Dispatches From a Dilettante

by Paul Rowson

  In the circumstances I was pleasantly surprised to return from the Caribbean to find that our house had not mysteriously caught fire and burned down.

  21.

  KHYMER CHAMELEON – PHNOM PENH CAMBODIA 2009

  “Your man is Long and he looks like a Sumo wrestler – he’ll be at Phnom Penh Airport to meet you”. As far as information goes this was a little on the sparse side. I wasn’t quite sure whether ‘Long’ referred to his stature or his name. There was an added complication for what was already turning into an eventful trip. My host in Cambodia was to be an American woman and her partner - or so I thought. The last phone message I got at Heathrow before boarding the Korean Airlines flight to Seoul informed me that this relationship was no more although ‘we’re still living together in the same house’.

  I had decided to kick start the lead up to retirement with a life affirming adventure, and when my American contact in Cambodia said there were hundreds of volunteering opportunities given the poverty and lack of infrastructure there I said ‘Yes’ before fully thinking through the implications. My wife wisely declined the offer of this, as yet, unspecified ‘opportunity’ which meant we would be apart for six weeks which had never happened in thirty five years. That being the case I was unreasonably but ridiculously pleased to arrive in Phnom Penh without losing any clothing, documents, money or luggage.

  Friends had very generously stomped up money for medical and educational equipment as I, after several exploratory emails finally committed to working with an American guy who had set up school rooms in a couple of slum areas and a squatter camp outside the capital. An innovative Cambodian Charity in England had agreed to hold the money so that, when I had got the hang of things, it could be sent direct to my nominated projects at source, as opposed to getting creamed off by corrupt officials.

  Long was not only there at midnight as I left the airport terminal, but he was easily spotted from the description and at least six inches taller and broader than the average Cambodian. He was to be my fixer in Phnom Penh and he was brilliant - apart from the several occasions when he had better offers. Long lived a forty five minute drive out of the capital but rarely went home to his wife and family. He slept in his tuk tuk, open to the elements, which he parked whenever he got tired of taking fares or when business was slow. This was fairly common practice but made the practicalities of life quite challenging.

  After dumping me outside my hosts in the dark during a brief power cut, Long informed me, in a combination of broken English and sign language, that he was picking me up at nine the following morning. I was extremely tired and totally disorientated in the humid inky blackness, and was yet to ascertain the domestic situation that I was about to encounter. Long would have none of it, pointed to his watch and moved the dial to nine. With that he disappeared after knocking on the door to announce my presence but not waiting for a reply.

  The domestic situation was not initially an issue as the male half of the couple was not going to return until the early hours after a trip up country. My host had an early start and so after brief pleasantries I was shown my windowless room. Despite the humidity I quickly fell asleep to the white noise of two giant fans which lowered the temperature to at least thirty three humid degrees.

  A ‘toot’ on the horn the next morning signalled Long’s arrival and we instantly set off to purchase a local SIM card for my phone. This was a smart move on his part as I now had no excuse for not using his services, but they proved to be invaluable. I was totally stunned to find out that, a few minutes after I had purchased this SIM card and turned on the phone (actually Long purchased it in his now official ‘fixer’ role) twelve texts popped up. It was intriguing given that I only knew three people in Phnom Penh at this stage.

  I read the first which was written exactly as you read it now. ‘Hello Mr Paul We are welcome in our home. Please give my regards to your estimable Prime Minister Mr Tommy Blair sincerely Visoth ’. This was demonstrably an enigma wrapped up in a puzzle.

  Ought I to respond with the news of ‘Tommy’s’ political demise? Perhaps I should point out that, although I had once met him briefly, we weren’t exactly drinking buddies? There was an initial urge to send a ‘stinger’ back saying that not only was he considerably less than estimable, but that he had fucked up the country by dragging us illegally into a war and was now pursuing a venal property acquiring lifestyle. Wisely, after that cathartic mental outburst I concluded that, for my first text response in Cambodia, it might be better to wait until I knew who the sender was and then be as polite in my reply as they had been in sending it. Ultimately it didn’t get any response as I never found out the identity of the mystery texter.

  What, though, became clear very quickly was that the overwhelming majority of young Cambodians, even those in the most desperate of circumstances, were eager to please, keen to learn and not in the least self pitying. That text, from whoever sent it, was typical of their desire to be welcoming and display interest in visitors.

  The six weeks passed in a blink of eye. Within days, via my American friend, I had contacts at all levels which enabled me to get a real insight into the country in double quick time. I found to my surprise that I did have access to an old computer with battered keyboard. There was fast internet in Phnom Penh and indeed plenty of internet cafes in the backpacker area, but not where I worked.

  In any given week at work most people will get some form of soliciting email for a good cause, either from individuals they know or from charities trawling for support. I was genuinely shocked and touched by the number of donors who responded and the amounts they gave. Surprised at having the opportunity to be in sporadic contact, it was the least I could do to keep my generous friends and colleagues in touch. What was even nicer was when their replies came back offering encouragement even if it was often in the form of mild abuse.

  I’ve produced a few below rather than give a day by day account of life in the big C as nobody calls it, and have resisted the urge to edit or polish them up, as you will quickly see. It was a great way to get ready for the big S - that significant birthday which happened two weeks after my return and was celebrated in a pub without a grain of rice or a noodle in sight.

  Camodia Blogs

  It Ain’t Half Hot

  Dear Sponsors

  Here’s a first brief update from the steaming heat of Phnom Penh. It is currently thirty five degrees, with eighty nine per cent humidity. I am working with an American who has a school in a slum housing block named Dey Krahorn. I say school, but think two rooms down a smelly alley in derelict buildings illegally occupied by squatters. Next to the rooms people are living and cooking. They have been evicted from land next door which has been cleared for ‘development'', but is now empty. Some of these people live on a relocation site eighteen kilometres away but their kids come back to the school and Drew is opening up another room on the relocation site soon.

  Drew McDowell is a saint but a quirky one. The school is unlicensed but he employs, in some form or other ten people, and I am typing this from his ‘office’, which is one room in a building down the road. I have already exhausted every teaching gimmick and my entire cabaret act, so some serious planning is in order.

  Drew’s comments as parents drift in and out are along the lines of ‘'This one is a gangster'" and "This one stole from the classroom", but he is known and loved in the slum, where I am now called ‘Om Paul’. This translates as Old Paul which I am told is a sign of respect but doubt it - or Mr Paul by the kids.

  Some of you reading this will have been to Phnom Penh but for any newcomer it is a sensory overload for the first few days. There are temples everywhere, and amongst the crumbling former French colonial buildings, UN Land Cruisers, a million mopeds, scooters and tuk tuks (think motorised rickshaw) trundle along. Unsurprisingly there’s extreme poverty cheek by jowl with money – most of it new. On every corner aromas ranging from jasmine and street cooking to rotting food assault the senses.

  I h
ave been staying with some US contacts but am looking for a place this evening as a more permanent base. Just to make you smile I have been to two meditation sessions at a local temple - an hour each. I know many of you will find it hard to believe that I could remain silent that long…so was I.

  First batch of your money will go to Aziza School (Drew’s place) for books and equipment so big thanks to you guys….more news from your PP correspondent to follow.

  Om Paul

  Five up Death ride and Follicle Fun

  Dear Supporters/Contributors

  Three up on a moto is common - think slightly more than a moped. Four is unusual and seeing five today was a first. It was one adult with four kids and the shopping moving serenely through the rush hour traffic. I say ‘rush’ hour but the dense traffic slowly oozes like viscous liquid through the steamy heat.

  The death ride in the title does not refer to this however. On Thursday Drew took me to his second school at Lakeside. It sounds nice but is the most stinking slum crossed by the railway track. We set off on his moto in the heaviest downpour since I arrived and in a gridlocked rush hour. I couldn’t see where we were going and I’m not sure he could either. When the road gave out near Lakeside we went through ankle deep water.

  On arrival the young kids were doing yoga in a one room shack. We stayed for three hours until the rain eased and visited a family who also lived in a one room ‘building’. One of the daughters may be where the next bit of your money goes. She is exceptionally bright and Drew is thinking of funding some further training for her.

  For those of us who are ‘follicly challenged’ the local barber’s sign is full of optimism. It reads: "BARBER - FOR ALL KINDS OF MEN". However this is easily beaten by the shop I passed in a tuk tuk which was offering facial treatment. It read: ‘TREATMENT FOR PUSS, SPOTS AND FACIAL BRUISING’.

  I’ve booked in!

  Your Cambodian correspondent

  Paul

  Livin’ it Large in the Jungle

  Hi Supporters and Donors

  The last few days have been tough as ever, but varied and full on. Highlights from the two schools which to remind you are Aziza in the Dey Krahorn slum and Aziza Lakeside at the even worse one across town include:

  The de-licing clinic run by two incredibly tough and resilient young American women.

  My most enjoyable small group English lesson to date. A sample of my abysmal communication skills can be summed up from the following pupil/teacher dialogue: “What are you doing?” “I am Cocking linch". “No you are COOKING LUNCH". It must be the Yorkshire accent.

  A tuk tuk ride (they are supposed to hold four) with eleven kids the driver and me. There were also two kids on bikes hanging on the side to get a free tow as we went across town to see a film.

  A funeral, which I was very privileged to attend and observe. It was a visceral experience. There was a long lead up the day before at the temple where friends and relatives gathered for conversation food and reflection. This was itself a lead in to a dramatic cremation the day after with wailing and drama. Pitifully it was all for a forty eight year old parent of one of the kids who had a minor heart complaint that would easily have been treated in the West without hospitalisation.

  On Saturday I ran a morning session at the University for nineteen Cambodians and two Americans on Staff Management (…Yeah Yeah). I was introduced as a ‘visiting professor’ (stifle the guffaws) but had a great time and a lovely lunch with them afterwards. The result has been lots of invitations to do further work which I cannot commit to.

  After all that I awarded myself some downtime and headed by coach to Siem Reep and the temples of Anghor Wat. The six hour journey, which some of you will have done, was enlivened by my front seat view of the driver texting his mates for a good part of the ride. I totally wimped out on arrival and booked myself in to a luxurious hotel as $30 buys a lot here and I needed to recover from the severe intestinal challenges I have been having for the last couple of days - enough information already!

  The sun is now going down and the red dirt roads are turning to streams. My first mojito is ordered and I’m all templed out.

  Your Cambodian correspondent

  Rats Religion and Real Estate

  Hi All

  I was walking home last night at around 9.30pm when a huge rat scurried past and into a drain. A second rat strolled past and as it drew level with me said "Hey old man, remember this is my town and I can go where I want, when I want". OK I made the last bit up and I’d had a couple of beers but it certainly gave me a look.

  In a city full of Buddhists the Cambodian administrative assistant in our ‘office’ is a Mormon searching for a Westerner to marry who is also a Mormon. I think she may be single for some time.

  Real Estate prices are sky high here which is why the eviction of people from the slum areas is such an issue. The city centre land they occupy is ripe for development, so they are shunted off to relocation sites and families split up in the process. The re-location site where some of the people from Dey Krahorn, who were Aziza school pupils, have been moved to is eighteen kilometres out of town and has no running water or sanitation.

  The contrast between the ‘’haves and have nots” is writ large every moment of the day, but before I get too preachy it can be funny. I was in a tuk tuk stuck in gridlocked traffic next to a Government car - a top of the range Mercedes. Next to that was a boy wheeling a severely disabled guy on a homemade trolley device. The government minister put the window down and gave some coins and just before the darkened electric window went back up I watched his driver hand him a tissue from a silver holder to wipe his hands.

  Your Cambodian correspondent on rodent patrol

  Paul

  Spitting as Art Form

  Hi Friends and Generous Donors

  In order to contextualise the spitting I should describe where I am currently staying. It is in a fifty metre long dead end alley in quite a nice district. All the eating takes place in the open area (grilled at night) on the ground floor in of the three story houses. Typically the downstairs has the moto or car and this is bizarrely often in the same tiled room that has the TV and seating. The same ‘room’ also has the two ringed cooking device and additionally is where the kids are washed. All this is ‘open’ that is to say it is almost on the street. Upstairs is a huge balconied area and the third floor open roof rooms are often unused. Washing is hung on tailors’ racks to dry in the street in front of the houses where a few tuk tuk drivers snooze in their vehicles.

  To get to ‘my’ second floor apartment I have to climb up a metal fire escape. There is no other entrance or exit. Behind my bedroom at the back, a mere ten feet way across the next alley, is another building and all sounds from it are clearly audible. It is in this apartment that the mystery ‘spitter” starts at 6.30am by rolling the contents of his throat around for a good twenty seconds. There is then a pause as he build up to the ‘big one”. There follows a huge spit and an instant later a ‘PING’ as it hits what I think must be a spittoon. It is now my official alarm clock.

  However a much more classy ‘spitter’ is the old woman who is probably my age, as the life expectancy is only fifty seven for women and fifty three for men in Cambodia. She lives across from me. While squatting in front of the house she casually spits a good three metres with minimal foreplay, and does this several times an hour. All the neighbours are friendly and smiley and I wave every morning to the family across the way.

  On a much more sombre note we took some of the older kids to view the Khymer Rouge trials currently taking place in a UN built building outside Phnom Penh. There will be more about that in the next missive, together with details of the nearby shooting last night. A moto driver hit a Lexus and the moto driver pulled out a gun and stuck it in his belt to begin ‘negotiations’. These eventually ended with him killing the driver and wounding four others - as I said at the start it is quite a nice district!

  Your unarmed correspondent

  Pa
ul

  Female fisticuffs, Rural Ramblings and Bucolic Bliss

  Dear All

  At the risk of over blogging I thought you would like to see two photos. The one of the old guy doing an NGO Saturday workshop at the University you can ignore, but Simmoy in the second photo is the Cambodian girl that some of your money is helping pay for an internship,

  The final one hundred metres leading to Aziza Lakeside ‘school’ is down a dusty narrow track with tin and wooden shacks cheek by jowl. It is inaccessible to vehicles and tuk tuks and a struggle for motos to get along. At the end there is a steep incline to the railway track and then to the two room school. Incredibly the lake is going to be drained and the land used for ‘development’ which means that the Lakeside community again face eviction. However I digress. We had gone on Drew’s moto to the Health Clinic, which takes place in a classroom there and then to see the launch of a photography project initiated by an inspirational Polish woman.

  With Darkness closing in I climbed on board Drew’s moto ready to depart only to find our way blocked by two women fighting in the dust. It was hard to follow the action in Khymer but either way we were blocked. Every time they paused we edged forward and then scuffling broke out again. When we eventually got through there were comments, I am sure, along the lines of ‘look at those two wimps on the moto’.