Six Soggy Barangs on Six Broken Bikes

P’chum Ben festival is like the Cambodian Christmas although all the ‘cultural-awareness’ that as a VSO volunteer I supposedly possess should prohibit me from making such sweeping and ignorant comments. Let me defend myself a little further.

P’chum Ben is a celebration of….

Well, no one’s quite been able to explain that to me yet. Every Cambodian who would be able to shed some light on the matter is too busy entertaining relatives who have travelled from around the country to stay with them (invited or not), cooking far too much food, realising that what’s not in the cupboard can’t be bought because every shop in Kampong Cham is shut for the holiday, complaining about the cost of hosting so many relatives and pulling the best clothes out of the back of the room to try and look nice for Granny* For this reason, P’chum Ben is like the Cambodian Christmas. Obviously, it actually has nothing to do with Christ, Christianity or Santa Claus. But, the stress levels seem to be very much the same.

Not being sufficiently integrated into Cambodian life yet, six barangs set off on their bikes on the 20km ride to Wat Hanuchey. Ok, this is exactly what Cambodians were doing too although usually on motorised and less labour-intensive versions of our bikes. But, we set off because, well, there’s nothing else to do in Kampong Cham and that’s as good a reason as any to give ourselves numb bums and aching calf muscles.

Every other time I’ve visited wats I’ve been welcomed in and handed plates of rice, invited to sit with Khmer families and felt completely at ease in the temples. Today, however, was another matter. Grumpy mothers shooed whinging children along the parades of monks while harassed fathers tried to keep the extended family together in the throngs of worshippers. Bear in mind, this is ‘grumpy’ and ‘harassed’ by Cambodian standards and Khmers really don’t display negative emotions so it’s still all pretty tame. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was very different.

Wat Hanuchey is set up on a mountain overlooking the Mekong in all its silted, swirling and ever-changing technicolour glory. It’s beautiful and well worth the climb up the hundred-and-odd steps (although why so many religions insist on building their places of worship at the top of bloody great big hills is beyond me and anyone who’s travelled in Latin America will have heard me make the same complaint about the Incas, Aztecs and Mayans too.) However, our spectacular view was abruptly cut off when the clouds moved in and curtains of rain herded us under tarpaulins to sit and watch the few remaining stragglers who hadn’t found a kneeling space in one of the drier buildings of the pagoda complex. As seems to be the pattern here, Khmers found it the most amusing sight they’d seen all day when six sunburnt barangs became six sunburnt, soggy barangs.

But what of the bicycles? “Six soggy barangs on six broken bicycles” is what I promised you. The six, at this point not-so-broken, bicycles were not-so-cleverly propped in one of the flood drains at the bottom of the hundred-and-odd stairs which had themselves turned into a waterfall. Like I said, not-so-clever.

“The whole place is washing away”
“I know. Even our bicycles will be gone by the time we get back!”
“Hehe … Where did we leave our bicycles again?”
“In that drain”
“… Bugger.”

Luckily, when we finally tried to retrieve our bicycles when we were so wet from the holes in the tarpaulin that it didn’t matter if we went out in the rain or not, they were all still more or less as we left them just with a bit of added storm-debris in the wheel-spokes. To top off our sighs of relief, the drinks-lady who’d been looking after them for us wouldn’t even accept any money for her troubles so we bought some usually-fairly-priced coca-cola off her instead. Sometimes you can’t even give away your money in Cambodia but more on that another time.

The ride back to Kompong Cham was even more pleasant than on the way there as the rain stopped the sun beating down on our backs and had cleared some of the traffic from the roads. Even so, the calls along the edge of the road of “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” had not been scared off by the rain. From such a bike ride one could be tricked into thinking English is widely known in Cambodia as everyone from the toothy toddlers to the gummy grandmothers shout and wave at the bunch of hapless Barangs on their way past. However, as we soon discovered, the conversation ends with the very same word.

Khmer: “Hello!”
Barang: “Hello!”
Khmer: “Hello!”
Barang: “Sour s’dai! Sok s’bai dtey?” (‘hello, how’re you?’ in Khmer)
Khmer: … … … (look of confusion) “Hello!”
Barang: “Hello.” (look of disappointment at the rejection of their Khmer language skills.)

As it turns out, ‘hello’ is the extent of most people’s English but, to be fair, ‘sour s’dai’ is about the extent of my Khmer at the moment, especially when trying cycle on a bike with non-functional brakes (they don’t work in the rain) and a saddle that won’t stay in place (that doesn’t work even in the dry) all the while making sure you pay enough attention to the road to avoid the Khmer chavs who spend so much time staring that they forget to look where they’re going. Just another bike ride in Cambodia.

* Except that not many ‘Grannies’ are to be found in Cambodia. So many people were killed during the Khmer Rouge regime that it’s rare to chance upon those over the age of about 50. Those who did survive were often so malnourished or ill from the atrocious conditions they were forced to live in that they have not survived the thirty years since the Khmer Rouge ended. Over half of Cambodia’s population is under the age of 21.

Water-Breast-Cow (in Roger’s Car) (With Dara)

Khmer lessons are currently our raison d’etre in K. Cham. They dictate the time we get up in the morning (6.30am for some, or significantly later for those with afternoon classes), they keep us busy for 4 hours in the day, restrict how far we can wander and still be back in time to do the homework, fill our daily conversations and even nightly dreams with lists of incomprehensible and half-remembered words, and, most noticeably, dictate the number of cans of 75cent Angkor beer which are enjoyed by the river after dinner.

The importance of the latter is not to be underestimated as the 15 or so volunteers who regularly frequent one lady’s make-shift bar (an ice box surrounded by plastic chairs and tables) are probably trebling, if not quadrupling, her monthly income. Volunteers – we’re just always thinking about ‘the community’.

Beer-economics is a delicate point and dependent on 2 variables:
1) How well or badly today’s class went.
2) How difficult tomorrow’s is likely to be.
I.e. if today’s class has gone particularly well, concerns about tomorrow’s are likely to be less and more beer is drunk. If today’s class has been difficult but just about manageable, less beer will be drunk because more studying will be done with the hope that tomorrow’s brain-pain can be lessened. If, however, today’s class has been truly horrific, plenty of light relief is needed to recover and the amount of beer drunk rises sharply again regardless of how much worse this will make tomorrow’s class. Like I said, it’s a finely balanced science.

To suggest that anyone in the group finds Khmer easy would be ridiculous. Both vowel and consonant sounds require oral acrobatics (no jokes please) that most English-speaking tongues need years to master. Therefore, to expect us to be able to explain concepts such as vegetarianism after just 6 lessons when vegetarianism isn’t even understood in Cambodia even when explained by a native Khmer speaker, is rather ambitious (and yes, I’m looking at you with your unrealistic expectations Veary!).

There are, however, a few saving graces of Khmer which give me some reassurance that reaching a conversational level is possible. Firstly, tenses are quite loose and the future and past are often referred to simply by clarifying the time about which you’re speaking. For example, ‘yesterday, I go to Phnom Penh’. Secondly, it is generally a logical language. For example, ‘milk’ is ‘teuk-doh-ko’ or ‘water-breast-cow’. Makes sense really doesn’t it? So, in similar logical fashion, ‘morning’ is preuk so ‘tomorrow morning’ is preuk sa-ike (morning-tomorrow) and breakfast is ahaa-pail-preuk (meal-time-morning).

So, in class, anticipating the sentence I’ll next be asked to translate, I sit waiting and practicing the tongue-twister in my head (e.g. rol-preuk, neu-pail-preuk, kñom ñam ahaa-pail-preuk neu p’teh pon-tai pii-preuk-min kñom ñam ahaa-pail-preuk neu po-chaa-nee-ya-taan – throw in a few more preuks for extra-measure because Cambodians like repeating their words). After so much mental practice, I could, at least by how it sounds in my head, convince even King Sihanouk himself that I’m really an over-grown Khmer who’s just used too much skin-whitening lotion. However, unsurprisingly since I’m nothing but a Yorkshire girl with not a hint of a knack for languages, the stuttering, babbling jumble of words that fall out of mouth when I’m finally stared down by our teacher, Dara, doesn’t even resemble the shadow of what it was meant to be.

Nevertheless, after stumbling over every word, there’s a small feeling of relief a few syllables from the end of the phrase. Unfortunately, Dara all too often jumps in at this point to make the sentence longer with a completely unrelated “in Roger’s car going to the VSO office in Phnom Penh on street 214 near the hospital.” Another few desperate-sounding approximations of Khmer words later and you hear added “With Dara.” Always, always “with Dara”. And probably his bloody “song-saa” too.

Road-kill and cats

Besides the constant worry that what you’re being told is chicken is actually cat, rat or unknown road-kill, I love Khmer food. It’s full of flavour, spicy, light and usually reasonably healthy (provided said road-kill hasn’t been deep fried). But I’m craving chocolate and coffee like you wouldn’t believe. There is actually quite good coffee here but it’s both expensive, too hot in this weather and the only milk that seems to be available in the whole country is either UHT or condensed milk. Visitors be forewarned – under no circumstances do you want to ask for milk in your tea. You’ll be served with a sticky, muddy coloured goo which resembles what I imagine the road-kill/cat would look like if it was boiled for several hours.

Nevertheless, I had a particularly good lunch today of barbequed fish, fresh bread, bananas and dragon fruit bought from the market which cost me a little under $1. Still, I'd consider troughing one of the boiled eggs with the foetus still inside in return for some chocolate at the moment.

Then again, maybe I'm not that desperate yet...

Barangs on Tour

I’ve finally cooled down after a reasonably long bike ride to Phnom Proh this morning. ‘Barangs on Tour’ (barang meaning foreigner/long nose) set off around 8 am attracting a lot of attention and laughs from Khmers who don’t understand why white people are cycling off along the main road to Phnom Penh when they could most likely afford a motorbike. Nevertheless, everyone greeted us warmly and children can’t resist waving and shouting hello. Riding a bike here is also far less daunting than in Phnom Penh. The roads have a little more space on them and while motorbikes and lorries still rush past at a startling speed, it’s more relaxed.

Phnom Proh is beautiful. It’s several centuries old and although it’s smaller than Wat Nakor which I visited a few days ago, the architecture is more elaborate and the paintings more refined. Although, my impressions are undoubtedly tainted by the bustling community atmosphere at Phnom Proh this week during the lead up to the water festival, P’chum Benh which is held at the end of September.

Most people in the temple are dressed in traditional clothes, their ‘Sunday Best’ I presume and several women were keen to press bowls of rice into our hands so we could join in the ceremony. This involved spooning some of the rice into each of 13 larger pots on your way out of the temple (although you then have to sneak back in to go out of the door you first came in at in order to retrieve discarded shoes).

The significance of the rice-sharing was entirely lost on a bunch of uneducated and naïve Barangs although when I find out I’ll pass the message on. Nevertheless, the amusement it gave Khmers to see us join in was undeniable and it even gave some of the younger generation cause to reach for their mobile phones to take pictures of us on, a paradox I’m not used to.

Peanut butter in Kampong Cham

Sour s’dai. Kñom rien kmae.

Hi. I’m learning Khmer. I had my first lesson this morning. I’m also eating peanut butter out of a jar with one finger as I type with the others because lunch has been a rather haphazard affair today. Let me explain.

We travelled from Phnom Penh (PP) to Kompong Cham yesterday, all piled into a bus which Jan and Keith had miraculously managed to book for us all in their first week using little more than a few Khmer words and many hand signals. VSO have sent us to this sleepy little town for our language training in order to remove the tempting nightlife of PP. Given the amount of beer which has been consumed over the past week, that was probably a wise idea.

K. Cham has little in the way of entertainment. Once an important port town on the Mekong River, it now survives on faded memories as the newly built bridge has usurped the need for goods to be brought to the province by boat. Thus, while the town has more or less some approximation of most things you could want (eg. no sun screen but countless skin whitening moisturisers, an unreliable bus service but enough motorbike shops to put Silverstone to shame), the nightlife is hardly ‘rocking’. In fact, the one establishment which would be most likely to call itself a bar has a cocktail menu but the staff don’t know which liquor or juice is which and only have half the ingredients. Queue barman James nipping behind the bar to help the lost looking Khmer woman to find the closest thing to what was on the menu. I’ll stick to beer in future. Peaceful bike rides in the sun followed by a trip to the market to check out the plethora of fish, fruit, vegetables, and ‘miscellaneous plants’ are the order of the day. VSO were probably right – there’s a lot more likelihood that we’ll actually get some work done here.

Anyway, as a result of us being in K. Cham, we’re being put up in the Mekong hotel. Usually, volunteers (Neak-Smak-Chet in Khmer) stay in a volunteer house owned or rented by VSO. However, as seems to be the case with a lot of VSO Cambodia, there’s a lack of funds and the house was given up. This means that we have to eat out for every meal, every day which adds up to being very expensive on a volunteer allowance (which has also been cut by $40 since last year). As we’re not in a house, there’s no fridge or anywhere to store food. Leaving it in your room only invites in ants and other creepy crawlies and since it’s a constant battle to avoid mosquito bites at the best of times, especially now in dengue season, I’m not keen to invite more six legged beasts into my room.

So, the best plan seems to have been to buy a jar of peanut butter for an extortionate $3.40 and just buy bread to go with it every day for lunch which works out at a much more reasonable price than even the roadside pit-stop rice sellers. However, today the heat had left me with no appetite and I didn’t bother to buy bread earlier. Hence, in a very roundabout way, I’m eating peanut butter out of the jar with one finger whilst typing with the others.

The Cambodiana, Phnom Penh

It turns out that the ‘rabbit hole’ is a hot, sticky, polluted, dusty place where rain can last all day in miserable and apologetic showers closely resembling the grey skies I though I’d left back in England. However, as with all ‘good’ weather (in the sense that it’s sufficiently variable to be the topic of English conversation) it’s now raining with all the ferocity of a true South East Asian thunderstorm. The Mekong river is in full flow at this time of year towards the end of the wet season and the swollen muddy waters are rushing past sweeping away trees like matchsticks.

Luckily, Maghan, Claire, Nono, Sarah and I have taken a break from playing the part of committed, hard working volunteers and we’re indulging ourselves on our last day of freedom before training begins properly. We’ve come to a four star hotel (five start being beyond the reach of Phnom Penh) to use the pool and enjoy the last throws of “being skanks” – ie. wearing very few clothes and worrying about where the tan lines are developing. Given that exposing your shoulders or knees is considered bad form in all the places we’ll be working, it’s best we get this last bit of western frivolity out of our systems now.

Thus far on the training we’ve had the security briefing in which we were told, word for word, “the police are the last people you want to go to if you get in trouble.” Notorious for their ability to extort money from anyone for anything, the police are not the people to ask directions from in Cambodia. Training also briefed us on how few rules VSO actually has about their volunteers’ safety. While this is not a bad reflection on VSO, it’s more a reflection of the trust they have in us to use our common sense. No one can stop us walking around Phnom Penh in the middle of the night through the most dangerous neighbourhoods and it would be over-protective of VSO to impose such restrictions. However, anyone who would think it’s a good idea to take such a stroll probably wouldn’t have made it on to VSO as a volunteer anyway since intelligence is valued here...

Nevertheless, the one strong warning we were given is that there are only 3 doctors in the whole of Cambodia which VSO would suggest we use if we’re ill. This means that for anything more than a minor sniffle, volunteers should make the journey to Phnom Penh or Siem Riep even if this means a 12 hours bus ride with dengue fever.

So, while I may be indulging in a little luxury now, I’m pretty certain the rough times are going to be just round the corner so don’t judge me too harshly for using the swimming pool just yet.

Somewhere 30,000 ft over Burma.

Stepping onto this plane felt like stepping into oblivion with a smile on my face, fully looking forward to plummeting to who knows where and God knows what.

The first time I went abroad on my own to an unknown country was Peru where I was too naïve to hold any expectations of the country or worry too much about being alone, a white, perceivably relatively wealthy, female in a developing country with no idea of the cultural norms or way of getting things done. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t even know until a month before I went that Spanish, a language I now love and frequently find myself expressing myself in, was the main tongue there. Naivety is maybe a little too kind; ignorance would be more accurate.

So, following that, my expectations of Ecuador were based on my previous Andean adventures and I was much more aware of the quandaries facing volunteers in Latin America. Later, my Nicaraguan expectations were based on tropical Amazonian experiences (although Ecuador proved a better cultural comparison) but at least I had a vague idea of what to expect and I had a good grasp of the language by then.

Now, on my way to Cambodia, I have nothing. I don’t know where I’ll be living - Kompong Speu may as well be none existent for all the information about it available on the internet and in guide books. My work is uncertain besides the title of ‘Ecotourism and Income Generation Advisor’. Neither do I have any idea about the culture – all my good intentions of learning about Buddhism went down the glass washer when I started doing 49 hour weeks at the Angel. Most worrying for me, I’m completely lost with the language. It might not be as bad if I at least had a dictionary or some way of translating but there’s nothing reliable available for those who don’t read Khmer script.

So, off I step into the utter unknown. ‘Oblivion’ is hyperbolic but where this journey will end or for how long I’ll fall before it starts to make sense is anyone’s guess. Maybe like Alice down the rabbit hole would be a better analogy.

Updated: On a more practical note, we just flew over a huge delta while I was writing this and I’m wondering if it was the mythical Ganges Delta of all those Year 9 geography lessons.