Southeast Asia is a universe unto itself with customs, foods, sights, sounds, smells and ways of approaching the world that are vastly different from those in the West.  From a western perspective, it’s all a bit quirky.  When it comes to quirks, however, Cambodia takes the cake.    

This may have a great deal to do with the Khmer Rouge.  During the four year genocidal killing spree orchestrated by Pol Pot and his thugs from 1975 – 1979, the Khmer Rouge targeted all of Cambodia’s business people, intellectuals (defined as anyone with a seventh grade or higher education) and their families.  Those intellectuals who weren’t murdered fled the country, most creating new lives elsewhere in the world creating a “smarts vacuum” in the country.  In 1975, Pol Pot evacuated the capital city of Phnom Penh in order to start an agrarian collective society.  While people starved and died in the country, Phnom Penh remained a ghost town for close to ten years.   By 1985, Phnom Penh was barely repopulated, but this time with many farmers and uneducated rural people.  Although new intellectuals have sprung up in the years since, Phnom Penh and its civil structure was essentially created by simple country folk so that, even though it’s a city with a population of 1,300,000, it has the feeling of a country town in many ways.  

There are few rules and those that exist are disobeyed.  People consistently drive the wrong way on the wrong side of the road.  A crowd of twenty plus motorbikes waiting at a traffic light (what few there are) can “overrule” a red stop light by their sheer numbers.  When enough of them “pile up” at a light, they’ll suddenly surge forward as a group so that the signal to stop and yield to cross traffic becomes a mere suggestion.  In this and many other ways, Phnom Penh and Cambodia in general , has a “wild wild west” feel to it.   This is true, in fact, of the entire country.  In our conversations, Eric has cleverly compared the country to the book “Lord of the Flies,” where a number of children, isolated on an island take on adult roles as they attempt survival, but do so from the only vantage point they know: as children.  The result of a nation where most of the adults act, in many ways, like big children is a land full of contradiction, dichotomy and absurdity … and I simply LOVE and embrace it.  

a loved and lucky dog getting an IV drip from his doting "Mom" on his way home from the vet

The motorbike culture that exists throughout Southeast Asia is an intriguing phenomenon about which volumes can be written.  The quirky and voluminous cargo hauled by these bikes are the subject of hundreds of thousands of photographs taken by both tourists and professional photographers.  I know I’ve taken at least several hundred myself.  If you’re as amused as I am by this topic, check out the book “Bikes of Burden” by Hans Kemp which contains over one hundred fifty hysterical photos of Asians toting weird or hyper-voluminous objects on their motorbikes, often contorting or cramping their bodies in the process.  

As with most subjects, Cambodians have their own distinct twist on the motorbike culture.  It’s rather common to observe Asians everywhere riding three adults to a motorbike.  In fact, I’ve seen up to five adults per motorbike and even six people on a bike if one or two are children.  Only in Cambodia, however, have I witnessed three people on a bike with a “live” IV drip.  In the four times I observed this (all in Phnom Penh), there was a healthy driver in front, an injured person in in the middle and a third person riding in back holding the dripping IV high in the air for the injured person.  The last time I saw this, the injured passenger was a dog!

these women are packed like sardines into a truck which transports them from their work in the garment district

Cambodians are incredibly efficient in their use of space when it comes to motor vehicles. Where westerners ride only one to two people in a tuk tuk or on a motorbike, as previously mentioned Cambodians will fit up to six per bike and I’ve observed ten people all crammed into one tuk tuk.  On numerous occasions in Cambodia, I’ve observed passenger vans filled with about 13-14 people inside with an additional 14 riding on top.  In South Cambodia, flat bed trailers pulled by a single motorbike transport up to 40 people at a time while open-air box trucks with lattice walls pack in numbers I can’t begin to count … all “standing room only.”  While their methods seem maddening or at least hysterically extreme to me, I can only imagine how inefficient and wasteful our Western methods and ideas of personal space must seem to them. 

Before there were motorbikes in Cambodia, there were regular bicycles (called “push bikes”).  Although many Khmers have transitioned to the motorized version, there are a large number who have not, particularly in the more rural areas of the country.  Frequently, I’ve seen friends traveling together, one with a push bike and one with a motorbike.  Rather than travel at the slower pace of the push bike as we Westerners would likely expect, the Cambodians on the two different bikes have adopted a more efficient, albeit arguably less safe, solution:  they simply hold hands and suddenly the rickety push bike can travel at 40 – 60 kilometers per hour. 

Despite their ability to speed up the pace of a push bike, life in Cambodia is generally slow.  An acute lack of employment opportunities for the unskilled and uneducated has created a napping culture.  Many men in particular attempt to go into the “tuk tuk,” moto (a motorbike used as a taxi) or cyclo (a push bike used as a taxi) business, but unfortunately, there are not nearly enough tourists to provide sufficient business for all the various taxi drivers.  As a result, most of the time these drivers are often napping in or on their respective mode of transport.  

equalizing the push bike

In addition to drivers, there are also an over-abundance of barbers compared to the amount of Cambodian hair needing to be cut.  So the barbers are often found napping in their chairs as well.  Interestingly, Khmer barbers don’t have indoor barber shops as we do in the West.  Instead, they place their barber chairs on the sidewalk and hang a mirror on the nearest wall on telephone pole.  Frequently, three or more barbers gather together placing their chairs in a line on one city block.  Most of the time, the chairs are covered by a long stretch of tarp, but not always. 

I don’t think that Cambodia’s napping culture is a indicative of a nation-wide lazy streak.  To the contrary, most of these people work incredibly long hours; or more accurately, make themselves available to work over a great number of hours.  Unfortunately, there just aren’t enough “takers,” so in the meantime, the unemployed nap … or chit chat.  Frequently, I’ve observed many tuk tuk and motorbike drivers congregating together, waiting for customers and passing their time by holding a little party or or card game in a single tuk tuk.  When a tourist finally shows up, everyone abandons the tuk tuk in mere seconds like a Chinese fire drill. 

an outdoor barber shop in downtown Phnom Penh

On the subject of sleeping, Cambodia also has its quirky twists that I haven’t seen elsewhere.  I have observed some people (universally men) spending the night sleeping on their motorbikes or in their tuk-tuks and cyclos.  Given the late hour (midnight to one in the morning), I think these instances are more than mere napping as I’ve observed through the day.   I’ve also noticed men sawing logs inside hammocks rigged up in the backs of flatbed trucks.  Another unusual but popular sleeping location seems to be outside guesthouses on hammock-like contraptions made of hard bamboo and draped with mosquito nets.  Do Cambodian men sleep in these unusual places because it’s too hot inside their homes?  Or is there not enough room inside?  Perhaps, particularly in the cases of the men sleeping on the backs of their motorbikes or in hammocks on flat bed trucks, they are homeless and “inside” simply doesn’t exist. 

At the opposite extreme from the societal nappers and outdoor sleepers are the wealthy people living in Cambodia, primarily Western expats and NGO employees.  Most of these people drive big fancy SUVs.  As with almost everything in Cambodia, however, there’s a twist.  Khmer culture seems to have adopted the “more is more” approach so those SUVs and cars considered to be luxurious (primarily Lexus and Toyota) will generally have the make or model of the vehicle emblazoned in large gaudy letters on the vehicle’s side.  “LEXUS” “LAND CRUISER” and “4-RUNNER” seem to be the most common. 

Most Cambodians, however, don’t fall into the category of wealthy.  At worst, they are missing limbs as a result of land mines and make their living begging in the streets.  In general, most Cambodians get by, but scrape to do so.  In addition to working as taxi drivers and barbers, some men work as trash collectors.  You knew I would say it … Cambodians have their own way of doing even this.  Instead of driving garbage trucks, Khmer garbage men push large wooden wheel-barrow type carts through the neighborhoods collecting trash by hand.  Trash isn’t left in garbage cans as we busy Westerners do.  Instead, the garbage man squeezes a squeaky toy as he roams around, alerting the neighborhood residents that he’s present and is collecting trash.  At the sound of the squeaky toy, the neighborhood residents come running out of their home with their small plastic Wal-Mart type bags tied in a knot at the top and fling them into the trash-barrow.

a "pajama'd" soup seller in Phnom Penh

Women make a living selling a variety of fruit, soup or other items to eat which they typically carry on large round bamboo baskets that resemble platters.  Two platters hang from either side of a heavy duty piece of bamboo which serves as a yoke the woman fits behind her neck on her shoulders so that she can transport her fruit all over the city.  The fruit is heavy causing the platters to bounce up and down from the yoke.  When the women walk, they get in a stride which makes the platters bounce in a rhythm. To keep in that rhythm and stride, the women will start to bounce when they walk too so that they look like they’re doing some sort of chicken dance.  It’s apparently in vogue for Cambodian women to wear pajamas at all hours of the day.  Seeing a bunny patterned, pajama clad woman doing a chicken dance under the weight of a yoke balanced by full platters of fruit down the streets of Cambodia is a cheap laugh, but I’m a sucker for it every time.  

Another thing that presses my giggle button are the Asianisms:  misspellings, unintentional turns of phrase and misstatements that abound when Asians speak or write English.  Of course, I realize that “Westernisms” (mistakes we Westerners make attempting to speak any of the languages of Southeast Asia) exist, but since I don’t know the languages well enough to recognize them, I content myself for the moment laughing at the Asians’ mistakes … good natured-ly of course.

The best ones in my book are so slight that you’ll probably think I’m hypercritical for noticing, much less laughing.  Often, I think these are cases of “you had to be there.”  My absolutely favorite is “thanks you.”  Hardly any Cambodian I’ve met seems to be able to say “thank you” without adding an “s” to the word “thank.”  It’s such a miniscule error, but it’s so cute, I giggle every time.  Especially when they use it in response to “How are you?” answering in sing-songy fashion “Fine thanks you and you?”  They clearly learn it in song-fashion much as American kids learn how to sing their “ABC’s.”  Asians are big on luck and frequently like to wish people good luck.  It almost always comes out “Good luck for you.” I just smile and say thank you, wishing “Good luck for you too.”  

a country kid delighted with his homemade kite

I love Cambodia’s countryside just as much as its cities; in fact, probably more so. Water is everywhere in rural Cambodia.  Almost every house in the country has a small pond or creek in the front yard.  Driving through the countryside, its common to see people fishing with large nets in the small creeks and ponds right in front of their houses.  Water buffalo are submerged up to their necks, happy as they can be.  The portion of front yard not filled with water is mostly made of dirt with the occasional small patch of grass.  

Kids fly homemade kites and ride bikes (often two to a bike – the motorbike culture starts early!) while men gather together to play cards.  Groups of motorbikes are parked in clumps near where the card-playing men gather, almost seeming to share their own social network and gossip of the latest trip or unusual cargo ferried.  I can imagine them coming to life when no one is looking. “You should have seen me the other day!” a new Honda Wave announces to the group. “I was loaded down with over fifty ducks that I took to market.”  “That’s nothing,” coughs an old, well-used Daelim. “Just last week I transported an entire suite of bedroom furniture stacked ten feet high all in one trip … and took my family of six to the river later that night.” 

The other workhorses of the countryside, the cows and water buffalo, are everywhere.  They’re tied to a tree, escorted by children to new grazing grounds or simply roaming free in the middle of the road on their random way to who knows where.  All of them swish their tails to keep the mosquitos and flies at bay.  Chickens and dogs keep the bovines company, roaming about wherever they wish; in the front yards and all over the roads. 

The houses are set close to the road.  Despite the acres and acres of land stretching behind them, they are built almost on top of one of another, as if land was a scarce resource.  Each of the houses are raised on stilts, presumably to accommodate the flooding of the Tonle Sap lake during the rainy season.  The front door is open on almost every house I see.  I suspect that only two out of one hundred are air conditioned.  Cambodian life appears to happen mainly outdoors rather than behind them.  Front yards and doorways are always filled with people as are the “salons” in the front yard by the roadside, raised platforms on which the Cambodians sit and watch the world pass by.  Some of the salons have hammocks so that the Khmers can catch a few zeds between traffic much as we might nod off for a quick catnap during a TV commercial.  

I’m headed north to Siem Reap at the moment.  As my bus, lumbers along through the charming Cambodian countryside, I’m soaking up the sights, wishing I was traveling via motorbike so I could engage all that I see rather than blowing on by, separated by glass windows and the inability to stop and explore a random dirt road.  My bus driver is horn happy, warning the people and animals we pass that we’re coming through, but never slowing down.  Whatever he’s honking at simply has to get out of the way.  One dog is unlucky and fails to heed the bus’ warning.  The crunch of its bones in the wheels sounds metallic; I would have sworn we ran over someone on a motorbike.  It all makes me sick to my stomach.

Truly a bad hair day! The rat's nest in my right hand (your left) is one third of what was cut out of my hair. Ugh!

For a while I can’t write anymore as the unfortunate dog lays claim to my thoughts.  I find myself reflecting on the subject of attachment, a theme that’s come up repeatedly for me in Cambodia.  In Phnom Penh, I had my braids taken out at what seemed to be a really upscale hair salon. My request was simple: take out my braids which had become loose and “fuzzy”, shampoo my hair and re-braid my hair.  Somehow, during the shampoo process, my hair became one giant rats nest and the only solution was to cut … and cut and cut.  When all was said and done, the front part of my hair was 8 inches shorter than the back.  Given that it will take at least two years to grow back, I was not a happy camper.  I was very attached to my long hair, apparently more vain about it than I was even aware.

On several other occasions, I lost two pairs of wonderfully thick and cushy Thorlo socks (I’m now down to 2 pair) and two pairs of undies to the “laundry monster,” while my favorite (and brand new) white tank top came back with unremovable blue stains.  I’m living out of a single backpack (I’ve downsized even since I started this trip) so I don’t have many clothes with me (you might have noticed I’m always wearing the same thing in all my photos!) so the few that I have I’m quite attached to.  Or I was.  

a local girl enjoying a "spidey snack"

One of the precepts of Buddhism is that attachment leads to suffering.  Cambodia has taught me that first hand, highlighting attachments of which I was previously unaware.  I’m still not happy about losing my clothes or huge chunks of my hair or about the dog being crunched by the bus. But life goes on.  Cambodia puts it all in perspective. 

The sun is setting on the rice paddies now.  Flat fields of rice stretch far into the distance with tall palm trees scattered sparsely throughout reminding me of a beautiful but funny Dr. Suess landscape.  I’m back to writing again, but I put away my laptop momentarily for the potty break at Skuon (also known as “Spiderville”) where I buy a fried tarantula for local girl just to watch her eat it.  Incidentally, a big fat fried tarantula costs $0.50 or 2000 riel (pronounced “real”).  Riel and US dollars are used interchangeably in Cambodia.  It’s a world where anything goes … clearly. 

At the girl’s encouragement, I end up joining her and eating a couple of the spider legs. Crunchy.  Not bad.  I concluded a while back that anything’s manageable when it’s fried.  I’m reminded of my grandfather who’s favorite adage was always, “Try it. You’ll like it.”  And I do … just like Cambodia. 

You don’t have to munch down, but if you’d care to see someone really enjoying eating a tarantula … click here.

To enjoy more photos of Cambodia’s delightful quirky side, check out the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of my blog.