2008-12-26 16:56
Sre Ambel, Cambodia, has become a memory I hope to retrieve some day. It’s name is washed-out in the limelight of its popular surroundings such as the Cardamom Mountains and the more distant neighbour Sihanoukville. Contrary to travel descriptions of the place, I have found my stay there nothing but friendly, an adjective still too weak to justify the people’s warmth and graciousness.
Two college friends and I spent three days there, though not much in retrospect. These were the days that saved our backpacking trip to Thailand and Cambodia from being just another guidebook travel – to me a kind that has created a touch-see-and-leave image, the drunken, often over-exposed dressing and sometimes boisterous mass. Exciting nonetheless. At times it seemed a ‘lonely’ travel experience, set apart from the country’s people I was visiting and it got Very lonely when I walked down Kao San or visited convenient suggestions. Conscience pinched at the thought of being part of those able to travel the region “on a shoestring” when others were trying to live. I felt as if I was gawking at my surroundings. In this midst, Sre Ambel came to be a surprising engagement.
With gratitude to a study-service trip our college organized, two of our college-mates had been posted at a peace-based NGO in Sre Ambel for a month. We heard about it and were determined to get there despite travel guides’ unfamiliarity with it. In the end, quite expectedly, if you spoke in the “dallah” (USD) you’d get a ride. If not, you better be Cambodian. Speaking the “dallah” we arrived at the NGO and managed to receive an invitation to sleep on the porch. Those two volunteers were indeed well-behaved forerunners to our arrival.
We ventured the long stretch of red gravel and visited the market. An austere restaurant provided us with dinner, and it was a culinary experience I couldn’t forget. With my broken and freshly learnt Khmer, I tried to make orders and exposed the fact I wasn’t my companions’ interpreter; I too was a tourist. The owner invited me into the kitchen where my somewhat Chinese-ness aided in the knowledge of ‘strange foods’. At least I could play a food guide to the bamboo shoots and the satay sold outside that I was certain smelled like genuine marinade of asam jawa and kicap manis. Everything, everthing, proved delicious.
For dessert, it was a stop at what looked like an English shop. They sold English to a bunch of students and two monks seated on the benches. A big black board stood in the front, creating the teacher’s backdrop and a divider that separated the class from the prayer altar. Peeping in, we were spotted and my companions were found to be Americans. “Ah, they speak the Original English”, like the fried chicken I thought. My degree in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) and art were revealed and thus the public questioning began for conversational purposes. Later, I was asked to teach in the remaining time. It turned out to be a lovely post-meal event, and we were invited the next day to which we agreed.
In our full day there we met another employee, whom I spent a day with. She was a lady just two years older than me and knew a significantly more English than I did with Khmer. My phrase dictionary became the mediator while mutual patience to befriend beyond spoken words broke the ice and bonded a friendship. She became a kakak. Never have I had so much meaningful time not talking all that much, chit-chatting through motions and the few words, going on her motor and being taken arm in arm through the aisles of the wet-market to buy mee soup, local style. Later we also met a mother and child who sat around but not in the stance of waiting; the guard on his motorbike plucked the stubble of his beard, one by one. All of us became lounging friends and the little boy a smiling playmate. The town air had a lovely sense of timeless-ness while we feasted on watermelon, boiled corn and fruits from the trees in the garden.
After the evening class we received an invitation to the teacher’s house, where we used games to communicate. I had wondered if they knew how to play batu seremban and as guessed, they did. We proceeded to teach my American friend. By that time the adults had made a fence around us, amused at both how a Malaysian could look like them, and at this mat salleh playing such games. One of the students, S__ whom I had talked the most to in class lives next door and invited us for dinner. I asked to help in the kitchen and got a whole session that puts Anthony Bourdain’s ratings in my book, very low. Preparing a meal was sibling event I gratefully participated in. We stirred, chopped, fanned the flames and practiced pronouncing food nouns in both English and Khmer. S__ had trouble with “soogar” and I, with how they said ‘oil’ – something impossible to phonetically translate. Her mom went on to play American karaoke videos that our American friend had never heard of. Cautious to prevent overstaying their kindness that offered a place to sleep, we made our way out in the dark. That night I saw what I had read about in the Bible – the poor lady that gave all her coins though amounting to less than a fraction given by the rich.
Sre Ambel, Cambodia, has become a memory I hope to retrieve some day. It’s name is washed-out in the limelight of its popular surroundings such as the Cardamom Mountains and the more distant neighbour Sihanoukville. Contrary to travel descriptions of the place, I have found my stay there nothing but friendly, an adjective still too weak to justify the people’s warmth and graciousness.
Two college friends and I spent three days there, though not much in retrospect. These were the days that saved our backpacking trip to Thailand and Cambodia from being just another guidebook travel – to me a kind that has created a touch-see-and-leave image, the drunken, often over-exposed dressing and sometimes boisterous mass. Exciting nonetheless. At times it seemed a ‘lonely’ travel experience, set apart from the country’s people I was visiting and it got Very lonely when I walked down Kao San or visited convenient suggestions. Conscience pinched at the thought of being part of those able to travel the region “on a shoestring” when others were trying to live. I felt as if I was gawking at my surroundings. In this midst, Sre Ambel came to be a surprising engagement.
With gratitude to a study-service trip our college organized, two of our college-mates had been posted at a peace-based NGO in Sre Ambel for a month. We heard about it and were determined to get there despite travel guides’ unfamiliarity with it. In the end, quite expectedly, if you spoke in the “dallah” (USD) you’d get a ride. If not, you better be Cambodian. Speaking the “dallah” we arrived at the NGO and managed to receive an invitation to sleep on the porch. Those two volunteers were indeed well-behaved forerunners to our arrival.
We ventured the long stretch of red gravel and visited the market. An austere restaurant provided us with dinner, and it was a culinary experience I couldn’t forget. With my broken and freshly learnt Khmer, I tried to make orders and exposed the fact I wasn’t my companions’ interpreter; I too was a tourist. The owner invited me into the kitchen where my somewhat Chinese-ness aided in the knowledge of ‘strange foods’. At least I could play a food guide to the bamboo shoots and the satay sold outside that I was certain smelled like genuine marinade of asam jawa and kicap manis. Everything, everthing, proved delicious.
For dessert, it was a stop at what looked like an English shop. They sold English to a bunch of students and two monks seated on the benches. A big black board stood in the front, creating the teacher’s backdrop and a divider that separated the class from the prayer altar. Peeping in, we were spotted and my companions were found to be Americans. “Ah, they speak the Original English”, like the fried chicken I thought. My degree in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) and art were revealed and thus the public questioning began for conversational purposes. Later, I was asked to teach in the remaining time. It turned out to be a lovely post-meal event, and we were invited the next day to which we agreed.
In our full day there we met another employee, whom I spent a day with. She was a lady just two years older than me and knew a significantly more English than I did with Khmer. My phrase dictionary became the mediator while mutual patience to befriend beyond spoken words broke the ice and bonded a friendship. She became a kakak. Never have I had so much meaningful time not talking all that much, chit-chatting through motions and the few words, going on her motor and being taken arm in arm through the aisles of the wet-market to buy mee soup, local style. Later we also met a mother and child who sat around but not in the stance of waiting; the guard on his motorbike plucked the stubble of his beard, one by one. All of us became lounging friends and the little boy a smiling playmate. The town air had a lovely sense of timeless-ness while we feasted on watermelon, boiled corn and fruits from the trees in the garden.
After the evening class we received an invitation to the teacher’s house, where we used games to communicate. I had wondered if they knew how to play batu seremban and as guessed, they did. We proceeded to teach my American friend. By that time the adults had made a fence around us, amused at both how a Malaysian could look like them, and at this mat salleh playing such games. One of the students, S__ whom I had talked the most to in class lives next door and invited us for dinner. I asked to help in the kitchen and got a whole session that puts Anthony Bourdain’s ratings in my book, very low. Preparing a meal was sibling event I gratefully participated in. We stirred, chopped, fanned the flames and practiced pronouncing food nouns in both English and Khmer. S__ had trouble with “soogar” and I, with how they said ‘oil’ – something impossible to phonetically translate. Her mom went on to play American karaoke videos that our American friend had never heard of. Cautious to prevent overstaying their kindness that offered a place to sleep, we made our way out in the dark. That night I saw what I had read about in the Bible – the poor lady that gave all her coins though amounting to less than a fraction given by the rich.
S__ then tied a homemade bracelet around my wrist before we left. I had to restrain tears as she said “Thank you. I feel very happy tonight”.
I acquired the teacher’s contact in hope one day my travels will mean to live in a place for a committed time, perhaps in Sre Ambel itself. I’ve come to ask what does traveling mean? More so how will I choose to travel from now on especially when thinking what the backpacking spots in this region, more so in a ‘West meets East’ situation, tend to carry. What is the “Lonely Planet” intended to mean? Why ‘Lonely’? What does it mean to backpack? A noun so strong, now also a verb. To travel light; to travel cheap? Descriptions are constantly changing as the paradigm of travel is, joining in the momentum of the Wheelers (founders of the Lonely Planet) and globalization. With all the factors it comprised how we travel, how much and especially Who travels are put in place according to leisure time and relative wealth. Tourism is celebrated economically, yet is also suspiciously viewed in what additions it might bring into a locale. How does one become a ‘backpacker’ that would fulfill what the Wheelers consider “Responsible Travel”? And to more importantly fulfill what it means to be caretakers of the earth and to love one another. I would like my travels to be more than a mere touch-see-and-leave because that would be lonely. Perhaps in approaching the question of travel is to explore the conditions of life. At least for now, I’d want to embrace the courtesy of engagement in any travel I make.
(By MIRIAM LOH/ MySinchew)
She is a recent graduate involved in teaching and learning of new languages and art.
MySinchew 2008.12.26
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