Life Peripatetically

Akon and Independence Day, Part I

2010-05-02T06:29:00.000-07:00

Since arriving in Freetown three weeks ago, the major buzz around town was that Akon would be performing for Sierra Leone's Independence Day on April 27. Gibril Wilson, an NFL player for the Miami Dolphins and native Sierra Leonian, was rumored to have paid half or all of his standard performance fee so that the much-loved Senegalese performer could do his thing in Freetown's National Stadium in front of thousands of adoring Sierra Leonian fans. As one of the highest profile visitors Sierra Leone had had since achieving its independence, this was a pretty big fuckin' deal. For weeks, a major topic of conversation amongst the city's expats was what price-level ticket was best to purchase. Two people had been stampeded to death when Akon performed in Liberia and we obviously had no desire to see Akon if it meant getting crushed, stampeded, groped, or pick-pocketed. Clearly the 20,000 Leone ($5) cheap seats were out. 120 Leone ($30) seats in the field (ie: mosh pit) seemed like a possible death wish. Since most of us clearly had no desire to spend 300,000 Leones ($75) for "Presidential box" tickets to see Akon, 75,000 ($19) covered stall seats seemed like the best and safest bet.

Two days before the Big Day and local radio stations broke the bad news that Akon would not be playing. Apparently he had done this before for other planned performances in Africa. I shrugged my shoulders, but couldn't help but feel bad for the thousands of Sierra Leonians who had scrimped and saved to afford $5 seats to a concert that costs what the average Sierra Leonian makes in about three days. Talk about an independence day blow. The following day, I was very surprised when I received an invitation to a pre-Akon drinks thing. My surprise grew as other invitees wrote back to the group email news from inside sources that he was due to arrive that evening. Was he coming after all?! Apparently, a private jet was picking him up in Nigeria. The city was a-flutter with speculations, educated guesses, and bets about whether or not West Africa's Native Son would actually make it to Sierra Leone.

Akon was the big talk at dinner that evening. My friend knew a guy who knew another guy, and one of those guys was supposed to be greeting Akon at the helipad upon arrival. He had promised to message my friend the moment he laid eyes on the hip hop star in the flesh. We discussed which airport he would land in and could not resist running to the balcony when we heard cheering outside. Was it Akon?! (No, just a football match). At about 1:30AM my friend rushed into the bar waving her phone. Akon had been sighted in Freetown!

The following morning, I headed to the bank to buy my Akon ticket. I forked over my 75,000 Leonians and was given a golden wrist band and complimentary top-up units for my phone. Now that Akon was settled, I decided to take advantage of the random Tuesday off to head to the beach. My friends and I shared a taxi to Lakka, a clean beach about 30 minutes from the city. As we headed over in a taxi, it seemed as if every boom box in the city was blasting Akon in anticipation of that night's concert. Apparently about half of the city had had the same independence day aspirations and the beach was absolutely packed with outings. When Sierra Leonians go to the beach, they don't go to relax, read, and hang out with a small group of friends. They go in outings. They pack into used school and tour buses from the states and arrive in droves to blast music, have dance parties, and litter otherwise clean beaches. It's like Spring Break: Freetown, except everyone brings their kids along.

My friends and I trekked across Lakka in search of a more peaceful patch of sand. As we were walking, the skies opened up and it began to rain (a forewarning of what was to come later). At first it was a welcome relief to the unbearable humidity that had descended on Freetown in the previous few days. But as it started to rain harder, I couldn't help but fret for the safety of my camera. The surprise afternoon shower began to fade as soon as we found a spot of sand away from the music and outing-goers. We wasted no time frolicking in the warm sea. As we had left our bags unattended, my friend and I kept a close watch the the shore. Spotting some kids passing dangerously close to our belongings, we waded closer to the sand. As our attention was turned to land, a giant wave slammed over us, knocking me off my feet. No sooner had I regained my footing and started to rub the salt from my eyes, when I was knocked again and then again. My friend and I finally regained our balance, but were covered from head to toe in sand (I am still finding sand in my hair two days later). We managed to make it out without any other big waves and I was relieved to see that our stuff was still where we had left it. It was then that I realized that my sunglasses had been knocked off my head and swallowed up by the water somewhere between waves one and three. Major bummer.

This was not the last of our water woes that day. After our swim, we stretched out on beach blankets to read and sun bathe. I lost myself in my book and congratulated myself on choosing the perfect way to celebrate Sierra Leone's independence. All of a sudden, I saw a rush of water coming at me and our entire group was washed over by a giant wave gone rogue. We scrambled to our feet, chasing after flip flops and water bottles that threatened to have a similar fate to my long-lost sunglasses. A group of local kids ran up to us to help us collect our belongings. We bemoaned the fate of our now soggy and sandy belongings. A book had been transformed into a soggy pulp. One girl had been carrying an i-pod and digital camera in her bag (verdict still out on if they will work again). A little girl clad in a loose white shirt and pink underwear seized upon the confusion to extract non-consentual presents from us. She nabbed a stray Mango, claiming it has her own, and then took a big gulp from my friend's water bottle. She sat down next to another girl's purse and put on her sunglasses (which my friend luckily managed to retrieve before it was too late), hanging around like she was one of the gals. She came up to each of us and asked if she could have our sunscreen, make a call on our phone, or be given 1000 leones. She had a jack-o-lantern grin, her teeth practically rotted through. Another boy tried to sniff the fumes of another girl's lighter. The third boy was completely naked and mostly just rolled around in the sand as he watched the other two. The kids were pretty harmless so long as we watched the belongings we were not so ready to part with, and we let them hang around until we decided to head back into town. As we made our way back across the beach and my friend dropped her phone into the water. Strike Four.

We walked to the main road and negotiated with Okada (motorcycle) drivers for a ride back into town. Despite haven taken motorbikes to get just about everywhere while in Cambodia, it had been a long time since I had been on one of these bikes in Africa. While there had been a certain of joy and freedom while soaring off into the night along the well-paved streets of Phnom Penh (often clad in my shiny pink helmet), this had not been the case when I had taken motorbikes in Uganda. As my Okada driver took off, I flashed back to my first motorcycle ride just days after having arrived in Uganda. Bolingo had told the Boda-driver (word for motorcycle in Uganda) to drive carefully and yet it has still been one of the most terrifying experiences of my young life as he zig-zagged in and out of crazy Kampala traffic. It was almost enough to make me find religion (but not quite). Luckily, driving on patchy dirt roads on the outskirts of Freetown was no where near as perilous-seeming as driving with and against oncoming traffic in heart of the city. Occasionally, the bike would hit a rock and I'd go flying an inch or two in the air, but I always managed to land back in my seat. But that didn't stop me from wishing I was in the safety of an SUV or even a taxi. Big cars kicked up thick clouds of orange African dust behind them that our Okadas could do little to avoid. It irritated my eyes and I could taste the grit in my mouth. The dust coated by body in a chalky orange faux-tan.

The Okadas pulled up on the outskirts of Freetown. Since they operated out of Lakka, they had not paid the necessary bribes to the Freetown police to be able to operate undisturbed in the city center. I dismounted and desperately tried to wipe away the dirt from my face. We walked through the busy intersection past various street vendors and market stands, watching out for reckless Poda Podas (Big vans that operate as shared taxis) that drove too close to the side of the road.

Soggy, sandy, and dirty, I fantasized about my imminent shower the entire taxi ride home. I was starting to excited for a big independence day night of drinks on my friend's balcony and then Akon. But pitch black storm clouds had already begun to form on the horizon and I could not help but wonder if the show would actually go on.

Tune in for Part II to find out if it rained on Sierra Leone's Akon Parade...

First 72 Hours in Sierra Leone

2010-04-12T17:16:00.000-07:00

My first days in Sierra Leone have passed quickly and I am quickly getting to know bit and pieces of Freetown.

On Saturday, I saw my first glimpse of the Freetown coast. I met my friend from the plane for an afternoon sun session along Lumley Beach, just fifteen minutes from my house (factoring in the bad roads). While people don't generally swim in the beaches in the immediate Freetown city, it was still nice to sit at a beachside cafe in the sand while soaking up some rays (while wearing sunscreen of course) and watching the pale blue ocean horizon. While the shore may be a bit polluted for swimming, it was still quite beautiful. Various vendors came bearing necklaces, frosted Rice Krispies cereal, and bootleg dvds. "No tank ye" my found would tell them with a smile. "No tank ye" was my first expression in Krio, the unofficial language spoken in Freetown, a form of chopped up English created by repatriated slaves. A few other expressions I learned that afternoon: "How de bodey?" - "How are you?", "Body fine" - "I am fine," and "Mi padi" -- "My friend." The security guards got a big kick out of it when I asked them "How de bodey?" upon returning home that day.

We left the shore and headed to a local fish stall. We picked up five freshly caught Snappers, each one a mere $1.25 (5000 Leones). Next stop was a fruit and veg stall where we picked up all the necessary ingredients for a yummy Israeli salad for about $2. We wrapped the hefty snappers in tin foil and sprinkled them with salt, pepper, olive oil, and fresh lime juice (as there are no actual lemons sold in Sierra Leone). It was simple, yet very tasty! We ate on the veranda so as to enjoy the ocean breeze, sweet relief after a hot day.

After dinner, we headed to Atlantic. This bar is apparently the place to see and be seen on weekend nights amongst expats. While I hadn't been in town for more than 24 hours at that point, even I knew it was the place to be. That night, they lit a bonfire on the beach and a local band played a mix of Jazz and African music. Expats poured in to dance, mingle, and drink Star Beer (the local brew) while watching the waves crash into the shore.

* * *

Sunday was a little less eventful. Got ready for work. Took a walk around my neighborhood. Ate Lebanese food. Went to a colleagues for dinner. Learned random things about Freetown. For example, Akon is performing at the National Stadium on Independence Day later this month.

* * *

Monday meant the start of my consultancy with the International Rescue Committee. We are going to be based out of the Ministry for Social Welfare, Children, and Gender Affairs, while spending a couple days a week at the IRC office. Not brave enough to risk taking an elevator in a country with patchy National Electricity, I walked up nine flights of stairs in the midday heat to reach the Ministry offices. While I was admittedly pretty overwhelmed at first, I was psyched about our project at the end of the day. The project will involve working with the IRC, Ministry, and tons of NGOs to draft the five year National Action Plan on Gender Based Violence for the country. It will also involve several short trips upcountry (outside of Freetown) to visit local communities, meaning I will get to see a bit of the country during my stay here.

The day also saw my induction into Sierra Leonian cuisine. I had fried plantains and a peppery bean dish for lunch. For dinner, I tried groundnut soup. The soup had a mild nutty taste and was served with tender chicken. A nice surprise.

After work, I headed to another beachside cafe to reflect on my first day while watching the sun set over the ocean. On the way there, the IRC driver climbed up one of Freetown's hills to drop another colleague off before me. The views were breathtaking. The houses and compounds of the city dotted the lush, green landscape. The entire city was nestled by the sparkling, silver Atlantic.

Freetown, Finally!!

2010-04-10T04:48:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. In an incredibly fast-tracked process, I got a job as a consultant with the International Rescue Committee (IRC) as their National Action Plan Writer Consultant. It's a five month consulting gig in Freetown, Liberia. I'll be working with IRC staff, other NGOs, and the Ministry of Social Affairs, Children, and Gender to draft a five year gender based violence plan that will help shape, structure, and coordinate gender based violence programming across the country for years to come. It seems like the perfect job for me and I very excited to get to work!

* * *

Two weeks after unofficially being offered the job and one week after officially signing my contract, I was headed to Freetown, Sierra Leone on the coast of West Africa. The two weeks I spent in Monrovia this summer gave me a much needed confidence boost as I boarded the plane. I had loved my experience in Liberia, so hopefully Salone (as Sierra Leonians call it) would be the same. I flew from NY to London and then directly from London to Freetown. Similar to my experience flying to Monrovia, I made friends with an expat on the same flight. We touched down in Lungi International Airport around 7:45pm. The visa/immigration process in the tiny airport was quick and painless. If only baggage retrieval had been the same! Throngs of people cramped in around the conveyer belt forming rows and rows five people deep. I had to push my way into the crowd to even be able to see the bags as they cruised down the conveyer belt. Porters tried to grab my carry-on bags and hassled me in hopes that I would let me assist with my baggage in exchange for a few dollar bills. I worried about my poor toes as people recklessly swung their luggage off the belt and got pushed in multiple directions as others struggled for a spot upfront. Having placed my carry-on bags on a trolley, I had to be on the look out as people kept trying to push the trolley away from me to get better access to the conveyer belt. I have never experienced a baggage reclaim that was even anywhere close to as chaotic as this. I was pushed, shoved, harassed, and constantly fretting about my belongings. Lucky for me, my two bags arrived safe and sound.

I then proceeded through customs and finally to the airport exit. Men swarmed around me trying to grab my luggage or sell me a helicopter ticket, desperate for a tip in exchange for their assistance. Others probably did not have such harmless intentions, as I had been warned to protect all my belongings and be on the look out for thieves. I did my best to hold onto all of my bags and push through, scanning the crowd for someone bearing a sign with "IRC" on it. I had been told that a travel agent would be there to meet me and get me onto the helicopter (yes, Helicopter). I began to panic internally when I realized there was no one with any such sign. A security guard saw that I was about to be swallowed up into a sea of jostling wannabe-porters and came to my assistance, pushing his way through the crowd ahead of me and creating a much-needed path for me. Realizing that the travel agent was no where to be seen, the guard and another man took me to a less crowded area and asked for my name and what organization I was with. They took me to the helicopter center and a man was able to locate my ticket. They asked for tips and then went on their way when I obliged.

Lungi Airport is not actually in Freetown; Rather, it's across the Sierra Leone River from the actual capital city. Those arriving must either take a ten minute helicopter ride, a hovercraft, thirty minute speed boat, or a long ferry ride (which also drops passengers off in East Freetown, not a nice part of town). While the most expensive, it seems like the helicopter was the best bet. It is quick and drops passengers off in West Freetown, a very safe part of town. I was glad when the IRC opted to splurge for the 'copter ticket for me. Finally at the airport's helicopter office, I was given a ticket and a man in a yellow airport vest (who I later obviously had to tip) took control of watching my luggage and getting it in the helicopter. As I waited, I compared and contrasted my airport experiences in Monrovia and Freetown. What was worse? Arriving to a quiet and manageable airport at 1am only to realize your luggage had gone missing and you only had the clothes on your back? Or, arriving at a chaotic and frenzied airport and emerging with my luggage? I couldn't quite decide. After what seemed like an endless wait in the stuffy, humid office for the first flight to depart and return, we boarded a van to take us to the launch pad. The helicopter turned out to be much nicer than expected. In contrast to some blogs I had read, it was even equipped with seats and seatbelts! We were also given ear muffs. The 'copter even had inflight entertainment -- a short touristy video welcoming us to Freetown that was barely audible.

I was in Freetown ten minutes later. I was incredibly happy to see all my luggage had made the trip and even happier to see my driver with an IRC banner in had. He was charged with getting me to my IRC apartment and providing me with keys and phone. We drove through the darkened streets of Aberdeen (a neighborhood along the beach in West Freetown) and I peered out the window to observe my first glimpses of Freetown. Countless Sierra Leonians milled about or sat outside in the evening heat. Small market stalls lining the road were lit by a solitary light bulb or by candle light. It was a familiar site. Fast forward another ten minutes and we had gone up a bumpy dirty road to reach the IRCs apartment complex, where I would be staying for the weekend. The driver handed me a thick envelope before departing. Opening my goody bag I was overjoyed to find an internet stick. It was reassuring to have instant communication with world upon arrival. I settled into my surroundings and went to bed excited about what new experiences and adventures the following days would bring! More soon...

Follow up: Liberia's female peacekeepers

2010-03-05T22:15:00.001-08:00

The New York Times ran a story for International Women's Day on female peacekeepers and police forces in Liberia. It is accompanied by a short film. Definitely worth the read and/or watch.

As part of the UN’s gender mainstreaming and equality plan, the international goal is to have 20% of all peacekeepers be female, with women currently accounting for 14% of the 1,354 police peacekeepers in Liberia (NYT). Nigerian female peacekeepers play a supportive role to their male counterparts, working as cooks, teachers, clerks and nurses. But as mentioned in my earlier post, armed female peacekeepers from India have been given a less traditional role. They mentor unarmed local Liberian police officers, go on patrols, and guard government ministries. They also serve as powerful role models to the women of Liberia, encouraging women to report cases of sexual abuse and encouraging women to join the Liberian National police. Yet both the Nigerian and Indian peacekeepers are seen as crucial to the evolution of third-generation, robust peacekeeping missions that seek not just to keep and maintain the peace but ensure that it lasts ("peacebuilding"). To quote NYT:

"The theory — which has evolved since pioneering female peacekeepers started participating in U.N. missions in the Balkans in the 1990s — is that women employ distinctive social skills in a rugged macho domain."

Also of note is that the article considers the sacrifices these Indian and Nigerian female peacekeepers make to go on mission, having to be separated from their children and families for long periods of time in what is often their first trip out of their home countries. They are often homesick and depressed, with the Indian unit organizing Indian festivals and Bollywood dance classes to remain connected to home. At the same time, the article stresses how these mothers relish the challenges and difficulties presented to them in their work. It is my guess that not only are they helping Liberia work towards gender inclusive peacebuilding, but in leaving their families for highly visible military roles, they are also challenging traditional stereotypes in their home countries.

Ironically enough, while many of these women have temporarily given up acting as primary care agents to their children, they see their work in Liberia in terms of motherhood, giving up their growing sons and daughters for a fledgling and unruly country just starting to rebuild. This sentiment was mentioned only briefly in the article (in a quote by President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf), but highlighted a bit more in the film where one peacekeeper effectively states that they were helping the country grow up. This sentiment of motherhood came up repeatedly in my own research in Liberia this past July. Women in governmental and civil society roles who had championed peace during and after the country's long civil war used strategies of motherhood to form broad coalitions, emphasize with both victims and perpetrators alike, and get through to armed men and boys (and some women and girls) as they called for a cessation to violence, resumed dialogue, and lasting peace. The concept of motherhood has thus evolved. As the role of “mother” was traditionally relegated to the private sphere, it is interesting how both the peacewomen of Liberia that I studied in my dissertation and the female peacekeepers from Nigeria and India are bringing their roles as mothers in the public sphere, using a historically confining role for women as a major strategy for both women's empowerment and lasting peace.

The Mystery of the Spiky Spuds

2010-02-23T21:04:00.000-08:00

Cue suspenseful music. On daily rides on the 55 and 243 London buses to/from LSE, Oxford Circus, and Waterloo Bridge, I found my trips enlivened as I noticed an interesting little trend from stop to stop. Riding on the upper level of London's ubiquitous double-decker buses, I noticed spiky potato spuds atop the bus shelters all along the route. Spray painted silver and adorned with Q-tips and tooth picks, they marked the route in various shapes and sizes. They had a sci-fi, outer space quality, as if to imply that little alien beings had left them to remind the daily 55 and 243ers of their presence on earth or in East London. What Shoreditch shenanigan-loving trickster/street artist had conspired to line my daily bus route with arts-n-crafts potatoes? I pondered this question on many a bus ride, always feeling immensely gratified when I caught site of one. I imagined a gang of spiky haired hipsters dashing through a darkened Old Street in the wee hours of the night, tossing potato after potato onto bus shelters. I looked for the spuds on other buses, other routes, yet could only find them on the 55/243. I secretly loved this bus stop potato art and wondered if my bus-mates, all going about their daily lives, noticed and loved them, too.

Apparently they did. Other 55 and 243 riders took notice. I found several blog posts pondering the mystery of the bus route spiky spuds, some even managing to get a few good pictures. The Guardian also did a story about the spuds in 2007 (above picture respectfully poached from the linked article), deeming them "sputniks." The writer described the unique qualities of each and every spud, writing:

"While similar in design, each spudnik is different. At the Westgate Street stop, the potato is pricked with matchsticks. At Pritchards Road, the spud has multicoloured skewers. At the Newling Estate, there are two potatoes with letters painted on (in, I think, Tippex), joined by what I assume is a pencil. In an intriguing development, the shelters at Queensbridge Road and Columbia Road boast paintings of spudniks rather than spudniks themselves."

According to the posts, the spuds had been spotted perched upon their bus things since 2006, becoming more and more sophisticated in terms of coloring and decorations over the years. Indeed, as winter came and went, the spuds had all but vanished with the elements, until being replaced by a whole new set of neon green and pinkish-red spuds that spring. I was overjoyed to see they had returned! The potato prankster had struck again!

After doing some investigating I learned that it was indeed guerilla art, craftily created by a Hackney artist from Belfast known as Nonose. A link to some of his work can be found here. Finally, the man behind the potato lure and legends. Nonose, I salute you for making my 20-40 minute daily bus rides infinitely more tolerable. Your potato art brought me much joy in 2008-2009.

Perhaps you'd be willing to bring the spiky spud campaign to New York?

Carving a Space for Women in Cambodian Politics

2010-02-22T08:56:00.000-08:00

The New York Times just published a very interesting article about Mu Sochua, one of Cambodia's most prominent female politicians and members of the opposition.

Ms. Sochua is the former Minister of Women's Affairs, and is currently a member of Cambodian Parliament and an active human rights advocate. While originally aligned with the ruling Cambodian People's Party ("CPP"), she relinquished her ministry position to join the Sam Rainy opposition party in 2004. Ms. Sochua explains this decision on her website writing:

"I declined a ministerial post in the next government, joining the opposition party instead, and joining forces with Cambodian democrats to fight corruption and government oppressions."

As the CPP continues to marginalize and oppress the opposition, Ms. Sochua is taking on great risk every time she picks up the Sam Rainsy banner. Excluded from government-controlled television stations and newspapers and routinely followed, she has launched a grassroots campaign to ensure that many of her constituents know her face. She travels around the country discussing issues like health care, land rights, and environmental erosion on door-to-door visits and carrying the signal of the Sam Rainsy party, a white, lighted candle tied with a blue and white string. Insulted by Cambodia's Prime Minister, Hun Sen, she fought back with a defamation suit. The Prime Minister rebutted with a defamation suit of his own, with Ms. Sochua being convicted and fined $4,000, which she refuses to pay. Many constituents must keep it a secret that they voted her, in fear of governmental retribution. Having lived in Cambodia during the most recent National Elections, I know that several supporters of the Sam Rainsy opposition party were beaten and murdered in the days before the election.

Moreover, Ms. Sochua must tread carefully as she seeks to open new doors in a male-dominated, highly-traditional culture. To quote NYT:

"She has this in mind as she walks through the villages of her constituency, a woman with power but a woman nonetheless. 'I walk into a cafe, and I have to think twice, how to be polite to the men,' she said. 'I have to ask if I can enter. This is their turf. I am a woman, and I should be sitting in one of these little shops and selling things.'"

Ms. Sochua thus faces a double challenge of being a female leader in a male-dominated culture And being a member of the opposition in a corrupt one-party democratic system.

Yet, Ms. Sochua does not seem daunted by the odds. Among her accomplishments, she has campaigned against child abuse, marital rape, violence against women, human trafficking and the exploitation of female workers. She encourages women to speak out and take an active role in realizing their rights. Recognizing the importance of women's political participation, she has vigorously worked to encourage women to take more active roles in Cambodia's political sphere, working with NGOs to assist thousands of female candidates in local commune elections. According to her website, 25,000 women became candidates and over 9% were elected in 2002. With three years to go before the next National Election. These statistics continue to rise. With plans to visit my beloved Cambodia again in the next few years, I sincerely hope I will see signs of Ms. Sochua's success.

When Bacon Meets Chocolate

2010-01-24T11:51:00.000-08:00

Sweet and savory are generally thought to be opposing tastes that don't go well together. Sweet usually comes after savory at the completion of a meal. Bacon and chocolate are thus two ingredients that while worshiped individually, are seldom combined. But then I was introduced to Mo's Milk Chocolate Bacon Bar.

Made by Vosges, this chocolate bar combines applewood bacon, alderwood salt, and rick milk chocolate. Visiting the Vosges shop on the upper east side, I was pretty skeptical. Sure, chocolate covered pretzels were delicious, but bacon and chocolate seemed to be going too far. As much as I adored (and I mean ADORE) both ingredients separately, I just could not imagine them successfully going well together. My assumptions were thoroughly challenged when a saleswoman offered me a sample of the Mo's bar. At first taste, creamy chocolate. But then, a tiny chunk of crispy smoked bacon and a slightly hint of salt. The two tastes fused and came together quite harmoniously in a bite of creamy, chocolatey, smokey, swinesational goodness (Oh I am a terrible Jew!). I was convinced. Apparently, Katrina, the creator of Vosges, discovered the joys of this combination at the age of six when playing with her breakfast foods. I purchased two bars with a gift card my mom had purchased, now a true convert to the sweet and savory, bacon-chocolate movement.

When invited by a friend to a bacon party, I came to the quick conclusion to attempt the great feat of a bacon dessert. If a bacon chocolate bar worked, why not brownies? In between taking a power nap and putting on my party dress, I whipped up a batch of standard brownies (from scratch, not a box). I then lightly fried some pancetta (which conveniently happened to be in my fridge). I poured half of the brownie batter into a baking pan and then layered the Italian bacon on top. I then topped it off with the rest of the batter and sprinkled it with some smoked sea salt, before sticking it in the oven. I was a bit nervous how the bacon brownies would go down, but they turned out to be a big hit at the party. Even the greatest bacon brownie skeptics were soon fans. Although we had arrived too late to enter into a competition in which all the bacon-based products were rated and tallied, the bacconnoisseurs gave me an honorable mention award. As further evidence to bacon's remarkable paring with sweet, the party also featured some fabulous bacon cupcakes. Who could have guessed?

What happens when bacon meets chocolate? A match made in heaven. I guess opposites do attract.

The Lioness Group

2009-11-10T23:25:00.000-08:00

Having somewhat recently written about the UN's first all-female peacekeeping unit (currently stationed in Liberia), I thought this NYT article on the Lioness group, the Iraqi police force's first elite officer corps of women, was pretty relevant.

According to the article, 50 women graduated from Iraq's police officer training company. These women will take part in active duty, having been promised forensic and investigatory assignments. Next year's class is set to double in size. While the female unit trained and studied separately from the male trainees, a representative from the US Army (acting as consultants to the training procedures) maintains that they were held to the same standards.

Despite being encouraged by their families to join, the lioness women experienced institutional and societal challenges for participating in the elite officer corps training. Some received death threats for men in their communities. Unlike their male counterparts, the lioness group was not provided housing at the training site, meaning that the female trainees had to make long commutes to and from work.

Quote from the NYT article:

Some people have a view of Iraqi women that for them to join the police academy is a shame,” said Alla Nozad Falih, 22, wearing a star on her epaulet that marked her as a first lieutenant. Like about half of the group’s members, she wore her hair uncovered except by a uniform blue beret, and like 26 of her female classmates, she joined the academy after finishing law school.

In playing a highly visible and crucial role in their country's security, the female corps has tremendous potential to advance societal views of women in Iraq. Wearing nothing but blue berets over their hair and having passed a demanding and rigorous physical and mental training to become officers, they can serve as role models to other Iraqi women. Much like Liberia's female peacekeepers, these women are also better equipped to assist victims of gender based violence. Perhaps their presence will also help limit sexual abuse committed by male police on civilians.

However, I am sure the lionesses have a difficult challenge before them. Their accession to high positions within the police course will be met with criticism and condemnation from many of their male counterparts and subordinates, as well as from civilians of both sexes who believe women have no place in such an active and non-traditional role. Nevertheless, I think these women can and will do great things, and I hope NYT will keep us updated about how the lioness group progresses.

Snapshots of Monrovia

2009-08-15T02:37:00.000-07:00

Elevator Office Space
While visiting a friend at the Ministry of Finance, I had the pleasure of using one of Monrovia's only functioning elevators (although apparently this one is deemed as semi-functioning due to constant breakdowns). I pressed the elevator call button (as one would do o a normal elevator), but this action was in vain as the automatic buttons had long since stopped functioning and this elevator now operated via some kind of telephone/walky-talky device. The elevator promptly arrived and people poured in. Managing to cram my way in, I noticed that half of the elevator's small space was taken up by a lady perched on a desk chair operating the elevator manually. She had quite the set up in there with magazines stacked under the chair, a large fan, and a handheld stereo blasting her favorite tunes. On my way from the 6th floor, some men saw me once again trying in vain to press the elevator call button and radioed to the lady to come pick me up.

The President and the Peacekeepers
The Cape Hotel was all in a tizzy. At about 9AM I received a panicked call to my room with the receptionist begging me to move to a different floor. The president of Namibia was coming to town and he required an entire floor to himself for security purposes. Naturally I obliged and was promptly ushered to a second floor room, also managing to sweet talk my way into getting a free load of laundry done. In preparing for the president, the entire hotel had been given over a good polishing. Eastern rugs now lined the hallways and a red carpet with velvet robes had been placed at the lobby doors. A motorcade later arrived, with one of the many tinted massive SUVs carrying the Namibian president. The following day, enroute back to the room, I was swept to the side by a dark-suited security-looking type (He looked like he had been born in his shades and ear piece). Stepping to the side, a parade of security, staff-advisers, and finally the president emerged from the staircase and swept by me.

While I was not so fussed about sharing a roof with the pres (Would have been much more exciting to meet Ellen Johnson Sirleaf - the pres of Liberia), I was psyched that our hotel was briefly guarded by female UN peacekeepers. Liberia is the proud host of the UN's first all female peacekeeping unit, with 103 kick-ass peacekeepers from India. Clad in immaculate blue uniforms, with sturdy berets, military-issue black boots, and rifles dangling from their shoulders, they looked like a force to be reckoned with. It is believed that a female peacekeeping presence will reduce sexual exploitation by UN troops themselves and also encourage Liberian women to report cases of abuse and assault. In a country with Africa's first female head of state and where thousands of ordinary women once protested for peace, it sends a pretty empowering message. All week, I had driven by them standing guard at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and tried to snap a good picture from the taxi (all attempts in vain). My parents had been TERRIFIED I was going to be going to Liberia, but now I had a whole contingent of peacekeepers guarding me. I also found it quite fitting that they were women given the nature of my research that had brought me to Liberia. When leaving for dinner (Lebanese food again), I ran up to two peacekeepers on guard by the hotel lobby and asked for a quick picture. Smiling at my request, they quickly agreed and I finally got my long-awaited snapshot.

Liberian Idol

2009-07-31T02:44:00.000-07:00

Friday night in Monrovia and we headed to the Garden Cafe for some live music in an outdoor setting. With just a handful of actual bars in the city, this was one of the few options available to us. The venue was pretty cool with plastic chairs and tables clustered around a dance floor and band area and a haphazardly constructed bar. While a lot of expat haunts tend to be filled pretty exclusively with expats and only expats, Garden Cafe was a Liberian bar, with just a few tables full of foreigners. The clientele was overwhelmingly made up of scantily clad Liberian prostitutes attempting to dance seductively on the dance floor and pick someone up for the night. Throughout the night I was called upon by one of my friends to rescue him from some aggressive pick up attempts, feigning the role of the angry girlfriend while secretly enjoying watching him agonize a bit before I swooped in to the rescue.

The band was pretty cool, playing an interesting mixture of reggae, liberian, and 50s music, with a number of different singers playing a few sets each. Always a fan of impromptu karaoke and the idea of singing with a band in a developing country (Phnom Penhers will recall my spontaneous singing at the Intercon on Thanksgiving), my friends managed to convince me to inquire if I could take the mic for a song. Finding it downright impossible to communicate with the lead singer over the noise and through his thick Liberian English accent, a Liberian who lived with my friends joined the cause. "Do you know any Celine Dion," a rasta guitarist asked me. I assured him I definitely would not be seeing any Celine. Finally, we agreed that I would sing Proud Mary, with the band kind of making it up as they went along.

A few songs later I was given a grand introduction. Most of the Liberians cleared the dance floor, but all my friends rushed up to cheer and eagerly watch me embarrass myself. I began to sing, with the band slowly figuring it out along the way. A group of prostitutes rushed to the front of the dance floor to dance beside me. One woman, lacking a surprising dearth of teeth, joined in on the chorus with me (although she had no clue what the actual words were). Another woman came up to me and began attempting to feed me Liberian dollars as I sang. Unclear if this was a positive or negative act, I just kept singing as she tried to stick note after note in my mouth. Once she had extinguished her supply of bills, she stayed to dance with me. I was told after my song that her money-feeding was a big compliment. I had made $2 in liberian dollars (which I then put in the band's tip bowl). When my song finished, I bowed to great applause. The lead singer thanked me and said "Not only is she talented but she is also charming..." A few of my adoring, new fans told me they wanted to sing another sing with me. I sauntered off the dance floor and joined my friends at their table, a proud Liberian Idol for three minutes of my life.

Liberia's First Music Festival

2009-07-21T15:33:00.000-07:00

Liberia's First Annual Music Festival was held my second day in Liberia. After nearly 14 years of civil war, the country's fledgling local music scene was being brought together for the night in addition to international artists from Kenya and Tanzania. The event was to be held at the Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex, a huge stadium that could pack thousands. A large group of expats were planning on getting tickets and we all car pooled to get to stadium, located just outside of the city center. Tickets were being sold for $5, $15, $20, and a whopping $50 (the so-called VIP). We opted to splurge a bit and go for the $20 seats, mainly because it was rainy season and that section was covered.

Doors opened at 4pm, so we had thought it was a safe bet to arrive around 5:30. Yet upon entering the massive stadium, we saw only a mere handful of people. Rumors abounded that the music would not start until much, much later, but we remained optimistic and took the opportunity to socialize.

Hours later, the show had yet to start, with only American music videos flashing intermittently onto the stadium screen. We took bets on when it would start (one person betting never) and vented about the poor planning of the concert. Just after 7:30 an act came on and played Bob Marley music mainly. Squinting at the tiny stage in a completely empty stadium we decided to organize a mini-coup and abandon our seats and head to the field for a dance party. A heavy, rainy season downpour had receded into a mere drizzle and we danced in the soggy grass. The artist seemed to really appreciated our show of support (how depressing the entire concert must have been for so many hopeful performers) as we cheered and clapped from just in front of the stage (beside the totally empty VIP section).

Our party came to an end when an older, American guy came to the stage to make an announcement. "He is a big military guy so we better pay attention!" someone whispered in my ear. The man urged us to hastily return to our seats, telling us that thousands of concert-goers had arrived all at once and were now pounding down the gates to be let in, with only so many being able to be admitted at a time. Apparently the heavily armed Liberian Special Forces had been called in for crowd control and things had the potential to get very messy. We returned to our seats and await the incoming horde. In the meantime, we watched a cool Reggae style group sing songs about "No War" with backup dancers performing intricate Liberian dances on the field we had just been dancing on.

We waited and waited and waited. Only a mere trickle of people entered the stadium. A man walked around the stadium ground proudly waving a large Liberian flag, yet where were the Liberians? We found a window overlooking the stadium entrance and saw what was about 400-500 people (certainly not thousands) waiting outside the stadium gates. Again, we waited and again only a mere trickle. A friend who knew the concert organizer reported that apparently the crowd heaving at the gates consisted of the "wrong people," people that they didn't want to let in. While this sounds very nefarious and bad, the "wrong people" really just meant ordinary Liberians who wanted to attend the first concert celebrating their own music but who didn't have $5 to spare and instead hoped to get in for free. Instead, they were forced to stand at the gates as elite Liberians and expats sat in an empty stadium waiting for a concert that really never got started.

In my opinion, the organization of the concert stood as a very telling symbol of Liberia's troubled history. Liberia was founded by freed slaves who returned to Africa as part of a repatriation program by the United States only to assert themselves over indigenous, native Africans. The first Liberian constitution was inundated with rhetoric of freedom and equality, yet with such equality and freedom only extending to the freed slaves and propertied, allowing this elite minority group to oppress and rule over indigenous Liberians for decades. Over a century and a half later, a group of expats sat at a Liberian Music Concert and listened to songs about peace and freedom, songs that would have had powerful resonance for people who had survived 14 years of civil strife, while those very same people were shut out and excluded. It was all just hollow rhetoric. In one of the poorest countries in the world, how could one expect a stadium full of Liberians to pay $5 for a ticket to a music event. Considering that most Liberians earn $1-2 dollars a day, it was a pretty preposterous. Were they supposed to go without food for two days?

We left around 10:30, just after the fourth act. The stadium was still empty. We passed our wrist-band tickets to "the wrong people" on the other side of the fence so that they could be admitted in our places and headed off. Apparently an hour and a half later, people were admitted back onto the field in front of the stage (the $50 VIP seats never being filled) and ticket prices were lowered so that more could be admitted inside (although many people had left early having been there for hours before the music actually began). But the stadium never came close to reaching capacity and the Liberians certainly did not get their music festival.

Luggage Woes Update

2009-07-20T09:02:00.000-07:00

Headed to the Royal Air Maroc Office this afternoon full of hope and optimism. Maybe today would be the day when a suitcase full of my clothing, flip flops, and toiletries would arrive! After having borrowed clothing and other necessary items from about half the expats and washing my sole pair of underwear each night in the sink, I was pretty psyched at the idea of laying eyes on a beat up red suitcase. I had been waiting for this day all weekend!

I should have guessed that disappointment would have been inevitable. I arrived at the airline office to be told that yesterday's flight had been cancelled. I would have to wait until Saturday morning for the next flight to arrive to receive my luggage, a full week into my trip. Even better, the clerk could neither confirm nor deny that my luggage had, in fact, been located. Looks like another week of underwear washing!

My First 24 Hours in Monrovia

2009-07-18T04:48:00.001-07:00

The plane touched down at Roberts International Airport at 12:45am. I had butterflies in my stomach. I was actually in Liberia. My imagination stretched itself to picture what the next two weeks would be like. Unfortunately, the adventure began almost instantly. While I had reached Monrovia safe and sound, my baggage had not. My luggage somehow got lost along the way and could have be anywhere from London to Marrakech to Casablanca to Monrovia. The next flight was not coming in until Sunday night, which meant if my suitcase showed up at all, I'd have to wait until Monday afternoon to claim it. This left me with little more than the clothes on my back, a poncho, a computer, a camera, research material, and a small container of bug spray. Liberia is not the place you want to have your bag lost. Panic set in as I filled out the form for my missing bag and desperately asked the unhelpful airport employee questions about the chances of my bag arriving (questions obviously asked in vain). A fellow LSE masters student, who I had met on the plane, calmed me down and offered me what few items she had in her backpack to spare: facial wipes, a toothbrush, valuable malarial meds, and a sarong. Later, she emailed out to some friends of friends who provided a much needed change of clothes for me to use. Other friends of friends rallied together to provide me with contact lens solution, a contact case, sunscreen, and a few other items -- I was instantly impressed with how friendly and helpful Monrovia's expats were! Then I just had to wait until Monday and hope my stuff arrived on the next flight.

Luckily, the taxi my hotel had ordered for me was waiting for me. Seeing as there are normally no taxis at the airport, I considered myself lucky. The taxi drove me along a surprisingly well-paved road (paved just a few months ago) through the darkened streets of Monrovia, with Issac, the driver, pointing out Charles Taylor's house and UN buildings along the way. Although I was exhausted and worried about my luggage, we chatted about American and Liberian politics. Issac and I both agreed that Obama was "our man" and Issac told me that under Taylor's reign, we would have passed through multiple checkpoints to get through the city -- at least now we could move freely. My guesthouse was located in Mamba Point, the nicest and safest part of the city. Located along the beach, Mamba Point is home to the sprawling American Embassy Complex and numerous NGOs. Issac vowed it would look exactly like I was back in America. Although it was dark, I could easily tell that Mamba Point was nothing like America. It was not even like any of the posh parts of Kampala, Uganda. I arrived to a warm but sleepy welcome at my guesthouse. However, while the website had depicted lush pictures of fluffy white comforters on four postured beds with verandas overlooking a cerulean sea, the guesthouse was dramatically different with a lopsided bed, mismatched sheets, a small stream of cold, running water in the shower, and a slightly dismal looking bed room. To be fair, it did have a very nice living room and was quite luxurious for Liberia.

I made my first foray outside of the compound the following afternoon to meet a friend of a friend and his friend for lunch. I scrambled over a lot full of cement rocks and lizards to get to the main road. Later in the day I met a Liberian whose family had lived in this lot until the Mayor of Monrovia had razed the entire space in an effort to "clean up" Mambo Point. The family hadn't received any assistance and had lost a great deal in the razing. I could not help but recall all the slums in Cambodia that have been demolished in the effort to seize prime tracts of land and kick the poor out of the city center. Many of the poor are HIV positive and while they are relocated to homes outside the city, they are unable to access proper medical care there.

I walked up the aptly named UN drive and met my friend's friend's friend who accompanied me the rest of the way to lunch. As we walked into the downtown Monrovia area, we passed many blackened shells of homes that looked as if they must have been quite grand back in the day. We soon hit the busy and bustling city center where people hawked various wares and went about their days. Women decked out in colorful African prints gracefully carried large basked on their heads. Young boys tried to sell us cookies or clothing that had once upon a time been donated and were now being sold for a profit. This was the Africa I remembered from Uganda. It even smelled as I remembered -- that same mix of sweat, motor oil, and various food items being sold. People paid little notice to us as we carried on our way, a few people trying to stop us so they could apparently ask to be our friend so they could then demand presents from us and one legless beggar managing to aggressively pursue us down two entire blocks.

We entered a small, air-conditioned haven that served up sandwiches, pizza, and Lebanese food. Many local businesses are owned by Lebanese expats, so the city has some pretty tasty Lebanese food. I ordered hummus and was not disappointed. As one can imagine, the dining options are pretty limited in Liberia (it certainly isn't Phnom Penh) so I was not surprised when we ordered take-out from the second reliable Lebanese restaurant in the city for dinner that night.

After lunch I struck out on my own to spend a fortune at a western grocery store on some much needed supplies like face wash and toothpaste. It's rainy season, but the sun was out as I hiked up a tall hill to get back home. It was also incredibly humid and my one dress (that I had now been wearing for two days straight) was soon drenched in sweat.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Mamba Point and then sitting with my friend from the plane at the restaurant at the Cape Hotel, where she was staying at the moment. The Mamba Point area is primarily dominated by the sprawling American Embassy Complex which goes on for block after block after block. All embassy workers are also housed within the compound's heavily guarded compound, but I still can't imagine the need for all that space. But apparently there is the need for more space as construction is currently underway for another complex in another section of Mamba Point. Kind of ridiculous that this is where all the building money is going. The Cape Hotel is one of the nicest hotels of the city, worlds away from the place I was staying in, and overlooks the beach. Great for surfers, large waves continually crashed into the shore. A group of Liberian boys played a game of football on the dark, golden sands. This pretty picture was framed by the massive mounds of barbed wire that lined the Cape's Restaurant just where we were seating. The barbed wire is everywhere.

I headed home as soon as the sun was starting to set, having been warned that it was a very bad idea to walk around alone after nightfall, even in Mamba Point. I made it back just in time. But the night was not over, as another friend of a friend invited me over to his place for dinner a group movie screening that was projected onto the white walls of their rather nice apartment (quite the surreal experience for Liberia). Expats trickled in and out throughout the night and a few Liberian teenage boys were also present, two of them working at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Liberian English is VASTLY different from normal English, so I struggled to follow and participate in the conversation with them. I'll definitely have to work on this.

Was given a ride via motorbike after the film and went to bed just as my stay in Liberia hit the full 24 hour mark. While I worried about finding clean underwear and the omnipresent safety issues, it had all in all been a pretty good first day. More to come.

My Beautiful Sweetboy

2009-04-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

I called him my beautiful sweetboy. With those big, sad eyes, how could he have been anything less?

It was the summer I turned 18 and I was miserable. Instead of working at a summer camp or finding an impressive internship to look good on my college resume, I was stuck at home, lonely and miserable. Instead of being a carefree teenage girl of summertime, I felt like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, with a face swollen and grotesque from an intensive surgery. My mother and grandmother took time to keep me company, but after the first two weeks I was on my own. I sat on the navy blue poof in my bedroom and watched movies hour after hour. I might have slowly sunk into my misery, but not on Mystie’s watch. Every day he’d find his way into my room and plop himself by my side and sit with me for hours and hours. His presence was so dependable, so reassuring. I found comfort as I pet his soft fur and felt him purring like a little radiator. He helped get me through those long weeks.

A stunning cat, I sometimes though had he not been so timid, he could have won cat beauty pageants, like the one my mother took us to once at Madison Square Garden. A patch of white fur just above his black nose made me recall a story I had grown up with about a baby unicorn who eagerly waited for the growth of his horn. A little black V etched under that. Tiny imperfections like asymmetrical dark smudges around his white mouth only added to his beauty. He’d prance around the house with dainty white paws, his little belly waggling back and forth with his trot. He knew his name and came running when he heard us calling him, would come barreling into the room with a loving urgency and eagerness to please. He was not the meowing kind of cat, but rather talked to us with a cheetah-like chirp.

Finding Mystie was like love at first sight. A meek gray cat in a small cage at the animal shelter that read, “I came alone and I need a home.” I don’t think there was much discussion between us about whether or not we were that right home. We all loved him instantly. Driving home, we thought of suitable names for our small, silver tabby. Maybe it was because I liked Kiwi-Strawberry Mystic juice at the time, but I suggested Mystik. It seemed to work and the name stuck.

We all developed our little pet names. I called him “sweetboy,” “misticoff,” or “puddin’ pop.” My mother called him “Mystie kind of guy” as she sang to him in a high-pitched baby voice. Sharon, our long time nanny, called him “Mister-bister” as she playfully pushed him over and then watched him practically beg her to pet his soft belly. We all developed our little routines with him. My mother would pet him each morning while on the toilet, chasing after his affection the rest of the time. Hilarie grew up telling us she was his mother and would sleep with him at night. He always kept me company when I was on that poof. Mystik had his own routines, too. He liked to roll around in his catnip, rather than actually eat it. He liked to carry a small beanie-baby Eyeore around the house as if it were his kitten. He once ate lettuce and strangely enjoyed the smell of strawberry leafs, lying upon paper plates that contained my strawberry leaf discards.

I found out we had lost Mystic while briefly checking my email at an internet café in Eastern Turkey. Forced by my friends to continue with our touring for the day, I could not think of anything else but my darling, now departed, sweetboy. I solemnly followed my friends as they tasted wines and snapped pictures, all the time wishing I could find a quiet, scenic spot to be alone with my grief. Instead, I cried my eyes out in public as Nazli explained in Turkish to all who inquired that I had just lost my darling cat. The villagers were all very nice and I was offered the best cat in Turkey on a number of occasions. Apparently I will forever be remembered in the town as the “crying American girl.” As Nazli tried on a crown woven from wild flowers, the old woman selling it noticed me skulking behind and tried to urge me closer. It might have been because she could see the sadness on her face or perhaps because she just wanted to make another sale. She wove various objects at me as I shook my head at her, wishing she would just leave me alone. Finally, she picked up a tiny woven cat figure and I lost it. I bounded past her, running up stone steps to what I hoped would be a spot with some privacy as I yet again exploded into tears. I cried for a while, until I felt something nudging my elbow. I looked down and saw a tiny cream-colored cat. She head-butted me and sought out attention. While I had seen numerous cats throughout my week in Turkey, she was the first cat I had seen in this village. But she had found me, almost as if she knew. As I pet her, rubbing her neck and cheeks as Mystik had liked so very much, I decided that somehow she had been sent by my Mystie. That even then, he was still finding ways to comfort me.

We will never forget you my darling boy.

Prostitution in Cambodia

2009-01-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

During my time in Cambodia, my NGO friends and I often got into impassioned discussions on prostitution. Most of us (myself included) had the firm conviction that any form of prostitution in Cambodia was contributing to a violent cycle of objectification and violence against women and that the appearance of consent was not the same as actual consent. We whispered about friends, males working for NGOs we assumed would be like us in our opinions of such violations against women, who had been caught in the act and seen engaging in prostitution. We found ourselves shocked to be having heated debates with particular friends who didn't think there was anything wrong with purchasing the services of prostitutes in Cambodia or anywhere else, citing freedom of choice and claiming that most prostitutes participated in the selling of their own bodies because it was something they wanted to do.

All the bars we frequented while in Cambodia were quite removed from this world and we usually had very little exposure to the dark underbelly of Phnom Penh. Once, however, deciding I needed to witness an infamous "girly bar" first hand, my friend and I went to the infamous bar Zanzibar. Khmer women in little clothing danced on the bar. While this seemed normal enough for a bar, others gave sensual massages to fat, balding, sketched out white men. Every now and then a couple would disappear through the back. Many of the girls looked quite young. While they seemed to be smiling, I wondered could this really be the life these women freely desired? How much of it was conditioning? Desperation? Lack of choice? Or pure threat and force? I managed to spend about 15 minutes in the bar before telling my friend that we had to leave NOW, I couldn't take it any more. And Zanzibar was one of the more glossy girly bars; I knew there were places much, much worse...places I would never be permitted to enter as a casual witness.

For my last three months in Cambodia, I worked for an organization known as Friends-International. I worked with The Childsafe Network, a community grassroots project working to protect children from all forms of abuse. Extending the responsibility of protecting children from NGOs to entire communities, tuk-tuk and moto drivers, hotel/guesthouse and internet cafe staff, businesses, media and travel partners, and individuals are trained to recognize possibly harmful situations for children and taught how to properly respond to best ensure the child's safety. ChildSafe has an emergency hotline available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. A childsafe team is on hand to immediately respond to such calls. Many times, the calls are made by children who are themselves in danger. Childsafe also operates a 24 hour facility that offers shelter, safety, food, and referral services to children with no place else to go. The facility also functions as an awareness outpost; anyone can stop by and learn how they can personally help protect Children. While working with Childsafe, my boss was frequently called away to respond to emergency situations, many having to do with children being led to hotels and guesthouses with strange men. It was enormously disconcerting how often the hotline received calls -- and to think that probably only a slim percentage of such incidents were actually being reported.

Recently, NYT columnist Nick Kristof has been writing articles about trafficking and forced prostitution in Cambodia. These poignant articles sum up just how serious this issue is in Cambodia, breathing the names, souls, and bitter truths behind those forced smiles. The two articles are below.

The Evil Behind the Smiles
By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF
Published: December 31, 2008
PHNOM PENH, Cambodia

Western men who visit red-light districts in poor countries often find themselves surrounded by coquettish teenage girls laughingly tugging them toward the brothels. The men assume that the girls are there voluntarily, and in some cases they are right.

But anyone inclined to take the girls’ smiles at face value should talk to Sina Vann, who was once one of those smiling girls.

Sina is Vietnamese but was kidnapped at the age of 13 and taken to Cambodia, where she was drugged. She said she woke up naked and bloody on a bed with a white man — she doesn’t know his nationality — who had purchased her virginity.

After that, she was locked on the upper floors of a nice hotel and offered to Western men and wealthy Cambodians. She said she was beaten ferociously to force her to smile and act seductive.

“My first phrase in Khmer,” the Cambodian language, “was, ‘I want to sleep with you,’ ” she said. “My first phrase in English was” — well, it’s unprintable.

Sina mostly followed instructions and smiled alluringly at men because she would have been beaten if men didn’t choose her. But sometimes she was in such pain that she resisted, and then she said she would be dragged down to a torture chamber in the basement.

“Many of the brothels have these torture chambers,” she said. “They are underground because then the girls’ screams are muffled.”

As in many brothels, the torture of choice was electric shocks. Sina would be tied down, doused in water and then prodded with wires running from the 220-volt wall outlet. The jolt causes intense pain, sometimes evacuation of the bladder and bowel — and even unconsciousness.

Shocks fit well into the brothel business model because they cause agonizing pain and terrify the girls without damaging their looks or undermining their market value.

After the beatings and shocks, Sina said she would be locked naked in a wooden coffin full of biting ants. The coffin was dark, suffocating and so tight that she could not move her hands up to her face to brush off the ants. Her tears washed the ants out of her eyes.

She was locked in the coffin for a day or two at a time, and she said this happened many, many times.

Finally, Sina was freed in a police raid, and found herself blinded by the first daylight she had seen in years. The raid was organized by Somaly Mam, a Cambodian woman who herself had been sold into the brothels but managed to escape, educate herself and now heads a foundation fighting forced prostitution.

After being freed, Sina began studying and eventually became one of Somaly’s trusted lieutenants. They now work together, in defiance of death threats from brothel owners, to free other girls. To get at Somaly, the brothel owners kidnapped and brutalized her 14-year-old daughter. And six months ago, the daughter of another anti-trafficking activist (my interpreter when I interviewed Sina) went missing.

I had heard about torture chambers under the brothels but had never seen one, so a few days ago Sina took me to the red-light district here where she once was imprisoned. A brothel had been torn down, revealing a warren of dungeons underneath.

“I was in a room just like those,” she said, pointing. “There must be many girls who died in those rooms.” She grew distressed and added: “I’m cold and afraid. Tonight I won’t sleep.”

“Photograph quickly,” she added, and pointed to brothels lining the street. “It’s not safe to stay here long.”

Sina and Somaly sustain themselves with a wicked sense of humor. They tease each other mercilessly, with Sina, who is single, mock-scolding Somaly: “At least I had plenty of men until you had to come along and rescue me!”

Sex trafficking is truly the 21st century’s version of slavery. One of the differences from 19th-century slavery is that many of these modern slaves will die of AIDS by their late 20s.

Whenever I report on sex trafficking, I come away less depressed by the atrocities than inspired by the courage of modern abolitionists like Somaly and Sina. They are risking their lives to help others still locked up in the brothels, and they have the credibility and experience to lead this fight. In my next column, I’ll introduce a girl that Sina is now helping to recover from mind-boggling torture in a brothel — and Sina’s own story gives hope to the girl in a way that an army of psychologists couldn’t.

I hope that Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton will recognize slavery as unfinished business on the foreign policy agenda. The abolitionist cause simply hasn’t been completed as long as 14-year-old girls are being jolted with electric shocks — right now, as you read this — to make them smile before oblivious tourists."

"If This Isn’t Slavery, What Is?

By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF
Published: January 3, 2009
PHNOM PENH, Cambodia

Barack Obama’s presidency marks a triumph over the legacy of slavery, so it would be particularly meaningful if he led a new abolitionist movement against 21st-century slavery — like the trafficking of girls into brothels.

Anyone who thinks it is hyperbole to describe sex trafficking as slavery should look at the maimed face of a teenage girl, Long Pross.

Glance at Pross from her left, and she looks like a normal, fun-loving girl, with a pretty face and a joyous smile. Then move around, and you see where her brothel owner gouged out her right eye.

Yes, I know it’s hard to read this. But it’s infinitely more painful for Pross to recount the humiliations she suffered, yet she summoned the strength to do so — and to appear in a video posted online with this column — because she wants people to understand how brutal sex trafficking can be.

Pross was 13 and hadn’t even had her first period when a young woman kidnapped her and sold her to a brothel in Phnom Penh. The brothel owner, a woman as is typical, beat Pross and tortured her with electric current until finally the girl acquiesced.

She was kept locked deep inside the brothel, her hands tied behind her back at all times except when with customers.

Brothel owners can charge large sums for sex with a virgin, and like many girls, Pross was painfully stitched up so she could be resold as a virgin. In all, the brothel owner sold her virginity four times.

Pross paid savagely each time she let a potential customer slip away after looking her over.

“I was beaten every day, sometimes two or three times a day,” she said, adding that she was sometimes also subjected to electric shocks twice in the same day.

The business model of forced prostitution is remarkably similar from Pakistan to Vietnam — and, sometimes, in the United States as well. Pimps use violence, humiliation and narcotics to shatter girls’ self-esteem and terrorize them into unquestioning, instantaneous obedience.

One girl working with Pross was beaten to death after she tried to escape. The brothels figure that occasional losses to torture are more than made up by the increased productivity of the remaining inventory.

After my last column, I heard from skeptical readers doubting that conditions are truly so abusive. It’s true that prostitutes work voluntarily in many brothels in Cambodia and elsewhere. But there are also many brothels where teenage girls are slave laborers.

Young girls and foreigners without legal papers are particularly vulnerable. In Thailand’s brothels, for example, Thai girls usually work voluntarily, while Burmese and Cambodian girls are regularly imprisoned. The career trajectory is often for a girl in her early teens to be trafficked into prostitution by force, but eventually to resign herself and stay in the brothel even when she is given the freedom to leave. In my blog, www.nytimes.com/ontheground, I respond to the skeptics and offer some ideas for readers who want to help.

Pross herself was never paid, and she had no right to insist on condoms (she has not yet been tested for HIV, because the results might be too much for her fragile emotional state). Twice she became pregnant and was subjected to crude abortions.

The second abortion left Pross in great pain, and she pleaded with her owner for time to recuperate. “I was begging, hanging on to her feet, and asking for rest,” Pross remembered. “She got mad.”

That’s when the woman gouged out Pross’s right eye with a piece of metal. At that point in telling her story, Pross broke down and we had to suspend the interview.

Pross’s eye grew infected and monstrous, spraying blood and pus on customers, she later recounted. The owner discarded her, and she is now recuperating with the help of Sina Vann, the young woman I wrote about in my last column.

Sina was herself rescued by Somaly Mam, a trafficking survivor who started the Somaly Mam Foundation in Cambodia to fight sexual slavery. The foundation is working with Dr. Jim Gollogly of the Children’s Surgical Center in Cambodia to get Pross a glass eye.

“A year from now, she should look pretty good,” said Dr. Gollogly, who is providing her with free medical care.

So Somaly saved Sina, and now Sina is saving Pross. Someday, perhaps Pross will help another survivor, if the rest of us can help sustain them.

The Obama administration will have a new tool to fight traffickers: the Wilberforce Act, just passed by Congress, which strengthens sanctions on countries that wink at sex slavery. Much will depend on whether Mr. Obama and Hillary Clinton see trafficking as a priority.

There would be powerful symbolism in an African-American president reminding the world that the war on slavery isn’t yet over, and helping lead the 21st-century abolitionist movement."

A Fine Feat of Theatre

2008-12-24T20:36:00.000-08:00

No visit home to NY is complete without a trip to Broadway. This year, the musical offerings were a bit lacking and I opted to see a play instead. Speed The Plow, by David Mamout, immediately caught my eye. It had an incredible cast headed by Jeremy Piven, the infamous Ari Gold of Entourage. Having become a recent Mad Men convert, I was also excited to learn that Elisabeth Moss had the female lead. And the third and final star, Raul Esparza, had been great in a past show. An all around GREAT cast AND a NYT critics pick to boot.

About 24 hours after purchasing tickets, I learned that Jeremy Piven had to leave the play for medical reasons (apparently the man eats a lot of fish). He was replaced by Norbert Leo Butz, a broadway star whom I had seen in a few shows (Dirty Rotten Scoundrals, Rent). But it just wasn't the same. I was disappointed. While I was excited about the cast in its entirety, it was mostly Piven that had led me to buy the tickets.

Showtime came around and we learned that we were witnessing Norbet Leo Butz's first performance in the role. An announcement was made at the beginning of the show informing us to bear bear with them -- that he had only had four rehearsals and one week with the very Mamout, dialogue-heavy, verbose script.

Curtain went up and his performance in the first act was pretty solid. A woman with the script sat in the front row and Butz asked for his line a few times, but overall seemed like he had been doing this for weeks. I was pretty impressed, but also still disappointed as I was able to imagine how wonderful Piven would have been in the roll of the semi-sleazy Hollywood producer, oh-so-Ari Gold.

In the following two acts, Butz actually had to hold a script and read from it a good amount. While my dad said this was "disconcerting," I actually thought it was pretty cool to watch -- a rare theatrical experience. What he was pulling off was pretty damn impressive. It was theater in action. And while he was reading, he was still giving a damn good performance in a damn good play (not to mention the damn good job by the other two actors).

As the curtain went down, an elated Butz leapt into his co-star's arms. The trio was obviously thrilled and relieved as they gave their bows -- the best curtain call I have seen. The audience went wild when Butz gave his bow. He frolicked off stage and I thought it how pretty fucking cool it had been that I had gotten to see this unique performance. It was definitely something special and I frankly no longer cared that I had been unable to see the fish-gobbling Piven. This was way better. I would take this slightly imperfect, but spectacular performance any day.

National Geographic: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

2008-12-23T21:38:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gents, am pleased to announce that I submitted my final pages for National Geographic Cambodia today. Sent in my activities and shopping additions and am now done. Such a relief. Mark my words, being a guidebook writer is definitely not as glamorous as I once thought abd it was very frustrating and slow going at times (I can only imagine what it must have been like to spend one month at the temples in Siem Reap). But such an exciting experience!

Can't wait to see the book in printed form. Stay tuned until Fall 2009...

Back in the Western World, But on the Other Side of the Pond

2008-11-18T17:25:00.000-08:00

I made my grand return to the Western world in August, bidding farewell to 360 days a year of sweat, roadside fried tarantulas, and living in constant fear of being purse snatched while on a moto-bike. Back in a world where air-conditioning is as ubiquitous as the NGO SUVs in Phnom Penh, I celebrated my transition with frequent trips to the movies (oh how I missed that cinematic experience), plenty of outdoor concerts, and mac n cheese galore (The extra extra sharp orange NY Cheddar required for my very specific recipe was kind of impossible to find in the bodge). At the same time, it sucked having to pay for meals again (after my life of being a food writer extraordinaire), malls scared and overwhelmed me (still do), and subways just didn't compare to simply jumping on a 50 cent motorbike to get to wherever you need to go. And I don't even want to go into the sense of gloom that set in on the first friday of the month away from Phnom Penh when I realized there was no infamous Elsewhere party on this side of the world.

Luckily, it seems that I can't escape Cambodia all that easily. I get frequent requests from friends planning South East Asian Adventures for advice. I started work on an article on khmer cuisine in the US (the free food continued to flow!). Having accepted an offer to help write a guidebook on Cambodia for National Geographic, lately I have found myself doing a hell of a lot more writing on my darling country than ever before.

Being the peripatetic gal that I am, I spent only a month and a half in New York before flitting across the pond to jolly old England. Having deferred grad school the year before, it was time for a return to reality -- mainly a return to spending my life in the library and a miserly student life-style ( this time being cheaper than ever due to living in London). I sometimes still find myself thinking I am in a developing country. I was shocked when my local market didn't stock chocolate chips. When I randomly pulled out my back and couldn't walk (lack of weekly massages perhaps?), I dreaded going to the doctor in fear he would be like that creepy old pedophile/lost-his-medical-license American doc I saw back in the bodge. I was quickly reminded of my actual whereabouts when the doctor who saw me was knowledgeable and not at all sketchy (or should I say dodgy now that I am in England). Turns out creepy American doc in Phnom Penh gave me the EXACT wrong medical advice in how to treat a back injury. Best of all, all the medical services (including the massive amounts of pain killers they pumped me with) was totally free. It was even cheaper than Cambodia! I walked (emphasis on the word walk) away thinking g-d bless the NHS.

I guess I am rather adaptable, but it took me a surprisingly short time to get over my Cambodia-withdrawal. I found myself happy as a clam in London, studying interested subject matters (conflict, complex emergencies, human rights), going to red carpet film festival screenings, attending the theatre. I live in a cool area in Eastern-Central London, with some of the city's best bars just a short walk away (It's nice having more than just five places to choose from!). Best of all, I had a REAL kitchen again, with an oven, counter space, and everything! I now find myself cooking/baking more than ever! While I do miss traveling, it's nice to be in one place with a stable population for a year. With a trip to Prague and a month and talk about going to Egypt, I am still the same peripatetic gal I've always been.

An Hour in Boeng Trabek: Drug Use in Cambodia

2008-04-28T04:26:00.000-07:00

Nothing I have ever seen, heard, or been told could have prepared me for what I witnessed this morning.

At the start of a new contract position with Friends International, a multi-faceted NGO based in Cambodia and dedicated to helping street children and at risk youth through a variety of means, I am in the midst of a two week training to give me a better sense of the overall organization. Each day I have been going out with various teams (Outreach, Home Based Product, ChildSafe) to see exactly what they do up close and personal. Some days have been tough, thrusting me in a less cushy world than I am normally exposed to here where children sleep next to trash heaps and widowed mothers struggle to feed their children and fight of HIV/AIDS. Others have been inspiring as those same children receive food, shelter, education, and training and widowed mothers are able to finally send their children to school and etch out a living for themselves. Then today I was assigned to the drug team.

I had been warned in advance that it would be difficult, told this would be the hardest day of the training. I was advised to wear long pants (those who know me in Cambodia have seldom seen me in anything but a skirt or dress) and socks, and told I would be given thick soled boots to protect me from stepping on needles.

We started out the day by going to the notorious Boeng Trabek, located on the outskirts of the city and considered to be one of the poorest neighborhoods in the region, where robbery and drugs are rife. It was in my first minute there that I realized I had stepped foot into some sort of nightmare. I questioned whether I could handle what I saw before me.

Men and women squatted amidst trash as they injected themselves with heroin and smoked yamma (crystal meth) through plastic straws. Unable to control their addiction, these people beg, scavenge, steal, and sell their bodies to support their habit, purchasing tiny packets of drugs that go from 5000 riel ($1.25) to $5 a pop over food, medicine, or shelter. Their bodies were blackened with dirt and tattered clothes hung loosely on their frail, gaunt bodies, destroyed from so many years of drug use. Needles were dangling from arms, ankles, necks, backs, and even groins (for the long time users whose arm and neck veins have dried up i was told) as they waited for their fix to kick in. Their faces were expressionless and their bodies haggard and limp with resignation and acceptance of their lots. Even though Friends International Offers detox centers and training programs, it was if these choices or any other choices did not exist any more, or that they just didn't care. I watched as they injected themselves and others again and again and again. While I watched (or sometimes tried not to watch) them, they paid little notice to me, trudging around me to pick up fresh needles and shooting up unabashedly right beside me. I guess they cast away all modesty and shame regarding their drug habits long ago. The ones I was closest to were all pretty torn up. One woman had rashes and bad scrapes all over her body. It looked like a small part of her ear had been chewed off and her hand was horribly inflamed and swollen. A young man was obviously very, very, very sick. He was wearing nothing but a shirt and a rice sack precariously wrapped around his lower body. His mouth was all bloodied and small patches of the skin on around his face were missing. His drugged haze seemed impenetrably thick and he was basically unresponsive. One team member was promptly dispatched to take him to the hospital (We later visited him there and he seemed even worse, unable to even move).

As I regarded the world around me in a horror I could not possibly conceal, one of the staff members seemed to have a very good time watching me. He apparently thought my reaction was hilarious. He kept pointing out people injecting themselves in various points of their body and then laughed as I quickly looked away or wriggled in my skin. Another staff member borrowed bags of heroin and crystal meth from the drug users to show me up close. He asked if I wanted to smell the heroin and I practically shouted my refusal to get any closer to what was already too close. Making visits to Boeng Trabek daily, the staff had become immune and desensitized.

The team handed out clean needles, saline, and gauze, and users ran to collect their share like it was Christmas. While this might sound like drug enabling, the team is forced to do this because otherwise the users will reuse and share needles. It is better to reach out to these people through this means than not at all. While they are powerless to prevent or stop the residents of Boeng Trabek from using drugs, at least they can help prevent the spread of diseases. The staff also handed out snacks (as a means to earn their trust and confidence) and condoms. Many of the women present were obviously prostitutes and the staff told me stories of users having unprotected sex while high, resulting in pregnancies with drugged babies born to a dismal life on the streets or sometimes even sold off for a quick fix. One staff member went around collecting all the used needles that were just littered at our feet, bending the needles back and then placing them in a jar with large tongs. I was so grateful to be in those thick boots.

I will openly admit how terrified I was being there. A western staff member had warned me earlier that morning to be careful and always make sure a member of the team was in front of me (this proved impossible at the actual site). One of the team members also had advised me not to get too close to anyone, as some of the users had tuberculosis, and others were flat out crazy from drugs -- you never knew what they might do. In addition, I have always had a thing with needles. I still require mommy dearest or friends to accompany me to the doctor for shots or blood tests and I often experience an uncomfortable sensation in my wrists just thinking about this stuff. I could not bear the site of so many people haphazardly injecting themselves on the side of the road, sitting amongst trash and the discards of previous drug users before them, their facial expressions registering the change felt throughout their body as the drugs slowly seeped into their veins. And I was terrified that somehow they would hurt me.

Feelings of nausea and panic resided when I was told it was time to go. I inhaled deeply as we got further and further from Boeng Trabek and fought the gentle desire to cry. I was shepherded off to another site where we met with yet more drug users, although this time all drugs were hidden and I felt safe and in control again. Yet the experience had been shattering.

Climbing Catba

2008-04-26T01:57:00.000-07:00

The muscles in my neck strained and tightened as I look upwards to asses the crag above me. It seemed impossible that I would make it to the top. Another climber had told me he felt similarly about my prospects, but Adam, my personal climbing guide for the day, apparently had some faith in me. While I was excited to get out there and try, I had much less in myself.

We had taken a large boat out from Catba Island in the early morning hours. After days of clouds and gloom, the sun had finally come out, illuminating the sparkling cerulean waters and magnificent cliffs of famous Halong Bay. I basked in the sun and beauty of my surroundings on the top deck of my boat until we arrived at an isolated sandy beach set against tall cliffs that we had come to climb. Using Kayaks, we rowed to the beach. The water was startlingly cold as we struggled to keep the climbing equipment dry.

It seemed like hours before I could make my first climb. Perched atop a large boulder, I watched as each and every person ascended before me, snapping some pictures of Adam who completed a very difficult lead climb for the first time. Finally my turn, Adam helped me put on my harness and connected me to the thick rope that was to keep me from tumbling to a most certain death. He gave me some last minute instructions and advice as I sat down at the base of the climb and put on my climbing shoes. While I certainly had had my doubts before, I had not been nervous until that point. My pulse quickened and I could feel the initial stages of adrenaline kicking in. But I was not so much scared or fearful as anxious I would simply not be able to complete the climb.

I rose to my feet and scrambled up the large boulders that marked the start of the cliff. I slowly began to climb. I felt confident that my friend would keep me safe and secure, despite being so far down below. The distance between us only grew as I climbed higher, but I had full faith in Adam's belaying ability as he encouraged me on and yelled out suggestions on how to approach moves I was having trouble with. I tried my best to use my legs and feet as directed, and was surprised at the amazing ability of my rock climbing shoes, which allowed me to hold myself on slabs of rock otherwise impossible to stand on. Glancing down at the beach and my belayer below, I could not believe how far I had come and finally realized I would actually make it to the top. While there were glimmers of panic in my voice as I shouted down below, I was amazingly calm. I touched the metal anchor at the top of the climb and felt a rush of relief and pride.

Standing on the sand again and looking up at what I had just climbed, I could feel my arms and hands aching gently from the strain (of course I had not trusted in my legs and awesome climbing shoes quite as much as I should have). I was drenched in sweat and a bit dehydrated. But I was hooked.

After lunch on the boat, four of us kayaked to another beach across from the first with only a small strip of sand during an unusually high tide that afternoon. Still somewhat doubtful I would make the climb (although it was much easier than the first), I did feel much more at ease with myself as tightened my harness, laced up my shoes, and dusted my hands with chalk. It was a much shorter climb than the first and I was startled to find myself at the top in no time. While I still called for a lot of direction from Adam, I was much more confident this time around, even asking for slack from my belay rope several times. Back on the ground, I could not wait for the next climb.

Upon reaching the bottom after my third and final climb, the boat signaled for us to head in so we could make it home to Catba before dark. I definitely could have kept going and wished I had been able to do a forth time or full belay. My heart was still racing, my whole body tingling with sensations of exertion and adrenaline.

As I took in the scenery of Halong Bay, it's jagged cliffs thrusting up from blue seas, I promised myself that this would not be a one time thing. Despite being tired, hungry, achy, smell, and dirty, I felt sensational and knew I would soon climb again.

Transitions

2008-03-20T02:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, March 19, marked the final day of my six month internship with UNAKRT and the Office of the Co-Prosecutors at the Extraordinary Champers in the Courts of Cambodia. I find myself at a transition. I will miss the challenging and sometimes tedious/sometimes exciting work at the Court and many of my colleagues there. But it is time to move on.

While I should have left Cambodia a week ago, according to the return trip flights I purchased in September, I decided I'd be much happier sticking around here for a while longer than suffering near-purgatory boredom at a temp job in New York and feeling caged again in my parents' home in Westchester, New York. As much as I love my parents, it's tough going from total indepedence to having to wake up my father whenever I return home from a late night out. I'd rather be here than there in the time I have before starting at Grad School at LSE (won't that be some transition?).

In mid-April I will start work with ChildSafe/Friends International, an international NGO based and founded in Phnom Penh seeking to protect at risk children and rehabilitate, train, and educate street children. This opportunity came about quite by chance, but I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of such a great organization, even if it is just for a three month period. Operating two restaurants to train street children, one of them, Friends, is my all-time favorite restaurant in the city and a must-go for anyone who visits me in Phnom Penh.

My project with ChildSafe will be to open up a travel center at the lakeside (also known as the backpackers ghetto). The center will feature information and discussion on responsible tourism, helping reach out to travellers about how to react to and interact with the many child beggers and child book/rose sellers that abound in the city. The center will also function as an internet cafe (with internet and yummy cafe foods and drinks) as well as a hub for info on traveling in the area. Coincidentally, the site of the center was originally owned by some very good Israeli friends who donated the shop to Friends when they left Cambodia last March. With Friends International I hope to put together a creative writing curriculum and train instructors to be able to teach the course to Cambodian youth at the Center. It surely seems like good things lie ahead! And I am excited to be out in the field again with concrete projects I can complete within my allotted time. It will also be great to be working in town again as I was previously commuting an hour each way to the tribunal.

Despite my decision to stay in Cambodia, II am definitely feeling some Khmer cabin fever and craving to be on that perapatetic road again. I have been here for over six straight months with only about two and a half weeks spent outside the country and only about a month spent outside the small community of Phnom Penh.

Lucky for me, I have two and a half weeks in April before my new job commences and enough money saved from freelancing to go on some long-anticipated trips. Still unsure of my plans, I might end up in either Vietnam doing a South to North trip by land or I might end up visiting a friend in Dali, China. For Khmer New Year, a Cambodian extravaghanza best to avoid by leaving the country, I am planning a trip with my friend, Makenzi to Malaysian Borneo or Indonesia for scuba certification. Getting scuba certified has long been on my Asia to-do list and I am thrilled I will finally have my time. Needless to say, I am psyched about these trips, excited to see more of Asia before my time on this continent draws to a close. I am looking forward to a short change of environment and lifestyle to mix things up and have be wanting to be back in Cambodia again when I return later in the month. It's always been those feelings of joy and anticipation experienced whenever I return from an absence in the country that makes me realize how much I love Cambodia.

Kampot

2008-03-19T07:39:00.000-07:00

Until February, I had only been to this sleepy riverside city in Southern Cambodia for a few hours on a DC-Cam trip. We went to some disappointing rapids and had dinner at a seafood restaurant, none of us seeing very much of the town itself. It was only until I planned an entire loop of the south that I was able to properly check out this charming and laid back city.

Kampot is located on a large river -- a huge expanse of silver water set against green mountains across the river banks. Although it is often overlooked by the great Bokor Mountain looming several kilometers away, the river is the central feature of Kampot. It is clean and safe for swimming and boating. The town of Kampot itself seems to still be waking up. A few cafes and guest houses dot the main roads aside large, abandoned buildings yet to be realized for their great real estate value. The city has a distinctive colonial feel, yet is also quite shabby after all these years. People seemed to take their time on the city's streets and sidewalks. Even the moto drivers seem to operate at a slower pace.

I booked a room at a quiet guest house located several kilometers out of town. It was peaceful and quiet, with the constant sound of children playing and laughing thanks to the primary school trip that was sharing the grounds with us for the day. The guest house was located on a quiet and accessible section of the river, this being the main reason why I chose the place.

A hush fell over the entire city at nightfall. Out where we were, there was nothing more than the sound of crickets and our own voices to be heard. Bats flickered by our faces and the night sky gleamed from above. I hadn't seen stars like that since my nights atop our little roof in Uganda. Deciding to take a night swim in the wide expanse of river, I changed into my bathing suit and headed towards a wooden veranda at the water's edge where I had spent time reading earlier at dusk. I managed to convince my friend, Adam, to descend into the dark, unknown waters before me. Sure enough, just as I had hoped, they became illuminated with thousands of tiny lights as soon as he entered. I shrugged off the slight night chill and descended down the slippery and lopsided moss covered ladder. Instantly I was surrounded by the breathtaking phosphorescence of the Kampot river. The waters around us glittered and glistened with our every movement. It was like nothing I had experienced before, as if countless fireflies inhabited the waters. I felt like was swimming in stars.

The following day we headed back to the river for kayaking. Despite Adam's superior rowing skills, we didn't make it too far as we just couldn't manage to stay in the boat. The river was just too good to merely glide on. We flipped the narrow boat over and over and I was tossed out of the craft in every direction by both my own volition and Adam's cruel pleasure at seeing me scramble to recover oars as the boat drifted further and further away from me. The water was delightful against the scorching midday sun and aside for one other kayak, we had the entire body of water to ourselves as far as the eye could see. Finally, after allowing myself to get thrown in one last time and failing miserably at my attempts to retaliate, we paddled back to shore. I could have stayed in Kampot beside the river for several more days, but we had Kep to get to.

A Cookbook!

2008-03-18T04:31:00.000-07:00

I received the ultimate compliment on my cooking Sunday night while in the process of whipping up homemade gnocchi and roasted red pepper soup for a dinner party the following day. Nora asked me to make a cookbook!

And she wasn't joking! With the photo copy business super cheap here and photo copy shops every where you turn (including one next door and maybe two others on my block), copying books is all the rage in Cambodia. Bootleg books abound throughout the city, particularly bootleg guide books, and one can barely tell the difference between an original and a copy. Nora promised that if I put my favorite recipes together, adding personal comments and changes to them of course, she would get the books made. I pondered it. Nora brought it up again over an extravagant five course dinner the following night as we all stuffed ourselves with homemade cheesecake. With the urging of some of my other guests, I consented.

So yes, I am soon to be the proud author of a bootleg cookbook distributed to any of my adorning and hungry fans who wishes to cook up a piece of Lis in their own Kitchen. I'll put all my favorite recipes ranging from the special mac n cheese of my childhood to my famous bruscetta and those molten chocolate cakes that have warranted marriage proposals from both men and women. want a copy?

Obamamania Hits Phnom Penh

2008-03-17T04:12:00.000-07:00

Despite being miles and miles away from the United States where primaries are actually taking place, election fever has surely hit Cambodia, and I am not talking about the National Elections that will take place in a few months (where the Cambodian People's Party will inevitably win once again and the status quo will remain very much the same). Much as the stateside primaries are causing quite the stir amongst Kenyans, everyone in Cambodia seems to be talking it, as well (even though an individual of Khmer descent is not in the running).

Several of my ex-colleagues from DC-Cam sent emails to me praising their favored candidate. Some liked Hillary Clinton because she was a woman, others like Barack Obama's messages and ability to inspire. One of these colleagues recently informed me that she had transferred her support from Clinton to Obama, citing her increasing dislike for Clinton's political tactics. Apparently my colleague had been following the election quite closely and she enjoyed discussing it with me.

I have developed a wide reputation here at the ECCC (Khmer Rouge Tribunal) for my interest in the elections and my even more widely known support for Barack Obama. I have taken repeated trips downstairs to the Cafe sans coffee to catch news on primary and caucus days or view snippets of debates. As I am watching, many staff: fellow Americans, Europeans, or Khmers will stand by the tv for a while or even sit down to watch with me. They'll ask for updates or even for my opinion in the great halls of the court's administrative building. I frequently send New York Times political articles and op-eds to a Norwegian colleague in the OCP who urges me to keep 'em coming. While I am hardly an expert, I enjoy imparting the little knowledge I have onto others. I seek out potential Obama converts, even if this won't translate into a single added vote for the man I hope will be the future president of the United States. Despite being so very far from home, I enjoy engaging in real political discussions with people who won't ever be able to vote in a single US Primary or who have never even been to America. It is a unique form of cross-cultural exchange, speaking largely to how big this election has become and how the entire world has a stake in its outcome.

It seems that increased interest in the elections is taking place worldwide. On February 2nd, a French citizen and avid Obama supported decided to do the little he could (since he could neither vote nor contribute funds) and he organized a World Action Day for Hope for Obama. Events were in Helsinki, Berlin, Hong Kong, and even PHNOM PENH! Upon learning of the event, I emailed the organizer asking if I could help and somehow landed the responsibility of organizing the Phnom Penh event. I recruited an American friend who was another Obama supporter to help. In all honesty, I didn't do much for the event. I secured a venue, the FCC rooftop terrace. I got in touch with Democrats Abroad and made sure they would be present at the event with info on the global primary. I helped devise text for a flier and then sent it out to everyone I knew, regardless of nationality. About 35 people showed up for the event, which was quite good considering we were in Cambodia of all places and how little publicity we had done. Several of my friends attended, including a registered republican, a Kiwi, and a friend who had recently converted from the Clinton Camp to Obama. I said a few short words, as did the rep from Democrats Abroad. We watched some of Obama's notable speechs on a large screen and mingled, chatting about our candidate of choice. The crowd was a mix of Americans and Europeans, with a sprinkling of Cambodians.

No where is the international enthusiasm for the US elections better demonstrated than in the Global Democratic Primaries, held in early February. For the first time, Democrats living abroad were able to vote without having to go absentee (which can be difficult, expensive or even impossible when living in Cambodia). Democrats Abroad, the overseas branch of the Democratic party with branches in over 100 countries (including Cambodia!) allowed American expats and travelers to vote wherever they were in the whole wide world. Democrats could vote online through registering with Democrats Abroad, or they could show up at a coffee shop or bar on a designated voting day and vote in person, without even having to register. And votes definitely counted as 22 delegates, each with a half vote, were up for grabs.

In Cambodia, the elections were held at USA Donuts, a shop that prides itself on USA-style foods, importing products in bulk from the states. According to reports from friends who participated, Americans flocked to the polls on voting day. The voting center had a distinctly American feel, as voters sat at small tables and discussed politics over coffee and donuts. A few tuk-tuk drivers waited outside with Obama posters attached to their vehicles. (I naturally chose to vote absentee in New York -- to make a stand in Clinton territory and at least nullify my mother's vote for Clinton).

Just as I hoped and expected, presidential hopeful Barack Obama emerged the candidate of choice for Phnom Penh’s American expats, receiving 78.4% of the in-person vote, with 21.9% going to Hillary Clinton, and .7% voting uncommitted. His margin of victory was only nominally lower in the greater Asia region. Globally. my boy also remained on top with 65.8% over Clinton's 32.5%. Obviously the United States has some smart expats living abroad! Regardless, it's pretty clear that Obamamania has hit Phnom Penh and it's not going away any time soon!

For more on Dems Abroad, check out this recent NYT article: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/16/us/politics/16abroad.html?pagewanted=1&sq=democrats%20abroad&st=nyt&scp=2.

Getting Paid to Write!

2008-03-15T04:38:00.000-07:00

To the great disappointment of my avid readers (hi grandpa and mom!), I have not posted a single entry since late November. Seeing as it is now mid-march, I really should be quite ashamed at myself. I will make a concerted effort to keep up the posting in the future.

The big news and main reason for my blogging delay is that I have since re-discovered my high school and college passion for writing and am actually getting paid to write! I am now a freelance writer, contributing more stories than I can keep track of for four magazines all catering to a variety of different markets and readers. I interview artists and write human interest stories for Touchstone, catering to tourists. I write about social issues for G21, a magazine for young Khmers. I write about luxurious living, inspirational women, travel destinations, and gorgeous designs and architecture for Elegant Homes. I write a wide range of stories for Asia Life, the big expat mag in Cambodia (as sad as it sounds, it is quite a big moment when your picture ends up in Asia Life's snapshot page). The best part of all is that I have become Asia Life's new food writer! Almost a life long dream for this foodie, I now get to try out tons of foods and restaurants for FREE and then get paid to write about it. Last month if was Tapas, bringing me to some of the city's nicest restaurants, and this month it is Thai Food. yum!

While they are all local Cambodian magazines with very low standards on writing and meager readership in the grand scheme of things, I must admit that I am still quite proud. As corny as it sounds. I feel tiny swells of joy whenever I see my name in print. Last week I ran into my big shot boss at a local tapas restaurant I was reviewing. I had interviewed the chef and owner a month earlier for another article, but this time I was there to taste the food. Before departing the restaurant, my boss told me that he had come to dine here based purely on my review! Getting paid to write is such an unbelievable concept to me. It has been wonderful to combine something I enjoy doing with actually making money for the first time since maybe I was a camp counselor in early high school (and we got paid shit for that). I have been a source of free labor doing things I am passionate for too long! I have really thrown myself into writing, churning out story after story. Now back in the game, I realize how much I had missed the influence of writing these last few years.

If anyone is reading this who is not my grandpa or mom and would like to see some of what I have written, shoot me an email and I'll be happy to send some PDFs over.

Well, off to a little whole in the wall thai place for a review. More to come soon, I promise. over and out!

Punked!

2007-11-27T22:30:00.000-08:00

April Fools came early this year.

I walked into my office this morning, after an extended weekend in Saigon, and was shocked to see that my entire desk had completely vanished. My computer, monitor, key board, mouse, papers, stationary, and so on were all placed on the ground in the exact location where they had once rested on my desk. Also missing was my lockable file cabinet with all the confidential documents I had been working on in the past few weeks. While the documents were all safely locked away with a key that only I possess, it's not the kind of thing you want to have missing. All other desks were in their rightful places, but my shit was no where to be seen.

I panicked. In my gullibility and naiveté, I did not even stop to think that my co-workers might have been responsible for it, instead thinking that the desk had been taken by building staff by accident and was now in g-d knows what office and g-d knows how long it would take to get it back (everything takes forever when you work for the UN AND when you are in Cambodia). One of my office-mates was present to see my reaction. He claimed ignorance, telling me that it had been like that when he arrived that morning. I ran downstairs to track down the administrative assistant who is known for getting things done. I hoped that she would know who to contact and/or yell at to find out what the hell had happened.

When I found her, she smiled and advised that I speak to one of my office-mates (Let's call him Culprit #1). I realized that I had been punked. I marched upstairs to find a very smug looking Culprit #1 who informed me that my other innocent-seeming office-mate (Culprit #2) had also been part of the plot.

Culprit #1 rejoiced in his victory while I fumed. I found my desk in its entirety in the other OCP intern office. Culprit #2 returned shortly thereafter, continuing to plead innocence until he realized he had been betrayed by Culprit #1.

My desk and file cabinet have since been returned and put in their rightful places, but only after a lot of insistance, and in Culprit #2's case, threatening to sabatoge his breakfast with coffee mix.

***I REALLY want to get them back. Let me know if you can think of any ideas for a successful retaliation. Let's be creative here. ***

Thanksgiving, Phnom Penh-style

2007-11-22T19:12:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is the only holiday or event I have consistently spent with my family. Every year of my life up to number 23, the Meyers/Steiner, and sometimes Krantz, clan have gathered in Long Island or Westchester to celebrate Turkey Day. Thinking of Thanksgiving, so many warm, fuzzy, and hilarious memories come to mind: My dad's dismal attempt to deep fry a turkey (and our subsequent ban on all future deep-frying activities). The time Naomi ate cousin David under the table. Cooking with my grandmas. When my sister demanded to know what an erection was in the middle of dinner (this resulted in my mother marching her upstairs shortly after dessert and reading the male section of "What's Happening to my Body, A Book For Girls"). Being one of the Thanksgiving chefs and making delicious Popovers with strawberry butter, carrot and leek soup, and garlic mashed potatoes.

It was my first Thanksgiving away from home last night. All week long, I felt pangs of homesickness. On Thursday I could barely sit still in my office. I longed to be sitting on my ass in front of the TV or arguing with my mom about how to cook the turkey this year. I guess I would just have to settle with Thanksgiving, Phnom-Penh style. Now where do you get turkey in Cambodia?

Lucky there is no shortage of Americans in Phnom Penh and I was invited to several Thanksgiving events. Not wanting to trust my beloved holiday in the hands of 21 year olds making their first thanksgiving attempt, and not feeling it would be quite the same attending a meal that was sans Turkey, I decided to go big and all out. Makenzi, Jordyan, and I made reservations at the Intercontinental's Thanksgiving Dinner. I am not going to say how much it cost, but let's just say that while it was fairly reasonable for those in NY and MUCH cheaper than had we attempted to cook our own din, it was damn expensive for Cambodia. We figured that for Thanksgiving, it would be worth it.

And oh how it was. The buffet was enormous. Deep-fried Turkey (and this attempt actually came out quite delicious) with tasty skin, flavorful stuffing, heaps and heaps of cranberry sauce, a beautifully colored pumpkin soup, and roasted potatoes cooked to perfection, mmmmmhh. To complement the meal, there was also tons of non t-giving related options -- pasta, shrimp salad, fried rice and noodles, Chicken Cordon Bleu -- but for the most part, I ignored all these other options. I wanted Turkey, eyes on the prize.

The meal only got better when our complimentary single glass of wine turned into three or four complimentary glasses of wine, thanks to Mak's overtly sexual charms. It only got better when we spotted Richard Bias (long story). If only Nora had been there.

We snapped lots of cute pictures and shared our favorite thanksgiving stories from home. We toasted to good friends and Phnom Penh, and chatted about our upcoming Saigon trip. Two-thirds through the meal as we gave our stomach some time to digest before dessert (which disappointingly turned out to be sub-par), I decided I had had enough of the cheesy hotel singer. I marched up and inquired whether I could take a go at the mic. Before I knew it I was singing Desperado while being accompanied by a guitar. A group of southern men in the audience cheered me on and the rest of the diners seemed to be entertained, and not pissed that my amateur attempts were disrupting their meal as I feared. Despite feelings of embarrassment, I could not refuse when the singer asked if I could sing one more. I serenaded my friends with I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane as Jordyan and Mak took videos and waved their lighters adoringly.

Later on, I returned for an encore, singing Starry Starry Night and Eternal Flame. Ready to retire, we som kit loi-ed it (asked for the bill) and headed to meet our friends at one of our favorite bars. Having inspired my friends, we belted our favorite Karaoke tunes on the tuk-tuk, thoroughly amusing all Cambodians who passed us by.

It was somewhere in between devouring juicy turkey and our Tuk-Tuk rendition of "Build Me Up Buttercup," that I realized that I had not felt homesick once during the night. I don't think I could have imagined a better first Thanksgiving away from home. I was stuffed, a bit tipsy, and in the company of good friends. I guess Thanksgiving, Phnom Penh-style ain't that bad!

Who Ate My Cat!?

2007-11-22T02:30:00.000-08:00

I'm not joking.

When I asked my landlady where oh where had my little cat gone, she shrugged and told me that after asking about it around the neighborhood, she can only surmise that someone ate him.

Chemah (my cat's name and also the Khmer word for cat -- albeit horribly misspelled) had been missing several weeks and I had already coped with his abandonment, but I was definitely more than taken aback that my darling cat had ended up as a hungry Cambodian's breakfast snack. The optimist in me had believed that he had found another, and perhaps more willing, source of food and love. But I always hoped he would one day return to my doorstep with that distinctive meow of his. The pessimist believed that perhaps he had met a cruel, cruel end being hit by a truck or tuk-tuk, even. But at least I took solace believing it would have been a quick and relatively painless death.

I loved Chemah. Chemah found me last May. Missing my two kitties at home, I gave him scraps of meat every now and then and he kept coming back. This habit even caused some issues and near-fight with a demanding friend who could not believe I had given leftover beef to a cat instead of him. Chemah had a sworn enemy for life, and were said friend not safely back in the USA, I might have suspected him as the hungry culprit that took my cat away from me. I was soon buying cans of tuna and bags of cat treats. When I left Cambodia in June I hoped that the next resident of my apartment would adopt him for me.

Upon my triumphant return to Phnom Penh, Chemah was there waiting as if I had never left. He seemed happier than ever to see me, dashing into my apartment before I could even step inside. On a mission to fatten the skinny cat up, I took to feeding it proper cat food once or twice a day. As adorable as he was, Chemah was a sneaky one. Always wanting more, he would run into my apartment at every opportunity and a second helping of food was about all I could do to lure him outside again. When I was unable to heap attention and food upon my darling cat, Chemah would stand outside my apartment and meow and meow and meow in his loud and entitled cat voice of his until I finally relented. Yup, I was whipped. I had created a monster.

But I loved the little monster and he was my little monster! But it's been a month since he vanished and a week since my landlady informed me of her theory of his disappearance. Cambodia can be a horrible, horrible place. I daydream about adopting a new cat, but then what if he, too, was kidnapped and made into someone's meal? I still get a bit teary-eyed whenever I spot the box of cat food I kept for Chemah by the door...

Poor, poor Chemah. He didn't deserve to go that way.

So yeah, someone ate my cat. And I am not too pleased.

New Horrors from Banking Land

2007-10-19T22:13:00.000-07:00

What follows are two posts forwarded to me by a friend here in Cambodia. Below you will find my reaction to them:

Post #1:
What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm a beautiful
(spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I'm articulate and classy.
I'm not from New York. I'm looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don't think
I'm overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could
you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that's where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won't get
me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married
to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she's not as pretty as
I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I
get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars,
restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won't hurt my
feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I'm 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east
side so plain? I've seen really 'plain jane' boring types who have
nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I've seen drop dead
gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What's the story
there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment
banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they
hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for
MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I'm putting myself out there in an honest
way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I'm being up front
about it. I wouldn't be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn't
able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a
nice home and hearth.

* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or
other commercial interests

Post #2
PostingID: 432279810
THE ANSWER
Dear Pers-431649184:
I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully
about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament.
Firstly, I'm not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your
bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here's how I
see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a
cr@ppy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you
suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring
my money. Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my
money will likely continue into perpetuity...in fact, it is very likely
that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won't
be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning
asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation
accelerates! Let me explain, you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty
hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in
earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy
and hold...hence the rub...marriage. It doesn't make good business sense
to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case
you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were
to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's
as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So,
I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful"
as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to
believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K
hasn't found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then
we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way.
Classic "pump and dump."
I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of
lease, let me know.

END

Well ladies and gents, those posts almost made me vomit up my breakfast. They were both disgusting and shameful and I feel ashamed to be a modern woman and a self-identifying New Yorker.

Those posts very eloquently make clear that you would have to be a fool or sadomasochist to willingly place yourself in such an environment or pursue such individuals. It also dawns on me that I should probably seek out greener pastures for the extended period of time between the end of my internship in Cambodia and the start of graduate school in London, that returning to New York would not be best for me. While New York does have some unbelievable things going for it, that place can slowly leech out your soul...

That woman's post was a travesty to women all around the world, especially to those of us with brains and/or career aspirations of our own. At least homeboy OWNED her. "Why don't you get a job biatch?" Score 1 for banker douchebag. But it's not like his post was that much better -- equating relationships to economics and describing how men like him "lease" women...

I have had an epiphany. I'd rather that all my male friends be doing worthwhile and interesting work in a place like Cambodia and occasionally paying for sex with a hot prostitute than doing drone-like, selfish, high-paid work in NY and unofficially paying for sex via a lease agreement with that lame-ass gold digger who left that appalling post. Yes, I am officially endorsing prostitution if it means saving yourself from that type of environment. At least both parties involved are being honest. It's also much more economically prudent, all the fancy dinners, jewelry, weekends in the Hamptons require a lot more cash than a sex with a Prostitute in Cambodia. Moreover, the Cambodian prostitute needs the money a lot more than the New York gold digger needs that Hermes bag or premium bottle service at Marquee (or whatever the current club du jour is).

I'd love for your comments on what you thought of these posts? Was anyone else as repulsed as me? Are any dudes now rushing out to enter the world of banking in pursuit of these leases and spectacular-looking but utterly disgraceful and unintelligent women? Additionally, I'd just like to put it out there than in no way is this post meant to be a condemnation of everyone in New York. Most of my friends currently in New York are not part of this scene. But the abhorrent perceptions so aptly described in the posts and the even more abhorrent people who possess them are pretty unavoidable in New York. Hence the instinct that maybe future trips to the Big Apple should best be kept at a bare minimum for me and that the contemporary state of male/female romantic relations has become profoundly fucked up. But I guess it has always been this way.

The Burma Four Have Returned

2007-10-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Burma Four made a triumphant return to Phnom Penh early yesterday evening. We emerged from our Burmese adventure alive, in one piece, and relatively unscathed.

We were all bit tired, feeling like we needed a vacation after our "vacation." Having only eaten greasy and flavorless Burmese food for the entire week, we craved a variety of western delights. At the Bangkok Airport these cravings manifested themselves in the form of a large burger beef burger for Anthony and a croissant and hot cocoa for me (and later a Mediterranean dinner at Tamarind). Once back in my lovely Phnom Penh flat, I instantly charged my cell phone and called mom to tell her I had made it back safe and sound. I then checked email for the first time in eight days, oh glorious internet.

Our return to UNAKRT/ECCC was met with a variety of responses. Apparently there were widespread rumors throughout the court that we had been stranded in the country due to a total cancellation of all flights and we were not coming back anytime soon. When we didn't show up to work come Monday morning (we were originally supposed to be back by then), people started getting a bit nervous. Our boss has been away for the last few weeks and had been just about the only one in the country of Cambodia unaware of our trip. Upon learning where oh where his missing interns had gone, he did not react too well. When we didn't answer our phones, Zach (another OCP intern) was sent to our apartments in search for us. When we didn't turn up there, UN Security was alerted and informed of the situation. They considered calling in the SWAT teams. Well, not exactly...but a whole lot of very important people were very freaked out.

We were greeted today with a whole lot of relief and some minor castigation (an email, one or two heads shaken in disapproval). As ECCC celebs of the day, judges, lawyers, and interns alike asked about our experiences and adventures. Having seen and done so much in such a short time, we were happy to share.

Overall, it was an intense, fascinating, and awesome trip -- definitely worth every penny and all the risk, although we never once felt like we were in danger. The Burma Four got along famously the entire trip and due to the utter lack of people as daring/foolish as us, we basically had the country to ourselves. We left feeling all the more passionate about a free and democratic Burma. I hope to post some blog entries about my impressions, experiences, and thoughts in the next few days. I also have a ton of pictures to upload to my computer, including a few I could have gotten into very big trouble for taking. Stay tuned for more.

Hi Mom, I am going to Burma. Don't freak out.

2007-10-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

What follows is a brief email dialogue between me and my mom when i broke the news to them about my upcoming trip to Burma:

me: have you been following what's happened in burma recently?

mom: yeah -- it's pretty awful. The world sucks generally. Hil was involved in a protest at brown on Friday. Your baby sister!

Me: so about burma...i am going there next week. we have a 5 day weekend. don't flip out.

Mom: Oh god why???? This is not the right time to go -- you never know whether or how this is going to escalate. Please go somewhere else, please can't you?????

Most people have had similar, though far less dramatic and motherly, reactions to the news that I am Burma bound. I'm catching a flight to Bangkok in an hour and will be in Burma by tomorrow AM.

The Burma Four (four of us interns at work) have been the jealous talk of all the other ECCC interns and the cautious concern of most of the ECCC lawyers for the last few weeks. We have been warned by our bosses that they are not coming to find us if we go missing, while others have said they wished they could come along at such revolutionary and historic time to be in the country. Already I have received a bunch of facebook posts inquiring about my reasons for going.

We will be cautious about where we spend our money, although obviously some of our money will inevitably reach the Junta. We simply want to check out the country and see what's going on with our own eyes. We are aware of what has been happening, I have read every article the BBC has produced on the issue in the last few weeks. We wish the protests were still going and that we were unable to enter the country because of this. Unfortunately, things have calmed and we are allowed to visit.

Even before all this shit went down, Burma was number one on my list of places to visit on my second trip to Cambodia. Maybe I should go later on in my South East Asia stay, but in our foolish heads, now seems like the best time to go. It will certainly be interesting.

We frankly never thought we'd get visas and were shocked when they were granted. We played dumb when the Ambassador greeted us at the Consulate and inquired if we knew what was going on in the country. We acted wide eyed and proclaimed "We heard that Burma is just so beautiful!" We figure that if the Burmese Junta is going to grant a group of westerners a visa, then we should be safe enough. After shooting that Japanese reported, military forces will probably (and hopefully) be a lot more careful about how they shoot at. This may be a rare circumstance where standing out via being white actually helps.

I probably won't have much access to email, if any, for the next week. But expect a full on report when I return.

For those prone to worry, I have registered with the US State Department (who will evacuate me from the country if things get bad) and have numerous copies of my passport and SOS travel insurance number with me. I worry about poor Neja, an Indian Citizen. She simply hopes the Australian or US evacuation team will drop her off on a river so she can float back to safety...

A Pirate's Life for Me

2007-10-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

It does not take a seasoned ex-pat to know that theme parties and boat parties are very in right now in Phnom Penh. I have attended boat parties all three weekends since I've returned. I even had my very own 23rd birthday boat bash, realizing that it was probably the only time in my life I'd ever be able to afford it. With various markets offering cheap cheap clothes and the ability to have costumes custom made by local tailors, theme parties are also all the rage. Apparently we did not outgrow our love for theme parties when graduating college and expats of all ages throw these themed fetes. Past Phnom Penh theme parties have included: L Word, 1997 (Tine, Kat, and I were the gang from Harry Potter), boogie nights, pants (funky pants or no pants), and roaring twenties.

The Mighty Mekong pirate party was founded when I met Tim. Tim had spent his first night in Phnom Penh at my theme less birthday boat party and I had spent the second night of my second trip to Cambodia at his pants themed birthday party, both events even held on the same boat. Realizing we shared a love for parties, boats, and themes, we decided to combine forces. Pirate parties have surely been done before in Phnom Penh, but none would compare to ours.

On Saturday night a group of 30 to 40 pirates gathered along the riverside, waiting to board the Mekong Flower turned Jolly Roger for the night for our two and a half hour pirate party. It was a motley cast of characters including large numbers of ECCC interns, Pepy people, Tiny Toons members(a break dancing group), some Aussies freshly landed in Cambodia, and a variety of other Cambodian and foreign scalawags. Many people came looking like true pirates. Those who did not were given red and black bandannas so as to not be totally outcasted for not abiding by proper theme party rules. I had spent most of the afternoon creating my perfect pirate ensemble, visiting not one but two markets to find a sword, hoop earrings, and skull and cross bone necklace among other things. Big T (aka Anthony) had let me shop for him, as well. Thanks to my help was transformed into quite the dashing buccaneer. Tim's friend, Jon, had gone above and beyond, dying his beard blue.

Our boat, the Mekong Flower/Jolly Roger was a beauty. With four different levels, fairy lights, and a booming stereo system, I could not imagine a better setting for our pirate adventure. Tim whipped up some delicious and deadly grog, consisting of beer, cheap Russian vodka, and lemonade mix. It was served up in trash bin turned wooden barrel bearing a XXX and the Skull and Crossbones. I had hastily put together a rum punch concoction that was surprisingly drinkable, not that pirates are picky with their booze. The table was festooned with gold and silver chocolate coins. There was beer, chips, cookies, and candy as additional pirate loot.

The night started out with Walk the Plank: The Drinking Game and finished with a massive dance party. Walk The Plank was essentially survivor flip cup. Team ECCC (plus Tim) squared off against a random assortment of party guests including Blue Beard and my favorite tuk-tuk driver. With my impressive skills and an ex frat boy on the ECCC team, victory was ours. The gumshoe Aussies and Cambodians were full fledged converts to the game.

With everyone sufficiently drunk, the party quickly moved to the dance floor. With an impressive array of cheesy pop and hip hop, just about everyone aboard rocked out to a tune or two. We all had to practically be dragged off the boat when our two and a half hours were complete.

The Pirate themed boat party was a hit by all accounts. It has continued to win praise by all pirate participants well into the week. While we never looted any other ships, raided any ports, or found buried treasure like true Pirates, Johnny Depp and Captain Hook would definitely have been proud.

Let it rain

2007-09-14T03:51:00.000-07:00

I had only been back in Phnom Penh for a matter of hours -- all spent in a blissful, euphoric state -- when I sat down to quickly check my email after a reunion visit to DC-Cam (the NGO I worked for last time I was here). Upon doing this, I received word that a close friend from Brown had passed away, having taken her own life. Hilary Swaffield had lived with me both junior and senior year and we had been attached at the hip spring semester of sophomore year, neither of us doing anything social without the other in tow. She had had her troubles, but I never expected something like this...

I was stunned and shocked, in a complete state of disbelief. I had never lost anyone close to me before and felt at a total loss of how to react, how to cope. Writing this, I am unable to properly put all I felt and am feeling into words so I will stop here.

Having only just returned to Cambodia after being way for several months, I felt I was entirely lacking in a support system. I felt that there was practically no one to confide in and help me deal with what had just happened. All I wanted to do was be with friends who had known Hil and yet home and all these people were so far away...

My friend, Elise, provided some much needed company and offered to let me use her internet connection so I could email the people I desperately needed to be in touch with. Clouds had been gathering in the Phnom Penh skies all afternoon and the storm broke just as I entered the safety our apartment building. Sitting in front of my computer, all I wanted to do was go stand out in the rain.

"All I really want to do is just go outside right now," I said to Elise.
"Do you want to go run in the rain?" she asked.
"Yes, I would love to go run in the rain."

We dashed down the stairs. I replaced my skirt with a pair of shorts and we headed outside. We were drenched in a matter of seconds. I let my hair down and we began to run, or rather slowly jog, as the heavy rain made it practically impossible to see. Tuk-Tuk drivers beckoned us to the dry safety of their covered carts and Moto drivers patted soaked seats. We shook them off and ran alongside a group of shirtless boys who were chasing each other in the streets. I let my hair down. We sprinted across Sihanouk for the park next to Independence Monument. Flocks of children had converted the fountains there into their own personal swimming pools. They waved and screamed when they saw us. Kids ran up to us and asked us questions and shook our hands, others pointed and laughed at the two crazy barang chicks. It reminded me of the time my friends and I danced wildly in the rain one summer afternoon during our camp counselor break, almost getting fired for being a "bad influence" on the children.

I climbed up on a bench and stretched my arms out, feeling the full weight of the rainy season monsoon bear down upon me. I felt cleansed and for the first time in hours, I felt I was able to breathe again. I could have stayed there forever. A sense of peace and calm was washing over me with the rain.

Elise climbed up on the bench beside me and assumed various Zen like poses. We jumped down and ran across the street in the direction of the riverfront. Along the way we skipped and splashed, Elise singing various songs about rain. We attracted attention of all Cambodians we passed. No one seemed to be having quite as much fun as us.

Running in the rain proved to be the most therapeutic thing I could have done in such a situation and I felt infinitely better afterwards, the sense of calm and relief remaining with me for hours afterwards.

I thought about Hilary as we walked back to our apartment. I recalled our many adventures together: our spontaneous late-night wrestling fiasco outside the sci li, singing at the top of our lungs on Thayer street, and her brief stint at freestyle walking. I remembered how she was back then and all our happy moments together. She would have loved frolicking in the rain on the streets of Phnom Penh and it felt really good imagining her there beside me.

Back in the Bodge

2007-09-10T00:43:00.000-07:00

In just a few short days I will be back in the Bodge. That's right, I am going back to Cambodia. And it feels like I am going home.

Despite being admitted to a masters program at the London School of Economics this fall, I did not feel like I was ready to return to academia. I was not ready to spend every waking moment of my life in the library and London prices were not so appealing either. Moreover, I just didn't feel like Cambodia was out of my system yet. Most of my close friends from Phnom Penh will tell you that I spent my last few weeks in Camland constantly debating whether to throw caution to the wind and come back or just stick with my original grad school plan. Every day, hour, and minute I had made up my mind one way or the other, only to quickly reverse it. JBash assured me there was no way I would actually go through with it. My parents basically screamed at me over the phone when I shared the plan I was toying with. Others were a bit more encouraging. I left Phnom Penh with my mind entirely NOT made up and decided it was best to make my decision after spending some time outside of Cam -- a trial separation if you will

It took me all of two days at home to realize that I desperately wanted to go back and that this was my final answer. I sprung into action while in Lublin, working to make this a reality.

I managed to score a United Nations internship with the ECCC, the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia -- better known as the Khmer Rouge Tribunal -- working for the Office of the Co-Prosecutors. It even came down to a OCP and Public Relations showdown as not one but TWO ECCC departments wanted me. A certain high-powered NGO director who shall remain nameless had warned that I had little chance nabbing such an internship, as surely they were only seeking law students. But apparently my experience with DC-Cam would more than suffice. My interview with the OCP went a little like this:

Interviewer: What is your knowledge of International Criminal Law?
Me: Uh, absolutely none.
Interviewer: Now I should be asking you what you know about the Khmer Rouge and the ECCC, but I think I can just skip those questions given your backround.

SWEET!

This UN internship managed to bring my parents over to my side and they have even promised to visit come December, bringing my lil sis along as well. True, I am entirely cut off for the year, but at least they believe in me? I will be spending my life savings to do this -- we're talking hard earned money saved since I was a wee lass of ten from birthdays, babysitting, and camp counslering. But I am kind of convinced it will be worth it.

It seems that everything has fallen in place. I even managed to score my old apartment. Several of my friends remain and I know that no matter what I am set. A day after I was accepted to my program, a friend from Uganda messaged to say she had just accepted a job in Cambodia. What are the chances?

Despite the 20 hour flight in just a few hours, I have a lot to look forward to: old friends, new friends, and friends cafe, living life with a certain spontaneity that is hard to come by in the west, meaningful and interesting work, tuk-tuk and moto rides a plenty, random nights at the Heart, mucho massages, visits from fam and friends, passion fruit vodka drinks, traveling out of my backpack, elsewhere parties, sundays at the pav, visits to Monica, trips to the JCA, DVDs galore, Pink Elephant specialties, Lazy Gecko victories, seeing more of SE Asia -- the list goes on...

Got Hope?

2007-08-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

(Note: This is a post detailing my day canvassing for Barack Obama in late August. I am just now finally getting around to posting it)

It's no secret that I am a HUGE supporter of Barack Obama. I think he's The Man and I see a whole lot of change, positivity, and hope when picturing him at the helm of our country. Relishing grassroots work from my earlier Darfur Action Network days, I decided it was time for me to become politically proactive and volunteer for the campaign. Aside for doing work on specific issues, I've never actively campaigned for a specific candidate.

Nearly finished with Barack's first book, "Dreams of my Father," and having pretty consistently devoured every NY Times article on the 2008 elections, I knew I would be bringing my Obama A-game.

On Saturday, August 25 I caught a ride with an Obama volunteer/soon to be campaign employee up to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The Portsmouth campaign headquarters was a small office decorated with large calenders filled with activities and events and brightly colored, hand-made Obama posters. A table was set up at the entrance with water bottles, bumper stickers, and a wide array of snacks. We were greeted by several staffers all appearing to be around my age, all bearing big smiles and plenty of thanks for our small assistance to the cause.

Five minutes later, I was introduced to Laura, my canvassing partner in crime for the day. A middle-aged mother of kids my age and a nurse turned lawyer, Laura was the atypical Obama volunteer. But she was peppy and friendly and we hit it off in no time. An Obama staffer took us to her office and gave us Neighborhood Canvassing 101. Ten minutes later, we were sent on our way.

We were assigned to Hampton, a 20 minutes drive. We had about eight or nine streets to canvass and were provided with lists of registered democrats on each street. The lists were divided by even and odd house numbers, allowing us to easily divide the work. Our goal was to knock on as many doors as possible. If someone answered the door, we introduced our self and asked them if they had given any thought into the 2008 elections, who they might be supporting, and what issues were of political importance to them. There was a simple coding system for each door knocked: NR if no response, RF is someone refused to talk to you, MV if the home owner had moved, DC if the person had died. Anyone currently undecided was a U. Issues were coded on a 1-9 scale with 1 obviously representing Iraq. We were also supposed to get as much info about the voters as possible, to make future canvassing efforts easier and friendlier. If someone was not home, we would leave them Obama materials on door or in their mailbox. If someone claimed to be supporting Obama, we would ask them to fill out a supporter form -- these forms considered to be pure campaign gold.

Over the course of three hours, I knocked on 25 doors. I got a whopping 16 no responses, 2 doors slammed in my face, one friendly republican who took the Obama Literature anyways, and 6 contacts (ie: democrats who answered the door and spoke to me). Out of my six contacts, all were undecided about who they were supporting (alas, no golden supporter forms filled). When asked what issues were most important to them, four said (without a moment's hesitation) the war in Iraq was their most important issue, one said healthcare, and one said the right to choice, describing how in having three daughters and three granddaughters, their right to choice was incredibly important to her.

Perhaps it's my New York upbringing, but I am usually not the friendliest of people when strangers knock on my door and ask me to support some cause. Now that I've had a go at the role of "door knocking stranger," I will definitely be much kinder to anyone who comes knocking. It sucks having doors slammed in your face.

Four people took pity on the poor canvasser walking door to door in 90 degree heat and offered me water. Two sweet old ladies invited me inside. Never would I have gone inside at the invitation of a male, but I was happy to accept the invitation of the ladies who easily could have been my grandmas. It also gave me extra opportunity to speak the gospel that is Barack Obama.

At about 4:30, Laura decided it was time to get going. Despite the sweltering heat and rather unexciting results having most people not at home, I still had some hours of door knocking in me and was thereby reluctant to retreat back to campaign headquarters. I dashed to one more door and then followed Laura to her car. We received a warm welcome back at HQ and were asked to quickly fill out some forms, describing out day's results. I was given a poster and an Obama bumper sticker that read "Got Hope?" Pure Barack.

Driving back to Rhode Island and the fabulous Jamie Johnson, I could not help but feel a strong sense of regret amidst my feelings of accomplishment and political empowerment. I had really enjoyed the day -- enjoyed doing something I had believed in for someone I believed in and being a part of something after a month and a half of inactivity in New York. I longed to participate in other volunteer events and felt it was such a shame to have only done this once. But I was heading to Cambodia in just a matter of weeks and would not return until after the primaries. But I guess he just has to win the primaries and then my political volunteer aspirations are good to go.

Back in the USA

2007-08-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

It's been three weeks since I've returned home to the United States, again taking up residence in my lovely home in the rather boring Hastings-on-Hudson, New York. While I was away, I lived in Cambodia for almost five months, and travelled to Malaysia, Thailand, France, Denmark, Poland, and Bosnia. So how am I feeling now?

I was devastated to leave Cambodia and certainly did not feel as if it was time to go. While I interdicted a very tearful departure, I did manage to avoid all water works. I held court my last day at the Pavilion pool and managed to say goodbye to all who stopped by with a smile. By the third or fourth hour on my flight from Bangkok to JFK, I was actually excited to be going home. Leave it to a 17 hour flight to have that effect on you.

I had two days in between returning from Cam and before jet setting off to Poland and Bosnia. Its was all a bit of a blur and I wished I had more time at home. I was thrilled to see my family and friends. It was the longest I had ever gone without seeing my mother and for those who don't know me well, I am a self-professed mama's girl. It was great getting to show my mom pictures of everything I had done in the past six months and all the amazing people I had met. I also tried to see as many of my NY friends in one day as possible, having quite the busy day of reunions in the city. I also must admit, that while the food in Phnom Penh culinary scene was surprisingly diverse and yummy, there's nothing like New York pizza.

When I came home officially, after Poland and Bosnia, I was absolutely exhausted. The conference had us on a very demanding schedule and I probably got about 4 hours of sleep each night ( also partly due to staying up into the wee hours every night drinking cheap wine with other participants). And I had not even had much time to fully internalize what I had seen in Poland. Again, I was happy to be home -- happy to hibernate in my house for a few days, happy to catch up on some of my favorite tv shows, happy to wander around in my PJs, happy to cuddle up in my very own bed and breath in the cool central air.

But now that it has been a few weeks, I can't ignore a mild sense of discontent and misplacement. There are so many things I miss about Cambodia. I miss so many of my friends. I miss feeling like I was doing and learning about something important. I miss living spontaneously. I miss being able to jump on a moto and fly to wherever I desired to go for no more than $1. I even miss dancing the night away at the Heart of Darkness -- yes, I actually miss the Heart. And like the pampered princess I can sometimes be, I obviously miss my massages, my tailor made clothes, and my lazy days at the pool.

I don't feel like I quite fit in back in New York. While I am very happy to be with fam and friends I had really missed while away, I sometimes feel a bit detached from things here. I love the city but am coming to realize it is just not the place for me. Throw in the fact that I have to commute into the city to do anything social and that this slowly eats at my soul and maybe you'll get the picture. I also currently have no idea where I will be or what I will be doing come September, adding to my sense of unease.

But my peripatetic adventures are not over yet. Who knows what September will bring or where I will be...

My personal pilgramage

2007-07-06T06:18:00.000-07:00

Visiting Poland for the first time has been a personal pilgrimage if sorts. I remember coloring in the Polish flag for grade school projects meant to explore where our family hailed from. Yet, Poland is not only the country where my family is from, it is also where most of my relatives were killed during the Holocaust. I learned only recently that due to fervent anti-semitism and willing-cruelty experienced at the hands of Poles, my mother and her parents (my grandparents) did not even consider themselves to be Polish, rather they were Jews who had happened to live in Poland. Having thrown myself into the field of genocide work, I always knew that a trip to Poland lay on my horizon. But, despite visits to Cambodia and Rwanda, I was always apprehensive of approaching this horizon, unsure of how I would react at sites where genocide would be undeniably personalized.

When I first learned that the International Association of Genocide Scholars (IAGS) would be having a pre-conference seminar at Auschwitz, I knew that my first trip to Poland could not be under the pretense of such a short three-day conference. I also knew that there was no way I was stepping foot in Auschwitz without some kind of familial support at my side, mainly my mother. As everyone else in my immediate family had gone to Poland five years ago while I was busy at Brown, my mother had promised to take me to Poland one day. The seminar was thus the perfect pretext for such a journey and my mother planned a week and a half trip through Poland.

We started in Warsaw, moved on to Lublin, and ended up in Krakow, the gorgeous city my grandparents once lived. We have been to the death camps of Majdanek, Sobibor, and Belzets. We have also been to Plaszow (the concentration camp depicted in Schindler's list) where my grandfather was interred for a number of years, as well as to locations of the old ghettos in Warsaw and Krakow and countless other sites, monuments, and exhibits dedicated to Jewish life and death.

Majdanek was by far the hardest to visit as a great deal of the camp was left intact, the Nazis not having the time to destroy evidence of their genocidal policies as they did at other camps. At Majdanek I peered into actual gas chambers, pushing myself to imagine a now empty and silent open space packed with bodies, twisting and turning in agony, struggling against an inevitable death that was guaranteed with each breath. I stepped inside actual barracks that once cramped hundreds and houndreds of bodies. In these barracks I inhaled the stale air that was once permeated with a stench of agony: of pain, sweat, disease, excrement, urine, filth, and blood. Now these barracks bear host to small exhibits on the camp. I walking through the crematorium and viewed the ovens used to cremate thousands of bodies. Seemingly pizza ovens, they once worked overtime to pump out the ashes of my people -- these ashes are now assembled under a memorial a few steps away. Majdanek had the vibe of the ultimate haunted house -- ghosts and shadows seemed to linger in every corner yet all that was apparent to the naked eye were barren structures and a vast emptiness.

Belzets, the death camp that claimed the lives of most of family, had an impressive and very powerful memorial and exhibit on the Holocaust. Almost the entire death camp had been converted into this memorial, which was scattered with rocks of different colors and sizes, the entire space becoming a monument to one, vast mass grave. Hidden inside the exhibit was a reflection room I would have simply overlooked were it not for our tour guide. The room of reflection was meant to evoke the feeling of being in a gas chamber. Every step or sound was magnified in a tremendous echo throughout the room. I separated myself from my mother and tour guide to reflect on my own and think about my great grandparents. I felt strangely connected to them in that room, feeling certain I could communicate with them. My mother called out to me from the door and I rushed to follow her, unable to remain in the room alone.

I was really unsure what my reaction would be on this trip and I am actually quite surprised by it thus far. While certainly experiencing profound reactions at a number of sites, I have yet to break down or even cry as I surely expected I would do. It helps having my mom with me. Not only does this mean constant comfort, but also nice meals and numerous trips to the Cloth Hall for amber jewelry that help keep the trip relatively upbeat. Also, I guess I have been to enough memorials and museums in the United States, Israel, Germany, Rwanda and Cambodia that I am able to handle it by now. Additionally, all the sites visited on this trip are all just empty spaces, the abandoned shells of horrible, evil places, people, and acts - now devoid of people. Just thinking about my grandparents will always have a much larger impact than any mass grave site or memorial. (I still have yet to visit Auschwitz...that is tomorrow.)

However, in visiting a plethora of museums and exhibits, I feel incredibly frustrated. So much time, care, and money has gone into ensuring the past is not forgotten and that people remember and learn about the Holocaust. Yet genocide is occurring RIGHT NOW. While it is AMAZING that many of these museums even exist (especially in a place like Poland where youth are taught very little about the event and anti-Semitism remains strong), I feel like they could do and be so much more. It is not enough to commemorate the past. I wish that all of these exhibits could include a tiny section on current issues or simply provide handouts with information on Darfur or other crises. Just something this simple could make a huge difference!

Despite these frustrations, I have also walked out of every monument or museum with a sense of empowerment and optimism. Perhaps this is the only way I can reconcile and cope with it all. Unable to do anything but remember the past, I realize that it is the future where I can try to make a difference. This trip has definitely provided confirmation that my future lies in human rights work and genocide prevention, not in advertising as I once believed. I feel proud that I am aspiring to such important work and can't help but feel a sense of hope that perhaps, one day, we will learn our lesson.

My very own Khmer wedding

2007-06-22T07:48:00.000-07:00

It is not every day a girl gets to experience the thrill of her wedding day. Her makeup is delicately applied, her hair is meticulously styled, and she steps into a gorgeous and ornate gown -- while her dashingly handsome fiancee, who usually escapes most of this primping, waits nervously and anxiously in the background. Such a special day traditionally is only supposed to happen once in a girl's life.

Weddings are everywhere in Cambodia. It is nearly impossible to avoid the large and brightly colored tents haphazardly constructed in the middle of functioning streets or the gaudy, heart-shaped wedding photos of smiling Cambodian couples in bright pinks, yellows, and blues. I was intrigued when I learned that Westerners could go to photo shops where they could play dress up with traditional Cambodian wedding garb and have pictures taken. I was not convinced until I viewed pictures from Tine and Lee's fake wedding. Tine was almost unrecognizable under layers of makeup and fake hair. I knew I HAD to have a fake Khmer wedding of my own.

For any successful fake wedding, a fake-husband is a necessity. It was my good fortune to find the perfect fake husband: my good (and very handsome) friend, Brad. Brad consented to a fake wedding as a birthday present to me -- hardly the romantic proposal I would have liked, but I would take it. In consenting to a fake nuptials, Brad thereby subjected himself to a tedious three and a half hour process involving various costumes (including an electric pink tunic) and props. While I was busy being transformed into a beautiful fake bride, Brad sat around -- his transformation into a handsome fake groom taking only minutes as a woman slapped some matching clothes on him in the final minutes before our pictures. Brad was a great sport in all of this. I am convinced that any other fake-fiance would have simply walked out after a mere 30 minutes, but Brad remained true to me and committed to the project. Eager to make sure he was still in good spirits and not considering abandoning me at the fake-alter, I checked on Brad several times as I was being painted, sprayed, bejeweled, and dressed. He sat through three costume changes and did not complain once...the true start of a perfect fake marriage! What a catch! Luckily a family of Cambodian-Americans were also taking pictures and the garrulous mother became fast friends with Brad. The woman emigrated to America after the fall of the Khmer Rouge regime. This was her first trip back to Cambodia and while her husband had remained in the states, she had brought her three children with her. Her two adolescent daughters were busy with their third, fourth, and fifth costume changes while her son sat consumed in a video game.

On one of my last days in Cambodia -- a sunny Thursday afternoon -- Brad and I met on Monivong and made our way to the Kodak Photo Shop where Kat had gone for numerous fake weddings of her own. We were led to a backroom of the shop. We entered a room packed with chatting Cambodian women ducking in and out of costumes. Plastered onto every available inch of wall space were pictures of women and happyish couples in a variety of outfits, both traditional and contemporary. Wedding dresses of all colors, shapes, and sizes filled two sides of the room. For a while we were ignored and I scoured various albums for possible fake wedding dress options.(Much to my complete shock and surprise, Brad did not want to be involved in this dress selection process) Sensing our confusion in being plunged into such a foreign and odd environment, the Cambodian-American woman mentioned above (dressed up in a traditional Laos costume for her husband back in America) introduced herself to us and explained how it all worked. I should pick a dress and the dress I picked would determine the cost of each picture I would subsequently take in it: dresses were $2, $5, and $5. We would then take as many pictures as we were willing to pay for in front of a white-screen and backgrounds (Angkor Wat, a river, a living room scene) would be injected into the final shots.

I was soon beckoned to the mirrored makeup and hair station. A Khmer woman employed by the studio began applying the layers of makeup to me. As she spoke no English and I knew only a few words in Khmer, I knew I would be subject to her interpretation of what a beautiful Cambodian fake bride should look like, resigning myself to the fact I would probably look atrocious. She powdered my face, reducing any signs of the tan I had worked so hard to achieve. She then applied bright-colored eyeshadow and dark eyeliner to my eyes. Apparently skinny eyebrows are unacceptable on one's fake wedding day, and I was thus given thick, painted on brows. She dabbed on light pink blush to my cheeks and put a streak of white powder on my nose. She applied a thick coating of black Mascara before smacking on a pair of fake eyelashes. My look makeup was completed with glossy, light pink lipstick. Aside for the unusually thick eyebrows, the damage was far from what I had anticipated it to be and I was actually pleasantly surprised, as was Brad.

My "stylist" then moved on to my hair, another tedious affair. Armed with a straightener, my frizzy and unruly hair was fastidiously straightened -- the first time it had been straight on the continent of Asia! A bit too trigger-happy with the bottle of hairspray, she assembled half my hair into a large poof at the top of my head. I was then crowned with a large, blue-jeweled tiara.

With hair and makeup completed, I was told to stand up and the woman began to dress me in a bright blue gown I had selected for its ability to bring out my blue eyes. The woman was quite skilled in dressing others and I managed to get undressed and dressed without any embarrassing exposures! While assuring the incredibly patient Brad I was nearly ready, she decked me in colorful costume jewelry: necklace, earrings, ornate bracelets and ankle bracelets. I was ready. I looked in the mirror and saw that at last I was a true fake Cambodian bride.

The various Khmer ladies also playing dress up stopped to admire me and even snap a picture or two. Brad and I were led down a narrow corridor to the studio. The woman who had dressed me, quickly helped Brad into a matching, fake groom outfit -- a princely number of white, golden, and blue. We stood in front of a white screen and our Cambodian fake wedding photographer directed each part of our body -- our hands, arms, heads, shoulders, knees, and toes had to be positioned in just the right way. For many of the pictures, I was given a small box to stand on so I wouldn't look quite so short next to my rather tall, fake groom. At times one of us was given a chair to sit in and we were frequently given props: Brad received a fake silver sword and I was given a fake vase and fake garland of jasmine.

Knowing that I was only going to have one fake wedding day and realizing that this fake wedding day may very well involve more fuss than my actual wedding day, I decided that one fake wedding dress was simply not enough. Traditional Cambodian weddings involve numerous costume changes and I expected the best. Brad went back to his little chair in the changing room as was re-styled (hair only), re-dressed, and re-accessorized two more times. I picked out a dark blue dress with gold accents and an electric pick get-up for the grand finale. With five minutes before go-time, Brad was also given new and more modern costume changes and we posed for more pictures. Obviously Brad looked especially stunning in the bright pink!

After three costume changes and three and a half hours of fake wedding mayhem, I decided I had had enough. The woman who had styled me throughout the process helped me remove the fake eyelashes and I busied myself wiping away those awful fake brows. I attempted to tame my hair that had taken on monumental proportions thanks to all that hairspray. This effort provided some much needed amusement for Brad who was overjoyed we were finally finished. We were told we could pick up the pictures the following day. My fake husband ever so graciously volunteered for the job (apparently picking up the photos was also quite the process). With all the fake wedding fuss and hoopla completed, we departed the studio a fake married couple and went to celebrate our fake honeymoon with three scoops each of delicious gelato.

Fun with Guns/Why There is a Need for Gun Control Laws

2007-06-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

(Note: Be sure to read my conclusions at end of this post)

Before my time in Cambodia, I had never held or let alone touched a gun. And believe me, I was not rushing to the gun show or firing range any time soon (still not). I can't say I had even seen a real, working gun up close -- they were always nestled safely in the upholsters of police men. I certainly had no desire to get closer.

Like happy pizzas, one unofficially recognized but universally known tourist activity in Cambodia is a trip to the shooting range. A sprinkling of ranges on the outskirts of Cambodia give tourists the chance to shoot AK-47s and shotguns to their hearts content. I've been told (by no one who has ever done it at course) that you can even fire a grenade launcher at a cow for the right price. While these activities are seldom mentioned in guidebooks (though I was impressed with Lonely Planet's mention of Happy Pizza), everyone knows about them, numerous people do it, any tuk-tuk driver catering to tourists will know exactly where to go for weed pizza or a trip to gun heaven.

Before coming to Cambodia, I never had any intentions of EVER visiting a firing range. During most of my stay in Cambodia, the thought of visiting one of these places struck me as mildly terrifying and incredibly repulsive. Most of the guns are known to be remnants from the Khmer Rouge and Civil War eras and have thus inflicted a great deal of pain among the people of Cambodia. Additionally, a trip to the shooting range is often advertised in conjunction with a visit to the "Killing Fields," a memorial site where thousands of innocent Cambodians were executed enmasse by the Khmer Rouge. Yeah, two VERY appropriate activities to do together.

But somehow the notion of visiting one of these ranges (but not the one located near the Killing Fields) slowly grew on me. Two of my close friends, JBash and Eric, had done it in past South East Asian adventures and had some hilarious photos to show for it. They were up for a return trip, and in the spirit of having an "only in Cambodia" experience, I decided to go with them. I was not very turned on or excited at the notion of shooting guns, and was definitely apprehensive about such an experience, but felt it was something worthwhile to try once.

So on a random Wednesday day off for National Sweden Day, a holiday that only the staff of DC-Cam and the people of Sweden celebrate, five DC-Cam interns boarded a Tuk-tuk and headed towards the firing range. JBash and I had met our fearless tuk-tuk driver the day before and he came rushing to our aid with just a quick call. For $9, our driver took us on a long and dusty drive past the airport and ECCC to the Special Forces Airborne 911, located right next to Kambol Kart Raceway.

Upon arrival we were greeted by a man who encouraged us to sit, pop open a beer (yes, beer drinking is standard and encouraged at these places), and view their menu du jour of gun offerings. At 3 in the afternoon and about to handle dangerous firearms, we obviously turned down the beer. I immediately inquired about handguns -- the only type of gun I had intended on firing. Much to my display, apparently they were all out of ammunition for handguns and it was the bigger, badder, and more expensive rifles or nothing. Jbash, Eric, and I quickly decided to pool our cash together and take turns with a Carbine, Uzi, and shotgun.

While we were waiting for our turn, we walked over to the gun rack to examine the merchandise. We noticed a lonely handgun sitting around and the boys were quick to strike some bad ass gun poses, Eric doing is best to look Jack Baueresque. Suddenly feeling eager for my own photo opp, I took the gun and aimed and smiled as if some gleeful suburban bank robber. The boys were quick to point out that this was not how one usually looks when pointing a gun, encouraging some fiercer poses (see below). However, the moment of first holding a gun in my hands had passed me by with little recognition. It had felt like little more than a toy in my hands. The gun attendant, however, seemed a bit apprehensive of our photo opps, urging us to be careful and to abide by Rule III of the range: Do not point at anything you are not willing to shoot."

Finally it was our turn to shoot. We were given oh so fashionable ear muffs. Definitely still a bit terrified, I insisted on going last. One by one, the gun attendant showed us how to hold, aim, and shoot the Carbine and allowed us ten shots each at a target. With the attendant reassuringly at my side, I held the large gun, steadied myself, and pulled back the trigger. Bang! Both the noise and the recoil were no where as bad as I had expected. It was entirely less scary than I imagined! Yet, despite feeling at ease in pulling the trigger, my aim proved to be quite atrocious. I did not even come close to hitting my target!

Next up was the UZI. I liked the UZI as it was smaller, lighter, easier to manage, but with a hell of a lotta punch. If you held the trigger down, the gun would fire in rapid succession. Jbash especially loved this feature. Apparently my aim had significantly improved as my target was brought back to me with a bullet hole in its heart, upper shoulder, and thigh. I was feeling pretty damn tough.

Our gun sampling was completed by the shotgun. We learned after JBash's turn that we were only given 5 shotgun cartridges and one of us would therefore only be shooting once. As Eric somehow assumed this was going to be me and just went ahead with his two shots, I decided to raise holy hell. Both Jbash and Eric had done this before and why should have one less shot just because I was the inexperienced and slightly overwhelmed female? Yeah, that was not going to happen. Jbash warned that I was in no position to be messing with the employees of a firing range but I begged and pleaded and somehow managed to get my way. They would throw in an extra shot gun cartridge, free of charge, just for me. The gun was absolutely huge and definitely the hardest to handle. It was also the most fun.

Feeling a collective sense of hyperactivity, we just had to get in some more pictures before we left. The apprehension the gun attendants had shown earlier vanished and we were soon taking the biggest and baddest looking guns from the racks and posing for pictures. Apparently rule number three was no longer an issue. As I posed for a solitary grenade launcher shot, one attendant ran up to me and tucked the handgun into my pants for an added, badass effect. I will admit, I was definitely creeped out by this (a) random strangers should not stick things down your pants b) it was a real gun in my pants). Apparently the gun attendants were psyched at the site of a female getting into the gun posing as they continued to accessorize me, wrapping a chain of bullets around me and some large rifle for another picture. We then handed over the cameras to one of the gun attendants as we took a variety of group shots, swapping guns and looking tough.

CONCLUSIONS
For roughly $27 plus $2 extra for our Tuk-Tuk, I was able to shoot a Carbine, UZI, and shotgun and take a ton of pictures with some big ass guns. There was only minimal instruction and little in the way of safety standards and beer seemed to be the drink of choice for many guests of the range. Some concluding thoughts:

1) Before heading to the firing range, I had been feeling shitty all day. The previous night had ended rather disasterly and the bad feelings remained the following day. Before heading to the range, I had constantly felt on the brink of tears. But handling several deadly rifles proved a quick solution as I left on a high, all my negative and emotional thoughts vanquished.

2) True, handling and firing guns was nowhere near as scary or intense as I had previously imagined. But I am totally aware of how disturbing this entire experience might sound to some. That said, I did walk away with a similar notion and remain totally disturbed at the entire encounter. I learned just how easy it was to shoot a gun and this scared me. It's TERRIFYING that I could hold, shoot, and pose with a gun with little emotion, as if it were a mere toy. If this was not bad enough, it actually felt GOOD and EMPOWERING to shoot weapons that can inflict and have inflicted great harm and destruction. This is EXTREMELY fucked up. Extremely fucked up, but also something I needed to know. I am studying and working to stop and prevent genocide and other human rights abuses, and yet pulling the trigger came so easily. Moreover, while I left the range feeling this way, I am fairly certain that the majority of the people who pass through these shooting ranges don't. As we left the range, two Americans arrived and demanded to shoot the biggest and most deadly weapons available, asking if it was possible to blow up a car. To these boys, there is no line between fictionalized video games and real life. I question if they will look back on their experience with any doubt, worry, and caution. Despite my fun pictures, which I display rather proudly on this blog and in a facebook album, guns are not toys and should not be treated so. It was a valuable lesson in how easily it is to destroy with just a movement of a finger, in how careful we all must be.

I guess I had to see for myself that guns were not so bad, just to see how bad they really are.

Betty Crockering, Khmer-Style

2007-05-13T00:32:00.000-07:00

Cambodia is certainly not known for its food. While everyone knows and loves Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Japanese food, when was the last time you ordered take out from that Cambodian joint around the counter or raved about some delicious Fish Amok? This can all be explained by the simple fact that Cambodian food just isn't that good. Bland and unmemorable, it consistently lacks flavor and spice. A typical Cambodian dish consists of plain rice (eaten at every meal) and fish (eaten at almost every meal) in fried, grilled, or soup form. While even the cheapest street food can prove to be quite tasty in Thailand, the street food next door in Cambodia is a very different story. While I did have some very good food in Cambodia, this usually involved dining at foreign restaurants (usually foreign owned as well) or Cambodian restaurants catering to foreigners that seemed to be a bit more Thai influenced than Khmer.

That said, I still wanted to bring a few Khmer cooking tricks back to the States with me and signed up for a Khmer-cooking class. I was psyched to learn how to make spring rolls, curry, and traditional fish amok, and thought it would be a good opportunity to expand my existing culinary repertoire of Italian, American, and French cooking. During the long weekend for the King's Birthday, Kat, Tine, and I signed up for a $20 day-long course arranged by The Frizz restaurant.

We started off the day with a trip to the local market to look at all its offerings and have our questions answered about various ingredients. While this was something better appreciated by a tourist, it was a great opportunity to test out my new digi cam. I snapped away as our guide pointed out prahok (a fish paste) and impregnated eggs (you figure it out).

We were then driven across the Japaneses-Friendship bridge (yes, the same bridge I was stuck the night I was almost robbed/murdered by nefarious moto drivers) to the Frizz Cooking school. Upon arrival, we were directed to a shady veranda overlooking the Mekong and tall glasses of much-needed cool water.

Our first task was to make veggie spring rolls. We grated taro and carrot, squeezing them to get rid off any excess pulp. We threw in some pepper and mashed peanuts, and then delicately rolled and folded rice paper wrappers around it. Tine got a little reckless with the cooking oil and managed to burn Kat in several places. I fried my spring rolls to a deep, golden brown. We were then shown how to make a yummy sauce to accompany the dish. We brought our plates to the veranda and a photographer from Asia Life magazine took some shots before we could dig in. The rolls were DELICIOUS, a fabulous crunch and yummy flavour.

Following a short break to digest and enjoy the relaxing riverside scenery, we returned to the kitchen and stood around baskets that bore the ingredients for red curry paste. Our instructor told us about each ingredient and gave us a crash course in making curries. We went back to our individual stations and used a mortar and pestle to grind the ingredients to a nice paste. We busied ourselves chopping vegetables and poultry for a chicken curry. We turned on the burners and threw all the ingredients into a pot and watched as it sizzled away, creating a lovely, red curry sauce that I just had to taste. While I never saw one of my Khmer colleagues order curry, the curry we made was fabulous. Kat thought hers was a bit too spicy, but I devoured every bit of mine.

Already feeling stuffed, it was now time to make Fish Amok, a true Cambodian dish that involves steaming fish in banana leaves. Most important to properly executing this dish was being able to fold the banana leaf so that it could cradle and cook the chunks of fresh-Mekong fish. Ripping my leaves on the first try, I was able to master the art of banana leaf folding the second time around. We heated coconut milk and spooned it on top of the fish. Now curry-experts, we quickly mixed up a fresh batch of red curry, pouring it on top of the banana leaf boat. We steamed everything together. I am not a fan of fish, so I don't actually know how mine turned out. But it certainly looked pretty and the recipe received rave reviews from Kat and Tine.

It is my opinion that no meal is complete without dessert. While we did make a dessert at the end of the course, the bland and watery coconut milk and tapioca sludge we produced was very unappetizing and barely worthy of the title "dessert."

Completely stuffed and very sweaty after a full day slaving in front of the hot stove in the hot hot hot Cambodian heat, we were given little recipe books and then driven back over the bridge to central Phnom Penh. Despite the disappointing dessert and one incident with hot oil, the day had been a success. I don't know how traditionally Cambodian the spring rolls and curry were, but they were certainly delectable. They were also perfect recipes to cook up at home so that all my friends and fam can have a slight taste of Cambodia.

Close Call

2007-05-08T21:25:00.000-07:00

Note: Although this happened back in early April, this story is definitely worth telling. Warning, if you are a blood relative, you may want to skip this post, as it is not for those prone to worry.

Somewhere on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A random bridge. The middle of nowhere. The middle of the night. My friend and I stand surrounded by unknown Moto drivers who seem intent on getting us to split up. All we want to do is go home yet they refuse to take us anywhere. I clutch my purse to my chest and hold my ground. I refuse to separate from my friend. Any sense of security I have ever had in this city vanishes. I cannot help but think, “This is how people get robbed, hurt, raped, or killed. Is this what is now going to happen to me? Will I become the next Phnom Penh ex-pat warning story? Will I get on that plane tomorrow morning? What have I done?”

* * *

I have always felt relatively safe in Phnom Penh. I keep both arms around my purse when on Motos and Tuk-Tuks, take comfort in the metal bars and numerous locks that keep me safe in my apartment, and only take Moto drivers I know beyond nine or ten at night, always making them wait with me until I am safely into my building. Of course there is good reason for all these precautions -- for the bars, locks, and guards. Every ex-pat has heard the story of the girl who got pulled off the bike when leaving Heart of Darkness and hit over the head with the lead pipe or the one who was driven to an unknown location and then gang raped by waiting Moto drivers. But you still believe that common sense and a few easy precautions will keep you safe. It could never happen to you.

On my last night in Phnom Penh before heading to Malaysia and Europe, I was invited to both a birthday dinner and a going away party. I had planned on going to both, but then the dinner at Pacharan ran late and no one wanted to go to the other party, which happened to be quite a distance away. Central Phnom Penh is quite small and you can get almost anywhere in five minutes. The Lake, a twelve-minute, $1 moto ride away, is considered to be far. This party, however, was even further. It was over one of the city’s bridges and into the boonies of the city. I had only ventured over the bridge once when not actually leaving Phnom Penh.

Yet somehow, while riding the moto home, I felt compelled to go. It was probably because I felt like I should live up my last night in Cambodia and because I still had not gotten over the fact I would be missing the big, monthly Elsewhere party the following night. I soon found myself telling Sum Nang to turn around and head over the river as I texted my friend to figure out where the hell I was actually going.

We drove past where I had been before into unfamiliar territory, passing a random Wat (Buddhist temple) and then turning onto a tiny side street where my friend was waiting for me. The place was actually packed with people who had also traveled across the city and into unchartered territory to get there. Yet I doubt many of us had considered what it would be like getting back.

I enjoyed myself at the party but could not help but think about my big empty backpack that sat waiting to be packed and my early morning flight. Knowing none of my regular Moto drivers would come to my rescue and pick me up, I stuck it out until some of my other friends were ready to leave.

As five of us left the party and headed to the main road to catch Motos, I felt a nice sense of security in numbers. I was glad I had waited. The road outside the house was abandoned, no motos or life in sight. We headed to the main road, walking past the abandoned Wat that surely looked haunted at this time of night. When we reached the main road, no flood of over-eager moto drivers rushed to great us like in Central Phnom Penh. Tiny thoughts of unease began to creep into my conscience. We walked along the highway in the direction of the bridge. As five white foreigners, three of us girls, walking down an abandoned road normally flooded with vehicles during daylight hours, it occurred to me that we were just easy prey - sitting duck Barangs.

A few trucks whizzed by and finally a single moto pulled up. We asked him to go and return with friends. We divided up: the couple would go together, Pelle going on his own, and then Christina and I together so neither girl would have to ride alone. Before we knew it, there was a flood of Moto drivers surrounding us, each one competing for our attention. Reassurance returned to me. The couple whizzed off and then Pelle checked to make sure Christina and I were ok on our bike before departing. One of the surplus Moto drivers, who found himself without anyone on his bike, seemed quite upset that his friend should get both Christina and I as customers and urged one of us to come along with him. Knowing this was against Phnom Penh Common Sense 101, we staunchly refused and urged our driver to get going as we watched Pelle’s bike fade in the distance. Finally, he revved up his engine and began to drive. But his angry friend drove along right by our side. Feelings of insecurity returning, I secretly stuffed my wallet down my dress in case he planned on trying to snatch my bag.

We had only gone a short distance, just reaching the bridge that would take us back to central Phnom Penh, when our Moto driver pulled over by the side of the road. His friend stopped as well. They began motioning to a wheel, trying to communicate that it was broken. It looked fine to me. I quickly realized they were trying to get us to split up again. Apparently, the wheel worked fine if just one of us was on it. In a country where it is common to see four or even five people on a bike, I was fairly certain this claim was complete bullshit. The other Moto driver eagerly patted his seat for one of us to board his bike. I commanded Christina not to move an inch, there was no way in hell they would willingly separate us.

There was a certain sense of futility to the situation. I knew that no matter how firmly I held my ground, no matter how hard I insisted on Christina and I stay together, or no matter how hard I clutched that bag to my chest, we were easily outmatched and outnumbered. If these guys were really intending on hurting us, there was very little we could do. There was no one else in sight and there was nowhere to run to where they would not be able to quickly overcome us on their bikes. Jumping off the bridge was also not an option. Pelle was long gone into the night. No help would come running if I screamed. Frankly speaking, we were quite possibly fucked.

Finally, a third Moto pulled up beside us. Not appearing to be part of the plan, we quickly boarded his bike together. The other two drivers became quite angry and would not let us leave. I urged, commanded, and pleaded the third driver ignore them and drive away but I could not communicate this to him in Khmer and why would he listen to me over the two angry Moto drivers anyway? Still clutching my wallet in my dress, Christina finally threw a dollar at the two drivers and they let us depart. We sped away, across the bridge and away from the sketchy drivers. I quickly looked back. Luckily they were not following us.

In no time we were back to familiar territory of central Phnom Penh. I was relieved to be the one to get dropped off first. I breathed for the first time when finally standing outside my apartment and a second time when I was finally inside my apartment. I started to pack and prepare for my trip, only wishing there were more locks on my door to help keep me safe and sound that night.

Working for an International Hero

2007-05-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

It's not every day you get to work with one of the 100 most influential people in the world. Somehow I've been doing it almost daily for the past few months.

The director and founder of my NGO, Youk Chhang, has been selected as one of Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential People, listed as a leading Hero and Pioneer. His picture and profile appear alongside the likes of George Clooney, Warren Buffet, and Oprah Winfrey. Senator John Kerry, who apparently played a major role in brokering the U.N.’s Khmer Rouge Tribunal, wrote Youk’s description. Others named in the article include: Barack Obama, The Pope, Angelina Joli, New York Yankee Pitcher Chien-Ming Wang, Sasha Baron Cohen, Queen Elizabeth II, and numerous leaders, visionaries and inventors. Even Bin Laden and Al Bashir (President of Sudan) make their appearance on the list, as they certainly are influential. Youk was only one of a few Asians named on the list.

True, the list is undoubtedly skewed with names mostly from U.S. and the Western World, and there are obvious questions about the validity of a list that deems Tyra Banks one of today’s most important pioneer and heroes. The list also names far too many entertainers and media figures. But I guess it is a list of “influential” as opposed to “important,” people, and movie stars, talk show hosts, and athletes are becoming increasingly influential in a media driven society.

Regardless, I see this as quite an accomplishment for DC-Cam’s director, who insisted I call him “Youk” in just our first email. An added accomplishment is that such an honor assures large readership and added international press regarding the Khmer Rouge and current efforts at justice by the Extraordinary Chambers of the Courts in Cambodia (ECCC). Youk has never stopped working in the ten years since the Documentation Center of Cambodia (DC-Cam) was founded, creating a well-run and reputable international NGO that does a baffling amount of work with relatively few staff. Youk’s hard work has certainly had a large effect for Cambodia and also greatly influenced scholarship and knowledge about the Khmer Rouge around the world. In the search for truth and justice, Youk has become quite the local hero. It seems that he is quickly becoming an international hero, too.

Yes, one of the most influential people in the world sits just a floor below me, his door always open for me to pop in with comments, questions, or a friendly chat.

To view the article:
http://www.time.com/time/specials/2007/time100/article/0,28804,1595326_1615754_1615879,00.html

From Rwanda to Uganda to Chicago!

2007-05-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me decently well has probably heard me rave about my time in Uganda and a family of Rwandan refugees I came to love while there. I taught seven of the eight children that comprised this family in my Advanced English class for Adults. They had both lost loved ones during the 1994 Rwandan Genocide and faced persecution under the government that is currently in power. These kids were the reason I packed into multiple Mutatus and then walked in the hot sun to get to Mirembe School each day. We had interesting debates, oral presentations, creative writing assignments, grammar and vocab lessons, and special classes on genocide, world history, and gender and racial equality. Patrick was able to discuss the US’s nuclear policy with North Korea, Douglas and David shared my enthusiasm for Prison Break, Batista wrote a very impressive and imaginative story, and Dina, Rosette and Aurore taught me Rwandan dance.

Constantly being asked by all the other refugees I worked with for money for far-fetched investments and mobile phone airtime, all this family asked for was friendship -- for me to promise to stay in touch with them after I had left them and returned home to the states. I have kept in touch with all of them since leaving Uganda and spent far too much money sending them presents this past Christmas.

Much to my surprise and delight, I recently received an email informing me that in just a few, short days the family would be resettled in Chicago! While I had known that they had a family member in the United States, they had always informed me it would be years until they were resettled. None of us were expecting it to happen so fast but suffice to say, I was thrilled to hear the amazing news!

The entire family, except Rosette who was unfortunately not accepted for reasons yet to be uncovered, is now residing in a suburb of Chicago! Patrick, David, Douglas, Batista, Dina, and Aurore are all attending high school while adjusting to colder weather and the notion of actually residing in the place that once seemed worlds away. Their emails have not been coming as frequently since they arrived, but I know it is only because they now have things to do with their time, having suddenly been given opportunity and hope for the future in their new home. It was so exciting when Patrick sent me his American phone number and urged me to call! (I promised to call as soon as I returned to the states)

I will surely be taking a trip to Chicago this summer!

Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!

2007-05-02T02:59:00.000-07:00

Did you know that the Champagne-region of France is the only place in the world where actual Champagne can come from under European Union Law? “Champagne” became a legally protected term under the 1891 Treaty of Madrid and was reaffirmed as such in the Post WWI Treaty of Versailles (to limit German wine production). Everything else is just Sparkling Wine…

Adoring even the cheapest of Sparkling Wine, a daytrip to Epernay, hailed "The Capital of Champagne," seemed like the perfect idea while spending some time in Paris. John, a friend from Brown who was also visiting, agreed and decided to accompany me on the trip.

John and I caught a late morning train and watched the French countryside roll by from our windows. We arrived in Epernay an hour and a half later, where we sat down to a leisurely lunch at a charming café in the main city square. It was at this café that I had Glass #1 for the day.

After lunch, we found the tourist office and were given a map of the area. First we toured Moet & Chandon, one of the world's largest manufacturers of champagne and one of the best-known champagne houses in the world. We were shown a video about the blending of Champagne and then taken into the M & C cellars. The cellars were damp, cold, and dimply lit. We had to stay close to our guide, as it was very easy to get lost down there among rows and rows of Champagne. The cellars run for nearly 18 miles underground and hold millions of bottles of champagne (the exact number is one of Moet’s many secrets), each of which ages for at least two years before being labeled and sold. Outside of its cellars, Moet & Chandon operates some 800 hectares of vineyards, cultivated and cared for by 250 winegrowers. A single hectare requires more than 750 hours of meticulous maintenance.

The tour was incredibly informative and classy, true to the brand it was representing. At its conclusion, we were led to a tasting room where a well-dressed Sommellier poured me Glass #2. It was perfect and delicious, severely impeding my ability to enjoy $5 bottles of Andre ever again. John and I toasted to the fabulous idea of champagne tasting in Champagne. Already feeling a bit tipsy from the bubbles, we got lost when trying to found out way out of the cellars, finally making it back above to the Moet boutique.

A single tour and tasting not being enough, we walked along Rue de Champagne to the Mercier cellars. Mercier is the most popular Champagne of France and is only sold within the country. It is proclaimed to be the “Champagne of the People,” the first brand of Champagne to be marketed to the common man. These days, it’s still pretty expensive. There, we were treated to a less informative tour where we sat in a little train that led us through the cellar. While the tour was certainly far less informative and classy than the one at Moet, for just a few extra Euros, we were treated to a tasting of several champagnes where I had glass #3, 4, and 5 -- a Brut, an Imperial Brut (Mercier's specialty), and a Rose.

Needless to say, I left Mercier feeling more than tipsy. I clutched the two bottles I had purchased, feeling positive I would drop them in an act of drunken clumsiness. I tried to fill up on bread and éclairs in a valiant effort to sober up, but to no avail. For the rest of the afternoon, I drunkenly pranced down the streets of Epernay, extolling the virtues of Champagne and champagne tasting and feeling as light and bubbly as the five glasses of the delightful drink I had earlier consumed.

Some random facts about Champagne:

- Champagne is commonly made out of three varieties of grapes: Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier.
- Contrary to legend and popular belief, French monk Dom Perignon did not invent champagne. However, he did develop many advances to Champagne, including the Champagne cork, which prevented bottles from exploding due to increased pressure of fermentation.
- The key factor in the production of champagne in Epernay is the deep chalk soil of the region: it retains heat from the sun and moisture from the rain, which the chalk soil releases gradually, acting as a natural regulator.
- Residents of Epernay say that Rue De Champagne is the most expensive street in the world due to the millions of bottles of champagne stored in cellars beneath it.
- Despite regulations, the United States permits its wine producers to use the name “Champagne” on the bottle. This must be used as a semi-generic name only if it appears next to the name of the actual place of origin. One reason U.S. is allowed to use “Champagne” in its labeling is because, while the Treaty of Versailles was signed by President Wilson, it was never ratified by the U.S. Senate.
- In 2005, the champagne industry sold 307,498,553 bottles of champagne.

Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen...

2007-04-26T00:13:00.000-07:00

One of the things I enjoy most when traveling are the days when you simply decide to skip the touristy stuff. There will always be more monuments and museums to visit and I do love my guidebooks, but I often enjoy doing just the opposite, believing that this is sometimes the best way to get a sense of a place and have the most fun. True, I did drag Lasse on a canal boat cruise and insisted upon seeing the famous, though disappointingly small, Little Mermaid statue. But the majority of my trip to Copenhagen involved looong, never-ending walks through the city, cooking, ridiculous sing-alongs around the piano, trying to get into trouble, and entirely too many discussions about tropical diseases, ducks (please refer to Lasse), and eczema (again, ask Lasse). I didn't buy a guidebook for the trip and we only visited one museum: Copenhagen’s tiny Jewish museum, where I got to describe Bat Mitzvahs and Kosher dietary laws to my Danish host.

Being confined to a student budget, we cooked most of our own meals. Lucky for my host and all his flatmates, I was thrilled to be in a real kitchen again -- with spices and herbs, clean dishes, and an actual oven – and went into MAJOR Betty Crocker mode. Over the course of the weekend, I whipped up eggplant pasta, garlic bread, clafouti, fruit salad, baked tomatoes Provencal, lamb with herbal butter, veggie couscous, and molten chocolate cakes. As if I hadn’t had enough bread in France, Lasse even made me fresh bread – allowing me the honor of kneading the gooey mixture.

On a beautiful Saturday afternoon in Copenhagen, Lasse and I decided to bypass the art museum and have a picnic in one of Copenhagen’s many parks instead. I prepared a fruit salad and a delicious plum clafouti and we bought rosemary crackers, two different kinds of foccachia (which we ate on the long walk to the park), and Champagne and OJ for Mimosas -- a drink I had been seriously missing. We picked the perfect picnic spot on a large grassy lawn that overlooked both the park’s lake and a castle. We laid out our delicious spread and dug in, hanging out for hours until it started getting cold.

However, the picnic was not all pleasantries. For instance, I ended up having grass shoved in my face and down my ears during a losing wrestling match against my Mzungu friend (Uganda reference). My shoes were also thrown across the lawn several times and my feet got soaked as I ran across the park to retrieve them. I also decided to roll down the grassy hill in front of the palace, Lasse abstaining so as to not dirty his jeans.

Obviously I did make sure to get the most out of Copenhagen during my five days there. Other activities include: Sharing surprisingly delicious traditional Danish hotdogs from a street vendor; Seeing Hans Christian Anderson’s grave; Visiting the now-empty site of the former Youth House, where Lasse posed like an angry rioter for a picture; Visiting the harbor and a nearby fort and taking a break to climb on cannons; Checking out the Royal Library; Sneaking on to the Metro without a ticket (we only did this once as the experience proved too much for our nerves and we thought it safer to just buy a ticket); Marveling at the city’s many towers; Taking a walk through Christiania, the partially-self governing, counter-culture hub of the city, where you are forbidden to take pictures and Lasse seemed a bit nervous after realizing that the area was less a haven for free-thinking liberals and more a stomping ground for thugs and druggies these days.

But my favorite memories of Copenhagen undoubtedly involve the smaller things, the things not mentioned in the guidebook -- the cooking, the trip to the Ballet, the grass in my ears, the cannon climbing, a certain H & M escapade, the piano sessions, and the endless walking.

At the Ballet

2007-04-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

On my first night in Copenhagen, I found myself strolling down the city's streets clad in a tailor-made dress I had been dying to wear, my arm tucked around the arm of my handsome tuxedoed escort for the night. We were enroute to an evening performance at the National Ballet. At the theatre we sat in front mezzanine center and mingled with Denmark's elite during intermission. After the performance, we walked across the street to D'Angleterre for drinks at the city's most posh hotel.

When Lasse and purchased the $7 discount seats to the ballet, we hardly expected to have such a night. Over-eager to get dressed up and not knowing the limits of the friend I had actually only known for a two days, I lightly joked about my disappointment that Lasse would not be donning a tuxedo for an occasion. I was quite surprised when Lasse seemed receptive to my encouraging and before I knew it, he was busting out an ancient tux he had purchased for the piano recitals of his youth. Complete with a bow tie and long coat tails, Lasse looked quite like a ten-year-old playing dress up in his father’s wardrobe. He also could have easily passed for the conductor of the evening’s performance, but he did look adorable nevertheless. I scrambled to put on my dress and heels and we were soon walking arm and arm to the ballet, riding on public buses and metros, of course.

As we headed to the evening’s performance, we ignored those of lesser fashion who happened to stare (mostly at him) and created a whole variety of false identities for ourselves in case anyone should inquire about such a well-dressed and obviously good-looking couple. I was a Southern Bell debutante who’s Daddy had struck oil and he was a posh Brit who I had met while summering in the Hamptons.

Dressed to impress, we were a bit out of place in the worst seats of the house, surrounded by a sea of casually dressed high schoolers. But before the Ballet had even started, we had moved down to the first mezzanine. Lasse was nervous we'd get busted for the illegal seat change and subsequently thrown out of the theatre, but I was cool as a cucumber. Aside from having to switch seats once, everything went down smoothly with little incident (aside from Lasse getting pissed I didn't interject in my Southern Bell voice when these people came to claim their seats). From our super expensive seats, we had the perfect view of the stage from which to enjoy the ballet.

The ballet itself, called “American Mixture,” was incredible. Moving and powerful, it was art that made you FEEL. It was a modern ballet that featured three, independent acts that served as commentary on America and modern culture. In the first act: A woman struggled to get her husband to notice her instead of the TV while an anonymous voice described startling facts (did you know that every time you smoke a cigarette you lose five minutes of your life or that the Ikea catalogue is published in more copies than the bible?). The second act: One man lifted another man as if he was as light as a feather to the accompaniment of the orchestra. Third Act: A group of men dressed in identical suits, very much resembling the ibankers you see in New York, struggled to contain themselves, but could not help but explode into spontaneous, desperate, and beautiful movement, and a woman with a rock-n-roll-meets-folk-song voice sang a lonely ballad as a couple danced, molding into a singular form.

To reward Lasse for his ballsiness of wearing such a ridiculous tux for the night, I treated him to a glass of wine at Copenhagen's nicest hotel after the theatre. We ran back to his apartment in the freezing cold (or at least freezing to me as I was not used to cold weather after Cambodia). People on public transportation continued to stare, but I don't think either of us really minded.

Cassis

2007-04-24T20:36:00.000-07:00

The tiny seaside town of Cassis, located 40 minutes east of Marseilles was by far the best place we saw on our Southern France trip. The previous day in Marseilles had been laden with serious mishaps and unfortunate incidents. I ended up spending seven hours going back and forth on trains after having left something at our previous hotel and Jenna was pick-pocketed on the metro when I finally returned. Despite knowing we would have only a few short hours in Cassis, we were determined to get there for the last day of our journey and get out of Marseilles. Our time was cut even shorter when our train was cancelled due to strikes. We caught the next train and arrived at the Cassis train station by 1pm.

In just the short bus ride to the center of the city, I had already fallen in love with the town. We passed green fields and yellow, provencal cottages and could see the ocean and the famed Calanques (cliffs) in the distance beyond. Even the town's cemetery was built so that each grave had an ocean view. The town center itself could not have been more perfect or quaint. Not too over developed or large, tourists and locals strolled through the cobblestone streets or dined on seafood, crepes, and wine in the many cafes that lined the yacht-filled harbor. We quickly boarded a tiny boat for a forty-minute tour of three Calanques. Thrilled to be out on the water, I sat at the bow of the boat and soaked up the warm sun and gorgeous views, not minding the occasional splashes of icy water on such a perfect day. The boat weaved its way around three different cliffs and we greedily snapped up pictures while marveling at the huge rock formations that towered above us. We passed secret beaches carved into the cliffs, with sun bathers basking on rocks. We wished we had more time -- days, weeks, months even -- so we could visit one of these sunny spots. I imagined myself abandoning DC-Cam and gradschool to work aboard a boat in Cassis for a year - I was sure someone on some boat would be able to find some use for me.

,
When told the ride was over, I somehow managed to tear myself away and return to land. I would have instantly repeated the trip but we didn't have enough time before our train back to Marseilles. Jenna and I split up for half an hour and I dawdled past harbor cafes while munching on a yummy nutella crepe. I walked through the center of the town, stopping at a Boulangerie for a demí-baguette for the train ride back to Paris and at a Traiteur for a bottle of Cassis Vin Blanc to bring to Denmark. I walked through various tiny streets, glancing into all the shops, and then made my way to the beach, where I looked enviously at all the leisurely sun bathers. I then met Jenna at a cafe where we sat in the sun and enjoyed freshly made smoothies.

Shortly thereafter, we boarded a train back to Marseilles and then another train back to Paris. Our time in Cassis had been too short, but we left feeling refreshed and grateful for even just a few hours. As our train whizzed us back to Paris, I clutched my bottle of Cassis-made wine in my hand and told myself that one day I would be back. Besides, I now had an adventure in Copenhagen to look forward to.

The Dangers of France

2007-04-22T03:53:00.000-07:00

France is a dangerous, dangerous place. I am glad I am not staying any longer than two weeks or I would be in some serious trouble. Lured by boulangeries and pattisseries and their siren songs of fresh breads and pastries, I would gain more and more weight everyday, growing larger and larger, until finally going into a carb-induced coma. Jenna would have to phone my parents telling them I had overdosed on pain (as in bread). They would view my comatose and now-gargantuan body in some hospital and curse the baked goods of France.

While I love French food in general, it is the bread-items that really get me. I love the French habit of purchasing a freshly made baguette every morning and then breaking off big hunks of it to munch on while strolling home. I have memories of my family's daily pattisserie trips the first time I went to France at age 13 and of my middle school and high school French teachers lovingly describing the food of France. Trying to maintain a cheap(ish) budget on this trip, I have managed to stay away from some of the finer and tres chere French foods. Though I have managed to find escargots, terrine au lapine (rabbit), and a delicious roast canard (duck), I have mainly been sticking to baked goods and crepes.

Every morning of our trip, Jenna and I scout out a nice looking Boulangerie (boulang for short) for our petit-dejeuner (breakfast). The moment I enter the shop, I become overwhelmed by the mouth-watering displays in front of me and the delicious aromas. Baguettes, brioche, croissants, pain au chocolate, tarte au fraises, millefouilles, eclairs, and sometimes beautiful chocolates -- my head spins and I become dizzy as I come to the realization that I am totally and utterly unable to decide what to get. Jenna is immune to this dilemma as she has been living in Paris for a number of months and the simple boulangerie-pattisserie selection is no longer exciting to her. But I am totally lost. Only in France for a short time and having just come from Cambodia, I feel that every food selection has got to count. Pushing past the immediate feelings of panic as all the delicious items dance before me, I weigh the possibilities and try to decipher my carb cravings. I ask myself: What did I have the day before? What looks the best at this particular shop? What is the hardest to find in Cambodia? What do you really and truly desire at this moment? Every item looks so good and there is too much pressure with every Boulangerie trip and I am only in France for such a short time and there is only so much I can healthily and realistically consume.

Realizing its my turn to order and that my friends are already waiting patiently , I quickly order the first thing that comes to mind or whatever I think looks best. Usually, I am unable to choose just one thing and end up ordering a small assortment, promising to save some for later (though I am rarely able to do so). I can barely wait until I am outside the shop before breaking off pieces of the baguette or biting into the flaky tart. Despite savoring every crumb and morsel, my purchase is totally devoured in just a few, short minutes. Despite feeling satisfied, I greedily eye every other Boulangerie and Pattisserie I pass. I hope that I chose the right one. Already I start thinking of the following morning's bread trip or perhaps a quick snack in the afternoon.

Capitaine du Bateau

2007-04-22T02:41:00.000-07:00

On the first night of our Sud de France trip, I informed Jenna and Ben that our shared-goal of the week was to meet a wealthy (and attractive) local or tourist who just happened to own a boat docked at port and then do whatever necessary to snag us a ride sur le bateau.

Lucky for this boat-lovin' gal that southern France was filled with opportunities to get my boat fix without any real self-whoring.

In Cannes, we boarded a large Yacht and went to Ile Sainte Marguerite. While the island was actually quite boring, the sensation of the wind ripping through my hair made made it all worth it.

In Juan Les Pins (the second stop on our Sud de France tour), we decided to get out on the water via a big, yellow glass bottom boat. Though hardly a Catamaran or any truly exciting boat, beggars can't be choosers and until I meet that boat-owning millionaire (which will be never), I was quite content to be on an ugly yellow one in the waters of the French Riviera. The boat took us to a rocky location off a private peninsula and floated around for half an hour so people could check out the marine flora and fauna. Not being too impressed with what I saw at the bottom, I returned to the deck and found myself a nice, sunny spot. One of the boat drivers approached me and we had a short and shaky conversation en franglais.

I then got it in my head that I had to drive the boat. I walked up to my new French Friend (Nicholas) and flashed him a big smile. "Quand nous retournons, c'est possible pour moi aider conduire le bateau?" I asked. (very roughly "When we return, is it possible for me to help drive the boat?")

My smile was instantly returned as he said "Oui, Oui! C'est possible!"

It had worked!

A few minutes later I was sitting in la chaise du capitaine and driving the big, yellow boat back to port. I wondered how many of the other tourists had taken notice of this mutiny and were now fearing for their lives or looking on in great envy. I continued to flash big smiles at French Friend and kept up a franglais convo with him, trying to explain what I did in Cambodia, inquiring about his experience with boats and education, and saying things like "J'aime les Bateaux!" (I love boats!) as I drove the entire way back to shore with little assistance (I was quite proud of myself). Somehow caught up in my American charm, French Friend even promised that my friend and I could come back and ride the boat free of charge whenever we liked. What an offer.

Truth be told, I did briefly consider coming back for une autre voyage purely for the extra-boat time, but decided to pass when learning there were boats to be ridden in Cassis. I returned control of the ship to Nicholas so as to avoid crashing into the wharf and retreated to the deck with all the normal passengers as we docked.

A hopeful French Friend told me he hoped I would return tomorrow morning. "Merci beacoup!" I said as I skipped off the boat, already looking forward to our next ride in Cassis.

A short note on the buses of Malaysia

2007-04-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

Buses in Cambodia can be a real adventure. While I have always opted for slightly more expensive (as in $8 to 10), touristy tickets to get to and from Siem Reap, Sihanoukville, and Kep, I have heard some serious horror stories from friends who have taken local buses. These stories involve sitting by the side of the road for hours in the roasting heat after bus breakdowns, un-airconditioned rides with windows that did not open, and being forced to sit on the floor or even the roof of the vehicle for the duration of the ride. Even those VIP seats I have purchased have not been all that comfortable or luxurious. True, getting served a snack and water on a bus ride is a bit ridiculous and definitely fancy, but these buses were still a far cry from coach buses found in America. However, I have since learned that no bus can compare to the local ones in Malaysia.

It incredible how the bus system of Malaysia operates. I showed up at the central bus station of KL and there would be a bus going just about everywhere in the country at almost any time. The only trouble was finding the right bus company amidst the sea of ticket counters and hoping there were available seats (these bus cos obviously do not permit people to sit on the floor or the roof). After that was sorted, I could travel Malaysia for a few bucks and in perfect style. On local buses often filled with more Malaysians than tourists, the air-conditioning functioned perfectly and the seats were incredibly soft and plush with foot rests and everything. On my trip to and from the Cameron Highlands, I rode a bus with seats that were like Laziboy recliners one normally keeps in their living room. It was like no bus I had ever been on before. With only three seats to a row and the ability to actually put your feet up, it was impossible not to nap in perfect comfort during the ride. I guess with all my gripes and complaints about McDonalds, Starbucks, and the over-westernization of the country, this was one thing I could truly appreciate and applaud.

Strawberries for Lis

2007-04-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

Malaysia offers a little something for everyone. There are gorgeous beaches, ancient rainforests, historical and cultural cities, green highlands, and even over-westernized, big cities if that's your thing. In choosing how to spend my six days, I had plenty of options. Somehow, in choosing between the beach and the rainforest, I found myself in the Cameron Highlands. The Cameron Highlands are the highest point in Malaysia with lush green hills and acres of tea plantations carved into the landscape, while the roads are lined with tiny stands bearing strawberries, honey, various kinds of tea, and fresh fruits and veggies. Aside from being closer to both Melaka and KL than the rain forest and nice beaches of the country, I was seriously craving springtime weather and an escape from the heat. When I read in Lonely Planet that the Cameron Highlands had strawberry farms that offered self-picking, I was pretty much sold.

I have always wanted to go strawberry picking and the thought of doing it in Malaysia made the notion even more exciting. Envisioning myself strawberry picking, I had images of traipsing through open fields ripe with thick, red strawberries. Much like one of my favorite childhood books, "Blueberries for Sal," I pictured plopping the berries into my mouth in between plopping them into my tin pale which consequently would never be full. The reality of strawberry picking was a bit different. After going on an adventurous morning tour my guesthouse had arranged up to the tallest point in the Highlands, past tea plantations, and through the muddy Mossy Forrest, I asked the tour guide to drop me off at the nearest strawberry farm that offered self-plucking. I was given two half-kilo plastic cartons and taken into a white tent where rows and rows of strawberries were growing in carefully maintained plots. Already plucking away, I was then handed over to a man who proceeded to show me exactly what rows to pick from and what specific berries to choose. As I tried to take my time, slowly filling my first container, the man offered to help me fill the second. I quickly refused. Wouldn't I have just purchased a carton at any of the road side stands if this were ok? No, I was there to pick strawberries dammit. I then informed him that I wanted to pick my own strawberries thankyouverymuch. He continued to tell me what rows to go to but allowed me to choose my own berries. He began talking to another man working there, giving me greater ability to sneak some tastes. I tried to savor every moment, imagining a more "Blueberries for Sal" environment and just being happy to be there. At least I had achieved my Cameron Highland mission of going strawberry picking. When I had filled by kilo to the man's satisfaction, he led me out of the garden and I paid for my berries, picking out some fresh jam and dried strawberries as well.

Post-picking, I foolishly decided to walk the full 8 or so Kilometers back to my Hostel, pausing for frequent strawberry breaks along the way. Despite the experience being a far cry from what I had previously imagined, the berries were delicious. Bright red, juicy, and packed with flavor, I savored every berry, especially as it been months since my last strawberry. Arriving back to the guesthouse almost a full two hours later, I found my new Hostel friends from the night before and proudly displayed the fruits of my labors and we all dug in.

A sumptuous sampling of street fare

2007-04-16T02:31:00.000-07:00

Darkness had fallen in Melaka and all the local and foreign tourists who had been dispersed throughout the city during the daylight hours flooded onto Jonkers Street in Chinatown for the weekly Saturday night market. Tourists of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities crowded the narrow street to marvel at the stalls bearing food, antiques, shoes, jewelry, and various items of kitsch. Towards the end of the street, a large stage had been set up and various groups of local Malaysians clad in gaudy, sequined costumes or bright, matching t-shirts performed dance routines to country music ballads (a strange and unexpected sight) as numerous onlookers joined in on the line dancing spectacular on the ground below.

Feeling a bit full after a late lunch and too many of Melaka's famous Pineapple cookies, I decided to bypass a conventional sit-down dinner for a sampling of Melaka's best street fare. First to pique my attention was a stall displaying candied fruit on a stick. I paused as the man at the stall twirled the sticks in pot of boiling sugar water and watched as the fruit became caramelized. Deciding to go for it, I ordered a grape stick. It was delicious: sweet, juicy, and the perfect refresher against the evening heat and crowded streets.

Next, I found myself at another stall as a friendly man showed me how he cooked miniature pancakes on the griddle and filled them with a creamy chocolate sauce. Obviously this was a big hit. I passed by other stalls bearing colorful arrays dim sum of fruit juices, and stopped when I reached a cart with various puff pastry pockets filled with meat and veggies. I ordered a chicken pocket that turned out to be very similar to a samosa -- just the savory snack was craving. I went back for two more caramelized fruit sticks and then bought an extra box of Pineapple cookies for my long bus ride to the Cameron Highlands the next morning.

I rounded out the night with a delicious pineapple and lime smoothie. After meandering around for several hours, I had had enough of fighting my way through the crowd and my feet were seriously aching. I walked the short distance to my guesthouse feeling full and very satisfied.

First and Last Impressions of KL

2007-04-11T04:24:00.000-07:00

My first hours in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia left me feeling completely overwhelmed and culture-shocked. I arrived at the Haven Guesthouse ready to take on a new city. The guesthouse was located in the Golden Triangle in central KL, jam packed with tall buildings and shopping malls. The guy who runs the place suggested I stick with the area for the day, moving on to other parts of the city later. My feelings of panic kicked in upon entering the first shopping mall and I was met with a blast of aircon and the smells of fast food frying. I wondered around a bit but felt mildly ill surrounded by western stores that I could find at shopping malls at home. In checking out a few price tags, I could not believe I had just come from Cambodia where I payed $10 to have clothes custom-made just for me.

Further exploration of the area produced similar results. Westerners sat in outside cafes dining on French and American fare. I counted more McDonalds, KFCs, and Starbucks than one sees on the streets of NY. I was also approached by a group of much older, Mauritanian tourists who in five minutes, asked me to join their table, tour around with them the following day and visit them in their hotel room. It was when I ventured into the Times Square Mall, a gargantuan complex with more floors than I could count, that I was forced to flee back to my hostel for "safe haven." KL was like LA meets Disneyland on crack. It is one thing to experience reverse culture-shock when returning home, but it is an entirely different issue when experiencing it in a foreign city. When I returned to NY after my summer in Uganda, I was at least comfortable and familiar with the city -- I knew my way around and knew what to expect. But in KL, I didn't know my way around and despite knowing in advance that KL would be a large and modernized city, I was really quite unprepared for just how large and modernized it was.

Later that evening, I ventured to another part of the city with two backpackers from my hostel. We explored the night market of Chinatown and then took a leisurely late night stroll down the colonial part of the city, marveling at beautiful buildings that combined Colonial, Asian, and Middle Eastern architectural styles. I felt much more comfortable in the crowded market place than I had in the shopping malls and took comfort in experiencing. I felt slightly better about the city but was certainly pleased that I would be leaving the next day for Melaka.

Four days later and I have returned to Kuala Lumpur. I will be heading to the airport to depart for France in an hour and a half. Despite feeling tempted to watch movies in the Haven for the 24 hours I had here, I was determined to leave the city feeling I had made the most of it. I spent six hours walking around the city today. I passed through more of the Golden Triangle to reach the KL Tower for spectacular views of the city. I dropping by Little India. I let Lonely Planet guide me on a daylight walking tour of the Colonial District. I visited two famous and beautiful Mosques and the feminist in me HATED the fact that I could only enter with my head wrapped in a scarf and every inch of my body covered in a long, blue robe, while male travellers could walk around in t-shirts and shorts. I purchased some Mangosteens in Chinatown in hopes of smuggling them safely into France for Jenna to try. My day ended when it began to pour. A weird guy had been blatantly following me for several blocks and I had had enough.

Despite having a good day, I am quite relieved to be leaving in a few short hours. While I had a great time in Malaysia, in Melaka and the Cameron Highlands, KL was just not for me. More reverse culture shock surely lies ahead as I will soon be spending the Euro and trying my best to speak French. But I think can handle it.

My upcoming vacay

2007-04-05T02:40:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I am off for a three week trip to Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur and to be determined), France (Paris and Cote D'Azur), and Denmark (Copenhagen). Not that I need a vacation from life in Cambodia, which always is a bit of a vacation, but it should be fun.

As silly as this might sound, I am a bit sad to leave Phnom Penh -- even for such a short while. I'll miss the Elsewhere Party, numerous Lazy Gecko quiz nights, Khmer New Year (which could be a good thing), and even my cozy Sotheros apartment.

But I'm also looking forward to a lot of things about my time on the road. I can't wait for Springtime -- to walk outside and feel not too hot or not too cold, but just right. It will be nice to have manageable hair again (my hair here is a daily adventure). Other things I am excited for are: time with Jenna, reunion with my darling friend from Uganda, seeing other random people I know in Paris, being able to dance at somewhere that is not Heart of Darkness, baguettes, macaroons, and other yummy french food, seeing new places, a party being thrown in my honor in Copenhagen, speaking french (though it could be a disaster), and showing off my new tailor-made clothes. But I am thrilled that I will eventually return to good ole Cambodia.

Paradise

2007-04-03T02:14:00.000-07:00

Weekend in Kep and Rabbit Island:

Marine, Marleen, Sarah, Bart, and I left for Kep early Saturday morning. Kep is located in the Kampot Province of Southern Cambodia, about a three hour drive from Phnom Penh. It took us a while to negotiate a private car in the early morning heat, but we eventually got a taxi for $35 and somehow I was given the front seat. Still recovering from a rather late night at the Heart, I slept for most of the trip and awoke to the beautiful greens and blues of Kep. The flat landscape of Cambodia had yielded to lush green mountains and vegetation all around us, with the sky a deep, cloudless blue.

We drove up a dirt path and arrived at Veranda Resort -- a natural guesthouse perched on the hill. Constructed of wood and built above the ground, wooden walkways connect the dots between small clusters of small wooden bungalows throughout the resort. The bungalows are part open air, with adorable bathrooms and small porches, complete with a hammock. With fans and a natural breeze, it was not so bad at night...only the early morning rooster and the cat who jumped into our bungalow kept us from an interrupted slumber. The resort also had a lovely bar/restaurant with an amazing view of the flora below and the sea beyond. This was my first glimpse of the sea in Kep. It was same deep blue color of the sky and there almost seemed to be no horizon at all with the sea and sky merging perfectly. Kep is absolutely beautiful.

We enjoyed the view over a lunch that took entirely too long to make (the staff decided to first serve a large group of Khmers who ordered 20 mins after us!) and then headed to the sea. As our touk touk wound it way around the roads of Kep, we passed a number of little shacks selling seafood (see below), a statue of a mermaid overlooking the sea, a HUGE statue of a giant crab, abandoned and greyed colonial mansions in various stages of disrepair, and the gorgeous views of the sea to our right.

We arrived at a tiny dock and paid $15 to rent a boat to Rabbit Island. While Kep obviously has beaches, they are not so nice so the thing to do is to go to Rabbit Island, a tiny island nestled 30 mins away from the mainland. The boat trip was probably my favorite part of the weekend. I love boats (a boat will be my first luxury purchase if I can ever afford a luxury purchase which is not likely) and simply adore being out on the water. It was lovely sitting back on a brightly-painted, wooden fishing boat and enjoying the blue panorama and sea breeze as we made our way to Rabbit Island.

Rabbit Island is a rather small island that consists of a few stretches of sandy beaches amongst more rocky coasts and a mountainous interior. The main beach, where all the boats bring you, is pretty undeveloped with only small snack shacks and tiny wooden huts a ways back near where the beach meets the jungle. The beach itself is scattered with large wooden cots, hammocks, and plastic picnic tables. In arriving at the spot of your choice, a Cambodian will rush over with a straw mat to lie on (sometimes you pay $1 to use these services). The beach was lovely and calm with tiny waves. The water was incredibly warm (almost too warm), blue, and crystal clear. The sand was yellow and relatively smooth, with broken shells lining the shore. The beach was beautiful, peaceful and quiet with very few people. We went to Rabbit Island all three days we were there, even just for a few hours our last morning!

However, the sea was not lacking in its dangers. Tiny sea urchins could be found throughout the ocean floor and both Marine and a British woman we met stepped on them. They did not hurt much, only stung, but it was an experience we all hoped to avoid and we thus tried to swim as much as possible when in the water. On the last day, we finally found a patch of beach on one end of the strip that did not seem to have as many of these urchins. But while enjoying a swim, I felt my whole hand inadvertently touching a large, gooey jellyfish. Marine and I screamed and splashed to shallow waters to avoid further incident. Lucky for me, I magically emerged from this encounter unstung and unharmed.

Also wonderful about Kep is the fresh, plentiful, and cheap seafood. Yes, Lis Meyers is actually praising seafood. Our first night we all went to a little wooden shacks on Kep and shared fresh crab while watching the sunset over the water. We ordered grilled crab and stir fried crab with fresh Kampot pepper (this pepper is supposed to be some of the best in the world) and it was truly delicious. It was definitely one of the best things I have eaten since coming to Cambodia and I took care to try to enjoy every scrap of crab meat possible. The stir fried crab was especially good as that green pepper added lovely dimensions of flavor. It was also amazing that this crab feast only cost $2.50 a person! The following day, Marine and I ordered a seafood lunch from one of the shacks on Rabbit Island. We ordered stir-fry crab and shrimps and watched as the man walked into the water, opened a trap, and took out our soon to be lunch. This meal was also very yummy and the setting of the beautiful and secluded beach only made it better.

Throughout the weekend, it was interesting how different Kep was from Sihanoukville, the other beach spot in Cambodia. Sihanoukville, where I went in early March, is totally touristy and developed, packed with tourists, sexpats, and backpackers. Kep also attracts a much more ex-pat dominated crowd and we were constantly running into people we knew from Phnom Penh. Kep is also much more aesthetically pleasing and much more calm and quiet. There are only a few guesthouses in existence now and very little tourist infrastructure. Yet, it was readily apparent that all this is changing and that Kep was oh so up and coming. Signs of a developing tourism industry are apparent and it is easy to predict that one day all those old mansions will be renovated and tons of people will be flocking to a very different Kep and Rabbit Island for some beach time in Cambodia.

Passover in Cambodia

2007-04-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

So I did end up having Passover in Cambodia. At first it seemed I would miss this important Jewish Holiday as the only Seder I knew about was being held a few days early on the weekend when I had plans to go to Kep with some friends. I felt a bit conflicted about choosing a weekend at the beach over religious tradition, but both my parents (even my wannabe Conservative father) told me to go to Kep. I would be in their hearts during the family Seder -- perhaps I would even get my own Lis cup next to Elijah's?

But then Chabad came to town and organized a Seder at the Himiwari Hotel, one of Phnom Penh's nice hotels by the River. I was still a bit uncertain if I would attend, not knowing what a Chabad Seder entailed, but Lee told me he planned on going in addition to the one over the weekend and reserved a spot for both of us. I came back from the beach yesterday afternoon and was welcomed into the small, unmarked conference room that would host the event. We sat down to quite an interesting mix of people (sadly, none of these people being my future Jewish husband). There were numerous typical middle aged Jewish men, all who easily could be found at Temple Beth Shalom. Three of these men had their Khmer wives with them (something I always find to be a bit icky and heartbreaking.) One man was probably in his late 60s with a wife in her late twenties/early thirties and one of the other wives looked like she was dressed for a night at Heart of Darkness. Another man was there with his Khmer wife and two kids and they seemed a bit more like a happy, loving family. It was quite funny when one of the Khmer wives got very into the Seder and started taking pictures of us all. I could not help of how I had been snapping away at my camera at DC-Cam's good luck Buddhist ceremony the week before. Also present was a Belgian woman I had met before at NGO meetings for work, two groups of Israeli backpackers fresh from the lake, and two sunburned British backpackers who I think were only there in their effort to hook up with the the Israeli backpackers.

The actual Seder went rather quickly as we breezed through the Haggadah. The Seder was led by Mordechi or Mordi, a Brooklynite Jew who was only 23. Mordi was full of Seder enthusiasm and pep and did a great job leading. He insisted we do our best to drink all four cups of super sweet wine and encouraged us to eat ridiculous amounts of Matzoh In very Rabbi Shecter-style, he seized upon every opportunity to tell a story, yes, this man was born to be a Rabbi. Sadly, the prayer books were not gender neutral and I therefore made sure to loudly insert my "hers, mothers, and she’s" along with all "his, fathers, he’s" and eventually Lee was doing it with me.

The dynamic of the Seder was quite interesting with half English speaking participants and half Israelis, injecting the Seder with additional energy. The Israelis were true stereotypes of themselves -- loud, opinionated, and drunk on four plus cups of wine -- keeping things lively. They insisted we sing Hebrew songs throughout the Seder and one guy was constantly interrupting Mordi with demands... good ole Mordi kept his own and managed to maintain control of the crowd. After the Seder, the Israelis completely took over and led us in lots of Hebrew songs. Alas, I only knew a few of the songs and my contribution was mainly clapping along.

Thoroughly enjoying myself the entire time, my only true grievance with the Seder (aside from the absence of gender-neutral Haggadahs) was the food. Looking forward to a large Passover feast, I had skipped a delicious beachside crab lunch and my tummy was growling throughout the meal. Instead of parsley, we had potatoes dipped in salt water which was different but ok. Our bitter herb was lettuce and there was no charoset whatsoever. The actual meal consisted of hard boiled eggs (I had two), plain broth that cried out for their absent matzoh balls, these DISGUSTING meatballs (even though it may have been Kosher, I have no clue what was in that meat), and fruit platters a plenty. Apparently the other Seder Lee went to had fabulous food and was a true feast, but the actual Seder part was lacking.

Overall, I was really happy to have been able to experience Passover in Cambodia. True, it did not compare to Josh Russo's amazing Seder last year at Brown or my own family's Passover coups when I depose my father as leader and take over for the sake of gender neutrality, but I still had a great time. It was nice feeling connected to the Jewish community here and I felt a lot less further from home. It also inspired me to try my best to keep kosher for Passover. This will be no easy task, especially when I'm in Malaysia, but I plan on doing my best while not going too corn-syrup crazy. We'll see how that goes...

On my very own Blog

2007-04-02T23:53:00.000-07:00

I have finally decided to start my very own blog. It took me several weeks to decide if I was ready to be a Blogger, but I ultimatly decided that it was time. My adventures in Cambodia were just too great not to share with the rest of the world. Too bad I waited until three months into my stay, but better than never. I'll do my best to post on some interesting goings-on of the past few months.