Too Much To See

Last night some friends and I met up at Metahouse, a German documentary film restaurant/bar/art gallery/ covered rooftop theatre.  Despite the German owner's sketchiness, the place itself boasts a monthly calendar of relatively good documentary films, including the one that my American friends & I were about to watch: "Man from Plains" (2007).  The movie was hosted by Habitat for Humanity (Cambodia) in honor of the film's protagonist, former President Jimmy Carter, who will be coming to Cambodia post the Habitat Build Week in mid-November.  [SIDE NOTE: Jackie Chan & Oliver Stone are also making there way to Phnom Penh, so CLEARLY, you should too.]

Midway through the film that documents his (controversial) book tour ("Palestine Peace Not Apartheid") in the States, and right about when I ran out of the delicious street kettle-corn popcorn, I reached down for my glass of tonic water, twirled around and chewed the straw a bit, thinking: How cool is this... It's October, I'm not freezing, I'm watching a (free) documentary on a SE Asian rooftop with a media producer, two burnt-out lawyers, and a micro finance officer AND my popcorn was only like 500 Riel (roughly 12.5 cents).  Back home, a night out to the movies would probably equate to $10 bucks, not including food. Plus, I'd have to drive back to my house past strip-mall America, where replicated chain stores are probably selling things most-likely made from this part of the world. 

Don't get me wrong- I loooove going to the movies back home. I mean, I grew up on going to the movies... Disney films, independents, you're occasional (okay, more than occasional) chick flick and college-esque movie, etc.  But because I watch mostly Russian-market pirated (hey, eeeeveryone does) DVDs here, a trip to the sketchy German Metahouse provides a more "movie-like" setting. Plus you can also order beer. And after this fun-filled experience, I have the privilege of cycling home,  past piles of garbage & awful smells waiting to be carted away (p.s I learnt that Jimmy Carter likes cycling too), with the warm night air clinging heavily to my only pair of dark blue jeans and a slight (okay, more than slight) trickle of sweat sliding down my back. I don't mind the heat at night though. It makes me look forward to a cool shower before I jump into bed sans covers (it's so weird, but I still haven't gotten used to sleeping without covers so I use my ND blue sports jacket as default coverage), fan  pointed at my body & set to button 1. Then I'll read for a bit underneath the occasionally flickering overhead lights. When I'm almost asleep, I'll turn of the lights and think about what I'm missing back home... Cool October Saturday Notre Dame home football games, walks through forest preserves in the (Boring) Vernon (and very suburban, flat) Hills, evening runs along the Chicago Lake Shore, friends and family... But it's okay, because I'll be home in 58 days for about a month-- enough time to get used to America again (and see the twinkling white Christmas lights sprinkled down Michigan Avenue!), and enough time for me to want to come back to Cambodia. 

Before I give my mom a heart attack, let me just explain one thing: Phnom Penh is not home... It's good enough for now, but when you're born with it--- with the itch to never settle in one place for too long--you can't really attach yourself to anyone place. There is simply too much to see. 

55 kms to Udong and back

So you thought I was done with long cycling trips right?  Nope, nope, nope. Think again. 

Saturday Tim, Katie, and the MBAs (i.e. two Hagar interns) met up at Cafe Yejj before embarking on a roughly 55 km bike trip to the Udong area.  Tim's new GPS led the way along one of the National Roads, where we peddled and coughed up black exhaust as we weaved our way out of the city, to the "real" Cambodia, where I welcomed quiet mud-red dirt roads, bright green rice paddies and children swimming in streams shouting "hello!"  

The first 1/2 hour of cycling or so brought us to a little house next to bamboo tracks and a Caterpillar tractor... an opportune time for Josh to fulfill his life-long dream of driving one. 

While we waited, the old man living at the house called up his buddy to bring the train (lorry) to take us to a village near Udong and 40 minutes later we found ourselves and our bikes loaded up on the rickety boards, pummeling down the tracks. This was my second time on the bamboo train and it was just as fun as the first, not just because I'm breathing fresh air, but because it's the real "off-the-beaten-path" Cambodia: skinny cows, flooded rice fields, ancient railroad tracks, dirt roads, palm trees, and darkening skies. 

When we came to a small village near Udong we unloaded, bought some ciek (bananas) at a stand and a woman told me I was number 1 barang on bike!  I'm not entirely sure why, but nowadays that beats Obama getting the peace prize. She also had to point out how white my arms were in comparison to hers. I took off my bad-ass (not really) gloves and showed her where the Cambodia sun had drawn the line.    

One bike ride up a hill (I may have walked my bike half-way up while Tim charged to the top in record time) and we were at the temple. We took a coke break, some pictures (including one of very disturbing statues involving shooting human beings with a bow & arrow, see below) and I used the monk's latrine.  

Half-asleep on Sunday, I rolled out of bed to volunteer at a Democrats Abroad US Health Care Reform brunch followed by my first $15 dentist appointment in Cambodia. Yay for still having all my teeth!

waddling western men (aka sitting ducks for sex tourism investigation)

I spotted a waddling OWM (old western man) walking alongside Monivong Blvd. this morning on my way to work. His shorts were riding up his butt and he had on socks. Was he on his way to Central Market or a massage-parlour? I totally jump to conclusions. I guess I thought the latter because I aimed my bicycle right at him and swerved at the last minute as I pulled up into our office.   Good thing I don't have a moto. 

where is my religion?

I went to an Evangelical Church this morning. I guess you could say I went because my roommate was going, but it was really more out of curiosity. In the back of my mind I could hear the crooning coming out of Evangelical churches in Guatemala and I wanted to see if it was the same here.   Three steps into the air -conditioned worship area and well… no crooning. It was by far the best singing I have yet encountered in Cambodia. Plasma screens with Jesus songs written in Khmer and a rock band center stage. I didn’t know church could be this fun. Don’t worry Mom… I didn’t convert over to Evangelism, all the singing, clapping, and head banging didn’t win me over. Maybe if there had been crowd-surfing….

Just Kidding. Putting aside how completely nuts the thing was, I do have to say this… On a purely cultural level, there need to be more things like this for Cambodians. I don’t know what they are preaching, but there was natural sense of community there that is missing from the general society.  Maybe we need to get the monks some rock band guitars.

what September brought

I can’t sleep again. It could be because I have a bad cold/cough or it could be something else. Through my half-open window I can hear another woman coughing into the night as well. That’s the thing about aluminum siding pushed up against other buildings. You can pretty much here everything from the tele to your neighbor’s various illnesses. How is it possible to catch a cold in 80-degree weather?  Maybe she knows. The Cambodian doctor said it wasn’t bronchitis, just a bad cough. He then went about prescribing three different types of pills all the while conveying the historic importance of the “golden Cambodian land” and its attractive lack of catastrophic weather disasters that draw tourists in. I wonder if they teach 'How to Not Scare Western Tourists 101' in Cambodian Med-School.  Seriously though… I felt like I was listening to a commercial for Cambodia the blessed land instead of a medical practitioner. Anyways, I really need to get one of those mouth-mask coverings you usually see stereotypical Japanese people wear when the Asian-Flu descends upon their city. People here wear those all the time when they are in transport. I should probably get over it and just strap one of those blue flimsy things on. I spent the first five years of my life getting sick from Mexico City smog and twenty years later I’m fighting to clear my lungs of Phnom Penh. Perhaps I should reconsider moving to cleaner, greener pastures.

Two weeks ago I visited such a pasture outside of the city. Actually, it was more of a soccer field, and a really muddy one at that. My flatmate Nora’s NGO whose name continuously escapes me, organized a Futbol 4 Peace soccer tournament for kids, with teams from various “eviction” settlements fighting for a giant plastic gold trophy. It reminded me of my youth soccer league days, the only difference being there were no girls playing and all the players took the field sans cleets.How beautiful-- just the bare foot to the ball—futbol at its most basic. 

 

While I watched from underneath a small shelter, hiding well away from the sun, the kids ran around in that scorching heat, trading tee-shirts when the subs went in, rinsing their feet off with cool water, and cheering on fellow team mates with white plastic-bucket drums.

  I really wish there were more events like these around here. It makes me feel a little bit more hopeful—a feeling completely absent last Wednesday.

 

That’s right- the monstrosity that is Bavet’s Titan King Casino completely robbed that cheery positive NGO feeling out of me when my boss and I took a promotional marketing video (pre-production) surveying trip to visit the gaudy Chinese-built palace along the eastern border with Vietnam. One trip to Casinoland is all it takes to understand the complete misdirection of investment in a developing country.  I suppose I shan’t disclose too many details, but let me tell you that if in this world I ever build anything, it will not be a casino, and if for some ludicrous reason I do decide to build a casino, I will make every effort to make sure that the builders are not Chinese, that they have taken proper measurements of all doors and doorways, I refuse carpet installations in hot temperate climates, and I employ a proper accountant. I felt really bad for the young eager, chain-smoking five-coffees in three hours, new Malaysian manager that showed us around and confessed every detail about his first 22-days in hell (on the job) to us.  Poor guy.  Phenomenal challenge though for any person willing to subject themselves to Cambodian business politics and dealing with Chinese sub-contractors— equally phenomenal challenge for the creation of a 30-minute regional marketing video on this place. 

Photo snapped as we drove away- proof that the golden monstrosity exists. 

 

 

falling off the development bandwagon

I confess. I’m almost at the point of hitting my six-month mark in-country and I’ve been hiding out from Cambodia the last two weeks. The heat, the dust, the garbage, it’s getting to me, not to mention the work politics, the country politics, the same conversations with Westerners...  

The interviews with the young rape victims are the worst though.  They make me feel like a useless observer offered a peek into the horrendous past of an innocent girl in exchange for nothing. I can’t comfort them in their own language; I can’t provide psychological treatment; I can’t even operate the damn camera. I just watch from a distance until the director translates what she’s said later. Seven men in one night… gang raped… sold… brothels here and there… uncle abused… pregnant from young western male…left behind. I hear some of this and more on a recent visit to the Somaly Mam Centre tucked away down a country-like road, underneath a bridge, past the banana stand, down the lane where a lady swats flies away from old meat, around the house with the naked kids playing by the dump in the yard. It could be anywhere in Cambodia really. The stories the girls tell could be told anywhere in the world really, except that I’m listening to them here and they tend to be shockingly brutal crimes.  The rehabilitation center is actually quite nice though. Its open-air buildings and garden area make it a welcoming environment for girls that have been sexually abused and trafficked. I keep staring at the black concrete and marble signs out front detailing such and such funds donated by Queen Latifah and Barbara Walters.  I say the names out loud. I wonder if signer and the reporter have ever been here. 

Someone later complains that the center claims to be “saving girls” from these destitute situations, therefore immediately placing them in a category of the “unsaved”. There is no right answer.  That’s the other thing that is getting to me. The NGOs, the donor-funded projects, the rules and regulations tied to aid meant to good that could actually do more harm.  Everyone judges, everyone re-evaluates, everyone complains. I think I’ve learned that development can’t be imposed. Kind of a silly revelation really. Makes me think of old polisci theories on neo-colonialism. But whatever. Nothing is perfect. I don't really believe that corporate social responsibility, social entrepreneurship, non-profits, or UN or inter-governmental organizations have the right answer. Am I a cynic or am I jaded?  Maybe both, then again if those different entities didn't try to do something than we'd be right back at zero. I'm still of the belief that its the home government that must do all it can. Initiatives must come from local people. Not an earth-shattering conclusion at all.  Then again, when the prime minister gives a talk on how much power he has and his disapproval of OK condom adverts on TV at a Ministry of Tourism conference, I realize why all the externally funded organizations stick around. In the end, I still think what Somaly Mam has done is amazing. We can all judge and point out the flaws of the organizations we deal with, but that doesn't get us anywhere. 

http://www.somaly.org/