The September Edition

I had just stopped at a corner dessert shop for some ice-cream when I noticed a sign advertising tours up Bokor Mountain, about an hour outside of Kampot, Cambodia.  I signed up on a whim.

The next morning, the tour van picked me up at my hotel.  Tour van is a strong description.  The van that took us on the tour arrived.  The driver hopped out to say hello.  He had shoulder-length curly hair and a hippie vibe about him.  He looked to be in his early 20s, friendly, and in a hurry.  I climbed in the front seat and slammed the door.  I was the only one in the van.  The driver’s seat was torn up and the seat behind us had a giant speaker laying on its side, taking up all three spots.  I really hoped more people would be joining me.

I could imagine the tour company’s internal conversation, “Hey, wouldn’t it be great to start a tour company?  But what will we do for transportation?”

“I’ve got a nephew – he has a van!”

“Uncle, that’s AWESOME, I can TOTALLY tour your people!!!!!!!!”  This would have been in Khmer, but I’m pretty sure it’s still an accurate representation as to the chain of events leading to this moment.

Fortunately, the van stopped to pick up a few more people, so if the sketchy situation went south, at least there would be witnesses.  We drove up the mountain, stopping for lunch at what would have been a gorgeous waterfall during the rainy season.  A little further up the road, the Bokor Hill Station ghost town emerged.  The building were  beginning to blend into the mountainscape as the jungle slowly reclaimed the intrusion.  This area was developed in the 1920s as a retreat village for the colonial French elite trying to escape the heat of Phnom Penh.  It had been abandoned by the 1960s, except for swarms of revolutionary guerilla Khmer Rouge from the 1970s-1990s.  A new road was built in 2009, making the hill accessible to tourists and development again.

We walked through old apartments and roofless ruins.  There was one house that looked occupied, oddly out of place.  The Catholic church was small and forlorn, but still had charm as it stood sentry in the abandoned town.

It was windy on the mountaintop, the kind of windy where you had to put your head down and lean forward just to walk.  We visited the Black Palace where the King used to have his summer home in the 1950s and 60s.  The walls were covered with graffiti and vines twisted through every crack in the cement.  I tried to picture what the buildings looked like fully furnished, busy with people.

We then visited a Buddhist temple nestled in the rock outcropping with the most stunning views, stretching to the Gulf of Thailand.  It’s the highest pagoda in Cambodia.    The Elephant Mountains here have been considered sacred for centuries and the hilltop had nooks all over the grounds for worshipers to pray and present offerings before the statues of Buddha.  Just below the temple, a gnash of brand-new development is beginning to explode, including a resort hotel, casino, and townhouses.  The area planned to become a top destination for conferences and posh holiday escapes.  The contrast between the worn and quiet old and the bright, modern new is startlingly harsh.

On the way down the mountain, we stopped to see the Lok Yeay Mao statue.  It was built in 2012 and is 95 feet high.  She is venerated in the local Buddhist tradition as a protector of travelers.  It was kind of weird.

The hippie van driver dropped us off without incident down by the river in downtown Kampot.  The tour included a sunset cruise down the Praek Tuek Chhu River. A small group of people were looking at the menu for the cruise, which included vegetarian options.   I cracked how delicious vegetarians are, to which one of them turned to announce he was a vegetarian.  Whoops!  So of course we became friends.  He was Hindu and from Singapore.  He had just finished his mandatory 2- year military service and was on vacation before starting his studies.  We managed to find where the other backpackers and solo travelers were clustered on the boat and began exchanging travel stories.  Amy, from England, was doing a SE Asian tour for a few months in the middle of a career change.  There was a young Danish gal, and an older woman from Spain.  I found it interesting that I met very few American travelers.  Many Europeans, some from other Asian countries, but hardly any Americans.

We drifted down the river, enjoying the light breeze and a stunning sunset, followed by fireflies sparkling in the darkness.  I could see a bridge coming up in the distance.  It looked pretty low.  As we got closer, I realized my initial assessment was off—it was very low.  The boat crew took down the poles on either side that hung lights over the deck of the house-boat cruiser.  As the bow passed under the bridge, everyone in front started bending backwards until they were lying flat on their back, phones in the air to video the bridge just inches away from their faces.  I was sitting in the back, watching the domino effect.  As we glided forward, I joined the crowd in playing limbo and wondered if they ever had a poor distracted soul knocked out or off the boat.  Clearly, their society hadn’t yet discovered the joys of litigation.  Good for them.

Our little crew of travelers decided to grab dinner together (we found one with vegetarian options).  It’s amazing the instant connection you find between solo travelers.  You need to make new friends at every destination, so you get pretty good at becoming outgoing.  After a lovely dinner, we each went our separate ways, probably forever.  But the moment of friendship was deep and real, and just enough.

I needed to figure out how to get to Vietnam.  Kampot isn’t a major transportation hub, but a few travel blogs mentioned they found a bus from there to Ho Chi Minh City.  I found the website of the company and sent an inquiry, but never heard back.  Later that week, I was biking downtown and saw a sandwich board advertising bus services.  Perfect!  I popped in to ask about days and schedules.  That particular company didn’t have the right bus I needed, but she called her friend who worked for a competitor company to come over.  Within three minutes, she was there and I had a ticket for 3 days later.

I had packed up everything in my backpack and carry-on suitcase and went to the hotel porch to pay for my stay.  The hosts were so gracious.  We had several long conversations over the week about life and business and the economy and family and all the things you discuss with new acquaintances.  They would often stop by with little snacks the wife had made or pieces of fruit the husband had cut up.

“Thank you for that seminar you gave!”  The owner gave me a big smile.  I had been surprised to see him at the lunchtime business training hosted by The Life Center.  The mix of people was so diverse, I wasn’t sure my information was helpful to anyone.  Only one person asked questions, the owner of a very successful ice-cream shop, looking to expand.  He had a lot of questions, and we ended up discussing the need for manufacturing in the area to increase economic development opportunities in the region.  The students looked on curiously, and I wasn’t sure how much was helpful for my hotel owner friend, but I was grateful for the kind encouragement nonetheless.

“You have a long trip ahead of you to Vietnam.  Please take some bananas.”  The wife smiled and handed me a bunch of small bananas, one of the hundreds of varieties you see in SE Asia.  These were exceptionally sweet, and I was touched by her hospitality.

“Thank you so much!!  Can I give you a hug?”  I’m a hugger, it’s very American, but I love it.  She smiled and held out her arms.  I didn’t realize until we hugged that it’s a bit of a learned art.  There’s the slight lean and quick pat that’s the ‘acquaintance-level hug’ that I was expecting.  She stood straight and stiff, I suppose trying to remember what this custom looked like in American movies and I’m sure wishing in her head that this weirdo American would just bow like all normal people do.  But she was kind and her smile told me we had made a connection.

They waved goodbye as my tuk-tuk pulled up and I left for the bus stop.  Next up, Vietnam!

I hadn’t ridden a bike in years.  I booked a nice little bed and breakfast for $10 a night, just a bit down the road from The Life Center in Kampot, Cambodia.  It wasn’t far, but my hosts had offered to loan me a bicycle, making the trip about 3 minutes.  There was a small courtyard at my accommodations that had enough space to practice.  I unlocked the cable, typed the combo into my phone so I could unlock it next time, and then tossed it into the handy front basket.  I gingerly stepped over the bike and twisted my foot a few times to get it situated on the petal just right.  Within two pushes, the bike had steadied and I was rolling along down the driveway.  It all came back… just like riding a bike!

The road was paved, but there was gravel and dust along the sides that kicked up anytime traffic passed.  The town felt safe, but I secured my purse in the hand basket with a small carabiner I had clipped onto the strap.  If someone tried to snatch it, they’d have the drag the whole bike with them.  Which they probably would, and then they’d have my purse and a bike.  I really hadn’t given this too much thought.  Fortunately, no one tried to snatch either one.

The Life Center is a gathering place.  They primarily teach English and Chinese, but also host events, teach studies, and create community connections.  I pulled up to the front of the building with a large sign in English and Khmer, and rolled my bike through the gate, parking it in front of the huge glass windows.  I slipped off my shoes and put them on the rack just inside the front door.  The cement building was designed to be cool against the punishing heat of a tropical country, but the homemade signs and decorations on the walls created a hospitable warmth and friendliness.  I walked through the large room in the center and paused as a I heard a sound that enveloped me with the sweet pangs of the distant familiar: Christmas carols.  Two of the staff members were Filipino, a country that reigns supreme at Christmas.  They were jamming out on a keyboard and guitar, and joined by one or two students who were learning how to play.

“Are you going to be visiting our class tonight?”  Liz was the lead Chinese teacher.  She was petite, with thick black rimmed glasses and an infectious smile.  Four women in their 20s ran the Chinese language classes at The Life Center.  They came on rotating two-year commitments.  Compensation was minimal, but they loved the opportunity to connect with the students and build friendships.

Class sizes are limited to about 12 students.  Liz wrote some characters on the whiteboard and the students repeated after her, working on the right tones as they memorized useful phrases.  Liz encouraged their efforts, making gentle corrections until their accent was perfect – or at least sounded pretty darn close to me.

China is making huge investments throughout SE Asia.  Trade between the two countries totals $6 billion, with 87% of that being Chinese exports.  Chinese companies have been shifting manufacturing to SE Asian countries to get around U.S. tariffs, providing new job opportunities and industrial growth in places like Indonesia, Vietnam, and Cambodia.  China is Cambodia’s largest investor by far, building roads, hydropower plants, and entire cities.  However, the benefits are not widely shared in the local population.  Over 60% of foreign residents in Cambodia are Chinese, often imported to work on construction projects.  Chinese companies prefer to have workers who understand their language.  In a booming tourist town about an hour away from Kampot, 90% of the businesses are owned by Chinese, including the hotels, restaurants, and casinos.  All the tourism profits get repatriated, with little left in the local economy.

China is Cambodia’s strongest ally and understanding the language is an important investment for future job opportunities.  English remains the primary language of tourism, as well as any international opportunities in education, science, and diplomacy.  Language training at The Life Center provides the chance for students to get better jobs, provide for their families, and dream beyond the borders of their village.  It offers hope.

I joined Liz and the other Chinese teachers for lunch at a trendy NGO-based café.  Many of the workers employed there are deaf, so all the tables come with pencils and tablets to write your orders.  The food was fantastic, and the place was buzzing with customers.  We found a table for four and squeezed in an extra chair at the end.  The gals had just been to the market.  They excitedly opened a plastic bag to show me their find.  It was a lotus flower, filled with seeds.  Liz broke off a piece and offered it to me.  “The seeds are good for you.  They’re anti-aging!”  I took a piece and tried one.  “Well?”  I angled my face back and forth.  “Did it work?”  They laughed.

We had an easy conversation.  The women loved the adventure of traveling somewhere new.  They enjoyed the people they were meeting at The Life Center – the opportunity to make friendships, share opinions, debate culture, and talk about faith.  Living in China has many restrictions.  Its state surveillance systems are unrivalled in scope and precision.  Their social credit scoring system rates you on everything you do, and what your friends do.  Bad company corrupts good character, so they say, and if your friends are considered “disruptive” to the government, you may not be able to get a bank loan or travel.  Even with its challenges, they obviously loved their home and talked about the many things they missed being away.

We finished up lunch and got ready to head back to The Life Center. I unlocked my bike from a light post in the charming French-colonial downtown area.  With the bike, I could make it back in about 15 minutes.  I turned left at the main roundabout, the one with a giant durian fruit in the center.  Durian is considered the stinkiest fruit in the world and you’ll often see signs banning it from hotels and public transportation.  But in Kampot, it is worthy of a statue in the middle of town.  This is why travel is amazing.

It was the Christmas celebration that night.  The students from both the English and Chinese classes were dressed up as shepherds, angels, and the main characters of Mary and Joseph, with a wadded-up towel passing for the baby Jesus, same as every pageant in the world.  There was a paper stable taped up on the wall, with a giant star at the top.  The Christmas tree was in the corner, sparkling with decorations.

“I love this Christmas tree.  It’s so pretty.”  One of the students was standing with a big smile, enjoying the beauty of the season.

I turned to him, “Do you celebrate Christmas?”

“No, my family is Muslim.  But I like Christmas.”  He loved being part of The Life Center, a group that had welcomed him in with friendship and community.

The team began with the Christmas songs I had heard them singing earlier.  I looked at the faces around the room, filled with smiles as they tried to keep up with new vocabulary words and unfamiliar tunes.  Christmas songs are pretty simple, though, and they caught on quickly.   Then, the Christmas story began.  The narration was great practice for the characters to listen for their acting cues in English.   The angels came down the flight of stairs, the shepherds overdramatized shock and awe, and everyone gathered at the manger to adore the Savior come into the world.  It was so familiar, even in such a foreign place.  I congratulated everyone on their acting and English, and they were so proud of both.

The students lingered long after the program ended.  One picked up a guitar and started singing, with a few other students joining in.  Another struck up a conversation with one of the staff members, talking about his plans for further education.  It was clearly a hang-out spot, and everyone felt at home.

Outside, it was dark, but not cold.  I lifted my bike over the metal gate and started my short commute back.  The hotel owners were sitting outside enjoying the cool night air, and we exchanged pleasantries as I locked up my bike at the rack.  The warmth of a kind community filled me with a happy peace as I settled in for the night, humming Christmas carols as I drifted to sleep.

Cambodia became a French protectorate in 1863, and then gained independent in 1953.  Communist fervor was sweeping the world, with Mao’s Zedong’s revolution to the north followed by the Vietnam war raging to the east.  In 1970, the King of Cambodia was deposed in a coup.  A civil war raged for the next 5 years, until one side emerged victorious:  the Khmer Rouge.  

Pol Pot was educated in Paris and became steeped in Marxist-Leninist philosophy.  He became leader of Khmer Rouge and “Brother number 1” when they seized power in 1975.  He idolized an agrarian society based on collective ownership and self-sufficiency.  It was implemented through a murderous domination that no one escaped.

The Khmer Rouge emptied the cities and forced everyone to move to farming collectives in the countryside.  They singled out the educated, the artists, the leaders, and the minorities for immediate extermination.  The others just took a little longer.  The urban class knew nothing about agriculture and couldn’t meet the unrealistic quotas demanded of them.  They were accused of sabotage.  The sentence was death.  The starving collectives would sometimes find wild berries or roots to eat.  They were accused of capitalist intent.  The sentence was death.  Mobs will eventually turn on themselves and purge from their ranks former leaders who fail new tests of political purity.  Many of the Khmer Rouge who unleashed the monster became swallowed by it.  Again, death.

The Khmer Rouge ruled for 3 years, 8 months, and 20 days.  In that short time 2-3 million people died, 25-30% of the entire population. 

The regime was paranoid, suspicious, and ruthless.  There were at least 150 torture prisons established to hold enemies and extract “confessions” used to identify their next victims.  The most famous of these prisons is Tuol Sleng, known as S-21.  It is now a genocide museum.  

I booked a tuk-tuk driver for the whole day.  It only took about 30 minutes to get there and the open-air ride was relaxing and peaceful.  We pulled up to a building nestled in a busy neighborhood.  It was originally built as a school and had beautiful trees and grass in a center courtyard.  I stepped in the entrance and was immediately confronted by the gruesome history of this place, with a sign listing the rules for prisoners:

1. You must answer accordingly to my question. Don’t turn them away.

2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that, you are strictly prohibited to contest me.

3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare to thwart the revolution.

4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.

5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.

6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.

7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.

8. Don’t make pretext about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your secret or traitor.

9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you shall get many lashes of electric wire.

10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

After the sign, I turned left to begin walking the corridors.  The lower rooms had bars added to the windows.  These were for interrogation.  Metal frame beds were still standing where they were left.  The bodies were gone, but photographs hung in the rooms as stark reminder of what was found.  It was the rotting smell of corpses that led the invading Vietnamese army to discover Tuol Sleng.  Some of the prisoners had been killed only hours before.  

Everyone was interrogated.  You were arrested on suspicions and tortured until you confessed to exactly that.  Electric shocks, beatings, and waterboarding were standard.  They also pulled out fingernails, poured on alcohol on open wounds, burned with searing hot metal, and hung people with their hands and feet tied together behind their back, sometimes outside as a warning to others.  You can still see dried blood on the floor and walls.  They got confessions.  Apparently, a shockingly high number of people who were arrested had been secret agents for the CIA and the KGB and the North Vietnamese, probably all at the same time.  

Outside the interrogation rooms, life wasn’t much better.  I walked up the dark stairway to the second floor, which was the housing area.  Large rooms held groups of prisoners all chained together.  They got four spoonsful of watery porridge twice a day.  Every couple of days, a hose was sprayed in the room for a few minutes to clean them off.  They weren’t allowed to talk to each other.  They slept on the cement floor with no mat and no blanket, and mosquitos tormenting them at night.  Down the hall, small cells had been created in the other classroom.  They were about two feet by four feet.  Often, two prisoners would be housed together, each chained to the floor.

Several of the rooms held wall to floor pictures of the prisoners where were held in S-21.  A researcher of genocides noted how regimes are consistent in meticulously document their atrocities.  I looked at the faces and studied their eyes.  Who were they?  Where did they come from?  What was their life like before they arrived at this prison?  A few of the stories were told in more depth, but most were anonymous, a face to represent the realness of what happened in the prison, but still distant and unknown.   

 More than 20,000 passed through the prison.  Only seven survived.

Most prisoners from S-21 were taken to a small village nearby called Cheoung Ek to be killed.  Mass graves were dug to accommodate the loads of prisoners that would come through each night.  They mounted speakers and played patriotic songs loudly to cover the screams of executions.  Ammunition was expensive and scarce.  They usually beat the prisoners to death.  There’s a tree by the edge of one grave that was used to bash the heads of babies.  It was ruthless.  And it happened every single night.

There are more than 20,000 mass graves from the genocide.  They are collectively known as the Killing Fields.  

Today, the area looks like a park.  I walked the paths through the grass and there was a peaceful beauty in the palm trees and flowers.  But the grass is uneven, with mounds and depressions attesting to the horrific history that made these fields a cemetery.  The remains of nearly 9,000 people have been found.

When heavy rains come, pieces of clothing or bones will work their way to the surface.  Park officials ask visitors to notify them so they can add these to the memorial stupa at the entrance.  The tower is stacked with bones and skulls.  The skulls are labeled male or female, approximate age, and the tools used to kill them.  The stacks went up and up, and each one had been a living, breathing, person, not that long ago.  There are more than 5,000 skulls in the memorial.  

The revolution that had promised utopia and equality and perfection had unleashed a ghoulish nightmare, except it was real and you couldn’t wake up from the torment and loss.  Everyone was affected.  They are still affected.

Only 5 people were indicted for the crimes of the Khmer Rouge, beginning in 2007.  Kang Kek Iew, “Comrade Duch”, oversaw S-21 and was the sole perpetrator to expressed deep regret and remorse, and take ownership for his decisions and actions.  He cooperated with the investigation by providing details and histories.  He had become a Christian in 1995 and was astounded that the message of forgiveness could extend to someone like him.  He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.  Comrade Duch and two other people are the only ones who have served time in prison.  Pol Pot died in 1998, at home with his family.

As I got in my Tuk-Tuk to go back home, I started thinking about history, from the grandeur of Angkor Wat to the gruesome genocide of the Khmer Rouge.  People are capable of great things – sublime beauty and appalling evil.  The potential coexists in every person.  The builders of Angkor Wat left a visual legacy of greatness.  The destroyers of the Khmer Rouge left a murderous scar of devastation.  But then, other people came to build again.  It has taken many years.  It has taken hard work.  No one will see the results of their efforts, like at Angkor Wat, but rebuilding people has a much longer, a much deeper impact.  It takes a relentlessness in love, in dedication, in determination that the people in Cambodia deserved better, that the country could flourish, and lives could have hope.  People who saw a need and were compelled by love to act.  And they are still there, working, rebuilding, and making a difference.

My alarm went off at 4:00am.  I quickly silenced it, trying not to disturb the other 19 people sleeping in bunk beds around the hostel room.  I slid off the top bunk and tried to get ready as quietly as possible, grimacing at the noise of zippers and trying to keep the flashlight low as I grabbed my things for the day’s excursion.  I double checked the locks on my bags before I left, and scooted them far underneath the bed.  My eyes had adjusted to the dark as I made my barefooted silent decent to the first floor.  No shoes were allowed indoors, as is common throughout Asia.  I scanned the shoe rack until I spotted the familiar contours of my sandals, scooted one shelf down and several spots over.

I was ready 10 minutes before our scheduled pick-up time and 20 minutes before we actually left.  A few other people joined me as we waited for the adventure at Cambodia’s largest tourist attraction, Angkor Wat.  A tuk-tuk finally came by and we all piled in.  It seemed a bit crowded for a full day’s use, but it dropped us off at a larger gathering point.  We picked our way into a van with about 15 people from hostels around the city.  Group tours are always cheaper and many companies work closely with the budget accommodation options to maximize their numbers.  

After purchasing our passes, we drove over to a grassy hill.  People were lined up hawking snacks, souvenirs, and water.  It was 5:30am.  There were already hundreds of people sitting around the edges of the moat, waiting for sunrise.  

“Look, it’s the morning star!”  A German gal next to me, another solo traveler, pointed to a brilliant beacon in the eastern sky, one that served as an ancient hope that a greater light was soon coming.  Back home, I am often awake by that time in the morning, but never outside except to race to my frosty car and focus on wherever I’m going.  It was a beautiful sight to sit there and watch sky.  

The colors began to change as the morning brightened.  The sky transformed to a lighter shade, and then again.  Pink, yellow, and orange colors played on the clouds hanging over the famous Angkor Wat towers silhouetted against the sunrise.  It seemed slow, and then it was day.  Our tour guide gathered us to cross the bridge and enter the temple grounds.  

We walked on plastic interlocking tiles that had been constructed to preserve the original stone bridge entrance.  The temple is built from sandstone that was transported 25 miles, joined without mortar, and polished smooth.   Intricate details are carved into every doorway, frame and ledge.  Bas-relief carvings narrated from the walls, depicting scenes of Hindu legends, Gods, and daily life.  Patterns and designs covered hallways and pillars, beckoning the eye deep into its intriguing path.  Down one corridor sat a Buddhist priest who would offer a blessing for a small donation.  Buddhist statues dressed orange and yellow sashes were mostly gathered in that area. 

History is fascinating.  I think of all the kingdoms and empires that had their time of conquest and influence.  Mongolia, Peru, Rome.  The Khmer Empire from current-day Cambodia at one time ruled most of SE Asia and was an economic and military powerhouse. Angkor was the capital.  At the apex of its rule, the city was the largest in the world, and had more than a million people and spread out over the size of Los Angles.  It was the center of political decisions and spiritual worship. 

Angkor Wat (“City Temple”) was built in the 12th century as a Hindu temple to the god Vishnu.  By the end of the century, it had become a center for Buddhist worship, reflecting the changing religion for the nation.  The grounds stretch for more than 400 acres with hundreds of temples scattered over the UNESCO World Heritage site.  Angkor Wat is the largest and best known, with the image appearing on Cambodia’s flag and many souvenirs.  

“This is so extra!”  Our English-speaking tour gathered people most from the U.S. and Europe.  I laughed at the slang description of the nearly 1,000-year-old temple, which admittedly could seem over the top to modern architectural sensibilities.  The group wandered around the pillars and basins, admiring the incredible design.  Mysterious corridors, dry basins, dark rooms, and grounds dotted with buildings that had at one time been libraries, royal deliberation room, and areas for various worship rituals ignited the imagination of what the temple must have looked like at its height of use, brightly painted, swarms of people in colorful clothing, everything conveying importance and permanence.  But nothing is permanent.   

Even though the group was randomly assembled, the tour guide insisted on taking several group pictures.  He enjoyed playing with the settings to make it appear we were in two places at once, or using the panorama option to get a wider view.  I think he knew how to work our phone cameras better than we did.  There were enough iPhones around to air-drop the pictures to each other easily, so everyone got the pictures.

It was close to 9:00 am and we had seen the major areas of Angkor Wat.  Our tour guide gathered us up.  “We need to move on now.  The Chinese tour buses will be arriving soon and after that, it’s too loud, too crowded, and too much!”  Chinese tourism is experiencing a boom in SE Asia and is the number one sending country. More than 2 million visited Cambodia last year, up more than 70% from the year before.  The infrastructure and operations companies haven’t kept pace with the increase, so the money often stays with Chinese owned tour companies, hotels, support services.  

As we walked back to the bus to visit more temples in the area, I noticed all the statutes were missing their heads.   My tour guide looked crestfallen when I asked about it.  “They survived for 1,000 years, only to be lopped off by looters in the chaos of the 1980s.”  Artifacts are still being sold on the black market, although restoration efforts are underway to replicate the missing parts.  Occasionally, you’ll see a bullet hole in a wall, a grim reminder of battles that took place on the grounds between the Khmer Rogue and the Vietnamese in 1970s.  Fortunately, most of the structures remained unscathed.  It wasn’t the first time Angkor Wat had been a casualty of war, having been sacked by a rival kingdom in 1431.  

History doesn’t stand still.  History is a built on a series of daily task, but marked by monuments of victories and defeat.  Kingdoms and nations have always been in a constant state of change, externally or internally.  Some leaders will build.  Others will destroy.  Angkor Wat represented the heights of Cambodia’s power and prestige, with the space and resources to create beauty, art, inspiration.  The other end of the spectrum was the genocide memorials.  I would visit those next.

Every year, Cambodia celebrates the 3-day Water Festival when the river reverses its flow.  People flock to the city from all over to watch boat races and enjoy the street celebrations.  Everything is closed during the holiday, so I decided to check it out.  I open up “PassApp” on my phone and got a Tuk-Tuk to take me to the waterfront.  PassApp works like Uber, except you get three-wheeled trike for transportations.  It’s covered from rain and sun, but still open air.  It feels safer than a motorcycle, but can still dodge traffic.  I think a Tuk-Tuk is the loveliest way to travel.

The major area for watching boat races is right across from the Royal Palace.  Large pavilions were set up along the river.  The first one I passed was filled with government officials, military, and other dignitaries.  As I continued walking, the next pavilion had a sign, “Free Admission for Foreign Visitors.”  Hey!  That’s me!  I walked up the steps, through metal detectors, and into the pavilion.  No registration or any sort of pass seemed to be required.  I guess I looked foreign enough.  I got a front row seat and enjoyed watching boat pairs racing by every few minutes, with cheers from their local supporters

Afterwards, I wandered through the streets and parks, weaving through crowds enjoying the holiday.  Street venders were selling food and trinkets for kids.  A band was setting up on a stage.  The sun was promising a stunning evening farewell and I sat down to enjoy it.  I noticed a woman taking pictures of the sunset and offered to take her picture.  She joined me on the ledge, watching the sun electrify the evening sky.  She was also a solo traveler, from Indonesia.

“I love traveling.  Every time I get a little extra money, I book a trip.  I can’t help it!”  It was often a challenge for her to find Halal food.  Sometimes she just ate fruit.  Here, she found a restaurant owned by Indonesians where she could trust everything that was served.  We decided to get dinner together, as we swapped stories and tips on traveling. 

One time she booked a female dorm in a hostel.  They put her in the mixed gender dorm instead.  She had to sleep the whole night with her hijab on, because unrelated men can’t see her head uncovered.  She said she didn’t mind so much, but it wasn’t comfortable.  After eating, we walked away from the park, stopping to enjoy the nightly fireworks and then followed the crowd to watch the king leave the waterfront.  I waived, but his majesty didn’t seem to notice.

Phnom Penh is a pretty accessible city.  While there are traditional markets and services, there are also app-based transportation options, western grocery stores, and coffee shops galore made the city a nice blend of different and familiar.  They sometimes intertwined, like when you go into the grocery store and see a hospital-get-well-gift-basket which consisted entirely of dried prunes.  Everyone who had a car seemed to drive a Toyota, and I’ve never seen more Lexus models anywhere.  Like in Indonesia, there were people at major stores who would stop traffic for you to turn.  You always carry change in your car to tip them.

The afternoons can get quite hot.  People will slow down and sit in the shade, because nobody feels like doing much when the heat is oppressive.  You often see old men hike up their shirts above their big bellies to try to cool off.  This never seemed to be a style trend for young men with six-packs.  I’m not sure why.

Things are much cheaper here, as long as you do things like locals do.  I needed some passport-sized pictures for onward travel visa applications.  I popped down the street and got 12 for $2.  They’re a little funky, as they took my picture with a blue background, and then traced the image to cut and paste it onto a white background.  But hey, $2!  And they cut off all the frizzy hair, so that was nice.

I still didn’t have any projects lined up in Thailand, where I was planning to head next.  I had left the U.S. with three good contacts, with whom I had exchanged messages and felt like things were pretty well set.  When I went to confirm, they all just disappeared and I never heard a thing again.  So weird.  I shot out a few emails to some organizations I had worked with in other contexts and prayed that the right option would work out.  That week, my host was preaching at a church, so I joined her for the service.  We got there early and I settled in to wait.  I heard an American accent sitting in the row behind me – we were the only white people in the service – so I turned around to say hello.  He was from Michigan and worked to keep kids safe from trafficking.  They were just starting some projects in Cambodia, but he and his family were based in Chiang Mai, Thailand.  I shared my work in NGO management consulting.  “I was just looking for a project in Thailand.  Know of any organizations that could use some help in management and administration?”

He looked at me and raised his hand.  We both laughed.  “Ok!”  We exchanged information.  Later that week, I heard back from another organization also in Chiang Mai, and with a mini training retreat I had been invited to in Bangkok, I finally had a plan for Thailand, just three weeks away.  No rush!

I had to visit Siem Reap before I left Cambodia.  Angkor Wat, and dozens of other ancient temples, are centered in this city and it’s become quite a tourist destination.  The fastest was is to fly, but I have more time than money, so opted to take the night bus for the 8-hour trip. I boarded downtown, taking off my shoes at the door and wrapping them in the plastic bag handed out by the conductor.  The seats were almost flat.  I hoped I could get a few hours of sleep.

When I was researching places to stay, I didn’t even look at hostels because I’m a grown woman and deserve my own bathroom. But then I accidentally clicked on one. It was $5 a night. $5! You know what, I’m a pretty social person. How often do you really use a bathroom anyway? I booked it. I felt lucky that they had a female dorm available.  I went to check in and the receptionist greeted me with a nice smile. “Welcome!  I have your bed ready in the mixed dorm.  I’ll show you the way.”

“I’m sorry, but there must be a mistake. I booked the female dorm.”

“Oh well, we don’t have space there.  Sorry!”

I honestly didn’t care that much, as I’m nearly old enough to be the mother of most of the kids there.  Mixed dorms just tend to be obnoxiously loud.  Boys are loud in general, and girls are even louder when boys are around.  But then I thought about my Indonesian friend, who had the same thing happen.  She was very sweet and accommodating.  I felt like I needed to make a point on this, for people who wouldn’t make a fuss.

“This is very wrong.  I booked a female dorm.  If you don’t have it available, you shouldn’t have advertised it.  It’s deceptive.  People choose single gender dorms for a reason.  You need to respect that.  This is really unacceptable.”  I was calm, but adamant.  She looked taken aback.  I don’t think she had had many people challenge her on that before.  She seemed a bit flustered as she checked her computer again.  “We really don’t have any space tonight.  I can move you tomorrow?  I’m sorry about this.”

“I’ll stay there tonight, but this shouldn’t have happened and shouldn’t happen again.”  She nodded.  I mentally gave a high five to my friend, hoping that things would be easier for her in the future.

I didn’t have much planned for the day, so explored the museum and wandered Pub Street, the epicenter for restaurants, snacks, and shopping.  I took a detour down a side street and saw a barber shop.  I decided my hair could stand a cut, so I popped in.  I thought $3 wasn’t too bad.  He sprayed the ends of my hair with a water bottle and trimmed off about a millimeter.  Maybe I overpaid.

I loved all the options for fresh juice on the streets.  For $1, you could get mango, watermelon, pineapple, or any number of mixtures.  Make sure the ice is rounded.  That’s the kind that’s bought from a store and made with purified water.  Chipped ice is homemade.  I got that once.  I highly recommend activated charcoal to settle your stomach afterwards.

The nice thing about staying at a cheap place is that everyone there is looking for budget options. I booked a boat tour to the floating village, that included a stop at a crocodile farm and a lovely sunset.  The next morning, though, I was waking up at 4:00am to watch the sunrise over Angkor Wat.

I had never stayed at a $4 a night hotel before.  I was out in rural Cambodia with Fountain of Hope, an NGO that supports community training and development, and there were very few housing options.  It didn’t look sketchy, but $4?  The lobby was bright, with beautiful wood carvings decorating the edges.

“Do you want the WiFi passcode?”  The receptionist smiled and held out a piece of paper.  I certainly wasn’t expecting WiFi for $4 a night.  The room was clean, with an extra toothbrush, comb, and shampoo packets neatly held in a basket.  I was surprised and delighted, and slept very well.

The next morning, we were off to visit the work in the villages.  We stopped for breakfast at a small restaurant close to the hotel.  “I don’t think Americans like noodles for breakfast.  We’ll get you bread!”  My hosts had been taking very good care of me.  Our meals arrived, bowls of noodles for them, and beef stew, with bread! for me.  It was a hearty way to start the day.  On the television was a cock fight, lazily followed by some old men sitting in the corner with their tea.

We piled in the car and drove up to their office.  The staff members had already gathered for the morning.  They wore light blue shirts as a uniform, and were mostly under 35.  A few were confident enough in their English to come up and say hi, but everyone offered a warm smile.  The office was small, but sufficient.  The walls around the room were fairly sparse, with hand-written mottos and mission statements taped up next to a large map of the area.

The leader indicated we were starting.  A few people sat in chairs, but most just sat on the floor.  After an opening prayer, someone pulled out a guitar and started singing.  Everyone quickly joined in with soul-deep sincerity.  It was a quick morning agenda.  Reports and assignments were given, and the team left for their various projects, with cheerful waves and teasing encouragement to each other.

As I followed my hosts out to the village, I noticed a distinct lack of litter.  It was ubiquitous in Phnom Penh.  Plastic bags, water bottles, packaging, all piled up, strewn out, and occasionally burned.  Out here, there was no packaging for their food.  Everything was grown close by.  Much of what they used was made by hand, by a family member or a neighbor.  There was still an intense need for so many things, but the natural beauty of the countryside was so peaceful.

As you drive through, you’ll notice 1-liter soda bottles set up on wooden racks along the side of the road.  Upon closer inspection, you’ll see that the bottles are filthy, and the liquid is the wrong color for the advertised drink.  These are the makeshift gas stations.  It’s a handy solution when you’re miles from the nearest pump.

At mid-morning, the coconut man drove by and our team all had a refreshing drink, with straws stuck into the macheted top.  It was delicious, even if the container was a bit heavy.   I laughed as I pointed out, “This much coconut water would sell for $10 in the U.S.” We had paid about 50 cents.  They were astounded, and quickly started calculating what they could do with their newfound extravagant wealth if they started exporting.  Coconut water is also used locally for IV fluid.  You’ll often see people walking around town rolling an IV pole beside them.  I assume they demand it the same way Americans demand antibiotics from doctors, whether it’s the most useful treatment or not.

After we visited the projects, we stopped by a river for some lunch.  Hammocks were strung up next to the water bank for customers to use, and they looked very tempting with the gentle breeze on a warm day.  I noticed many hammock stops as we drove around.  Some workers brought their own to use for their daily afternoon nap.  Others seemed to be permanent fixtures for whomever needed a few minutes to relax.  They were often in use!

Lunch was chicken, probably killed that morning.  We had some vegetables and a pile of rice to accompany.  Small bowls were laid out and someone dished up fresh ground pepper, and added a bit of oil to make a dipping sauce.  I have never tasted such delicious pepper in my life!  Kampot, Cambodia, just a bit further south, is world famous for their pepper.  It wasn’t to hot or spicy, just incredibly flavorful.  It really made the lunch.

After a few days visiting the village projects, we returned back to Phnom Penh.  We decided the best use of my time with their team was doing a workshop on strategic planning, logistical frameworks, goal-setting, communications, and advocacy.  It was a lot to cover in three days, but I was excited to see what we could do.

Packing for a year in just two carry-ons was a bit of a challenge, but I made the call to toss in a light linen blazer.  I’m so glad I did.  It’s been great to have an option to have a more professional look, and I’ve used it much more than I expected to.  I pulled it out for the workshop, along with my black ballet slippers (with some heel inserts because honestly, I’m not 20 anymore and arch support is one of those underrated great pleasures in life) to dress up a bit.

The team was talkative and engaged.  Everyone spoke some English, but the entire session was interpreted so nothing was lost.  I had to learn to speak more slowly and clearly, and plan for half the presentation time.

I broke them in to smaller groups to take a part of the strategic plan and plot out timelines and action items.  They each had a large sheet of paper, and their resulting presentation was usually half written in English, half in Khmer as the discussion language often wove between the two.  We talked about various audiences: clients, funders, government officials, partners, and which parts of the plan each might be interested in hearing.

“What about your goals?  What is the one big thing you want to accomplish through your project?”

“My goal is to get cows to 40 widows.”

I was about to write it down, but then paused, and turned back around.  “Is it really about the cows?”

He thought for a moment.  “But that’s what I’m trying to achieve this year.”

“But if the cows don’t work out, could you use goats?  Could you use chickens?”

“Ah, ah.  Yes.  We want to help the widows generate income to support themselves.  I guess we could do that through other ways than just cows.”

We worked out a goal around economic self-sustainability for widows in the community.

As we moved through the agenda, I loved watching the discussion and engagement.  The plans were coming together, with thoughtful and realistic goals and strategies.  I shot off an email to my former colleagues who had created templates and trained us in strategic planning.  “I bet you never thought your work would eventually help impoverished kids in rural Cambodia, but life is funny like that.”  I thanked them for helping to equip me to provide the training I was doing, even if neither one of us knew it at the time.

As we wrapped up the three days, the team presented me with a locally made scarf and linen shirt.  They were beautiful and I was so touched by their thoughtfulness.

The Fountain of Hope team is passionate about their work, about helping their country and their people in real and tangible ways.  They are pushing to do better than they did before, to find new ways to be effective, new partnerships, new solutions, and innovative ways to make a difference.  And every single day, they are doing it.  I’m glad I got to share a few of those days with them.

Slums are a dangerous place for kids.  They live there because of desperate poverty.  Desperate poverty makes people do desperate things.  Most kids work begging or collecting trash instead of going to school.  There are no rules, everyone is just trying to survive.  Those who do survive still have very little.  With no education and few marketable skills, they will stay in the slums and the cycle starts for the next generation.

Some parents will sell their kids to traffickers.  Sometimes the unsupervised kids are kidnapped.  Sometimes they are lured with lies and false promises.  After that, they are sold again and again and again.  Some of the lucky kids are rescued from traffickers, but will live with the deep pain and trauma of their experience for life.

Trafficking in Cambodia exploded in the 1990s, during the chaos after the Khmer Rouge guerrillas entered peace talks and the UN Transitional Authority was brought in to help support Cambodian self-rule.  The Khmer Rouge genocide killed 20-30% of the population during their brief rule from 1975-1979 and created a vacuum of all social structures, religious traditions, cultural norms, and economic opportunity.   It’s estimated that 35% of Cambodia’s prostitutes are children under the age of 16 and most of these children are victimized by age 8.  Often, children are sold by their parents or relatives to pay a debt or earn income.  Traffickers exploit children for both sex and labor.  Elderly and handicapped people are organized by cartels to beg in Thailand.  Domestic service and construction workers are often slaves.  Brothels light up the streets at night as karaoke bars. Corrupt law enforcement is often complicit, if not directly supportive of these nominally illegal activities.  The suffering is pervasive.

Sue Hanna worked for an NGO that helped rehabilitate kids rescued from trafficking.  She realized that while that work was vital, it was too late.  The scars were there.  You can’t unlive the worst parts of your life.  She wanted to set up guardrails, not work the ambulance at the bottom of the cliff.

In response, she started Flame, an organization dedicated to helping kids and families thrive in life so they never have to experience the horrors of trafficking, the despair of grinding poverty, or the limitations of life without options.   She knew if she could get them in school and provide the family the support they needed to keep them there, the chances that the kids would be sold drops dramatically.

Flame goes into the slums to identify kids who need help, grow with them in education, life skills, training, and leadership, and then launch them into life where they can reinvest in the next generation.  The organization is committed to do whatever it takes to help these kids succeed.  They pay parents the equivalent of a child’s work contribution so the kids are free to go to school.  They provide tutoring and support at their activity center, giving kids an educational boost to keep them in school and the supervision many of them still need at a young age.  Sports teams keep the older kids engaged and builds positive relationships allowing mentorship and guidance.

Those activities got the kids out of the slum areas, but Flame wanted to do more.   There were more kids, more that needed to be done.  They started a book tuk-tuk, a mobile library on a three-wheeled trike that could bring the great, big imaginative world into the shanties and shacks.  They help the families with business ideas and capital to bring more stability to their fragile income stream.  Rithy is a young doctor who spends his days providing healthcare to those who could never otherwise afford it.   He is passionate about his work and it’s life-giving for him, as well as those whom he treats.

Flame support over 1,000 kids through these activities.  They have a lean staff who are committed to seeing lives changed and the cycle broken.  For most of these kids, a few years of school would be a dream come true.  Graduating high school would open up their world, putting those dreams in reach. Flame makes sure they have every opportunity possible to do that.

The work isn’t easy.  People are complicated and it’s easy to get discouraged, but Flame won’t quit.  They are dedicated to walking with their slum-living neighbors and doing whatever it takes until they see transformation in their lives.  It can take a long time.  There are often set-backs, discouragement, frustration.  But they keep going, because it matters.

A university education is unthinkable for most of these kids who grew up in slum areas, but would be the final break in a vicious cycle of poverty and lack.  Flame identifies students who are dedicated to their education and have the potential to succeed, and provides a scholarship to study, a hostel to live in, and a support network to help them succeed.

The Leadership Academy is a unique program for their university students that builds skills needed to reinvest in communities.  Students go through a mentorship program, with weekly classes and a capstone project requirement that allows them to put their leadership skills into practice.

I was invited to speak to the students during my stay.  Sue opened the evening talking about the different spheres of society: family, education, business, technology, arts, and faith.  She asked me to talk about government.  Many governments in the region are distant from the people.  They are arbitrary, unjust, elite, and eternal.  Power is paramount, and anything can be done for a price.  Government can be different, though.  It should be just and impartial.  It should serve and support.  It should fulfill its mandate without bribery or favoritism.  I talked about my experience as a federal employee for 16 years.  They were shocked that U.S. federal employees delight in saving the tax-payer money.  That we have no sway in getting family or friends jobs.  That I had no inside track for green cards or permits.  No government is perfect and there are plenty of examples of American federal employees who don’t live up to the ideal, but my former colleagues truly thought of themselves as public servants.   It was an eye-opening discussion for the students.

One young woman came up to me afterwards.  “I’ve never met anyone like you before.  I’m interested in international diplomacy and economics.  Can we meet for coffee?”  I happily agreed and we got together a few days later.

After ordering our drinks, she started to tell me more about her life.  She has several siblings, but is the only one going to school.  Her mother sells food at the market and makes barely enough to survive.  Her younger brother is a hemophiliac.  Every time he has to go to the hospital, they have to pay before he can receive treatment, even in emergencies.  If you can’t pay, you don’t get treated.  If you die, well, you should have had the money.

There’s no safety net.  Life is still cheap.  Friends and neighbors may help if they can, but everyone needs help, you’re never the only one.  One person with a good job is the safety net for the entire family, although her mother has just recently come around to the idea that education can be a way to financial security, rather than a waste of good working years.

The Leadership Academy program has given her confidence and poise.  She asks good questions.  I think she will be a great diplomat someday.

She offers me a ride home on her motorbike.  They are ubiquitous in Phnom Penh, sometimes with 4-5 people all squeezed on one bike.  I’m wearing a skirt and she doesn’t have an extra helmet, but we shrug and I hop on side-saddle, as do many of the women here.  Safe?  Probably not.  Fun?  Absolutely.  This has proven a persistent theme in my travels.

Flame is dedicated to doing whatever it takes to help people like my young friend succeed, and doing it with excellence.  The investment in education, in mentorship, in faith, in friendship, and in confidence is impacting a generation, ready to help Cambodia move forward.  There are still many gaps in society.  The entire country has PTSD from the war-ravaged years.  But there is great hope and energy and excitement about what’s possible, because someone believed that kids from the slums could be something more.

To support Flame’s work in the slums of Cambodia, click here:  https://www.flamecambodia.org/donate