the pain I once had when I fell from an apple tree. Or, when I hear that my sister is yelling at my baby nephew, I am once again huddled in a corner, squinting at her fist.
The experience isn't wholly cerebral, either. My head itches at the thought of lice, or my mouth sours at the sight of a man biting into a lemon. I can smell the jasmine as Theroux mentions it.
Reading, perhaps, is a practice in empathy. The only way in which I become Theroux is by drawing on my own experiences. Like matter, no thought is created. Snapshots from life are merely reassembled so that we may fit ourselves into other people's lives. How ironic that something that seems megalomaniacal is a source of connection to others.
Travel writing, then, must also be a practice in empathy.  How can one describe the "other" without wearing a different perspective? Like Theroux, good travel writers describe, ruminate, but only occasionally confess. The goal is not to talk about oneself. The writing should be outside of the body, encompassing the experiences of all others.
But my only tool is the life that I have led.
So, when pen points to paper, a paradox takes place; a journey away via a journey within.

Cambodia Street

I had a choice the other night: To The Lighthouse or The Death and Life of Dith Pran. Many people describe me as an indecisive person, and these choices represented two important facets of my life: my current passions and the obligation for continual exploration . On the one hand, I am an angkorphile, obsessed with everything Cambodia. But I do not always pine for the world of Southeast Asia. Perhaps, I thought, it's important to indulge other spheres, like the mystery of Virginia Woolf.
Last night I pondered whether I was becoming too engrossed with Cambodia. Surely I am stunting my other intellectual development by being too focused on one thing. But, I rationalized, everyone has to be an expert in something and maybe I'm becoming an expert in Cambodia. After all, my generation needs people who are concerned with up-and-coming Cambodia, a nation that will gain international prominence in the coming decades. Plus, when one has a passion they must seize every opportunity to pursue that passion. Such a pursuit can only provide joy and fulfillment for the person.
But what about the big, wide world?
Perhaps, if I read Jane Austen or Thomas Mann, I would become obsessed with these authors, read all of their work, and subsequently become an expert. Or, maybe if I spent some time watching film noir, that would set off a wave of enthusiasm for this particular aspect of cinema. Then, I would watch everything associated with film noir and, like Austen or Mann, and become an expert in this field.
Life is a series of streets. Most of these streets will never be pursued. Some are boring, some are pleasurable, and some are downright fascinating.
I wandered down Cambodia Street.  There was, among others, Picasso Street, England Street, Ballet Street, or Golf Street. But Cambodia Street lengthens as I walk down its center. The others are merely dead ends, while an intangible magnet that pulls me down Angkor's jungled avenue.
Virginia Woolf's To The Lighthouse would remain between the dusty guidebooks and encyclopedias.
I would spend the night with Dith Pran, making my way further down Cambodia Street.

Which Direction Shall I Head?

Adulthood approaches as independence is gained.
This thought, in some form or other, threads through my mind at certain moments in the day. It illuminates my future, like a light, dimming or brightening, becoming more or less apparent.
I always feel lost. A multitude of questions form in front of me:
What if my plane arrives  late?
What if I get lost in the city and there's no one to help me?
What if there's nowhere to sleep, and I'm condemned to the sidewalk?
What if........what if I'm not grown-up enough to handle the challenges of a world without structure, a world in which I must rely on my own instincts and knowledge to get by?
It's in these moments of despair that I realize the absurdity and utter necessity of my journey to Cambodia.
Absurd--I'm an 18 year old who's confronting a world in which no English is spoken, a world in which I could cry "Help! Fire!" on a crowded street and not one person would understand me, a world in which I could get malaria in my sleep, a world in which one step off the nice, country path could result in my limbs being blasted on the rice paddies.
Necessary--I'm an 18 year old who needs to bite into the amorphous world--full force--because I still have these fears of inadequacy. I'm jumping out of a plane with nothing but a parachute. The only difference is that this parachute is made up of intangible material--a hard work ethic, a sense of adventure and, most importantly, my god-given common sense.
My parents made the paint. Now I must paint the picture.