Holiday in Cambodia ('natch)
SIEM REAP, CAMBODIA
MARCH 19
It was morning, and I was struggling to explain my needs to the young boy behind the front desk at the European Guesthouse.
"My friends are coming here today. I promised them hot water." I said.
"Hot water broken."
"Yes, but my friends said I should find a hotel with hot water."
"No hot water."
A pause.
"The hot water -- can you fix? Very important."
"I ask my father."
The kid was referring to the European man who appeared to own the European Guesthose. The European was a doctor affiliated with the "Angkor Hospital for Children." He had taken a whole houseload of children into his care and referred to them as his "extended family." He had recently acquired the European Guesthouse from a Frenchman and was now helping the children learn to run a hotel.
The apparent mom had taken a liking to me. She had already asked me to sit down with her so she could speak rapid fire Khmer to me. She was unfazed that I obviously had no idea what she was saying, that I smiled blankly in response. My Cambodian words were limited to "ar kun," meaning "thank you," and "naga," the word for serpent, as in the decorative serpents all over the Angkor ruins.
I asked the kid a new question.
"Breakfast?"
"Ah!" This was something he could work with.
He led me to a garden and brought me coffee.
"You want fried egg, boiled egg, or omelette?"
None of the above, I thought. I asked for bread.
He brought me a enormous mound of tiny slices of bread, and an equally gigantic plate of bacon smothered in dripping grease. I had my fill of bread and coffee, and pretended the bacon was invisible, like my pet pig. The mom sat by and chatted at me. There was no need to worry about replying with my mouth full -- I hadn't a clue what she was saying.
"I need a moto to go to the airport," I told the kid, after eating a bit of bread and shoving the rest around on the plate.
"Moto?" he asked. "But here is your car!"
He'd ordered a car and driver, which would drive me and my friends all over Siem Reap for $20. Off I went to the airport. The driver parked and I went to join the hotel touts and taxi drivers, all waving signs to get the attention of the disembarking passengers. I regretted not bringing my own.
Lynne and Fiona appreciate having a photo taken after 15 hours on a plane.
Lynne and Fiona came off the plane from Bangkok (they had wisely chosen NOT to travel overland), right on time. This meeting was a lot smoother than our last attempted rendezvous. We had totally missed each other in Jordan in '98. They dumped their luggage at the European Guesthouse. We collected a guide, and went out to see some temples.
Our guide had a large English vocabulary, but his accent was unfathomable. Still, he paced us well and showed us all the highlights of Angkor Wat, the Bayon temple, and Ta Prohm (the famous jungle temple). Lynne and Fiona liked the Bayon the best -- it's adorned with stone faces, all wearing unique expressions. I preferred the ramshackle jungle temple, its walls covered in twisting trees.
Angkor Wat • Click to see more...
Bayon Temple• Click to see more...
Ta Prohm, the jungle temple
Our guide gave us a brief summary of Cambodia's recent history. He mentioned a word that made me perk up and pay attention.
"I was an election advisor under UNTAC in 1993," he said.
"UNTAC? What does that stand for?" I said. "United Nations Transitional Authority..."
"...in Cambodia." He finished.
Everything I'd been thinking about the similarities between East Timor and Cambodia suddenly made sense. Last year, I'd marvelled at Cambodia's good restaurants, multi-lingual children, nice hotels and savvy entrepreneurs. The economy had seemed odd -- you could get a room for $5 a night, but the internet was fifty cents a minute, and restaurant bills often added up to ten dollars a meal. Cambodians, relatively untouched by tourism, were savvy towards tourists and aware of their needs.
And now I knew why. Mass tourism was new, but westerners were not. Like UNTAET in East Timor, the UN had governed in Cambodia. SUVs, demands for spaghetti, and good coffee were old hat to the Cambodian people.
I loved Cambodia, and it was slowly recovering from years of genocide and violence. Perhaps there was hope for East Timor and the UN after all.
Exhausted from touring, we went to watch the sun set over Angkor Wat. But the rain had other ideas and before long, we were racing to the car and back to the hotel.
I got my favorite local meal -- chicken coconut curry served in a baby coconut -- for dinner. The rain stopped so we went downtown in a tuk-tuk for coffee. It was great to be talking to friends that already knew where I was from, how long I'd been traveling and what I'd done for a living back in New York. I was tired of answering the same questions over and over, every time I spoke to another traveler.
We got two motos back to the hotel. Fiona and I shared one small motorbike with the driver -- in true local style -- while Lynne cautiously climbed aboard another. It was the first time Lynne and Fiona had taken motorbike taxis, but they took to it quickly, although Lynne admitted to gripping the sissybar for dear life.
"This is great!" said Fiona. "What would I be doing tonight if I was at home? Watching TV!"
Instead she was risking her life, squashed helmetless onto a motorbike in the Cambodian rain.
Fiona tries a moto taxi
Back at the European Guesthouse, the mom dragged me upstairs to show me the family living quarters. She chatted incessantly, as usual. I nodded a lot.
MARCH 20
I awoke before my jetlagged friends and made the mistake of not pretending to be sick.
If I'd faked illness, I wouldn't have had a parade of weird stir-fried Cambodian breakfast foods stuck in front of me by well-meaning Mama, anxious to share her lifestyle. I wouldn't have had to drink Nescafe, eat greasy overfried eggs or try to explain that while I'd always admired papaya, I had actually asked for pineapple.
"Here is some rice," said the kid. "You eat or not, is your choice."
All I could think about were the excellent banana pancakes down the street at the Freedom Hotel. I scarfed down the mango, banana, and bread -- what was I going to do with the rice, eggs, and stir-fry?
At 9:30 a.m., a truckload of tourists pulled up. 9:30? Where had they come from?
"Poipet," said the kid. They had left Bangkok the previous morning at 6:30 a.m., but they had gotten stuck at the collapsed bridge. They'd waited overnight until a tractor came to pull them out in the morning.
Lynne was sick and jetlagged, so she took the day off. Fiona and I went off to see Banteay Srei, the detailed rose-colored temple some thirty kilometers away. Two 19-year-old boys put us on the backs of their mopeds and we drove into the countryside.
Obligatory cute kid shot
We passed wooden stilt houses, filled with excitable children who liked to wave frantically at foreigners -- some were too busy playing to wave. They appeared to be playing horseshoes, but with a flip-flop. Others were concentrating hard on shaking a small tree that one of their number had scaled. The sun was fierce, the air thick with humidity, and cicadas buzzed over the whirr of the motorbikes.
Thoughtful kid
We passed several anonymous, rundown Khmer temples, their status too low to merit restoration while Angkor Wat was still being worked on. Finally, we left the pavement and hit a rocky road that was under construction.
Our moto drivers cautiously steered us over some rickety planks that covered a semi-bridge.
"Bridge broken," said my 19-year-old. "Last week, minibus went through. Many people hurt."
I had heard this before, from a travel agent at the airport. That was why Fiona and I were on motos instead of in a taxi.
Banteay Srei, the women's temple
Banteay Srei was the "women's temple," and is covered in intricate carvings. It was used as a Khmer Rouge base, but is still relatively undamaged. We were looking at the detail when a young American backpacker walked up.
"How much did you pay for your motos?" she asked.
I hate questions like that. It's one thing to inquire before you've accepted a price -- it's research. But after the deal is made, people ask just to prove what an excellent haggler they are.
$12 for all day, we said.
"Oh my god! I only paid $8."
I managed to refrain from smacking her. The rain kicked in and so Fiona and I headed back to the European Guesthouse to pick up Lynne for a lunch at the Central Market. We ordered sandwiches and were enjoying a leisurely meal at a sidewalk cafe when a beggar missing a leg walked up.
I keep local currency in small denominations at the ready for Cambodian beggars. There were loads of them, all missing arms or legs, or both, due to landmines. Cambodia doesn't have soup kitchens or welfare, and the limbless have to make a living somehow. Some of them make handicrafts for tourists, but many go hungry.
The problem is that there were far more beggars than I had rial. I'd drop a bill in a hat, take a single bite from my baguette, and another beggar would materialize, moaning in low tones and pointing to his stump. I didn't want to encourage them to beg while people were eating, but on the other hand, the beggars obviously had no other source of income. I ran out of rial and then just stared, perplexed, hoping the steady flow of the limbless would somehow abate.
There were ads around town for Khmer massage. The price was right, so we decided to check it out. We each lay down on a mat, side by side, attended by three corresponding young women. Fiona turned out to have really ticklish feet and her giggling was infectious. The Cambodian women, meanwhile, were amazed at how white Lynne was (it was winter in England) and at how I could spread my toes like a monkey.
Cambodian massage
The massage itself could best be described as painful. Khmer massage turned out to involve a lot of pinching, or maybe the girls were just punishing us for laughing too much.
Dinner was more chicken curry in a coconut, at the Arun Restaurant. Stuart, my Intrepid leader from last year, was there. I was less surprised that I had been when Sareena or Wendy had popped up -- I was getting used to the small world/strange coincidence routine. Of course Stuart was in Siem Reap when I was. Of course he was there on the same night, in the same restaurant. I could only imagine how many hundreds of other friends I was just missing every time I went to dinner late, or turned right instead of left.
Intrepid leader Stuart Johnstone and Marie
NEXT: Holiday in Cambodia, part 2
