School Trip to Rabbit Island

The middle of March saw the end of my 2nd semester teaching English at PUC and with it a week and half break until the next semester. One of the classes I taught planned a trip to the seaside town of Kep, near the Vietnam border about four hours away from Phnom Penh.

A typical class normally runs for 3 months with classes each day lasting 1 ½ hours a day. I’ve taught most of this class (impressively called ‘Intensive English for Academic Program: Level 2’) over the last 2 semesters so have gotten to know them fairly well and, more importantly, have enjoyed teaching them. The students are around 18-21 years of age and either preparing for or have started university. Though English is a second language to them, they are expected to complete their bachelors degree in English, so the course is designed to bring them up to a level where their vocabulary and writing skills are of an academic standard (…and I’m expected to teach them that?!?!?) A level 2 class is the half-way mark as students will complete four levels to advance.

This class had been planning the trip for some time and was keen for me to come along. The trip was planned for the day after the final exam and I was a bit hesitant about coming as some kids were likely to fail and my presence could have played a real party-pooping role. Decided I would mark the exams but lie to the kids and say I hadn’t. They could find out the results after the weekend, so I thought ‘let them enjoy the trip and the death threats could wait till later’.

About 20 of the class of 35 assembled art 5.30am (?!?!?!) outside the family restaurant of one of the students, Nay Houy, where breakfast was had. This wasn’t a bad turn out as a lot of students are rarely allowed by parents to do much more then go to school or go to work. Cambodia isn’t the safest of places and many of the parents have lived through 20 odd years of civil war, so it’s understandable that they are reluctant to let their children out of their sight. Among the reasons reported by disappointed students include:

· Parents thought I might drown
· Parents thought the bus would crash
· Parents thought gangsters would rob us
· Parents thought the boat would sink
· Parents thought I might sit too close to a boy
· Parents thought people who live near the coast are crazy and have poor hygiene
· Parents thought I might eat poisoned seafood
· Parents thought I might get eaten by the naga (mythical serpent that inhabits the sea)
· Parents thought it was wrong to associate with a foreigner despite me learning a foreign language (personal favorite)

The students who were going were extremely excited as few had ever been to the beach before, so this was a big day out for them. We loaded onto a mini bus and took off for the 4 hour bus ride. I think the bus only sat around 15, but the 20 students squeezed in and were happy to be sitting inside the bus rather than on the roof which is common practice in Cambodia (students on the trip pointed and laughed at travelers such as these, calling them ‘Cambodian roof racks’). These kids are unnervingly sweet as they sang, laughed and played games the whole trip without a single complaint (in English anyway) but did ask to stop the bus 16 times to take a pee (that’s every 15 minutes). Cambodians students don’t piss or take a crap as a group for fear of someone seeing their private parts despite the fact that the rest of the country will piss just about anywhere (an excuse not thought of by any of the mums or dads – seeing the groin of a fellow student).



Unbeknownst to most on the bus (but I’m sure a relief to all the parents) was that we were being followed by student Nay Houy’s parents. I think the sight of me, looking somewhat groggy at 5.30am, maybe prompted them to accompany the group on the trip in their own car. After about 3 hours of driving, the father rang Nay Houy and told us to divert of the road to Kep to make a stop at the family’s salt mine (not exactly DreamWorld). Salt mines bring to mind slave labour camps and prisoners of war and the sight of the mine proved it to be correct.

The mines cover a huge area of fields separated into water-logged squares of 50m by 50m. A couple of squares or paddies are worked on at a time as enough salt has formed to be collected. Once one paddy has been cleared of salt, the workers move onto the next paddy, and so on until they work their way back the original square. The workers sweep the salt into little mounds, fill two baskets that are slung over the shoulder and then are manually transported to a shed where the salt s further dried.
If you were bored by this paragraph, imagine how bored a group of 20 students planning to go to the beach for the first were. Some of the students who had never seen the sea thought that this was the beach and were a little confused as to why everyone was so excited about going.



In an attempt to make the most of the experience, the students decided to participate in their all time favorite pastime: taking photos of themselves. Posing for a group photo is not unusual, but my camera was hijacked by the students who proceeded to use the entire memory card of the camera to take some 150 photos in a 20 minute period. The examples below are only a small fraction of the photos taken even after I deleted about 100 as soon as we got back on the bus. (After I got back to Phnom Penh I was in a awkward situation as many of the students requested copies of the photos. ‘All of them?’ I asked. ‘No, just the photos of me at the salt mine’ was the common answer.)



After the excitement of the salt mine, we traveled a further hour till we got to Kep beach. We had a lunch of seafood, rice and fruit by the beach prepared by the students (and the trailing mum). I’m not a big fan of fish, but the buckets of prawns were delicious (and very cheap, about $2 literally for a big bucket). I commented on how much I liked the prawns and then I was showered with unshelled prawns by students still mindful that I had yet to mark their exams (brown-noses). Seafood was followed by local fruit. Am yet to correctly identify any Cambodian fruit other then bananas and coconuts. Students take much delight out of me eating some fruit that I obliviously have no idea about. They piss themselves giddy seeing me eating something they normally would spit out or throwing away what they think is the best part of the fruit (took mental note of these students and deducted 5% from exam).

The beach wasn’t our final destination as it turned out. We were to proceed onto Rabbit Island (named so because if named after any other animal would scare the shit out of the parents who did let their kids come). To get to the island we boarded a couple of boats that sailed for 30 minutes. Despite the short trip, we were equipped with inflatable vests and distress whistles. The fearless young students braved the sea with abandon…until they remembered that the sun shines. Cambodians are paranoid about getting the slightest hint of a tan (white is good, brown is bad). Drowning (despite parents concern) is preferable to coming back ‘sun-kissed’.



Rabbit Island is a beautiful place with pristine beaches and clear water (which is unfortunately a rarity in this part of the world). There were only a few tourists on the beach, but is becoming increasing popular because of the ‘off-the-beaten-track’ nature of the place. There are a few basic beach bungalows ($10 a night) so you can stay for the night and a couple of simple restaurants/bar that can provide you with mainly seafood (you can get crabs or lobsters that are still in their pots on the shore).



The main attraction for the students in coming to Rabbit Island is the opportunity to swim despite the fact that none of them can. I’m a poor swimmer but can manage to float about for a bit. My teaching duties were extended to swimming coach with pretty poor results (Ian Thorpe couldn’t get these duds to swim). The students were content just to splash around only a few metres from the safety of the sand. Along with their fear of getting a sun tan, Cambodians take off as few clothes as possible when swimming choosing to swim in t-shirts and shorts (given my beer gut, I opted to cover up as well). A couple of rubber inner tubes were rented, but any attempt to drag them out any further then knee high water was met with shrieks and a dash back to the beach. To be fair, in the water was some kind of jelly fish covered in spiny needles that hurt like hell if you stood on them.

Cambodians don’t go long without eating. If you ask a Cambodian what they may be talking about at any given moment, the chances are that they are talking about either what they have eaten, what they are eating or what they will eat. On board the boat to the island came another course of seafood and rice for consumption by the group. This was eaten around 4.00pm and by then had been the third meal of the excursion not including snacks eaten on the bus trip. Some more swimming, a walk around the island and further photo opportunities, and it was around 6.00pm and time to go home. By the time we left the sunning was setting on a very full day. We returned to the bus and made our way back to Phnom Penh. Our bus driver who didn’t make it to the island had been sucking down beers in our absence and was in a pretty happy mood. Driving at night at about 80kms per hour on poorly paved roads with a drunk driver meant that I wasn’t as sleepy on the return trip as I might have hoped to have been. Regardless, I arrived back home safely and said farewell to the class. Really good day and a highlight of my teaching gig so far.



P.S. All, but 2 students who didn’t come on the trip, passed the final exam. Take note parents.

Blood Flows on the Mean Streets of Phnom Penh

A couple of months ago I had had accident on my newly acquired motorbike. I bought an old Daelim, which is manufactured in Korea (by the way it runs, I think in North Korea). It is a clunky old thing that was owned by a local who used it as a part time taxi. Daelims are only used by taxi-drivers in Cambodia. To make the comparison back home, it would be like buying a Yellow Cab and continue to drive around with the yellow paint work and taxi signs. I get a lot of laughs from other moto-drivers who snicker at the sight of a white fella driving a Daelim. Students at my school think there is something wrong with me. But other taxi-drivers are always interested in how much I paid for it.


Example of a Daelim being used as a school bus.

I have never driven a motorbike before coming to Cambodia (and licensing doesn't exist in this country) so I learnt just by riding on the roads in congested Phnom Penh traffic. Despite a few months of experience I am still pretty crap at it. There is no clutch on these bikes, but you do have to change gears and I get confused between the gear and brake pedal.

One night I was driving home and was looking to turn left (Note: they drive on the right here, so another difficulty for me). There was on-coming traffic and in Phnom Penh you have to be pushy to get anyway as no one will stop to let you in. After a few frustrating moments I decided to go for it when it appeared that there was a break. I didn't judge very well a bike coming towards me that was going a lot faster then the others. I hesitated and before I knew it he had t-boned me in the side of the bike. If I had been a bit more affirmative I should have kept going and he would have missed me.

He didn't hit me with any great force and only succeeded in knocking the bike over, but it landed on my leg. Despite wearing jeans, the hot exhaust pipe on the bike managed to burn a rather large hole in my calf. My most pressing concern at the time though was the crowd of locals standing around my bike and the other taxi-driver. Regardless of whose fault it may have been, in an accident if you are white "you're not in the right" (anyway it was my fault).

The crowd was expecting me to pay the other driver compensation for damage to his bike and/or person. He didn't appear very hurt and his bike looked like it had been in a few accidents anyway. Acting quicker then I did on the bike, I pulled out $10US, forked it over to the other driver and took off. Given the other times I had been ripped off by local cops or market sellers, this was pretty cheap (and a better option to a mob beating).

Getting home, I discovered a 10cm by 3 cm part of my leg missing. The exhaust pipe virtually melted the flesh away, there was no skin hanging off. Went to the chemist who pronounced 'Not very good' and gave me some anti-septic and bandages. The wound took about 3 months before it stopped pussing up and finally scabbed over. The shot below is about 2 months over the accident.

There is still a pretty mean looking scar left that I doubt will ever go away (my Cambodian tattoo) and I've discovered that this injury is very common in Phnom Penh. Once the subject is brought my you often find a number of others showing the scar on their right calf from a hot exhaust pipe.

Cambodia is fun.

Steve and Trea's Wedding

Attended the wedding of a couple of friends last February on the 15th. Trea is the office girl from the school where I did my TESOL/ESL course and the first local who befriended me on my arrival in Cambodia. She is a sweet girl who among other things has acted as tour guide, found me a place to live and a motorbike to buy (all with a minimal of commission). Steve, now her husband, is another teacher from Ireland who has taught in Phnom Penh for over two years and was won over by Trea’s charm (and similar midget height).

Cambodian weddings can take place at any time of the year, but the dry months of December to April are preferred due to the possibility that during the rainy season guests often drown and the resulting water damage to wedding gifts. They also can take place on any day of the week. Auspicious or ‘lucky’ dates are picked by elderly relatives or monks taking into account birthdays, parents being alive or dead, and when pay day occurs. The ‘olds’ and monks also decide who will be in the wedding party, where it is to be held and what is served at the reception. (Especially Interesting Authors Note: A friend who recently decided to marry a local girl was limited for choice on who could be his best man. Almost all of his friends who were suggested were considered unsuitable by the girl’s grandmother because of a range of reasons. I was asked out of desperation, but I was also ruled out because both of my parents were deceased. It was thought because I was an ‘orphan’ that it would cast a bad omen over the marriage.)

Steve and Trea’s wedding occurred on a Friday so I was unable to attend until after my classes finished at 7.30pm. The wedding officially started the day before and re-commenced at 6.00am the next day (!!!). So I was to attend the last few hours of a 36-hour wedding. The wedding ceremony is a complicated process and involves various stages through-out the day involving Buddhist traditions and ceremonies designed to bring good luck. One requirement is that the coupe change outfits (Khmer and Western) around 10 times. Given the temperature was around 30 C and 90% humidity I think is done due to the amount of sweat and stench the couple build up. At one point, the couple go to a local park around the middle of the day (brightest and hottest part of the day) in their finest to take photographs. Steve and Trea were originally around 5’9”, but melted to 5’2” while having their photos done.

The reception was held at a large restaurant/function centre in Phnom Penh to accommodate the 300 guests at the wedding. Steve had invited a number of his family and friends from Ireland and there were a number of ex-pat teachers that both Steve and Trea know. But the majority of the guests were Trea’s relatives. The term ‘relative’ in Cambodia is fairly loose as almost anyone can be a ‘cousin’ or ‘uncle’ despite having no actual blood relationship. This fact, that so many people are referred to as ‘family members’, and there expected to be invited to a wedding, may have to do with the traditional wedding gift in Cambodia: Yankee dollars.

When you are invited to a wedding here your are provided with an elaborate invitation giving the details of the date, venue etc contained in an equally elaborate envelope that has the guests name printed on it. It is expected that you return the envelope at the reception stuffed with cash. As you enter the reception there is a table manned by a bloke who looks like a bookie’s bagman in front of a huge ledger furiously scribbling away. This guy is the ‘wedding accountant’ who takes the returned envelope and records the guests name, the amount contained in the envelope, and whether it is in US or Cambodian currency (as both are legal tender in Cambodia, but the exchange rate on the US dollars can vary). Supervising the accountant is the father of the bride, in this case Trea’s policeman dad. I was advised that as I was a friend only but a foreigner that $10-$20 was an appropriate amount to give. I chose to give $10 much to the obvious disappointment of Captain Daddy who I suspected may have been packing his service revolver at the wedding. It is dangerous for family members who chose to be tight with their gift as the Scrooge-like amount will be similarly given at any wedding they are likely to have. It is a death wish of anyone who gives a lower amount after they have received a larger amount from the bride’s family.

I attended with Samantha, an English teacher who shares the apartment beneath me. After making it through alive past the accountant, we were met by Annie (sister of Trea and known famously in this blog as having a weak stomach) and boyfriend Ryan. Annie took Sam and I past all the other foreigners in the room and sat us down with some of her family (or pseudo-family) members, none of whom could speak English. Guests at Cambodian weddings aren’t seated in complex settings based on family or social relationships, but in the order in which you arrive because the food (all courses) are served at one table at a time. So sitting at a table where others were already sitting means you may miss out on the food (need to get my $10 worth).

Having tucked into the dinner provided (surprisingly, rice and an assortment of noodles…again), Trea came and visited Samantha and me at our table. At this stage she had been going 14 hours in dress and make up and was feeling a bit weary. Khmer girls love whacking on the make-up at weddings and Trea was no exception. Though she did look very beautiful, I think she does much prettier without (should she ever read this she is going to kill me…). Below is a photo of me, Trea and Sam (and half of an ‘uncle’ who insisted that I eat every noodle dish that came into sight). Next is an earlier photo of Trea at New Year’s hopefully to explain somewhat better then I have in words.

Girls ‘frocking’ up is not particular to Cambodia, but the girls here do go to town. A lot of Trea’s friends at the wedding who I have known for a while now surprised me by how different they looked. Normally in jeans and t-shirts, the girls dolled themselves up with varying results. Some close to a Lady Diana, others closer to a Dame Edna Everage. Below are some of the girls from Howie’s (Trea used to work at Howie’s). In order: Chea, Lek, Thea, and Annie (with, in most, by the tallest of the Seven Dwarfs: Dopey).

After eating, the band struck up playing Khmer traditional and pop songs (I think…) where some of the guests got up to boogie Khmer-style. This is dancing in a slow-moving circle doing Aspara hand movements (where you curl your hands in a rotating fashion over and over again) which looks like a local version of line dancing. Couples’ dancing is still frowned on in Cambodian society because of the close contact, so only the Bridal Waltz for the benefit of the Irish side of the wedding was allowed. Still, in most cases only girls danced with only other girls.

After the reception, the Irish contingent of the wedding and other foreigners moved onto an Irish bar called Rory’s to continue the celebration with the bride and groom. Steve and Trea had been going for almost 18 hours plus the previous day’s efforts, but were still keen to keep their special day going. Steve’s family opened the bar which most people indulged in despite the flow of alcohol provided at the wedding. Samantha, as seen below, had clearly falling into an alcoholic coma (or was being bored to death by the advances of fellow teacher, Neil).

If enough booze hadn’t been consumed, around 2.00am the remaining guests moved onto everyone’s favorite watering hole, Howies. Most of the girls who were guests at the wedding had to leave the reception around 10.00pm to go and work there. After having dressed up in their best, they had to head to the bar and don their work uniform and start serving customers. Still sporting make-up and hair-dos, they had to be the most glamorous bar staff in South East Asia (and in some instances, the drunkest). I was a little ‘emotional drained’ myself and let my guard down when someone stole my camera. Final shot is the rock-star ‘No photos’ maneuver from my collection of modeling poses.



Bed was reached around 4am or 5am and the next day I awoke fully dressed and drenched in sweat. I had failed to undress or open the windows and turn the fan on. Irish/Cambodian weddings are very dangerous propositions for one’s liver, but I hope that it was a fitting beginning for Steve and Trea’s happy life together.

Fin.

Crimewave in Sihanoukville

Went to the beach at the seaside resort town of Sihanounkville last weekend. While sitting on the beach enjoying the sun, was attacked by three 10-year olds who stole my mobile phone. I only survived by pretending to be asleep for 2 hours.

Was forewarned about taking valuables to the beach as there is a lot of theft. Though immediate action by the Royal Cambodian Police Force has taken place ("I not speak English"), I doubt I shall see the return of my Samsung d-500 anytime soon.

IMPORTANT NOTE WITH NO HINT OF SARCASM

With the loss of the phone, I have lost all my numbers in particular from home. Anyone with any sort of emoptional connection to me please email me their number (tonycarr72@gmail.com), sms me to (+ 85 592 337 601) or leave a comment on this blog.

Thanks

Postal Address

If you are unaware I have a local PO box for mail to be sent to. It is housed at the Main Post Office (in fact the only post office in Phnom Penh). Should you wish to send me a letter, postcard or a box of Arnotts Savoury Shapes please do to:


PO Box 1602
Phnom Penh
Cambodia

Cheers

Phnom Penh Post Office


Further things I desire.....


Savoury Shapes


Vegemite



Carlton Draught



Saladas


Quarter Pounder



Cheezels


Collingwood Premiership

Dave's Visit to the Lake - Part 2

The lake is very nice and the setting is very peaceful as it is off the beaten path of tourists. The photo of the lake is taken from the pontoon that you sit on where they serve your food. There are about 20 little pontoons and they are connected by an old rickety walkway. Beer or the deadly Khmer wine is served here at very cheap prices (beer .50c a can and a bottle of wine costs about .40c and a 2 day head-ache). One of the highlights is watching the locals wipe themselves with cheap booze and attempt to walk along these paths without falling over or in. The only thing better is watching a foreigner attempt to walk along these paths without falling over or in.


There are no table or chairs/cushions, just a mat on the floor and the utensils to eat. One of the few dishes I like is the fish (its called 'the fish', don't bother trying to find out what type it is - pointless). Comes out on a steaming dish and served with random grass cuttings. Once you pick off the grass it is quite tasty. Eating it gets very messy, but I think that has more to do with the intoxicated state of the patrons. Below is the state we left the pontoon in.



Any visit isn't complete (and I think it has been legislated by the Cambodian National Assembly) that at least one of the dinner party at any Cambodian dinner gets absolutely blotto and then proceeds to insult and abuse their fellow diners. Below is a shot of Annette (friend of Annie) in the aftermath of one of her tirades in which she:

1. threw a full bottle of wine
2. swore violently at all in attendance
3. collapsed into the aforementioned dish of 'the fish'.



I think Dave was ok with the outburst, but then again he has been friends of the Ryland brothers for too long to be concerned with graphic violence.

It was nice seeing you Sanch.

The end.