He Was a Goodly King

Ten days ago the body of the King Father arrived in Cambodia.

He died in Beijing on the actual morning of Pchum Ben- the day of honoring ancestors. His body was flown in and thousands upon thousands gathered to honor his transport to the Royal Palace. This marked the beginning of an intense and emotional nationwide memorial which saw hundreds of thousands of Khmer citizens coming to the city.
I knew he had died, but I was unaware of the arriving flight until I went out into the street and saw the waves of mourners filling up the streets.

It was an odd atmosphere- somber and sad, but with a tremor of celebration too- just a certain moving unity of purpose and identity.

Initially tentative with my picture taking, I relaxed when embraced with typically welcome smiles and generous comments. I chatted with several other photographers about lenses and shooting in the bright sun. Everywhere people pinned these ribbons on each other and later, unasked, a young woman came up and pinned one on me.

Hours and hours went by, the patience of the Khmer seemingly bottomless.

I moved up to the balcony at Java Cafe, where, thanks to the fact that we were all jammed in, drinking coffee, and waiting, I had a terrific conversation with two young successful Khmer women. We talked about Sihanouk's incredible lifetime journey, gaining independence for his country from the French in the 50's, being buffeted back and forth by enormous political forces beyond his control- used by the USA, then China, then the Khmer Rouge. He did also oversee the regaining of certain territories from neighboring Thailand and Vietnam.  Certainly he made some unfortunate choices, and he was far from an ascetic or selfless- but given his choices? My new friends indicated that they found him to be a worthy representative of his time- charming, artistic and most often trying to benefit his people as best he could. God knows the Khmer deserve a benevolent figure to bring them together and allow them a measure of pride.

Finally the police cars came down the street and then this set of royal vehicles. One had a small band. It rocked a bit as it rolled, but the music was anything but rock and roll.

 Then came this dragon monk-mobile. I think it might be the coolest thing I have ever seen go down the road- and  purpose built for this rather than some tacky Macy's Day-NBC crap.

Then the casket of the King Father passed. All became somber, as if a wave of sadness came rushing with it, as if we all finally remembered why we had gathered and sat for 4 hours.

Horatio
I saw him once: he was a goodly king.

Hamlet
He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.

I did not travel to the following days of mourning which took place in front of the Royal Palace because I left the next morning to Kampot. Even when I got back, every day the city traffic intensified, and the emotions rose day by day.

One night a rumor that the King's face could be seen in the moon went viral, and all over the city people stared up and pointed. Several foreigners crossed boundaries and raised the ire of the crowds- first a Thai reporter who stood with the King's portrait at her feet, and then two Chinese factory managers, one who tore up a photo of the King because the workers were "distracted", another who folded up a picture of the face/moon. It was lucky the former was not killed. She was ordered to prostrate herself in front of the King's photo publicly, was thrown in jail, fined and deported. Though I condemn absolutely ideologically inspired violence, I couldn't help but feel these fools' insensitivity deserved harsh measures- and with the horrible conditions of the garment factories, I found myself gloating at the story of the manager. I hope she felt a little of the fear and degradation imposed on the poor daily, though I know she herself is most likely an underpaid and simple pawn in a much larger machine. Though the Chinese government condemned her actions and actually branded her "an idiot", it is the Chinese who use and abuse Cambodia for their benefit.

And I felt lucky to be here as a witness to this historical passage, to see so many Khmer join together, even if it was in sadness.

A Certain Kind of Sadness

They say:
bad things come in threes, and the lizard-brain part of me sloshes lazily along with the notion. I don't ask who 'they' are that say these things. I don't ask why they say them. Of course, if I do, I don't have to wonder long. I can google it and read a blog post from a woman who writes: For a long time now, I’ve believed the superstition that things come in threes...I know it’s silly, and the thing is, I’m not a superstitious person. After all, I believe that God is in control, and He has a plan... 

Interesting, the intersection between numbers and beliefs. I hope sometime after I am dead the pattern of our humanity, the logic of our biology, will be revealed.
Did Jesus every say anything directly about numeracy?
No google answers.

Maybe bad things come in googolplexes. That is a number for those too young to recall.

This is the tail end of our first vacation week. I was planning on going to Vietnam, taking a train up the coast and then flying back from Hanoi.
Then I looked at my finances. Not good.

Then my right knee gave a little pop and provided some unfriendly shooting pains each time I stepped just so-  I became convinced that the constant walking that comes with travel would exacerbate the problem. I would be stranded, crippled.

Then my wholly self-indulgently purchased television went black and wouldn't turn on.

So, okay, adapt. Catch up on the blog and sift through the 2000 photos you have taken

Then I worked for five hours editing photos of student work and for my Bright Uprising blog, closed Lightroom without saving the catalogue, and all my photos went somewhere into the software void.

Then, from sitting so much in the heat, I got a rash on my lower ass. Ugh.

Stuck in PP.

I went through other old photos, transferring them to a separate hard drive so I could free up space. Way dangerous, coming across former selves, sons, and siblings while sweating alone in your apartment. And way too heavily fraught with symbolic significance.

I listened to a catchy, sad song by Gotye too many times.
 Somebody That I Used to Know

I went to Howie's Bar, wasted $30, felt even lower, with a headache to boot.

They say:
when the going gets tough, the tough get going.
Not me. Apparently when the going gets tough I revert to a mopey teen.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.  Nice line, that.

But then.

Mike, who works at the embassy, called about tennis. The knee withstood two full hours of court play- two days in a row! Tennis!

The TV guys came by in a truck and took away my TV and then brought it back fixed! Free!

My friend Richard e-mailed me with instructions how to recover my photos. So only the edits were lost, not the originals.

They say:
When you find yourself stuck deep in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging.

The streets were so quiet and calm PP was like a ghost town- and surprisingly marvelous in its desertion. I could walk up and down the normally busiest of streets without a care. In a way it felt mine.

I made a small project of sampling the coffee at every coffee shop in my neighborhood. I found the one I liked the best three doors down from my apartment. By the third visit the wonderful waitresses knew me and my order by name. I was a little bit more somebody, with a smidgeon more of a home.

I met some strangers and had inspiring conversations- First with a funny young Cambodian American who moved to PP and started a cafe and is attempting to start an import export business, then with an older woman newly arrived from LA to volunteer with the Cambodian Children's Fund, and finally with a very educated and passionate Cambodian as we waited for the King Father's casket to pass.


They say:
every cloud has a silver lining.

Had I gone perhaps I would have had a wonderful journey. Yet I wouldn't trade it for the one I took staying here. Next I will post about that historic memorial day.

And yes, thanks to a nice pharmacist my ass rash is mending!

The Shipping News

In my mind's eye: a lone rower, battling the currents and tides somewhere off the Maldives in the Indian ocean, determinedly and steadily stroking through thunder and downpour, burning heat and circling sharks, one ragged nautical inch at a time... or maybe my lone figure is not moving at all, stranded on a jagged splinter of sandy land, deeply enamored of a volleyball imprinted with a vague likeness of a face created by her own bloody handprint. Either way, there is perhaps my package, under her watchful and righteous eye, a little torn on the far corner, just slightly soggy from that last typhoon, in spite of her heroic care and sacrifice.

Someday...three months? Three years? In the distant future when Romney is wrapping up a second term?

A knock will come at my door. Gentle, tentative. A shy smile greeting my quizzical gaze. She points to the deeply faded, nearly illegible address. I will marvel at the strength of her hand, the deep and wizened look in her eye.

I apologize for the delay, sir. Can you sign here?

(miraculous romance ensues)

Or, more likely, my effing  Go camera and motorcycling goggles are in a giant government warehouse, under a gobzillion other dusty boxes going nowhere fast.

Given that alternative, I almost hope it was side-tracked by one of the many working hands en route- that my things are bringing  some happiness to some  son-of-a-biscuit  somewhere.

Shipping brings a shocking dose of reality to living in PP. Even in backwater Issan, I could count on a US Postal International box arriving at my director's house in about 10-12 days. I can skype and e-mail here, stream the presidential debates or Premier League soccer, get a wonderful baguette. But try moving something physical in and out and the picture darkens rapidly.

My friend Nica tried to send in her absentee voter ballot (her first voting as a newly minted US citizen). Cost of DHL shipping (the only game in town other than Fed Ex)? $55- for an envelope! My USPS box was sent over six weeks ago and I have given up on it. Timeline wise, it puts Cambodia back to what? The 40's? Pony Express?

The long and the short of it is this. Driving at night my smoke windscreen is too dark to see. So much debris in the air means eye protection falls into the "must" category.  Solution? Go to the local optical store and buy a slammin' pair of "Oakey"[sic] frames, pick out some clear, scratch proof lenses. 40$ and an hour later- Voila!

I was going for practicality, having no idea my coolness factor would skyrocket the instant I donned them. I chose based primarily on the TESC (total eye socket coverage), which, as you can see, is excellent.

I like them so much, and feel so awesome and hip wearing them that I am considering getting some readers made next...

I don't know what I will do about the Go camera. I wanted it for the kids and to film my crazy commute. And it was expensive!

The abysmal shipping situation brought me back to Lacoste when I lived there in the early 80's. Because the French postal service was given to striking on their own about once a month and in sympathy with other unions occasionally as well, my lovely blue tri-fold airmail letters would arrive in little bundles- some a scant few days old- others weeks and sometimes months late. It was irritating, but then perhaps that is socialism at its finest- quirky and given to human foibles- some lazy, fat Alphonse letting my missives  languish, some empathetic and responsible Veronique blowing the dust off and sending them on their way.
I guess I can accept the delay or loss of my goods if it is the price for the quirky wonder of living here. And I supported the local economy to boot.
After all, efficiency and homogenization are excellent only for capitalism and for machines, yes?