The March to Tibet

My first few days back in India were spent on the March to Tibet. The day before I flew into Delhi, 250 marchers set out on their way north towards the India-Tibet border after having spent 10 days in the capital praying for those Tibetans who died protesting for independence and participating in protests against China’s brutal crackdown and the Olympic torch relay.

I have been posting updates about the March from Dharamsala and Bangkok for the last 2 months that my colleagues on the March e-mail or call me with. Friends on the March have been calling me to tell me about how hot it was that day or how much they missed the iced coffee or their favorite breakfast spot back in Dharamsala. I’ve posted the photos they send and I have watched all the live streaming videos. But being there in person was entirely different.

Getting from Delhi to the where the marchers were camped – two days’ walk – took 8 hours. One person would point us in one direction, and then the next person would point us in an entirely different direction. Entire groups of people would surround me and my Tibetan friend as he explained in Hindi where we were trying to go, staring at us like they had never seen something so odd. We were crammed into an extremely noisy shared taxi with a dude who kept rubbing my knee and the other people staring at me. We were lost for hours with a driver who we ended up befriending because both he and my friend grew up in Nepal. We shared a dinner with him at McDonalds’ and in the end, he refused to let us pay once he learned that we were joining the March to Tibet. Eventually the driver left us at a hideous Western-style cinema hall that stood out like a sore thumb in the dingy dusty outskirts of Delhi, and we were finally rescued by two drivers from the March.

I spent the next 4 days as one of the marchers. I walked with them, sweated under the hot sun with them, splashed in the cool water at rest stops with them, ate with them, talked with them, was eaten alive by mosquitoes with them, and hummed along with their prayers and singing of the national anthem. I was reunited with the monks that I made practice media soundbites despite their broken English at the non-violent training before the March started. I made friends with the Western support marchers whose presence I had previously been very judgmental about. I overcame my own insecurities about bathing and squatting in the bushes surrounded by 250 monks and nuns. I had some Tibetan lessons. I got a tan. And I picked up an amoeba! It was 4 of the most fulfilling days I’ve had since I’ve been here. The dedication of the marchers and the volunteers who are making the march possible was so inspiring. They have given up the commitments and responsibilities of their daily lives to stand up for their country-men and -women, and for their country. It made me feel spoiled that being here and fighting for their freedom is my job, that I get paid to do this while they are sacrificing their livelihoods to do the same thing.

When it came time for me to leave, one monk friend came to give me a khata – the white Tibetan scarf given as a blessing for a safe journey. Even though I had only been with them for 4 days, I was given khata after khata, until they were falling off my shoulders. Normally when Tibetans thank me, I feel really awkward. But this time I was really touched. The marchers held my hand and we yelled “Bho Gyalo” – which has come to mean more to me each time I yell it.

As we drove away, I couldn’t help but wonder if there were some of them we would never see again. This thought has followed me back to Dharamsala and has left me an emotional blob, overflowing with a muddle of love, longing, frustration, anger, discouragement, and sadness. I’ve been running through scenarios in my head of what could be lying ahead for my friends. They could be arrested by Indian police and allowed no where near the border, which could frustrate them to the point where they do something drastic like self-immolation. They could hand in their registration certificates (their only identification as “foreigners” in India), plunging them into a legal quagmire. They could be ignored by Indian officials and allowed to approach the Tibet border. As they cross into their homeland, they could be shot by Chinese soldiers like those who were shot trying to escape over the Nangpa-la pass two years ago. Or they could be carted away to be tortured in Chinese jails. These thoughts have been overwhelming at times, making me alternately want to run away from it all and join them again. But in my stronger moments, I am committed to staying here so that when something happens to the marchers, we can make sure that the world knows. And when they reach Lhasa (or are forced to return to Dharamsala), I will be there to welcome them.

Finally... Dharamsala

I decided to splurge and go to Dharamsala for a Tibet activist training camp in the last couple of weeks. Dharamsala is a place that I have been dreaming about visiting for over 7 years. This was the perfect opportunity to finally see it, meet up with everyone I worked with before I left Canada, make new connections in the movement, and prepare myself for the work that awaits me back at home.

I spent my first day in India wandering around the Red Fort in Delhi, literally breaking into huge grins every so often because I was finally there. That feeling was magnified a million times over when I arrived in Dharamsala. It was a completely new town to me and yet seemed so familiar. Arriving there felt like coming home.

The first week I was in the area I spent at the SFT India camp, on a beautiful farm owned by a very generous Indian family. I had attended many of the workshops at previous camps in Canada (and co-facilitated some too), but my time spent working on Burma issues made me see the movement in a much different light. Problems and strengths were much more apparent. But most of all, I was reminded of the endless passion activists have once they get hooked on the Tibet issue – this is exactly the feeling that brought me back to the movement!

After the camp, I got to meet up with Dekey, a friend from home who had moved to McLeod Ganj in May. One of her friends took me around on his motorbike to all the sights… which I had heard of in tons of stories from friends at home who either grew up or lived in the town. And just like everyone said would happen, I totally fell in love with the place. My first time walking through town, I stopped to say ‘hi’ to 6 different people I knew! I finally got to go to a Tibetan temple and spin prayer wheels, eat at all the restaurants I’d heard of and see a concert at TIPA. I was also fortunate enough to be in town when His Holiness arrived from his most recent travels. The entire town lined the streets in their best chubas to welcome Kundun home and congratulate him on receiving the US Congressional Gold Medal. As always, seeing His Holiness is an emotional experience, and I was grateful to be an inji squashed between old amalas, palas and monks as they prayed for him and for us all.

One of the key issues in Tibet is the threat of cultural destruction. As I walked around Dharamsala, I was impressed that the culture seemed so alive and vibrant. I know that there are a lot of people devoting their lives to preserve Tibetan music, art, and religion, but I had no idea that Dharamsala would feel so “Tibetan”. At the same time, seeing the Tibetan flag blowing in the wind made me sad, knowing that across the mountains it has not been seen for over 50 years. When we ended the SFT camp, we took a moment to close our eyes and imagine what a free Tibet would look like and what it would feel like. To me, Dharamsala is the seed of what an independent Tibet would feel like. I imagined people surrounding the Potala Palace to welcome the Dalai Lama home, with the Tibetan flag flying proudly on every flag pole. I imagined the market in Lhasa full of pictures of the Dalai Lama and the real Panchen Lama. I imagined monks and laypeople debating politics openly in public. I looked around at my Tibetan friends singing their national anthem, and I imagined them singing it in Tibet at the top of their lungs!

Tibet will be free. We have passion and truth on our side, and we will never give up!

Having a Cold in a Hot Climate

Colds in Southeast Asia are a bizarre irony. At home, I was so used to curling up in a ball in my duvet with lots of warm tea and movies to nurse a cold or flu. But here, being sick is just one hot sticky mess. Even cranking up the air-conditioning so you feel cold enough for tea and a blanket doesn’t work. The second you step out of your freezer room, your body goes into shock with the surge of hot humid air. I don’t think the constant change from one extreme temperature to the next does any good… it seemed to only magnify my fever.

Meds… another battle. At home, you just grab some Tylenol Cold and Flu pills (night and daytime, of course) and a box Neo Citron, and you’re set. Here you have to dodge a million offers of antibiotics – Southeast Asian doctors’ favorite answer to any ailment, even if it’s not bacterial. You also need to be an excellent and unabashed mime (if you are somewhere where there isn’t so much English spoken) and you need to know exactly what you need. I felt like I was in medical school. I had to research the actual drugs in my favorites back home and find generic versions here, which were in weird doses and different combinations, obviously producing very different effects. I took a sinus decongestant that was 3 times stronger than anything back home, but didn’t have anything else in it. It also has the side effect of reducing my ability to sleep… obviously making recovery that much slower.

My advice to anyone planning on living overseas: take a bunch of cold medicine and pain killers with you! Nothing here compares.

Initiation to the Rainy Season

I witnessed today the biggest and scariest thunder storm of my life. I am normally the kind of person who watches in wonder and is amazed at the force of thunder, lightning and intense downpours. But I admit, I was a little frightened by this one! The thunder cracks were deafening and the rolling ones seemed to last for minutes. The rain came down in buckets and in jets from the roof, flooding the entire garden. And all of this lasted for almost half an hour! My first GIANT Thai thunderstorm!

Homesickness and Mae Sot

It’s a beautiful drive out of the flat Bangkok area, past huge termite mounds and ancient igneous intrusions, and up into the mysterious foggy jungle-covered mountains. I descended on the other side, out of the fog and into the interesting border town. Mae Sot is a miniature version of Thailand, where the cultural diversity is so strongly felt because of the concentration of people, but which is granted an unmistakable Burmese feel by the golden pagodas, the men in longyis and women with thanaka on their faces. The town is buzzing with NGO workers and volunteers, who fill the restaurants and bars with interesting discussions of their work (especially over some wine at Canadian Dave’s) or smile as they ride by on their bicycles. Every time I visit, I meet the most amazing Burmese activists who have risked so much to be there. And who continue to put themselves at risk of being arrested, fined or even deported in order to attend capacity-building and advocacy trainings.

On my second trip to the town in 3 weeks, I discovered that the hotel where I was staying at was also the final stop for refugees being resettled overseas. All day long, there were people sitting at the entrance of the large hall, looking longingly into the distance and the mysterious future that awaits them. I know the resettlement process is long and these people have spent years waiting, but this is the last time they will be within eyesight of their country. They are approaching the moment when they will have to leave all familiarity behind and embark on a journey for which they are undoubtedly not prepared, despite the efforts of organizations like the IOM, UNHCR and IRC – for who is ever ready for such an uprooting? In comparison to the whirlwind of emotions they must be feeling, the homesickness that has overwhelmed me in the last couple days now makes me feel selfish and weak. I come from such a sheltered life and a country of remarkable freedom – free from soldiers, bullets, landmines, hunger, systemic rape, torture, forced labour and displacement. I left my home voluntarily and can go back whenever I want. As I watch these people, my ability to return to my comfortable life surrounded by the people and the country I love begins to seem like an excessive luxury that these people don’t have. They are leaving the life and everyone they know behind, and it will likely be years before they can come back. I can’t begin to imagine what homesickness must feel like when you know you can’t go home.

Bangkok Parties

Party note #1: I took Losang out for birthday drinks while he was here, and after our first bar closed, we decided to check out the only other club on the block that was still open. Little did we know it was a “girls’ club,” as one of the guys there told us – it was a gay bar with a transvestite show later on! I thoroughly enjoyed myself, watching all the gay guys check out my very straight friend, smiling at the transvestites, and getting hugs from gay guys welcoming me to the place and asking about my “friend.” I even ended up acting as a bodyguard for Losang so that he wouldn’t get his ass grabbed again! I guess one time was plenty for him!! Besides the hilarity of being there with a straight guy who was really uncomfortable with the advances on him, I was really struck with the strong sense of community. I have been to a couple of gay clubs in Montreal – good places to go dancing with the girls and not have to be annoyed by guys hitting on you! – but this was really different. Everyone was so into it and supportive and treating the “girls” doing their show on the stage like they were fabulous divas. It was really interesting and touching. I guess it makes sense in a place like Thailand where transgendered people are so widely accepted anyways.

Party note #2: Tourists are crazy! The white people in the clubs on Khao San Road tend to think that because they are on holiday, they can do anything. They grab random people, drink way too much, wear traditional Thai hats while pole-dancing on stage, say retarded things, and hit on prostitutes without knowing it (for more on this phenomenon, see Party note #3). There is a difference between having a great time and just being stupid! There are times when I am almost ashamed to be considered one of the white, horny, obnoxious, and rude tourist masses.

Party note #3: I hate to say it, but some of the stereotypes of Bangkok are not that exaggerative of the reality. Sex is for sale everywhere, from covert dens labeled “massage parlours,” to the Patpong area, to most nightclubs. On one of my latest outings, a coworker who has been here for a couple of years engaged me in a game: he would give me 10 baht for every prostitute I correctly picked out at the nightclub. It was really hard! First of all, Thai girls really enjoy dressing up when they go out. I’m sorry if I offend anyone, but a lot of the girls dress just like the prostitutes. Any guy who has been to a club in Thailand has surely been hit on by a prostitute, with or without knowing it. And I think that a lot of guys probably have stories of going home with a girl, only to find out after sex that he has to pay for it… I’ve heard a couple of stories of just that happening! Anyways, it took me a while, but after closely watching them interact with several guys, I found about 6. And I made friends with a couple of them who kept dragging me to go dance. I think they felt sorry for me, standing there alone. Little did they know that I was quite well entertained – I’m sure it’s been done, but an anthropological study of the sex industry in Thailand would be very interesting and very fun to undertake! That is, until you get into the sad reality of girls being forced to be prostitutes and the violence and disease that I’m sure go along with such an industry.

Party note #4: Thankfully there are some fun places to hangout, with a significantly lower probability of hitting on someone of the wrong gender or profession. Last weekend I discovered the Saxophone Pub, a smoky lodge-type bar with live music every night. The night that I was there started off with a cool blues band covering some Hendrix before bringing a rasta on stage to sing a couple of songs. They were followed by T-bone, a huge 10-member band that was playing a really impressive mix of ska, jazz, funk, and soul, with a touch of latin influence… pretty much everything! It was totally wicked and just the kind of place I was looking for :) Definitely better than the prostitute pick-up bars!!

An Improving Tour Guide

It’s interesting trying to show someone around a city that you don’t know that well yourself! We got lost way too many times, but I think I managed to show Losang a few fun and interesting parts of Bangkok. In the process, I also learned a lot about this crazy city that I call home for the time being.

I finally got to see Wat Arun, a temple that I’ve been admiring from afar since I got here. But my favorite stop with Losang was a Muay Thai fight – you’re right, Owen, it really is wicked! Fighting is definitely not my thing, but this really is a cultural experience that should not be missed. Each match starts off with the fighters praying and doing dances to their ancestors and teachers, before they proceed to elegantly kick and punch the crap out of each other. Some of the matches were brutally hard to watch, but thankfully the crowd was just as entertaining as the fighters! The matches started off to a calm but attentive audience. The people betting on the fight were occupied analyzing each kick and punch, deciding on which fighter they were going to put their money. As the rounds progressed the crowd got rowdier, yelling with the landing of a punch on their chosen opponent or moaning when their guy got kicked. In the midst of the rising tension, the gamblers started calling to one another and waving their fingers (in what I assume are the amounts of their bets). Passive watchers rapidly joined the vocal and passionate masses. And like a rollercoaster, it ended way faster than it started, only to begin again with the next match.

One of the matches was between a Canadian and a British man ­– cultural appropriation caught in the act! Just like the Thai fighters, the two Westerners started their match with the traditional prayers and dances and the anthropologist in me couldn’t help but wonder if these customs actually meant anything to them. At first, I thought that the crowd would not really be into this fight – the highlight of the evening was the previous match, plus it’s two white guys! I was immediately struck by how different their fighting style was to that of the Thai fighters. The Westerners were a lot bigger and clumsier, fighting mostly with punches; the Thai fighters were much more elegant and were equally good at punching and kicking their opponent. After the first two rounds, the crowd definitely got into it – the white guys were surprisingly putting on a good show. I even stood up in support of the Canadian, much to the amusement of the betting men in our area! In the end the Canadian lost, after way too many punches to the head. I’m really surprised that he managed to walk out of there at all, but I guess dignity would have been an important factor.

So, I’ve been initiated into the world of Muay Thai and being a tour guide… and I’m ready for my next tourist :)

My first Thai Buddha

The reclined Buddha at Wat Pho in Bangkok.
Originally uploaded by jspan.

Ive posted a few last pictures of Bali. If you want more of Bangkok, you'll have to go here.

Nyepi – the day of silence

March 19th marked the beginning of year 1929 on the Balinese calendar. The ceremonies actually began two days earlier, with most Balinese going to temple or to the beach to pray that the evil spirits would not come to Bali and cause problems. The second day is for the ogoh-ogoh. Every community had spent the last couple of weeks building these giant statues that symbolize evil spirits. What began as a simple bamboo frame was built upon, layer by layer, until the finished product emerged – evil spirits ranging from traditional ones that you would see in Barong dances, to mohawked punk rockers waving their middle finger in the air, to a freaky thing that looked exactly like the creature from The Grudge! Each ogoh was mounted on a checkerboard bamboo structure and carried by a group of 12 to 15 young boys or men. They were carried down the lanes formed by the crowd that had gathered on the freeway. Traffic was backed up on the entire island as the ogoh-ogoh, accompanied by their own musicians, alternately danced, ran, and sauntered through the crowds on their way to the beach where they were finally burned. The whole ogoh-ogoh event symbolizes the banishment of the evil spirits that would take place the next day.

By midnight, all of Bali begins to settle down. For the next 24 hours, there is absolutely no human activity on the entire island! No one leaves their home. The sky above the island becomes a no-fly zone to all aircraft. Traditionally, no one is supposed to make any noise or use any artificial light. The day is supposed to be spent in meditation. During those 24 hours, the evil spirits return to Bali but when they see and hear nothing, they assume the island is uninhabited and they leave for another year.

We may have talked, used candles after dark, and even used electricity to listen to music for a while, but the silence and calm in a place that normally veers toward the chaotic was powerful. The birds and frogs were not drowned out by motorbikes or blaring music. You could actually even hear the leaves rustling in the trees. And the stars that night were remarkable – probably the best I’ve ever seen, and I was standing in the middle of a city!!! With absolutely nothing to do, I was more relaxed and at peace than I have been in a long time.

After such a beautiful day, the whole world seems so noisy in comparison. Part of me wishes that we could have Nyepi every month – imagine how peaceful people would be if there were regular relaxation periods with nothing to do!

Miscellaneous Thoughts and Observations

A couple of weeks ago, I finally got a motorbike! While a bit scared at first, I have found that driving here in Bali is much like driving on the road that is life, and I have learned a couple of very important lessons. In life and in driving, you must pay close attention to everything going on around you and be aware of changes – large and small. And you must not hesitate, just go or you may miss a perfect opportunity!

My mum and I took our pembantu (housekeeper), Iluh, to dinner one night on the tourist strip in Legian. We made “sweet memories” (i.e. we took way too many goofy posing photographs, with the Asian-style peace signs!) and got to learn about Iluh’s life outside of our home. After getting pregnant a couple of years ago, she was forced to marry the father of the child, Made. That child was eventually miscarried. Despite Iluh’s emotional suffering and her in-laws’ disdain at her inability to carry a child to term, she stayed with Made and eventually became pregnant again. Since their healthy daughter’s birth, Made has not been able to hold down a job, while Iluh slaves away at two. Iluh and his family argue constantly about how their daughter, Ninda, should be fed and clothed and educated, all the while Iluh is forced to give up all her hard-earned money to them. Iluh eventually left Made and went back to live with her mum, which has caused its own problems. According to Balinese custom, when a woman marries, she is supposed to live in the community of her husband’s family. Iluh’s mother’s banjar (community association) can therefore collect as much money as they see fit because she is not living where she should be. Iluh continues to fight with Made and his family, but divorce is not really an option as it is too expensive and can cause even more problems with both banjars of the people involved. Iluh hardly gets to see her daughter, as Balinese custom also holds that children are the property of the father and his family. Here I have been, complaining about what to do with my life, that I have too many options and don’t know what to do. I bet Iluh would do anything to be in my shoes; I have the entire world in front of me, with my “beautiful white skin” and my only limitations being my ability to dream. And unfortunately, Iluh is not the only person trapped in her life. I keep meeting Balinese people who have their own unhappy stories, having to go through life not being able to escape the lives set for them. I wonder if it is their contact with the West that has made so many Balinese realize that they are not happy with their lives, that there are people out there in the States or Canada or even nearby Australia, who actually get to chose their own destinies. Is this the new colonization? Spreading ideals of individuality and freedom that do not fit with traditional cultures? I feel almost guilty of my freedom, which allows me to sit in such a beautiful house, reading, swimming, not having to work, and spending my days instead daydreaming and researching possibilities for my future. How did I deserve this while Iluh doesn’t?

The cultural homogeneity here is striking. There are really only religious differences; there are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, and Buddhist Balinese. But physically, everyone looks the same. A fact that makes for a lot of attention as a white person – be it good or bad! Everywhere I go, I hear annoying offers of transportation, tours, and demands to look in people’s shop (Sun Chee will agree with this!). But no matter how tanned I get, my whiteness also makes it quite easy to make friends. I’ve quickly made friends with the DVD salesman on the beach, the servers at a couple of restaurants, and musicians at bars. There are so few white people that I guess those of us that stick around for a while are definitely recognizable – especially when we go to the same restaurants and shops all the time!! It’s such a stark contrast to Canada where everyone is different and yet still Canadian, and you don’t get a lot of attention just based on the color of your skin. It has definitely taken me a while to get used to the attention, but blocking out the bellowing hawkers is still a work in progress!

Several clubs and bars in Kuta (the really touristy part of Bali) charge Balinese a cover charge, and quite a high fee too if you take into consideration their average monthly income! And of course, white people get in free. My Balinese friends were rightfully quite pissed off about this, as was I. What are these bars trying to do? Piss off Balinese even more about the segregation between tourists and themselves? There is already an underlying (but very noticeable) tension about Balinese hanging out with tourists, and the cultural and economic differences between them. Keeping locals out of bars in their own country is only going to make people more angry about these differences, which, dare I say, are some of the same feelings that probably led to the two Bali bombings in the first place! I’m sure that the bombings are the reason for the cover charge for Balinese, but that’s blatantly discriminatory. And for the tourists, why would they want to hang out in a club that virtually blocks locals from entering (since most are not going to pay 1/10 of their salary just to get in!)? The tourists could be in a bar back home or anywhere else in the world and have the same experience! So I’ve started boycotting the clubs that demand a cover charge from Balinese and have opted instead to hang out at my Balinese friends’ local drinking hole… which is pretty literally that! Two pool tables, some chairs and a raised platform to sit on, and really cheap and good arak! A great night out there, with food and drinks and cigarettes (the most expensive of the three!), only comes to about 6 bucks! And it’s way more fun! :)

Arak Attack

Arak is a local rice wine that varies immensely in its quality. Some are really quite good, while others make you really sick. And at dinner the other night I ordered two “arak attacks” (arak mixed with sprite and grenadine)… normally a decent amount of alcohol comparable to two mixed drinks at home. But this was BAD arak. I was totally sloshed by the end of the first one – don’t ask me why I ordered another! And just like tequila, the effects just get worse over time. By the time I got home, I felt like I had drunk at least 6 drinks and smoked way too much!! I was sweating and nauseous and couldn’t even fall asleep I felt so shitty. They don’t call it an arak attack for nothing!

The next morning I swore that I wouldn’t drink arak anymore. But that didn’t last very long! That night, Shawna and I went out to a reggae bar and ended up drinking “jungle juice” (arak, vodka and passion fruit juice!) with a couple of guys from the band. At least it was good arak and no one was sick! :)

Back in Bali

We stopped in Kuala Lumpur on our way home – yes, I instinctively referred to Bali as home! – and it was strangely nice being in a developed city. Comforting, even. I think I kind of miss the luxuries and the familiarity of Western cities.

It is even stranger being back in Bali. It feels like being home, but it also feels safe and emotionally neutral in comparison to Cambodia – no recent and tangible memories of death. Well, at least nothing comparable to the widespread genocide under the Khmer Rouge. Despite how safe and comfortable Bali feels, Cambodia lingers on my mind. I applied for a human rights education position with Live and Learn, an organization works to promote access to land and forests for the Cambodian people. I felt grossly unqualified, but I know that my heart is in it and that I could learn fast enough to fill the position.

I didn’t think it would be Cambodia that would shake the human rights activist in me awake again. But it has. In my last months in Montreal, running away from my responsibilities with Students for a Free Tibet, I thought I had lost the passion and the drive to do human rights work. My experiences in Cambodia proved to me that my passion is still there. Maybe all it took was a break and a change of scenery to make me feel it again.

The darker side of Cambodia

On our second day in Phnom Penh, we decided to discover the history of the Khmer Rouge regime and headed to the Tuol Sleng genocide museum. Tuol Sleng is where the Khmer Rouge imprisoned, tortured and executed thousands of people in buildings that used to be a high school. Walking into the compound that was so obviously a school, I was struck by how much this didn’t seem like one. There was no laughter or positive energy, just a tangible heaviness and a whole lot of barbed wire. Building after building on all three floors housed classrooms converted into torture chambers, mass detention rooms and solitary confinement cells in both brick and wood. The old gym structure for climbing ropes had been used as gallows where the Khmer Rouge would hang prisoners from their backwards-twisted arms. When they passed out from the immense pain, the prisoners would be revived by being dunked into terracotta pots of stagnant water, normally used as fertilizer on the nearby fields. Other rooms housed rows of bulletin boards of photographs of prisoners, each with an expression of horror, sadness and fear blatantly painted on their faces. The next room was full of implements of torture and gory paintings of how the Khmer Rouge tortured Cambodian civilians. The paintings were not very well done, but seeing the images of brutality that were described in the book I read by Loung Ung made it all sink in. The final room full of skulls and bones and pictures of the Killing Fields was too much and my eyes finally brimmed with tears. What would drive anyone to do something like this to fellow human beings? The last rooms of individuals’ testimonies were too much to bear – I had to get out. But being out, amongst the hoards of insincere tourists floating about, was nearly as unbearable. How could they be standing there, laughing, making plans to go shopping, when we had just seen such brutality? I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

On the surface, Cambodians come across as positive, friendly and easygoing, but it doesn’t take much effort to see the negative effects genocide has had on them. Everyone has stories from the war and there are amputees everywhere. Cambodians cannot escape their collective past, but they are living with it and trying to cope the best they can. Like the Cambodians have done for the past three decades, I had to continue with my day, albeit slightly more conscious of the possibility of evil in regular people but also of the beauty in the living. The folded paper crane I found sitting on a cold metal torture chamber bed and the frangipani flowers on a mound of stained and tattered prisoners’ clothing were powerful and touching reminders of the past and stand in my mind as a sign of hope for the future.

Phnom Penh

We had the funniest ride back to Phnom Penh from the east. Over the course of the 10-hour trip, we must have stopped a million times, and for quite a few of them we were the last ones on the bus. At one stop the assistant to the driver came to get us at the bathrooms! And when we got on the bus the driver was jokingly shaking his finger at us. At the next stop we were standing around munching on fresh cashew nuts when he came up to us and pointed his finger to the bus as if it was time to get back on. I said “really?” and the guy starts laughing and walks away. As we were standing around, a group of boys came up to us, asking for money for food. One of them noticed Kendra’s tattoo and started laughing hysterically. He kept saying “cobra, cobra” – I guess he thought Kendra’s tattoo looked like a cobra. His hysterics got the whole bus laughing at us. On the bus, there was also an endless supply of Asian pop karaoke. They kept playing one awful song which had a couple phrases of horribly-pronounced English. Even though we moaned each time it came on, Claire and I learned the English parts pretty quickly and started singing along. The driver and his assistant started playing it on purpose just to see our reactions, and it got the whole bus laughing at us again! I swear, my family is a freakshow wherever we go!!

Everywhere I went in Cambodia, I found a striking resemblance between several locals and some of my Tibetan friends back home. A man on the bus back to Phnom Penh reminded me so much of Rinchen, in build, the way he laughed and the way he tapped his foot as we drove, waiting anxiously for his next cigarette – the resemblance was so uncanny my sister and I kept giggling. And I think the guy knew that I kept looking at him. Our bus driver even reminded us both of Tawang, my boss at Shambala. There were others too who reminded me of Tawang’s wife, and our friend Tashi. Weird, but a very nice reminder of home! :) (HI to you all!!!)

Most of our time in Phnom Penh was spent shopping at one of the gazillion markets and eating – both of which totally satisfied the conscious activist in me. There are shops everywhere set up by non-profit organizations working for HIV/AIDS patients, landmine victims, orphans, etc. You name a social problem and there is an organization for it in Cambodia. Kind of sad, but the situation provides a million possibilities for a person like me looking for a job or volunteer opportunities. A couple of the restaurants that we went to were set up by an organization called Mith Samlanh (Friends), which has set up housing, health services, counseling, primary education and vocational training for over 1,800 street children every day. They have also set up two restaurants training older street children to be cooks, servers, and hosts, giving them the experience necessary to get permanent jobs in the growing Cambodian service industry. I was really inspired that there were such influential organizations functioning in a country with less than 10 years of relative stability. For more information about Friends, check out their website: www.streetfriends.org.

We also had a very interesting glimpse at the underbelly of Cambodia one evening. Lured by a flyer for “buy one, get one free drinks” at a romantically titled lounge, Bogie and Bacall’s, we found only a seedy hostess bar with black lights and awful fluorescent posters of the actors in their heyday. Nothing at all like we had imagined from the name! This was also the first time we had ever been in a hostess bar, which put the sex tourism we had heard about in Cambodia front and centre! After the owner finally brought us drinkable drinks, we ate sweet popcorn from a vendor and giggled at another crazy scenario we had gotten ourselves into! That evening also made the sex tourism more obvious to me for the rest of the trip. Almost every evening I saw at least one or two white men – usually not so attractive – with younger and quite pretty Khmer girls. Funny that it’s so blatantly obvious what’s going on, even to me!

The dustier side of Cambodia

On the recommendation of friends, we decided to head out into the “wild east” of the country, along an increasingly bumpy and dusty road. Our first stop was in Kampong Cham, a sleepy town on the Mekong river. The wide waterfront walkway looked like the face of a town prepared for a boom in tourism that hasn’t yet happened. There wasn’t much to see other than a couple of temples (with monkeys!) which we avoided because we were all “templed out” after visiting close to a dozen temples at Angkor Wat (and because I still don’t like monkeys!!). The bamboo bridge across part of the Mekong was interesting – a shaky man-made structure built every year during the dry season to cross the shallow and un-navigable crossing to a large fruit bearing island in the middle of the river. It seemed like an aweful lot of work only to be washed away each year during the rainy season when the river swells to almost four times the size at which we see it.

At the end of the bright-orange-dusty and very bumpy road was Sen Monorom, set atop dry deforested rolling hills – hardly the jungle we had been told about. With our bags covered in the orange dust, we settled down two smartly dirt-coloured bungalows on the hills above town. In hindsight, our location was not so smart given the gusty wind, but at least we had solid windows unlike some of the other bungalows! I never thought I would be so cold in southeast Asia!!

The next day with a Cambodian Christian missionary and his two friends in the back of our truck, we set off on the even bumpier road to the Sen Monorom waterfalls. At his request, I posed for a picture with the Christian and his friends in front of the waterfall – normally something that I avoid doing. We exchanged e-mail addresses so I could send the photo to him, after which he called his wife on his handphone so that I could talk to her! In broken English, she managed to ask me if I was a Christian. When I replied “not really” I got a very sad “oh, sorry!”

A blind musician and his friend playing homemade instruments caught my attention next. They wanted to hear themselves so, surrounded by a couple dozen people attentively watching my camera, I videotaped them playing a song and then played it back to them. Kendra was on the other side of the crowd, similarly amusing some children by taking pictures of the group and then showing them. I think we must have spent close to an hour surrounded by Cambodians!

On the way back to the town, we stopped on top on a mountain and I was reconciled with my new Christian friend. He told us all about the deforestation of the mountains at the hands of large multinational corporations fed by the Cambodian government. He also told Claire and I his personal story of life under the Khmer Rouge. Claire and I have both been reading biographies of survivors from the war, but hearing it from a living, breathing survivor was so much more powerful. The emotion in the man’s voice was so captivating that we momentarily forgot the chilling gusts of wind blowing at us from all directions.

The next day, in our new Lacoste sweaters, purchased in the tiny town’s market, we set out on our elephant trek! Beautiful but very slow creatures. And not a very comfortable ride, but at least I can say that I did it!

Cambodia pics

Originally uploaded by jspan.

Finally, some photos from the first leg of my trip to Cambodia: Siem Reap and Angkor Wat.

Happy New Year from Cambodia!

Sorry for the lengthy delay... there was an earthquake in Taiwan on Boxing Day that knocked out the internet in most of southeast Asia!! But all are safe here... we were not on a plane that crashed or a ferry that sank!

I've spent the last 4 days bumping around Siem Reap and the nearby Angkor Wat temples on electric bikes with my family. This is the first Buddhist country I've visited and I'm really enjoying it. It is also the first country I've visited with a very recent history of war. Today we visited the landmine museum, which was truly an eye-opener. There are still millions of landmines planted in the country side and nearly everyone here has a memory of the atrocities committed up until the official surrender of the Khmer Rouge when Pol Pot died in 1998. The country has been open to foreigners for less than 10 years, and you can feel it in the interactions with local people. Tomorrow we're setting off for eastern Cambodia - a boat ride up the Mekong river, jungle hikes, and rides on elephants.

I do hope that you are all well. I wish you the best of luck, love, health, peace, and success for 2007. And I do promise to post more pictures when I get back to Bali in about 2 weeks' time.

Until then, enjoy the following drink... I swear to god it's a real drink. I found the recipe the week after I had my REAL monkey bite!!

Monkey Bite Iced Tea

3/4 oz. tequila
3/4 oz. white rum
3/4 oz. Myer's rum
3/4 oz. vodka
3/4 oz. cointreau
3/4 oz. Jack Daniels
3/4 oz. gin
4 oz. apple juice

Cheers!!

Ubud - shopping and Mansion House and monkeys, oh my!!

We spent the last couple of days in a small hippy town in the mountains, hoping that it would be a reprieve from the blistering heat in Sanur. But not so! It was just as hot... which made trying on clothes that much more of a sticky venture!! We spent nearly the whole first day shopping anyways. The entire town is full of little galleries and shops filled with hand-made everything: clothes, jewelery, carved anything, leatherwork (shoes, bags, jewelery...), carvings, paintings (even Tibetan thangkas!!), and of course, the usual market crap. It was nice for a change to go into a store and see price tags - no bartering required!!

After a long day of shopping, we bought some Mansion House vodka (a "delicious" local brand of alcohol that tastes more like rubbing alcohol!) and started drinking at our hotel. We decided that in case the kecak show that we had bought tickets for was really crappy, we would take a bottle of premixed Mansion House and mango juice with us. But the show was actually pretty good - not that it stoped us from drinking our "mango juice". At the end of the show, two guys come out with a big bad of coconut husks which they proceed to light on fire (for the fire walker dude who came out moments later). As they are dowsing the husks with a clear liquid, my mum points and proclaims quite loudly "Mansion House!!!" We giggle to ourselves and keep drinking :)

The second day was more shopping interspersed with stops for nice coffee - the Nescafe 3-in-1 ("coffee," sugar and creamer, all in one convenient portable one-serving package!) that we had for breakfast had not satisfied our caffeine cravings. In the afternoon, Sun Chee and I also spent a couple of hours in a nice air-conditioned jewelery studio for a course in jewelery making. We each made a ring - both of which are quite impressive for our first attempts! We also went to another dance in the evening - this time, legong and barong dance. I had seen it last time I was here, but the setting this time was a lot more impressive - in front of a palace in the centre of Ubud.

Our final day in Ubud, I said that we weren't allowed to shop anymore, but then by total fluke found an expensive (by Bali standards!) but beautiful top! Next stop: the "sacred" Monkey Forest Sanctuary. We had heard stories of mischievious monkeys in other parts of Bali who steal glasses, but were not prepared for what was in store for me. The forest was pretty cool, lots of huge old trees with dangling branches and tons of moss-covered carvings. On our way across a bridge, Sun Chee stopped to take a picture of a monkey sitting on the railing. But with a lot of attitude, the monkey turned around when she pointed the camera at her. Sun Chee waited and finally got the shot, and as we were passing the monkey, she jumped onto my bag. The monkeys here seem to expect to be fed by the visitors, they were trying to get into people's bags and would even reach into their pockets looking for food. But I was startled by the monkey jumping on me - who I'm sure just wanted some food - so I raised my hand to push it off. It snarled at me so I tried to push it off and it bit my arm!!! When we went to the front desk to ask if the monkeys were healthy, the man took me into the office to clean my war wound with alcohol and iodine. Since he had his little first aid kit there, we assumed it must be a frequent occurence there! Sacred monkeys, my ass!! We called the expat clinic when we got home, and I have all my shots so there's nothing to be worried about. The lady did tell us that they've had quite a few calls about monkey bites though!

I sure don't think monkeys are that cute anymore!

Balinese communal massages?!

Yes, Bali is definetly unique... even in massage styles! At the lakeside cottages on the active volcano, Mount Batur, we were convinced by some local ladies to go for massages... only $5 for an hour, with fresh coconut oil. Sounds great! But as we enter the small room, we see two beds... "the small bodies on the double bed, and the big body on the single bed!" And then the orders to undress with no privacy... there were 5 women standing around and a bunch of kids and dogs running in and out of the room! Thank god the other massagees were my mum and our friend. I found it funny: for being so conservative in the way they dress on a day-to-day basis, Balinese people are very comfortable with nakedness. And here we are, in short shorts and tank tops, complaining about getting naked in front of strangers. I think it will be very difficult to get used to the bua da da massages... that's just plain wierd!! But damn, those women have strong hands!!!

I'm having a hard time getting used to the idea that I'm going to be here for a year. The last time I drove down these roads, it felt like such a short visit to such an amazing and beautiful place. I kinda felt the same way when I got here... seeing my mum again and trying to get used to the new cultural and humid(!) climate... but this is my new home for as long as I want it to be!

I guess it's hard to feel at home when I haven't even had time to fully unpack my bags! As soon as I got here, we were off on our adventure to the north to see our Indonesian friend's home town and all the celebrations for Kuningan, a festival where the souls of family members return to spend 10 days with their living family. In our sarongs and formal-ish dress, we were welcomed into the temple and blessed with holy water and rice by a very old and very beautiful priestess.

I think Sun Chee is settling in a bit now... she's actualy quite relaxed! And we've decided to take it slow and stay around Bali instead of rushing off on a hectic 2-week whirlwind trip though Myanmar. I guess it will have to wait for a later trip. But it means that I'll actually be able to unpack my bags!!