Last Day: Battambang

August 28, 2006: My last lunch with the monks.

Sammuth and Cham Reourn helping to prepare the meal. They look so kind and gentle, right?

Wrong!
Sammuth and I.

Post-feast siesta time!

Ratha in his hammock.

Yeay (grandmother) Ping.

Yeay Vouy.
The girls and I. I know they don't look thrilled, but they actually asked to take a picture together so that I wouldn't forget them.

As if I could!

A Walk in the Rice Fields:Battambang

Battambang, Day 3, August 2006: Before our ride on the Bamboo Express, Ratha, Kosul and I took a long walk through "A Thousand Rice Fields".

The Bamboo Express: Battambang

August 2006, Battambang Day 3: Kosul, Ratha, and my fellow passengers on Battambang`s Bamboo train.

Known affectionately as the norry to the Khmers, the "Bamboo Train" is the result of Khmer ingenuity in the face of necessity. It is 100% pure Cambodian, and one of the coolest rides that I have ever been on.

With nothing more than a rickety wooden frame, thin bamboo planking bending beneath the weight of its buren, a four-stroke, upright engine and, appropriately enough, reused military tank wheels and axles, Bamboo Trains haul passengers and cargo between the rice bowl (Battambang) and the capitol (Phnom Penh).

A young conductor pulling into the "station".

As you might imagine, Bamboo Trains are quite illegal, wreaking havoc whenever they cross roadways. The 'real' train only comes along once a day, making it sluggish way up to Battambang or back to Phnom Penh at a pace that makes it possible to hop on and off at any time. In the meantime, the old, neglected track is practically begging to be used.

Ratha and Kosul enjoy the ride.

And used they are, with an unknown number of these Cambodian contraptions rumbling up and down the bumpy, disjointed track. There is, ofcourse, only one track, which begs the question: What happens when another Bamboo Train comes chucking along?

Another bamboo train　chucking along in our general direction.

With a real train, this would pose a problem, but with the bamboo train its a bowl of amok (weak attempt to Cambodianize the western 'piece of cake' expression). Bamboo Trains can be disassembled and disappear into the bushy Cambodian countryside in the blink of an eye. Off comes the frame, followed by the Honda moto engine, axles and wheels. Proper Bamboo Train etiquette states that the norry with the least amount of passengers must give way to the one carrying more, with the conductor of the latter helping the former to disassemble and remove it from the tracks.

Having disembled our train so that the other might pass, I note that we are being watched. A spy for the anti-norry authorities, perhaps?

To be finished in between classes...

Tuk-Tuk Tour: Battambang

August 2006: Our friendly countryside tour guides, at the pre-Angkorian ruins of Phnom Ek. Sammuth, Ratha and Cham Reourn: The Monkey Crew (or part of it), as they refer to themselves.

Ratha and Sammuth share a laugh about my fortune, which they translated for me: "Soon I will find the love of my life and be married within two years." This after the first one warned me to be careful about traveling. Have I mentioned the moto-burn/toothpaste incident?

Sammuth smiling about my good fortunes in the colorful interior of Mount Sampoa's pagoda.

While climbing up to one of the mountain top temples near Battambang, Chamreourn noticed a Jasmine (frangipangi) flower lying on the ground and bent down to pick it up. He sat down, spinning it in his hand, smelling its sweet fragrance and thinking.

Chamreurn taking a well-deserved rest in a hammock.

Kids (Even Monks) Just Wanna Have Fun

Hey! Who's taking the pictures here? My new friends lead me through the lush jungle to their secluded forest temple.

Tucan Sam-uth!

Smiling as he showed me around the temple grounds. Little buddhas everywhere!

Ah the joy of digital cameras!

Looks like there's a budding photographer in their midst...

In the process of wrapping himself up in his brilliant orange robes.

Symphony in Stone and Saffron: Bayon

I met this beautiful young monk at the Bayon.

We spent a lot of time hanging out at the temple, trying desperately to communicate in gestures and smiles, before they invited me back to their little temple hidden in the forest.

Smiles of the Bayon

I met this young monk at the Bayon, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with him and his friends at their small pagoda in the forest. My best memories(and photographs) of the temples of Angkor are of the people I met there. As amazing as the temples are, they pale in comparison to the beauty and resilience of the Cambodian people.

Yeay Bayon, or Grandma Bayon. If you've been to the Bayon, chances are you may have seen this beautiful old nun hiding in one of the many chambers, inviting visitors to burn incense before a small idol of the buddha. At 75 years old, Yeay Bayon a rarity in a nation recovering from the brutal legacy of Pol Pot and civil war.

A young Apsara teacher shows off her soft hands and beautiful smile. A single mother with 3 children, she left her husband after he repeatedly beat her, spending what little money they had on alcohol. Now she supports her children by singing at a local Apsara dinner theater and teaching. At 28, she says she is too old to dance. "Only young and beautiful girls can dance for tourists." I didn't get to see her dance, but she invite me to hear her sing. Hopefully I'll be able to get a video of the Apsara performance up soon...

Conversations with a Monk

Now meet Sensovesai (with a short guest appearance by Vutha). There is an interesting misunderstanding that takes place near the end of the video, in which I think they are saying men when really they are saying monks. Seems painfully obvious now, but maybe it will help you understand my ridiculous reaction.

Anyways, enjoy! And ignore my increasingly strange-sounding English! Onegaishimasu!

Of Monks and Men

Vutha passed through the faded, honey-and-cream washed walls surrounding the many apartments shared by monks of the nearby pagoda. Three floors high, the simple, beautiful buildings surrounded me like a silent city. Tangerine robes hung from balconies and railings as monks gathered together on porches and verandas, talking, reading, and now, staring at the strange girl stepping lightly into their quiet little world. I smiled, because that is what I do, especially when I'm nervous and dont know what to do. Someone smiled back, and suddenly a chorus of giggled hellos began to rain down from above me. Vutha looked up and laughed, and then back at me. "We don't get visitors often!"

I followed him through his tiny village of brightly colored walls, hung like faded robes, looking all the lovlier for the wear. When it seemed we had wandered through all the secret passageways, we came at last to a thin wall separating their peaceful sancutary from the busy world outside. Vutha stopped in front of "House No. 39" and calmly scaled the scallopped steps fanning out from the narrow door. He disappeared inside the dark room for a moment, popping his head back out to look for me. Unsure if I should follow or wait, I had stopped at the bottom of the steps, nervously looking everywhere but into the darkness. "Ok, come on. Come in."

I climbed the stairs slowly, stopping at the threshold. Vutha was clearing a place for me on a long wooden arm chair. "Come on. Please. Sit here." I stepped shyly into the room, bowing (its a habit) and raising my hands in prayer, as Cambodians do, trying my best to say "Soksabay che te" without sounding as ridiculous as I felt. The other monks scattered about the room stopped for a moment, looking blankly from me to Vutha, then smiled at me and returned my greeting. I sat down very conscious of my movements and appearance, unsure of how to act, but Vutha casually pulled up a chair in front of me and started asking me questions about my life in America and Japan. In a few minutes we were talking and laughing as if we were good friends reunited after a long separation.

In the background, a monk stood sweeping the room, an MP3 player clipped to his shoulder, earphones hidden in his ears. Another sat on the floor behind us, studying. Some had gathered to begin preparing lunch. One by one, the slender silhouettes of young monks appeared in the flood of light streaming through the doorway as they returned from their classes. Many of them smiled saying "Oh! Hello! So, what`s your name? Where are you from? How long have you been in Cambodia?" sitting down to join in the conversation, or simply listen. Soon the long wooden sofa was full and I moved to the floor to ensure a safe distance between us.

Soksopheakdey laughing...

As we sat around laughing, an older monk appeared from a separate room and leaned up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I was shocked at first to see him smoking, but he looked down at me and smiled kindly. "Soksabay che te" I said, pressing my palms together below my down cast eyes. He smiled and nodded "soksabay," launching into a beautifully melodic stream of Khmer, which turned out to be his complimenting me on my clearly spoken Cambodia and asking how long I had lived in Cambodia. "The Venerable asks your name ." Vutha translated, and I answered. As Vutha later explained, he was the most senior monk in the house and treated with a great deal of respect. After awhile he disappeared back into his room, and the monks began to tell me about their daily life.

Vutha told me that Cambodian monks, like most in southeast Asia, followed Theravada, "The Way of the Elders," the oldest surviving school of Buddhism. At 25 years old, Vutha has been studying Pali, the ancient language of the Theravada's canon, for 8 years. As a monk, he serves his community by presiding over religious ceremonies and providing instruction in basic Buddhist morality and teachings. As a scholar, he dedicates his life to his studies, both religious and secular. He hopes to someday become a teacher of Khmer Literature, and studies both English and Japanese as well.

Vutha also introduced me to another young monk with impeccable English named Sensovesai. His name, he told me, means "I meet you, I am lucky. You meet me, you are lucky." At 21, he has been a monk for 5 years, and is dedicated to studying English and Japanese, despite the fact that he hopes to someday become a singer. "My friends tell me I dance like Micheal Jackson!" He laughed.

Micheal Jackson? That I had to see! Only one problem. As a monk, Sensovesai can't dance, and he can't sing. He isin't even supposed to listen to music.

Monks vow to undertake 10 Precepts, abstaining from: 1) harming or taking life, 2) taking what is not given, 3) sexual misconduct, 4) false speech, 5) using intoxicants, 6) eating after midday, 7) dancing, singing, music, or any kind of entertainment, 8) using garlands, perfumes, unguents and adornments, 9) using luxurious beds or seats, and 10) accepting or holding money.



But whatever the idealized, romantic preconceptions of monks may be, they are just people like you and me. In Cambodia, becoming a monk is sometimes the only way to get an education, fill your stomach and relieve the burden of your family. Very few young men (boys can usually enter the monkhood at the age of 13) become monks with the hopes of living a monastic life forever. There is no stigma attached to leaving the monkhood, and even in House No. 39, a young ex-monk and fellow aspiring singer continued to live just as he always had, among the monks in the monastery. Being ordained as a monk, even for a short time, is thought to be very virtuous. Just taking the vows, regardless of whether or not you keep them, is a virtue.

Vutha brings in the laymen's laundry, as Vesai paruses my trusty travel companion, the JET Diary.

Worried I was imposing on people too polite to tell me to leave, I asked if perhaps I should go so that they could prepare for their next round of classes. "No, no, no, don't worry! Aren't you hungry? You should have something to eat!" Vutha insisted.

By this time, the two young women, (Vutha's sister, and a cusin), had finished preparing the final meal of the day. The monks began to lay mats and gather infront of the buddah shrine, and the venerable emerged from his room carrying a small, low table. "Would you like to eat here?" Vutha asked.

"I would love to, but I don't want to eat all your food! There won't be enough for everyone! That food is for the monks..."

"Oh, there's more than enough. Now, we have to eat. You can't eat with us, but you can wait. And then afterwards you can eat with them (the girls). It is like a blessing for you!"

My western educated mind reeled for a moment. Oh yeah. How blessed! I get to sit and watch you eat, and then, when your finished you will allow us second class citizens to partake of your leftovers. This all shot through my mind in an instant, almost too quickly for me to realize I had thought it. It disappointed me. I would rather believe it was something I was programmed to think than consider it an original thought of my own. The truth is, I did feel greatly blessed: Blessed to have been able to come back to Cambodia, to have met Vutha, to have been welcomed into his home and treated so kindly, and to be invited to eat with them, observing their lifestytle, learning about their culture and taking part in their customs.

"Today the food is very delicious," the Venerable added (translated by Vesai). "You should stay and eat."

Good food? A personal invitation from the Venerable? How could I argue with that?

The girls and I enjoyed our meal, trying to communicate in my non-existent Cambodian, gestures, and smiles. I'm not sure what we we were eating, but it involved fish and was delicious.

Vutha heads off to class.

After lunch Vutha rushed off to bathe before his next round of classes at 1PM. Vesai, who was finished for the day, offered to show me around the temple grounds and accompany me to the National Museum after Vutha left.

As Vutha left for class he asked me to come again when I returned (the next day I planned to head back to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat) and blessed me, wishing me health, happiness and good luck. Vesai headed upstairs to put on his formal robes and we headed out into the temple grounds for my personal tour.

Vesai and I wait out the rain beneath the shelter of a colorful temple pavillion.

We headed back through the muted maze of monk dwellings and out onto noisy (in comparison) streets towards the National Museum. In order to keep the lay people from criticizing him, Vesai asked me to walk behind him until we were in the museum. I understood, and kept my distance, even after entering the museum grounds. " Are you sure its OK for you to talk to me out here?" I asked, concerned I was about to horribly offend the entire Cambodia capital. "No, its ok. In here there are only foreigners. They don't care, I'm sure."

So together we explored the amazing collection of Khmer carving and craftsmanship. Vesai patiently explained the symbolism and context of each of the beautifully carven statues and stellas, and even tried the ancient inscriptions written in a flowing form of Pali. Knowing the Vesai was eager to practice his Japanese, I secretly scoped the scene for a large Asian tour group, straining my ears to hear the languages being spoken all around me. There were many Koreans and Chinese tourists, who traveled in pairs or small groups, but it took awhile before a true Japanese your came through, fluent Japanese guide, flag and all.

I approached them apologetically (as is the custom-- sumimasen!) and began to ask them where they were from. Amazed that I could speak Japanese, they were thrilled to talk to me and try to understand how that could be. Knowing the tour had to be short on time, I introduced Vesai and told them that he,too, was studying Japanese. A chorus of "Eeee! Sugoi!" echoed through the lofty rooms as they tried to converse with the young monk. When it proved more difficult than they had hoped, they turned their attention back to me. The tour guide was a bit kibishii (strict) and urged the group to move along. I offered to take a quick picture, remembering that Vesai had once told me that since he could not travel, it was nice to think at least his picture could.Everyone smiled and shot up the peace sign, except for Vesai, who put on his serious monk face and stood with his hands at his side.

Time was running short for us as well. Vesai asked me to visit when I returned from Angkor, and I promised I would. He headed back towards House No. 39, far ahead of me, and I, overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the day and a creeping sense of sadness that it had to end, turned back to the riverside, where it had all begun.

Meeting a Monk

Once I got the peddles spinning, driving the cyclo was a breeze. I peddled lightly along the riverside at first, slowly making my way through the quiet, colorful backstreets. Other cyclos laughed, giving a me enthusiastic thumbs up and shouting "Good! Oh, very good! Strong!" Motos wizzed by, looking back over their shoulders giggling. I smiled and waved back to people walking or working on the streets, who laughed in disbelief at the sight of me. "Madame, moto? Moto, sir?" I asked as we passed, laughing. My passenger was greeted by almost everyone we saw, and waved and laughed with the rest of us.

After about a half hour, I figured it was time to get some yum-yum (as they say in Khmer). "You, me, yum yum?" I called over his shoulder. "Me?" he asked. I nodded my head enthusiastically, and he motioned for me to make a few turns before we ended up at a small noodle shop packed with Cambodians, spilling out onto the sidewalk, seated at their tiny tables. I amazed everyone by successfully stopping the cyclo, pulling the break and hopping off like a an old pro. Some people even broke into applause.

We quickly seated ourselves on shakey stools, before big bowls of steaming noodles were slid in front of us, garnished with beansprouts, chili sauce and lime. Delicious as they were, I spent very little time eating. A Doctor from the Soviet- Khmer Friendship hospital who worked with HIV patients in a special ward had graciously welcomed me to Cambodia, and we were soon engaged in a thoughtful discussion about his life surviving Pol Pot, the current Cambodian government, and his ambition to someday visit America, "the land of the free, and of opportunity." He invited me to visit his hospital if I had a chance, and gave me his address and phone number before rushing off to work. I quickly slurpped down my noodles, sorry to keep my company waiting. Athough he had finished much sooner, he sat smiling, enjoying his time in the shade. When I hopped back up on the high seat and set off again, I asked him to direct me towards the gracefully curved spires and imacculately layered roof of the terra cotta colored National Museum.

When we arrived near the entrance, I hopped of anf handed the cycling steed back to its rightful owner. After spending only .75 cents on breakfast, I felt compelled to give him something for letting me pimp his ride around town while he could have been finding other buisness. He, of course, had no idea what I was on about, and hopped up on the bike, ready to leave. In a panic I turned to the first person I saw and asked for help... That person just happened to be a monk.

Vutha`s first mistake was smiling kindly at an obviously distressed foreigner. "I`m sorry!" I bowed (its a Japanese thing), "Can you help me? I know you must be busy...Oh my gosh your a monk? Am I even allowed to be talking to you..." My cyclo driver was getting away. "Wait!" I desperately called out after him.

"Its OK!" the young monk laughed, "I speak English!" With a word, he had called the cyclo back. "Now what`s wrong?" he asked. I explained the situation to him and he calmly unttered a few soft words to the cylco driver, who humbley replied. "He said, f you can, give him 2000 Riel so he can get something to eat at lunch."

So little. 2000 Riel is about .50 cents. I handed it to him saying "Awkoon" (thank you in Khmer) and turned back to the monk. "Thank you so much! I`m really sorry to bother you!" I apologized, bowing my head and touching my palms together, as if in prayer.

"Don`t worry!" He smiled. "I`m not busy. So, where are you from?" "I`m from America, but I live in Japan. His face lit up. "Oh"! America! And you live in Japan!" The whole situation seemed a bit too surreal as I stood nervously conversing with this young monk, his bright orange robes complimented by the rich, rusted red of the museum behind him. "Are you busy right now?" he asked. "Me? No! Not busy!" I answered anxiously.

"Well, Would you like to come back to my place?"

"What?!" I laughed, amazed. I realized he had meant it sans-the sleezy connotations so common in American culture, but it still suprised me to hear it from the mouth of a monk. "Um, OK! Wait...Really? Is that OK?"

"Sure!" he said in that soft, reassuring way Cambodians do. He smiled as he stepped past me into the street, looking back over his shoulder. "Come on."

I stood on the corner, convinced I was dreaming, and slowly stepped into the street. Timidly tracing his footsteps, I struggled to leave a respectable amount of distance between us as I followed him towards his wat.

Sues'day!

The smile of a young monk (17 years old) reflected in the ancient carvings of the Bayon, Angkor Thom, part of the world heritage Angkor Wat temple complex in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Behind him, one of 216 faces watch over the temple.