The last beach in Thailand

April 8, 2011

After a week along the coast of Cambodia, we were on our way to the south of Thailand for some more beach time, amazing scenery and throngs of shirtless Australians counting the days to the next full moon. Loki, Thor, Allah, God, Buddha, Ganesh, and probably a raven or two decided that wasn't a good idea. Instead of delivering Sarah and Sander to the area, they brought rain. And lots of rain. As we were about to buy our bus tickets south, a timely email from Kelsey and Steve let us know that floods had washed out roads and villages, and Thai government was using the navy to evacuate people. This is how we came to Koh Chang.

We spent the first day getting out bearings and testing out the 'good snorkeling' spot around the bay. To say I was disappointed would be a bald faced lie, I was shocked. In about an hour peering under the water I managed to spot about 5 corals and a handful of fish. A dismal showing for an area allegedly protected as a national marine park. If this was the 'good spot' where are all these boat loads of tourists heading??? At $50 per person per dive, we quickly ruled out that activity too.

Thoroughly disappointed with the marine life on the island, we decided to take a tour of the scenery above sea level and rented a scooter for the next day. At the very utmost end of the road (term is used lightly here), as far a possible from where we had originally chosen to stay, we stumbled upon what is rumored to be the last beach in Thailand.

Here there were no quick-e-marts or pad Thai snack stands. No daytime electricity or even ceiling fans. The accommodation options were termite infested bamboo and rattan huts slightly up the hill from the beach, or some slightly less structurally suspect lodgings further down on the beach. After inspecting the coconut shaped holes in each of the vacant beach hut's roofs, and marking their tendency for appearing directly over the bed, we decided to brave the termites. We felt our karmic score was good enough to avoid a full hut collapse, but a coconut through the roof had already been proven possible, an apparently quite likely; and the sky was looking a bit stormy.

This 'last beach of Thailand' was exactly what both of us were looking for after 2 long months landlocked in northern Thailand, Laos, and much of Cambodia. We lazed, we swam, we drank beer, we showered with buckets (careful not to scoop up the tadpoles), and slept in such humid, stagnant air that clothing hung up at night actually became wetter by morning. I taught Sarah to play chess, Sarah taught me to loose at Jenga. Good company when you want it, and total seclusion when you need it to even out a fee tan lines.

Sometimes its good to remind yourself that it's far more important when traveling to embrace where you are than worry about where you're staying. Sure we were sticky, wet, filthy, salty, clammy and smelly, but we were on the last beach in Thailand, with no sounds but the waves lapping at the sand, a machete chopping at a fresh coconut, and your girl periodically requesting a new application of sunscreen.



Sander

Outside Phnom Penh

April 1, 2011

To be perfectly honest, its quite difficult to remember what Sarah and I actually accomplished this last week. After leaving Phnom Penh, we made for the town of Kep. We were both dying for a little sea breeze, and figured east to west would be the best way to explore Cambodia's gulf (of Thailand) coast. All we found was crabs. Lots of crabs. We quickly decided that the resort town of Sihanoukville would be a better place for someone who already had an injured toe.

We arranged with Ben et al to meet us at Otres Beach on the weekend, a much deserved beach getaway for them, and just another day in the life for us. This is where the trouble started. With an open wound, I was strictly forbidden from walking in the clean-ish, but very much SE asian sand (please see previous posts for assessments of hygiene in SE Asian public spaces). This (and I've yet to decide if this was a blessing or curse) precluded me from any activities aside from drinking beer. No swimming, no tanning, no diving, no snorkeling, no volleyball, no walking, and no running (who am I kidding? Even with a good toe, there would be no running). At $1 a glass, or $3 a jug, this wasn't a significant strain on the budget; and with the likes of Ben, Hanna, Liz, Kolja, and of course Sarah, I was not lacking willing accomplices.

Over the 4 days we stayed in Sihanoukville, only a few highlights and lessons stand out. They are, in no particular order:
- Loosing a game of pool to a 9 year old. And in turn being obliged to purchase one of his bracelets for the prescribed price of 'one doooooollllar'...
- Having my upper arms and neck 'threaded' in what I now know is the most painful hair removal technique ever devised in the known universe.
- The added 1/2 glass of beer provided in a jug (vs 3 glasses) is not worth drinking at a keen 35 degrees. All my training (in the Canadian winter) led me to believe I could finish it before it warmed. One glass at a time is the wiser choice.

While the lasting memories may not seem so positive, our first taste of the beach in SE Asia was fantastic. No amount of gauze, russians in mongs, or blinding hangovers were going to ruin my weekend.




Sander

'C' for Cambodia

March 20, 2011

I travel with a first aid kit the size of a 10-pin bowling ball for a reason. It's got articles for all emergencies: IV tubing and butterfly needles, enough gauze for an arterial bleed, sterile eye rinse solution, and pain killers that could make a camel comatose. None of this kit is packed with ME In mind; let's not forget who my travel partner is. I pulled out this monstrous kit after hearing the usual cue: "Oh SHIT. Saaarraaah!" Now let's Tarantino it back a little: Sunday afternoon, not a cloud in the sky, and we have been invited to the home of Ung and his wife Mooni. They are family to the Oh My Buddha restaurant crew and their place is nestled "in the province", outside Phnom Penh. Somehow I ended up riding on the back of Hanna's bike, an American also living and teaching in Phnom Penh. Just like the rest of Americans, she is terrifying to drive with. Sander was safely on the back on Ben's bike with an armload of ice cubes, and Ben had a case of beer between his feet. 'At least the damn beer is safe', Was all I could think as Hanna and I tailgated a massive truck full of chickens. As it was, we made it to the country house in one piece, the bag of lettuce I had been 'casually' carrying, was crushed between my bloodless fingers.
We received a warm welcome from Ung, Mooni, and their two young daughters. We took a tour of their enormous house, picked some fresh mangos off a nearby tree, and I introduced Ung to the joy that is soaking your travel-swollen feet in ice water. 'How do you not do this every day?' I thought, as my feet briefly returned to their norm size. Liz read bizarre and grammatically incorrect Khmer children's books (written in English) to the girls, as we swung in hammocks on the patio overlooking the Mekong river. Something about that river was calling to the boys - they couldn't resist a swim. With the blinding whiteness of Ben's shoulders guiding the way to water deep enough to tread in, Sander and Ung hopped in too. I only had time to change into my bathing suit and was still towel-clad when I heard: "Oh SHIT. Saaarraaah!" Now here we are back at the beginning and, paying homage to Tarantino, here comes the gore. Sander had sliced the top of his big toe practically off on a lurking underwater rock ledge, leaving epic little pools of blood all the way up the ladder steps as he crawled up from the river bank. I rolled my eyes, and grabbed the kit. Using the one-for-you, one-for-the-wound technique that works well for Sander, we had him bandaged up in no time. No stitches, this time, mostly because he wouldn't allow it after I joked that I would cross-stitch a pretty pattern up his leg.

In days to come, Sander was put in charge of uploading photos from a cafe, keeping his throbbing foot elevated while I went to checkout a Cambodian Art, Dance, and Circus School. Somewhere between the juggling bearded man and a pint-sized dancer/contortionist, I felt more at home here than ever. The school is government built and funded, and therefore bereft of teaching tools, and equipment. But for what it lacks in supplies and space, it's students make up with enthusiasm and commitment. Most of the teachers cannot afford to support their own families with the pitfall pay that the government provides, but are there because they believe so strongly in the need to share and maintain traditional Khmer art culture. Mooni, the wife of Ung and a proud and talented teacher of Apsara dance, explained that the majority of their students come from extremely poor families. They are able to learn and practice their art of choice in the morning, and study reading and writing the Khmer language in the afternoons. The teachers do their own quiet fund raising for their programs, finding sponsors who can provide the money to buy thing like mirrors for the dancers to train with (they still do not have enough for this), or floor mats for the acrobats to fall safely on (right now, the concrete floor us covered by a thin carpet). My contribution will be designing, printing, and donating practice shirts for the monkey troupe': a large group of young boys training for the esteemed position of "chief monkey god, Hannuman" within traditional Khmer dance. Though it is my understanding that men of all ages enjoy behaving like apes, these 6-11 year old boys were particularly thrilled and enthusiastic to to rehearse a number, just for me.

Back on Street 172, home away from home, Sander was right where I'd left him: nursing the aching slice in his toe that is sure to heal into a great scar ... an arching 'C' for Cambodia.

Slaughter.

Call me "Your Highness"

March 18, 2011

Of all the strange things to look at in Phnom Penh, I find myself staring at dogs. Not because they are cute, not because they have great outfits ... but because they have BALLS. I realize that this is my second blog entry in two months that mentions balls, but I forgot dogs had them. Seriously, when was the last time you saw a dog trotting around, proudly waggling a giant set of balls? Poor little eunuchs at home; they make you forget what dogs actually look like from the back. All if this is a terrible thing to think about while you're trying to eat breakfast, which is what I was doing when Ben came by to pick me up. It was 7:00am, and I was ready for school: teacha' Ben (don't forget the English accent) was taking me to meet his K2 classes. We had spent the previous day stalking the city for balloons fit for twisting, and a pump capable of blowing them up. My goal: twist 80 animals, and get the hell out before they start popping. Each class started with a screaming chant in moderate unison: "Gooood mooorning teaaacha' Ben-10-alien-force. How aahh yoou toodayyy, I am fine thaaank you". Good lord, I thought, all of these Khmer children have English accents. Ben acted as the magician's-daughter's-beautiful-assistant, while I tried to teach the kids some real English between being mauled for balloons. I should mention that, for a large group of five and six year olds with a guest and balloons present, it was not total chaos. Part of it is Ben's gentle but firm hold on their attention, and the other is the teaching assistant who screams "SILENCE!!!" while whacking the closest, and most unsuspecting kid with a ruler. I know that every time she did it I wanted to sit down quickly and do some homework. The kids practiced spelling the names of their animals, and their respective colors while I fixed dog ears and elephant legs that had 'accidentally' come untwisted. Ben had so much fun not teaching, that he invited me to his High School English classes that the evening. Alas, we were out of balloons and all of my talents exhausted: I would just have to take the observers seat for this one. I was introduced to the Head Chancellor (who is addressed as "his highness") before sitting in on the class as 'an observer interested in teaching'. I told him I was Canadian, had a University degree, spoke some french and spanish, and had completed TESOL ... and he offered me a job. I laughed and told him I was already in love with Cambodia, and that if I came back to teach I would visit him again. It turned put to be 'test day', so teacha' Ben collected the exams and led the way. 'Sitting in' meant that I had to complete the the exam, according to Ben, and (theoretically) get a higher grade than a bunch if 16 year old kids. Right, I thought, that would be embarrassing, since English just happens to be my first language. What I didn't expect was that someone whose first language was obviously NOT English had written the exam. It boasted little gems like: "Write about a place that you used to visit before”, and “What is the bad affection of the western foods?” More bizarre, were questions like: "what was the title of the paragraph", when no title was given. Ben and I agreed later that if a student had responded "read the paragraph and answer, 5 marks" (the only text appearing at the top of the paragraph) that he would have given them 100%. I'm tempted to return to Cambodia after traveling to start what could be an extremely lucrative editing business. Unlike most other shops, the motivational poster on my wall would NOT read: "alone we are a drop, together we are fat as the ocean".

Slaughter.