At the temples

http://picasaweb.google.com/liamoutselou/AtTheTemples#

As I carefully go down the steps of an ancient temple, I mutter to myself: ‘I could actually fall here’. ‘Don’t tempt fate’, advises a warning voice',  I lift my eyes to see a young tour guide smiling at me. ‘You might not be able to see them, but the spirits are here and they might just give you a push’.

I would have hoped that the spirits and I forged a strong and lasting friendship at sunrise. Today I woke up at 5 am, and met Phalla at 530 to be at the Angor Wat temple in time for sunrise. Angor Wat is the grandest but not the oldest temple in the Angor area. Phalla has insisted he accompanies me on my first visit to the temples. 'You are my volunteer, you help me so much' , he says. But when we get there he lets me to enter Angor Wat on my own and I am grateful. This is a personal experience.

The site is busy at 6 am, busier than I would have liked. But then again this is the cool season in Cambodia when tourists flock the Angor Wat area. The dawn light is mystical and I cross the bridge that leads me to the temple site. I don’t want to miss the sunrise but it is impossible to rush here. I walk mesmerised. There is beautiful music coming from a pagoda somewhere. I climb up the steps of the imposing temple in the middle of the Anghor Wat. Something stirs inside me. I am overwhelmed by my own being. Black and white spirits, fears and hopes, baggage and memories, sadness and happiness, the pressure of the past and the bliss some of the happiest moments of my life are all unleashed in the corridors of the temple noisily floating around me. I surprisingly find a quiet east facing spot on a high point. It looks like it has been reserved for me.  I sit still as my restlessness is painfully kicking me from within. But all I am able is to be still, watching the sunrise and feeling simultaneous unease and release.  

Inch by inch the sun is rising as if lifted by a giant invisible hand. I don’t know if this is a spiritual experience or if my subconscious has cunningly timed this. I realise what I already known: I am happy. The rest:  restlessness, questioning, troubles are human phenomena. Every now and then they overwhelm but with time and wisdom it all quietens down. After all the intensity of my humanity gives me the satisfaction, the contentment I am getting from this beautiful sunrise and this quietens eveyrthing down.

Happy I  continue with my tour. I admire the bas reliefs (figures sculptured in a temple wall)   of Mahabharata, one of the nicest books I have read. The temples in Angor area narrate stories of the Buddhist and Hindu‘religion’ , which interchangeably dominated Cambodia at different times. ‘Religious’ tales are depicted amongst other tales of of the empire's past warfare and glory. This is why parts of some temples are ‘missing’. When Buddhism was dominant some Hindu stories were removed and vice versa.

About two hours later I meet a smiley Phalla. Together we visit Bayen Temple entering the Angor Thom , a complex of more temples. He then leaves me again to roam Ta Prohm temple on my own. He smiles knowingly. I have just told him I love the vegetation and nature here.  

Whilst I continue my wandering, I am occasionally faced with my contradictions as well as those of this world: a peaceful ancient site conquered by hordes of tourists who sometimes just rush to photograph themselves on a site they have seen in their guide book before they go. Sometimes they annoy me other times I meet and chat to wonderful people. But my highlight at Ta Prohm aside from the impressive maze of temples, are the trees.  I think I am a true tree hugger. Imposing, gigantic trees, with their beautiful trunks and scents greet me everywhere. Their roots embrace the temple stones: a triumphant coalition of nature and human ingenuity wins you over. There are moments when I really want to share this with people I love. I really do. As I say to Phalla later I think life is for sharing. Whilst I am content in my company and self (most of the times): I cannot think of anything that makes my joy and happiness more intense and real than sharing it.

Even driving and walking around the area is an experience in itself. At Bayen temple, I wander off to a Pagoda, where I am once again amongst Cambodians this time in their festive wear paying their respects to the Buddha. Some excitable nuns jump around making me dance to the music. I enter the Pagoda and pay my respects. I watch the pilgrims bring presents for the monks. I am filled with peace and joy. Am I really here?  Then I suddenly miss Dan so much. There you go I am a living contradiction!

Tomorrow it’s my day off as the teachers have an exam with the Ministry of education.  I might head to the Tonle Sap Lake and then deposit myself in a hammock on the banks of the western barray (a manmade Angor era lake in the Angor area). I might even have a swim.

For now I sit and sip a much needed coffee with Phalla who proudly beams at my excitement. It’s just after one in the afternoon and time to meet my lovely students again.

A Persian meets a Greek

The Tuesday and Wednesday of my first week in Cambodia are dedicated to planning, teaching, more Siem Reap scouting nd getting in touch with some of you lot (and correcting my online spelling as Mrs Beth Woollam has suggested -you cow!-).  On Wednesday I enjoy a much needed quiet morning at the Arun guest house with the female crew. If you want a laugh listen to the recording of my pitiful attempts to remember and pronounce the numbers 1-5 in Khmer after a lesson from Ming Pow and before I sip any coffee. Sorry I cannot edit audio files here so you have the full 2 minutes.  I have now learnt to count to 9 in Khmer (mainly because 6 to 9 are the sum of 5 and the rest of the numbers I know).  I  then spend my usual teaching shift from one to eight pm (door to door) first teaching the teachers and then assisting with Pat’s (one of the teachers) class.

After the classs, I turn my Cambodian phone on to find a welcoming text from Kurash. I mentioned Kush in an earlier blog entry. Kush is a good friend of Phalla who has taught and helped progress the work of the Cambodian Child and Hope Association project unimaginably. Kush has returned from Battambong and invites me and Phalla to meet him at the Golden temple (the hostel I love and where Lucy and Dan have previously stayed). The hostel is close enough to the heart of Siem Reap but nicely tucked away in a small street away from too much commotion. But then Siem Reap is not a loud club laden spot. I have been told by many people already it’s quiet compared to other neighbouring destinations like Thailand.

Kush whose roots are Iranian, looks like a Buddha, with Mediterranean and Middle Eastern features. It’s really nice to see the affinity between the two men. Kush narrates the story of their encounter and how the CCHA collaboration followed on from that. Phalla was a venerable monk with a golden heart and willingness to help educate the children of his community. If I understand correctly he had already started the project when he met Kush but was still practicing to be a monk. Kush went to Phalla for meditation and as the two men got to know each other and talk it all kicked off. Since then he taught at Phalla’s school, liaised with Lucy on Safe Foundation matters, after Safe offered support to the CCHA. Phalla has given up being a monk for the time being as this imposed a lot of limitations on doing essential business needed to progress the work of CCHA and interacting with volunteers and supporters (e.g. no handling of money, no close interaction with women, no driving and transporting oneself amongst other but my knowledge is very limited on this). Progressing CCHA also requires much of his studying/practising time. There have been a series of wonderful coincidences that have brought Phalla, Kush, Safe and Dan together and here I am joining in. It is a pleasure to sit and talk with Kush animatedly. I love the soft speaking Khmer people but equally like the fire hearted people that Kush comes from. Phalla laughs out loud full heartedly when he hears us speak. This is a really nice evening. We talk about another project supporting disabled mine victims that Kush works with, our lives and of course Kush’s time with Dan and Lucy (and the yapping dog-Dan by the way the dog now lives in Battambong but a lovely white cat sits happily on Kush’s lap purring away).

And so at the Golden Temple of Siem Reap and in the presence of a gentle Khmer, a Persian meets a Greek…

'I am able' at the Angor night market

Photo link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/liamoutselou/IAmAbleAtTheNightMarket#

You will probably think that I have nothing better to do than wander in markets. I see markets as hubs of activity that depending on their location can reveal the character and culture of the place and different neighborhoods.

Tonight I rent a bicycle, making sure that the front light works. I am such a geek; I have actually brought my bike lights with me. I must be the only cyclist with flashing lights in Siem Reap. I really think that cycling is the safest and nicest form of transport for me at night. The roads are not so busy, I avoid walking in dark and quiet parts on my own, and I can go everywhere I want. I think it is important to be an experienced cyclist and it helps that I can drive and cycle on both sides of the road being from Greece (I had to blow my own trumpet here). The ride along the river at night is wonderful. It is warm but comfortable. I cannot even remember what rain and cold is like.

I have slowed down and adapted my rhythms to Cambodia. I have also become as cheeky a cyclist as the Cambodian ones. Sod politeness, this is survival time.

I'll be honest: I don't actually know how I found the old Market but I am actually there after a long cycle. There is a bicycle parking shed for 1000 riel. The Angor night market stretched out under a bamboo roof. It is vast and beautifully lit. At its entrance I recognise the traditional Khmer music band that Dan has filmed. I also recognise the sound of the music from my early morning wake up call the other day. I observe the instruments. I think I am going to get me one of these string instruments that looks like a cross between a mini berimbau (capoeira music : one string Brazilian instrument) and a Cretan lyra. Not yet though.

I know that some of you (particularly Elpida) might find it very strange that I have not written much about food yet. It is possibly because I don't know where to begin. I am in culinary heaven, taking notes and learning things. I want to savour everything but my stomach is not begin enough and I don’t want to seem greedy too. At the old market I eat a mango pancake, with cream, chocolate and roasted almonds. What more need Isay...

There is a beautiful bamboo built bar amongst short palm trees in a hidden corner of the market. There are a couple of westerners including me but here the people are mainly Cambodian. A small stage is set up ready for a performance. ' I am able' is  a local disabled community group aiming to raise awareness on human rights of the handicapped. The young actors and actresses are landmine and polio victims. Through performance and art: playing music, singing and dancing, performing their own poems and choreography they highlight they difficulties faced by the disabled . Different acts narrate individual stories and show the hurt and despair of the individual as they enter a world of discrimination. There are some painstakingly beautiful songs. Some fighting scenes. Some positive messages as communities understand the drama of an individual and embrace them back in society restoring their hope.

The lady serving me tells me that this is just one group , there are so many. It almost seems that the frequent occurrence of such accidents plays down their tragedy. I guess all human being become desensitised when faced with a tragedy so common. There are still many landmines. Unexploded Ordnance (UXO) is still a problem in Cambodia and Laos. I know that Koosh a friend of Phalla, Dan and Lucy works with another charity supporting landmine victims. I will meet him in a couple of days on his return  from Battamang ( another city nearby).

Why am I the only person watching this? Why are all these people passing by not looking?

I sip my beer , chat to some people and watch the show.

At the end of the show everyone bows at me and the thank me one by one making eye contact. I am almost embarrassed. I think Cambodian culture is rubbing off on me.

My name is Donkey

Today I teach my first class. Phalla and I have already talked a lot about what he wants and needs from me. I am after all his first volunteer through SAFE. His priority is to free some of his time by helping his young teachers improve their English and lesson planning skills. I will be doing this every day for two or three hours throughout my stay. Then I will observe and assist with teaching at schools in different villages. This way I can meet the children, help them with correct pronunciation, and introduce new ideas (and games!). I think my mere presence in the various local classes is a present to the children, particularly those living in some of the most remote villages. Their enthusiasm and receptiveness was apparent on Saturday. I can’t wait to meet all of them.

My teachers’ class takes place at the Pagoda school, about a kilometre away from Phalla’s village. I am so happy to be back on this wonderful site.

I start by introducing my self in Khmer. As I do this there are some serious, almost expressionless faces and some giggles on the other side of the class. Now Phalla also giggles and stands up to explain that Lia in Cambodia means donkey.

So I stand up and say:

‘My name is Donkey but you can call me Ass’.

The young teachers

The Uniting Market

Uniting market photo link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/liamoutselou/UnitingMarket#

On Monday morning I head to a market near my hostel. The Uniting Market is in the opposite direction from the Siem Reap tourist hub. The avenue I walk on is bustling. Young children in the Cambodian school uniform, white shirts and blue trousers or skirts, cycle against the flow traffic, on the road side or pavements.  Nearly all the children and young people wave at me excitedly. Some locals (and there are only locals here at least at this time of day), look at me bemused. It is a hot day, and I am walking without a hat, on my own.

The market reveals itself on my left. This is a local people’s market, a cornucopia of foods and goods. The clothes here are reasonably priced. This is not the place to find colourful silks and traditional wear.  This is a real people’s market selling what is affordable and practical. People smile, some are surprised to see me here but most remain indifferent.  Colourful baskets filled with chillies, vegetables, fruit. Fish and meat is sold at the back of the market. I am the silent visitor.  People lie in hammocks, they watchTV, talk to each other. There are internal eateries offering simple delicacies. I don’t know where to turn first.  

A gentle pull on my hand and I turn to face a little girl who generously offers me her smile. She takes me with her and I follow her to her family. She has a loud older brother who jumps around me excitedly whilst speaking in fast Khmer. Am I picking up a different accent? I happily sit around them enjoying the human interaction of smiles and sounds. When I leave the little girl gives me a sad smile.

Bows of respect and a couple of offers of goods follow in the market lanes. I take a left turn again to be faced by a beautiful little boy, a little Buddha leaning forward towards me. His father looks at him with so much love.

Photos and words are limited and cannot convey sounds, scents, affection and human connections. I still wish I could write better. I wish I could take better photos and that I had a better camera. Mr Green be prepared to give me an intensive course on basics in photography on my return.

I am the enchanted wanderer. My senses are sharpened and I am so emotional ( pulse Michalaki mou , I am still a pulse). I see more children and spend some time with another sweet child who is my host for a while. Children are Cambodia’s treasure; I hope Cambodians understand this and do their utmost to protect their little hearts and their health. They open up their hearts , reach out to you, lead you to their families (who might have otherwise not bothered ), they try , they give and don’t expect much. I really bow to them.

I reach a banana woman (surrounded by hundreds of lying and hanging bananas) and am approached by young man who offers his help. I explain that I just want to look around, maybe buy a hat, we have a chat about what I am doing in Cambodia. And then I hear the cursed word again. Barrang stands out amongst other words and syllables in a woman’s conversation behind me. I turn and see an older lady looking at me in an unfriendly manner. I cannot blame her. I am a pale European looking woman, conjuring up images of past stories that have been passed on to her. Respectfully I say, ‘ Teh Barrang Ming’ (Not Barrang auntie). I turn to the young man . ‘Teh Barrang Orm’ (no barrang brother). ‘Yes’ he smiles reassuringly ‘ You are not Barrang’.

New visitor at the Old Market

It’s great to be living with local people and my priority here is to work with the SAFE foundation, help Phalla, teach teachers and children. After a nap I feel a great urge to get out. I want to meet other people and hear what brings them here. My hostel is in the quiet side of the city (quiet at night and not when there are celebrations at dawn). I decide to do the Tuk Tuk thing. Tuk tuk’s are wonderful moped led carriages, typical of the place. The come in different shapes and are colourfully decorated. Today my carriage is a bat mobile!

In the streets of the old market, people try to sell me things, give me rides, feed me but I don’t feel hassled. A polite no ‘ teh orkoun’ goes a long way. I don’t like everything I see: some rude American tourists with derogatory behaviour, a fifty year old man hugging and fondling a teenage Cambodian boy. 

My mission is to taste the amok fish dish that Lucy has told me about. I find a beautiful looking restaurant with very reasonable prices. At the Angor Palm the young waitresses and waiters are extremely nice and caring. Possibly because they help me practice my language skills. I don’t know all the ingredients of amok fish (yet) but the dish consists of fried and beautifully spiced fish, flavoursome greens and some type of cabbage. It is (of course) served with rice. My neighbouring table is excitedly celebrating a birthday. Geni, introduces herself and gives me the thumps up for my choice of dish. Genie is Australian, used to be a teacher and is travelling through Cambodia , to Vietnam and Laos with her husband and two friends. We talk about the Safe Foundation (they love the ethos and jot down the website address), my home in Wales, Geni and Peter’s visit to Wales (and their love of St David’s), Phalla and the Cambodian Child and Hope Association, their travels, and my homeland Greece (as well as their Greek connections-everyone’s got one right?). The young waiters come in and out of the conversation, first joining when they hear where I am from and adding me to their list of ‘first sightings’. They also (like my Korean passport control man) have never met a Greek before. ‘Perhaps all Greeks are as friendly?’ they say. Here I am again in the position of a national ambassador. Perhaps I think and then perhaps not, particularly at current times.  Peter on the other hand just says, ‘Well I have never met a Greek with an English accent before’. Hmmph, Welsh accent Peter, Welsh….And just like that I am invited to stop by when in Melbourne.

Arun Khmer (the good Khmer)

Arun Khmer photo link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/liamoutselou/ArunKhmer

I wake up gasping,  thinking I have overslept. Metallic string notes fill the air with beautiful music. Beautiful but… very loud. I open my eyes and feel so tired. Perhaps I spoke too soon about the jetlag. I look at my watch.

5 am.

I hear brooms sweeping, intermittent running water and pots clacking in the kitchen across my room on the ground floor. I know the Khmer get up really early, eat lunch usually between 11 and 12 and also sleep very early- a timetable that helps them cope with the hot and humid climate. (Well it helps those who can stick to it if they are not running a late night business in the tourist areas).

Still it is 5 am, it is the beginning of the cold season and generally quite cool (mid to late 20s Celsius scale) and I can’t help but feel a bit pissed off that someone decided to turn up the radio. How do I explain to the women running this restaurant and hostel (with its only guest me) that I NEED TO SLEEP, whilst being polite and keeping face?. I spend half an hour trying earplugs, sandwiching my head between pillows, swearing in Greek to myself and then I breathe in, smile and walk out to the veranda. The women are washing in sarongs by the water tanks between the restaurant and the residential building. No running water for the Khmer, just my highness (I am so embarrassed). They look at me kindly smiling, pointing at the building behind our ‘home’ immediately grasping why I am up.

I speak with Papok the only girl that speaks some English at the place. Buddhist families here have random celebrations that involve playing beautiful traditional music on loudspeakers. Apparently this could go on for days…

Arun is the hostel I am staying at. Papok is a bright young girl and the niece of the owner, a rich but honourable Khmer who had time to listen to Phalla and give me place to stay at a reasonable price (other people just dismissed his gentle and unassertive manner). His restaurant is run by a collective of smiling, proud, caring women and their children, who are given board and payment in return. Ming Pow (Auntie Pow) is my favourite. She comes and sits with me every morning talking to me in Khmer. I don’t understand a thing but I am so grateful for the company and her loveliness.  I see her as the leader and Matriarch and I think they all do too. But I have not yet established whether they are all related. Another girl tells me they are in broken English but when she says ‘ No father’ and wells up I stop and embrace her. It is clear by the resemblance that Ming Houn and Houn are mother and daughter. And so are Ming Pol and Seng Chium. There are also other girls who are very shy and I have not met properly yet. There are also two boys who roam the site and sleep outside in net beds guarding the yard.

I had a curfew the first couple of nights. A metallic fence is wheeled over in front of the restaurant as soon as the last customers leave as early as 10pm. The first night I went for a walk at 10 as I needed to shake off 17 hours of flight. I had to wake up the boy to open the gate when I returned half an hour later.  After this I had to ask the owner for a gate key. It is not ok for me to wake up the young boy just to let me in (even if is just 11 I come back and despite the owner’s assurance that ‘this is the way things are done’. I was prepared to move rather than be a heartless cow or run to return to my room at 10.

Mr Green I think when you asked Phalla to take care of me, he decided that the best way to do this is to lock me up in a ‘nunnery’ and give me a curfew. But no! I now roam the streets of Siem Reap free on a bicycle, occasionally getting lost and going around in circles.

Phalla, like the Khmer people I am staying with, is a good and honourable Khmer respected by his community. Do not be fooled, I have not romanticised Cambodia at all. Like every country and culture it has a good and bad side because this is how they world and humanity is. But I am saving these other type of observations for later and still feel privileged this place is letting me in.

Today Phalla has planned a tour cycle ride for me to show me routes, important places and sights and of course one way systems. I try to tame my urge to go fast on the bicycle: after all I have nowhere to be or to rush to. Cycling in Siem Reap is not dangerous because of heavy traffic or high speed. It is dangerous because of the opposite. Everyone has their own slow rhythm that they will not speed up or slow down for anyone. Sometimes I have to waive and point to make sure that I am acknowledged before I take a turn onto a busy road. It is like I don’t exist and clearly I have to go for it if I want to move, hoping for the best. It somehow works!

Today we visit the heart of the city centre, the old market, the Golden Temple where Dan and Lucy stayed (I like!), the night market, a free wi fi internet café. I learn where the banks, the hospital, the most beautiful Wat (temple) of Siem Reap are. I love the cycle ride. There is a nice breeze and I am enjoying this despite the lack of sleep. I mind map Siem reap and hope that I can find my way back. The Old market is full of Barrangs and tourist spots. Barrang is a derogatory word used for the French colonialists and consequently for all similarly looking westerners. Phalla tells me that it is used to reprimand children who don’t behave. ‘Eat your food or the Barrang will come get you’. It has a negative connotation. Could you blame the Khmer?  (At this point I am embarrassed to admit that I have missed a bit of Barrang conversation).

Sivatha Boulevard

, our next destination, is a big avenue that sits in stark contrast to the villages I visited yesterday, where there is no electricity and running water. A big busy road, with many banks, a shopping mall and a KFC! Two different worlds just 20 minutes away from each other.

We next cycle through the French quarter, named after its French styled architecture and buildings. There is nothing else there. It is quiet and seems like an area reserved for luxury accommodation for the fortunately wealthy. The Rich Khmer or rich visitors as Phalla says.

The final stop is the Khmer people’s shrine. I have been reading about the killing of many Khmer in the late 1970s and early eighties (the killing fields).  I see a glass tower with the bones and skulls of many of the victims. I see pictures of Pot Pol (the beloved one), the leader of the Khmer rouge. I am not left indifferent by such historic events. It hurts when nations attack their own and bleed themselves. But I have read very little about Cambodian history, so I can’t pretend to be the best informed. During the Pot Pol regime, everyone was made to work in the rice fields. Educated people and the rich or non farmers who did not abide by the rules of the regime were the first killed. The aim was to create a society of equals and they judged that drastic measures were necessary. But then it got out of hand. It was a general Lon Nol that did most of the killing. Funnily enough, I read that Pot Pol came for a very privileged and read family (something that he had in common with other communist regime leaders).

Phalla tells me that his parents were introduced during that time. They did not fall in love but the regime matched them up, asked them to reproduce and took away their first son to indoctrinate. Phalla does not know where his brother is. But he is not upset about it. I think this is because the Cambodian just deal with things as they come and do not waste their energy. The hurt and pain is internalised and dealt with.  Nor does he think that the regime was necessarily bad. And this is not because he supports the regime. I listen to the stories he tells me and am amazed to find out that the Khmer are not taught history at school. People who want to find out about Cambodian history have to make their own enquiries and look to accounts from abroad.  I think it is horrible not to know your own history but could dwelling on the past prevent you from building a future? And is it not true that sometimes that international accounts are the most accurate or the only ones at times of great destruction and war?  I don’t know. I am left with a lingering question. 

Soon I remember an earlier conversation with Phalla: the Khmer language has neither past nor future tense. Could these be the most fortunate people on earth truly living in the moment?

I reserve forming an opinion.

My good Khmer is tired and I need some Barrang time alone and hopefully with some other wandering travellers. And the discussion of politics should be left alone when tired…