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Kompong Cham, located on the Mekong River in the eastern part of the country, had been an important market center during the time of the French. It must have been a charming place attested to by the collection of stately colonial buildings composing the central market area and the considerable number of large villas scattered throughout the town. When the Khmer Rouge ordered all the people out of the city, forcing them to live in the countryside, Kompong Cham, like other Cambodian cities, became a ghost town. Today, the city has achieved a position on the tourist map. The first bridge in Cambodia to span the Mekong River is located in Kompong Cham. Called the Spean Kazuna, it was built and paid for by the Japanese. The linkage between the two sides of the river has not only improved the flow of goods but has also allowed the city to become the stopping off point for tourists interested in traveling to north eastern Cambodia. The revitalized economic activity, driven in part by the agricultural activity and booming rubber market, as well as the nascent tourist business, has enabled the town to begin sprucing up. We saw recently repainted buildings, shades of ocher covering over the black streaks created by a kind of fungus that thrives on humidity and monsoon rains. The graceful French villas, instead of being torn down, as witnessed in Phnom Penh, are being restored and taken over by government agencies. Complexes of two and three story Chinese style shop houses are under construction and, of course, I prefer those that blend in with the French colonial architectures rather than those clad in opaque blue glass, the Khmer version of ultra chic. Shops seemed to be over flowing with merchandise whether necessities or motor bikes, bicycles, and clothing, along with shops selling luxuries, such as home décor and fancy wedding dresses. Soon I am sure they will be repairing their streets along with their sidewalks.

We headed out of town driving south until we came to the Koh Paen, a small island connected to the mainland by a bamboo bridge, which, after the rainy season, has the distinction of being rebuilt each year. Instead of attempting to drive over the bridge, we observed the scene below from a lookout point and then continued our drive to the temple of Wat Nokor. This complex, more bizarre than traditional, consists of a new pagoda placed inside that of a 11th shrine as well as images of figures from the Buddhist iconography seen through our eyes as more kitsch than religious.

Back in town, we crossed the bridge to get a closer look at the old lighthouse on the east bank of the river. It was originally built by the French in the 1940′s in a moorish style blended with someone’s idea of medieval. It has recently been restored, acquiring a new paint job, an odd shade of rosy pink, and a new staircase, described as lacking safety features. Its contemporary history is connected to Hun Sen. While this tower was being shot at from all sides, this is reputed to be the site of the firefight where he lost his eye. Like other Khmer cities, Kompong Cham is charming, the kind of place where you would want to hang out for a while but, similar to these other places, after beer drinking and people watching, there is not that much to do. But then again, we were only spending one night and then passing through. I always like to save something to go back for and we will return to visit the cottage industries making the karma, the ubiquitous Khmer scarf, and to taste once again that wonderful hamburger.

THE REST OF THE KOMPONG CHAM STORY

The afternoon had been easy, driving around soaking up charm in the comfort of an air-conditioned vehicle but reality raised its sweaty head when we returned to the hotel to discover the air conditioning in our room was not working as promised. If something is wrong in your room, you ask the hotel to fix it or give you another room and I was out the door heading for the reception area when I encountered Eddie. Not having much else to do, he volunteered to investigate the situation. It is not often that one checks into a hotel only to fix its problems but soon Eddie was standing on a chair pulling the front panel off the unit. He found the problem, a dirty filter and after he rinsed it off and replaced it, the temperature rapidly decreased from about 100 degrees to a pleasant 75. All of this in about ten minutes. As Donald and I have often said, it is always better when Eddie is around.

The late afternoon surrendered to twilight, that contemplative pause between day and night when swallows fill the air, flying the thermals and people spring back to life, emerging from sanctuaries sought out during the unbearable heat of the day. Looking out the window, the last rays of a brilliant sunset had finished streaking across the sky and the moon, just a thin sliver, hung in its rightful place. On the streetbelow, I could see the local people beginning to enjoy the evening, walking along the riverbank while shirtless young men gathered in circles for their nightly game of kicking the shuttlecock. The yapping street dogs had returned full throated and children whizzed up and down the street on that Chinese bicycle where one size fits all. The grassy area along the riverbank was soon occupied by food vendors who rolled in their portable restaurants, firing up their woks as they set up their small folding tables and the present Asian plastic chairs. It was a festive air as the local people came to eat or drink beer under the soft glow of kerosene lamps and the sparkling fairy lights powered by car batteries. Down below, at the edge of the river, small shallow bottom boats had tied up for the night.

When it comes to restaurants, Jean Paul is not that adventurous, so we agreed to meet him at the same restaurant for dinner. With the help of the restaurant owner who volunteered to translate, we found out more about Jean Paul’s colorful life. Apparently, he served in the Frencharmy, assigned to France’s former colonies in the Caribbean where he learned the construction business. There he worked for a general and when the general was reassigned to Cambodia in 1992, Jean Paul went with him and by 1993, he had decided to remain in Cambodia permanently. In an expansive mood, fortified by a glass of cognac and the lighting of one of his Cuba cigars, he started to tell us about his ten wives. Unfortunately, our translator became busy with other customers and once again, we were left with only the big picture, devoid of those far more interesting details.

While Jean Paul stayed in the restaurant , Eddie, Donald and I walked back to the hotel , embracing a night still gauzy with heat and the air crackling with the sounds of the cicadas. Walking up the stairs to our rooms, we encountered a local woman. She stopped both Donald and Eddie, wanting to know if they were the ones who had requested her “services”. No, it was not them and since the four of us were the only ones in the hotel, it was not hard to figure out who had placed the call. About an hour later, we saw her walking down the street and being diplomatic, no one questioned Jean Paul the next morning. Cambodia has been very good to him.

RETURN TO PHNOM PENH

At the first gesture of morning, we were up, planning to begin our drive to Phnom Penh before the sun had a chance to warm up. Donald rode with Jean Paul and I rode with Eddie. We were definitely a curious sight with the trike on the trailer and an eighteen foot long canvas bag, containing the wing, attached to the roof of his car. We crossed the mighty Mekong River running red with silt and soon took a right turn and headed south on National Highway 11. We were back in the idyllic countryside where everyday life is lived alongside the road and fields of rice or plantations of rubber trees spread into the distance. We noticed trucks loaded down with plastic jerry cans filled with gasoline that had been smuggled over the border from Vietnam. We passed the charred ruins where a few nights before a truck smuggling gasoline was chased off the road by the police, crashed into a house, ignited, leaving all the inhabitants dead.

Eddie set the pace and Jean Paul and Donald stayed behind, ready to pick up the pieces if necessary. Eddie’s foot was heavy on the gas pedal, sending segments of landscape and fragments of other people’s lives flashing past. He used his horn as an offensive weapon scattering ducks, chickens, cows, dogs and anything else that dared to cross in front of him. My presence in the front seat provided Eddie all the audience he needed and soon he began his rant, phrases repeated so often they had become part of his wardrobe. But he is the one living in Cambodia and driving their roads so I guess he is entitled to tirades against their driving habits, the condition of the roads, and the corruption of the government. He spoke with animated hand motions as if drawing pictures in the air and creating shapes would improve my understanding. When he starts this, it is hard to stop him and I just nodded in the appropriate places.

Zipping past dust blown villages and taking our turn on one lane bridges, we crossed into Pre Veng Province and rolled to a stop at a gas station in the town of the same name. The French colonial buildings that are scattered about the town attest to its importance during the time of the French but today its main attraction is Ba Phnom, the earliest pre-Angkorian civilization. As always, we immediately attracted a crowd, curious as to what we were hauling and anxious to touch any part of it. A young man stepped out of the throng of people and in perfect English told me he had seen a plane similar to this one in Phnom Penh as well Siem Reap. I am always amazed at the number of people spread all over Cambodia that are familiar with the ultralight. We continued our conversation and he told me he worked for MAC, a land mine removal organization, and as a baby, he had been adopted from an orphanage by a British couple. While he taught them to speak Khmer, they taught him English. This couple apparently gave up living in the UK and they live together as a family in Phnom Penh.

Back on the road, we had one more stop to make before we reached Phnom Penh. We had to continue south and cross the Mekong River by ferry at Neak Luong. Donald and I had crossed there in 1993 when we hired a driver to take us from Saigon to Phnom Penh and I was looking forward to seeing this place once again.

NEAK LUONG BACKGROUND

Neak Luong, approximately twenty miles south of Pre Veng and thirty-eight miles southeast of Phnom Penh, is situated on the banks of the Mekong River astride National Highway 1, the main road connecting Phnom Penh with Saigon. During the Vietnam War and the subsequent rise of the Khmer Rouge, anti communist forces in control of Neak Luong guarded the river supply line between Saigon and Phnom Penh as well as the land route, making it a strategic river crossing point. As a way to root out the North Vietnamese sanctuaries on Cambodian soil as well as prop up the American sponsored Cambodian government of Lon Nol in their fight against the Khmer Rouge, Nixon instituted a secret B-52 bombing campaign. Unfortunately, on August 7, 1973, a pilot made a mistake and dropped his bomb load over Neak Luong, creating the worst bombing error in the war. The U.S. government’s attempt at a cover up was uncovered by New York Times correspondent Sidney Schanberg and his Cambodian assistant, Dith Pram. The opening sequence in the movie, The Killing Fields, based on Schanberg’s book, deals with this tragedy.

TO BE CONTINUED

Sunday night was our final night in Siem Reap and the last evening we spent with Tuit. Since Tuesday, Donald and I had spent every afternoon and early evening with him. We took him with us to all parts of the city, introduced him to all the local people we knew, allowing him to do things and have experiences he never had before. Each time we had the opportunity for someone to translate, we encouraged him to do well in school and told him how important it was for his family’s future. I believe he understood all of this. He had sampled all the ice cream flavors at our hotel and for a final treat, we took him to the Red Piano, one of the first Western owned restaurants, for an ice cream sundae. He had never seen whipped cream before and found it very tasty. When we brought him back to school, Eddie drove right up to his door. It was very poignant to tell him goodbye as we had certainly grown accustomed to having him around. Donald and Eddie took turns hugging him goodbye and then it was my turn. We both smiled at each other and then when I hugged him, he hugged back. Donald and I will continue to support him and even though there are many social and cultural issues against him, we think he will do well.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Monday morning, before the town had time to unwrinkle itself, Eddie picked us up in front of our hotel and once again, Donald and I found ourselves back in Eddie’s 1989 Camry this time pulling his infamous trailer now piled high with our luggage. He has been renting this car for the past two years and counting the times the odometer has flipped, he figures the car began with 260,000 miles to which he has added as additional 60,000. For me, just a short ride around the block is my testament to Eddie’s ability as a mechanic. Now we were beginning a road trip and even though he had fixed the air conditioning, the odds of traveling without a break down were not in our favor. Not thoroughly believing his assurances that nothing would go wrong, I requested a stop at Star Mart, the local convenient store, where we loaded up on water and snacks, just in case.

Our destination was Kompong Cham, a riverine town located on the banks of the Mekong River and capital of the province bearing the same name. Jean Paul had stored his trike there in the Doctors Without Borders compound and they now wanted it removed. According to plan, Jean Paul would drive from Phnom Penh and meet us in Kompong Cham. We would spend the night there and the next morning load the trike onto Eddie’s trailer. All of us would then drive to Phnom Penh, where Jean Paul would relocate his trike and Donald and I would spend our last few days in Cambodia.

Leaving Siem Reap, we drove south east on the often traveled National Highway 6 and reaching the small town of Skoun, we make a left turn onto National Highway 7 and began traveling due east, toward the Vietnamese border. Skoun, a dusty market town, similar to all the others, has one claim to fame. It considers itself the culinary center for fried spiders. Possibly, the Khmers developed a taste for this eight legged creature when there was very little to eat during the hard times under the Khmer Rouge. Today, tourists who stop there have to fend off market ladies descending on them with platters piled high with this furry delicacy. Donald and I have been through this before and were not disappointed when Eddie did not stop.

KOMPONG CHAM BACK STORY

When analyzing the name of the town, kompong, translates into port or “the side of a river” and Cham denotes an ethnic group descendants from the Kingdom of Champa. Known to history since the 2 AD, these people lived in Central and South Vietnam, achieving their zenith in the 8th when they controlled territory in both Vietnam and Cambodia.

The relationship between Champa and Angkor was less than cordial and in 1177,the Cham attacked and sacked Angkor only to be destroyed four years later by an avenging Angkorian king, Jayavarman VII. The exploits of Jayavarman VII have been carved in stone on the bas reliefs found in the Bayon temple and that of Banteay Chmar. In 1720, an expanding Vietnam annexed the Kingdom of Champa. The loss of their land plus the resultant persecution induced the last Cham king to abandon Vietnam, seeking other places. He moved a group of his people west into Cambodia to settle on the banks of the Mekong, today called Kompong Cham. Islam arrived in Southeast Asia in the 7th, brought there by Arab traders and in the early 17th a Champa king converted his people to Islam. Today, ninety percent of the Chams are Muslims. The Khmer Rouge especially targeted the Cham and it is estimated that up to 500,000 of them died during this time. Today, these people are making a comeback but have been warned by Hun Sen that he will not tolerate any fundamentalist behavior. When a disturbance did break out, Hun Sen put it down forcibly, just so they would understand where he stood. Many Cham are fishermen and live in floating villages and the women are noticeable by their head scarves and the men by their knitted skull caps.

THE DRIVE TO KOMPONG CHAM

We drove through Kompong Cham province, reputed to be the richest province in Cambodia and with approximately 1.6 million people, it is the most heavily populated. Hun Sen was born here and has left his brother in place to serve as governor and his remaining family members are engaged in business. Traveling on National Highway 7 provided an opportunity to explore the countryside and soon we were driving through an area with rubber plantations on both sides of the road. Because the land is flat, we could see orderly rows of rubber trees stretching on to the horizon. A small coconut shell, which serves as a container, is attached to each tree to catch the sap that oozes out from the slash marks that spiral around each tree. Tappers then collect the sap and it is eventually processed into natural rubber. Cambodia’s soil is particularly suited to growing rubber trees and trees here produce rubber longer than any other place. This excellent soil coupled with high prices being paid for natural rubber has encouraged foreign money to invest and convert Cambodia farm land into rubber plantations. The fact that farmers are being thrown off their land is another story.

THE HOTEL

Jean Paul arrived ahead of us and entering the Mekong Hotel’s compound, we saw his Toyota SUV parked in the driveway and looking up, we found him sitting on his balcony, smoking one of his signature cigars, sunning himself and waving. Reputed to be the best hotel in town, fourteen dollars per night promised hot water, air conditioning, a T.V., and a view of the Mekong River. These Khmer built and managed hotels seem to be clones from a single plan and as expected, the obligatory over sized chandelier and collection of vinyl couches filled the lobby. As per our previous experiences, all attempts at refinement ended here and knowing the futility of hunting for the elevator, we quickly found ourselves walking up several flights of stairs to our room. A quick assessment of the room proved we were in luck. The sheets appeared relatively clean and occupying the foot of the bed was the expected Chinese velour blanket. The bathroom, which also functioned as a shower room, contained all the expected amenities. Above the sink, a plastic shelf was attached to the wall and above that was a matching plastic framed mirror. Each piece had its accompanying manufacturer’s sticker, proving it was new. This mirror, like all the others, was hung by shorter Khmer workman, providing Donald an excellent view of his chin. The obligatory small plastic comb, packet of shampoo, and miniature bar of soap had been placed on the shelf and I knew we were in a “chic” place as the soap was still wrapped up. Due to the dingy color of the towels, it was hard to determine if they were clean but they still had that stiffness which clings to them after they are air dried on the hotel’s roof. All the prerequisite items were there including two pairs of rubber flip-flops placed by the bed. I bring my own pillow and avoid the comb and the slippers as if they were the plague. With a flip of the switch, I activated the hot water heater mounted on the bathroom wall and acknowledged the hand held shower nozzle was certainly an advancement over an often provided water spigot, bucket, and small stool. The door to the room was either warped or not cut exactly to size and the lock on the door was the kind easily breached with a credit card. We found it strange that the hallways were exceptionally wide, as if someone had made a mistake, but we had no reason to complain. Everything was just as I thought it would be, complete with a bare neon tube light over the bed.

TIME FOR LUNCH

Jean Paul was his ebullient self and after a round of hugging and kissing, after all, he is a passionate Frenchman, it seemed time to find a restaurant for lunch. Several years ago, I wrote about a man from Philadelphia who married a Khmer woman and opened a restaurant called the Mekong Crossing and soon became famous for serving the best hamburger in all of Cambodia. I had eaten there before with Donald and Eddie and was looking forward to the taste of beef with the grease dribbling down my chin. When I suggested this place, Jean Paul grabbed his stomach and made a throwing up gesture. It is easy to read his motions but sometime impossible to determine his motives. Either he had eaten there and been poisoned or he did not want to eat in an American restaurant when there was a perfectly good French restaurant down the street and the man, like most other Frenchmen in Cambodia, was his friend. Goodbye Mekong Crossing and juicy hamburger as we took a seat under a swirling ceiling fan in the Lazy Mekong Daze restaurant. The owner spoke enough English for us to learn that he came from Brittany and similar to other long stay expats, had married a local woman, had a child who was busy playing under the tables. He had recently taken over the restaurant, previously owned by an expat from the UK. Regardless of what is on the menu, a restaurant owned by a Frenchman, according to Jean Paul, is a French restaurant. I have never seen Jean Paul order Asian food and selecting from the French side of the menu, he ordered beef with a Burgundy sauce while Donald and Eddie ordered a Cambodian favorite, beef luk lak. Even though the sauces were different, both dishes were made from the same cut of Khmer beef, exceptionally tough, requiring a full set of teeth, but tasty. I ordered a bowl of hot and sour soup, thinking it would be Chinese style. Unfortunately for me, the soup was prepared in a Khmer manner with coconut milk replacing the soy sauce, sesame oil and five-spice powder. No matter what kind of relationship you develop with your food, you never go hungry because you can always fill in from the present bowl of rice and the watermelon served for dessert. We lingered over cold beer and full bodied red wine until Jean Paul suggested a drive around the city. It was time to tour.

TO BE CONTINUED

Cambodia overland – Phnom Penh via Kampong Cham & Sambor Prei Kuk to Siem Reap

That cohesive group spirit I sensed while the villagers participated in the ceremony was only to be temporary and very soon it became every individual for himself. Over the past years, I have written extensively as to what happens when the few of us hand out a finite amount of items to an infinite number of people. As in the past, this year we were once again overwhelmed. Even though Donald’s women stepped in to help us control the crowds, no matter what we tried, their overpowering desire for the merchandise defeated our attempts at organization. To Donald, Eddie and I, it was business as usual and we were pleased that in our own way, we were able to help them out. However, not everyone agreed with us; not everyone was supportive.

TRUTH COMES IN VARIOUS VERSIONS

As the village people were crossing the road and coming across the fields, an American woman and her driver saw the crowd and stopped to see what was going on. As the monks were gearing up, she saw Eddie standing on the edge of the crowd taking photos and approached him. Affable Eddie gave her a brief synopsis, explained the absence of the plane which she had seen earlier that year, gave her a short history of our relationship with the people and explained the presence of the monks. When we began to hand out the supplies, she refused his request to help us out, as she just wanted to watch. I saw her standing on the sidelines when a young man, Joseph from Dresden, approached me. He too was driving down the road, saw the crowd and wanted to know what was going on. When I asked him if he would like to help, unlike the woman, he was happy to be included. I showed him the box of soap, which contained 100 bars, unfortunately four pieces wrapped together in cellophane. No problem he replied, he had a knife and could separate them before handing them out. Hundreds of grasping eyes focused on us as I hurried to give him the basic instructions. We do have our rules, honed after years of dealing with this impossible situation. The soap was to be given only to the women, he nodded not realizing this was a gray area, as many young village girls looked womanly. I had to let him figure this out for himself. I warned him about double dipping, but since this is a Seinfeld term and he was German, I am not sure he caught my drift. Good luck I called out as I saw him disappear into the center of a newly formed crowd. Donald relinquished control of the bags of shoes to his favorite women, who instinctively understanding divide and conquer, staged themselves in various parts of the field. We have no idea who received the shoes but they all went somewhere and the women returned to take charge of the cooking oil, a truly coveted item. Joseph, Donald, and I handed out most of the clothing, trying to give it to those who looked the neediest, but then again, who wears their best clothing to a giveaway party? In attempting to unload Eddie’s car, someone placed the carton of soap powder on the ground. Seeing this, I knew we had a problem but by the time I turned around, the one hundred bags of soap powder had already disappeared, including the box it came in. As we have done in the past, we hand the children large plastic bags and by showing them what to do, we get them to pick up all the garbage. The word “garbage” should be one of the few English words they know but I am sure they are perplexed and it is certainly too hard to explain in pantomime why we stuff the over flowing garbage bags in Eddie’s trunk and take it with us.

When it was over, when the last tee-shirt, pants, shoes, soap, soap powder, and bottles of cooking oil along with a five dollar bill to the fruit lady was given out, Donald positioned a plastic chair on the blue tarp and opened his “clinic”. Once again, the young women came with their babies and the old ladies came around, pointing to their feet, their eyes, their backs, and once again Donald did what he could to ameliorate their situation.

As for me, the festivities were over. Time for a break, drenched in sweat and caked with dust, I sat down on the blue tarp, feeling the hard, dried out ground beneath me. I grabbed another water bottle and noticed the original woman had left replaced by another, heading on a trajectory that pointed to me. In her mid forties, she seemed familiar until I realized it was not who she was but her clothing that was recognizable. Donald and I had seen her pants and top in the clothing bundles we sorted through in the market. Either she had been “in country” so long that her original clothes had worn out or she was supporting the local economy, attempting to blend into the countryside. Her walk was studied and determined and after navigating the drainage ditch and still moving forward with purpose, I supposed she wanted to talk. Hello and welcome, I called out, thinking this was a friendly enough greeting. I took another bottle of water out of my bag, offered it to my new guest, while pointing to the blue tarp, which certainly should have been interpreted as an invitation to sit down. She stopped at the edge of the tarp, giving the inclination that people on a mission do not necessarily want to sit. She betrayed no emotion but yet I could feel her shadow looming over me and it felt angry. Yet nice of her to block out the blinding sun. Trying another approach, I introduced myself and asked for her name and where she was from. Brushing these queries aside as irrelevant small talk, this nameless woman out of nowhere began to berate me, accusing us of turning the people into animals. What? Yes, you heard me correctly, animals, did you not see how they rushed at you and grabbed.

MY ANSWER: Yes, I know it always happens that way and is expected but did you see the children put their hands together in the traditional Khmer manner and say “aw kohn”, thank you, after they received something.

HER RESPONSE: No, I was too far away.
Realizing this woman did not come to discuss but to lecture, I asked her how she would have handled the situation.

HER RESPONSE: Quite simply, in order to preserve their dignity, I would have lined them up and given something to each one, one at a time.

MY QUESTION: Where were you when the mothers had sat the children down according to size with the smallest ones in the front but when we approached this arrangement disintegrated.

HER RESPONSE: That makes no difference, there must be order, and you should have made them stand in line, both the young people and the older ones too.

MY RESPONSE: Lady, I had to call her that as she had not yet provided her name, you want to inject rationality into this paddy field; you suggest I reason with them. The only way we could have forced these people to stay in line was to have held a gun to their heads and even that I am not sure would have worked. By the way lady, you are no longer in the West, this is the East and it has never developed a tradition of standing in line.

HER RESPONSE: I am not here to discuss cultural anthropology and violence is certainly not the answer. Besides, there must be social justice, the people must be treated with respect and by giving them things, denigrates them and turns them into beggars.

MY RESPONSE: We only handed out the clothing and soap and turned over the distribution of the other items to the women. Believing they knew who was more deserving, instead of degrading them, we empowered them to use their own judgment. Lady, I do not know who you are or what you are doing here, but this is how it is:
The people in the village of Pom Prei are rice farmers who have not had the benefits of an education. They endure an inadequate diet, and live without running water, electricity, refrigeration, transportation, communication, sanitation, doctors, dentists, medicine, and grocery stores. Their houses basically consist of one room on stilts which means there are no kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, dens, or bedrooms and there is no furniture, which means no chairs, no tables, no sofas and no beds. If they are lucky, they have a roof over their heads that does not leak in the rainy season and their supply of rice lasts from one harvest to the other. As for clothing, it is handed down from the older to the younger and is worn until it ends up as rags. As for shoes, they are shared within the family. Under these circumstances, you call them beggars and expect them to stand in line, waiting their turn, keeping their fingers crossed that we will not run out before they receive something. As for medical assistance, the doctors in the government run clinics take the medicine, often given by donor countries, and instead of distributing it free to the people, they sell it in their own clinics, leaving these people with nothing as they drive around in new SUV’s. If anyone gets sick, they usually die. But while we are here, Donald can patch them up and send the sick children to Angkor Children’s Hospital. Over the years, my friends have given me money to spend on this village. This year, Jeanne, my friend from California made a nice contribution. I have received contributions from my friends Elise and Mary Anne and the book club I once belonged to also provided money. As for the rest, Donald and I have been providing for this village since 2002. We come from a place where we have everything and helping this village allows us to feel good about ourselves along with attempting to ameliorate some of their deprivation.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

HER RESPONSE: This is my first time in Asia and I recently arrived in Siem Reap. I am in the process of setting up an NGO. I have already acquired an office, a SUV, and a driver. I am an inner city community organizer……..

WHO KNOWS WHAT IS TRUE?

I know there is no agreement on the manner by which to dispense aid and I know philosophers, scholars, and men of religion have yet to agree on a single definition by which to define reality and its good friend, truth. Even physicists studying quantum mechanics have gotten into the act when studying quarks and other subatomic particles, which led Neils Bohr, one of the greatest of them all to state, “Everything we call real is made of things that cannot be regarded as real.” In our postmodern times, truth has been disconnected from its traditional moorings, once considered objective has now been declared subjective. No matter what, my verbal exchange with this woman proved the point. We had arrived at a cross road, each with a different view of reality. She got there on the idealist track. She discredited all history and experience that preceded her and considered herself the main attraction in her own arrival. With a mind over dosed on hubris, she refused to allow her lack of knowledge or experience to prevent her from opining and criticizing.

My position was simple: I showed up as a realist with boots on the ground notched with nine years experience in dealing with the people and conditions of Pom Prei. We deal in what actually exists not as we want it to be and not as we think it should be. As you can imagine, my conversation with this woman coursed downhill without any hesitation on my part. She had already spent her donor’s money, had nothing yet to show for her effort but I am sure she felt confident about her mission as she drove off in her expensive SUV.

Later, marshaling all those disorderly facts that were part of our conversation, I thought about our village people. Buddhism, the main religion, also has opinions on reality beginning in the 6th BC. However, I could not imagine the villagers sitting around discussing how the world and life is nothing but an illusion, that reality is unreal, and all aspects of existence transitory. I know the business of giving aid is surrounded by different opinions, but who can tell me that the people of Pom Prei were not better off when we left than when we arrived? After all, those 576 items, transitory or not, went somewhere.

It was time to return to Siem Reap, but looking around, what had happened to Tuit? I had only caught a glimpse of Tuit that morning and I wondered if he would be willing to leave his family and return to school. When we were preparing to depart, I looked around and could not find him. Then opening up the back door of the car to put in my stuff, I found him sitting there in what by now had become his accustomed seat, in the back next to me.

RETURNING TO SIEM REAP

Donald, Eddie and I along with Tuit were going to lunch at the Soup Dragon, one of our favorite restaurants for lunch where they offer a wide variety of Khmer and Western food. Along with several other restaurants in Siem Reap, they donate a part of their sales to Angkor Children’s Hospital. We invited Cinnamon and her friend to join us and I was happy when Joseph, who had been so helpful, agreed to meet us there. If we were an NGO, this would have been a tax deduction but nevertheless, it was our pleasure to treat all of them to a meal. Observing the coarse manner in which Cinnamon and her friend held their silverware, we once again marveled at how properly Tuit held his fork and spoon. The three of them ordered beef lak-lak, a traditional Khmer dish of sliced meat served over rice. Donald and Eddie ordered the pizza and I enjoyed a bowl of traditional Khmer sour soup.

Over bottles of cold Angkor beer, the best way to remove the taste of countryside dust and grit, we found out Joseph was a water engineer and had come to Cambodia with the hope of helping out the people. Speaking to government officials, he volunteered to work without pay if they could provide food and a place to stay. Then he was shocked to find out that the only way he could work in Cambodia was if he paid them first. He was short of money and knew he would have to go home soon. But he was so caught up in what he had done that morning that he wanted to give us money for next year. His power of persuasion exceeded my ability to dissuade him but next year, we will spend twenty dollars in his name.

TO BE CONTINUED

When I go back to Apia from Pago Pago to catch my onward flight next day to Tonga, the place is under water, worst rainy season in years, and there’s a major storm coming in Saturday. Hopefully I’ll make it out before the deluge. Hopefully I can find something to eat in Tonga on a Sunday. My cheap-ass taxi doesn’t show- you get what you pay for- but I make it up by talking my way out of the exit tax at the airport by explaining I’m in transit from American Samoa (but I didn’t tell them I spent five days in Apia before that). Airport security is a joke, kids running around begging for coins, while ex-pat palangis use the forex booths to do their monthly banking, cashing personal checks and walking around with thousands of dollars in cash. I feel like I’m tripping. How do you maintain security in an airport with no exterior walls? Not so very carefully…

We beat the rain out of Samoa and soon we’re flying in bright sunshine, same in Fiji, and same continuing in Tonga. But it’s too late, because I’m coming down with something, my self splitting gently at the seam, whether a continuation of that cough that I finally kicked or something new I don’t know. Even so, it’s nice to have to have some sunshine after constant rain for so long. Supposedly there’s a cyclone moving south after it does its damage in Samoa, but who knows how far or how fast? The owner of my guest house in Tonga makes it sound like the storm of the century, but then he’s full of BS on a lot of issues, typical Brit ex-pat, lived here twenty-two years and doesn’t speak a word of the local dialect (“they’re supposed to be learning English”).

Tanaka- the Japanese girl from Samoa- is on my flight to Tonga also, but she ends up elsewhere in the shuffle at the airport, even though I’ve recommended my guest house to her, so I don’t force the issue on her. Well, next day she shows up at my guest house with a nasty dog bite, and having stayed who knows where. I can only figure that the airport ATM- last point of reference- had no cash, and so someone took pity on her. She’ll be okay. I’m more concerned about my shoes, which are fast falling apart. Duct tape is really not an option, since they won’t let you take that on a plane.

The next day is Sunday, so someone should take pity on us all, out in the boondocks with nothing but crackers to survive on. Everything- I mean EVERYTHING- is closed on Sundays (by law! What is this, Iran?), so my airport driver stops at the local Chinese sh*t-n-git the evening before so I can stock up. How’s that for service? Fortunately I’m half-way prepared, so no big deal, noodles with egg in addition to what I brought from Samoa. What about the traveler for whom it’s not normal to get off the plane with a shopping list? At the guest house there’s no food, no TV or fan in the ‘living room’, no comp coffee or tea, nothing nada zippo zilch, fun fun fun. The guest house owner gets excited about being the master of kava ceremonies, but not much else. So what if the guests are starving. Let ‘em drink kava!

Fortunately the Finnish guy Sammy has already made plans to go to a nearby Mormon church, so we get together for that and end up making it a Sunday morning of church-hopping. Besides that there’s the local folk art par excellence to be surveyed- ready for this? Graveyards! Not only do the defunct get to rest in peace and symmetry, but they get special quilts to keep them warm (hey, it sometimes gets down to 15c-59f in winter)! This more than makes up for a culture and architecture somewhat less traditional than the Samoan. And if the sarong-like lavalavas are absent here, they make it up with a grass mat worn around the waist for ceremonies, i.e. Sunday. We even get to sit in on and observe a traditional wedding ceremony and feast!

Next day I get up early to go to town, since I’ve already spent half my time here and haven’t even seen downtown Nuku’alofa. So what if I’ve got flu-like symptoms? F*ck ‘em… I walk the five clicks to town and the loose collection of villages gradually coalesces into… not much. This make 1995 Vientiane look like Manhattan, no McD, no KFC, no Pizza Hut, so… pretty nice, if a bit boring. Nuku DOES have something that I’ve yet to see in this region so far, though, and that’s a couple of decent bars, where locals and foreigners can both hang out with some decent music and decent prices. Tonga is friendly, more so than Samoa I think, so somewhat intriguing. It might actually be more interesting to live in than to tour.

If this is less of a city than Samoa’s Apia, one can only imagine what it’s like on Tuvalu, an entire nation of 10,000 souls! If that seemed daunting at the outset, I think by now I’d find it interesting. I still lack Tuvalu and the countries of Micronesia- not to mention the Philippines- so future itineraries in the South Pacific are looming… or I may just wait for the sea levels to rise from global warming. Some countries have already made contingency plans. The quick stop at Kiritimati will be a little taste of that future trip.

And what’s the verdict for this two month trip? Polynesia is cheaper than Melanesia. Even the grocery stores are reasonable- when you can find them- prices more or less the same as the US, which is good. Anybody who thinks the US is expensive has never been around very much. I suspect the current priciness of Australia- and Papua NG and Solomons- has much to do with Oz’s current strong exchange rate, likely the result of Chinese investments more than anything else, that and high interest rates, though I’d be hard pressed to say which is cause and which is effect. Not so long ago AUD traded at far less than the USD, down around $ .75 where NZD is today, or less. Now Oz and US and Canada are all almost equal, convenient for arithmetic, but a fall from grace for US. That’s okay; it’s lonely at the top anyway.

Melanesia might be friendlier than Polynesia, but the general lawlessness of Papua New Guinea, and the increased friendliness of Tonga vis-a-vis Samoa may cancel previous judgments out. None of the cities are especially pretty, but supposedly the nicest one- Frenchified Port Vila in Vanuatu- I didn’t even stop in. So if less is more for Pacific cities, then Nuku’alofa maybe ranks higher that way. All in all Fiji is not a bad mix of the region’s various aspects (and the easiest immigration policy: four months, don’t work- simple), and the cheap Indian cuisine is very welcome.

All of which brings me back to the question of pre-Melanesian people inhabiting the area, specifically Papua New Guinea, the subject which got me into a fight with a British ex-pat lawyer in Honiara, S.I. The existence of a myriad of non-Austronesian ‘Papuan’ languages makes the question moot, if still confusing. And Melanesians have a distinctly African appearance, while that of Polynesians is distinctly Asian (and believe me, I’ve looked at a few Asians). While the historians gloss over many details, there must have been a major migratory thrust from the mainland of Asia (fleeing Hans migrating south?) through Taiwan that splintered in the Philippines into two main groups, one of which went toward Borneo and became Indonesian while the other went toward New Guinea.

There these eastern ‘Austronesians’ must have mixed with native Papuans to a greater or lesser degree and became Melanesians while others remained on the fringes unmixed and eventually become Polynesians. The fact that Polynesian languages have cognates with Malay that are absent in Melanesia must be accounted for somehow. Some words cross over between Melanesian and Polynesian, but those are more cultural- e.g. mana’, kava, tapu (‘taboo’, which can mean ‘sacred’ y/o ‘forbidden’ BTW)- not so much core vocabulary. Language may not be an exact science, but it doesn’t lie… wait a minute…

So the 25th of January starts rather stormily, howling winds and rains lashing through the night in Nuku’alofa. By dawn it’s all died down, though, so we get away on time. My driver stops in town to pick up one other passenger, then lopes his way to the airport with one hand on the cell and one on the steering-wheel, always fun to watch the shifting of hands and gears (Polynesians are the world’s SLOWEST cab-drivers BTW). The Air Pacific plane even arrives on time and I have Wi-Fi in the airport cafe, so life is good. All’s smooth on the flight to Fiji, but they make me go through immigration, so I inquire about a day trip to Suva. They don’t recommend it. That’s just as well, because it starts pouring down rain soon thereafter. So I kill half a day reading an L. Ron Hubbard book, something I picked up in Pago Pago, and have never done before. It’s disjointed, chaotic, and non-linear… not bad! At this point I just want to get out from under the cyclone threat and back to the US, though the fifteen hour wait is trying…

As the calendar turns to the 26th we’re soon boarding the plane, but when we take off we’re almost immediately back to the 25th, courtesy of the International Date Line. From there it’s cop some zzz’s as cop can, little consolation that the flight I just watched take off from Fiji to LA will be arriving almost simultaneous with my arrival in Honolulu. That’s all so I can stop in Kiritimati (pronounced something like ‘Christmas’, no relation) Atoll, in the island country of Kiribati (pronounced something like ‘Gilberts’, no relation), not to be confused with the Christmas Island that refugees wash up on in their quest for Australia. My flight from Fiji to Honolulu makes a ‘technical’ stop there… so that counts, number 139 of 192 UN member countries under my belt. If that sounds tricky on my part, it’s more than that. Transit passengers don’t even get off the plane, but the view is priceless, one of the world’s most remote border posts, complete with VIP lounge! Some people DO get off, though, locals and surfers mostly. Beachcombers and castaways came before the conquistadores and missionaries in this region, remember. I log it in to memory.

Honolulu is a breeze, just a quick chat with la migra. “I see you made it out before the storm.” I heard about it. “It’s supposed to hit Tonga today.” That’s where I just was. “Welcome to Hawaii.” Then it’s another three hour wait, albeit with free WiFi, and then another five hour flight on to LA. By the time we finally pull up to the ramp at LAX it’s pushing 10:30pm, still the 25th. It’s too late to risk the Metro line, so I catch the Super Shuttle and get a quick tour of the rising new downtown LA before heading up to the hollies. I fumble with the keys… and finger-nail clippers and bottle opener, no stethoscope… it turns. I’m in, Trinity.
“Honey, I’m home….”
It’s been a long day.