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Khmer
Khmer Proverbs
Another activity for our team retreat aimed at cross-cultural issues is to come up with the most-recalled proverbs from growing up. Though many sayings cross boundaries, the ones best remembered by each group curiously was very telling of their cultural norms and tendencies.
The Germans came up with a list of sayings that depicted a society which valued order, regulation, and punctuality. The Filipino sayings depicted a god-fearing, eternally positive, and family-oriented people. Growing up in the US, adages and mottos which had most to do with taking advantage of opportunity and making money came easily to mind.
Here are some Khmer proverbs, which explain very many things which those of us from the West often frustratingly misunderstand. One which struck me in particular ran along the lines of “the egg cannot fight with or break a rock”, which translated into “might is right”. This explains the submissive nature of our Khmer colleagues to their superiors. They seem frequently impressed when subordinates argue with the boss.
Physical death is better than the death of your reputation (also “family’s reputation”). This explains the collectivist mindset in Asia. Dishonor to your name or your family/group results in being cast off, and that is worse than death.
Dual Translation: (1) Anger begets error; anger begets injury; anger begets waste; and (2) Anger is wrong; anger is wicked; anger is wasteful. This explains the vexing SE Asian trait of never showing emotion, and always smiling even through crises.
The immature rice stock stands erect; the mature stock hangs heavy with seeds.
Those lacking accomplishments (seeds) prop themselves up and boast of themselves (standing erect – a trait of the young). Those heavy with accomplishments have no need for boasting as they have already proven their worth and instead behave with humility (being hunched over – a trait of the elderly). Many sayings show the value of elderly people to society.
Willing to lose is divine; wanting to win is evil. Several beliefs and large-scale tendencies point to the Buddhist belief in accepting fate, so that aiming for achievement is futile.
. . . more proverbs on the Khmer Institute website.
Cambodia: How to do the Poipet Border Crossing
Border crossing from Arranyaprathet, Thailand, into Poipet, Cambodia, is more stressful than the other way around. The casinos are right on the border, with sellers and market stalls outside. $40 rooms are had here if the onwards journey is postponed and a night’s stay is necessary. Otherwise, the main street just straight out from the border is lined with guesthouses of various price ranges. My $3 room was clean with a solid lock on a rickety door. The bus station was off this main road to the left, if walking away from the border, for my early morning bus ride.
If you purchased a trip from Bangkok to Siem Reap (Angkor Wat) or Bangkok-Phnom Penh, there is the possibility of a scam in Poipet. This can go along the lines of the bus breaking down, so if you want to get to Siem Reap or PP by nightfall, you have to pay extra to get on a bus that was leaving “right now” and happens to have extra seats. That’s an extra several dollars to $15.
If you took the train from Bangkok it will be around 2-3pm by the time you cross the border and need onwards transport. Touts of all sorts will approach you with options. Be mindful of the following ticket prices to adjust your bargaining (Phnom Penh-Siem Reap is roughly the same distance as Poipet-Phnom Penh, and also Poipet-Siem Reap as this latter trip’s road is in BAD shape):
A one-way ticket on a comfortable, clean, air-conditioned bus with a bathroom from Phnom Penh-Siem Reap costs around $12-$16. The cheapest ticket option where locals can ride roofside on a packed ‘taxi’ minibus for this same trip is around $3-6.
Just remember: If you haggle too hard, you’ll get shafted and may end up in another town altogether, late in the evening with no options (like we did, see below). Keep your cool, ask questions, pay fairly, and you’ll get safely to your destination.
My second trip through Poipet:
see my first border crossing into Poipet
First we stopped in Bangkok.
Although K has been to red light districts before, nothing quite prepared him—or me—for the Patpong mob scene in Bangkok. (Ah that mob scene was only the beginning…) That friendly smile…? It translates to “FRESHIE/SUCKER” hereabouts where people need just the slightest encouragement to keep harassing you for handouts or a sell. The gals came twelve-strong to our table in one of the fine evening establishments—with a ladyboy along just in case Keith’s taste ran the other direction—in a show of pressure that other foreigners walking in did not get. Tiny Asian gals crowded around K, who was trying to keep a shocked expression under control (unsuccessfully) at the whole situation and the vaginal acrobatics happening onstage. It was quite the amusing scene, until I saw one of them grab at his money and he let her take off with it.
–I did not! That was small change from the beers— which was about 20 dollars for two bottles, I might add. {{Edit to add upon K’s insistence that the girl only managed to get a 20baht note from him, which is about $0.50}}}.
So the next day I not-so-jokingly mentioned that if he EVER went out to Patpong for a bach party one day I will have to put a lock on him—
–A chastity belt-of-sorts? The boy asks, pleased at my apparent jealousy.
NO, a lock on your wallet, said I crossly.
Bangkok had all the comfort of any large bustling city. I was keen on the chocolate cakes here, which were moist and dense like a good cake should be (Cambodia did NOT get this memo). There is clean food (or minimal rotavirus–hey what’s the plural of virus? virii? viruses? anyone?), malls (there are no malls in Cambodia–not a huge loss, but the AC’d interior of a mall is nice once in a while, not to mention clothing designs that run around the vicinity of “normal”), and movie theaters (my movie critiqueing is getting dull by the day in Phnom Penh–we only have Khmer movies there). Oh and the pagodas and wats and the large Emerald Buddha that the Thais stole from Laos but tell tourists its theirs (the Laotians are quite bitter about this).
Bangkok was nice. But soon I sadly conceded that we must move on from the comforts of the big city. Onward ho, to a Kampuchean adventure.
K canNOT miss out on the experience of Poipet, so we did the do-it-yourself-border-crossing en route to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat in neighboring Cambodia. We hooked up with two female backpackers from the UK and New Zealand for the trip from Poipet to Siem Reap (and Angkor Wat)—for safety, I erred in assuming–and the combination of so much white skin put more than a bit of attention on us. The English hereabouts Cambodia is fine up until the actual exchange of cash, after which suddenly linguistic faculties fail and our deal with the locals to take us to Siem Reap went down the drain. There was no improvement in the road between Poipet and Siem Reap from when I came through a few months ago, so we bounced around the back of the flatbed of the pickup truck transportation we found, hanging on to our backpacks for dear life, which were sitting atop heaps of smelly days-old river catches. Those gaping patches of bridge?—our driver hummed right over them without hesitation. And what we thought was our transport to Siem Reap instead dumped us in Sisophon, three hours short of our destination, for a scam stop.
–As soon as our pickup truck rolled into Sisophon a feeding frenzy of the street sharks descended. Loud, broken English and Khmer were hurled about around us, and all we could make out was that they wanted us to get on another pickup and pay more. Now the thought of leaving the containers of fish I was forced sit on was appealing, but the deal we made was to ride this crowded (fish containers, old Khmer ladies, kids, and some dead unplucked chickens) pickup from Poipet to Siem Reap… not pay more money in Sisophon. The gals were quite aggressive back to our scammers, and they finally talked the guys down to a reasonable fee, but the journey doesn’t go smoother from here.
For some reason the men in the truck decided to abduct us. Having no familiarity with Sisophon, I looked at N, who through her work in the country knew the road we were taking was not the road to Siem Reap, but by then it was too late. They drove too fast for us to jump off, in circles to disorient us, and straight into a slum area, telling us we need to “come in and talk.”
Finally the vehicle slowed down and as the driver changed gears to reverse the truck into a gated house I jumped out of the back and grabbed everyone elses bags. N and the Brit followed suit. Luckily the Kiwi didn’t pass out from fright. Amid angry yelling back and forth from the men telling us we should come back and “be reasonable” we started trekking up the road away from the house, expecting at any moment to have a confrontation. They were demanding payment, for what I have no idea since they didn’t take us anywhere. We were all truly apprehensive about the whole event and I was mentally calculating which of the men needed to go down first should they decide we needed to be rounded up and marched back. I was afraid they might come after us with weapons; from my readings on the web that scenario certainly was not so farfetched in this country. Thankfully they let us be, perhaps they were too dumbfounded at our decisiveness, or they thought we would be too scared to walk out of this neighborhood and come crawling back for their help.
Luckily N had her phone, via which she beseeched upon her Khmer colleagues back in Phnom Penh to guide us back on track. We were in the middle of slum areas, with no idea where the bus station or the city proper was, and everyone on the sides of the road looked for all the world hostile and unfriendly. Four foreigners sporting large backpacks trekking about lost makes for quite a target, but we were not hassled. N called her translator and asked her to tell people around us to point us in the general direction of the bus station, and she sought random women posing relatively small threat to us to hand to phone to so that the translator can instruct the lady to point us to the direction we were seeking to go. She did this systematically several times for over an hour to make sure we were still traveling in the right direction, so that we finally managed to arrive, haggard, hungry, dirty, tired–but in one piece–at the bus station.
The moment we arrived we thought we made another mistake. It was filthy there, with garbage everywhere and stray animals poking their noses into everything, searching for food. Several broken-down stripped pieces of improvised transport littered the area. There were only men there, about a hundred of them, all gaunt, rags hanging off their starved frames, eyes gleaming like hyenas looking for meat. We stuck out like a beacon and they all immediately descended upon us in droves to offer their services, tripping over each other and trying to outscream everyone else in their desperation to make some money that day. Fist fights broke out around us as they beat on each other for our attention, and Nathalie, unknown to me until much later, was punched in the lip in the melee. I steered the other two girls over to where I saw a uniformed officer. When Nathalie saw our intent she hastened over and told us NEVER to seek police help if we were in trouble. We looked around and there is literally NO help available should these people decide to get some mob action started to take our shoes, clothes, bags, or money, and that is the most sinking feeling in the world. In not so few moments I found myself cursing the existence of this country and wondered for the millionth time what my wife was thinking when she plunked herself down on this hellhole.
The Khmer street sharks did not leave us be, crowding around and forcing their services on us–a moto taxi, a hotel room, food, etc etc– and we could not get a moment’s peace to even converse with each other to get a plan in gear. You just can’t think in that situation! Finally N broke away, snarled at the ones who followed her to get away, and got back on the phone. She asked her colleagues at the NGO in Phnom Penh to help us obtain a taxi out of Sisophon. Finally, after what seemed like days, via contacts of contacts from Phnom Penh to Battambang to Sisophon, her friends were able to help us get a legitimate taxi driver at the bus station and negotiate a fair fee for our onward transport. We were back on the road–the right road this time–to Siem Reap when the heavens opened up and poured down a storm.
Welcome to Cambodia! Why did we leave Bangkok???
And all this time with me yelling, “NO smiling! Hard look, hard look! You’re giving them reason to harass us!!!” Poipet is one of the most notorious border crossings, but nothing prepared us for that ordeal. I did not expect the chain of events we went through, and I just thank my lucky stars that I had some Khmer friends just a phone call away to help us.
Despite that nightmare, I am actually still quite taken with this country, which has a lot of potential and promise in its future. K understandably was not so keen on the whole scene, but after spending some time in Phnom Penh with me things slowly got better. It is still quite primitive for what he is used to. I think the way he handled the whole situation just made me fall more in love with him. Sappy I know, but how many people can find a gem of value in an experience like that, especially when it was unnecessarily forced upon him by someone who claims to love him?! What a trooper I married eh?
–Yeah, great experience of a vacation N, thanks– {{I didn’t hear sarcasm in that did I? he he}}}
The Stink of Durian for Newbies, and Adjusting to Cambodia
A royal decree was issued in the night. Everyone in Cambodia who has shoes is to take them off, and they are to do it inside my room. Groan. Below my hotel window (wide open cuz the one AC unit in the entire town was not allocated to this hut) is a fruit stall enterprise specializing in durian, a treat to wake up to at 6am. It is that time of year when foreigners are subjected to Fear Factor challenges involving this foul mishap of creation. It is the season, they are everywhere, and the Khmers must share. There is particular affinity for this fruit, drawing national pride, cherished reverently, like there is a little god inside the paranormal-looking blob. When foreigners are offered a piece of it Khmer radars within a mile radius zero in and they all whip around to see what you will do. You ought not refuse– their expressions are benign enough, friendly in fact, but it gives eerie pause. If this were a scene in a horror flick or nightmare the wrong response will exact gruesome vengeance straight from the bowels of hell. Think twice, foreigner. Trips to market are now unhappy excursions. Since I have the big SUV my driver is put upon to haul the putrid cargo about, and of course the stench lingers. Usually I stay a few paces behind my translator at the market, who refuses to be seen with me because sellers tack on a “foreigner tax”. But when haggling for durian I don’t mind at all looking conspicuously foreign to jack up the price. Purchases came to a short-lived halt until she caught on.
Gastronomical conquests become a newcomer’s specialty. One of the more infamous aphrodisiacs hereabouts Asia is called balut in Tagalog. It is a fertilized duck egg, harvested just days before hatch date and boiled so that the fetus is fully formed and decadently crunchy. Bugs are also much prized fast food items– spiders, ants, crickets, really anything that moves, the more legs the better. To be fair, the cockroach that went into the fryer in Poipet was not the same creature spawned of urban squalor– they insist it’s a beetle, bred for its crispy, nutty texture, though that is hardly encouragement enough to pop one in my mouth. Everything gets fried, dyed, dried. Colors I normally associate with radioactive elements and glow-in-the-dark objects are particularly popular additives to milks, juices, and sweets. Meat jerkies are common too, and my neighbors occasionally lay things out to dessicate. The ones resembling small rodents sporting extra legs always throw me for a loop, but my inquiring mind is mum, quite content to leave ignorance intact. Flee! Flee!
These lead to sporadic obsessions I can’t shake– pasta, peanut butter, chocolate– {{When the dog bites When the bee stings When I’m feeeeeling saaaaad . . . }}}. I’m still nursing a chocolate craving that won’t go away, initially sadly coincident with the expat exodus from the Khmer New Year, which took with it all the baking talent of Phnom Penh (the French colonialists failed miserably in dessert indoctrination). That precipitated a baking fixation, a difficult endeavor in a country where appliances that generate additional heat are not popular, so you are put upon to make your own oven. Luckily my pal RS was not only able to prevent the forthcoming inferno– he offered use of his oven– his baking skills also far exceeds mine (not a stellar achievement, but desperate circumstances justify disproportionate merit). . . . . mmm, a little piece of heaven can reduce all else to insignificance.
Working off a chocolate binge is a problem. Only tourists wear shorts and/or a tank top in public, branding themselves such by doing so. Best times for activity to avoid that fresh-popped-in-the-oven feeling are either end of the midday heat– around 4am or 11pm. Volleyball courts aren’t optimal, unless diving into pavement is part of your routine. There are two gyms, and two tended tennis courts lacking weeds and cracks to assist the ball out of play. These conditions thwart an already dim resolve to work out. So one weekend I joined the Hash House Harriers, a running club that exists in most cities in response to the expat need for fraternity and drinki– err, recreation. (CW, this group must be in Maputo?). I hadn’t done anything remotely active in many months, but this truth is not impressive so I fibbed about my activity level when they asked what kind of running I do. Bad mistake, my second floor apartment suddenly presented a challenge to twitching legs for a full week.
Work is great. Fieldwork is interesting, especially when theory and practice find detours around each other. And who in public health doesn’t have a story about condom demonstrations. We set up temporary labs in the Provincial AIDS Offices, which conduct condom use programs. A woman came in one day while we were there, complaining of pregnancy. Their wooden penis went missing for a few days, so the peer educators substituted bananas. Apparently the message on where exactly to place the condom went awry, because all bananas in her house now get one. LOL. Not those bananas lady. And have you ever used a translator? I ask a question, it is translated, and immediately translator and subject are engrossed in animated dialogue. Twenty minutes later, pen and notebook in hand expecting some good material, my translator turns to me with: “He said yes.” . . . ?!. . . How long is the Khmer word for ‘yes’??
Being so often on the road reminds me how far off the comfort zone we are. I don’t usually prefer the backseat due to motion sickness, but given that everyone has the right of way here I opt for illness. It seems a widely held belief that increasing velocity will relieve other objects approaching the same intersection of mass, and I find myself in perpetual unease at having to one day demonstrate this theory wrong. There is a prompt– only the Khmers hear these voices– to shove pedal to the metal upon nearing the crossroads. At intersections across the country foreigners riding backseat in all manner of transport can be seen craning our necks in rising panic proportionate to speed, searching for the cause of this lunacy. What’s happening?! Sometimes eyes will meet and befuddlement is mirrored in a split instant– misery appreciates company. Then the imminent peril ends, contact is broken, the junction is past. {{breathe}} I’m alive!!! {{insert maniacal laugh}} Vehicles ought to be equipped with toys and other diversions, soft things preferably, for just such treacherous outings down the street.
Ah the things that guidebooks leave out. Systematic exploration of the emotional topography is Cambodia’s specialty. Theme parks bah!— close encounters with the next life are just a flight away. So come and visit!!! Beyond all this excitement, separation from Keith by the entirety of the planet’s molten magma is quite the trial, especially with the time differential. You veterans, particularly Melanie and Cherry (seems to be a Filipina-Am trend), have an indomitable will and I am inspired. And to fellow colleagues likewise traversing unknown territories by him/herself: the destination is never as exciting is it? Though emails from me are scarce I do read everything in my inbox and print the longer ones for inspiration through bleak spells of no AC, charbroiling temperature, and chocolate deprivation so keep ’em comin’!
Cambodia: Poipet Border Crossing
First impression via point of entry is a curious introduction to a country. Express arrival through sterile gateways is had at the airport, with greeting that is composed and targeted. Would you like a Starbucks au lait, a shuttle to our white beach resorts, wine and dine at our five star establishments. How modern we are, let us show you (can you tell what parts of the world my travels take me to). The overland route goes through back doors, where a country is less prepared to receive guests, exposing social ills and systemic inadequacies, or perhaps better displaying an old world charm and raw beauty. Given time and energy, I attempt this passage.
And then there was Poipet.
The train ride from Bangkok to the border town of Aranyaprathet was uneventfully peaceful. With the tropical landscape rushing past my window, it was a tranquil start to the two-day journey. There I was able to hitch a ride to the border aboard a tour bus en route to Siem Riep and the premier destination in Cambodia, Angkor Wat. After the usual song and dance with immigration officials I crossed into Poipet and the Khmer Kingdom. (Overland border crossing is just the most paranoic encounter for me. The worst I expect is a fee scam. But what if they deny me entry? Or worse, confiscate my passport, my one internationally recognized proof of existence?).
And here it had to happen, a vicious assault of the worst kind. I was in a cafe with my adopted tour group pondering absently at the ache in my joints. Eight hours on an unpadded wooden seat can wreak havoc on the most tolerant constitution, more so for taller Westerners with less wiggle room for long legs. I always wonder what can pierce the everlasting good spirits of my 6’7″ husband and imagining Keith with me in those moments makes my heart smile.
Through this reverie a soft papery fluttering, too late, caught my attention. WELCOME to Kampuchea, prime real estate for the ubiquitous cockroach population of the large kind, equipped with the unfortunate mechanism of flight. The foul creature that fixated on me crawled for refuge down the front of my shirt as I flew into a fit. The next few moments were a blur until I snapped to sense and stopped, and found myself standing smack middle of upturned chairs, table, and parted crowd. A dirty little Khmer boy scampered after the creature, caught the lunch escapee in one hand, and dumped it into the fryer at the front of the cafe. Lordy if this isn’t a sign.
For my bright and cheery outlook on travel, I cannot find one good thing to say about that abominable hellhole this side of the planet. Poipet is a crossing point that opened to foreigners in 1998, and it instantly built up around the opportunities that presented. It’s described as a Wild West town, and the lawless atmosphere this implies is not exaggeration. Children cling to your sleeve and pursue handouts en masse, then kick your backpack as you walk away. Motorbike drivers crisscross insistently in front of you, undeterred by NO in Thai, Khmer, English. A growing mafia with the singular objective of scamming a deal aggressively harass travelers and are outright belligerent when refused. . . . And that is the tamer part of the scenario. Where normally I’d push positively onward, in this town my optimism reduced to irritation then alarm as darkness approached. I was actually disappointed to the brink of tears to see the last foreigner leave for Siem Riep and was tempted to talk my way again onto one of their groups.
I wanted OUT of Poipet ASAP, but the next means out to the part of the country I was bound for did not leave until morning. In my years of living in Harlem or traveling new cities, I’d never felt my sixth sense buzzing, not to be ignored, even in the dead of night, like it did in Poipet in broad daylight. I bought my bus ticket, hurried to my room, jammed the nightstand against the door, and rearranged the layout to maximize my advantage in case of intrusion. I lined up what belongings I could use as a weapon on the bed, near reach. It’s the kind of place where you keep your clothes on and sleep alert with your hand wrapped around a sharp object ready to spring the commotion rather than wait for it to happen to you. I am forever thankful to a new pal who kept calling/texting to check on me, offering to pay my taxi back to Bangkok should I decide to return “home”. He rescued my sanity that day and night. {{{You’re the bestest, Nirmal–yet again!}}}
The sun awoke over Kampuchea with the brightest crimson glare, and I concurred most crossly. I found to my complete disgust at the BUS station that I was traveling via PICKUP truck. While it is not uncommon hereabouts, balancing precariously on the sides of the flatbed is a recipe for pain. Besides that I was the only female of fourteen riders none of whom could I communicate with, and besides THAT it is a dusty nine-hour ride to Phnom Penh, which is WHY I wanted a BUS, with MANY people, PADDED seats, and AIR CONDITIONING. Of course that ticket man was nowhere to be found at 6am. So while waiting to leave, all manner of Poipet’s biting insects descended on me. Expletives I never knew I had in arsenal erupted to surface and hawkers converged when it registered that I wasn’t Thai or Khmer. Finally, half an hour past the appointed departure time we left. On the way out we passed a row of thatched-roof abodes that might’ve passed for the cutest stilt houses were it not for the fact that they were IN Poipet. Do you know they even had the NERVE to erect a sign entreating travelers to Please Come Again– lousy filthy &%$@! {{{fists in air}}}.
NOTHING in the Khmer countryside was alluring; it was barren and lifeless with an occasional lone coconut or palm in the distance, even the jagged rocky excuses for elevations looked wasted. The roads were in HORRIBLE condition, with massive craters the size of small Pacific islands marring our path so the truck drove a swerving tango, rattling my senses ad infinitum. On the flatbed were sacks of pineapples, and when I fell on one from a jolt of exuberant driving across a series of chasms I nearly flipped myself over the edge in haste to avoid impaled death by pineapple. In the middle of a rickety one-lane bridge as I erred in apprehension over a cheery gust of wind, our driver stopped, got out, and rearranged an UNBOLTED plank of steel to cover a gaping hole that an entire vehicle can plunge through to the muddy waters not a very near distance below. Finally I had it, anything was better than this. So I got off at the side of the road and flagged down the next runt of transportation that chugged along, where I squeezed between a pregnant lady who needed all the space she could hog, and her sack of durian and jackfruit (another spiky stinky blob of a fruit straight out of a science fiction scene). Unbelievable. Reality just sucked at that point so I forced a nap.
First impressions indeed–I am now here, in this broken country with a tragic recent past, I’m getting a new cellular number, I’m searching for a new address.
By the way, for those of you in touch with my parents, I appreciate not a word of these scenarios coming around their way! While I love them dearly enough, the wildest adventure of a paper cut sends them reeling into a doting frenzy, so my placid Tales of Asia back home are benignly uneventful, which pleases them. I’d rather not shatter their notion of my posh care and accommodation with a college friend in Bangkok whom they’ve come to know and trust. {{I shudder the thought if they knew the truth about you, Doualy!}}