about to chow down on a “snake-on-a-stick”

(These events took place November 8 - 14, 2008)

I hadn’t planned on going to Cambodia at this point in my trip.  And I certainly hadn’t planned to spend extensive time there.  But a friend gave me a Cambodian guidebook which I leafed through on the long bus ride from Chiang Mai to Bangkok and I was hooked. The country’s small size, the upcoming Bon Om Tuk water festival and the magnificent temples of Angkor seemed like a great place to fill the two weeks my visiting friend, Steve, had allotted for Southeast Asia.  So on November 8, after four days in Bangkok, we headed east … and I’m so glad we did.

When I arrived in Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s capitol city, I was coming down with a very bad cold.  I’m not entirely sure that it wasn’t caused, or at least exacerbated, by all the air pollution in Bangkok which adversely affects many people.  At any rate, I decided to hole up in Phnom Penh for a few days to regain my health (also a great opportunity to catch up on my blog which seems to always be lagging behind my experiences these days) while Steve ventured up North to Siem Reap to check out the temples.  I figured I’d get to the temples after he had headed home.

After spending a couple days in bed resting up, I ventured out on the first day of the Bon Om Tuk water festival which commemorates the end of rainy season.  During rainy season, the Tonle Sap river reverses its normal direction and flows from south to north flooding the area surrounding Tonle Sap Lake.  In November, the river returns to its normal flow and the lake recedes, leaving an abundance of fish and fertile soil in its wake.  This abundance is celebrated during the Bon Om Tuk festival.  The main event during the festival are boat races on the Tonle Sap river which fronts Phnom Penh.  Each province in the country enters at least four boats in the races.  A number of provinces enter many more than that.  

The boats vary in length, some seating up to 78 people.  Typically the crew are men although I did notice that a group of women fielded a boat this year.  (Go girls!) The boats are made by the villages and many are elaborately painted with dragon eyes to “steer the boat to victory” and bright beautiful colors which I’m sure have some symbolism to the villagers.  I noticed that many of the boats contained elaborate offerings (presumably to Buddha) on their bows.  The offerings included flowers, fruit, incense, cigarettes and even bottled water and fruit juice.  

During the first two days of the festival, many time trial races are held to narrow all the contenders down to the final two or three boats that compete on the last day of Bon Om Tuk.  Khmers come from all over the country to enjoy the festival and to cheer on their village’s boat.  I was anxious to join them.

boat offering

I had been advised by several sources that Phnom Penh was a dangerous place, harboring thieves in practically every alleyway.  My guidebook actually had a section that began, “If you happen to become a victim of an armed robbery….”  Couchsurfers warned festival goers not to even take a cellphone or wear a watch, much less take money or a camera, because it would undoubtedly be snatched.  Some even suggested that travelers stay away from the festival entirely.  I was dubious about these claims, but left my camera, watch and cellphone back in my hotel room just in case on that first day.  I stuffed a $5 and a couple $1s in my bra and headed down to the river.

I peered over the shoulders of the Cambodians perched on the wall overlooking the river and all the racing action.  I was the only Westerner I could see which I found very surprising.  Some friendly Khmer men invited me to join them, anxious to practice their English, and made space for me on the wall.  As luck would have it, a few minutes later a bald-headed nun in her white robes approached me and asked for a donation.  Not one to turn down requests from religious figures, I blushed as I dug a sweaty $1 bill out of my bra and handed it over.  Thankfully, no one else seemed to think anything of it and nodded approval at my donation.

an egg vendor creates a little shade

Now I have to acknowledge that Cambodia, and Phnom Penh in particular, does feel a bit more “rough and tumble” than the other countries I’ve visited thus far.   In addition to eating the odd parts of pork, beef and chicken which would be rejected as inedible back home, they also eat snake on a stick, fried tarantulas and about four or five additional types of fried insects than I ever saw on offer in Thailand. (Incidentally, I’ve eaten the snake and the tarantula legs … not bad.) It’s illegal for a Cambodian cell phone store to sell a SIM card (the card that connects your mobile phone to a network making the phone useable) to a foreigner so SIM cards must be bought on the black market.  Interestingly, however, once bought, any phone vendor is permitted legally to recharge phone credits for foreigners. The air in Phnom Penh is horribly polluted with dust and smoke to the point that many of its Khmer residents wear face masks to keep it out of their lungs.  

Traffic in Phnom Penh is comical.  Road signs and even stop lights (when they exist, which is rare) are only mere suggestions as people will drive into oncoming traffic on the wrong side of the road.  When this happens, there’s no horn-blowing or road rage as we would experience in the West. In the same way that a river flows around a rock in its path, Cambodians merely adjust and drive around the person headed the wrong way without a second glance.  It’s normal here.  Driving with headlights on during the day is illegal (still can’t figure that one out), but it’s no problem (at least legally), and even quite common, for people to drive at night without headlights on. And if you hit them, you’re at fault!  Although there are many near collisions, I have yet to see a single accident.  [Take a trip with me through Phnom Penh. Click here for a short video of what it's like to ride on a motorbike here.]

a woman holds an IV for her dog

Despite all these quirks and foibles, however, I have not only found Phnom Penh to be completely safe, (I ultimately pranced around the festival with my entire set of camera gear, my watch, my phone and my purse - none of which was touched), but incredibly charming as well.  So I must respectfully disagree entirely with my guidebook and the local Couchsurfers who issued such dire warnings.  And it’s not as though I was hanging out in the best areas of town either.  

Somehow, I ended up booking a hotel room smack in the middle of PP’s red light district.  How could I not have noticed the “Pussycat Bar,” “Bar 69,” “Beaver Bar” or any other similarly named haunts on the block when I selected my hotel?  I guess that just goes to show how narrowly focused I was when I was seeking accommodation close to the riverfront that had WiFi (one of my few perks that’s a must when I can get it).  Nonetheless, it worked out just fine … and, needless to say, I met some interesting and very nice (or at least friendly) people.  

meet Eric Anderson ...

Speaking of interesting people, I got together the evening after the first day of the festival with a group of Couchsurfers (www.couchsurfing.com:  - an international online travel enthusiast group) to share info about the festival and try to organize some group outings.  It was at that gathering that I met Eric Anderson who has since become my travel partner.  Eric and I spent the evening swapping travel stories (he’s been traveling solo around the world for just over a year now), chatting about all the things we loved about the countries we’d visited, people we’d met and fascinating customs we’d encountered.  I appreciated what a positive attitude he had about travel. (Surprisingly, far too many western travelers I encounter spend the majority of their time bitching about how things “just aren’t like home.”  My response, at least internally, is always:  “Duh! You’re NOT AT home!  And if you can’t enjoy where you are, then go BACK home.”  Of course, I suspect these same people would be unhappy anywhere.  I prefer to simply avoid these people.  Thankfully, Eric was completely the opposite and a delightful breath of fresh air.)  He’s a former cop/detective from Salt Lake City, Utah and I’ve come to know him as an adventurous, intelligent, can-do guy with a sarcastic sense of humor that mirrors my own.  In addition to these attributes, he’s a self-proclaimed All American fly catcher (Mr. Miagi would be proud).  I’m hoping this skill can cross over into mosquito territory as well but, so far, alas.  Keep working on it, Eric!

At one point, to escape from an extremely obnoxious drunk guy who’d joined our table, Eric and I excused ourselves to go sit on the river bank and watch the beautifully lit floats parading by in honor of the water festival.  To see a short video of these beautifully lit boats, click here. We kept noticing ferry boats coming and going, docking just in front of where we were seated and then departing for, we assumed, the other side of the river.

Like the chicken that crossed that proverbial road, I wanted to see what was on the other side so, on a whim, we caught one of the ferries to the opposite riverbank, roamed the dark streets on the opposite side and stumbled into a carnival.  On the way into the carnival, we passed a large, makeshift tent where at least sixty plus people were sleeping, fully clothed, packed in together like sardines.  I took a closer look and realized that all the sleeping people were all men.  At first I was baffled as to why all these men were sleeping here until I put it together that they must be the crews from the boats for the races.  The next day, Eric and I discovered that hundreds (maybe even thousands) of families who had traveled from all over Cambodia to Phnom Penh for the festival were sleeping, crowded together like the boat crews, in the public area at the main temple.  They had no tents or tarps, but simply packed in next to each other under the temple eaves.  I assure you that not an inch of space was wasted. The apparent lack of need for any personal space in Southeast Asia still amazes me. 

In my own country, I have no problem walking by a carnival game without giving it a second glance (or even an entire carnival for that matter). In other countries, however, I can’t resist playing.  I think it has less to do with the game itself than with the interaction playing the game allows me to have with the locals.  Many of the vendors whose target market are tourists speak some English, but they’re so desperate for money that it’s often difficult to get beyond being a potential sale to have a genuine interaction with them.  Few of the other working locals whose livelihood doesn’t depend on tourists have much incentive to learn to speak English so it isn’t widely spoken.  And although I’ve learned some basics in the languages of each of the countries I’ve visited, it’s generally not enough to have a complete, satisfying conversation, much less an extensive one.  So I look for opportunities to connect with the locals in ways that go beyond words.  Carnival games happen to be one venues I’ve added to my “bag-o-tricks.”

I’ve attended carnivals now in each of the three countries I’ve visited (Bali, Indonesia, Thailand and now Cambodia).  My impression is that the carnival workers in each of the countries don’t see many Westerners in their everyday lives.  They see even fewer crossing into “their world” and participating in the goings on there.  So each time I played a game at one of these carnivals, many of the locals and carnival workers gathered around to watch.  

Eric and I played two games that evening.  In the first game, no one spoke a word of English but we managed to figure out that in exchange for 500 real (about $0.13) we got to choose 5 pieces of paper on which numbers were written.  The goal was to match the numbers we drew to numbers on a board that coordinated with various bank notes.  A match meant we won some money.  Naturally, none of our numbers matched, but in the five minutes (or less) that it took to play the game, about fifteen locals had gathered around to watch and laugh with us.  

We passed another gambling game and were invited to play but passed in favor of the good ol’ “toss-a-dart-at-a-balloon” game.  I got lucky and nailed a balloon and was free to choose my prize.  I chose a box of cookies that I opened and shared with the game operators and the other locals who gathered to watch us play (sharing food is a another method I use to interact and have fun with non-English speaking locals).  While munching on a cookie, Rinrithie, a carnival worker operating the dart game, asked, utterly perplexed, “Why did you come to this side of the river?”  We were amused and could only laugh and answer, “To see what was here.”  

Cambodians are exceptionally friendly people.  They love making connections, especially with foreigners.  Rinrithie wasn’t the first one to ask me for an email address or phone number after such minimal interaction.  One girl sold Eric and I a beer and we shared a few smiles while we sat the the table, drinking our beers and people watching. She didn’t speak much English, but she kept coming up to me, hugging me and smiling.  Eric and I both marveled when she asked for my phone number.  We thought, “There’s no way she’s going to call. She doesn’t speak enough English to have a phone conversation.”  It seemed to us she just wanted to be able to keep the connection even after we parted ways.  Cambodians are like that.  Their enormous hearts are the main reason Cambodia is running away with mine.

meeting Seng

While I enjoyed the seeing the long boats with large crews during the day and the lighted floats cruising the river at night, Bon Om Tuk itself wasn’t the grand photo opp that I had anticipated (although I think Bali spoiled me in that department).  So I spent much of the days during the three-day water festival roaming the streets and markets with Eric just taking in the daily life of Phnom Penh and acquainting myself with Cambodia.  That’s how we happened to meet Seng.  

One afternoon while wandering PP’s streets, I caught sight of a monk sitting on a bench in a temple compound wearing his glasses and reading a newspaper.  Monks in their saffron robes are always a magnet for my camera lens and this one particularly so.  Before I could raise my camera though, he looked up, made eye contact with me and motioned for me to come talk with him.  

I’m fascinated with monks, priests and nuns of any religion.  Being raised in the Catholic church probably laid the groundwork for that particular intrigue.  I also enjoy studying different religions and, undoubtedly influenced by my recent travels, am especially curious to learn more about Buddhism and Hinduism.  For these reasons, I couldn’t resist an apparently intellectual monk beckoning me for a visit.  The young monk (29) introduced himself to me as Seng.  He spoke English well, but I wasn’t always certain that he understood everything I said.  He had a very pleasant demeanor, very calm and self-assured and we chatted for quite a while about his life, his goals and dreams and the monkhood.  

In the Buddhist culture, many boys join the monastery temporarily to get an education.  After their education is complete, they disrobe and rejoin society as regular lay people.  This was Seng’s plan.  He told me that he had been a monk since he was thirteen years old.  His family were farmers and couldn’t afford to educate him so he became a monk.  He’s currently attending university where he’s studying to be a lawyer.  He has two more years of school before he graduates at which time he’ll leave the monastery.  He dreams of becoming an attorney and a soldier.  I thought his interest in joining the military a peculiar choice after having lived a monastic life for thirteen years, but when I questioned him, he saw nothing odd or incongruous about it.

Eric studying Khmer with Seng

I enjoyed our discussion and when he invited Eric and me to join him in his house, we eagerly accepted.  He offered us tea and I was surprised when he handed the glass directly to me as I had read that monks are not supposed to touch women which includes hand things directly to them or accepting things directly from their hands.  Perhaps it was different in Cambodia, I thought.  Eric I were both astonished when, on numerous occasions, Seng would give me a playful punch in the arm after I made a joke or laughed at one of his.  The punching soon yielded to flicking.  Was this monk actually FLIRTING with me???  Holy cow! 

As dusk settled in and my stomach started to rumble for dinner, I began making the overtures toward our departure, but Seng would have none of it.  He poured more tea for me and Eric so we agreed to stay for one more glass.  I was amused that, as the dusk turned to dark, Seng did not turn on any lights in the house so for the last thirty minutes of our visit, the three of us sat in the dark talking to each other.  I expressed an interest in learning to speak Khmer and Seng professed to being a language teacher.  So we made a plan to meet again the following day for a language lesson.  Seng shook both of our hands before we left.  Very interesting.  “I think the monk has a crush on you,” Eric teased me as we walked away.  Very interesting indeed.

Before we left the temple compound, a groundskeeper offered to show us the temple interior.  We accepted and the kind man not only unlocked the doors with us, but walked us through step by step how to pray Buddhist-style.  It was quite similar to method the Balinese Hindus employ, lighting incense, holding pressed palms to the forehead.  He even lead us in prayer in Khmer.  We were touched at his kindness and left donations before making our way to our respective hotels.

Seng and his star pupil ... or at least his pet one

The next day, Eric and I returned for our language lesson.  I had brought one of my fine art photographs to give Seng as a thank you gift for the instruction.  He had gifts for us as well … five photographs of himself at various stages during his monkhood including his ordination and several more recent photos during a ceremony at Angkor Wat.  He gave us a two hour language lesson and I must admit he’s an excellent teacher.  He had a clearly laid-out plan and was very patient.  After teaching us a few words and phrases, he would go back and quiz us.  When we would answer correctly, he would get very excited and say “YES!”  It was all quite cute and charming.  The long glances and flicking from the previous day continued and Eric teased me about being the teacher’s pet. It was clear that Seng was flirting with me, but it all felt strangely innocent and naive (like the way a third grade boy my flirt with his teacher).  

Seng began to question us about our travel plans.  At the time, we were planning to head to South Cambodia together for a few days after which Eric was planning to continue his travels to Vietnam.  I was going to return to Phnom Penh and then spend more time traveling in Cambodia.  It seemed that Seng was trying to ascertain whether Eric and I had any romantic ties when he probed, “So Eric travels alone to Vietnam?”  “Yes,” we answered.  He floored me with his retort: “Then Beverly comes back here alone and can stay with me!”  I was so surprised, I couldn’t stop myself from exclaiming, “Seng! You’re a monk! You’re not supposed to talk that way!”  

He laughed then and so did we, but I refrained from giving him a hug before leaving so as not to encourage any ideas he might be entertaining.  I didn’t find any of the things he said or did to be offensive.  To the contrary, they were amusing and flattering, but they were equally shocking to me given his clerical status.  Perhaps his stated intentions of leaving the monkhood after completing his education influenced his less-than-”monkly” attitudes.  And I do understand that it’s not terribly uncommon for monks to be “deflowered” by curious Western women.  Perhaps Seng was aware of this too.  I have no idea, but I can definitely say that this particular monk is one flower who will remain in the garden, at least as far as this Western girl is concerned.