Same same, but diffferent

Here's a column I wrote for the paper after we got back from Cambodia

--Brad

People in Southeast Asia have a pidgin English saying that tourists have clung to.

Same same, but different.

It's practically a national slogan in Cambodia, where I've just come from. It's on billboards. It's screen printed on T-shirts and every product imaginable in street markets, where you can buy barbecued tarantulas, fresh produce, or a pirated copy of the new "Simpsons" movie for $3. One guest house one-upped the slogan, claiming "Same same, but better."

Which reminds me, I found myself looking a lot at girls' legs while spending two weeks in the country.

See, my wife and I were trying to figure out if it was OK for her to wear short pants around in a land that still holds extremely conservative values with regard to women.

It's a country where public displays of affection are frowned upon. Men and women aren't supposed to openly even give each other a peck on the cheek. We saw an entire family of five riding together on a 125-cc motorbike -- seriously, everyone drives motorbikes in Cambodia -- and the two women were riding side-saddle, which is considered more tasteful.

Things are changing there. Young girls are starting to wear shorts, and I even saw a couple holding hands on the streets of Phnom Penh. But these people belong to a new generation, and the folks we were interacting with probably didn't like them any more than they like Americans tromping all over their ancient temples.

We were definitely going to walk the temples, but my wife decided, for the most part, to forgo the shorts.

We spent a few days in the country's beach town of Sihanoukville, where the usually emerald waters of the Gulf of Thailand were a silty blue-gray from the heavy rains of the wet season.

For the better part of three days, my traveling friends and I would sit in a beachfront bar, eating a dish called fish amok and drinking Mekong buckets of Red Bull, Coca-Cola and what probably passes for whiskey. Then we would plunge into the crashing sea.

The water was particularly rough one afternoon, with the waves crashing onto Occheuteal Beach irregularly, but frequently, from two directions. You could duck under one wave and come up just in time to get plastered
by another.

It was great fun.

My friend Phil and I were bodysurfing. My legs ached from trying to fight the strong current pulling me sideways. I was out of breath from diving under and over waves in order to get deep enough for a good ride.

I caught a good wave and coasted in to knee-deep water only to find that two others had ventured into the water with us.

One was a naked Cambodian boy who looked about 6 but was probably 10. The other was a grown Cambodian woman, who was wearing a full dress.

All of us were taking ragged, open-mouthed breaths and waiting for the next onslaught from the gulf.

This was carpe diem moment for all of us. Our differences had been washed away. Our skin color didn't matter. Our skin covering didn't matter.

We were different. But we were same same.

Cambodia, Day 13 (Aug. 10, 2007)

Took the bus from Sihanoukville to Phnom Penh. Once again, seven people and ten backpacks made it to the station in a Camry.* The poor driver is going to need new shocks after toting us around.

Speaking of shocks, our bus could've used some. I don't know what cow/pig/motorbike we ran over, but after hitting a huge bump in the road, we bounced our way back to Phnom Penh, forward and backward like a see-saw. Strangely enjoyable experience despite the lunatic, horn-blowing driver with a death wish.** Okay Guesthouse sent tuk-tuks for us ("Mr. Brad!"), so our second trip to Phnom Penh was much more pleasant than the first.

After getting settled in our rooms, we went to the Russian Market to replace Brad's backpack, in which we had just discovered a large tear that couldn't be repaired. On the way back, Map asked if we wanted to make a donation of food to an orphanage. Of course we said yes, so we stopped at a market and bought a 50 kilo bag of rice as well as a bag of soap. We drove to the CamboKids orphanage (http://www.cambokids.org/) and found 147 orphans living in abject poverty, but they were all sweet, bright and outgoing. A tiny, 10-year-old boy shyly followed me around the whole time, and I spoke to him in my broken Khmer. When it was time to leave, he stared at the floor and waved goodbye without looking at me. I opened my arms and he flung himself onto me, giving me an enormous bear hug. I've never had maternal instincts, but leaving that child behind was one of the toughest things I've ever done.***

For dinner, we ate at Friends (http://www.mithsamlanh.org/), a restaurant dedicated to saving and educating street children. The six of us sat around the table sharing tapas -- everything from fresh fish to pumpkin soup -- and we washed it all down with mint citrus coolers. It was the perfect ending to our trip.**** We head home tomorrow while Meg, Eric, Phil, and Maya travel to Kratie and then to Laos. I'm sad to leave, but hopefully we'll be back one day. Chum riep leah, Cambo.

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Brad's footnotes:
* We've since bought a Corolla. I can't help but thinking the surprising versatility of this Toyota somehow contributed, psychologically, to this decision.
** It might've been one of those water buffaloes. Whatever we hit was big. The bus's engine light came on afterward, and I swear to god the driver nudged his buddy sitting beside him, pointed to the light and laughed.
*** We'd first stopped at a market next to the orphanage to buy some rice and toilet paper to give to the place. I stayed with the tuktuks to make sure our bags weren't stolen. The little orphan kids started climbing all over the cart like it was a set of monkey bars. It's at this point that a creepy old man comes up to me, smiling, and asks, "Do you like leetle children?" Not sure if he was trying to sell me a child or sell me an experience with one. Ick.
**** This unfortunately named place will have you singing "I'll Be There for You" for days. But the food is so darned good. Totally worth it. (Stupid Rembrandts.)

Cambodia, Day 12 (Aug. 9, 2007)

Another glorious rainstorm pounded our metal and thatched roof all night long. We've eaten breakfast, made bus arrangements to Phnom Penh, and the rain is still falling hard. The yard of our hotel is covered in about three inches of water. I'm sitting in our open doorway in a wicker chair, completely content. I'm glad to have a little down time to reflect on the trip.

Here are the things I will miss about Cambo: dragonfruit, banana shakes, the Gulf of Thailand, driving past Angkor Wat in the morning, tuk-tuks, Mr. Vanna and Su, well-mannered stray dogs and cats, the second-floor balcony of the HSH Guesthouse, bullfrogs, water buffalo, incense, amok, and waking up to the crowing of roosters.*

Here are the things I will NOT miss about Cambo: beggars, the smell of rotting garbage, land mine signs, brushing your teeth with day-old bottled water, raw sewage in the Gulf of Thailand, aggressive tuk-tuk drivers, and creepy ex-pats.**

I'd give anything if we could stay with the kids and travel through Laos and Thailand. I'm not ready to leave yet.

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Brad's footnotes
* To this list, I would add only the ability to order Pastis by the glass and bodysurfing. And I would've put amok higher on the list.
** This about covers it for me, too. Though, to be fair, I discovered the Pastis thanks to a creepy ex-pat.

Killing Fields, Day Eight (Aug. 5, 2007)

Jenn was out of commission with her "sinus infection" (a.k.a "Cambodian Death Flu" or possibly "Hemorrhagic Dengue Fever"*) when the rest of us bused about 45 minutes down the little two-lane highway to Choeung Ek, probably the most famous of the killing fields.

The killing fields were basically places with lots of pits for the poorly buried bodies of the victims of the Khmer Rouge genocide. To oversimplify, they killed everyone in the upper class, everyone in the middle class, and anyone with any education. Those were the threats. And just like that, poof! went the bright stars of an entire culture.

If Tuol Sleng, the day before, was the kidney punch then Choeung Ek was the knockout blow. A tall stuppa held stories and stories of skulls of reclaimed victims. But nearby was a lake, under which there were many more bodies that they're just going to leave in their water graves. Underfoot, on dirt paths, you'll find bits of tooth and bone slowly weathering to powder.

We hired a tour guide, mostly to throw some money at a kid. Writing this two years later, the only thing I can remember that he told us was that when money started tightening up for the Khmer Rouge, they started saving bullets by executing victims with the serrated edges of a sort of palm tree that grew on site.

Despite all this, it somehow feels like a peaceful place now. There's a sort of sorrowful, emotional blanket covering the place, thicker than air. I debated not taking photos at all. But I took boatloads of them. I threw a couple up on Wikimedia Commons and on the Wikipedia page on the fields, free for folks to use. I don't know why. I think I just want people to acknowledge the horror. If we don't learn from the past, we're doomed to repeat it, and all that.

Anyway, here's the saddest video slide show I've ever made. (That's The Decemberists singing "Shankill Butchers" in the background. The song is about some maniacs in Ireland, but it's shocking to me how fitting the lyrics are to the Rouge's actions.)



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Jenn's footnote:
* There were actually signs all over Siem Reap warning of an outbreak of this delightful sounding disease.

Cambodia, Day Eight (Aug. 5, 2007)

Miserable Cambodian Death Fever has set in. Stayed in bed. Hate hate hate Phnom Penh. Can't wait to leave for the beach tomorrow.*

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Brad's footnote
* I'll save you any photographs. You're welcome.

Cambodia, Day Seven (Aug. 4, 2007)

Feeling a little better about the world today. We were all packed and ready to leave by 8:00 this morning, and we walked a mile through Phnom Penh until we found a suitable hotel. Now staying at the Okay Guesthouse for $10/night. The food at the restaurant is great, ridiculously cheap, and we can charge it to our room. We've hired a tuk-tuk driver named Map (pronounced Mahwp)* who is going to take us to the Killing Fields tomorrow. Assuming I get over this terrible sinus infection.

We saw the Royal Palace and the National Museum today; even though they were beautiful, I wasn't terribly excited about them. The whole morning felt like we were just marking items off a tourist's checklist.

Phnom Penh isn't a scary place, but it's big and dirty, and I don't like being here.

After lunch at the Guesthouse, we went to the Genocide Museum at Tuol Sleng.** S-21, as it was known during the rule of the Khmer Rouge, was a high school that was converted to interrogation and torture chambers. I didn't know what to expect; I didn't know if I would cry, pass out, or vomit. Turns out it's none of the above. I felt empty, as if I had checked my soul at the entrance. I stood at the doorway to the first room for a long time before entering. The tiles were still covered in brownish-red blood stains. There was a metal bed frame and several simple torture devices. Funny how, as technologically advanced as we've become, only the most basic tools are needed to destroy a human being.***

In every room was an enlarged photo of the last victim found there -- in the condition they were found. I stared intently at each photo but couldn't really process them. The more I walked through the complex, the emptier and more alone I felt.

The first floor chambers were spacious compared to those on the upper floors. People were confined like cattle in wooden enclosures that measured maybe 2' x 5'. And just to make sure no one committed suicide -- lest the Khmer Rouge be denied the pleasure of killing -- barbed wire nets ran along the front of the building.

In another section of the complex, enormous displays were covered in photos of victims. The Khmer Rouge were meticulous about documenting every stage of torture. I was shocked to see how many of them were extremely young children who couldn't possibly have been enemies of the state. I say that, but it was often children who were the executioners. Maybe one day I'll understand how a group of people could turn so cannibalistically against itself. But not today.

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Brad's footnotes

* "Mop." She's being kind. It was just like mop.

** Yay!??

*** Remember this. It's important later.

Cambodia, Day Six (Aug. 3, 2007)

The day began nicely enough. Checked e-mail and had breakfast of fruit salad with yogurt and muesli, eggs, baguette, tea, and mango juice. Then we walked around the market one last time before catching the bus to Phnom Penh.

I had been looking forward to the bus ride, but that quickly changed. It was monotonous and nauseating. Hut, hut, hut, rice field, water buffalo. Repeat continuously for five long hours.

When we arrived, the Royal Guesthouse van picked us up, which was merciful; otherwise, we'd have fought through the screaming, mad sea of tuk-tuk drivers.* At the Guesthouse, we were unexpectedly told that there were no rooms for us, despite our reservation. But "conveniently," the hotel owner's nephew had rooms for us a few blocks away. It was dark and beginning to rain, so we took the awful rooms. An old, American man and a hooker were getting acquainted in the lobby as we checked in.** We quickly discovered our toilet was leaking from underneath into an open drain, so there was a lovely river of toilet water in the middle of our floor.*** I'm not sure which is worse -- our nasty bathroom or Meg and Eric's bedroom window that's pouring water down the wall next to their bed.

We've decided to split up into two teams in the morning -- one to find a better hotel and one to stay behind, guarding our stuff. I hate Phnom Penh. It is a cesspool. The only bright spot of the night was our comical exit from a tuk-tuk in the torrential rain, like six clowns from a miniature car. We're going to see the National Museum, the Silver Pagoda, and the Killing Fields. Then we're getting on the first bus out of this hellhole.****

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Brad's footnotes

* It was kind of like the selling floor at the NYSE, actually.

** They were, at this moment, only playing pool. No, not a euphemism.

*** I pointed out that, technically, this was clean water.

**** Spoiler alert: We learned, the next day, when symptoms became clearer, that Jenn had actually become ill at this point, which possibly explains the bad attitude. I mean, Phnom Penh is a cesspool and all. But such anger....