Picture in the SMH

Here is the picture that Simone sent in to the Sydney Morning Herald.

The boy (at left) really tried very hard to defeat his nemesis (the girl, at right), however she seemed to be much more practiced in both manoeuvring her bucket and playing to us tourists.

Setting the scene:

This picture was at the floating village near Siem Reap. I don't know that the village had a name other than "the floating village." The name is remarkably appropriate: if other villages followed the same nomenclature, there would be many "villages on land", perhaps a few "villages near trees"...

But I digress. There is a really big lake near Siem Reap - I think I remember the name, but I'm not going to embarass myself in front of the Internet by guessing wrong. For eminently practical reasons, every structure in the village floats, simply moored where the homeowner wishes. Every structure is thus situated: the mosque, the church, the store, the school and the separate basketball court (courtesy of the Japanese dev-aid folks), and of course, the tourist centre, from whose gently bobbing decks this photo was snapped.

The tourist centre is about the furthest structure out into the lake (it is a REALLY big lake - goes on past the horizon), and us tourists drive into the sort of shore-based gateway to the village, hire a boat (and driver, plus a young guide), which then putters out to the centre, as we gape amazedly at the village. Once at the tourist centre, one can continue to gape at the expanse of water, thrill to the crocodiles caged just below deck, be surprised by great big fish leaping out of their live wells (and thus consigning themselves to the warm part of the café), eat fresh coconut, and buy souvenirs.

Alternatively, one can seek a quiet corner of the complex, marvel at the whole experience and try to convince oneself that one is a traveller, rather than a tourist.

The kiddies pictured quickly put paid to that bit of self-delusion: one is not a traveller, one is not even a tourist. One is a mark, an ATM if you will, and all they have to do is figure out the code. In this case, it was showing off their alacrity paddling a round vessel with a single paddle, and insisting on remuneration in exchange for permission to take their photo. This approach is employed when the traditional technique of paddling up beside where the tourists are sitting in the shade snaffling up cool liquids and sweet treats, and then begging for scraps. (The girl was good at this: she scored an almost full coconut. The lad, on the other hand, was either not pitiable or not cute enough. I think he got a couple of nuts.)

Crossroads

These are the roads leading to the guesthouse we stayed at. They are typical of many of the roads in Siem Reap. It seems that tar/bitumen is optional, really only necessary for main roads. As a result, many of the roads are dusty, bumpy, and sometimes smelly. The bonus, however, is that the pace of the traffic is pretty relaxed. This gives the local kiddies (and tourists!) plenty of time to get out of the way of plodding tuk-tuks.

These roads are great to explore on the back of a moped. One does not want to be actually driving as (a) Street signs are a rare species and (b) an intimate knowledge of the road rules not obeyed is essential.

An interesting feature of the streetscape are the many and varied dwellings. What is most remarkable is the contrast between different homes on the same street. One may be the epitome of the city's economic development, replete with marble floor foyer, wood carved doors, and a fancy car standing on a paved driveway. Just next door is likely to be a home that resembles something that should have been abandoned years ago - if only the occupants had that option. These homes are mostly roofed, may have all of the thatched walls, a chicken or two will be wandering around the dusty back yard while a women washes clothes by hand. It would be like seeing a corrugated tin shack next to a stately mansion in Rockcliffe or Mosman.

Yet the description does not do these streets justice. Sure, there is dust, bumps, roadworks done by hand (those grey cylindrical things are part of the fledgling sewer system... waiting for the fellows with shovels), traffic goes every which way, and yes, there are desperately poor people around.

The streets are lively. All day, people are running/zooming/putputting along them. The streets feel friendly, and inviting to explorers. And in the end, how could you not love walking along a banana-tree lined dirt road?

Cambodia Trip 2006

Hi. I realised that poking around looking for the Cambodia pictures wouldn't be heaps of fun. So this post should keep all their links together.

Simone arrives
Rob arrives
Pink Pants
Shopping for the pants
Crossroads

When getting a wedding outfit takes 10 minutes

Chronologically, this picture comes before the Procession of the Pink Pants, probably a few days previously. I could check the EXIF data on the image, but that would mean switching windows... but who cares about how lazy I am. The guy in the orange pants is me. I happen to think the purple jacket is a dashing statement. The little guy is Kee - Nek's uncle who owns the guest house where we stayed. The bald guy is Glen - Liz's friend (not in the way that 'Liz's friend' was interpreted in SE Asia) who accompanied her kind of as the muscle. Liz is a little bit little, so it was a safety/comfort thing.
The guy you can't see because he's holding up a piece of material is the tailor. Lovely fellow, lent me the purple jacket on the condition that I not sweat in it. Righty-oh, no sweating in 30 degree humidity. I'm all over that. Think of home, Rob, in February.

So what's going on, now that we've all been introduced? Well, Kee was very encouraging of the idea that as a participant in a traditional Khmer wedding (particularly that of his niece) really ought to wear traditional Khmer clothing. No matter how silly it makes you look. Glen got to participate in the ceremony too, so he needed happypants too. In this image, Kee is bringing all his skills in convincing and persuading to bear: "Yes, you wear that. It's good."

By gum, I'm sold! And indeed I was, on two lengths of silk (now destined to become cushion covers). That's right, I went to a wedding as father of the groom, wearing cushion covers.
You sort of stand in the middle of a couple of metres of silk, and a helper brings the ends together in front of you, kind of wraps/folds/rolls (the wardrobe girls on the wedding day had a genuine technique, we just faked it for the 'fitting') the whole works into a roll, and then that goes between the legs and is pegged up at the back. Tadah! All dressed.

Glen's tail is somewhat more pronounced as he has a more majestic girth than I do, hence it took a bit more material to get around. The consequence is that the rolled up bit is a lot longer... and ends up looking like that. In the market (one of a couple of markets; this may be the New Market, or the Central Market, but then again, those might be the one and the same. Never really did get the two straight. I know definitely wasn't the Old Market), the tail elicited nearly as much hilarity as the pink pants did.

Once our outfits were established (I also got an absolutely darling belt), we hung around briefly chatting in mutually incomprehensible languages with sporadic translations, but much smiling and laughter. Kee had appointed himself chauffeur on this expedition, and kept us to a rather strict and hectic schedule. Once we were done clowning around, we piled back into Kee's CRV, stuffed the tailor into the trunk (it's a little SUV, and there was pillows over the spare tire. He was fine.), and dropped him off from where we'd picked him up, and went back to the guest house to relive the glory of the day.

The Pink Pants

For all those who've heard about the pink pants, but not seen the pink pants, here are the pink pants as photographed at some ungodly early hour in the morning, probably near 6 am. I think Richard (centre, with the yellow flower) is grinning not because of his impending union with the light of his life, Nek, but because his best mate and best man, Shannon, has been joking about the pink pants for the better part of an hour. The old guy, our holy celebrant at left, was chuckling too. The guy holding the umbrella behind Simone... he laughed at the pink pants too. The cute little kids? They were too polite to laugh out loud. So they made big eyes and ran off to convulse in giggles behind the coconut tree. Nek's sisters, Hua and Boa (sorry if that's misspelt, I don't have a Khmer typeface on this computer) laughed very daintily... at the pink pants.

They'd have been just fine, but I think the orange (!) jacket really sets off the whole ensemble. So did Richard, Simone, Nek, Hua, Boa, the old guy.... It was a riot.

I forgot to mention that Simone had a couple of good chuckles at the pink pants too.

Enough about the pants. I had it on the highest authority (Nek's uncle, plus the tyrannical tailor women who bade me drop my trousers... in the courtyard...) and proceeded to swathe me in the pink silk you see radiant before you. Not the matching orangey silk that I had too. The pink silk. Shiny side out.

So what's really going on in that picture? I'm wearing pink pants. Just kidding. Richard, the guy in the middle, is getting married. His mother and father would normally be where Simone and I are, but they couldn't make the trip from Sydney to Cambodia, so we were subbed in. We're at a guest house down the road from Nek's uncle's guest house, where the wedding will take place. We are (all of us above) going to recreate the traditional procession from the groom's village to the bride's village, bearing all sorts of yummy presents to show her parents what a great guy the groom is. Traditionally we'd have walked a couple of kilometres; for the purposes of symbolism we trudged maybe 300 metres. Soon after this photo was taken, traditional (so I'm told, and I'll have to believe it, 'cos I don't know) Khmer wedding music started playing REALLY LOUDLY. EVEN LOUDER THAN WHEN WE ALL WOKE UP AROUND 4 AM. We therefore had many groggy looking spectators along the walk.

And so, the pink pants proceeded forth... peals of laughter issuing in their wake. And it's not like I could melt into the 5 foot tall crowd, either. Weddings are, indeed, a joyous affair.

Rob in Siem Reap

Me, same place, same time as Simone. The same people are just off frame.

Oh, I'm just messing around with this blog-this thingo. Seems to really smallify the pictures. 

Simone in Siem Reap, Cambodia

Simone's in the red top; her brother Richard's got the pink bag, and his soon-to-be wife Nek is looking on.

February 6, 2006

Stay Alive My Son - Pin Yathay

Now for a Cambodia book that really got me to say not much at all - what the hell can you say about the memoir of a guy who survived Pol Pot's insanity?

The title alone should be enough to provide that funny choking feeling in your throat - those are the words that his father said to him when they were separated during an enforced migration; and they are the words he said to his son as he left the boy with a friend of the family just before his attempt to escape the country on foot.

This book was hard enough to read; thankfully Mr Yathay did not include the gruesomeness that he might have.

Red Lights and Green Lizards: A Cambodia Adventure - Liz Anderson

Hey, a book by someone who went and had an adventure in Cambodia! Of course I'm gonna read that...

Okay, so it's the story of two English doctors in the early '90's; I was there in 2006. They were in Phnom Penh; I was in Siem Reap. So, I don't know how good the story is at actually capturing what was going on while they were there. I do know that I didn't find the book as enthralling as the Duchess of Kent or the British Ambassador to Cambodia did.

It's a fairly straightforward chronology of a couple of doctors in their 60s or so who decide to, before they're too old and creaky, to depart the quiet doctoring life in England to do the good work in Cambodia for a year or so. That is, we get:

a) Their awakening and delight at their decision,
b) The hijinks of the flight over, shared with a bunch of other interesting travellers,
c) The wonder and shock at disembarking in a strange world,
d) The honeymoon period,
e) The reality sinking in period,
f) The adjustment and settling in period, and
g) The "I don't really wanna go home" period.

This is getting just a little harsh - it's wonderful stuff they did, bringing education and health services to a brothel, and helping run a hospital. It's just that these voyages tend to yield the same sort of stories, and without something to set them apart, it gets a little difficult to really get into the story - even when there is a shared locality.

Not a terrible story, there's some insights, but it's a lot of reportage.