Hovering pants-less over a dirty ceramic squat toilet, I spied a dead cricket the size of a small mouse lying by the stall door. I almost fell backwards because I swore it twitched at me, petrified it would hop up my butt. Meanwhile, flies and mosquitoes began buzzing around my vulnerable little nut sack, like vultures hovering above a shaved, wrinkly wildebeest carcass. Head upturned, I furiously tried to blow them away from my quivering naughty bits, which made me light-headed. This was my fourth evacuation in less than a day and I prayed to Vishnu that my bowels were finally cleared from all evils. I had to be fresh and ready for my tarantula dinner that night.
Of course, Cambodia was more than spouting fountains of bum sick and culinary oddities. Over the course of five days, we explored the two main tourist centers of the great kingdom: the capital of Phnom Penh and the #1 attraction in the land, Siem Reap, the site of the ancient capital of the mighty Angkor kingdom. Our trip was nearly over, mere hours away from departure. I almost made it out with a clean record (literally). Optimists would say it was good timing: better to get sick on the way out than to have the entire trip ruined. Imagine temple hopping with the day's lunch dripping from your backside? Bleagh.
So considering the timing, I was actually really lucky. We were somewhere along National Highway 6 (NH6), the main paved road that connects Phnom Penh to Siem Reap. To outsiders, it would seem nothing more than an average country road, without markings or medians, bordering directly on the dirt roadside. However, in Cambodia, it is a structural luxury, a lifeline between the two big money-makers that we had flown in to see, lined with shops and rest areas. Now it proved to be vital for my survival.
Back in the stall, I almost passed out from the heat. My legs started to quiver from squatting too long. (Yes, it had been that long since I last exercised properly, thanks for reminding me.) An anguished moan slipped from my lips and I toyed with the idea of calling a priest for my last rites. You know when you're sick and nothing can faze you, your one goal being to evacuate every bit of discomfort from your body as fast as possible? I was in that mode. The grotty walls inches from my face, pestering insects diving in for the kill and the sour throbbing pulsing from my lower exit could not dissuade me. I just wanted to feel better.
And in Cambodia, of all places.
We arrived in Phnom Penh to a hero's welcome. Fireworks shot into the night sky, bursts of electric green and burning pink glittering down from the heavens as we skitted along the narrow boulevard cutting through the capital city. As I readied my triumphant acceptance speech, I was reminded that the celebration hailed the arrival of the new year, not the arrival of a trio of overworked expats from Shanghai. Deflated, we turned into the crisscross grid of Phnom Penh's smaller side roads and toward our hotel. It was dark, a bit dirty and there were quite a few dubious people out and about. But to my delight, at least the air didn't smell as bad as China.
This was our second New Year celebration that night. The first -- held unceremoniously on the Shanghai Airlines flight from Shanghai to Phnom Penh -- was a quiet affair, like most of my New Year's Eves, usually so sedate they could euthanize an entire nursing home. When the clock turned, we whispered happy new year to each other and exchanged hugs over tightly strapped seatbelts. An old guy in the row in front wanted in on our party, yelping a "Happy New Year!" in our direction. I was overjoyed that he didn't get the urge to lean back and kiss us too.
Our big plan for Cambodia would include a three-day temple-hopping jungle expedition through the Angkor temples near Siem Reap, in the northwest jungles of Cambodia. The tomb raiding would be book-ended by two days in Phnom Penh, the modern capital and site of the most publicized of the horrifying Khmer Rouge atrocities, Tuol Sleng prison and the Killing Fields.
But, as many people -- curiously shocked and frightened -- asked me before the trip started, "Why Cambodia?"
My hometown of Lowell, MA has the highest concentration of Cambodians in all of America (top spot figures disputed, but as far as I'm concerned, Long Beach can suck it), mostly descendants of the massive wave of refugee immigrants that fled the country during the Khmer Rouge stranglehold during the '70s and '80s. Jewelry shops, markets and restaurants adorned with bright red and yellow signs are scattered all over town, advertising Phnom Penh this, Battambang that, the squiggles of flowing Khmer script weaving along all the store fronts. Unfortunately I didn't bother to mine any cultural information from my Cambodian friends at that time, which probably would have been a bit useful, instead opting for neighborhood hijinx. We just worked and played together without too much concern for family history or in-depth analytical interaction. I actually thought they were just Chinese with really good tans.
Therefore you won't be surprised to learn that Angkor Wat had been a travel target of mine since I was a kid. The stone towers jutting out above the dense forest tree line utterly captivated that wannabe Indiana Jones within. The thought of such an imposing and exotic structure, ruined and lost to time and nature, made me giddy. The attraction of a totally unknown land was also a plus, affording a chance to learn something new about a familiar yet foreign culture.
I was finally here.
As the first minutes of 2010 passed into history, we began our Cambodian adventure.
Part 1: Something Like A Phnomenon
(Or, Phnom Penh For Dummies)
Phnom Penh ("puh-nom pen") is technically a city, but you'll forgive me if I initially mistook it for a small market town. While it is a densely packed urban bubble in a largely agrarian land, by Western standards, it is more similar to a smaller, nameless Chinese provincial city. You won't find any McDonalds or Starbucks. Public transportation consists of motorcycles and tuk tuks. Name brand stores are almost non-existent (the country's first Adidas shop is opening in Siem Reap this year). If you want to force a bright side onto the situation, at least they haven't been polluted by disgusting fast food, the clutter of a bus and subway network, or the alluring draw of materialistic shopping sprees. But that'd be stretching it. Most folks simply can't afford those luxuries. No demand, no presence.
Ironic, then, that Cambodia is one of the new production centers in Asia. Look at the tag of that Banana Republic or H&M shirt and, if I'm not mistaken, you'll see a "Made in Cambodia" tag. In fact, there is a market in Phnom Penh where you might be able to find Gap, Old Navy and BR wear at a fraction of what you'd pay in a US store. It didn't just fall off the truck on the way to shipping; it probably was carried over from the sweatshop next door.
On our first day in the city, we were to join up with a tour that we booked online prior to arrival. The price for the tour was a wee bit steep, but alas we thought it was worth it. You see, we foolishly assumed Cambodia would be some dangerous backwater nightmare, where young tourists with supple udders were kidnapped from the dark streets at night and sold as Russian whores to the local brothel. So to be safe, we figured a tour would be a smart choice. However after the first day, we realized that this was not as seedy as Thailand and the locals were not as tricksy as the huckster snakes in Bali.
And so, dear potential traveler, let me state the following: if, nee, WHEN, you go to Cambodia, just do it on your own. I can't stress that enough.
1. Buy a ticket,
2. bring a pile of US dollars, and
3. just go with the flow.
This country is built for tourism. After agriculture, catering to the influx of moneyed gawkers is the second biggest industry in Cambodia. Koreans make up the main bulk of tourists (surprised us, too), with the Japanese, Aussies and Americans closing the majority gap. Unlike more popular destinations like China and Japan, almost everyone here speaks a little English, making your life so much easier. And, as I'm sure you're still scratching your head, I did advise to bring a pile of USD, because that's the favored currency.
Technically, the national currency is the Cambodia riel, roughly 4000 to the dollar. Yes, riel-ly (sorry, I couldn't resist!). We thought it wise to exchange our precious USD for a bit of the local cash upon arrival, and after getting it up the ass in a very unpleasant fashion by the inflated exchange rate at the airport, we felt proud to be supporting the local economy. But we were wrong. The locals don't even want those colorful riel notes. The language of the land is "dollah." To stress this point, you will be interested to learn that during one particular bowel exercise in a local toilet, I actually saw a few 100 riel notes covered in shit in the trash bucket beside the toilet. Worth about 2 pennies a note, it's cheaper than toilet paper.
That morning, once we had all concluded our own bathroom business with good old-fashioned TP, we met our tour guide and driver in the lobby of Princess Hotel. The guide, Sethavy, was a petite woman with candy apple red nails and wide eyes the size of small dinner rolls. After greeting us in the standard Cambodian way -- palms together like you're praying, with a bow of the head -- she started our tour off right...with some bad news.
"Ah, Mistah Neeeeeil, so sorry to inform youuuu, yes, but because New Year Daaaay, Silver Palace closed."
The China expat within me immediately cried "trickster, give me what I paid for!" before logic prevailed. It was indeed a holiday and some things were bound to be closed. But for the price of the tour, I was miffed. She noticed my face turning red and offered another option, a visit to the Tuol Sleng prison site instead. As this was on the itinerary for our solo jaunt a few days later, we gladly pounced at the chance.
"OK sir, we can visit Tuol Sleng. But also must apologize. This half day tour, only visit Tuol Sleng and museum, then I take you to market. Only half day."
Doing a quick calculation in my head, this was really starting to piss me off. We could have done this on our own. We hadn't even left the hotel yet and already the day's activity list was getting shorter by the minute. Fine. Let's just see Phnom Penh already. We only had a half day anyway. Happy New Year.
The National Museum of Cambodia, located next door to the Silver Pagoda and Royal Palace, is a modest collection of Cambodian creations through the ages, mostly intricate bronzes, stone carvings, and some massive pieces salvaged from the pillaging of Angkor and reclaimed by the museum for safe-keeping. We received a crash course in Khmer art, which is a fantastic mix of imagery from Buddhist and Hindu traditions, as well as busts of Cambodian royalty over the centuries.
The Museum Courtyard
I wanna say this is King Jayavarman VII...Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, formerly the Tuol Svay Prey High School, before the Khmer Rouge turned it into the brutal Security Prison #21 imprisonment and torture center, is a must-see for all visitors to Cambodia. Not just out of respect for those murdered during the occupation of the Khmer Rouge, but also to gain a bit of understanding about the psychological fallout that still plagues current Cambodian society, which has only been free from the presence of this homegrown stain for twelve years, after the death of Pol Pot in 1998.
Welcome To Tuol SlengWalking through the main entrance to the school campus, covered with spirals of razor wire, Tuol Sleng looks like any other south Asian school: long, characterless, multi-level buildings with open air hallways and wide grassy courtyards. You can almost hear the little kids in uniform, tiny button down shirts and short khaki pants, running around between classes in the hot afternoon sun. However, once the Khmer Rouge decided to kick everyone out of Phnom Penh to be "re-educated" in the countryside, this former place of learning because the primary station for extracting confessions from perceived traitors and other dissidents found guilty of opposing Pol Pot's regime. And although almost all of the captives were their own people, a small number of foreigners were also unfortunately roped in on outlandish charges, dying the same inhumane death as their local counterparts.
Time for class
No Laughing
Khmer Rouge Rules and RegulationsAs we sauntered through the courtyard, the sweet smell of ripe jack fruit wafted through the air. The sky was deep ocean blue and the sun baked our skin as we passed into the shade of building A. Inside, we glimpsed our first cell.
Prisoner bed, ammo container (toilet) and shackles
Leg shackles for rows of prisoners
Prisoner bed
Sethavy shows us one of the victims, as he was foundIn a small classroom, roughly the size of a simple dorm, a rusted bed frame stood solitary in the center of the room. Grotty yellow and white floor tiles were stained with uneven dark spots. On the wall hung a picture of the room's final victim, murdered moments before the Vietnamese liberated the prison in 1979. This was one of fourteen such rooms on the first floor, the victims memorialized with blown-up prints of the scenes captured by a Vietnamese photographer when he discovered the mangled bodies, some with smashed heads and eviscerated guts, all last minute murders by the fleeing thugs. In the courtyard, fourteen white tombs sit silently in memory of these unlucky final casualties, the last bodies claimed at Tuol Sleng.
The Fourteen TombsA typical day at the Tuol Sleng holiday resort included two meals of just four (4!) spoonfuls of watered-down rice juice to keep the traitors alive. They were tortured regularly to extract confessions and force them to snitch on friends and family. Fingers were removed daily for some, the extent of their interrogation recorded by how many fingers they had remaining on their hands. When they weren't relieving themselves into old ammunition crates or being tortured, they were shackled down and immobile. When their services were no longer required, they were cruelly told they were free to head to the countryside to join the other happy citizens in prosperous farm activity. After being filed, they were led to the Killing Fields and bludgeoned to death with clubs. In order to save valuable bullets, of course.
This one really got to me...
Galleries filled with hundreds of victim portraits; the kids ones are pretty roughIt is generally accepted that about 2 million or more men, women, children and elderly died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Of this recorded amount, only seven survived Tuol Sleng. On the day of our visit, we got super lucky and met one of them. Now 74 years old, he was a technician at the prison. Though technically a captive, he was useful to the Khmer Rouge and thus kept around. A short, dark umber gentleman with shiny streaks of snow white hair over his ears, he exuded an indescribable energy as he slowly shuffled through the galleries, explaining pictures to visitors in the very same places where he watched fellow prisoners get tortured.
Mr. Technician
There he is on the far left (artist is in the center, electrician the short guy to his left (our right))Two other survivors are still alive: a 67 year old electrician and a 69 year old artist. The artist went on to paint a famous series of pictures depicting the tortures witnessed there. These paintings currently hang in the site's museum gallery, which also houses old torture devices that would make the chaps at Guantanamo blush. Or not, as waterboarding was also a common practice.
Nail removal and acid application
Prisoners in shackles:Not allowed to move, talk, etc.
Ye Olde WaterboarderThe basic torture methods were quite rudimentary. Lashings and beatings. Starvation. Head dunking into vats of fetid water and human waste. Forced consumption of shit and piss. Hanging from the gallows in painful yoga-esque contortions. Burning alive. Slicing skin with knives, swords and the sharp edges of palm fronds. Kids stuff.
Guards got more creative when prisoners were too stubborn to confess to their imaginary charges. Imaginative methods like ripping finger and toenails from hands and feet, then pouring alcohol or acid into the open wounds; piercing or tearing off the nipples of women charged with being "immoral"; even stuffing tarantulas and scorpions into dark, dank crevices where the flesh is most tender and susceptible.
These tortures were administered on a daily basis. Apologies to those who created me, but if I had to deal with that every day, I'd be on my way to the nearest rooftop. Prisoners no doubt also thought of this, so when one lucky soul managed to jump to his freedom, the guards fenced off all balconies with barbed wire to prevent any more early exits.
No escapeAlmost all Cambodians are directly affected by this dark period. The oldest members of society lived through it, while the younger folks have relatives that were victims of the brutality. Our tour guide's father was killed when she was just 3 years old. Listening to the stories and seeing faces of hundreds of victim mugshots displayed throughout the galleries, it all seemed eerily familiar to the Cultural Revolution that transpired in China right before the Khmer Rouge chose to follow suit. Foolishly overworking the land to create an unobtainable agrarian society. Dividing people into labor units. "Re-education." Forced autobiographical confessions. Designating "group chiefs" who acted as spies to tattle on their own kin. Kids ordered to kill their parents. Art, history and culture destroyed to wipe out any trace of the past. Looking at a map of modern Phnom Penh, you'll notice a Mao Tse Toung Boulevard cutting through the south side of the city. I wondered how he continues to get away with so much, despite the fact that he caused the destruction of more of his own people than Pol Pot could ever dream of. And to top it off, Beijing doesn't have a Pot Pot Avenue to reciprocate.
A Naked Massages with Friends
After such a heavy visit to the genocide museum, it was time to replenish our fluids and good spirits. We waved goodbye to our tour guide and set our sights on grub. Though the first day of the new year was off to a grim start, a few Friends saved the day.
Friends Restaurant is a member of a larger NGO that focuses on training street kids, giving them basic skills to function in the workplace in the F&B industry. All profits go directly toward the school program and any tips are highly appreciated. In addition to making your dollar go the distance in terms of lending a helping hand (however minimal), the food is also pretty damn good.
Khmer fried rice
Amok
Khmer Iced Coffee FTW1. Central Market
2. Russian Market
3. Massage Spa
4. Dinner
5. Nightcap
Of course, as you can guess, when I whip out lists like this, things do not go according to my well-laid master plan. This day was slowly turning into a circus of uncontrollable elements and bad luck.
Friends Restaurant:A diner is not happy with my itinerary
Judging from the Lonely Planet map, the Central Market was roughly 6 blocks north, 6 blocks west. Though we were advised to take a tuk-tuk by the Friends staff, we felt a nice afternoon stroll would be acceptable.
Editor's Note: just fork over the 2 bucks and take a tuk-tuk.
Walking along the streets of Phnom Penh, it was a striking mix that I could not categorize. Some remnants of French influence could be seen on colorfully painted colonial buildings that stood out as expertly designed pieces of art next to the simpler concrete store fronts that can be found anywhere in continental Asia. The streets were filled with motorcycles, tuk-tuks and a few cars. There is no public transport system here, so the only buses you'll find are loaded with Korean tourists shuttling between the safety of popular sightseeing destinations.
Phnom PenhThough the country is quite impoverished, things seemed cleaner. I couldn't help compare to China, but it was the closest available comparison in my head. Streets weren't filled with garbage, kids weren't pissing and shitting on the sidewalks, the air was fresher (despite the ubiquitous dust) and nobody was spitting or smoking cigarettes. I tell you, the lack of smoke and phlegm would be enough to make me stay. And the people. Oh, the people.
Moving shop
Afternoon chillSmiles. Actual smiling. Laughter. Nobody stared at me like I was an alien. Surely, you cynical bastards, folks interacting with me on a one-to-one basis may have been acting nicer to the moneyed foreign tourist. However, just observing the locals on the streets and in shops and at malls, they treated each other with a lot more respect and kindness than anything I've seen in more developed SE Asian countries, let alone the nightmare of manners in China. Tuk-tuk drivers vying for tourist passengers didn't fight in the streets; they group bargained. Vehicles -- while still practicing organized mayhem on the streets -- didn't veer too close to us, there was no violent horn honking, no pedestrian hit-and-run. Surely, there is a dark underbelly to every society. But in general -- very general, for a mere 5 day's of observation -- things were simpler and nicer in Cambodia.
Luckily I gained so much cultural insight on that long march, because before I thought to recheck our map, we already overshot the Central Market by almost 5 blocks and found ourselves in northern Phnom Penh, at Wat Phnom, the namesake and highest (see: only) hill in the city. Convenient miscalculation, I played it off as part of the plan.
Back-tracking, we managed to find the Central Market. Too bad it was closed for renovation. It would have been nice to enter the massive yellow Art Deco palace, but judging from the stall vendors that crowded around the building in a makeshift shanty town, it was unnecessary. Most of the crap they were selling was made in China and you could get it for a lot less RMB anyway.
If the sun were a building, it would look like thisFrustrated, we sought solace in the neighboring, air-conditioned Sorya Shopping Center, a popular mall with a fast food restaurant (BB World, serving the equivalents of those microwavable gray-meat burgers from Jimmy Dean, not a bad meal for 2 USD); a large supermarket filled with hot backpacker chicks buying import goods; a movie theater screening locally produced zombie/ghost horror flicks; and relatively clean bathrooms. I would thank my lucky stars for that last perk a few days later...
Sorya, My SaviorAt this point, it was early afternoon and we scratched the Russian market off the list. We didn't have the energy to tackle another market, especially one that specialized in counterfeit goods already abundant in Shanghai. Instead, we needed something more. A little rubbing and groping.
(Now's the time to light some candles, turn on some mood music, such as Justin Bieber, and get comfortable.)
Tuk-tukking back toward the National Museum and Royal Palace, we got off at Bliss Spa, a combo meal of an enterprise that also includes an overpriced bohemian hippie-garb store and a bar. Nice, I'm sure. But sun dresses and cosmos could wait. I just wanted a rub down.
My travel mates opted for conservative options (dry massage, foot massage and manicures), to which I scoffed and ridiculed. Why limit yourself to only 60 minutes of appendage attention when the entire body can be pleasured for over two hours? I went ahead and selected the full decadent Bliss treatment (only 40 USD), which included a 15 minute steam bath, 1 hour exfoliating body scrub, and 1 hour aromatherapy oil massage. I get so many massages anyway, I could just chalk this up as a research expense.
After a quick evacuation (it's never a good idea to go into a massage with a loaded cannon, children), I stripped down to my bare essentials and tip-toed through the open air courtyard into the empty steam room.
Planting my bare ass onto the tiled bench, I leaned back and tried my best not to choke on the burning hot vapors that were billowing out of a pipe in the floor. My naughty bits were protected with a towel, but I was still nervous another customer would come in and ruin my privacy (i.e. see my wee-wee). Thus I remained alert and didn't get too comfortable. Every now and then, a fresh burst of burning steam would shoot out, scalding my petrified bean pouch.
I had been steaming on the tiled bench long enough that my ass resembled a checker board and my hair was completely soaked through. Nobody came to extract me, but I had nearly sweat out all the liquid in my body. I had to get out before I fainted, the staff eventually remembering that flabby white dude in the steam room, only to discover a fully cooked corpse.
The shock of the cool air was refreshing. A passing masseuse stopped in his tracks and stared at me with a concerned grimace. "Wow, you are really hot." I knew he wasn't referring to my dashing good looks, as a later investigation in the bathroom mirror revealed that I was as pink as a Christmas ham.
Showered and fully robed, I was lead to the massage room by an adorable little massage girl. Standing beside the bed, she lifted a sheet to protect her shy eyes and instructed me to strip and lay down. I was completely naked beneath the robe, so I started waving around my crotch and asked "No underwear?" hoping she'd have a pair of disposables.
"No need, you lie down."
And so, prudishness be damned, I whipped my robe into the corner and bared my glory for no one to see. Then I lay face down with my hairy buttocks facing the ceiling and got exfoliated. With all the coarse hair on my legs and ass, that little massage girl got a simultaneous palm exfoliation that afternoon as well.
Once the external layer of my dermis was completely scrubbed off by those little orange-scented micro-beads, she directed me to a shower room. An open shower room. With no door. Still butt nekkid, I swallowed my fear of exposure to laughing strangers, lest I appear to be less of a manly man.
Massage girl left me alone and I hopped into a tub at the corner of the spacious room, protected from prying eyes by only a curtain far across the room. As the chunks of residue sloughed from my body, I looked down and noticed Lil' Neil was in hibernation. So I gave him a few tugs to increase my morale. As I pulled, some unmannered yokel burst through the curtain (what, no knocking?) and saw me, meat in hand. Swiftly turning on her heel, she whisked right back out without a peep. Now I'd forever be that pale guy who was whacking it in the shower room on New Year's Day. Sigh.
During my aromatherapy oil massage, I was so relaxed and comfortable that my mind began to wander. Lying on my back, the massage girl's expert hands gliding up and down my limbs, across my bare chest, forcing out all those kinks in my aching muscles, things started to happen down below. Red lights went off in my brain and my wits went into overdrive. Before pitching any tents of embarrassment with that sheet of Khmer silk, I had to think fast. Something to distract me, something to calm the storm, something to kill all potential thoughts of carnal pleasure with this nubile lamb covering me in warm oil.
Having just visited Tuol Sleng, my mind found it difficult to reach beyond, to something more kosher like baseball or Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day. It was the only thing I could think of. And so, in the deepest of determined concentration, I silently chanted, "Think Genocide, Think Genocide, Think Genocide!" And it worked very quickly. Nothing kills the mood like the thought of mass murder. Problem solved, libido in shackles.
That evening, we enjoyed our first taste of Khmer barbecue at Frizz Restaurant (which also offers Khmer cooking classes). Ingeniously cooked on a piping hot dome that drips liquefied meat juice into a moat of bubbling soup, it would not be the last time we enjoyed this treat.
...and now I have a massive craving. Gah!Still high from the combination of grilled meats and massaged flesh, we returned to our hotel for a few hours of rest before our pre-dawn flight to Siem Reap. After an inconsistent and confusing day, I begged all the gods in Hindu heaven to bless us with better traveler's luck on our next stop. If the Angkor Wat experience failed to meet the expectations of years of pent up anticipation, I'd be inconsolable.
Next episode: temple hopping through Angkor, the Siem Reap days...
