Bourtie House, Aberdeenshire, Scotland
It took us a long time to get here. In Luang Prabang amid temples and markets, monks and opium dealers we finally started to make our way back to Bangkok. I bade goodbye to the owners of my $3 a night room and swapped my bicycle for a driver and moped. We took off along the river road watching the boats sitting on the muddy banks of the Mekong.
The fast boats moored below the ferry ticket office were not what I had been expecting. Long and wooden and very narrow, with an engine mounted on the stern that had probably been salvaged from a car wreck - the giant prop shaft that trailed behind us was nearly 15 feet long. Jetting down the river at 40 knots we made the Thai border in seven hours.
We had a brand new mini bus to ourselves as we traveled up to Chiang Mai. I sat reading Buddhist literature while Simon lay with feet up and head phones on, singing very loudly. The next day we hurried through Chiang Mai, stopping to learn how to field strip handguns at a Thai Army base. After few hours of bookshops, eating pies and prostrating ourselves in front of Buddhas, we were on the train.
As we had an overnight trip to reach Bangkok I decided to explore the carriages. Unlike most Western sleepers the beds were in a long line all the way up the car. I was slightly perturbed by the hole in the floor that I figured to be the toilet but apart from that the journey passed uneventfully. In Bangkok we had less than a day before our flight home so we spent the time having haircuts and massages and buying forged press passes.
From Bangkok we flew to Scotland via London and spent four gorgeous days enjoying family and home cooking. Compared to the sun of Aberdeen, the mists of Boston are not so thrilling but I am glad to be back and beginning the next chapter.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Luang Prabang, Lao, South East Asia
I do not really enjoy walking in cities. My feet hurt more walking on concrete than grass and I constantly forget how to safely cross roads, jumping out of the way of buses regularly. As I have the tendency to walk with my head down I miss most of what’s going on. When I take a car however, I instantly fall asleep and wake up when we stop. In Laos I miss so much that I will not see again because I look at my feet or sleep.
Walking down by the massive, brown, Mekong in Luang Prabang,
wooden boats lying along her banks, I found a bicycle rental shop. I paid a dollar and leaped onto my new bike, unworried by the inefficient brakes. I slid off the curve and wobbled away in a bizarre fashion, right in front of incoming traffic. As I turned the corner, narrowly missing several street vendors, I felt free.
Lao is a good place for bicycles as they outnumber cars and it's possible to ride down side streets that bigger vehicles can’t negotiate. All the way along the street there are ramps to roll your bike up and the drivers don’t try to run you off the road.
I shot past monks in saffron robes, exchanging nods as I turned around large piles of rubbish. Past women selling fried chicken heads, past stalls and stalls of dresses and bags, lamps and baskets. The piles of rubbish by the side of the back streets seem so odd when you notice how thoroughly the shop fronts are swept. I was soon in the mood and confident about my riding. I started using my bike for transporting anything from my big back pack to teenage girls.
As I cycle off into the distance, my checked khmer scarf flapping in the wind I ponder the aspect of communist life in South East Asia that most appeals to me: the wide spread use of the bicycle.
I do not really enjoy walking in cities. My feet hurt more walking on concrete than grass and I constantly forget how to safely cross roads, jumping out of the way of buses regularly. As I have the tendency to walk with my head down I miss most of what’s going on. When I take a car however, I instantly fall asleep and wake up when we stop. In Laos I miss so much that I will not see again because I look at my feet or sleep.
Walking down by the massive, brown, Mekong in Luang Prabang,
wooden boats lying along her banks, I found a bicycle rental shop. I paid a dollar and leaped onto my new bike, unworried by the inefficient brakes. I slid off the curve and wobbled away in a bizarre fashion, right in front of incoming traffic. As I turned the corner, narrowly missing several street vendors, I felt free.
Lao is a good place for bicycles as they outnumber cars and it's possible to ride down side streets that bigger vehicles can’t negotiate. All the way along the street there are ramps to roll your bike up and the drivers don’t try to run you off the road.
I shot past monks in saffron robes, exchanging nods as I turned around large piles of rubbish. Past women selling fried chicken heads, past stalls and stalls of dresses and bags, lamps and baskets. The piles of rubbish by the side of the back streets seem so odd when you notice how thoroughly the shop fronts are swept. I was soon in the mood and confident about my riding. I started using my bike for transporting anything from my big back pack to teenage girls.
As I cycle off into the distance, my checked khmer scarf flapping in the wind I ponder the aspect of communist life in South East Asia that most appeals to me: the wide spread use of the bicycle.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Siem Reap, Near Ankor Wat, Cambodia
What makes men kill and maim? What makes other men give them the means to do so? I ponder this as I turn the mine over in my hands and stare at its green shell, wondering why. This mine wasn’t made here in the jungles of Cambodia but in a factory in Germany and this is not a one off occurrence. China, Germany, Great Britain, Russia and the United States have all contributed tremendously to the three to six million mines still buried in Cambodia.
It is hard not to fell disillusioned by society when you first meet Sory. What has this ten year old done to lose his hands, what crime has he committed? I think that I would get quite depressed if I thought about this for too long, so its good I never have time.
Aki Ras Museum is more like a shed, what with chickens scratching in the dirt and naked children running past. On the walls of the shed and lying in large piles are thousands of deactivated landmines. They have become so familiar to me that I can conjure them up right now in this city thousands of miles away.
When Simon and I volunteered at the land mine museum we expected to be sweeping floors and looking after the chicken. Instead I am standing with a monkey on my shoulder and a pineapple mine in my hand as I lecture a group of worried looking tourists. Part of my job is to teach English to Sory who lost his hands playing with a detonator and lives at the museum with ten other kids. The tales from the children are tragic and often heart breaking but they make it easier to identify the kids from one another as none speak English. “ Which ones Pei?” I ask to which one of the other volunteers answers “ I think it the boy over there, wait.. Yes, he had his foot blown off an anti personal mine and his two brothers heard the screams and ran to help. They stepped on the tripwire of a pineapple mine and killed themselves and the shrapnel took out Pei’s Eye.”
After teaching I lead groups of tourists around the compound “This is the most common mine around here. Its Vietnamese and can take your leg off by the knee if you press down like this. Anyone want to press down on the explosive cap for me? No, Don’t worry its safe, but watch out for the chicken” With that the aforementioned fowl bursts from the wreck of an anti tank mine, clucking furiously.
Near the gate rests the most interesting part of our collection: The 50 ton American bomb found unexploded right next to Angkor Watt one of the worlds most priceless temples. This is a reminder of the bombings the U.S inflicted on natural Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict. As I leave the compound that night I watch Sory learning to ride a moped and am filled with hope for his future as well as that of Cambodia.
What makes men kill and maim? What makes other men give them the means to do so? I ponder this as I turn the mine over in my hands and stare at its green shell, wondering why. This mine wasn’t made here in the jungles of Cambodia but in a factory in Germany and this is not a one off occurrence. China, Germany, Great Britain, Russia and the United States have all contributed tremendously to the three to six million mines still buried in Cambodia.
It is hard not to fell disillusioned by society when you first meet Sory. What has this ten year old done to lose his hands, what crime has he committed? I think that I would get quite depressed if I thought about this for too long, so its good I never have time.
Aki Ras Museum is more like a shed, what with chickens scratching in the dirt and naked children running past. On the walls of the shed and lying in large piles are thousands of deactivated landmines. They have become so familiar to me that I can conjure them up right now in this city thousands of miles away.
When Simon and I volunteered at the land mine museum we expected to be sweeping floors and looking after the chicken. Instead I am standing with a monkey on my shoulder and a pineapple mine in my hand as I lecture a group of worried looking tourists. Part of my job is to teach English to Sory who lost his hands playing with a detonator and lives at the museum with ten other kids. The tales from the children are tragic and often heart breaking but they make it easier to identify the kids from one another as none speak English. “ Which ones Pei?” I ask to which one of the other volunteers answers “ I think it the boy over there, wait.. Yes, he had his foot blown off an anti personal mine and his two brothers heard the screams and ran to help. They stepped on the tripwire of a pineapple mine and killed themselves and the shrapnel took out Pei’s Eye.”
After teaching I lead groups of tourists around the compound “This is the most common mine around here. Its Vietnamese and can take your leg off by the knee if you press down like this. Anyone want to press down on the explosive cap for me? No, Don’t worry its safe, but watch out for the chicken” With that the aforementioned fowl bursts from the wreck of an anti tank mine, clucking furiously.
Near the gate rests the most interesting part of our collection: The 50 ton American bomb found unexploded right next to Angkor Watt one of the worlds most priceless temples. This is a reminder of the bombings the U.S inflicted on natural Cambodia during the Vietnam conflict. As I leave the compound that night I watch Sory learning to ride a moped and am filled with hope for his future as well as that of Cambodia.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Siem Reap, Cambodia
God, I pity teachers, pity them for all they go through but mainly all I put them through. I had decided that two hours teaching seventeen year olds in Mexico qualified me in some way to teach. I was wrong. My class consisted of twenty Cambodian child orphans of different ages who had been through dozens of English teachers as they were all travelers. Some had lasted a few days, as was I, so the kids had never really picked up English.
Happiness is where you least expect it. I thought that an orphanage would resemble a Dickensian poorhouse, full of crying children and fat men with sticks. I would have thought the kids were quiet and shy had I not stayed for dinner. As I sat with a big plate of rice cabbage, meat and mango, and laughed and took pictures We warmed to each other. After the meal I helped them draw water from their well, a small price to pay for rice and perspective.
God, I pity teachers, pity them for all they go through but mainly all I put them through. I had decided that two hours teaching seventeen year olds in Mexico qualified me in some way to teach. I was wrong. My class consisted of twenty Cambodian child orphans of different ages who had been through dozens of English teachers as they were all travelers. Some had lasted a few days, as was I, so the kids had never really picked up English.
Happiness is where you least expect it. I thought that an orphanage would resemble a Dickensian poorhouse, full of crying children and fat men with sticks. I would have thought the kids were quiet and shy had I not stayed for dinner. As I sat with a big plate of rice cabbage, meat and mango, and laughed and took pictures We warmed to each other. After the meal I helped them draw water from their well, a small price to pay for rice and perspective.
