Let me paint you a picture:
The patio is neat and deserted. Everyone is inside, as they well should be, but I wanted to sit here and watch. The tables are glass topped, and the patio is fenced in by black iron, every few tables a plant to add a touch of green. To my right, the parking lot; not much to see there, besides the army of motos and tuk tuks across the street, waiting in the shade for the customers leaving the shopping center.
In front of me the drive curls around to the parking garage. A staircase proclaiming "214Lounge" heads up to, presumably, a lounge, the 214 coming from the number of the street.
The ice cream in front of me is melting quickly in the hot air. Under the table are a couple bags with loot from the supermarket inside the shopping center; seasonings, a lot of noodle soup, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, a dustpan. The makings of a home, for less than fifteen dollars.
Lest you think it was too much like home, to the side of the parking lot are the little miniature temples, set up for the ancestors. They are like little gold houses on pedestals, intricately formed and beautiful, filled with small gifts and offerings. These offerings are everywhere -- unobtrusive, and you don't necessarily see them unless you're looking, but everywhere.
Behind them, the street is lined with palm trees and another kind of tree with a brilliant red flower. Everything is deeply green and deeply colorful. There's a white apartment building beyond, a few palm trees on a rooftop garden.
Things are completely uncertain, but at that moment, I was at peace. I realized that even if I succeed in giving only one private lesson a week -- people have been urging me to go the route of private tutoring -- it will essentially pay my grocery bills. The thought was quite encouraging, as I have been impatiently wondering just when I am going to start getting income.
Soon, I thought, savoring the now very gooey ice cream. The server, surprised I could speak even a few words of Khmer, asked me in Khmer if I spoke it. I stared at her blankly, but when she translated, I smiled.
Ch'hey tac tac, I said.
Only a little.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
An evening out in Phnom Penh
It started with a bike ride.
The streets at night are not particularly well lit except for the main arteries, such as Norodom Boulevard. There, the streets are lined with lights, a red carpet of lights. Every block or two is a little post, containing an umbrella and one or two bored officers in their khaki uniforms and walkie talkies. My bike happens to have a little gadget that, when you flip a switch, something rubs up against the front tire and activates a little light on the front of the bike. Very useful at night.
I took the main street, of course, and when I left around seven thirty, it was packed. You have to pay attention, with motos and tuk tuks cutting you off at every turn and winding your way through oncoming traffic at every intersection. I'm getting good at it, but haven't lost the habit of swearing badly whenever the nearest tuk tuk decides now is a good time to cross.
The ride took me to street 136 and the Europe Guest House, where, while waiting for friends, I chatted with the friendly proprietor, who offered to keep my bike in the back while we kibitzed about. I gladly accepted, and with the other three, headed out in search of food.
We found what's called the Night Market, apparently on the list of "Where You Should Go" in the Cambodian guidebooks, as can be judged by the amount of tourists uneasily slipping off their sandals to settle themselves indian style on the covered ground, carefully balancing plates of food from the surrounding food stands. It looks like carpet, the design at least, but isn't, a sort of woven vinyl that makes strange patterns on your skin if you stay in one position too long.
The market is roughly organized in a rectangle; the lights from the stands more than enough to light the open center, where each stand seems to command a certain area. Baskets of hot sauce and other condiments are strewn throughout, but if you try- as I did - to move them to another area, soon enough some assistant will come by and give you the basket you were really supposed to be using. Whoops.
My stomach had been upset for most of the day, no doubt complaining about all of the very new things it's been asked to handle in the past week, so I just got a simple chicken fried noodle, which, when mixed with the hot sauce, was absolutely delicious. Some greens, some noodles, a bit of sauce, and some chicken. Simple enough. I also got a fizzy drink that I still have no idea what it actually was -- my guess is the Khmer version of cherry soda, though it would surprise me if it was actually cherry. Either way, it was very tasty. A stage was set up on the other side of the rectangle, a strange built up podium with some Khmer band happily jamming away.
The food finished, we headed off in search of a bar the girls had heard about, heading to the riverside. After a false start in the wrong direction, we found the place. It had two floors, sleek and modern like most of the buildings on the riverside. The party, whatever it was, was happening on the second floor, so up we went.
It could have been any other club; the lights down to a low red, a bar and some places to sit, and in the next room a DJ pounding away your basic club hits, like "Call Me Maybe" and a remix of "Rolling in the Deep". The drinks were expensive by Cambodian standards, 5 bucks for a cocktail, and I wasn't particularly in the mood, so I passed.
Any other club, except filled with Khmer people (which I was actually somewhat pleased about -- I would have been somewhat dismayed if it was filled with westerners). Any other club, except the tiny balcony wrapping around the outside overlooked the Mekong River, with palm trees along the wide riverside promenade and tuk tuk drivers grappling for customers leaving the nearby bars. The tourists, which you can spot a mile away, staring around at their strange surroundings and carrying their backpacks on their stomachs.
It was nice, I guess. We went inside after awhile to check out the dance floor, which again could have been any dance floor, any place, the flashing lights and circling colors. The pumping beat. I was tired, and not particularly interested in partying the night away (yes, you can fall over in shock now), but let's be frank:
Dance floors intoxicate me.
They just do. The beat gets into my blood and it's over. And yet: here, with three other ex-pats, the Cambodian guys turning their heads, the flashing beat and throughout all of this the undeniably surreality that I am, in fact, in Phnom Penh, in Cambodia, absolutely nowhere near anything I know...
The sheer incongruity was almost enough to send me reeling. Fortunately or not, I didn't have much time to contemplate it, because the girls decided to try and talk their way into the 14 July - held, naturally, on the 13 July -- party at the French Embassy. Never mind you had to have a French passport to get an invitation.
Nevertheless, we got a tuk tuk, the driver asking his friend directions because he didn't know where the embassy actually was, though didn't want to lose business. It was easy enough to find, after all; an impressive wall with one door, a crowd of tuk tuk drivers standing around and waiting for people to leave, long rows of motos on either side.
The party was winding down, and the girls began their pitch. I stood quietly to the side. One of the officers came over to shake his head at our behavior, and I naturally denied all knowledge of the plan. I said -- honestly -- that a friend had invited us and I understood perfectly well we were late. The girls pleaded and begged and got some lady in charge who was passing to have pity, and then we were in.
A long, paved walkway led to another sleek, modern building, very white and blocky, like a giant piece of minimalist, abstract art, just in architectural form. The main building was in front of us, but we veered to the right instead, following the music. The building was light and airy, and opened up onto a sprawling lawn, where a stage and a dance floor had been set up. But for every person dancing, there were three standing around, talking and schmoozing, a few white-clad officers with impressive arrays of pin on their uniforms and red shoulder sashes, and equal parts Cambodian and French people.
The officer was right; we were late, and not three songs later the band closed up shop, leaving a bunch of drunk twenty somethings - they had been serving free alcohol -- looking for the next best thing. It was, after all, only 11 o'clock.
We had acquired a couple more people by that time, and I was getting very tired. Everyone seemed to be heading to one of the few nightclubs, Nova, but I asked one of our new Khmer friends if he could just take me back to the guesthouse, where I could get my bike and go home. He agreed.
During the time, however, in which we tried to decide where to go and how to fit seven people onto three motos, we were continually accosted by a bunch of drunk twenty something French ex-pats, with obliging tuk tuk drivers in tow, to ask where we were going, or where the next party was happening.
We got ourselves sorted, and headed first to the club to drop everyone off. It was again sleek, looking for all the world like a renovated warehouse, surrounding by security guards and motos, again. We left the girls, and my friend took me to the guest house. My bike was exactly where I had left it, and I headed back home on the now mostly deserted streets, coming back into a quiet house.
The evening was fun. I will grant it that. However, it made me think a lot, and to be very honest --- it bugged me. The many drunk French people just desperate for the next party, the 'find-the-next-party' attitude in them and in my own group. Listen, I have nothing against that, I've been there, I get it. However --
I am not here to go out all the time. Safe or not, I don't necessarily feel comfortable wandering the streets at night, and I'm just as happy to bed early and wake early. Every once in awhile go dancing, sure. But to be here just to find the parties?
No. I realized forcibly that it's just not what I'm here for. The sense of displacement was enough to tell me that.
In the meantime, the job search continues. I remember from living in Asheville how long everything seems to take, and how really quite awful the waiting is. But I have to be patient; as utterly bizarre as it is, I have only been here a week.
The streets at night are not particularly well lit except for the main arteries, such as Norodom Boulevard. There, the streets are lined with lights, a red carpet of lights. Every block or two is a little post, containing an umbrella and one or two bored officers in their khaki uniforms and walkie talkies. My bike happens to have a little gadget that, when you flip a switch, something rubs up against the front tire and activates a little light on the front of the bike. Very useful at night.
I took the main street, of course, and when I left around seven thirty, it was packed. You have to pay attention, with motos and tuk tuks cutting you off at every turn and winding your way through oncoming traffic at every intersection. I'm getting good at it, but haven't lost the habit of swearing badly whenever the nearest tuk tuk decides now is a good time to cross.
The ride took me to street 136 and the Europe Guest House, where, while waiting for friends, I chatted with the friendly proprietor, who offered to keep my bike in the back while we kibitzed about. I gladly accepted, and with the other three, headed out in search of food.
We found what's called the Night Market, apparently on the list of "Where You Should Go" in the Cambodian guidebooks, as can be judged by the amount of tourists uneasily slipping off their sandals to settle themselves indian style on the covered ground, carefully balancing plates of food from the surrounding food stands. It looks like carpet, the design at least, but isn't, a sort of woven vinyl that makes strange patterns on your skin if you stay in one position too long.
The market is roughly organized in a rectangle; the lights from the stands more than enough to light the open center, where each stand seems to command a certain area. Baskets of hot sauce and other condiments are strewn throughout, but if you try- as I did - to move them to another area, soon enough some assistant will come by and give you the basket you were really supposed to be using. Whoops.
My stomach had been upset for most of the day, no doubt complaining about all of the very new things it's been asked to handle in the past week, so I just got a simple chicken fried noodle, which, when mixed with the hot sauce, was absolutely delicious. Some greens, some noodles, a bit of sauce, and some chicken. Simple enough. I also got a fizzy drink that I still have no idea what it actually was -- my guess is the Khmer version of cherry soda, though it would surprise me if it was actually cherry. Either way, it was very tasty. A stage was set up on the other side of the rectangle, a strange built up podium with some Khmer band happily jamming away.
The food finished, we headed off in search of a bar the girls had heard about, heading to the riverside. After a false start in the wrong direction, we found the place. It had two floors, sleek and modern like most of the buildings on the riverside. The party, whatever it was, was happening on the second floor, so up we went.
It could have been any other club; the lights down to a low red, a bar and some places to sit, and in the next room a DJ pounding away your basic club hits, like "Call Me Maybe" and a remix of "Rolling in the Deep". The drinks were expensive by Cambodian standards, 5 bucks for a cocktail, and I wasn't particularly in the mood, so I passed.
Any other club, except filled with Khmer people (which I was actually somewhat pleased about -- I would have been somewhat dismayed if it was filled with westerners). Any other club, except the tiny balcony wrapping around the outside overlooked the Mekong River, with palm trees along the wide riverside promenade and tuk tuk drivers grappling for customers leaving the nearby bars. The tourists, which you can spot a mile away, staring around at their strange surroundings and carrying their backpacks on their stomachs.
It was nice, I guess. We went inside after awhile to check out the dance floor, which again could have been any dance floor, any place, the flashing lights and circling colors. The pumping beat. I was tired, and not particularly interested in partying the night away (yes, you can fall over in shock now), but let's be frank:
Dance floors intoxicate me.
They just do. The beat gets into my blood and it's over. And yet: here, with three other ex-pats, the Cambodian guys turning their heads, the flashing beat and throughout all of this the undeniably surreality that I am, in fact, in Phnom Penh, in Cambodia, absolutely nowhere near anything I know...
The sheer incongruity was almost enough to send me reeling. Fortunately or not, I didn't have much time to contemplate it, because the girls decided to try and talk their way into the 14 July - held, naturally, on the 13 July -- party at the French Embassy. Never mind you had to have a French passport to get an invitation.
Nevertheless, we got a tuk tuk, the driver asking his friend directions because he didn't know where the embassy actually was, though didn't want to lose business. It was easy enough to find, after all; an impressive wall with one door, a crowd of tuk tuk drivers standing around and waiting for people to leave, long rows of motos on either side.
The party was winding down, and the girls began their pitch. I stood quietly to the side. One of the officers came over to shake his head at our behavior, and I naturally denied all knowledge of the plan. I said -- honestly -- that a friend had invited us and I understood perfectly well we were late. The girls pleaded and begged and got some lady in charge who was passing to have pity, and then we were in.
A long, paved walkway led to another sleek, modern building, very white and blocky, like a giant piece of minimalist, abstract art, just in architectural form. The main building was in front of us, but we veered to the right instead, following the music. The building was light and airy, and opened up onto a sprawling lawn, where a stage and a dance floor had been set up. But for every person dancing, there were three standing around, talking and schmoozing, a few white-clad officers with impressive arrays of pin on their uniforms and red shoulder sashes, and equal parts Cambodian and French people.
The officer was right; we were late, and not three songs later the band closed up shop, leaving a bunch of drunk twenty somethings - they had been serving free alcohol -- looking for the next best thing. It was, after all, only 11 o'clock.
We had acquired a couple more people by that time, and I was getting very tired. Everyone seemed to be heading to one of the few nightclubs, Nova, but I asked one of our new Khmer friends if he could just take me back to the guesthouse, where I could get my bike and go home. He agreed.
During the time, however, in which we tried to decide where to go and how to fit seven people onto three motos, we were continually accosted by a bunch of drunk twenty something French ex-pats, with obliging tuk tuk drivers in tow, to ask where we were going, or where the next party was happening.
We got ourselves sorted, and headed first to the club to drop everyone off. It was again sleek, looking for all the world like a renovated warehouse, surrounding by security guards and motos, again. We left the girls, and my friend took me to the guest house. My bike was exactly where I had left it, and I headed back home on the now mostly deserted streets, coming back into a quiet house.
The evening was fun. I will grant it that. However, it made me think a lot, and to be very honest --- it bugged me. The many drunk French people just desperate for the next party, the 'find-the-next-party' attitude in them and in my own group. Listen, I have nothing against that, I've been there, I get it. However --
I am not here to go out all the time. Safe or not, I don't necessarily feel comfortable wandering the streets at night, and I'm just as happy to bed early and wake early. Every once in awhile go dancing, sure. But to be here just to find the parties?
No. I realized forcibly that it's just not what I'm here for. The sense of displacement was enough to tell me that.
In the meantime, the job search continues. I remember from living in Asheville how long everything seems to take, and how really quite awful the waiting is. But I have to be patient; as utterly bizarre as it is, I have only been here a week.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Sampling the local delicacies
Which proved to be the most challenging adventure yet...
Last night for dinner, we had one of the local delicacies: cooked, fertilized duck eggs.
Yes, eggs with ducklings inside. I have been told that the ones we had were further along than people usually eat them and therefore you don't usually have a mostly formed duckling to deal with inside. This is good to know, as --- well, I think you understand.
With the rounded part of the egg up, you crack the top and break the skin. Then, you put in a little sauce made from lime juice and salt and pepper, and drink the fluid inside. Then you just dig in with a spoon. If you're like me and realize that what you're trying to dig out is in fact the head of a little duckling, you freak out, flip the head back in, and pass it off to your friend to deal with.
I did have a couple bites, but finding it hard to eat because it was a lot of bone, I decided to stop, a decision applauded by my adopted Cambodian family, who said that usually the ducklings are not so fully formed and thus much easier to eat and forget about what it is you're actually eating.
I don't really have anything against the practice -- people eat all sorts of crazy things -- but the duck head was a bit much for me. I think I would give it another go if the thing inside didn't resemble a baby bird quite so much.
The verdict from my adopted Cambodian Dad?
"You passed."
Good to know!
Last night for dinner, we had one of the local delicacies: cooked, fertilized duck eggs.
Yes, eggs with ducklings inside. I have been told that the ones we had were further along than people usually eat them and therefore you don't usually have a mostly formed duckling to deal with inside. This is good to know, as --- well, I think you understand.
With the rounded part of the egg up, you crack the top and break the skin. Then, you put in a little sauce made from lime juice and salt and pepper, and drink the fluid inside. Then you just dig in with a spoon. If you're like me and realize that what you're trying to dig out is in fact the head of a little duckling, you freak out, flip the head back in, and pass it off to your friend to deal with.
I did have a couple bites, but finding it hard to eat because it was a lot of bone, I decided to stop, a decision applauded by my adopted Cambodian family, who said that usually the ducklings are not so fully formed and thus much easier to eat and forget about what it is you're actually eating.
I don't really have anything against the practice -- people eat all sorts of crazy things -- but the duck head was a bit much for me. I think I would give it another go if the thing inside didn't resemble a baby bird quite so much.
The verdict from my adopted Cambodian Dad?
"You passed."
Good to know!
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Gillian v. Herself: Dealing with Culture Shock
I noticed something interesting today, in how I’m dealing with the new
culture.
I decided, as I usually do, to jump into this new adventure with both
feet, full immersion. To the market right away, on my own on the bike, learning
Khmer, eating the local food. It’s a sure way to get used to what’s going on
and I’m proud of it.
However, today I was craving the West and the familiar, and decided to
spend some time in a western style coffee shop, on the internet and on the
phone with my parents. I had been planning not to do that until Sunday, letting
that day be my day to spend in a familiar environment.
There are two opposing factions in my head. There is the one that is
almost ashamed of having given in, the one that is so upset with the
stereotypical tourist and ex-pat that remains constantly in the Western areas
that she tries desperately to do the exact opposite. She’s the one who thinks
the best way to deal with the shock is to just continue on, and soon enough it
will become normal.
Then there is the other faction, who thinks that it is perfectly okay to
seek refuge in the Western style when faced with an overwhelmingly new life,
and not only perfectly okay but perfectly understandable. She thinks that so
long as it does not become a crutch, or a habit, or otherwise impede the
experience of the country, there is absolutely nothing wrong with retreating to
one’s roots.
The two are just about equal, and while one does seem more reasonable –
the latter – I just can’t discount the former, the embodiment of my
come-hell-or-high-water, obsessive self that throws herself into life with a
verve some may call utter insanity.
I’m trying to compromise the two halves by having internet installed in
my apartment. That way, I don’t have to always go to those western cafés for
internet but remain in touch with the world I left behind. I think it’s a very
healthy compromise and may appease that violent adventurer.
I guess I just need to convince my obsessive self that you can have the
cake and eat it too, that it is possible to be fully engaged in the life and
the culture here and yet still irrevocably rooted in the place we come from. I
will always be western, and as much as I try otherwise, I will always be
American. I can’t erase that self. I just need to learn how to keep it, nurture
it, and yet remain open to the influences of the culture around me.
It’s not an easy job, and goes against my instinct. But I think I have
to learn, because I have a suspicion that the only way to fully immerse myself in
the newness of this place is to be perfectly grounded in where I came.
Certainly, it’s something to work on…
Dinner with the locals
(This post was written last night, to be published today.)
I just got back from dinner at this tiny little roadside restaurant,
where my friend and I were the only guests and the rest of the team – a family,
or close friends – sat at the neighboring table and had their own dinner.
It was a bit late when we met up, close to eight, and I wasn’t sure if
there was going to be any place open. My neighborhood is pretty safe, but still
I’m not sure how good of an idea it is to go wandering about at night on the
third (fourth?) day in a foreign country. We were heading for somewhere a few
blocks away but decided instead to turn down a closer street.
What we thought was a fairly large restaurant was in fact a gym (take
note, Gillian who hasn’t been exercising in god knows how long), but this place
was not far away and appeared somewhat open.
We asked them and they happily welcomed us. One of them spoke very good
English and came to chat with us and take our order. They didn’t have a menu,
but told us what they had. I ordered fried noodles with beef and my friend a
chicken soup. Once that was taken care of, our new Cambodian friend stayed to
ask us what we were doing in the country, and chatted amiably for quite a
while.
We ordered a couple beers, the local brand (Angkor), and he headed off
to the table next to ours, coming back a few minutes later to offer a cheers,
which his table seemed to be doing an inordinate amount of.
The food came in a bit, and turns out, it was delicious. Simple, but
very good, and we had a lovely time eating. At the end there was a bit of a
mixup on the bill – the girl gave us 300 riel back when it should have been
13000 – but after finally working out that there was a problem, Gillian having
issues with her very latent math skills, we turned back in the rain and
explained. They were very nice about it and we got the extra 10000, so it
worked out well.
But let me tell you about this place. Like all of the restaurants, it
lacked a front wall, inside spilling out into the street. The walls were
whitewashed and tiny little lizards skittered across them. The tables and
chairs were plastic, the dishes and the chopsticks white. Out front a cart to
make the munchies or the meat, I’m not sure, but covered with some kind of umbrella,
either with the Angkor logo or something similar.
The floor inside was tiled, and a covering stretched out into the
street, protecting from the rain, which has been downpouring since about six
o’clock this evening.
I fully intend on returning, because now, I think, I can maybe make
friends with the owners. The food was good, and cheap – two fifty for the meal,
about 90 cents for the beer.
When I got home, sticky and wet for the monsoon, I took a cold shower
and listened to the rain hit the metal roof. Tonight I really enjoy my life; I
confess to being a bit lonely earlier on, having gotten very used to having my
family a phone call/text away. Now, we’re separated by thirteen hours and a
very large ocean. I’m settled enough to start missing everyone, my friends and
family, but after a dinner like that, I’m reminded why I did what I did and
flew halfway around the world. Crazy, sure.
But so very worthwhile.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
The food, and the drivers
In other words, you need a helmet.
At least for the latter, but perhaps for the former too. I mentioned that nobody cares what side of the road you drive on, and I mean it. The scariest part is at intersections, as most don't have lights and you just have to grit your teeth, slow down, and wiggle your way through the throngs of oncoming traffic. The other is that there aren't really street signs and when you take the time to look at the shop signs to see the street, you aren't paying attention to the road. It's a balancing act for sure...
With that said, I adore the chaos. I found my way to the Orussey market, another mess of stands and smells and things to buy, food and fabric and motorbikes and water filters and if you can dream it, you can find it. It's so much it sprawls out from the main building and onto the surrounding streets, as though the sheer amount of stuff being sold fell from the sky and blurted out the sides.
I bought a helmet. It was the first success of the day, the second being buying a "numpai", a steamed pork bun, for a snack and conducting the transaction entirely in Khmer. Yes, aren't I cool.
In the meantime, I'm learning quickly how to eat Cambodian food. It's just so different that at first I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but the last few meals have tasted really good, so maybe I'm learning.
The biggest thing is this: I will need to, and am already making progress, swiftly get over my aversion to fish heads. The fish are served whole here. There is no such thing as a filet or a boneless chicken breast. Everything has bones. Chicken claws are not excluded from the chicken when cooked.
Rice is of course served with everything and the food itself is not spicy, like Thai food, but filled with spices. Cambodians love to mix everything together to get the mix that suits them. The most popular dish is, as far as I can tell, Amok, which is some concoction of coconut milk, fish, and a bunch of spices. Everyone makes it differently, so I've heard, but it's very yummy.
Fish is served with fish sauce and some kind of pickled veggies. Fish cakes with eggs are eaten with raw vegetables. There is a lot of soup, and a lot of veggies. I had a very good pineapple and beef concoction the other day.
Then there's the fruit. Green mangoes, which I'm not so sure about yet, but then there are ramboutan, mangosteen, lychees, and some little thing that's like a lychee but not that I can't remember the name of - langsat, says google. Dragonfruit, and green oranges; apparently the most outlandish thing I've said so far is, "How can it be an orange if it's not orange?"
I still don't have an answer, but green or not, it's an orange.
Though I'm still settling in, I already love living here. I met some fellow ex-pats last night, with the same idea as me to explore the local culture fully. Now equipped with a bike, I fully intend on exploring...
PS. The camera will have to wait until I have paying work. Until then, I'll do my best to make my words count.
At least for the latter, but perhaps for the former too. I mentioned that nobody cares what side of the road you drive on, and I mean it. The scariest part is at intersections, as most don't have lights and you just have to grit your teeth, slow down, and wiggle your way through the throngs of oncoming traffic. The other is that there aren't really street signs and when you take the time to look at the shop signs to see the street, you aren't paying attention to the road. It's a balancing act for sure...
With that said, I adore the chaos. I found my way to the Orussey market, another mess of stands and smells and things to buy, food and fabric and motorbikes and water filters and if you can dream it, you can find it. It's so much it sprawls out from the main building and onto the surrounding streets, as though the sheer amount of stuff being sold fell from the sky and blurted out the sides.
I bought a helmet. It was the first success of the day, the second being buying a "numpai", a steamed pork bun, for a snack and conducting the transaction entirely in Khmer. Yes, aren't I cool.
In the meantime, I'm learning quickly how to eat Cambodian food. It's just so different that at first I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but the last few meals have tasted really good, so maybe I'm learning.
The biggest thing is this: I will need to, and am already making progress, swiftly get over my aversion to fish heads. The fish are served whole here. There is no such thing as a filet or a boneless chicken breast. Everything has bones. Chicken claws are not excluded from the chicken when cooked.
Rice is of course served with everything and the food itself is not spicy, like Thai food, but filled with spices. Cambodians love to mix everything together to get the mix that suits them. The most popular dish is, as far as I can tell, Amok, which is some concoction of coconut milk, fish, and a bunch of spices. Everyone makes it differently, so I've heard, but it's very yummy.
Fish is served with fish sauce and some kind of pickled veggies. Fish cakes with eggs are eaten with raw vegetables. There is a lot of soup, and a lot of veggies. I had a very good pineapple and beef concoction the other day.
Then there's the fruit. Green mangoes, which I'm not so sure about yet, but then there are ramboutan, mangosteen, lychees, and some little thing that's like a lychee but not that I can't remember the name of - langsat, says google. Dragonfruit, and green oranges; apparently the most outlandish thing I've said so far is, "How can it be an orange if it's not orange?"
I still don't have an answer, but green or not, it's an orange.
Though I'm still settling in, I already love living here. I met some fellow ex-pats last night, with the same idea as me to explore the local culture fully. Now equipped with a bike, I fully intend on exploring...
PS. The camera will have to wait until I have paying work. Until then, I'll do my best to make my words count.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Markets, Khmer, and Tuk Tuks...
I'm not sure where to begin.
HOW should I begin? With what, doing where, going how? I don't usually have expectations about things so I can't say it's what I expected, but it is...it is as expected nothing like anywhere I have ever been.
I am really terrible at writing descriptions and explanations. You'll find that soon, and hopefully sooner rather than later I'll have a camera and all of us will be spared my stumbling attempts. Either way, for the moment I'll stay away from them, and just tell you what I think is important.
Let's start this way: the roofs are colorful. Flying in, it's a mess of color, green of the trees, brick red, deep blue roofs, white, everything else thrown in for kicks. On the street you don't see the colors of the roofs, but it's still a mess. Umbrellas, carts, restaurants but without front windows. The streets are packed with motos and tuk tuks and a few cars, and nobody seems to care which side of the road you drive on. The motos weave in and out of everything -- often you'll see the moto taxis with one or two people sitting on the back, and if you walk down the street, the drivers -- moto and tuk tuk -- will offer rides incessantly.
The city is small but any time you don't know where you're going it seems bigger. There doesn't appear to be any street signs, only a few on the main roads. People seem to operate on landmarks and a solid knowledge of their neighborhoods.
Everywhere there is something to buy. It's cheap if you go where the locals go and extremely expensive if you go Western. Someone is always selling something, phones, bikes, water. Parking seems to be another adventurous activity -- my friend has a driver, and in being chauffered around, I noticed that almost all shops have an assistant whose job is to park the cars and make sure the tuk tuks go around when the car is backing up. They open the door for you to get out, and I guess receive a few riels in return.
Yesterday happened, and exactly what happened I'm not sure I could tell you -- I arrived in Phnom Penh around noon and the rest of the day existed in a haze, being bombarded with sights and sounds, information, and in the meantime trying to trick my body into believing that it wasn't actually in the middle of the night.
I managed to stay awake until 8:30, barely, enjoying a traditionally Cambodian meal for dinner with my friend's parents; chicken and ginger, a fish soup, and some kind of stew with some kind of eggs, meat, and veggies. With rice, of course, and fresh lychees and mangosteens for dessert.
What else --- I decided that my current wardrobe is drastically inadequate for the culture and the heat and have already set about rectifying that. It's somewhat conservative here, so I already have a pair of 'aladdin' pants, which are light and airy but cover a lot. I also bought a light dress, with small sleeves and calf length, and will soon add a very light shirt to cover my shoulders for the dresses I have. Apparently white skin is deeply coveted here, and despite the heat the locals cover most of their skin, even going so far as to use whitening creams.
I'm already working on learning the language -- it bugs me greatly to not be able to communicate with the locals in their own tongue and English is pretty spotty anyway. I can say basic things like thank you and please, I would like to go, etc, along with "I am a teacher in the arts," "more rice please," and how to count to twenty. It's not a difficult language, but the pronunciation is crazy and I don't think I will ever be able to read it. But most signs are in both English and Khmer, so I don't really have to. It's just the speaking that's the trick.
I also already have a Cambodian nickname -- while in English nicknames usually come from the first syllable -- for mean, "Gill" -- but here it's the last. My friend's mom has trouble saying Gillian because the soft g sound doesn't really exist here. So now she calls me 'yan', from the "ian" at the end. I actually quite like it.
But before I go don't let me forget to talk about the markets. They are cramped and busy and you can buy whatever it is you please. Bargaining is allowed and encouraged, and the shopkeepers either recruit customers or can be found napping in their stalls. Things are cheap, but apparently the prices jack up if you're white.
I suppose the most jarring for me were the piles of fresh fish and dead chickens, being gutted and cleaned as you watch. I guess it's a good way to see where your food is coming from, but it smelled too much of blood for me. I suppose it's something you get used to, and I want to buy fruit for breakfast. Overwhelming, busy, but fascinating.
I think, actually, that could be said for everything here.
HOW should I begin? With what, doing where, going how? I don't usually have expectations about things so I can't say it's what I expected, but it is...it is as expected nothing like anywhere I have ever been.
I am really terrible at writing descriptions and explanations. You'll find that soon, and hopefully sooner rather than later I'll have a camera and all of us will be spared my stumbling attempts. Either way, for the moment I'll stay away from them, and just tell you what I think is important.
Let's start this way: the roofs are colorful. Flying in, it's a mess of color, green of the trees, brick red, deep blue roofs, white, everything else thrown in for kicks. On the street you don't see the colors of the roofs, but it's still a mess. Umbrellas, carts, restaurants but without front windows. The streets are packed with motos and tuk tuks and a few cars, and nobody seems to care which side of the road you drive on. The motos weave in and out of everything -- often you'll see the moto taxis with one or two people sitting on the back, and if you walk down the street, the drivers -- moto and tuk tuk -- will offer rides incessantly.
The city is small but any time you don't know where you're going it seems bigger. There doesn't appear to be any street signs, only a few on the main roads. People seem to operate on landmarks and a solid knowledge of their neighborhoods.
Everywhere there is something to buy. It's cheap if you go where the locals go and extremely expensive if you go Western. Someone is always selling something, phones, bikes, water. Parking seems to be another adventurous activity -- my friend has a driver, and in being chauffered around, I noticed that almost all shops have an assistant whose job is to park the cars and make sure the tuk tuks go around when the car is backing up. They open the door for you to get out, and I guess receive a few riels in return.
Yesterday happened, and exactly what happened I'm not sure I could tell you -- I arrived in Phnom Penh around noon and the rest of the day existed in a haze, being bombarded with sights and sounds, information, and in the meantime trying to trick my body into believing that it wasn't actually in the middle of the night.
I managed to stay awake until 8:30, barely, enjoying a traditionally Cambodian meal for dinner with my friend's parents; chicken and ginger, a fish soup, and some kind of stew with some kind of eggs, meat, and veggies. With rice, of course, and fresh lychees and mangosteens for dessert.
What else --- I decided that my current wardrobe is drastically inadequate for the culture and the heat and have already set about rectifying that. It's somewhat conservative here, so I already have a pair of 'aladdin' pants, which are light and airy but cover a lot. I also bought a light dress, with small sleeves and calf length, and will soon add a very light shirt to cover my shoulders for the dresses I have. Apparently white skin is deeply coveted here, and despite the heat the locals cover most of their skin, even going so far as to use whitening creams.
I'm already working on learning the language -- it bugs me greatly to not be able to communicate with the locals in their own tongue and English is pretty spotty anyway. I can say basic things like thank you and please, I would like to go, etc, along with "I am a teacher in the arts," "more rice please," and how to count to twenty. It's not a difficult language, but the pronunciation is crazy and I don't think I will ever be able to read it. But most signs are in both English and Khmer, so I don't really have to. It's just the speaking that's the trick.
I also already have a Cambodian nickname -- while in English nicknames usually come from the first syllable -- for mean, "Gill" -- but here it's the last. My friend's mom has trouble saying Gillian because the soft g sound doesn't really exist here. So now she calls me 'yan', from the "ian" at the end. I actually quite like it.
But before I go don't let me forget to talk about the markets. They are cramped and busy and you can buy whatever it is you please. Bargaining is allowed and encouraged, and the shopkeepers either recruit customers or can be found napping in their stalls. Things are cheap, but apparently the prices jack up if you're white.
I suppose the most jarring for me were the piles of fresh fish and dead chickens, being gutted and cleaned as you watch. I guess it's a good way to see where your food is coming from, but it smelled too much of blood for me. I suppose it's something you get used to, and I want to buy fruit for breakfast. Overwhelming, busy, but fascinating.
I think, actually, that could be said for everything here.
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