Dear friends and family,
I'm back in Korea after a month of chasing the sun in Vietnam and Cambodia. I'd like to show you hundreds of pictures of mountains, lakes, rivers, bays, museums, poor but happy people, bamboo, French architecture, motorbikes, baguettes, beaches, shoe-less children, guesthouses, busing, The Killing Fields, buses, trains, Angkor Wat and Darryl and I enjoying it all, but I can't. Darryl's camera was stolen on the beaches of Nam and mine in "Heart of Darkness" bar in Cambodia. I don't care much about the camera but the loss of memories is hard to swallow. Darryl, Obama bless his pure heart, was able to look at the positives. The sale of our cameras could feed families there for months. After losing them, we were able to spend the last week taking the sights in with our eyes, naturally. We didn't have to travel behind the lens like so many annoying Koreans and Japanese were. (They walked around this terribly depressing museum honoring the Cambodians executed by the Khmer Rouge and filmed everything. It may not be against the rules, but it felt completely disrespectful. You're not a professional journalist, put the camera down and feel!) So we were retro travelers, the kind who store the images in their minds and explain them in dark, smokey bars. *raincheck for anyone who wants to see what I've seen* And finally, the loss of all our pictures means we will have to take this trip again. -That's gotta be the best thing to come out of the theft.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
The way out
Jan 30th, 6AM:
We were on the bus towards the airport when it stopped abruptly in what looked like nowhere and more than half of the bus walked out into dawn's cold mist. Seeing everyone get out, I thought we must be at the airport. But the ride was supposed to be much longer, so we remained. The bus began driving again and we passed hundreds of Koreans walking very uniformly on the right and there, on the left, was every one's destination: rows and rows of factories. It saddened me to see so many folks getting up before the sun and fighting their way into THAT. Then again, Koreans forget, and so do I, that this is still Korea. Despite David Bekham on cellphone adds, Mickey Mouse on old women's Tshits, and posters of Shaq in pizza parlors, this is still Korea. And for dawn's early factory folk, unlike me, this is no the beginning of a long vacation.
We were on the bus towards the airport when it stopped abruptly in what looked like nowhere and more than half of the bus walked out into dawn's cold mist. Seeing everyone get out, I thought we must be at the airport. But the ride was supposed to be much longer, so we remained. The bus began driving again and we passed hundreds of Koreans walking very uniformly on the right and there, on the left, was every one's destination: rows and rows of factories. It saddened me to see so many folks getting up before the sun and fighting their way into THAT. Then again, Koreans forget, and so do I, that this is still Korea. Despite David Bekham on cellphone adds, Mickey Mouse on old women's Tshits, and posters of Shaq in pizza parlors, this is still Korea. And for dawn's early factory folk, unlike me, this is no the beginning of a long vacation.
Hanoi- Day 1
It's raining in Hanoi. It feels like it always rains in Vietnam. Or maybe that's just what Forest Gump said. Darryl and I bought blue bags to deflect the rain and the lady said our bodies were too big. They were. We bags were torn and tied around us like bums. Didn't stop the begging. Crossing the street here is an exhilarating experience. 90% of the traffic is made up of motorcycles and they're travelling like a school of fish. They don't go too fast because they can't. And it never let's up. You really can't see the street, just a constant flow of bikes. The cacophony of horns serves as a nice wakeup call at 8am. I think the honks are saying 'hello' more than they are warning. We walked guideless through an ancient temple that had the old folks mesmerized. We've been in Asia too long, been in too many temples, to have that feeling. I bought a guitar for 20$ after singing a song called, "I love my 20$ guitar." The sales girl wanted 30$, but she was visibly impressed with the tune. That's the most harmless bartering yet. Darryl paid 10$ for pineapple after the girl let him wear her rice hat and hold her bamboo scale-like fruit carrier. We put our heads down and prey as traffic swerves around us and says 'hello' in horn. I feel like I've seen a weeks worth here. There's enough information and life on every street to contemplate for days. Darryl's playing guitar, his 3-chord special. We already wrote a catchy tune about the male and female clerks in our hotel but it's time for more music.
Sweatshop song
Darryl and I wrote this tune on the back of a bus after one of the many factories they take us to. Same as in China, try to guilt you into paying 4X too much for things you don't even want.
This is my new song, been in the sweatshop all day long.
Making little jade toys, for fat white girls and boys.
I never see no sunlight, masters says....
NO BREAK TONIGHT!
Chorus:
I got a little girlfriend, just across the way.
We make love with our eyes, in this sun-less day.
This is my new song, been in the sweatshop all day long.
The tourists come and walk on by, inside I know I make them cry.
But my girl and I, we'll float down the Mekong...
MAKE A BRAND NEW START!
Chorus:
I got a little girlfriend, just across the way.
We make love with our eyes, in this sun-less day.
I bleed my fingers all day long, just to watch her walk away.
As she walks home alone, I follow all the way.
This is my new song, been in the sweatshop all day long.
Making little jade toys, for fat white girls and boys.
I never see no sunlight, masters says....
NO BREAK TONIGHT!
Chorus:
I got a little girlfriend, just across the way.
We make love with our eyes, in this sun-less day.
This is my new song, been in the sweatshop all day long.
The tourists come and walk on by, inside I know I make them cry.
But my girl and I, we'll float down the Mekong...
MAKE A BRAND NEW START!
Chorus:
I got a little girlfriend, just across the way.
We make love with our eyes, in this sun-less day.
I bleed my fingers all day long, just to watch her walk away.
As she walks home alone, I follow all the way.
Day 4
Today I stopped by a poor farmer's shop and saw dog-tags from American soldiers in the Vietnam war for sale. They might have been fake, but it didn't matter. I read the names from my deceased soldiers and, with the cooperation of Vietnam's unrelenting grey sky, fell into a temporary sadness. But it's hard to stay down for long in a place so poor that it treats you like royalty. And, even more uplifting, is observing the poor shedding their poverty and finding ways to enjoy a life of dirt, rubble, erosion and bamboo. Life as usual; this is what I wanted and needed to see.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Day 5
2 Vietnamese men, Vu and Hero, put us on their motorcycles and drove us through 6 hrs of rice fields, over misty mountains, through war-torn, dusty villages, into a cave and finally checked us into a 10$/a night hotel. The trip was moving. No, until I can invent a better word, the trip was "cellar door." Wish you all could see what I saw today.
"chuup moon na moi" - Happy New Year
"chuup moon na moi" - Happy New Year
vendor blues
The thing about a place as poor as Vietnam (and it IS poor) is that all good times here are followed by some unshakable guilt. Sometimes the begging can push you to insane anger and you want to yell but you can't. Yesterday, after a week of almost constant travel south, we arrived on the lovely beaches of Nha Trang. (after hanging out with so many Europeans this past week, I've taken to using the word 'lovely'.) Before even finding a hotel, we threw our bags on the beach and lied down. A long, exalted "finally...." followed. Paradise after a week of grey skies and rain. A few minutes of relaxation later, one of the many cone-bamboo hatted Vietnamese women came to us with a box of cigarettes, lights and drinks. We bought some beers, had some laughs and took her adorable picture. And she left on time. This was a big mistake. For the next 20 minutes, the vendors formed a single-file line behind us and came up, 1 by 1, selling the exact same postcards, sunglasses, snacks, etc. It doesn't matter that we're wearing sunglasses, eating and drinking- they still come.
"sir, sir, sir, happy new year, help me, sir, help me, hard life, sir."
We were polite to the first 5, then we had to laugh as they continued the procession. So we laughed until finally we had to just refuse looking at them. I hate treating people like this, but they push you until it's the only option. We'd been looking forward to this ocean-view for a long time, but they wouldn't let us look ahead. But you can't be angry. They lie about all the prices, but they're not lying about the 'hard life.'
"sir, sir, sir, happy new year, help me, sir, help me, hard life, sir."
We were polite to the first 5, then we had to laugh as they continued the procession. So we laughed until finally we had to just refuse looking at them. I hate treating people like this, but they push you until it's the only option. We'd been looking forward to this ocean-view for a long time, but they wouldn't let us look ahead. But you can't be angry. They lie about all the prices, but they're not lying about the 'hard life.'
Sun-stroked thoughts
My forehead, my everything is burning. Jerry Maguire talks about business ethics and I think about travel ethics. THere were no monkeys today, just a floating bar between four islands. Dark brown Vietnamese with pot-bellies and scars dance around in speedos singing the Beatles and butchering the words. These people don't have the musical gift the Filipinos do. Larry King's on in my office nad he's trying to ignore Britney's paranoia like I'm trying to ignore my cheap, Domino's Pizza stinginess. We give them our hearts and they just want "da money." On the boat, 4 former Vietcong guerrilla badasses lead the scared white folks to islands and booze. I think they'd like Sublime. 20 years ago, they pitched in together and bought a tourism guidebook. They memorized memorable sayings like:
"no beer, no funny
no funny, no money,
no money, no honey"
-that's poetry
Jerry knows she loves him for the man he wants to be and I know Vietnam loves me for the $ sign they want me to be. I watched a New Yorker, also named Dan, speak fluent Chinese and I think I'm not trying enough. Darryl says, and I believe him, you have to find solitude, sit and record your thoughts. Then, the path will become clear. It sounds cliche, but it couldn't be more true. What scares me is I'm shutting it all off and all I can see is food. Hey, buddy, when can I eat next?
Here in the south of Vietnam, drunken white-boys are walking down the street, smacking the back of their calves with bamboo rods. It's sad and beautiful at the same time. Sad because their imitating the kind of torture many really experienced on this soil less than 50 years ago. And it's beautiful because they can share a laugh on this same soil, less than 50 years ago. Sad and beautiful like everything, I suppose.
The lady-boy Vietnamese islander wears a European speedo. A flaming mafioso- that's the kind of character Darryl and I like. But I wish my head would just stop burning...
"no beer, no funny
no funny, no money,
no money, no honey"
-that's poetry
Jerry knows she loves him for the man he wants to be and I know Vietnam loves me for the $ sign they want me to be. I watched a New Yorker, also named Dan, speak fluent Chinese and I think I'm not trying enough. Darryl says, and I believe him, you have to find solitude, sit and record your thoughts. Then, the path will become clear. It sounds cliche, but it couldn't be more true. What scares me is I'm shutting it all off and all I can see is food. Hey, buddy, when can I eat next?
Here in the south of Vietnam, drunken white-boys are walking down the street, smacking the back of their calves with bamboo rods. It's sad and beautiful at the same time. Sad because their imitating the kind of torture many really experienced on this soil less than 50 years ago. And it's beautiful because they can share a laugh on this same soil, less than 50 years ago. Sad and beautiful like everything, I suppose.
The lady-boy Vietnamese islander wears a European speedo. A flaming mafioso- that's the kind of character Darryl and I like. But I wish my head would just stop burning...
Midway Rant
I've taken to a meal called Ban Mai. It's probably not that impressive but after living in Korea so long and not finding decent bread, this sandwich made with long, French-style baguettes is a taste sensation. And it only costs 50 cents! Sometimes I bring my guitar to the Ban Mai stand and sing a song about my love for it. I think it ensures me the best damn sandwich that old man or women will make all day.
Lots of mumbled, drink-charged memories from last night. Darryl and I found ourselves in line, in step, for 6AM calisthenics with the older Vietnamese folks on the beach. They had a ghetto-blaster booming some strong communist instructions and the people knew the routine. I think Darryl and I fit in about as well as Dennis Rodman in Utah. After fully stretching, we jumped into the ocean for a sobering swim. As we fought the intense waves, some kids hid behind shadows and stole everything out of our discarded shorts except for our room-key. Thankfully they left our clothes. They got Darryl's camera and, sadly, or stack of small bills we'd prepared that night just to give to the children on the streets. Oh well, they got it.
This was the 2nd time they'd got us. The Lonely Planet warned that this city, Nha Trang, is especially notorious for creative theft. Just last night, a guy in our guest house was complaining about a women who came up to him on the street, grabbed his crotch, and at the exact same time, emptied his pockets.
We were down as we stumbled home that night. We stopped for some street food and, after eating, remembered we didn't have a coin on us. We explained that we'd been robbed earlier and the older Vietnamese customers chipped in and paid for our meal. They seemed sympathetic but not surprised by the theft. Whatever the cause, we needed their generosity to get up today and continue to "give da money" with a smile.
Lots of mumbled, drink-charged memories from last night. Darryl and I found ourselves in line, in step, for 6AM calisthenics with the older Vietnamese folks on the beach. They had a ghetto-blaster booming some strong communist instructions and the people knew the routine. I think Darryl and I fit in about as well as Dennis Rodman in Utah. After fully stretching, we jumped into the ocean for a sobering swim. As we fought the intense waves, some kids hid behind shadows and stole everything out of our discarded shorts except for our room-key. Thankfully they left our clothes. They got Darryl's camera and, sadly, or stack of small bills we'd prepared that night just to give to the children on the streets. Oh well, they got it.
This was the 2nd time they'd got us. The Lonely Planet warned that this city, Nha Trang, is especially notorious for creative theft. Just last night, a guy in our guest house was complaining about a women who came up to him on the street, grabbed his crotch, and at the exact same time, emptied his pockets.
We were down as we stumbled home that night. We stopped for some street food and, after eating, remembered we didn't have a coin on us. We explained that we'd been robbed earlier and the older Vietnamese customers chipped in and paid for our meal. They seemed sympathetic but not surprised by the theft. Whatever the cause, we needed their generosity to get up today and continue to "give da money" with a smile.
workout
Last night Darryl and I sat on our balcony overlooking Hue. This city his comforting, as relaxed as Vietnam can be. We drank a big bottle of whiskey for 7$ and had our nightly workout.
We've devised a plan to not let ourselves go. We call it "9-6-3-2-1."
90 situps each day
60 pushups
30 minutes minimum of exercising
20 minutes of reflection. Thinking or writing about our current state.
and
1 humanitarian deed each day.
With nothing but eating and drinking as necessities, it's important to find someway to better oneself.
We've devised a plan to not let ourselves go. We call it "9-6-3-2-1."
90 situps each day
60 pushups
30 minutes minimum of exercising
20 minutes of reflection. Thinking or writing about our current state.
and
1 humanitarian deed each day.
With nothing but eating and drinking as necessities, it's important to find someway to better oneself.
Heroes
I'm about halfway through this odyssy and it feels like so long ago that Darryl and I walked Hanoi's cold, rainy streets. I've met so many remarkable people since then. Let me remember...
1. Bill and Gwen must be over 70, their love spanding half a century. I'm young enough to be their grandchild, still they confided how Bill met her and recommended she read a book. She was moved by the book and became interested in him. It was decades later her admitted he'd never even read the book. He's an Irishman and she's a Scot. They share a love for old heist films and a distaste for the English. They own a hostile in the hills of Spain where pilgrims from all over the world come to climb. Bill waits for someone to pick up his guitar and play old Irish tunes with him. They said, "we don't drink," but Darryl and I shared a bottle of whiskey with them in a small cabin on a ship in Halong Bay. Unfortunately, Darryl and I found ourselves on a geriatric cruise and I think Bill and Gwen felt sorry for us. We spent a night drinking, telling stories, playing guitar and acting like equals. I parted hoping to see eachother again on this journey and we did.
2. Vu and Hero- Vu's old and his English vocabulary is extensive. He wants nothing more than to talk politics and philosophy but I can't understand anything he says. It's obvious he's lived through the Vietnam War and the years of political upheaval since. But he talks really low and deliberate. I gathered that his family comes from the South. His relatives are imprisoned for fighting with the Americans on the losing end. He wishes we'd won the war. Vu smokes 2 packs a day waiting for some tourists to take around the country on his modest motorbike.
Hero is his younger sidekick. He looks like a perpetually stoned college student but his ID says he's 37. (You'd think after all these years in Asia, I'd be able to tell their age, at least within 10 years). Hero doesn't speak much English but he makes up for it with a constant smile that says more than Vu's mumbles. It's obvious Hero's the one who really knows the streets of Vietnam. He barks at the entrance and will get you in any door. They put us on their bikes and showed us the country's coastal landscape.
1. Bill and Gwen must be over 70, their love spanding half a century. I'm young enough to be their grandchild, still they confided how Bill met her and recommended she read a book. She was moved by the book and became interested in him. It was decades later her admitted he'd never even read the book. He's an Irishman and she's a Scot. They share a love for old heist films and a distaste for the English. They own a hostile in the hills of Spain where pilgrims from all over the world come to climb. Bill waits for someone to pick up his guitar and play old Irish tunes with him. They said, "we don't drink," but Darryl and I shared a bottle of whiskey with them in a small cabin on a ship in Halong Bay. Unfortunately, Darryl and I found ourselves on a geriatric cruise and I think Bill and Gwen felt sorry for us. We spent a night drinking, telling stories, playing guitar and acting like equals. I parted hoping to see eachother again on this journey and we did.
2. Vu and Hero- Vu's old and his English vocabulary is extensive. He wants nothing more than to talk politics and philosophy but I can't understand anything he says. It's obvious he's lived through the Vietnam War and the years of political upheaval since. But he talks really low and deliberate. I gathered that his family comes from the South. His relatives are imprisoned for fighting with the Americans on the losing end. He wishes we'd won the war. Vu smokes 2 packs a day waiting for some tourists to take around the country on his modest motorbike.
Hero is his younger sidekick. He looks like a perpetually stoned college student but his ID says he's 37. (You'd think after all these years in Asia, I'd be able to tell their age, at least within 10 years). Hero doesn't speak much English but he makes up for it with a constant smile that says more than Vu's mumbles. It's obvious Hero's the one who really knows the streets of Vietnam. He barks at the entrance and will get you in any door. They put us on their bikes and showed us the country's coastal landscape.
Heroes
1. Our maid in Nha Trang was a pure soul. She smiled at us because she liked cleaning up after us, not because she wanted our money. Each day, Darryl and I suffered through our malaria (not really, just the worst stomach evacuation I'd experienced), and each day we'd ask for an extra roll or two of toilet paper. She gave them to us freely and never once laughed at us. It was like we shared this embarrassing secret and I could see the understanding in her eyes. For this reason, we gave her 50$, our biggest tip of the trip.
2. The Swedish nurses saved Darryl and our trip. They heard me playing guitar and called us over for a concert on the beach. I think they were the 1st and only people who heard me playing and actually requested more. Well, the Vietnamese would ask for more, but then they'd ask me to give them money for listening. Darryl was at home touring the bathroom but I had my British buddy Olly with me. We played songs, talked and made plans to bring out sick friend to them later that evening. Olly and I awoke Darryl and said, "you're getting out of bed today." He grumbled but them we told him there were 3 Swedish nurses waiting to meet and diagnose him. He sprang out of bed and into the shower. That's when I knew he was still alive.
The nurses had a travelling pharmacy with them as well as entertaining hospital stories. They gave Darryl antibiotics, diaria suppressants and water-purifying pills. I had to rush him home before we'd even finished dinner, but he was better the next day and they were gone to the next country before we were able to thank them. Oh well, we've made plans to write a song in their honor.
2. The Swedish nurses saved Darryl and our trip. They heard me playing guitar and called us over for a concert on the beach. I think they were the 1st and only people who heard me playing and actually requested more. Well, the Vietnamese would ask for more, but then they'd ask me to give them money for listening. Darryl was at home touring the bathroom but I had my British buddy Olly with me. We played songs, talked and made plans to bring out sick friend to them later that evening. Olly and I awoke Darryl and said, "you're getting out of bed today." He grumbled but them we told him there were 3 Swedish nurses waiting to meet and diagnose him. He sprang out of bed and into the shower. That's when I knew he was still alive.
The nurses had a travelling pharmacy with them as well as entertaining hospital stories. They gave Darryl antibiotics, diaria suppressants and water-purifying pills. I had to rush him home before we'd even finished dinner, but he was better the next day and they were gone to the next country before we were able to thank them. Oh well, we've made plans to write a song in their honor.
Travel duo
I love travelling with Darryl. After 4 hours of drunken sleep, with a belly-ful of malaria, Darryl will wake for another full day of touring with red eyes and a smile on his face. And as Vietnam's hero Ho-Chi-Min took his revenge on our fragile western stomachs, we'd compare bathroom conquests and laugh. Often, in a restaurant, we'd visit the toilet in shifts, high-fiving as one left relieved and the other rushed in. Still smiling...
Guns N Roses Bar
Brian Denofrio and the rest of the Borden dudes, I wish you were with me last night. Imagine this:
You're in Saigon, the southern-most Vietnamese city where the US GIs lived for years and discovered drugs and a people who refuse to surrender. You're in a frantic city surrounded by the jungle. You can smell the Mekong river, your passage to Cambodia and a lucid Marlon Brando. You walk out of your geko-filled hotel and a Vietnamese man in rags carrying a basket of photocopied books starts offering you drugs. With each "no, thank you," he offers harder and harder drugs until you're hearing things you've never heard before. You walk down the street and are blinded by a neon sign reading "Guns N Roses Bar." You walk in as Axl's singing, "you know where you are?" and, for the first time, you have the appropriate answer. The woman behind the bar speaks no English but she listens to Appetite on repeat everynight, so she must be some kind of God. All around you it's dark, dirty, sleazy- the way it should be. There are red lights flashing about the bar showing roses. As you look around the pool table, here are painted murals on the walls of the boys circa 87. There's one TV in the joint and it's showing Selma Hyak do a striptease right before she turns into a vampire and all hell breaks loose. You but a beer for 50cents and, for once, that price isn't followed by the word "night." Periodically, groups from all over the world come in, buy a beer, shake their fists to the music and pay their respects to the greatest band ever. But, unlike you, they leave. You know you're here until Axl says, "I know that you're mine," and puts Rocket Queen to bed. Even then, you may leave, but this place will be here waiting for you.
You're in Saigon, the southern-most Vietnamese city where the US GIs lived for years and discovered drugs and a people who refuse to surrender. You're in a frantic city surrounded by the jungle. You can smell the Mekong river, your passage to Cambodia and a lucid Marlon Brando. You walk out of your geko-filled hotel and a Vietnamese man in rags carrying a basket of photocopied books starts offering you drugs. With each "no, thank you," he offers harder and harder drugs until you're hearing things you've never heard before. You walk down the street and are blinded by a neon sign reading "Guns N Roses Bar." You walk in as Axl's singing, "you know where you are?" and, for the first time, you have the appropriate answer. The woman behind the bar speaks no English but she listens to Appetite on repeat everynight, so she must be some kind of God. All around you it's dark, dirty, sleazy- the way it should be. There are red lights flashing about the bar showing roses. As you look around the pool table, here are painted murals on the walls of the boys circa 87. There's one TV in the joint and it's showing Selma Hyak do a striptease right before she turns into a vampire and all hell breaks loose. You but a beer for 50cents and, for once, that price isn't followed by the word "night." Periodically, groups from all over the world come in, buy a beer, shake their fists to the music and pay their respects to the greatest band ever. But, unlike you, they leave. You know you're here until Axl says, "I know that you're mine," and puts Rocket Queen to bed. Even then, you may leave, but this place will be here waiting for you.
On the way....
I'm on a boat, floating down the Mekong River to Cambodia and shit's starting to get hairy. We stopped for our driver to do some immigration paperwork. The boat hadn't even fully stopped before the children seiged us. Organized and hungry, they pounced shouting, "1 dollar," and began shoving bananas, water and dirty hands in our faces. They were followed by armed guards who dragged them out kicking and screaming. And, just like that, we're back in teh open water again. I hope Kurtz is worth it...
(there exists and Vietnam and Cambodia a strange agreement with police and begging children. They allow a certain number into each restaurant, bar, museum for a certain amount of time. I'm not sure how exactly it works, but the begging is regulated somehow).
(there exists and Vietnam and Cambodia a strange agreement with police and begging children. They allow a certain number into each restaurant, bar, museum for a certain amount of time. I'm not sure how exactly it works, but the begging is regulated somehow).
The Killing Fields
I've put off writing about this for as long as I can. I'd read a bit of the history of the Khmer Rouge (1970-75), Pol Pot, and the genocide of their own people. The Khmer Rouge killed nearly 1/4 of Cambodia's population, around 2 million people total. They executed every educated Cambodian, everyone who wore glasses, every teacher and everyone who opposed Pol Pot's plan to start again, to bring Cambodia to "year zero." Women and children were beaten against trees and buried alive.
Still, what I knew didn't prepare me for the newness, the horror of The Killing Fields. Our tuk-tuk driver took us from the developed Cambodian city into the dirt-poor country. Every mile was poorer until I was feeling guilty for looking at the unclothed, starving Cambodians as a tourist. And they continued to smile and wave. Unless you're prepared to help them, this is the kind of thing you should see in National Geographic or on CNN. After seeing the Killing Fields, I realized the land near it is so haunted only the desperately poor would live there. We paid the 2$ entrance fee and stared straight at a 200ft tower of skulls. You're allowed to walk along the glass and look into the skulls sockets, only you are required to take off your shoes. There must have been 60,000 skulls piled on top of each other to the sky. I looked briefly, enough to notice many of the skulls were smashed in but not long enough to really take it in. It was unbearably hot and silent. I was having trouble breathing.
I quickly turned by back on the skulls, read some awful accounts of how the people were killed and avoided looking anyone in the eye. The field wasn't very big and you could see unfarmed land stretching in every direction. No one would dare live here. Every 10 feet, we'd come to a large pit in the ground with signs reading, "158 buried," "215 buried," "85 children buried," and on and on. Grass didn't grow in the graves and each had a strong smell. Entirely new to me, but I guess that's the smell of decaying bodies. It doesn't require a child's imagination to close your eyes and see it all. That's why it's so shocking, because many of the bodies were still being found in the 80s. The fields hold all the torture and death, preserved. Haunted.
There was a tree with a sign informing that children were beaten against it and little bones remained cluttered around it. There was another tree with a sign reading, "Magic Tree." The sign explained that the Khmer Rouge hung a boom-box from the branch. It played extremely loud music to drown out the sounds of torturing and dying all around. Darryl stared disgusted at this tree for a long time.
And it only got worse outside. Half-naked, bony children surrounded us begging, "sir, 1 dollar, 1 dollar please!" We hadn't prepared for this. We gave everything we had (about 10 dollars each) but they kept on coming, begging. We jumped into the carriage and told the driver to get us out quick. They held on, running barefoot with the motor-cycle, crying. We felt helpless. One by one, they couldn't keep up and fell behind but one teenage boy kept pace long after the others. We pleaded, "we have nothing," and showed him our empty pockets but it didn't matter. I could see his ribs as he ran with us. Darryl and I couldn't look at him, or each other so we just stared at the ground praying he'd give up. We were trying to block out the sadness of the whole scene. Finally, the motorcycle won and he let go. I watched him drop to the ground crying and we drove off. I've seen some poverty my time in Asia but that whole experience sticks in my mind like a picture and haunts me still.
Still, what I knew didn't prepare me for the newness, the horror of The Killing Fields. Our tuk-tuk driver took us from the developed Cambodian city into the dirt-poor country. Every mile was poorer until I was feeling guilty for looking at the unclothed, starving Cambodians as a tourist. And they continued to smile and wave. Unless you're prepared to help them, this is the kind of thing you should see in National Geographic or on CNN. After seeing the Killing Fields, I realized the land near it is so haunted only the desperately poor would live there. We paid the 2$ entrance fee and stared straight at a 200ft tower of skulls. You're allowed to walk along the glass and look into the skulls sockets, only you are required to take off your shoes. There must have been 60,000 skulls piled on top of each other to the sky. I looked briefly, enough to notice many of the skulls were smashed in but not long enough to really take it in. It was unbearably hot and silent. I was having trouble breathing.
I quickly turned by back on the skulls, read some awful accounts of how the people were killed and avoided looking anyone in the eye. The field wasn't very big and you could see unfarmed land stretching in every direction. No one would dare live here. Every 10 feet, we'd come to a large pit in the ground with signs reading, "158 buried," "215 buried," "85 children buried," and on and on. Grass didn't grow in the graves and each had a strong smell. Entirely new to me, but I guess that's the smell of decaying bodies. It doesn't require a child's imagination to close your eyes and see it all. That's why it's so shocking, because many of the bodies were still being found in the 80s. The fields hold all the torture and death, preserved. Haunted.
There was a tree with a sign informing that children were beaten against it and little bones remained cluttered around it. There was another tree with a sign reading, "Magic Tree." The sign explained that the Khmer Rouge hung a boom-box from the branch. It played extremely loud music to drown out the sounds of torturing and dying all around. Darryl stared disgusted at this tree for a long time.
And it only got worse outside. Half-naked, bony children surrounded us begging, "sir, 1 dollar, 1 dollar please!" We hadn't prepared for this. We gave everything we had (about 10 dollars each) but they kept on coming, begging. We jumped into the carriage and told the driver to get us out quick. They held on, running barefoot with the motor-cycle, crying. We felt helpless. One by one, they couldn't keep up and fell behind but one teenage boy kept pace long after the others. We pleaded, "we have nothing," and showed him our empty pockets but it didn't matter. I could see his ribs as he ran with us. Darryl and I couldn't look at him, or each other so we just stared at the ground praying he'd give up. We were trying to block out the sadness of the whole scene. Finally, the motorcycle won and he let go. I watched him drop to the ground crying and we drove off. I've seen some poverty my time in Asia but that whole experience sticks in my mind like a picture and haunts me still.
Southeast Asian Adventure
Angkor Wat:
The temples of Angkor Wat were an ideal way to end the trip. Angkor is vast, 3 days of walking through what once was the greatest city in the world. We arrived at 5am to watch the sun come up over the ancient ruins. Having no camera, we felt liberated, able to just walk around and feel everything. There were many tourists there, even at dawn, but Angkor Wat is so huge, there is always some corner that stands empty. Darryl and I found our solitude, lied down and thought about blacksmiths and early civilization. Also we tried to think back through our early mornings and late nights and make sense of it all. Between each temple you'll see elephants taking people around, monkeys harassing tourists and poor children selling postcards. I bought more than I needed, but these postcards are the closest thing I have to travel pictures. Whenever you're in this unfortunate part of the world, Angkor Wat is necessary. It stands tall in contrast to the horrors of The Killing Fields. This is why Cambodia can simply be described as magical- humanity's greatest and worst only 6 hrs bus ride away.
http://images.google.com/images?sourceid=navclient&ie=UTF-8&rlz=1T4SKPB_enKR253KR255&q=angkor+wat&um=1
The temples of Angkor Wat were an ideal way to end the trip. Angkor is vast, 3 days of walking through what once was the greatest city in the world. We arrived at 5am to watch the sun come up over the ancient ruins. Having no camera, we felt liberated, able to just walk around and feel everything. There were many tourists there, even at dawn, but Angkor Wat is so huge, there is always some corner that stands empty. Darryl and I found our solitude, lied down and thought about blacksmiths and early civilization. Also we tried to think back through our early mornings and late nights and make sense of it all. Between each temple you'll see elephants taking people around, monkeys harassing tourists and poor children selling postcards. I bought more than I needed, but these postcards are the closest thing I have to travel pictures. Whenever you're in this unfortunate part of the world, Angkor Wat is necessary. It stands tall in contrast to the horrors of The Killing Fields. This is why Cambodia can simply be described as magical- humanity's greatest and worst only 6 hrs bus ride away.
http://images.google.com/images?sourceid=navclient&ie=UTF-8&rlz=1T4SKPB_enKR253KR255&q=angkor+wat&um=1
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