Meeting a Monk

Once I got the peddles spinning, driving the cyclo was a breeze. I peddled lightly along the riverside at first, slowly making my way through the quiet, colorful backstreets. Other cyclos laughed, giving a me enthusiastic thumbs up and shouting "Good! Oh, very good! Strong!" Motos wizzed by, looking back over their shoulders giggling. I smiled and waved back to people walking or working on the streets, who laughed in disbelief at the sight of me. "Madame, moto? Moto, sir?" I asked as we passed, laughing. My passenger was greeted by almost everyone we saw, and waved and laughed with the rest of us.

After about a half hour, I figured it was time to get some yum-yum (as they say in Khmer). "You, me, yum yum?" I called over his shoulder. "Me?" he asked. I nodded my head enthusiastically, and he motioned for me to make a few turns before we ended up at a small noodle shop packed with Cambodians, spilling out onto the sidewalk, seated at their tiny tables. I amazed everyone by successfully stopping the cyclo, pulling the break and hopping off like a an old pro. Some people even broke into applause.

We quickly seated ourselves on shakey stools, before big bowls of steaming noodles were slid in front of us, garnished with beansprouts, chili sauce and lime. Delicious as they were, I spent very little time eating. A Doctor from the Soviet- Khmer Friendship hospital who worked with HIV patients in a special ward had graciously welcomed me to Cambodia, and we were soon engaged in a thoughtful discussion about his life surviving Pol Pot, the current Cambodian government, and his ambition to someday visit America, "the land of the free, and of opportunity." He invited me to visit his hospital if I had a chance, and gave me his address and phone number before rushing off to work. I quickly slurpped down my noodles, sorry to keep my company waiting. Athough he had finished much sooner, he sat smiling, enjoying his time in the shade. When I hopped back up on the high seat and set off again, I asked him to direct me towards the gracefully curved spires and imacculately layered roof of the terra cotta colored National Museum.

When we arrived near the entrance, I hopped of anf handed the cycling steed back to its rightful owner. After spending only .75 cents on breakfast, I felt compelled to give him something for letting me pimp his ride around town while he could have been finding other buisness. He, of course, had no idea what I was on about, and hopped up on the bike, ready to leave. In a panic I turned to the first person I saw and asked for help... That person just happened to be a monk.

Vutha`s first mistake was smiling kindly at an obviously distressed foreigner. "I`m sorry!" I bowed (its a Japanese thing), "Can you help me? I know you must be busy...Oh my gosh your a monk? Am I even allowed to be talking to you..." My cyclo driver was getting away. "Wait!" I desperately called out after him.

"Its OK!" the young monk laughed, "I speak English!" With a word, he had called the cyclo back. "Now what`s wrong?" he asked. I explained the situation to him and he calmly unttered a few soft words to the cylco driver, who humbley replied. "He said, f you can, give him 2000 Riel so he can get something to eat at lunch."

So little. 2000 Riel is about .50 cents. I handed it to him saying "Awkoon" (thank you in Khmer) and turned back to the monk. "Thank you so much! I`m really sorry to bother you!" I apologized, bowing my head and touching my palms together, as if in prayer.

"Don`t worry!" He smiled. "I`m not busy. So, where are you from?" "I`m from America, but I live in Japan. His face lit up. "Oh"! America! And you live in Japan!" The whole situation seemed a bit too surreal as I stood nervously conversing with this young monk, his bright orange robes complimented by the rich, rusted red of the museum behind him. "Are you busy right now?" he asked. "Me? No! Not busy!" I answered anxiously.

"Well, Would you like to come back to my place?"

"What?!" I laughed, amazed. I realized he had meant it sans-the sleezy connotations so common in American culture, but it still suprised me to hear it from the mouth of a monk. "Um, OK! Wait...Really? Is that OK?"

"Sure!" he said in that soft, reassuring way Cambodians do. He smiled as he stepped past me into the street, looking back over his shoulder. "Come on."

I stood on the corner, convinced I was dreaming, and slowly stepped into the street. Timidly tracing his footsteps, I struggled to leave a respectable amount of distance between us as I followed him towards his wat.

See Where the Day Leads...

It makes sense that since I had been blessed with the hook-up to a river view room, I would magically wake up every morning, just before dawn, in time to watch the sun rise slowly over the pagoda-peaked, palm-treed horizon.

The ever-changing kaliedescope of colors and light, as the dark cool shades of night melted away.No one can accuse me of vanity after posting this! Sleepy-eyed and cheese-faced, from the balcony of my most excellent, albeit impermanent, abode.

The day was young and full of possibilities. I had no idea where it was about to lead me, no expectations of what I would do or see, no place I "had" to go, no schedules, no shackles. I was completely free, and that is always a good thing. (^_<)

I lazily stumbled down the steps from my 4th floor room, through a lobby full of friendly faces, out onto the street. With every step I took I was greated with a chorus of traditional, city-style greetings: "Madame, moto? Moto Madame? Madame, Cylco? Cyclo, madame? " Smiling and shaking my head "no," I skipped across the street, through the trickle of traffic begining to flood the riverfront, and sat down in the sun, soaking it in, the sounds of fishermen speaking Vietnamese floating on the wind.

I waited patiently for the day to reveal itself to me. A brilliant stream of billowing saffron caught my gaze, slowly flowing towards me. The early light of morning, caught in citrus colored, umbrellas glowed in the distance, spilling over onto saffron colored robes like streams of sunlight pouring through stained glass. An ethereal glow seemed to radiate from the round, shaved heads shaded beneath them, like an aura of pure energy. Their bronze-toned, sun-kissed skin was wrapped in robes that echoed the many shades of sunrise still ethched in my mind: golden, crimson, saffron, and tangerine. I watched in awe at the unworldly quality of the scene before me, unable even to fumble for my camera to try to capture it.

I sat there, alone, contemplating how so much beauty can exist in such a cruel and troubled world. "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."Lost in thought, I began to wander the streets, coming to life with the colors and flavors of Cambodia's capital city.

Have you ever seen so many banannas before? Bunch by bunch, handed down from the truck to the cyclo, hopefully on its way to becoming one of the many delicious fruit smoothies I consumed in a day. Yumm...

A small girl on the side of the road, all alone. She just stood there, looking around, watching people pass her by without a second glance. She didnt beg. She had nothing to sell. She was just there. Alone.

So beautiful. I sat and watched the bananaman for awhile, hoping someone would come and take her hand, and lead her away smiling and skipping down the street. I wish I could've brought her home with me!

Eventually I began to wander again, and that's when I met this guy. Meet Mr.Cyclo. Amount of English spoken: .007 %.

Did I need a cyclo? No. But he needed a passanger, and maybe a bit of breakfast. I tried to explain to him that I didn't need a ride; that I was happy walking around and getting lost. The language barrier, however, was not on my side, and a constant smile does little to discourage the desperate. So I decided to give him a break. "Ok!" I laughed. "Me, cylco! You, here!" I pointed from him to the carriage. He jumped down off his seat grinning. "Ok?" He said, pointing at my legs. "Ok!" I assured him, ushering him to his seat. To the amazement of everyone within viewing distance, I hopped up on the cyclo, ready to speed off, when he hopped out of the seat and ran behind me. I was afraid he had reconsidered allowing a foreigner to drive his precious chariot, at the risk of both his personal saftey and my own, but he simply ran behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, showed me how to release the break, and then gleefully hopped back into his seat. And off we went...

To be Continued....

Sues'day!

The smile of a young monk (17 years old) reflected in the ancient carvings of the Bayon, Angkor Thom, part of the world heritage Angkor Wat temple complex in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Behind him, one of 216 faces watch over the temple.

Cambodia: Here I Come!

A beautiful Miko, or shrine maiden, wearing a hanagasa (a hat decorated with fake flowers) during Gion Matsuri.

I'm on my way to Cambodia and I won't be back until the 31st... Just in time for the never-ending Sports Festival practice, also known around here as the second term of the Japanese junior high school year. Unfortunately, I'm going to miss some prime matsuri time (festival season), but at least I made it to Gion Matsuri this year, even if it did rain everyday! Here's a few more images from the archives...

Actually, the rain was a good thing. Yay for Japanese umbrellas!

This little White Herron Dancer was interviewed after performing at Yasaka Shrine, but she wasn't the only one. A Gaijin's (foreigner's ) impressions of Gion Matsuri, tonight at 5! Thats what makes the news in a country with a comparatively low crime rate (^_<)

Destination Cambodia: 4 Days and counting!

Could it be?

Is that Angelina Jolie? Sadly,no. It's only me (although the resemblence is startling). I've always been a bit of a tree- hugger, but I think this sudden outburst of affection was the due to the realization that I had finally found a place where I could live out my childhood dream of being Indiana Jones. Angkor Thom, Cambodia.

Guess Where I'm Going...

The Flower Procession: Gion Matsuri

Maiko from Miyagawa-cho being pulled through Kyoto by young men from their neighborhood.

I'm sure you're all sick of seeing pictures from Gion Matsuri, but I just can't help myself! I'll try to write more later...Until then just enjoy the view from here (^_<)

Young women carrying their hanagasa, straw hats covered with fake paper flowers, seek shelter beneath their umbrellas.

Kanazuru, a maiko from Miyagawa-cho.

A young White Herron Dancer giggling as she ran for cover from the relentless rain.

A maiko from Gion.

A shrine maiden of Yasaka Jinja tries to keep her hanagasa in place.