Archive for February, 2011
Cambodian Journal 2011, Part 21 – Still on Pub Street, a Giant Block Party
by Alexandra Rosen on Feb.28, 2011, under Alexandra Rosen, Travels in Cambodia 2011, Travels with Alexandra and Donald
DEAR TOURIST, you stood on the corner of Pub Street and within five minutes you were preyed upon by tuk-tuk drivers, little girls, and handicapped men, all wanting something from you. As a first timer, we know you are enjoying the scene, the carnival like atmosphere, an evening promising Bacchanalian excess. Please allow us to give you some advice, after all, we have been coming here since 1992. Then, after exploring the tourist side of Siem Reap’s night light, we invite you to come with us and we will show you other parts of Siem Reap. See you at the corner of Pub Street and Thmou Street at 6:30.
UNTIL THEN
As for Donald and I, at 5:00 we pick Tuit up at school and along with our Khmer friend, Cinnamon, we enjoy mixed fruit drinks and study English at the Selantra Restaurant on Wat Bo Street. We return Tuit to the school around 6:00, walk back to our hotel and prepare for our own evening.
Sitting on our patio, we sip French wine, because it is the cheapest. The sounds of the late afternoon have already returned for evening. The monks from the pagoda across the river chant their evening prayers. The sound of their powerful voices floats across the river, momentarily hanging in the air, then soaring away, the product of souls that are peaceful and pure, or so we like to think. The slanting rays of the setting sun have already sliced their way through the palm trees shading our porch, their geometric patterns now lost in the fading light. But we are on time to watch pastel brushstrokes color the twilight sky. Geckos appear, attached to the ceiling awaiting a dinner of unsuspecting mosquitoes. (Yes, it really happens this way.)
Night falls quickly in the tropics and soon the streetlights are illuminating the road below and it is time for us to leave. The night air is pleasant and walking through the gates of the hotel, we are looking forward to another Siem Reap evening.
At the corner, where the tuk-tuk drivers gather, there is only one driver waiting, Mr. Pach. We wave and tell him we are going to walk which is ok with him as he is slightly drunk on the palm wine he drinks every afternoon. Donald buys a pack of cigarettes from the woman on the adjacent corner who just recently set up a small “newsstand and snack shop”. Of course, she is not paying rent, just another squatter on the sidewalk who will remain until the police order her to leave. She and Donald have become friends. He does not ask the price but hands her a $1.00 for a pack of Marlboro. This is less than what the tourists are usually charged, but she accepts. We cross the road and step up onto the charming bridge, guarded at each end by a five headed naga. This is the ancient mystical serpent found in both Hindu and Buddhist mythology. When he is not helping Vishnu create the world, he protects Buddha from the rain while his coiled body provides him a place to sit.
Downstream we can see the arched bridge that brings Hwy 6 across the river. Between the two, old weeping willow trees line the banks wrapped in assorted color fairy lights reflected in the water. Here the Siem Reap River, which we have come to cherish, is dark brown, full of silt and whatever else, we do not want to know. At this time of year, by the time it reaches our hotel, it has ceased to flow and seems content to shimmer in the breeze, set on idle. Crossing the bridge, we turn right at the pagoda. We walk with our heads down as parts of the sidewalk are missing. We believe the locals pick up the paving tiles to use in their own homes, not a fact only a thought. The Pub Street scene is getting into high gear and with one more right hand turn we will be right there.
However, walking down Thmou Street, we first have to pass rows of massage parlors. Bevies of young women and katoeys, Thai for transgender, hand out brochures and shout out “massage sir, madame”. For $5.00 per hour, they will rub your feet, neck, back, legs, and shoulders. For an additional $5.00, two will work you over, the traditional four hand massage. They excel in rubbing and scrubbing, applying hot oils and local herbs. Also, for a small price they will happily clean out your ears or remove unwanted hair. Donald and I have never indulged. But owing to the fact the Khmer’s are actually modest and, believe it or not, this is a very conservative country, I suggest you go to Bangkok if you want something kinky. They claim to be specialist in foot reflexology. After massaging the various pressure points on your feet that are connected to other parts of your body, they promise “happy feet for your good health”. At $3.00 for thirty minutes or $5.00 for sixty minutes, what a bargain if you can stand the pain. But the most bizarre type of massage is the “fish massage”. For a few dollars, you sit on the edge of a large tank and place your feet in water and watch as hundreds of hungry fish swarm around nibbling away your dead skin. I understand this tickles and do not look at the bottom of the tank because it must be covered in dead epidermis as the fish bite off more than they can chew.
PUB STREET
Dear Tourist, we see you waiting for us on the corner. We know you had a wonderful time on your pub crawl. As you walked down Pub Street, young women standing in front of the restaurants waved menus, inviting you to come in. Standing in the middle of the street, they offered wide varieties of Khmer, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese, French, Indian, and Italian food and also a proper hamburger if you remembered where we told you to go. But we know, you walked around these lovelies thinking only of cold beer.
As per our suggestion, you sat down at the Angkor What Bar?, Siem Reap’s most famous bar. Located in the middle of this short street, you looked around knowing this is where it all began. When it opened in 1998, it was the first bar in the area. When Donald and I drank there in 2002, it was owned by Miranda, an English woman, who then sold the bar to Alex, from Scotland. Subsequently, he married his American bar tender, Jennifer, who had left her job in New York and was touring Asia. Today, they have three thriving restaurants, other business ventures, and two adorable children.
You then walked across the street and assumed a curbside position at the Temple Club and sipped on another .50 glass of Angkor draft. You were too early for the free Apsara dance show but just in time to watch the show unfolding in front of you. It is hard to believe the eclectic masses of humanity wandering up and down the street, dressed or hardly dressed in bizarre clothing, leading you to wonder literally where on earth they were purchased. A cacophony of sounds permeates the air, languages you have never heard before, and music that maybe sounded familiar but just a few beats off. You enjoyed the carnival like atmosphere and wondered where the people were going, as they were probably wondering too.
As per our other suggestion, you found a seat at the Le Tigre de Papier and watched a little soccer on their wide screen TV. When you arrived at the end of the street, we hope you had one more drink in the Red Piano on the corner. This too is one of the oldest places on the street. The owner, from Belgium, would be happy to sell it and return home if he could only obtain visas for his two children who are part Khmer. Standing on this corner, you noticed the two streets filled with food stalls and crossing over you are again assailed by menu waving young girls offering plates of wok fried food for $1.00 to $2.00. Even though hundreds of people are sitting at the small tables, with hardly a vacant plastic chair, we are not too sure about the hygiene. Please remember, just one tainted finger can send you to your bed for days with stomach pains and other ailments, making an early death seem a viable alternative.
You are close to the night market, another tourist destination that is actually well done. You can buy the usual t-shirts but there is also an assortment of very well made Khmer handicrafts. But do not forget to bargain.
THE PASSAGE
At this point, following our advice, you exited the Red Piano, turned left and walked down Street 11. At the first possible left turn, you immediately found yourself at the entrance to The Passage. This is actually the dressed up name for the wide alley and its warren of narrow side alleyways that runs behind the buildings on Pub Street. Formerly a residential area, its two and three story buildings did not age well. We remember the cracked plaster and peeling paint and its former ochre color surrendering to greenish-black streaks of mildew left by years of monsoon rains. Sunlight never penetrated, allowing the moisture to thrive in the unrelenting humidity. The alleyways were filled with decades of clutter and street children, carrying large sacks, rummaged through refuse filled corners seeking anything of value. Just walking past, you could not avoid the cloying smells of fried garlic, onions, and sewage. It was a place where the tourist never ventured leaving it to the locals, the rats, and large cockroaches.
Then beginning at the corner, The Linga Bar, Siem Reap’s first gay bar, established itself and as the tourist trade increased this alleyway became gentrified step by step. (As an aside, the linga refers to Shiva’s proud member and usually fits into a yoni, but another time for a discussion of Hindu theology.) Tourists replaced the former denizens and today the entire alley and its side corridors are filled with a wide assortment of restaurants. It is a well lit colorful space pulsating with tourists and you must arrive early to find a table.
Dear Tourist, as you walked through the alley, once again, you ran the gauntlet of young women waving menus offering a variety of Asian and International food. A word of caution, do not sit at a table close to the walkways because you will be accosted by every Khmer with something to sell. Our favorite restaurants, Aha, are located next to an interesting art gallery. Here you can sit inside, in air conditioned comfort and enjoy small plates of tastefully prepared Asian fusion food.
TIME FOR A CHANGE
By the time you walked through the alley, stepped back onto Thmou street, the little girls selling post cards, who cannot be avoided, have become annoying and you wonder why they are not home doing their homework. You think every tuk-tuk driver possible has offered his services. Now, I think you are ready to leave this strip and see another side of Siem Reap.
THE OTHER SIEM REAP AT NIGHT
It is the tourists who flock to Pub Street and to the Passage, as rightly they should. But there are other parts of Siem Reap that can be enjoyed without the tumult. If you want to enjoy a Happy Hour, follow the Australian archeologists from the GAP Project and go to the Victoria Hotel and sit poolside under their veranda or hike up to the Grand Angkor and enjoy a drink in their famed Elephant Bar. For Khmer food, we suggest a visit to Veroths’s on Wat Bo Street or the Sugar Palm on the other side of town. Located in a beautiful Thai style wooden building you can feast on the best spring rolls in Siem Reap and enjoy a grilled eggplant with ground pork, marveling at the wonderful smoky flavor. The restaurant in our hotel, the Bophar Angkor, offers excellent Khmer food even though it is filled each night with small tour groups. These three restaurants are so popular that you must make reservations. When you become a little more adventurous, you can venture down Strang Siem Reap, cross over Hwy 6, turn right at a pagoda, and travel down a dirt road until you come to a delightful thatched hut. You will have found Touich, a new restaurant opened by a couple from Battenbang. The owner, a delightful young man, speaking perfect English, will guide you through the menu and offer you tropical drinks made with ginger. If you like your Asian style food infused with other cuisines, we suggest dinner at The Nest. Located on Sivatha Boulevard, another main street, you enter a garden like setting under artfully constructed tents. After all this Asian food, it is ok to want a taste of home. We suggest you visit the Bistro at the Victoria Hotel, here you should order the onion soup covered in puff pastry and the grilled New Zealand lamb chops. We also suggest Abacus, where Reynaud, the delightful Frenchman, offers excellent Australian beef and wonderful lamb shanks cooked with lentils. Ok, if you are really desperate, there is a Kentucky Fried Chicken on Sivatha. They are working with poultry growers and producing chickens just like back home. This is necessary because who wants to eat a scrawny Khmer free range one that has been pecking in the dirt and drinking sewer water.
Now it is time to visit a bar, for a night cap or some conversation. All of the places mentioned above are located on the periphery of the central tourist area so we have to come back to the alleyways. Since our friend Karl is no longer holding court at his Ivy Bar, we suggest a visit to Ms. Wongs, located on the opposite side of Pub Street in The Lane. As if stepping back into the days of old Shanghai with all the possibilities of intrigue, this place, with its muted red walls, is a haven of quiet sophistication. An eclectic collection of Chinese decorative accessories and black lacquered furniture contributes to the charm. Dean, from New Zealand, is a delightful host. We enjoy his conversation as strains of jazz and music from the 1940′s contributes to setting the tone of opulent decadence, any moment expecting to be offered a pipe of opium, which of course does not happen. His three young Khmer bar tenders can prepare most any drink you suggest. As for us, we drink a few rusty nails.
By now, it is 10:30 and your tour guides are ready to find a tuk-tuk and head back to our hotel. But as for you, dear Tourist, the night is still young and it is time for you to seek out the late night bars, which are not located on Pub Street. We suggest the Laundry Bar, the Warehouse, the Linga Bar, and the X Bar. Again, you are on your own. No need to report back, we have been there before.
Cambodian Journal 2011, Part 20 – Siem Reap An Evening Out
by Alexandra Rosen on Feb.26, 2011, under Alexandra Rosen, Travels in Cambodia 2011, Travels with Alexandra and Donald
In 1992 when Donald and I first arrived in Siem Reap, the tourists were few and the accommodations almost nil. Our group was billeted into the Grand Angkor, Raffles owned hotel, and the French Conservancy, home to the famous French archeologists of the EFEO (Ecole Francaise d’Extreme Orient). The Grand Angkor Hotel, one of the famous colonial grand dames, had not yet been renovated back to its original splendor thereby giving us an opportunity to witness the ravages wrought during the Khmer Rouge days. Donald found shell casing on the slopping roof outside his room and gunfire was heard in the distance. Downtown Siem Reap was not yet a destination. By 1995, when I brought my parents to my favorite places in Asia, Siem Reap had a few small hotels but not much had changed. We did drive around the downtown area near the river and I remember it being mostly deserted. Before Donald became associated with the Greater Angkor Project, we continued to visit Siem Reap and stayed at the Grand Angkor after it was renovated. As time passed, the Khmer Rouge were finally finished, the gunfire in the distance was replaced by the sounds of monkeys, and the country was declared safe for tourists. At first only the most intrepid independent travelers showed up, usually Western backpackers. Then it was discovered by Asian as well as Western tour operators. The word spread, speeded along by budget airlines and budget tours and today, Siem Reap, once the sleepy French colonial town, has become one of the hottest destinations in Asia.
The recent recession has decreased the number of western visitors but has not impacted the Asian tourists. Today, they are pouring in on budget tours, arriving on budget airlines, or being transported by busloads over the Thai and Vietnamese border. They are filling up the hotels designed for the Asian tourist, especially those built by well connected Khmers that line the airport road. They are fed in restaurants intended for large groups with parking lots accommodating fleets of super large buses. They are swarming all over the temples, leaving officials to comment that Angkor has survived the past and the Khmer Rouge but the temples might not survive the present onslaught of tourists.
At first, they stayed in their hotels, maybe warned not to come out at night. Later the tour companies organized night tours and piled them into tuk-tuks. Donald and I sat with Karl at his Ivy Bar and found an element of humor watching long lines of tuk-tuks filled with Koreans or Chinese parading through town, the group leader waving a flag so no one would get lost. But now, someone has told them Siem Reap is safe at night and they have broken away from their groups and are surging through the streets, crowding into the shops, and pushing their way into the night market. Hard to determine who is the most rude, but popular opinion would nominate the Koreans, maybe because there are so many of them. As the Japanese before, these Asian tourists feel superior to the Cambodians. However, the locals counter their arrogance by over charging them any chance they get and forcing them to speak English, the only possible common language.
By my assessment, the Asian tourists are going shopping while the Western tourists are sitting in the bars quaffing down large volumes of Angkor beer. Their main destination is a small street in the center of the tourist area, about ½ the length of a New York City block (uptown-downtown not cross town) which recently received the sobriquet, Pub Street. The Lonely Planet refers to this as Bar Street, but several days before we left, a banner was stretched across the street calling it “Pub Street”. Just the term, “pub” and not “bar” shows that the dominant English speakers obviously are not American.
This was the original tourist destination. But as the years past, to accommodate the thirsty burgeoning tourist business, the jumble of former shops, offering books, antiques, and souvenirs, reinvented themselves and became bars that served food. Each place opens onto the street. One arrives early, gets a good seat, and watches the evening unfold. Touring temples is thirsty work and the proprietors along Pub Street accommodate the tourists by starting happy hour at 4:00 PM. The competition for the tourist business has set off a race to the bottom and $1.00 beer, if that was not cheap enough, has been reduced to .50 a glass. Not much profit if you consider a glass of draft beer costs .37 to pull, so says our friend Al Sharky who runs Sharky’s Bar in Phnom Penh.
The tourists come in a wide variety. Many are backpackers, wearing tee-shirts from where they have been with Vietnamese and Laos visas patched into their passports. Now that Cambodia is deemed safe, older tourists and those with some money to spend are now showing up.
DEAR TOURIST, MAY WE OFFER A LITTLE ADVICE?
At night, Pub Street is closed to all kinds of traffic. You approach, navigate your way through the collections of tuk-tuks blocking the entry and step through the barrier. As a first timer, you will be amazed at the vast number of people filling up Pub Street and the surrounding area. There are thousands of people, maybe more. You think you are unique, but seen through the eyes of the locals you are like all the others; you are the prey and they are the hunters. You are the fodder upon which they are determined to dine. You have taken only a few steps when you hear ” Tuk-tuk sir”. Your reply of no thank you leads into “later sir, tomorrow sir, where you want to go?” You reply, “No where, thank you again.” I promise you this small scenario will be replayed many more times before you reach the end of the street. The tuk-tuk drivers have a problem, there are just too many of them to earn a decent living and after all, these young men already have a wife and several children to support, along with an ailing parent or two. The problem for you, many of them are from the countryside and speak very little English. They may have arrived in Siem Reap not much before you and therefore, do not know their way around.
Suddenly someone is pulling on your arm, you look down to find a small girl selling post cards and woven bracelets. Not trying to sell you anything at first, she asks “where you from”. When you tell her America, she is happy to tell you the capitals of all the states she knows. Your first response, isn’t she adorable, and you pay a dollar for her postcards and another for her bracelets. Suddenly, you are swarmed, encircled by more postcard sellers, aggressive little girls shouting out state capitals and offering their wares. The price of the postcards as well as the cost of the bracelets now drops to .50. You say “no thank you” but as you move forward, they follow, determined to make you buy more. Ok dear tourist, this is longer Kansas.
On the side of the street you see a nice wooden cart, painted blue and fitted out with wheels. It is filled with books, neatly arranged, specializing in a variety of stories from the “killing fields” along with a good selection of Lonely Planet tour books. The bookseller, sitting on a stool, smiles and says “book sir”. When you look at him, you realize he has no arms. He nods his head toward a sign enclosed in plastic that reads something like I used to be a beggar so please help me now that I am trying to be a business man. The plucking on your heart strings tells you to buy a Cambodian tour book. You take one and ask how much. He tells you $ 8.00. You leave him ten dollars, do not wait for change because you do not want to see how he will find the needed two dollars. You walk away and before you can become pleased with your generosity, you are surrounded by a small mob of men, they too are selling books. The group is all on crutches, each one missing various parts of a leg. Plastic baskets attached to kramas hang from their necks, each filled with the same selection of books as the man with no arms. They balance on one leg, shoving books at you. A man in a wheel chair rolls into the center of this group. He too is a bookseller but has no legs at all. The price now is $6.00 per book. A few seconds ago, you left $10.00 for the same book. You speak to the youngest one, his name is Kim, and you marvel that he can speak perfect English. You tell him maybe you will buy later but he argues with you. You begin to walk away and the entire troupe follows you down the street joined by the little girl postcard sellers who have not yet given up. Ever felt like the Pied Piper?
Back in your hotel room later that night, depending upon if you are still able to think, you begin to rationalize. You paid $10.00 for a Lonely Planet tour book that would have cost you $23.00 in the United States. Even though you could have paid $6.00 for it, you feel good about helping the man with no arms. Tearing the plastic wrap off your book, you realize it is a photocopy of the original. It is a bootlegged book, stolen from Lonely Planet with no royalties paid. One of the largest problems in Asia and you contributed to it. By the way, dear tourist, I recently paid Kim $4.00 for the same book. You see, like everywhere else in Cambodia, you need connections. We have known Kim for the past ten years. Today, he is sixteen years old and like everyone else in Cambodia, he too has a story.
BACK TO PUB STREET: You look at your watch, it has been only five minutes since you crossed the barrier and you are still standing on the corner. Welcome to Siem Reap at night.
BACK STORY
In the past, handicapped people who lost limbs, causalities of land mines or Cambodia’s many years of war, were brought to Siem Reap and placed on the sidewalks to beg from the tourists. Many believed they were part of an organized syndicate that took from them most of the money they collected. Then as the tourist business developed, it was thought the beggars gave a wrong impression and they seemed to disappear. They were returned to their villages, sent to NGO organized rehabilitation centers, or turned into booksellers with the aid of other NGO’s. Young children carrying babies were often seen begging and pointing to their mouths to let you know they were hungry. Often, we ate dinner in restaurants open to the street and sitting in front of us on the sidewalk would be women holding listless babies. They would be begging and we would be eating. Many times when we offered them food, they would refuse it. Where these scams or were these people genuinely hungry? The first time I saw Kim he was playing with other children having a good time. When they saw me coming, they ran up to me crying, pointing to their mouths, rubbing their stomachs, and begging. Kim did it the best, he was on crutches and could make the most pitiful sounds. All this is in the past and let us hope those truly in need are being helped by the 3,000 or more NGO’s operating in this country.
TO BE CONTINUED
Cambodian Journal 2011, Part 18 – Preah Vihear, the Conclusion
by Alexandra Rosen on Feb.25, 2011, under Alexandra Rosen, Cambodia, Travels in Cambodia 2011, Travels with Alexandra and Donald
The children raced to the car, reached the wheel before Eddie and after Donald pealed them away one at a time, Eddie reached under the car, slipped on the washer and declared it a per fit. Now for the most important part, the nut. Eddie twists and turns and fiddles, but the nut is too small. A short conference produces Plan B. Eddie and the new guy, named Chum, who we later find out is an employee of the first guy, will go in the other direction. They will ride south to the larger town of Dam Dek, about forty minutes away, where there might be a better opportunity to find the necessary part.
Dusk was getting ready to unfold and the cicadas had begun their nightly ritual when it became apparent that Eddie would not leave his car there over night and Donald, following the code of honor among pilots, “stick by your wing man”, would not abandon Eddie. As for me, I was useless, had nothing to contribute. At the time I did not understand what Eddie needed and how confident Donald was that Eddie would find the right part and they would be on their way soon. For me if Plan B failed than Plan C would require an overnight in Eddie’s car. Since it would not accommodate the three of us, I decided I would hitch a ride into town. Maybe I was thinking I would go for help?
Chum revved up the engine, Eddie climbed onto the back of the motor bike, and they set off for Dam Dek. Donald and I stepped on to the road ready to flag down the next car. If I could get as far as Dam Dek from there I could find another ride into Siem Reap. Standing on the road we waited. We passed up the pony cart pulling a load of logs and thought there would not be sufficient room for me and on the moto transporting a large pig to market. Finally, a white van was spotted and Donald and I waved it down. A driver and guide with two tourists. The guide conferred with his customers and it was agreed they would take me to Siem Reap as they were going there also. I said goodbye to Donald, gave him a book in case he got bored waiting, and I was off.
MY STORY
Five minutes down the road, I felt awful. At first, I had figured, instead of waiting on the side of the road, I could go to Siem Reap and there be in a position to find a Toyota distributor and obtain the proper part. But then I realized I was a deserter, the going got rough and I bailed out, leaving them alongside the road. I called Donald only to find out he was relieved I was gone, one less thing to worry about.
I turn my attention to the tourists who are having an animated conversation with their guide. Listening carefully, I know they are not speaking Khmer. Finally, the younger one turns around to speak. My name is Sasha, he is Sergei, and we live in small town near Moscow. My name, Alexandra and yes I nodded, it is a Russian name, same same as Sasha. Sasha’s English turns out to be minimal so I do not try to explain that I am not Russian, only named after my grandfather who was Hungarian. With the language barrier, I know I will not find out why the Khmer guide speaks Russian. Sasha manages to communicate that Sergei is a doctor and he is an engineer and his son and daughter work in the United States, one in San Francisco the other in Los Angeles. Sergei does not stop clicking photos. He sees trees that interest him. The van pulls over, he clicks a few rounds at a kapok tree, then photographs the seed bed of small rice shoots, brilliant green and fragile, which will soon be planted in the flooded rice paddy. Later we stop; he photographs a grove of bamboo, even later a fichus tree in the clutches of a strangler fig. We stop by the side of a drainage ditch filled with cows. I point out the old Angkorian bridge that is nearby, but Sergei is only interested in photographing the cows. A pair of oxen pulling a wagonload of red clay pots comes down the road. These pots, famous all over Cambodia, are made in a small village near the town of Kompong Chhnang. This is a colorful scene, a thick slice of indigenous life. Sasha shows some interest and Sergei remains with his cows.
Back in the van, Sasha wants to know where I am from. Knoxville, Tennessee reminds him of his favorite author, Tennessee Williams. Same, same I reply. There is plenty of time for him to mention his other favorite authors. He has read Mark Twain, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald. I counter with Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. He has enjoyed Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Updike. I mention Chekhov and Gogol. He mentions Graham Greene but I do not try to tell him he is British not American. Our literary name dropping ends with his lament, today children no read only work computer. I agree, same same in America.
I keep a look out for Eddie. We pass through the market at Dam Dek and there is no sight of him. Thirty minutes later we are in Siem Reap. They bring me to the hotel. I ask how much do I owe. They all agreed nothing for them, just pay the driver. One ten dollar bill leaves the driver smiling, we wave, they drive away. Five minutes later, I am back in the room; ten minutes later I step out of the shower leaving puddles of reddish water finding its way down the drain. On the patio, a slice of Gouda cheese in one hand, a glass of chilled white wine in the other, I feel guilty.
DONALD’S STORY
The children lose interest and disappear back into the countryside. Donald now sits on the side of the road with the young man who had originally taken Eddie to Svay Leu. He turns out to be from Saigon and similar to the children before, Donald dusts off his Vietnamese vocabulary. He finds out his name, Thanh, his age, twenty-seven. Donald uses his longest phrase, “may I give you my business card”. Thanh understands and they exchange cards. After a few more phrases, Donald depletes his inventory. In Vietnamese, Thanh tells Donald he speaks English. Donald understands and the conversation continues. He seems very willing to speak English, words tumble out of his mouth as if he needs to talk to a native English speaker. He tells Donald he has been living in Svay Leu for six months. He is the supervisor for a Vietnamese phone company and because he does not speak Khmer, he hires only those Cambodians who can speak English. He is tired of living in such a small place and finds the Cambodians not too smart and rather lazy.
Donald tells him he was a soldier in the American Vietnam War and asks him about his father. He learns the father was a Viet Cong, a South Vietnamese who fought on the side of the North. He carried a RPG (rocket propelled grenade) fought the Americans in the Iron Triangle and often hid out in the tunnels at Chu Chi. He tells Donald that his grandfather fought the French and was killed in the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Donald makes a statement, the Vietnamese won both wars. Thanh thinks, tilts his head to one side and says yes, it was good to be rid of the French but we would have been better off if the American had won. They would have developed our country, there would have been no Communism, and business would be better. He is not the first one willing to alter history.
What do two men sitting on the side of the road have in common? They agreed that Angkor Beer is good but they both prefer 333, the Vietnamese beer. Thanh says he has a girl friend in Saigon and they will be married soon. She is far away so he likes to boom boom with Cambodian girls. They are very nice and very cheap. Donald replies, he cannot compare, he only knows Vietnamese women and that was a long time ago. It is around 5:00, the slanting rays of the sun find them, their projecting shadows lengthen. What has happened to Eddie?
EDDIE’S STORY
Eddie and Chum, Thanh’s Khmer assistant, motor down the road and reach Dam Dek in about forty minutes. Eddie is looking for the Khmer version of the Pep Boys and finds a shop alongside the road selling a variety of auto and motor cycle parts. They pull off the road, the wheels of the moto coming to a stop, whipping the loose dirt into clouds of red dust. They park the bike under a shade tree. To reach the entrance, they step over motors, skeletons of their former selves, hard to tell if they are in various stages of decay or in the process of being rebuilt. The shop is rather primitive, the only light coming from the open door and the cracks between the wooden strips masquerading as walls. Out of the murky interior, a young woman appears. Eddie and Chum take turns explaining what they need. They enter the shop, walk on a dirt floor adjusting their eyes to the dim light. She walks ahead of them, the clutter of the front does not prepare them for the orderly nature of the shop. Woven baskets hold parts that have been sorted and graded by size and use. Eddie stops in front of a basket of nuts, examines each one with the discerning eye of a trained auto mechanic, after all, he is one. He selects what he considers the proper size. The young woman disagrees with his selection and hands him another one. The total cost is 2.00. Chum disagrees with her and the price drops to 1.50. Eddie gives her 6000 riel and the deal is complete.
Eddie knows there is no room for error. He must find a garage that repairs Toyota Camrys so he can double check if he has the right size nut. If that fails, he is prepared to find a Khmer driving a similar car and offer to pay him for this piece. An old Camry is not hard to find and after all, part of Cambodian’s “charm” is that most anything is available for a price. They make the right hand turn at the market and a short ways down National Highway 6, Eddie finds what he is looking for. Stepping into the garage, he finds a Toyota Camry up on blocks. In the back room, he finds three Khmer mechanics asleep on cots. No need to disturb them, he crawls under the car, assesses he has the correct size, and he and Chum leave without being noticed. Cambodian style, even the security guard was taking a nap. Eddie wants to fill the motor cycle with gas but Chum will not allow this. He insists, Chum also insists. Chum wins.
The entire process in Dam Dek takes around fifteen minutes and then they are on their way back. Eddie arrives, with just minutes of daylight left. Back under the car, he tries the nut he selected, then tries the one the woman handed him. Something about the quality of the thread. The latter fits better and he stores the other one in the glove compartment. Nothing wrong with having a spare and who says the Khmers are dumb. Donald and Eddie both try to give Chum and Thanh money, they are grateful for their help, it would not have been possible without them. They will not accept any payment; even refuse when Donald tries to slip it into their shirt pocket. “Akun”, thank you in Khmer and “cam on” in Vietnamese. They promise to come by the field and Eddie will give them a free flight. They part as friends.
Back on the road, Donald and Eddie head toward Siem Reap. Eddie goes slowly at first, just to test it out and then they are driving as before… just as if nothing had ever happened.
Donald calls from the road. Meet us at Queen’s BBQ, we will be there at 7:00. I am ridden with guilt; I wimped out, but after all this story is not about me. It could be a story of friendship, developed over the years between two trike pilots or it could be a testimonial to Eddie’s skill as a mechanic. Regardless, the story exists because…. only in Cambodia……..
Cambodian Journal 2011, Part 17 – A Trip to the Beauty Parlor
by Alexandra Rosen on Feb.21, 2011, under Alexandra Rosen, Cambodia, Travels in Cambodia 2011, Travels with Alexandra and Donald
It is not exactly a secret that most women of a “certain age” have gray hair. While some women accept this as a natural look, others, including myself, choose to cover the grey with hair color, a process usually conducted once a month. In 2004, I wrote an e-mail describing my experience at the beauty parlor in the Juliana Hotel in Phnom Penh, where I had been sent at the recommendation of our hotel, the Le Royal. There had been confusion as to the color and my hair turned out a funny shade of light orange. Apparently, they were placing off brand color into legitimate boxes and made a mistake. Black should not have been a difficult color as Asian women as well as Asian men all dye their hair black. Also, I was not sure exactly what other services were being performed at that beauty shop as men kept walking past me, disappearing behind a small door. I paid forty dollars, an exceptionally high price considering workers were making one to two dollars per day. When they handed me the bill, there was a line item “customer supplied dye”. Now knowing I could not trust their products, I started to bring my own from home.
It was that time again, but as I have learned the hard way, when in Cambodia, trying to accomplish even the smallest undertaking is not always so easy. I was on a mission and not wanting a repeat of the previous experience, I knew I needed help. I needed someone to suggest a place and to do the translating. Sorting through my short list of local contacts, I knew I could count on Cinnamon.
CINNAMON
Cinnamon is not her Khmer name but when we first met her working in our hotel in 2002, we took the liberty of calling her Cinnamon, because this was as close as we could get to her hard to pronounce Khmer name. We watched as she rose through the ranks to become head of the restaurant staff while at the same time, becoming more indispensable to our well being at the hotel. Even though she would probably claim she adopted us, over the years she became part of our Khmer family, which by extension included several tuk-tuk drivers. On her day off, she often showed up at the field for a flight and was always available to help me buy clothing for the village. In the late afternoon, I often helped her with her English studies. We would meet on a bench close to the hotel or at times, we would sit under a tree along the grassy banks of the Siem Reap River. I would ask her to give me the English name for everything she saw and then put the words into a sentence. Occasionally, the English lesson drew the attention of people just walking down the street and soon I would be surrounded by young Khmers pointing and calling out English words.
When it is time to leave, we give her everything we are not taking home which includes our plastic shelving unit. I assume she finds use for our shampoo, toothpaste, and the odd bottle of wine. She always gave back with what was available, which usually meant an increase in our stock of palm sugar artfully wrapped in bamboo leaves. Even though I would tell her to keep the shelving unit, she returned it each year, which actually proved convenient as it became increasingly hard to find one in the local market.
Cinnamon was born in 1978, just ahead of the baby boom generation born after the collapse of the Pol Pot regime in 1979. Her father and mother divorced and from what we can understand, her mother was not very responsible and left her to be raised by her aunt. Today, she is taking care of her mother and together with a friend, who we would meet later, they live in a small house on the other side of the river. Similar to most Cambodian children, she was forced into being independent at an early age. Today, she is working for an NGO and receiving $200.00 per month, which by Khmer standards is very good as the minimum wage stands at 62.00 per month.
LET’S GET GOING
One Saturday afternoon, after she finished work, I found myself on the back of her motor bike traveling out of town to meet her friend who owned a beauty salon. Clinging to Cinnamon with one hand and griping my box of L’Oreal hair color with the other, I was looking forward to an afternoon of small adventures, sometimes the best kind. Leaving the hotel, we crossed over the Siem Reap River and rode past the Psar Chaa, Siem Reap’s old market with its sounds of tourists haggling over souvenir kitsch and its ever increasing stock of new antiques, made especially for the burgeoning tourist trade. When we came to Sivatha Street, one of the main thorough fares, we turned left. The road we traveled headed south and followed the contours of the Siem Reap River, which eventually empties into the Tonle Sap Lake. Passing the area where water is readily available, rice paddies, like endless emerald carpets, unfurled into the distance. We cruised past fields planted with lotus, tall, stately pink, purple, and white blossoms rising out of fetid water, a pastel blur as we cruised past.
We stopped in front of a new concrete building with a hand painted sign in front advertising in English “House of Beauty”. The sign featured an attractive Western looking woman with black hair, definitely reassuring. Throughout Asia, it is not uncommon to see images of Western women advertising local services, apparently transmitting a certain élan to those paying attention. Her friend came out to greet us and even though she would not make eye contact with me, I placed my palms together, resembling the image of the Serenity Prayer, and in traditional Khmer style, returned her bow with one of my own. Having successfully concluded the welcoming ceremony, I stepped into what actually resembled a beauty shop. Taking a quick visual inventory, I saw two standard looking beauty shop chairs, each facing a wall lined with a large mirror. A small TV set with “rabbit ears” was occupying a small table. She had hung a piece of material to cordon off her bed and the cooking area so that after business hours, the room would become her home. There were openings on each side of the house that functioned as windows but instead of glass, there were metal bars and hinged wooden shutters that could be closed to keep out the sun or rain. The front of the house opened on to the busy street, the world of commerce, but stepping out the back door, revealed another world, a tropical paradise of leafy banana trees glittering green in the afternoon sun. A small dirt path, under attack by an old woman wielding a homemade broom of bound twigs, led to the Siem Reap River, where several wooden stilted houses, almost completely camouflaged by a grove of bamboo, clung tenaciously to the riverbank.
GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS
One chair was empty, presumably available for me, while a group of women engaged in animated conversation, surrounded the other. I peered through this feminine cordon and caught a glimpse of a young girl seemingly baffled by all this attention. Time out for some explanation as Cinnamon explained she was having her hair straightened and the posse of women was her mother and her friends. This made no sense to me since Khmer women, as well as most all Asian women, have perfectly straight hair. The fact that she was going to be engaged that night at a party still did not clarify the issue. However, as always in Cambodia, what is, is.
The friend went back to her customer and I was assigned to the assistant, Pia. After completing the Khmer greeting, we were ready to get going. Cinnamon explained to Pia that I would mix the hair color and her job would be to apply it. I did not see any sinks or faucets but she assured me there would be water for rinsing, though I failed to inquire from where. Looking around for something to cover my clothes, I was handed a ball of material that turned out to be a silky black cape with a red stand up collar. This must have had a former life, maybe as Dracula’ s cape, but upon closer scrutiny, the manufacturer, probably somewhere in China, had made a mistake and covered the material with Spiderman designs. Pia was wearing an apron made out of connected bunnies and together we looked like we should have been going to a Halloween Party.
In a great state of anticipation, I mixed the color and sat down in the chair. The motor bike ride had added to the collection of tangles in my hair which Pia seemed determined to eliminate with her own comb. However, knowing what lurks in Khmer heads of hair, I dug into my purse and handed her one of my own. Ready to attack my tangle free hair, she loaded her brush up with hair color and was ready to begin. She tied off sections of my hair with clips and even though this procedure felt very unfamiliar, she seemed confident in her method.
In the back of the room, someone turned on the TV set. The children who had been kicking a soccer ball outside now gathered on the floor and to my surprise, they were watching Bugs Bunny and he was speaking Khmer. Because electrical power is not available or too expensive, a car battery powdered the TV as well as the fluorescent lighting tubes attached to the walls. The women, apparently satisfied with the hair straightening operation, began to glace over at me, eyes without curtains, filled with curiosity. Perched on the edge of my chair, I smiled at them and from the other side of the room, smiles were returned. These ladies seemed a friendly, jovial group and while they chattered noisily to Cinnamon, she explained where I came from, why I was there and of course, one of the most frequently asked questions, my age. Seemingly satisfied with her answers, they congregated around me. According to Cinnamon, they were offering up their advice and from looking at their hair, I believed they were the voice of experience. I just continued to smile.
MAKING NEW FRIENDS
Cinnamon told me these women were old friends who lived close by and gathered in this beauty parlor on Saturday. l am sure, like women everywhere, they came to meet their friends, share the local gossip, and just to enjoy each other’s company. Even though there was the usual language barrier, they seemed to be welcoming me into their group. In the background, someone was switching TV channels between Khmer MTV and a local soap opera and as I smiled, they smiled back. One woman took my hand and began to massage it. Refusing to let go, her manipulations sent shocks through my body, rather pleasant once I got past the pain. When another woman reached for my foot to administer the famous Khmer foot massage, I was able to prevent this by laughing and shaking my head. A woman brought out a small book filled with photos and soon I was looking through all of their photo books, seeing all of their children and photographs of various weddings. They seemed disappointed when Cinnamon told them I did not have photos to share. I gave each one my business card and if translated properly, I think they all promised to send me e-mails. The women and I were bonding and if the art of making friends in the West is complicated, here it is simple and soon a friend of a friend was becoming a friend.
The color had been applied and I was waiting the appropriate time before it would be rinsed out when a woman walked in followed by small boys carrying pots of cooked food. Cinnamon told me she always brought lunch on Saturday. Let the festivities begin as a table was quickly cleared and a white plastic tablecloth with frills resembling lace was put down, covered with bowls, chopsticks, and spoons. These were the same sinister pots of food found at cooked food stands, which I had so far managed to avoid. But now, I had become one of their group, a Saturday lunch lady, and could not refuse their hospitality. I was soon eating a bowl of rice covered with what I hoped was stewed chicken. If there proved to be life after this, then I could say, it was tasty. Having accepted their hospitality and graciously thanking them, I felt I was not being offensive when I turned down the plate of grilled tiny birds, a Khmer delicacy, more bones than meat and besides, it is always difficult to extract pieces of toenails and beaks out of your teeth. Together, we enjoyed the sliced watermelon for desert and soon I was eating their roasted sunflower seeds, throwing the husks out the window just like the rest of them.
The timer announced it was time to rinse off the color and I found myself following Pia into the back yard, thinking this was an odd place to set up a sink with faucets. We stopped next to a standpipe surrounded by a wooden bench on which someone had laid out a piece of plastic blue tarp, a plastic bucket, and a small bowl. Water is water and soon I was stretched out on the bench, covered with the tarp having bowl after bowl of water, dipped out of the bucket, poured over my head. The procedure was not one that I expected but a rinse is a rinse. We were finished.
THE WOMEN
My new friends were survivors from the Pol Pot years and the immeasurable lines of daily wear engraved on all their faces told stories without words. They are the ones left to transmit to the next generation the linear quality of acquired knowledge. It is impossible for me to write about these women without wondering about their past experiences but on that warm January afternoon, I was content just to observe the regenerative ability of the human spirit and I was thrilled to have become part of their Saturday afternoon tradition. Back in the house, Pia offered me a hair drier which was also attached to the car battery. Soon I was blown dry and ready to leave. “Som ket loi” (the polite phrase for how much) I asked, using one of my few Khmer phrases. Pia told me three dollars and I thought how I had paid $40.00 in Phnom Penh in 2004. This was the local price and when I handed her five dollars, she seemed to be very happy. As we were leaving, the young woman with the straight hair came over to show me her meticulously manicured hands. An entire garden had been painted on each fingernail complete with shining sun. I asked, ” som kit loi” to which she replied seventy-five cents.
As I climbed onto the back of Cinnamon’s motor bike, they all waved goodbye. I promised to return the next Saturday that is if Cinnamon was not too busy and there was more chicken in the pot. Soon the wind was rushing through my hair, bring the moisture, grit, and dust which gives it volume. Back in my hotel room, I viewed the afternoon’s work in the mirror and deemed it good enough. With a glass of wine and a book, I sat down on the patio just in time for the unexpected rain, which the local people call, the “mango rains.”
TO BE CONTINUED
