Cambodia

We've been back three days. Taiwan has only been my home for about three weeks, but I had that rush of relief when we arrived back in "familiar territory." Okay, not that familiar - every street name still sounds like "zongsan" to me, but I'm learning.

I love Cambodia. But being on a tour with a bunch of people who speak a foreign language in a country that speaks a different foreign language gave me the spins. Trying to figure prices between NT dollars, U.S. dollars and riels almost made my head explode. And I never knew where we were going until we got there. James could've told me, but he was usually too busy listening to Cannibal Ox to pay attention to the guide.

It was a little weird to be on a tour period. On my family's last visits our priority stops were the orphanage, the embassy, and the French clinic to get my brother AIDS tested. For sightseeing we visited The Killing Fields and Toul Sleng. This time I went to a tourist amusement park in Siem Reap with electric carts so tourists don't have to walk in the heat. There was this goofy haunted house in the park themed on Buddhist ideas of hell.

Cheese-factor aside, it was great to see so many people visiting - Japanese, Australian, British, German, French, Spanish, American and Chinese were the languages/accents I counted. The year Billy was adopted, 1997, it was dangerous to travel outside Phnom Penh. Traveling to Angkor Wat was a real feat. Guides carried guns. Things are better now, and hopefully will continue to improve.

Our first night we went to a massage parlor where I received my first massage ever for the agreeable price of $10 an hour. But before the massage began I had to get down to my panties in the same room as James, his mother and his grandma. We all took off our clothes together and put on the parlor clothes. Undressing with two generations of San women made me stutter, which in turn reminded me how prudish we Americans are about nudity.

We got full body massages, and I came perilously close to cackling when I peeked to my right and spotted a Cambodian dude kneading James' upper thigh. The parlor was called Angkor Spicy Hands, the worst name for a legitimate massage parlor I can think of. Or at least it seemed above board. No one offered Nini a happy ending.

The next four days were a whirlwind of tourist stops.

By whirlwind I mean the typical take-a-picture-and-leave tour shenanigans. Our guide shuffled us out of a Cambodian ballet dinner show early to make sure we didn't miss Angelina Jolie's favorite bar in Siem Reap.

Groan, I know.

When our group walked into The Red Piano (Angie's "favorite") all the white people stared. And white people were pretty much the only people in the bar, except for the servers. Nothing kills the I'm-in-a-cool-expat-bar vibe like a gaggle of Chinese tourists laden with camera bags. Boo hoo. Then I realized they were staring at me because I was amidst the gaggle of Chinese tourists. Eh, let them wonder.

As we walked back to the bus I heard the chorus to "Take me Home Country Roads" coming from another tourist bar. It made me want to cry a little bit. I mean, I've never been to West Virginia and I don't want to go there. Pretty much, I'm a crier. And a John Denver fan. No shame in that.

The highlight, of course, was Angkor Wat. I can't think of any inspiring words to capture how amazing it was, so instead you can look at my pictures.

Can't climb these stairs anymore, someone died doing so

It was nice having time to get to know James' grandma better. She doesn't speak English but we managed "Good morning," "Isn't that pretty?" and "How's the food?"

All considered a fun trip, but I plan on taking James back so we can experience Cambodia on our own terms. And if my wanderlust holds up maybe I'll make it an extended visit.

Eating Bugs

Here is a bug I wont eat:

From Cambodia

Little Girl: "Sister, sister, you like spider?"

Me: "No."

Little Girl: "They're lucky!"

Me: "They're horrible."

The spidey on this girl's shirt looked like a close relative of the fried spideys being sold at the roadside fruitstand in Cambodia where the girl worked.

Last night I reneged on my no bug eating policy and munched on these bad boys:

They're bamboo worms. They had the consistency of greasy, crunchy french fries, and they only tasted like the oil and spices they were cooked in. I thought of them as greasy, crunchy, Chinese french fries. Not sure they would've gone down had I been thinking "bamboo worms."

Mormons of Angkor Wat

I found them! Their name tags may have been in Khmer, but sure enough we spotted some missionaries at the temple.

Los Angeles, Cambodia, or Florence, Oregon - the Mormons all look the same. I call that terrific branding. Props to the Church of Latter-day Saints for fabulous brand recognition.

Seeing these two young Mormons at Angkor Wat reminded me of a time I was at a friend's house as a kid. She came from a family of devout protestants. Lots of protestants aren't partial to Mormons. They think Mormons aren't the real Christian McCoys. Her family was the type of protestant that thinks Mormons are blond-haired, blue-eyed devils. I'm the type of protestant who thinks any religion that maintains such high numbers of attractive men among its ranks can't be bad. James better watch it. Maybe I'll convert.

Anyway, I was sleeping over at my pious friend's house. "My dad," she said ominously. "He can spot a Mormon from a hundred yards away." The eight-year-old me pictured this girl's dad using his steely eyes powered by the holy spirit to pick up on their evil Mormon aura.

I have since realized it doesn't take esp to pin a Mormon at three hundred feet. There are no stealth-mode Mormons. The pants, dress shirt, name tag and wholesome countenance pretty much give it away.

Adventures in Chinese Medicine

Wednesday morning James woke up with a sore throat. By evening he was palpitating feverish misery. We went to the front desk at the Lin Ratanak Angkor Hotel hoping they might have Advil or NyQuil. After a minute of James repeating "medicine," clenching his forehead and faking coughs, the receptionist produced an unrecognizable pack of pills from behind the desk. First we though he said they were for heart attack. Then we thought he said they were for gas. And then he seemed to say something about being too hot. We smiled and declined.

James' mom canvassed the tour group and one woman produced a series of pill packets. The packaging was all in Chinese. And there were five pills in each group, to be taken three times a day. The woman said they were antibiotics, but I couldn't help my skepticism. My antibiotics have always come in orange-brown vials with Rx labels, and never as five pills to take at once. I mean, that's a cocktail. I thought drug cocktails were for AIDS and cancer patients.

You Take! Tina ordered. Well, is it penicillin? James asked. He's allergic. Penicillin isn't antibiotic, she said. Yes it is, we said. No it isn't, she said. Yes it is, we said. Tina went to ask the woman. The woman said no that wasn't what was in the pills.

So James tossed them back. When he didn't start frothing at the mouth, we figured it was fine and went to sleep. He awoke with full-body shivers hours later. My worry was exacerbated because we were in southeast asia - a scary place for diseases - and, dammit, we should've got those Japanese encephalitis vaccines as we were told.

James made it through the night. We surmised his crazy shivers was the sickness and not the Chinese mystery medicine, but he received another painful onslaught of eastern remedies that morning.

James grabbed a plateful of fruit from the buffet line and we sat down to eat with Tina and Nini (his grandmother). Don't eat pineapple! Tina admonished. Pineapple isn't good for fevers, she said. In typical nonchalant defiance, James slapped a ring of the forbidden fruit on his tongue and noshed away.

Before we got on the bus, Tina dug up another helpful Chinese man on our tour who was versed in the powers of, uhh, rubbing. First he gave James an evil noogie behind his ears, and then he jammed his elbow into James' shoulder blades. This was supposed to have a healing effect.

James still had a fever. Chinese people believe that when a person has a fever the thing to do is bundle them up. Despite his protests, Nini and Tina layered him in their shawls and coats once we were on the bus bound for Phnom Penh.

Two hours later, the bus stopped for a bathroom break. Nini and Tina gasped at James' prolific sweating. James is a prolific sweater in general, but he was more drippy than usual. "You're sweating because of the fever!" Tine and Nini clucked. "No I'm sweating because of all these layers!" He retorted. "No, it's the fever," they assured him. Nini peeled James' shirt off and dabbed off his chest. When the bus started again, James slid into the window seat to avoid anymore swaddling. This however did not stop Tina from handing him something small, brown and turd-like - telling James to suck on it to alleviate his sore throat.

When we got back to Taiwan today, James set off the temperature scanners at immigration and a quarantine officer took him aside and drew blood. Then she gave him a face mask and ordered him to go to the doctor within the next few days.


James later told me he was relieved to be headed to a doctor's office, not because he feels that sick, but because a visit to a medical professional will - hopefully - prevent any further elbows being jammed into his back and other assorted folk remedies.




I will have pictures for this entry and more up tomorrow. I loved Cambodia, loved Angkor Wat - and have half a mind to move south after our year in Taiwan...

In Cambodia

This is a beautiful country. I love being here as much as I did 9 years ago. We're here for another day and a half. The internet is slow. I'm super tired. There will be more on Cambodia later, but I want to get a quick post in tonight about how I almost dumped James our first night here.

I almost did it because of what happened at dinner. Our tour guide brought out a bowl full of eggs. James cracked one open and gobbled up a duckling fetus - a poor, defenseless quacker with all his parts but still in the shell.

In my book, that's almost a deal-breaker. Of all the common-wisdom warning signs for unsound partners: Does he criticize how you look? Does he read your mail? Does he get angry if you don't tell him where you are? Shouldn't, "Does he eat fetuses?" be on there somewhere?

Further, I'm a right-to-life meat eater; at least give the little sucker a crack at the world before you douse him in vinegar and soy sauce.

Part taste test, part science lesson, it was possibly the most morbid meal of my life. I had James on my left poking his spoon around in the shell. The guy two seats over was pulling a piece out at a time and asking our guide for anatomy lessons. A woman across the table peeled the entire shell off and left the fetus in a bowl for all to inspect.

I've been good about squid ice cream and sea cucumber, however I'm not ready to eat the unborn. Our relationship survived, but I was standoffish for at least 45 minutes after dinner. I think we'll be okay as long as James doesn't become a routine baby eater. Goodnight.

Leslie goes to Cambodia, Part 3

There's no part 1 and 2 for Cambodia here, because Cambodia part 1 took place in 1997 when I was 11, and Cambodia Part 2 went down two years later when I was 13 - both visits were for the purpose of adopting my two little brothers when they were infants. Those two trips were the most important formative events of my life.

This time I'm the only member of the Jones clan headed south. And I wont be coming back with any rotten-toothed, scabbies-infested rugrats in tow. James, Tina and I are going on a 5-day tour to Angkor Wat. It's with a Chinese tour company (we got an amazing deal through one of Tina's travel agent friends), so maybe I can work on my Mandrin in Siem Reap.

I never though my third visit would involve a tour bus full of Chinese travelers, but I don't think it'll be my last visit either. Cambodia has a special place in my heart for several reasons. Two of those reasons are sitting in Sunday school right now in Florence, Oregon. They're so jealous of me for getting to go without them, but my parents are planning a trip for them in a year or so. And I hope when their turn comes they fall in love with their birthplace the same way I did when I was their age.

Proof my Cambodian brother grew up in Alaska

I laid my stuff out to pack for Taiwan and he asked me why I was taking a gold pan. The “gold pan” is my wok. Since then he has insisted on calling it my gold pan and refuses to recognize its efficacy as a cooking instrument.

“It’s for stir fry, Billy! Not nuggets!”