Sihanoukville.

This weekend was spent in the beach town formerly known as Kampong Som, though it has now been renamed Sihanoukville in honor of the former King. Back at Barnes & Noble in Lancaster in August, I looked through Lonely Planet's Cambodia guide and among other things I learned that Sihanouk, in addition to being the King, was also quite the filmmaker in his day. In fact, twice he hosted the Phnom Penh International Film Festival, and strangely enough, both times movies he directed and starred in won the grand prize. You gotta love the reckless egotism, and you wonder if renaming the beach town might also have been his idea.

I was at the beach this weekend to get a feel for the place and to make some contacts, since I'll be the logistical point person when we have the leadership retreat there next month with about 90 people. But (who am I kidding?) I was also at the beach this weekend to relax and soak up some rays. I mean, it is mid-October after all, and a guy's gotta get a tan, right?

I stayed in a bungalow just off the beach, at a place called Coaster's, operated by a couple of Irish dudes who also run a bar and diving company. If you ever happen to be in town, be sure you check it out. The place is just around the bend from the big, sandy and popular beach by the name of Occheateal, on the smaller, rockier and quieter Serendipity. I spent much time reading under a thatched roof, drinking cold water or sipping on a banana milk shake, in addition to some time in the water. Vendors are not lacking in Sihanoukville and many of them coerce you into making pinky promises. I promised a girl vendor that if I decided to buy a bracelet, she would be who I got it from. Then three or four others said "Then me!" so I had to promise three or four others, in order, that they would be next if I bought two or three or four or five.

A Chinese masseuse named Shirly out on Occheateal talked with me for a long time, about how she applied for a visa to the USA and paid $100 but was denied. That's just not right, I told her. After a plethora of questions from her and answers from me, she then made me promise, though I didn't want a massage and I didn't want treatment for arthritis, that if I referred anybody to a massage place it would be hers. She had herself a deal, I said..

I had two occasions to eat dinner out on the beach under the sunset, admiring the gold that God had hung over a rose and purple sea, as George MacDonald once poetically put it. As I ate dinner the first night, a beggar came up and I said no as I normally do. Right away I felt like a selfish jerk. I wondered why I always say no. Sure, they might all be druggies and my money might be feeding their habit, but just as likely, they might be Jesus in disguise, like in the story of the sheep and the goats. I don't want to mistake Jesus for "just some drug addict." So when the next beggar who came up, a guy without legs and only one hand, I had made up my mind. As I reached for my money clip, I asked his name. He then held up his stump of an arm, as if to validate his request. I shook my head, put my hand on my chest, said my name and asked his again. This time he understood and he told me his name but I normally forget people's names the first few times I meet them and he was unfortunately no exception. When I gave him a dollar, his face lit up, he bowed his head and shook my hand with both hands - or, with the hand and the stump, I guess. As he shuffled down the beach with his no legs and one hand, I thought to myself that I ought to care about people more often, and that I should have given him the rest of my pizza as well.

During this month and a half in Cambodia, the land of a million motos, I have become increasingly convinced that driving a moto would be a good time. It is kind of like being in Atlanta and leaving convinced that the southern accent is awesome, or coming back from Europe wanting to wear capris and big sunglasses. But at any rate, I rented a moto yesterday and proceeded to teach myself how to operate it. Only once before had I operated a motorbike. That was in Texas when I was 10 or 12 and I hit the gas too hard, spun around, and fell off and onto the ground. This time I fared much better, and though there may have been moments when I looked less than smooth, I took several loops around the peninsula and made it back in one piece. And unlike the southern accent and the capris, I am more convinced than ever that having a moto would be a real good thing, if it weren't for the blasted snow and ice in Pennsylvania.

Oh, and I should also mention that yesterday there was a full rainbow around the sun.

This sign would make sense right away if you have been to South East Asia and it would strike you as funny and photo-worthy. Apparently there is a bar in Bangkok called "Same Same, But Different." Everywhere you go, they sell the shirts. There is even a knock-off restaurant and guest house in Sihanoukville by the same name. So this other place scored cool points in my book.

House.

The latest development in my housing situation is indicative of Cambodia, where - as cliche as it sounds - the truth really is stranger than fiction.

Two days ago, Sidara tells me that the woman from the house where Jon was staying had called the office to see if I was still interested in moving in with them. They were not moving until January, she told me, and when they do move, the new place will be bigger. This was pretty much opposite from what Jon had told me, but I decided that the native Khmer-speaker telling me this in good English probably knew what she was talking about more than the English speaker who had done his own translation of whatever it is the woman had told him.

Yesterday afternoon Sidara and I went over to visit the place so I could meet the family and have a look around. We sat down in the car port as Sidara and Visal, the mother, chatted. I could tell they were talking about me, because they would look over and laugh and go on talking for five minutes or so at a time. When I got the translation, it was about one sentence in length and certainly nothing that would warrant all the laughter. It was right out of the movie Lost in Translation.

Apparently they were also talking quite a bit about Jon. Through the translation, I learned that Jon was really interested in learning the language and being sensitive to Khmer culture and that he was easy to please. The family has a framed picture of him in a shrine of sorts, with candles and other things. Kind of weird. Visal says she felt pity on him since he was far away from his family and that she acted like a mother to him. But I sat there, smiling, sipping on a glass of water, wondering if I could ever stack up to the near-diety status my over-acheiving predecessor had clearly achieved.

So I will be moving in with the family early next week. They are upper-middle class, I would guess. The house has five rather narrow floors with a couple of rooms on each level. My room is up on the fourth floor. I have a bed, a fan, a bathroom, and somewhere to hang some clothes. My room doesn't actually have any windows allowing direct sunlight, but has a window that gives me a great view of an unused family room kind of thing, which then has windows to the outside. Through the unused family room I have access to a balcony that overlooks the busy street below. Across the street is a restaurant that spills out onto the sidewalk with hungry locals and a few doors down, on the corner, sits the former American embassy, which will serve as my landmark when giving moto drivers directions.

The family, according to my notes, consists of Visal (the mother), her kids Phrith (oldest, a son), Phirun (middle, a son), and Srey Pic (youngest, a daughter), and then last but not least Ven (the house keeper, who will make sure I am fed and that I have clean clothes).

With this move I will begin the second half of my time in Cambodia, which leads me to believe the greatest adventures are yet to come. It would be easier in many ways to stay on with the Amstutz family, not having to learn the language or eat snails for dinner, but living with Cambodians, I trust, will allow for an even richer experience when it's all said and done. And rich experiences, in my opinion, tend to be worth the inconvenience.

Poipet.

Photos from this weekend's excursion are at the end of this post if you are one who prefers picture books to the real ones.

Our two-day galavant up to Poipet and back amounted to a lot of time on the road and what I hope to be some valuable footage of the casinos in no-man's-land between Cambodia and Thailand, and of some of the seemingly endless number of street kids around the town.

On the drive up, we stopped at a temple that Geof knew would provide some good photo opportunies. At every wat in Cambodia, as I understand it, the statues of Buddha all face the same direction, except for this particular place, where they all face the opposite way for some reason. Also, there was a confusing (disturbing?) array of statues here, including a progression of four, which depicted first a healthy monk in his saffron robe, then as a shirtless man walking hunched over with a cane, then as one sitting on the ground dying, and finally as a dead one lying flat on his back while the birds eat away at his intestines. What they are trying to communicate about the life of a monk, I am not sure, especially considering that elderly monks are highly respected in this culture.

Geof had some business to take care of for a friend in the town of Sisophon, so I went walking through some temple grounds, past a cow, and out to the river where pop music was being pumped really loudly and a couple of kids were flipping over their bicycles into the water while others sat by watching and singing along in English with songs they did not understand. While walking through the temple courtyard, I had a nice chat with a monk who introduced himself as Sohka. I told him I knew someone in Phnom Penh with that name. Conversation, you know. Monks, in my experience, are quite friendly and eager to practice their English whenever they can. They normally start things off by asking where you are from. Then they ask how long you are in Cambodia, which allows for some discussion about what you are doing and all. Then, if they sense a lull in the conversation they might ask, "How are you?" This kind of question is supposed to happen at the beginning, but I try to cut them some slack. I asked Sohka some things as well, about the name of the temple and if he lives in that big house out back with all the orange robes draped over the balcony, and then, trying to get a feel for the life of a monk, I asked what he was doing today. "Praying in temple," he said. I guess that pretty much sums up the life of a monk.

Poipet, as I mentioned earlier, is not thought very highly of. The armpit of Cambodia, many say. Kind of like what West Virginia is to America, or on a smaller scale, what Erie is to Pennsylvania. With gambling illegal in Thailand, many wealthy Thais come to Poipet to part with large quantities of money, so the town is trying to reinvent itself as a sort of Asian Vegas. The casino area in no-man's-land between the borders seems entirely out of place, with its many huge buildings of glimmering neon and perfectly manicured gardens, especially considering the surrounding area. The Lonely Planet guidebook advises against staying in the town, suggesting that doing so would be "masochistic." Sure, the town is dirty and depressing, but our hotel was great, and for the most part our stay was not overly painful. What I don't understand, though, is why the road to Poipet, a major border crossing with Cambodia's biggest trade partner, is one of the worst "paved" roads ever. We probably averaged 15-20 kph for the hour and a half stretch between Poipet and Sisophon (you'll have to do the math, as I don't think in miles any more). You'd think a major trade route would be a highway worth maintaining a little bit better than this.

Geof's daughter had lived in Poipet for five years or so, technically living with her uncle, but effectively watching her own back on the streets and crossing the border to beg from foreigners. As we walked around she said she used to know all the kids in the town, but now, three years later, she didn't recognize anyone. It was good to visit, she said, but very good to leave.

OK, the photo version.

Temple with the crazy statues.

Boy with sleeping Buddha.

First three in the four-part progression.

Fourth statue in the morbid series.

Saying his prayers.

Temple reflection with lily pads.

Some of Sohka's fellow monks.

Hours of enjoyment. Literally.

Afternoon siesta time.

Rusty sign at covered bridge.

Some boys fishing with home-made reels.

This kid helped me pretend, for a moment, that I worked for National Geographic.

Driving into the setting sun.

Casino sign.

What consolation: everyone you know may hate you, but not this beer!

Good food.

Forboding skies.

Not the worst view in the world, if you ask me.