Daily Journal

 (Wednesday) March 1:

(Thursday)
March 2:

(Friday)
March 3:

Friday at Last...

I'm packed and ready to walk out to door -armed with 
everyone's good advice. Bring Power Bars (Megan) Don't wear Jewelry 
(Cher) Photocopy your passport in case you get robbed (Stef) Be 
Careful (just about everyone) and my personal favorite from a random 
documentary filmmaker who has been there before - "Don't eat at Happy 
Harry's Pizza - they season their pizza with marijuana."  Happy indeed.
It's hard to believe a year's worth of work, pre production wise, is 
finally on the verge of becoming a reality.  It's so gratifying to 
witness the development of a concept into a reality.  I can hardly 
wait to get there and get going.  Though I could certainly do without 
the 22 hours of travel starting at midnight.  First up -  14 hours to 
China.  At midnight.  In the middle seat.  Then onto Cambodia after a 
layover.  I hope to send back amazing photos and daily updates and 
please leave us messages!

(Saturday)
March 4:

In the Air...

It’s 12:43 am in the morning and there’s a complete stranger reclining in my lap.  This of course perhaps requires a bit more explanation.  By the airline.  Which touted on their website big beautiful new planes with LCD screens in the back of every seat.  I am here to tell you this plane makes southwest seem like first class.  This plane was new.  Somewhere around the year 1970.  The seat in front of me is reclined so far back I feel like I’m dating the passenger in 50B.  Not much room under the seats.  So little in fact Theresa put her carry on above us.  Now we’re at 25,0000 feet and have discovered that bag contains her glasses, her cell phone (still on) and the splitter we were going to use to share the portable DVD player.  Now this might be a crisis since it’s 13.75 hours till Taipei.  But lucky us!  The plane has to make an unscheduled stop in a couple of hours in Seattle because the headwinds are so bad we need extra fuel.  Yeah, like I said, lucky us….

Two hours later, we’ve arrived in Seattle.  We’re both still trying to make sense of it.  Fly two hours to land and refuel for an hour.  Why not just fill the gas tank in Los Angeles?  But I digress…

Theresa and I take this opportunity to stretch our legs for the long leg ahead.  First, however, we must get past the woman in the aisle seat, cocooned up in her blanket sound asleep.  I gently nudge her and motion we need to get out.  She nods in understanding and then moves her feet about a half a centimeter to the right and promptly tunes us out.  Unlike Theresa, who goes to yoga, I sadly lack the flexibility to gracefully vault over our traveling companion. So my dismount into the aisle left much to be desired.  We took over the section by the emergency exit to flex our cramping bodies, and this only two hours in.  Theresa decides she needs another blanket to help pad the uncomfortable seats and saunters off in search of assistance.  She’s back a few minutes later with a bemused expression.  Apparently the stewardess in the back is reading a “how to” manual, perhaps ‘So you want to be a flight attendant’ - not the most reassuring sight.  But it’s time to take off again and so we vault back over the woman in our aisle and settle in. 

…. We’ve entered the twilight zone.  Fourteen hours has never seemed so long.  It’s hard to believe we have another layover in Taipei.  I point this out to Theresa but it’s not very appreciated.   Five bad movies, one questionable dinner of “bacon” and “chicken” and a random giant container of Raman noodles later, we’re finally there.  Then it is back through security to get to our connection to Phonem Pehn.  As we arrive at our gate, we realize we left our pillow on the plane.  The 24 hours back will not be nearly as pleasant.

(Sunday)
March 5:

Twenty-Four Hours Later...

We’ve arrived!  On a very tiny jet I might add.  Theresa got some amazing photos as we came in.  The heat and humidity was the first thing we noticed.  We got our bags and were met by a driver from Hanuman Films.  It was quite an experience as he drove us through the city to the hotel.  The roads were overrun by people on motorbikes - sans helmets, sometimes four to a bike or loaded down with things like open containers of fuel – as they kamikaze their way through the street.  At one intersection a cop waved us through a red light so our driver went through and nearly took out a dozen bikers coming the opposite way.  It was hard to take everything in and once we’ve had a chance to rest and start exploring the city, I’ll hopefully be able to send back some clearer thoughts.  However, I’ll leave you with this:  I walked from my hotel to a nearby store to buy some bottled water.  I had been planning to ask our contact at Hanuman Films where in the city the street children frequent.  I don’t need to ask any longer.  In those three dusty, grimy blocks, children and beggars besieged me.  A sickly woman with a naked baby held her hand out from where she sat looking up at me from the curb.  Poverty is everywhere and I’ve only gone three blocks.  May God give me the strength this week to go even further.

Sunday Evening –

Theresa and I are staying on the Tonle Sap  River.  This evening we decided to walk along the busy front with our cameras and get a sense of this city we have come to document.  By the dozens, men young and old are lining the streets with Tuk Tuks – motorized carts with which they ferry travelers around the city.  Cries of "Tuk Tuk, miss!" greet us every few steps.  An enterprising man offers to hire himself for any day this week to bring us to the Killing Fields and other area of interest all day for $15 and gives us his printed card.  We have no way to call him but promise to look for him near our hotel.  Minutes later, we consider hiring someone just to get us across the street.  Sunday, we soon learn, is a special day in which everyone comes out and rides around.  The main street by the river is stuffed with motorbikes, Tuk Tuks and cars whipping around at high speeds - with much beeping, laughing and enjoyment.  Getting across the street is much like a roller derby.  We are advised by a fellow Westerner to simply walk slow and hope they miss us, rather than the other way around. 

Walking along the river is our first lesson in how hard this is going to be and how amazing this city and her people are.  Street vendors selling their wares, families spread out on colorful mats, a group of young men playing a game that at first glance resembled volleyball but is played with a light bamboo-like ball using your feet and head only.  Street children laugh, play and beg along the strip.  They are easy to spot in their worn, mis-sized clothing, dirty faces and bare feet.  Some have wares to sell, some simply beg.  Others, badly crippled, hold out their hands on their own or are wheeled about by a family member asking for Rels – the local currency.  We are charmed to death by one little boy selling books who is excited we are from America, which he mistakes for Australia and he gives us his best “Good Day Mate” impersonation.  Naked or half clothed children are not an uncommon sight.  On the banks of the river are make-shift camps.  Dirty clothes are stung up around these little camps where children squat and gather in their own groups.  I watch one boy, perhaps around nine, prepare a plastic bag and begin huffing.  I don’t know whether he is huffing paint thinner, glue or some other substance.  All I know is he is trying to forget and I will never forget.

Theresa and I decide to grab a bite to eat and choose a place called “The Jungle Room”  We choose it for the ability to sit outside and watch the activity and for the fact it appears to be very popular with Westerners and therefore probably safe to eat.  The food is in fact wonderful, but it was hard keeping our appetites and our composure when confronted by the scores of hungry children trying to catch our eye.  What do you do?  Guilt, sadness, and anger over the situation – a boy of about eight appears next to me. He doesn’t want to be seen by the police lingering near the entrance, so he squats down between two large potted plants next to my chair and looks up at us with big sad eyes.  He points to my plate and then to his mouth, pleading.  I don’t know the words, but I understand the language.  It’s heartbreaking.  I palm some vegetables into his hand and he shoves them into his mouth and scampers off.  Theresa and I look at our plates of food and want none of it now.  We continue to pick away.  I’m distracted and frustrated.  Faced with something like that, how much difference do all our good intentions make?  How much change can we really effect and does it really help?  Certainly that boy cares nothing for documentaries.  All he wanted was a bite to eat.  It gives us a lot to think about. 

It gets harder and harder to eat, caught up as we are in watching the children wander the streets around us.  Babies caring for babies.  A young girl around nine has a two year old slung around her hip in a make-shift carrier.  They both look tired and ill.  She begs near us before wandering up the street.  Theresa and I look at one another and stuff our plate of rice into some tinfoil.  I grab this and a couple of tomatoes and chase the children up the street, slipping it into her hand.  The two year old is lethargic.  The girl feeds them both muttering thank you, thank you, thank you.  I return to the table feeling even worse.  Are we doing to right thing by giving them food? Or are we just contributing to a circle of dependency?  The hard questions are now harder to answer.  We take the rest of our food to go, slip the box to another young boy hiding in the planters and head back to our hotel.

(Theresa Thoughts): 

“Please?” he said, motioning to his mouth with his hands.  “Please?” he said again with his eyes.  And there it was, distilled into one question and desperate brown eyes.  What should we do?  What will (it) do?  Not nearly enough it feels tonight.

(Monday)
March 6:

 Monday – The Road To The Killing Fields

Theresa and I are up early for our first full day in Cambodia.  Theresa has in fact been up for hours due to the jet lag and the heat.  Our air conditioner turned itself off sometime during the night and our room is stifling.  I sense her at the foot of my bed turning it back on.  I’m grateful but too worn out to even lift my head.  Around eight we are back at the little café on the corner, getting coffee (Long Blacks) and connecting to the Internet to send information back.  Again, for a moment, it is easy to forget where we are and imagine we are simply sitting back in Los Angeles at a Starbucks.  We don’t have much time because we have a nine a.m. meeting with Kulikar from Hanuman Films.  Kulikar has been a Godsend in the preceding months helping me organize this trip and acting as my Cambodia liaison.  And for all of my family and friends who have been vocal in expressing their dismay over Theresa and I traveling alone without a guy to some of the more poverty stricken and dangerous areas of the city, Kulikar has been the rebuttal argument to ease their fears -our male guide who knows the city well and will act as our escort during our visit.  So no one is more surprised than me when Kulikar turns out to be a woman.  (Theresa: Not just a woman, a tiny woman.) Not being familiar enough with Khmer names to know, I just simply assumed the head of the only film company in Cambodia was a man.  Shame on me and a good  lesson in my own preconceived notions.  She was wonderful and we had a very productive meeting seeing to all the details of what would be needed for the upcoming trips and filming.   We also finalized the details of the jeep rental for our trip to Siem Reap.  Theresa and I assumed the jeep rental meant we were driving ourselves.  And to be honest, we’ve been a little nervous now that we’ve seen the insane way everyone drives here.  Kulikar is horrified.  “No way!”  she says to us in no uncertain terms.  We are NOT driving ourselves.  She forbids it.  She can’t imagine that A:  we wanted to do it and B:  we thought she would send us off on our own like that.  We have a good laugh over it and secretly we are wicked relieved we don’t have to drive.  We wrap up the meeting.  We were supposed to go to the garbage dumps today but Kulikar was not feeling all that well so we rescheduled and opted to take this day to learn more about the history of the genocide that caused the abject poverty we plan to capture.

We hire a Tuk Tuk driver and negotiate for his services for the day - $15.  First, we head to S21.  Before Pot Pol and the Khmer Rouge came to power and committed their atrocities, S21 was the local high school.  Now it is a stark reminder of the not so distant past.  Turned into a prison for captured intellectuals and their families, as well as members of the Khmer Rouge who had fallen out of favor within their own party, it became a place of torture and murder.  Theresa and I silently took in the narrow 3’x6’ brick and wood cells with the chains and blood still staining the floor.  Photos of tortured bodies and people with numbers pinned to their very skin lined the walls.  Dozens of skulls, images of soldiers throwing babies into the air and shooting them – the jungle gym bars where high school kids once exercised turned into a torture device to dangle prisoners upside down for hours till they passed out.  I run into a woman from Nova Scotia who asks me if I am going to head to the second floor of the prison.  It’s creepy and overwhelming here and she doesn’t want to go upstairs herself.  She and I explore the second floor together, united in a friendship of shared sorrow at what other human beings are capable of doing to one another.  We exchange email addresses and part ways.

Theresa and I stop for lunch at a small café nearby.  Disabled beggars – one a father missing an arm and another a badly burned older man, plead with us for money on the dusty street outside.  It’s hard to say no – as soon as you pull out your wallet others surround you in similar condition.  We cannot help everyone and it hurts to know this.

After lunch we climb back into our Tuk Tuk and the driver starts the 30-kilometer drive to the Killing Fields.  We’ve been told we’re taking the good road, so I cannot even imagine what the bad road must be like.  Rough and pitted with potholes and garbage along the sides, we bounce along at a good clip.  After a few miles the driver stops at a roadside stand and purchases masks for both of us.  We’re extremely grateful.  The dust from the dirt road is smothering us and reeking havoc with our eyes and cameras.  Ramshackle shelters made of straw, old board and aluminum siding line the way.  Naked and half clothed children play in the hot sun among free roaming cattle, chickens, mangy looking dogs and cats.  The smell from the river is atrocious. 

We arrive at the Killing Fields and hire a guide to take us through.  Like every other Cambodian we have met and talked to, he has lost family to the Khmer Rouge genocide.  His parents, grandparents and brother were all killed.  We walk through acres of land filled with deep pits – the remains of mass graves of those who died there.  One tree is marked “The Killing Tree” as a spot where children were dashed against its trunk to kill them.  Bits of bones and clothing line the way.  There is an old man working nearby.  Our guide explains he is a surviving victim of the fields.  He rakes a memorial site with one hand.  The other arm, scarred and stumpy from where they chopped off his hand.  Children of the poor families of the rural area are everywhere.  They certainly have the tourist trade down pat.  They run up to us and surround us chanting “Picture?  One two three Smile!”  They want us to take their pictures and then charge us a dollar for it.  A few dollars and a dozen children later we catch on and have to start saying no.  Our guide leads us down the path toward a small pond.  We are drawn to the screams of laughter.  About a dozen boys are splashing and playing in the water.  Children like any other, they joke and wrestle and throw one anther into the pond.  We decide it is well worth another dollar and film them in their play.  They are happy to oblige us and show off, grinning.  The guide explains the pond they are swimming in is a burial spot.  We watch as the boys splash around.  There is something both devastating and innocent about these children at play in a place where their families have been murdered and buried.

By the end of the day, we are dusty and drained and ready to go back to the hotel for some much needed water, reflection and rest.  Theresa looks at me and dead pans “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when we get home, I’m never sitting next to you again.”  72 hours side by side on a cramped plane, a bumpy Tuk Tuk and hovered over our computers editing shots and blogs….  it’s hard to believe it is only Monday.

This evening after a short rest we meet Kulikar for dinner and drinks.  We want to have some traditional Khmer food so Kulikar brings us to a nearby restaurant.  Theresa and I have tried very hard to follow the traveler's guide for eating safely so it is with a lot of dismay that the beef dish I ordered that sounded so good is actually made of raw beef marinated in lime juice with shredded lettuce.  I’m positive I am going to die.  While we are enjoying our drinks the power goes out.  Kulikar explains that power is a problem here.  The government planned very poorly when building the water powered plants that service the city and when it is dry season, the water gets too low and the power often goes out.  Soon the restaurant gets its generator going and we are back in business.  I hear a meow and notice a mangy little kitten sitting the bar behind me.  I recognize it as the little fur ball I had seen the night before that Theresa forbad me to pick up and cuddle.  She knows my love of animals and also knows the doctor warned me not to touch any of them before I left.  I’m here to keep her from wandering off into the woods to snap photos on her own and she’s here to keep me from dying of rabies.

Our conversation soon takes a somber turn.  We ask Kulikar about herself.  At thirty two she is so young, but not young enough to not remember or have been a victim of the genocide.  She comes from a large family and after the Khmer Rouge, the only ones left standing were her and her mother.  She cried as she told us of her uncle who had been tortured and died at the very prison we had been at that day  - S21.  Every Cambodian, she told us, every single one – have similar stories.  It is humbling to hear one so personal.

After dinner we pack up our leftovers and Theresa and I head out in search of children to give them to.  It isn’t long before we spot a familiar figure.  It is the young girl from Sunday evening with the baby slung listlessly at her hip.  She is wandering the streets at night as before, begging for food.  She is becoming a fixture for us.  Theresa had seen her that morning and given her the leftovers from her lunch.  We catch up with her and wordlessly hand over the boxes.  She finds a spot next to a large potted plant and sits down.  We watch her from afar feeding the baby.  I resolve to ask the CCF if they can’t look into her situation.  We have no idea if she has parents, but it is clear she is the primary caregiver for the baby.  I have no idea what she makes of us.  Day to day, the only thing she probably thinks about is how to get through it.  We head to bed.

MONDAY EVENING FROM THERESA:

Okay, this is going in the blog.  I know it’s mostly Heather’s place to write about our experience, and she’s doing a wonderful job of it.  In fact she’s at the coffee shop right now, uploading her latest thoughts.  And me?  I’m here alone in the dark, with no air conditioning and I’m locked in the room.  That’s right, not out of the room, but in it.   They have a very unusual key system at this hotel.  You get only key one per room.  And then when you get inside the room, it neatly slips into a “key switch” that turns on the electricity in the room.  No lights will go on without it in its little slot.  This system was obviously developed in the “pre-digital” era -- it’s been a balancing act to charge all of our various electronics, as it’s impossible to do while we’re out of the room with the key.

So today after our dusty tuk tuk trip, I felt like shutting my eyes on the bed in the air conditioning for a few minutes while she went out to the internet café.  Thoughtfully, Heather said she would take the key with her so if I fell asleep, I wouldn’t have to get up or even hear her knock to let her in.  Neither of us remembering about the small matter of needing it to power the A/C.  Or the lights.  Darkness is falling and at least I have the glow of the computer screen (thankfully holding a charge).  And she locked the room from the outside as she left.  Again, neither of us remembering about the odd configuration here where you need a key to open the door even from the inside.

Naturally, I got my second wind shortly after she left and since it was dark in here, I thought I’d just join her at the café.  But as I gather my things, I realize… I can’t get out.  Alternatively, taking a shower (which I desperately need) in the complete darkness holds no real appeal. So here I am.  “Resting”.  In the dark, non-A/C-filled room.  One can only hope that there is no fire while she’s out, because she’d have a hell of a time sifting through the ashes upon her return.  But we all know that she could.

Theresa

P.S.  Heather just got back.  Turns out she took my wallet too…

(Tuesday)
March 7:

Tuesday Morning...

Theresa gets up at the crack of dawn because Kulikar told us that people line the riverbank starting at 3:30 to exercise, meditate and set up for the day.  Morning is not exactly my strong suit, so she heads out the door on her own while I struggle to come into focus with the world.   She comes back so excited and enthusiastic about what she sees, she’s convinced me to get up at dawn the next morning with her (Provided she wakes me up with a coffee in her hand.)   I’ll let her tell you about her experiences herself in a later blog.

By 8 a.m. I am at the coffee shop.  I walk in and the girl behind the counter smiles.  She knows my order by heart and I love the fact I’ve become a regular here.  Power is low this morning and the Internet connection is very bad, so I am unable to send out any information.   We finally get through and then we head off to breakfast.  We’re careful to order the orange juice out of the box rather than fresh but totally forget to ask for no ice, so when it arrives Theresa and I madly fish ice cubes out with our straws.   It’s so hard to remember everything we are supposed to be good about.  We decided on eggs for breakfast – which is good.  Not the eggs, but the fact we ate them before going out to the market to see where they came from.  No more eggs for us.  Or fish.  Or pig’s snout.    We load up with all our gear.  It’s 115 degrees in the shade with 100% humidity.  So why did I pack 14 pairs of socks again?   

Our faithful Tuk Tuk guy is waiting near our hotel so we gather up our camera gear and head to the Russian market.  We spend some time in the tourist’s area haggling over gifts for our family.  True to form, Theresa manages to lead me right off the beaten path into the decidedly “non” tourist area of the market.  Here there are no colorful booths and shops.  Poverty and dirt, rotting meat and fish, dirty children and elderly people sit lethargically in the oppressive heat.  We wonder how it is possible everyone does not get ill.  The heat is unbearable and the meat and fish cannot possibly last long in this sun.    The children actively participate in helping out in some stalls and shyly have smiles for us as we take photos and footage.  The smell is horrible and I’m a little worried I wore open sandals as I carefully pick my way through muddy spots running with guts and flies. Guess I should have worn the socks after all.  We work our way carefully back to our Tuk Tuk guide, ready for a cold shower and a drink of water back at our hotel before heading out again.

Now comes a lesson in why we’ve been told NOT to give money to the little children begging on the street.  Food = Yes.  Money = No.  This of course is way easier said than done, but we’ve resolved the stick to the instructions.  We are walking along heading to the National Museum when we spot a group of barefooted-street kids playing in the park.  One little guy, maybe four, breaks away from the group.  He is spinning an old tire along with a stick.  They don’t see us because we’re a little bit away so we take the opportunity to grab some photos.  Then the little guy with the tire spots us.  He knows what he’s doing and he makes his way right up to us smiling and playing.  We snap away and then he asks for a dollar.  Because we’ve taken so many photos, we feel he deserves it.  So I hand him a dollar and we head off.  Within minutes cries of “Dollar! Dollar!”  Fill the air.  I turn to see the little guy running across the park waving the dollar to his friends.  Like hunters targeting their prey a dozen little heads swivel in our direction.  Theresa and I only make it to the next street before the kids have chased us down.  We are surrounded.  As we walk along toward our destination, little hands and pleading faces are literally all around us.  It’s actually hard to move.  In desperation, we duck into a nearby clothing store.  Yes, two grown women hiding behind a rack of clothing from a pack of little boys who have plopped down on the front steps and prepare to wait us out.  Realizing we cannot hide in the store forever, we venture outside and are promptly surrounded again.   

I absolutely cannot take it anymore so I head over to the closest vendor stand and buy a bag of sweets and snacks.  I hold it out and it is quickly snatched away.  Theresa and I see our escape and hustle down the street as fast as we can.  But…not fast enough.  One persistent little guy is still with us.  He follows us for blocks – pleading and begging and tugging at our sleeves.  Barefoot, shirtless, dirty and desperate.  My head says NO but my heart says YES.  So I fish out yet another dollar and slip it into his hands.  But you can believe I scanned the street first to make sure there was no one else around.  We stop for lunch at a restaurant called Friends.  It is run by a non-profit that teaches street children skills.  The restaurant is staffed by former street children and all proceeds go to them. Now I just have to say I have never appreciated water as much as I do here.  Water. Icy cold water.  Any time I want back home -  not so much here.  You have to be so careful.  But it is torture to have it in front of you and not be able to drink it.  We’re hot.  Tired.  Sweaty.  Thirsty.  And two big dripping frosty glasses of ice water are plunked down in front of us.  It is pure torture.  I wait till no one is looking and dump it into a potted plant behind Theresa.  We opt for alcohol inside.  Less germs.

Filled with children guilt, we hired a Tuk Tuk to take us to Wak Phnom – a park with a giant Buddhist temple.  Now some people would go for the park.  Some for the temple.  Theresa?  She wants to go because she wants to ride the elephant.  We know we’re suffering from guilt when we actually feel bad about hiring another Tuk Tuk driver instead of the one we’ve been using the last couple of days.  It feels like we are cheating on him; even though he is nowhere around and not likely to really care.  No more guilt we think as we head toward the temple steps.  Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.  The temple steps are long and steep.  The sun beats down and the climb is daunting.  Daunting because on every step leading to the top on either side of us is a victim of the land mines.  Men –young and old - maimed and scarred hold out their hands at us.  They are missing arms, legs and sometimes both.  One man is missing the whole lower half of his body.  We do not possibly have enough money to give to everyone and if we even so much as pulled out our wallet we would be overrun.  We can do nothing but avert our eyes and climb to the top because if we look them in the eye, we will not be able to pass them by.  Hopeless, Helpless.  Feelings we’re becoming accustomed too.

At the top of the steps leading into the temple sits a man with a cage filled with little birds.  I was a little nervous, having seen similar cages it the parks among the vendors and I sincerely hoped they were not being sold as snacks.  You wouldn’t think it was so far fetched after walking through the market earlier.  But the birds were for good karma.  You buy them in order to release them into the sky.  Feeling like we could use some of that, I bought four birds and we let them go.  The birds will have to be our animal fix.  Much to Theresa’s dismay, the elephant was packing it in for the evening when we arrived.  After getting a well-deserved bath (the elephant, not Theresa) she and her trainer ambled away up the street with the motorbikes and Tuk Tuks. 

We took off our shoes and entered the temple.  People sat alone on mats with incense -  praying, meditating or just enjoying the serenity of the temple.  The deep, beautiful tones of wooden chimes and ringing bells filled the room.  Theresa joined the others on the mat for some quiet contemplation.  As I watched and waited just outside the door, I heard a little voice at my feet.

“What name?”

I looked down.  A little boy around seven with a runny nose and big brown eyes sat on the concrete.  He pointed at himself.  “Paine” he said.  “Paine” He pointed at me “What name?”

I hunkered down next to him for some quiet contemplation of my own.

“Heather” I said.

“Hee ther”  Paine said back and grinned.  “Hee ther”  We sat together outside for a few minutes not speaking.  Then he waved goodbye and scampered off.  I spotted a girl selling snacks and bought a couple bags of chips and kettle corn and went off in search of Paine.  He was curled up in the corner on the other side of the temple.  I knelt next to him and handed him the bags. “For you Paine”  He took them out of my hands and touched my arm.  “Thank you Hee ther.”  I know I’m helping myself and my feelings of guilt over not being able to do more, but I don’t know how else to go about it day to day.  Certainly we have long term plans for raising awareness and generating activism to help these kids, but Theresa and I are here right now – in this moment, trying not to hand over our wallets to street kids and trying not to feel horrible for walking past men with no legs.  So yes, buying a bag of chips for Paine was just as much for me as it was for him. 

Theresa and I make our way back to the Tuk Tuk driver.  We’re planning on heading back to the hotel and we are really feeling guilty.  So much so, we don’t want our other Tuk Tuk driver to see us in someone else's carriage!  We actually have him drop us off up the street from our hotel and walk the rest of the way.  In our own heads much?  As soon as we’re back, I grab the DV Cam and head to the river to do some filming.  The street kids are fascinated by the camera and I spend quite a bit of time with them showing them on the screen what I’ve filmed.  Too soon the light is gone and I’ve got to head back.  We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow at the city dumps and we need some rest.  Emotionally and physically.  The riverbank is getting quiet.  Till tomorrow then.

THERESA: TUESDAY MORNING

The elephant made it all worthwhile.

Ah…. Blessed, air-conditioned sleep.  Wait, the room is getting lighter… no…not yet, not yet...Last night we heard that the riverfront outside our hotel was busy with a different set of people in the early morning hours. As early as 4 am.  Well… I wasn’t that industrious, but I did want to be out for the dawn light.  After all, it was our second day here, and I hadn’t gotten any shots in the dawn light yet!  Jeez.  I’m slippin’.  So, as the gray light filtered into the room, I hauled myself out of bed to strap on the 40 pounds of camera gear and head out. (I left the key for Heather.)  Grin.

Boy, it was beautiful out.  A quiet, gray morning.  But the river front was bustling.  All those who’d been selling items till midnight last night were still there, selling breakfast.

Children asleep near their parent’s feet stirred, got up, and chased the pigeons round and round.  Groups of citizens gathered around a man with a mike and a boom box, and – all together now – started doing stretches and exercises.   A nice Khmer man with a cute son sat down near me and struck up a conversation.  Old women walked past, smiling and holding out tin cups.  One came up to me, saying things I couldn’t understand.  I turned to the man and said, “Does she want food, or money?”  “Just say ‘hello’”, he replied.

He then pulled out a small bill and put it in her cup. We talked some more; he gave me his thoughts on helping out the poor if you could.  That’s what Jesus says in the Bible.  In fact, had I heard of Jehovah?  Good God, I didn’t think I’d get hit up by a Jehovah’s Witness at 6 am on a riverbank in Cambodia.  You just never know.

One woman with a full kitchen strapped to her shoulders knelt and served this man’s son and wife something white in a bowl.  Just trying to make conversation, I asked what it was.  Uh Oh!  Now they’re asking if I’d like to try some… 300 ruhls.  The equivalent of less than 25 cents.  Was my gastrointestinal integrity worth sacrificing for a quarter?  I was feeling bold and said yes.  She scooped a gelatinous white substance into the bowl, along with some boiled (I hoped) water, and then poured a kind of sweet milk over it.  Somewhere I remember in the back of my mind reading in the guidebook that the three things you should avoid here are the water, the dairy products and gelatinous white substances.  Oh well, I was in it now, as I tried a small spoonful.  Hmmm. Tasted just like porridge.  Amazingly, it’s now 7 hours later and I’m still not feeling it. 

Just then, a large elephant strolled by down the street amidst cars, buzzing motorbikes, pushcarts and tuk tuks.  Calmly. Purposefully.  All the way down the main boulevard.

Late Tuesday Night – Side Note:

Theresa and I have just taken our first malaria pills in preparation for our trip to Siem Reap.  We’ve taken them with food as instructed -  french fries, a piece of chocolate mousse cake and a beer.  Yeah, why did we think we were gonna lose weight on this trip?  There are plenty of things for us to be careful of, but we’ve taken the advice to heart that if it is fried – probably all the germs are dead.  That doesn’t apply to the cake, I know, but it was the only thing that got Theresa up out of bed for a late dinner.

(Wednesday)
March 8:

Wednesday Morning:

The wake up call comes at 5:30 am and I forget rather quickly how charming and inspiring it was to see Theresa so happy after being out at dawn yesterday.  Why did I agree to get up this early?  Theresa is treated to the sight of me very grumpily and silently staggering to the shower.  I notice she did not bring me coffee.  This could be dangerous.  She tells me I’ll thank her later.  I stand under the cold shower and think not so thankful thoughts.  Then we are out and into the early morning light of the riverside.  It is already bustling with people.  Children struggle to rise from their spots along the walkway where they have spent the night.  A badly crippled boy, whom we have seen being wheeled on an old wheelbarrow up and down the side walk, is sleeping covered in a filthy blanket. A girl of two sits on the concrete naked and in her own excrement.  I continue along and almost stumble across five sleeping boys between the ages of nine and eleven.  They are simply sprawled on the sidewalk, cuddled close together.  They could be boys at a sleepover the way they have fallen together to rest after a hard day, but for the place that surrounds them.  A little girl about eight is trailing along with Theresa.  She is hungry-no surprise-and very sick.  Green mucous and a deep cough... she clearly is in need of antibiotics.  Theresa calls to me that she wants to buy her some breakfast.  We set off - the three of us-  looking for the street vendor Theresa met the day before.  However, it isn’t long before four of her friends find us.  Three girls and a boy – they join our group as we walk along.  We feel like the "pied piper".  Like typical kids they are clamoring for ice cream and Theresa is lecturing me that we need to feed them something healthy for breakfast.  Before we know it, we’ve been expertly led to a nearby restaurant and have all sat down to breakfast.  It’s a noisy, joyous affair as the kids order chicken and rice and strawberry milk.  They tell us their names.  Most speak very little English, except for the boy, who seems to be the oldest and the leader of the little group.  They are delighted by our cameras and take pictures of themselves and us.  Theresa and I are sure we are going to wind up sick.  Two of the children have deep, rumbling coughs and the little girl who caught our eye originally is curled up in her chair.  Drinking the milk hurts her chest, the boy tells me.  The food arrives and the kids happily dig in.  A woman from Hong Kong approaches me and introduces herself.  She also works with street children and is happy to see us with them.  The boy tries to give me a lesson in Khmer.  He points to items on the table and says them in English, then in Khmer for me.  My pronunciation makes him smile.  As breakfast nears its end, the kids don’t want to leave us.  It’s time for more sad eyes.  “Sole?”  They ask me pointing to their dirty, cut up feet.  “Sole?”  “Shoes?” 

We head outside and find ourselves with five clinging kids.  They hold our hands and lean into us, cuddling.  It doesn’t take me long to give in.

“Show me the shoes,” I say.

We are off – the line of us, all holding hands as the kids laugh and lead us through the morning traffic.  They dance and spin as they hold onto me and soon we are on a side street market.  Five pairs of shoes later we are heading back to our hotel.  On the way, the boy dashes down a cramped dirty alley where he apparently lives and reemerges a few minutes later wearing a pair of socks.  He is utterly pleased. And quite a site.  A black Britney Spears tee shirt, gym shorts, duck socks, checked yellow sneakers – mismatched and beautiful.  Regretfully we part with them at our hotel and they wave as they dash across the street back to the river.  Theresa and I make a beeline for our hotel, strip off our clothes and shower.  Germs, dirt, lice and who knows what else – we can’t take any chances of catching something.  One hot shower, soap and a bottle of Purell sanitizer later, we get dressed and head to the dumps.  (Guess where we’ll be later?  Back in the shower) Theresa doesn’t even want to put her pants back on till the last minute, so she’s running around in her underwear while we step over the pants in the middle of the room.  Kulikar is going to be a few minutes late so I’m heading downstairs with some socks to see if the kids are still around.  After all, I did bring 14 pairs of them.

Later that day –

Was it only this morning we were at breakfast?  It is five o’clock and it has been a long day – mentally and physically.  Kulikar arrives to escort us to the dump and it is good to see her.  She is wonderful, charming and already an invaluable assert to this production.  We stop at a market to pick up things for the children at the dump.  Kulikar’s advice is to bring things, but not pull them out till after we have finished our job of capturing film and footage.  After some debate, we settle on four large bags of fruit, hats to shield from the sun, and a box of facemasks. 

I think I am prepared for this.  I really do.  After all, I have read about it, heard about it, even seen pictures of it.  This is why I’m here.  But I feel my words will be utterly inadequate to describe what I have witnessed today.

A heavy haze of smoke hangs over acres upon acres of smoldering garbage.  The landfill is enormous, stretching as far as the eye can see.   Hundreds of people are already there picking through the refuse.  We pull on the facemasks Kulikar has brought.  The sting of the smoke in our eyes is nothing compared to the rotting, cloying smell.  Standing in the dump are make shift shelters – homes – for these desperately poor people.  The conditions are not fit for any human being, let alone for children.  Dozens and dozens and dozens of them.  While some are thankfully wearing rubber boots, other are barefoot.  It is unbearable.  I am in sneakers and feel it is not enough, let alone without shoes.  Massive dump trucks and backhoes move with surprising speed through the throngs of people, digging and dumping piles of fresh garbage.  The children are more agile than we are – more than once Theresa and I are yanked out of the path of a backhoe or truck.  We sink in the garbage as we try to maneuver around.  The children work diligently and for the most part, silently.  A new truck means new opportunity and as soon as one appears, everyone crowds for it – so close it is easy to see how someone could be run over or buried in the rubble.  I don’t know where to focus.  The flies swarm around me and the smoke fills me eyes.  I try not to breathe.  Snap a picture.  Grab a few minutes of film.  Turn.  Refocus.  There is another child picking through molded and rotten food.  There is one wrapping himself in a piece of old carpet he has hooked out of the pile.  Snap.  Focus. Turn.  A beeping startles me and a truck is right on top of me.  Kulikar yanks me out of the way.  It is slippery and hard to keep your footing.  My sneakers are covered with something slimy - God knows what.  It makes me nauseous to see children barefoot digging in this.  All of us are grim faced.  A little girl shyly tells Kulikar her hair clip is so pretty.  Kulikar pulls it from her head and hands it over.  The little girl’s eyes shine.  She is so filthy, but she feels like a princess with her new clip.  It is so hot and I wonder what they are drinking.  Kulikar lets me know later they drink contaminated sewer water that runs nearby.  An intelligent young man who speaks excellent English strikes up a conversation with Theresa.  He wants to know if she knows why they are here – why they live and work here and where they come from.  He is the picture of lost potential.  Given just a fraction of an opportunity, imagine what these kids could accomplish or do.  The key to changing the situation in her country, Kulikar says, is health and education.  Neither is in view here today.  After awhile, it just becomes overwhelming.  Theresa catches my eye and asks me if I’ve seen enough.  I had seen enough in the first five seconds.  We put away our cameras and pull out the fruit.  I am nearly pulled down by the hungry children that mob me.  I can barely keep my footing as I hand out the small fruits to eager hands.  The faces are all a blur to me.  One bag is gone, then another.  I try to hand some to Theresa to give out, but we give up.  It is almost impossible for me to move.  Too soon the fruit is gone.  We get out the masks.  The children snatch them up for their faces.  I distribute the hats based on who does not have one.  It is hard because there are way more kids than stuff.  We try to get something to everyone.  We head back to the car.  I pass a boy on the way.  He has his hat on his head and a mask in his pocket.  The juice from the fruit stains his face and he gives me a smile.  I think how Theresa and I will go back to our hotel and shower, sit down to a nice lunch have nice bed to sleep in.  He’s going to finish his piece of fruit and head back.  Another dump truck is coming.

(Thursday)
March 9:

Blog Side Story:  Chopsticks, Tuk Tuk drivers And The Search For Chanting Monks

Theresa thinks I need to write a little about some of the more light hearted events to counter balance the bleakness of yesterday.  After the dumps, we wound up at lunch with Kulikar at a place on the river.  This requires a little set up:  Before we came here we received lots of horror stories about the things we would have to avoid.  One of the sketchiest stories was related to us by our friend Liam.  He regaled Theresa with images of restaurants that reused chopsticks and silverware, simply dropping them back after use into a glass of warm water and then handed off to the next customer.  This was nasty enough to inspire Theresa to pack 40 pairs of disposable chopsticks with us, which we have carted around this past week.  However, the said warning never materialized, so Theresa got sick of carrying them around.  Murphy’s Law.  It even works here.  We sat down to eat and suddenly a glass of brackish water and chopsticks was plunked down in front of us.  Theresa and I looked at each other, she looked down at her backpack where the stupid chopsticks have been for four days and then back at me with a look of horror.  Then it happened, we just could not stop laughing.  Weeping with tears in our eyes, unable to explain to Kulikar what was so funny.  I’m sure it would have been highly insulting anyway.  With some hesitation, we slowly took chopsticks and furiously rubbed them down with tissues.  Remember the game Operation?  Then you can picture us eating – carefully picking up the food and trying to eat it off the chopsticks without our mouths actually touching them. 

Later that evening, the riverfront is jammed packed.  It is Women’s Day in Cambodia, which is a national holiday.  This is separate from Mother’s Day, which is also celebrated.  Sounds like something we Americans could take a page from.  Everyone celebrates and parties and Tuk Tuks and motorbikes cram the roads.  We briefly checked out the Fun Fair (basically a permanent carnival) at Kulikar’s suggestion, but decided we’d really rather have frozen daiquiris and some dinner.  Our Tuk Tuk driver was no where to be found, so we engaged another, told him to take us to the National Museum, which is only one of the biggest tourist and local attractions in the whole city, and set off.  He had cheerfully agreed with us that he could get us there.  It was only about two miles away.  Twenty wrong turns, five really dark, scary alleys, two stops for directions, one uncertain trek down the middle of a market where we briefly got stuck on a pile of garbage and forty five minutes later, we finally arrive.  All Tuk Tuk drivers are NOT created equal.

The one thing Theresa has wanted to do here (besides ride the elephant) is listen to the monks chanting.  Kulikar let us know if we got up at 5 am (already I was groaning inside) we could go to a temple and hear them chant.  But we could not go alone; we would have to be escorted by a man  (a real one this time, not Kulikar.)  She told us she would have a driver waiting for us at dawn to take us.  Five a.m. came way to soon for me.  Theresa, of course, was up and cheerful and ready to go.  I made it halfway up, groaned, and sprawled back on the foot of my bed - highly disgruntled.  Theresa came breezing out of the bathroom.  “You are a dramatic 'waker upper'”  she informed me, in no uncertain terms. 

It doesn’t take me long to wake up when we walk outdoors.  Kulikar has indeed sent a driver – with a motorbike.  Theresa and I look at each other.  We’ve seen up to five Cambodians on the back of these death traps, but they are a fraction of our size.  Well, if you can’t beat them…. We climb on.  I am hanging so far on the back, I am actually sitting on my hand that is clutching the back bar.  I wrap my arm around Theresa’s shoulder and whisper in her ear “Don’t you dare let me fall off this thing” She holds onto my right knee, which is comforting, but unless she’s the bionic woman, there’s not a chance she’s gonna save my neck if we hit a bump, the brakes, a Tuk Tuk, or a cow. 

We wind up at a temple, but the monks are not chanting.  It turns out someone has died.  Our driver takes us to another temple.  He insists we go inside and sit down.  Here there are monks chanting, but we notice other people as well and a large picture of a man.  The driver lets us know this is also for the man who died.  Basically, we’ve wandered into a funeral at five thirty in the morning.  Only with Theresa can I possibly wind up doing this.  We sit silently listening and paying our respects.  Then it is back to the motorbike.  Our driver wants to takes us on a ride around the river.  We look at each other and shrug.  Why not?  You only live once.

Thursday – Hope Among The Ruins – A Day At The CCF

At nine a.m. a petite, twenty-something, blond, young woman named Allie pops into the lobby.  After months of emails it is nice to meet her in person.  Allie works for the CCF or Cambodian Children’s Fund, the non profit partner on our project.  She’s come to bring us over to the shelter because we cannot possibly manage to carry all the wonderful supplies our friends and families have sent with us by Tuk Tuk.  As we haul out the two full suitcases, large plastic bag and backpack full of stuff, she is very grateful.  And so am I to everyone who sent the supplies with us.  I am here to tell you they are desperately needed and appreciated.  I cannot wait to get to the shelter and meet the kids.  Theresa and I are in dire need of some success stories after the horrors we have seen this last week.  I am anxious in particular to meet a little six year old named Navie, who I have fallen in love with on the CCF website. (You can see Navie’s "before" picture at the dump and "after" picture at the shelter by going to their website at www.cambodianchildrensfund.com and clicking on the children’s stories.)  I found myself drawn to her awful story and wondered how she was doing.

We arrived at the shelter, a wonderful large old four story building that schools, feeds, treats and provides a safe haven for 147 children, 100 of whom sleep there every night.  Beaming little faces excited to see us pull up and crowd around the truck.  Shy smiles and waves – many are learning English and are happy to practice it on us.  "Hello my name is…. and I am 'X' years old" was our common greeting the whole day.  Allie introduces us to Scott Neeson, CCF’s founder, with whom I have been corresponding with for the last year.  He is even more amazing, warm and selfless in person.  A red haired Scotsman with a heart of gold.  He gives us a tour of the facility, telling us stories here and there about the children and the backgrounds they come from.  Garbage pickers, street kids, abandoned, abused…the list goes on.  There is one girl with a badly scarred face from a kerosene explosion.  She giggles at me and waves.  A young boy with stage-four Aids is watching Peter Pan in his English class.  A girl that Scott found out in the providences,  when he was there on a visit, climbed in his lap.  When everyone went home that day, no one took her and simply left her there with him.  A little girl who is a humpback.  She is progressively getting worse and there is no surgeon in the country capable of dealing with the problem. Her name is Leyda.   And there is Navie in class.  Sound asleep with her head on the desk.  She is no bigger than a three year old.  Scott tells us she was feral when they first found her and that she’s quite the little mischievous imp now.   We are impressed with the organization and setup he has accomplished in just a few short years.  The children clearly love him and he clearly loves them.  When he interacts with each child, he makes them feel as if they were the most special kid in the room.  I watch as he moves through the classroom   - a touch on the back here, a pat on the head there.  Smiles for everyone.  It isn’t long before the children warm up to us.  I’m in the main lobby when little Navie, fresh from her nap in school, staggers into the room.  She clearly wakes up like me.  I say her name and she turns toward me.  Without any words or hesitation, she simply walks over and climbs into my arms.  She tucks her head on my shoulder.  I am in love.  J  A worker comes by and takes her from me after about fifteen minutes explaining that she is sick.  Good to know.

Little Leyda approaches me shyly with a book that we have just bought.  I see a little boy make off with a flashcard game from our stash.   I sit on the floor and Leyda leans into my side.  I open the book to read her a story and suddenly I am surrounded by about seven kids.  I read four stories, several twice.  At one point Navie makes her way back into the room and beelines for my lap.  I’ve already been exposed to the germs anyway.

We spend some time pointing to pictures in the book and naming objects, numbers and letters.  Scott comes by pulling on boots.  He is heading to the dumps with mosquito nets and wants us to come.  Thankfully, he has rubber boots for us as we were not expecting to go back to that horror so soon.  Scott is heading for a village of shacks at the dumps where the families are.  There are several CCF kids that have been MIA for a few days and Scott suspects their families have them back at the dump.  He also wants to hand out supplies and check on the health of a sick three year old he saw there last week.  While the dump was just as horrible today, there was a sense of hope as we walked around with Scott – seeing in action the power of one and the power to make a difference. 

We head back to the shelter feeling more positive than we have in days.  Leyda glues herself to my side for most of the afternoon.  Navie is napping again.  Theresa and I spend a great deal of time filming and interacting with the children and hearing their stories from Scott.  It is an overload of information and I cannot wait to really get started filtering it all for the project.   The doctor arrives around five to give shots and check on certain children and then it is time for arts and music classes.  There are several different classes going on at once and Theresa and I sample them all.  In the drama class, the students are all going through their lessons.  We take a seat to watch them.  They are all so happy and joyous it is hard to imagine where they came from.  Little Navie sees me across the room and decides she’s had enough class.  She breaks from the group and beelines over, climbing into my lap and cuddling.  Theresa gives me the eye.. “Yeah, I can see you’re just hating this”... I grin.

Too soon the day is done and we are headed back to our hotel.  For the first time, our exhaustion is mixed with excitement and a sense of hope.  We are leaving tomorrow for a few days to travel to the ruined temples at Angkor and will be out of internet range for a few days.  But what better images to leave you with than this day.  We’ll send the photos from CCF when we return.  Until then, peace and love.

(Friday)
March 10:

Friday – The Road To Siem Reap

It’s early in the morning and apparently after experiencing my dramatic "waker up" attitude, Theresa has appeared at the door with a cup of instant coffee.  Instantly, resentment turns to love.  Yeah!  I am happy.  We attempt to get all of our stuff together to head to Siem Reap, our “vacation” spot for the next couple of days.  Theresa leaves a five in the room for a tip. It is a large sum of money here for the maid, but we’re sure she thinks we’re totally disgusting and she probably deserves it.  She cleans our room everyday and it takes us about 12 seconds to dismantle it.  The nasty sneakers I wore to the dump are still sitting outside the door.  I don’t even plan to touch them.  They are going directly into the trash. 

Our driver from the motorbike the day before is waiting for us…thankfully with an actual car for the six-hour trek to Siem Reap.  After only a half an hour on the road, I turn to Theresa and comment that I don’t know how we possibly thought we could have navigated this on our own.  Between the trucks and the cows and the motor bikes, you have to have nerves of steel to get around here.  We’ve learned quite a few tips about Cambodia, which are amusing listed in various guidebooks.  They are all the more hilarious because we know how true they are.  Here are some of the better tips and phrases we have run across:

“We drinkers enjoy nothing more than a friendly cantina that is willing to give us a liquid libation at a cheap price.”

“Happy hour – I can’t think of too many people who haven’t relished a frosty cold barley soup after a long hard day harvesting their rice”

“The Dead Fish Tower Restaurant…. Why are we so popular?  We don’t serve Dog, Cat, Rat or Worm, there is a crocodile pit and a 10% discount to well known Hollywood stars”

“If peering into people’s private homes while seated under a shade cover in a motorboat is your idea of leisure…take a trip to the silk farm.”

“If you eat a Happy Pizza (i.e. one baked with pot) make sure you head back to somewhere safe, like a date with a hammock”

Rules Of The Road 
*Siem Reap Travel Guide – ALL VERY TRUE

“One way streets aren’t, in practice, one way”

“Locals never look before entering a road”

“Chatting with your mates while sitting three abreast is normal behavior”

“Stopping at red lights appears to be optional”

“Cows, chickens, pigs, dogs, geese and children have not read the highway code”

After a few hours on the road, it’s time to stop for lunch.  By this time we are far out in the middle of nowhere and we stop at the next bustling town and make a beeline for the big hotel, figuring it would be the safest.  Sadly…no.  We sit down with our driver.  The china on the table – teapot, cups, plates and bowls are dirty and stained.  And I am not talking permanent stains; I mean stains from simply not being properly washed off before the next use.  Flies are everywhere.  Plunk!  And there is the glass of brackish water with our silverware.  This time we are prepared.  Under the pretext of getting my camera, Theresa goes the car and hauls chopsticks out of our luggage.  She drops one at my plate and we grimace at each other across the table.  We’ve been extremely lucky so far but if we are going to get sick, this is gonna be the place to do it to us... and on a six-hour drive in a country with no public rest stops to boot.  We feel very out of place.  The wait staff walks up and takes the order of our driver and walks away. Guess she figured we didn’t want to eat.  His food actually arrives before he can flag down service for us.  He is visible annoyed by this.  It takes three people to take our order and they still get it wrong.  When it finally arrives, we have both pretty much lost our appetites.  We ordered fried Thai noodles and pork but the pork is pink and I’m not even sure it is pork.  The noodles are fried, if by fried you actually mean lightly sautéed.  I pick around the pork and veggies and eat only the noodles.  Theresa has a napkin over her rice to keep the army of flies interested in a carb diet from helping themselves.  I go to wash up before we leave and when I return to the table, Theresa is gone.  I look under the table to see if she dropped from heat stroke.  Nope.  I look up and she’s looking at me from the men’s bathroom all befuddled.  Now I know we’ve had some gender identity mix ups since we’ve arrived, but I can’t believe the heat and food has caused her to forget she’s a girl.  But then again, they do flavor their food with pot….

(Saturday)
March 11:

Saturday – It’s Five a.m. Again – Why Do I Travel With Theresa?

It’s actually five past five and our wake up call, which was actually supposed to be a wake up knock, since there is no phone, never materialized.  Thankfully, Theresa never really seems to sleep and she’s gazed at her watch and seen the time.  Within moments we are both scrambling around and cussing.  The sun rises over Angkor Watt, one of the seven lost wonders of the world, in an hour and we want to be there to see it.  We’d briefly been to the temples the day before and felt such awe and amazement standing there, that we decided to hire a guide and make a whole day of it on Saturday.  Our guide, SoPheath and Tuk Tuk driver, Savin are waiting as we both come crashing downstairs with our stuff.  The ride to the temples in the Tuk Tuk in the cool morning air is refreshing.  Both Theresa and I are starting to wish there were Tuk Tuk’s in Old Town Pasadena.  It’s quite a great way to get around.

We arrive, just barely, before the throngs of Japanese tourists and stake our spot to watch the sun rise.  When the sun finally breaks the peaks of Angkor Watt it is simply beautiful.  The rest of the morning is spent exploring different temples with SoPheath.  He is as happy to be with us as we are grateful for his historical insight (and sense of direction – if not for him, we might still be trying to find our way out of Angkor Thom.) He is a budding photographer and very interested and curious about our photography equipment and expertise.  (Well, expertise in Theresa’s case anyway.)  We answered his questions and showed him our different lenses and their applications.  He was very cute as I watched him imitate just about every shot Theresa took with his little digital camera.   We explored the ancient ruins of the various temples for hours, marveling at the massive, crumbling structures, the intricate carvings in sand stone and the sense of history that surrounds us.  Theresa manages to get cell phone reception in the middle of nowhere and gets a phone call.  Can’t get reception in the middle of Pasadena…..

How The Sun Turns Cows Into Horses:

By noon, however, we were ready for a break.  We are currently at the overgrown temple known to tourists and guides as the one where Tomb Raider was shot.  When we first arrived, there was not much activity, but as the sun got hotter, tourists poured into the temple.  We were already feeling slightly ill from the sun and the sudden claustrophobia didn’t help.  We were concerned that Theresa was showing signs of heat stroke so we decided to head back to the central market and get some lunch in air conditioning.  From noon to 2, our guide informed us, we shouldn’t be out in the sun anyway.  Wearily, we climbed into the Tuk Tuk, after dumping a bottle of water over our heads.  We had to drive through Angkor Thom to get back and on the way. We drove over a bridge magnificently decorated on either side with statues of demons all tugging on a serpent’s tail.  We looked over the ornate railing to the river beyond and horses grazing on the lush green grass and were momentarily revived out of our sun stupor.  “Look at the horses!”  We were so excited and insisted to our guide we wanted to come back to this spot after lunch and take photos of this picturesque scene.  He looked completely stupefied.  As well he should be…. not four hours later we discovered our horses weren't horses, unless horses in Cambodian actually means Cows.  Thank goodness we’re not dairy farmers here.  There would be some pretty unhappy horses.

We sat down to eat in the restaurant, ordered some cold drinks – though everything really is cool at best, not really cold.  We took turns pouring little salt piles into our hands and tossing them back like candy, desperate to replenish what we were losing.  Gross, but it worked wonders.  We were soon off again. 

Now, despite our inability to differentiate between a cow and a horse, we did see quite a bit of other animal life around the temples.  Monkeys, by the score, hung out in the shade - interacting and taking food from tourists.  Now let me just say, it would, of course, have been very cool to play with a monkey.  But I simply cannot imagine being that stupid  (besides, Theresa wouldn’t even let me pet a kitten here, let alone go feed a monkey.) The host of problems and sicknesses that could ensue should be enough to scare off anyone.  Besides, our driver warned us of the dangers of walking among them with a bunch of bananas.  Since he felt the need to warn us against this, clearly some foolish westerner had already done it. 

After a long day at the temples, we headed into Old Town, which is basically the tourist part of Siem Reap.  If I never hear the phrases “Hello Madame – would you like to buy a book; bracelet; water; scarf; purse; tee shirt; flute; postcard, etc., ever again it will be too soon.  We opt to eat at a place that, incredibly, has the two grumpy old men from The Muppet Show extolling its virtues from their sign - as the one thing they can agree on.  I’m soooo excited to see a disclaimer stating that they make their ice from bottled water.  We been surrounded by ice we can’t have the entire time and nothing sounds more wonderful.  I order a large margarita on the rocks with lots of ice.  What I get is a lukewarm cocktail with no ice at all.  Sigh.  You just can’t win.

BLOG SIDE NOTE: By Theresa

Hard Up Monks:

Angkor Wat – serene, beautiful, spiritual.  We’ve now been walking through most of the temple and have soaked up the atmosphere.  Old nuns in hidden corner “chapels” praying to statues of Buddha surrounded in a haze of incense.  Thousand year old, saffron draped busts lining interior halls.  Ancient carvings describing massive historic battles. It’s all the stuff of art history books.  And yet, not really any monks.  Interesting how no one really can tell us where they are, when they chant or anything that would allow us to experience this part of the culture.  I have by this time, basically given up on being able to check that item off my list.

We turn another corner and lo and behold… two tall blond tourists stand speaking to a young monk, who is seated in a window.  Wrapped in a saffron robe with sandaled feet, he is just what the camera ordered.  We linger and the two European men leave to let us take over, with what we would later realize must have been relief in their eyes.  The monk tells us we may sit with him.  In fact, we actually must sit to talk to him, as technically, our heads should not be higher than his.  Heather sits at his feet, with her feet properly tucked away from him.  We get what is the standard icebreaker around here… “Where are you from?” After speaking about the USA and Hollywood a little bit, he tells us he has learned English in seven months during his studies as a monk.  He is very animated and Looooves to talk and show off his English.  Soon, we have covered the geographical parts of the conversation, and it turns more personal.  Do you have a husband?  He asks each of us.  No, Heather replies.  Why not?  Just haven’t found the right man she demurs. Well, this monk is only 20 and has designs on a better life after the monk-hood.  One that includes university and marriage.  “Even though you are old”, he says to Heather, “perhaps you can wait for me? “  It was so hard for me not to snort in laughter.  OK, how long have we been trying to interact in some way with a monk?  And here I am in the 8^th wonder of the world, the holiest of these people’s holy places, and Heather is actually  --- getting hit on --- by a monk?!  Bet that they don’t put that one in the guidebooks. 

(Sunday)
March 12:

SUNDAY MORNING from Theresa

At last a morning with a short agenda and no 5 am wakeup needed.  I sleep until 7 and leisurely read a British tabloid on the veranda after straightening up my belongings and cramming them back into my suitcase.  We are going back to the temple area today, but only for a short bit, and not to burn through more film and memory sticks.  We are going to just SIT.  Find a shady quiet corner and sit and read or journal or meditate.  We are both really looking forward to this, and head out at the much saner hour of 9 am to Preah Kahn, a temple we decided to skip yesterday in part due to my delirium (and apparent inability to distinguish either a men’s room or a cow).  It has come highly recommended by our new 22 year old friend named Susannah, who works at the Cambodian Daily by night and volunteers at the CCF during the day.  After meeting her during our visit to CCF on Thursday, I ran into her on the steps of Angkor Wat on Friday afternoon.  Quite funny – never expected to run into anyone we knew there, and if we had tried to meet up in that humungous complex, we probably couldn’t have done it.  Even funnier, while standing chatting with her, I got a call on my cell.  So surreal getting a local Cambodian call while standing in the midst of something you had to hack your way to through the jungle, the landmines, and the mosquitoes to get to not all that long ago.

Anyway, we took a cool morning Tuk Tuk ride to Preah Kahn and were delighted by the basic lack of tourists.  Apparently the Japanese tour busses all stop first at Angkor Thom, a bigger temple.  Phew!  We just weren’t in the mood for all that today, especially since we had but an hour and half before we had to Tuk Tuk it back to the hotel to meet our car for the 6 hour return ride back to Phnom Penh. 

We settled into a back corner area and split up to each have our quiet time.  I know that both of us have been wrestling with conflicting emotions and perceptions during this trip.  This country is the land of contradictions.  Extreme poverty backed up literally next door to wealth.  Utter chaos coupled with a calm persistence by its people.  The need for so much help countered by the obvious corruption on the part of aid agencies.  The excitement and desire to be a tourist in this country tempered by the guilty feeling of taking part in a new style of colonialism.  It’s really gotten my head into a new and uncomfortable place.  I came here, high up on my idealistic horse, knowing that I would be going back to the states to finish what we started with (it) magazine.  To make a difference.  To perhaps make a difference in the lives of some of the very people I was rubbing elbows with this week.  Wow.  I now wonder, what can I possibly do that isn’t just an unnoticeable drop in this big futile bucket of a world filled with pain, poverty and all kinds of ignorance.  

So as I sit down in my chosen spot at the temple, I journal those thoughts.  I get it out of my head and onto a piece of paper.  I wonder, how does someone like Scott Neeson of CCF do his work and deal with this day after day?  I don’t find answers, I just put it down, and after a while decide to set aside the paper and look out the open window across from where I sit.  I turn and decide to make myself comfortable. I look to the right, out at a wooded area and then shut my eyes and try to meditate on that scene and let the moment wash over me.  Soon, my eyes fly open.  The scene laid out in front of me, framed by a moss-covered stone window that’s a thousand years old, speaks to me.  Out there is a dirt path, one that winds through stones strewn about that have fallen off the nearby temple as it crumbles.  Trees grow up through this.  The path lies outside the sturdy stone structure.  And I realize… this is the answer.  This is nature speaking to me. 

The path IS dusty.  It’s not perfect.  It has obstacles tossed in the way, but the path works its way around and through them.  It is dappled in moments of sunshine that break through.  The persistence of strong trees line the way like guideposts.  Like the people we meet along that dusty path that provides sturdiness and shade… family, the Scott Neeson’s of the world, all those that keep on trying to push up through it all.  I cannot see the end of the path from here, but I think I know that it leads back to the entrance of the temple.  Even being unsure of where it leads, I still want to take the chance that if I walk it, it leads home.  I notice that the path lies outside the structure and decide it’s ok to walk a little outside the box.  It’s okay to keep going.  It’s all about just putting one foot in front of the other.  I feel hopeful that the little things do matter.  I think about the interesting convergence of tiny moments that led us to this particular temple.  We had so many to choose from.  We could have sat anywhere.  And yet this particular scene lays itself before me.  And I feel better.

Sunday Evening:

We’re back in Phonem Phen for the evening, before heading out in the morning for our twenty-four hour journey back to the states.  It has been a journey of many paths:  emotionally, spiritually, and physically….  We came here with certain expectations and hopes, suffered moments of extreme doubt, sadness and frustration and have hopefully emerged on the other side wiser and ready to face the issues, no matter the obstacles.  The situation here may seem overwhelming and the issues not solvable by anyone, at least not in our lifetime.  But perhaps big change is not the answer for us – change, no matter how small, makes a difference.  It causes a ripple in the water and the water is forever changed, even if you can’t tell from the surface.  Our efforts may seem like a drop in the bucket, but as Scott said to us at the shelter so powerfully:  “Don’t tell these kids that they are a drop in the bucket.  They’re not.”  The world is a very big place, but to a child, the world can be very small.  Change one child’s life and you change their world and our world is better for it.  Thank you all for your support in our journey: your donations to the shelter, your messages and your encouragement in this project.  I hope you have seen through our eyes and perhaps learned along with us.  Please continue to follow the project over the course of the next year and tell a friend.  These are images and stories we won’t soon forget or should forget.  Spread the word.  

Peace and Love – Heather 

(Monday)
March 13:

Heather and Theresa will be flying home today!