It's not quite Tuesday night yet -- and I've been convinced all day that's Friday (which always makes for an unhappy surprise) -- but after my Khmer lesson I'm going to a Halloween party at a good friend's apartment and I wanted to get this written first. I'm repeating costumes from last year and going again as MJ, except this year I have a wig. Be afraid.
The new apartment is nice but it still feels like somewhere I'm staying and not home. It's been making me actually quite homesick the past couple days, I think because it is not yet a "safe place" that is recognizable and comfortable. I know in a few weeks that will fade, but at the moment it's definitely odd.
It's also a new neighborhood, and definitely not an expat one. On the one hand, that's great, but on the other, the guys haven't yet figured out that I live here and therefore there is no end to the comments and kissing noises when I'm biking or walking around.
Sometimes it's just a more or less suggestive "hello" shouted from the side of the street, but sometimes -- like this morning when I was trying to find the nearest market and got somehow in the middle of a motorcycle market area -- they scream unrepeatable things as you bike away, probably in a desperate attempt to get you to look around. I never do.
It's not unique to this country, of course, you get it everywhere, but it's still really annoying. Harassment is never cool, and I always have to resist the temptation to retort with something like, Okay, I get it, I'm white and a girl, now can we please move on? And by the way, shouting at me does not make you sexy. Thanks.
I did manage to find the fruits, though, and picked up some goodies for the week. I do kind of miss my friend the fruitseller at the other market, but it is too far to bike all the way over there when the other market is so close -- and, if I'm right, cheaper.
One of my favorite fruits here is the pomello and I bought one this morning. My friend used to peel them for me, but this one came as it does from the tree, leaving me the task of unpeeling it for an after work snack. It's quite the workout; on the outside is a fairly tough green skin that smells vaguely of sap, and underneath that is about an inch worth of this kind of pink foamy substance, which has to be pried off the fruit.
When at last I dug my thumbs into the main fruit and split it open, I was sweating and had a great sense of accomplishment -- and yes, it was very yummy too. First pomello peeled successfully. Score.
As part of missing home, I found myself missing the cold and the seasons change. The seasons do not change here, and it's always very strange for me to think that it is almost November -- is it really? I keep sort of hoping it will get cooler here, but I think that might be a vain hope. Hey, a girl can hope, right?
Tomorrow is a day off, which is good as I didn't have much of a weekend, and the rest of the week promises to be busy as always.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Oh, is that what happened?
The other day, a dear friend commented on a facebook photo how glad she was to see how I've embraced Cambodia.
To be honest, I looked at the comment and thought, "Is that what I've done?" I kind of feel like I resisted doing so, muttering and bad-tempered and weaving through traffic, except when it comes to my students and my work, of course.
Is that what I did? Embrace Cambodia? Is that how I now very much despite myself find myself thinking seriously about staying much longer than anticipated?
When the heck did that happen?
I guess during all the moments when I had -- and still don't -- no idea what was going on or how to begin to talk about it, when I couldn't say anything but hey, it's happening and I'm still running. Whenever I wasn't paying attention, maybe that's when it happened, when I wasn't homesick or thinking damn-it-I'm-learning-a-lot-but-get-me-the-hell-out-in-eight-months, that somehow my feet just sunk into the soil and the roots starting wrapping up my body.
I guess it's the transition from 'project' to just 'living'. I am used to moving on and moving along, enough time for a project or a semester or a summer, and then kiss whatever's there goodbye and start anew. I do it a lot and get myself into tricky situations constantly of having to leave behind lives, people, and work that I love dearly. In fact, one of the times I did that was in Paris and I still, no matter what happens here, intend on returning long term at some point before too long.
But if everything goes well -- I should know by the end of the week -- I'm thinking that maybe it is time to stop my mad globe-trotting and settle to do something for real, spend a little more time building houses instead of just laying foundations.
The fact that it's happening while I'm here -- is that embracing Cambodia? Is that what I'm doing?
If it is --
I did it behind my own back.
To be honest, I looked at the comment and thought, "Is that what I've done?" I kind of feel like I resisted doing so, muttering and bad-tempered and weaving through traffic, except when it comes to my students and my work, of course.
Is that what I did? Embrace Cambodia? Is that how I now very much despite myself find myself thinking seriously about staying much longer than anticipated?
When the heck did that happen?
I guess during all the moments when I had -- and still don't -- no idea what was going on or how to begin to talk about it, when I couldn't say anything but hey, it's happening and I'm still running. Whenever I wasn't paying attention, maybe that's when it happened, when I wasn't homesick or thinking damn-it-I'm-learning-a-lot-but-get-me-the-hell-out-in-eight-months, that somehow my feet just sunk into the soil and the roots starting wrapping up my body.
I guess it's the transition from 'project' to just 'living'. I am used to moving on and moving along, enough time for a project or a semester or a summer, and then kiss whatever's there goodbye and start anew. I do it a lot and get myself into tricky situations constantly of having to leave behind lives, people, and work that I love dearly. In fact, one of the times I did that was in Paris and I still, no matter what happens here, intend on returning long term at some point before too long.
But if everything goes well -- I should know by the end of the week -- I'm thinking that maybe it is time to stop my mad globe-trotting and settle to do something for real, spend a little more time building houses instead of just laying foundations.
The fact that it's happening while I'm here -- is that embracing Cambodia? Is that what I'm doing?
If it is --
I did it behind my own back.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Come for the circus, stay for the story: Sokha
This country defies expectations.
You think you've got it pinned, you gather what knowledge you have and assess and make some kind of general assumption or theory, and then it goes away like the roads in the rainy season.
I had never seen the group Phare Ponleu Selepak, nor knew that much about it except that it was a school that taught circus (apparently among other things) and based in Battambang. I knew it was French influenced, as the website is in French, and I had heard that the work they did was fabulous.
Therefore, when I bought tickets to their current traveling show in Phnom Penh, I was expecting something Cirque du Soleil-ish, slick and artistic and impressive, where the story functions as a link between the acts.
Naturally, I found nothing of the sort. A stage set up in the middle of a huge arena -- more like a large box with a curved tin roof smacked on top -- the lighting was iffy, the sound echoe-y, and filled with the questions and shouts of the restless small children, slowly reaching their tolerance of being able to sit still. The acrobats wore simple costumes. On the sides of the stage were easels with canvases and in addition there was a highwire set up, a rolling table, and a large number of cardboard boxes, which served as set pieces.
The circus itself was rough, though still impressive. Almost purely acrobatic (no aerial acts at all), the small troupe of about eight acrobats were clearly still young and clearly still learning. They were good, certainly, but unpolished, and in fact --
The show was not at all about the circus.
It followed the story of a girl, Sokha -- the only girl in the troupe, in fact -- going through the Khmer Rouge, fleeing to America, becoming part of that culture, but then returning to Cambodia to heal and teach. It began and ended with her as an old woman, hunched and bittersweet, surrounded by her students and still haunted by her memories.
The choreography was incredible, the acrobatics integrated perfectly into the story: one of the guys handbalanced in a skull mask as his fellows stumbled around the boxes in the background, showing the systematic executions; the prisoners stumbled across the high wire as they tried to make it to safety; later in America, the death character returned to prompt Sokha's nightmares, which led her into a contortion act.
The canvases turned out to set the scene, as they had an artist with them, and painted live as part of the story. During the Khmer Rouge period, he lit paintbombs, then threw red and yellow onto the canvas, and as the story went on, he painted a skull, hideous and leering.
It wasn't all so heavy -- the darkness was balanced perfectly by the moments of levity and joy. The acrobats hammed it up and laughed freely in the moments when all was well, and stumbled and shook as prisoners.
It was impossible to sit unmoved.
I confess that at the beginning, seeing that the acrobatics were just a small step above that at some of the circus camps I did, and the iffy lights, and the terrible venue (the audience was so far, as the stage was plopped in the middle of what seemed to be a basketball court), and the many restless small children (I can't imagine why they were there, as it was NOT a show for small children), I was skeptical, but it wasn't the circus that caught me.
By the end, it was all I could to not just start sobbing in the arena, not just during the Khmer Rouge scenes, but especially at the end, watching Sokha grow old and encourage her own students, watching them grow into confident acrobats but then still caring for her. It was not a sad story, but beautiful, and very well-presented.
I have a lot more to learn about this country, I think...
You think you've got it pinned, you gather what knowledge you have and assess and make some kind of general assumption or theory, and then it goes away like the roads in the rainy season.
I had never seen the group Phare Ponleu Selepak, nor knew that much about it except that it was a school that taught circus (apparently among other things) and based in Battambang. I knew it was French influenced, as the website is in French, and I had heard that the work they did was fabulous.
Therefore, when I bought tickets to their current traveling show in Phnom Penh, I was expecting something Cirque du Soleil-ish, slick and artistic and impressive, where the story functions as a link between the acts.
Naturally, I found nothing of the sort. A stage set up in the middle of a huge arena -- more like a large box with a curved tin roof smacked on top -- the lighting was iffy, the sound echoe-y, and filled with the questions and shouts of the restless small children, slowly reaching their tolerance of being able to sit still. The acrobats wore simple costumes. On the sides of the stage were easels with canvases and in addition there was a highwire set up, a rolling table, and a large number of cardboard boxes, which served as set pieces.
The circus itself was rough, though still impressive. Almost purely acrobatic (no aerial acts at all), the small troupe of about eight acrobats were clearly still young and clearly still learning. They were good, certainly, but unpolished, and in fact --
The show was not at all about the circus.
It followed the story of a girl, Sokha -- the only girl in the troupe, in fact -- going through the Khmer Rouge, fleeing to America, becoming part of that culture, but then returning to Cambodia to heal and teach. It began and ended with her as an old woman, hunched and bittersweet, surrounded by her students and still haunted by her memories.
The choreography was incredible, the acrobatics integrated perfectly into the story: one of the guys handbalanced in a skull mask as his fellows stumbled around the boxes in the background, showing the systematic executions; the prisoners stumbled across the high wire as they tried to make it to safety; later in America, the death character returned to prompt Sokha's nightmares, which led her into a contortion act.
The canvases turned out to set the scene, as they had an artist with them, and painted live as part of the story. During the Khmer Rouge period, he lit paintbombs, then threw red and yellow onto the canvas, and as the story went on, he painted a skull, hideous and leering.
It wasn't all so heavy -- the darkness was balanced perfectly by the moments of levity and joy. The acrobats hammed it up and laughed freely in the moments when all was well, and stumbled and shook as prisoners.
It was impossible to sit unmoved.
I confess that at the beginning, seeing that the acrobatics were just a small step above that at some of the circus camps I did, and the iffy lights, and the terrible venue (the audience was so far, as the stage was plopped in the middle of what seemed to be a basketball court), and the many restless small children (I can't imagine why they were there, as it was NOT a show for small children), I was skeptical, but it wasn't the circus that caught me.
By the end, it was all I could to not just start sobbing in the arena, not just during the Khmer Rouge scenes, but especially at the end, watching Sokha grow old and encourage her own students, watching them grow into confident acrobats but then still caring for her. It was not a sad story, but beautiful, and very well-presented.
I have a lot more to learn about this country, I think...
Thursday, October 25, 2012
The stage, the dust, and the prettiest afternoon sunshine you'll ever see
It's pretty clear that the Khmer Arts company is out of town, as the normally immaculate stage was covered with a fine layer of dust, and I left footprints where I walked, the fine dust making my feet slip more than usual.
I think it was the nicest day of my entire stay here, the sky a brilliant clear blue and not a cloud to be found. The afternoon sun was hot, but not overbearing, and it had faded to a deep gold when I arrived at the Khmer Arts theater on the back of a moto, stepping into the empty theater.
Normally there are people there, rehearsing, the orchestra and the dancers together or otherwise, but today it was silent and still except for the ants and the birds and the monks on the loudspeaker from a nearby pagoda. The stage, which usually has a block or two on it, was clear, and the sun was making the temple-like building at the back stand out, playing on the green plants.
I think I could have stayed forever. I only stayed an hour, working on the Linda piece and practicing what I know of Cambodian classical dance (not much), but it was the most peaceful, quiet time. My driver chilling out in the back of the theater as he does while he's waiting, the relative quiet, and the golden sunshine.
In the middle of a week in which everything is changing and my mind is constantly racing, the time to just be with the stage and the dust was very welcome. There are some very exciting things happening and I can't confirm any of it yet because it's not set, but it's surprising and fascinating and let's just say that life does what it does and I'm just trying to keep up.
If the current things pan out, well, I think you'll be hearing about it.
In the meantime, I took one hour out of the madness to a place where the dust settles, instead of flying through the air, and the world without it was clear, golden, and quiet.
In case you haven't seen it, this is what the theater looks like:
I think it was the nicest day of my entire stay here, the sky a brilliant clear blue and not a cloud to be found. The afternoon sun was hot, but not overbearing, and it had faded to a deep gold when I arrived at the Khmer Arts theater on the back of a moto, stepping into the empty theater.
Normally there are people there, rehearsing, the orchestra and the dancers together or otherwise, but today it was silent and still except for the ants and the birds and the monks on the loudspeaker from a nearby pagoda. The stage, which usually has a block or two on it, was clear, and the sun was making the temple-like building at the back stand out, playing on the green plants.
I think I could have stayed forever. I only stayed an hour, working on the Linda piece and practicing what I know of Cambodian classical dance (not much), but it was the most peaceful, quiet time. My driver chilling out in the back of the theater as he does while he's waiting, the relative quiet, and the golden sunshine.
In the middle of a week in which everything is changing and my mind is constantly racing, the time to just be with the stage and the dust was very welcome. There are some very exciting things happening and I can't confirm any of it yet because it's not set, but it's surprising and fascinating and let's just say that life does what it does and I'm just trying to keep up.
If the current things pan out, well, I think you'll be hearing about it.
In the meantime, I took one hour out of the madness to a place where the dust settles, instead of flying through the air, and the world without it was clear, golden, and quiet.
In case you haven't seen it, this is what the theater looks like:
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Tuesday Night Chatter
The rains are drumming the roofs and the thunder is rolling the city. The wind is making the rain into sheets and little clouds of moisture, flying off the roofs in waves. When it rains like this I always wonder if it'll just pull down the sky.
The King Father's passing is messing with life here. The streets around the Royal Palace are closed, except sometimes you can still go down them and I can't figure out when or why, and traffic has gotten exponentially worse what with all the people here to pay their respects. I haven't been by the Royal Palace yet, but there are always people there. The other night there were a thousand monks praying, and I do wish I was there for that.
The clubs have been shut down and the bars aren't allowed to play music. I'm not sure how long this is supposed to last -- I had thought just a week but now the NGO is saying that we can't do the Thriller flash mob next week (would be such a bummer!!!). In three months they are having his official funeral but I think everyone is hoping this state of affairs doesn't last three months.
This morning there was a whole procession going by my window, several thousand people walking the street in their white shirts and black ribbons. I don't know why today -- maybe it's the seven day marker? Either way, it was impressive.
My life has been infinitely complicated by the arrival of something really awesome, which is a potential (probable?) job as a choreographer for the weekly concerts Cambodia Television Networks, the number 1 station in the country, puts on. It complicates my life because it almost certainly means something else has got to go, which is tough, and also it's a really, really great job, and goes on the list of things that are rooting me here.
I don't know how I can leave, and I also don't know how I can not go. I want to go home -- and that's not a question, it's staying home to produce a show (oh yes by the way that's a thing), which I really want to do and think maybe now is the right time -- but it's hard to leave so soon after starting this. I'm pretty sure I would train up one of my students to take my place, which would be good for everyone involved, but -- not ideal.
I don't know. I have no clue. I guess I need to see how this goes for the next couple months. I was not formally offered a job, but I was told to look at the stuff they prepare for me and then come back with a schedule and a proposed salary, which I take to mean they want to work with me.
I would dearly love to just do dance and choreograph all day, which I think I have the opportunity to do. The question is how to gracefully quit my only non-arts related job without screwing over my boss and not feeling totally guilty, which will be a tricky maze to tiptoe.
My Khmer tutor today told me he thinks I understand a lot. I was quite proud of myself, especially since -- with many pauses to write down words I don't know and speaking very slowly -- we spent the first half hour talking about this new job and I was able to more or less tell him what was going on.
Mostly, I'm just torn. There are a lot of opposing wishes in my heart/mind right now, and I'm not sure how to deal with them yet. I think this is one of those times when "sleep on it" is a highly appropriate expression.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
This Week Happened
And that's about as much as I can tell you, I think.
Tuesday Night Chatter vanished, and I realized on Wednesday which by then is far too late. This post has now been open for about an hour, while I stare at it and wonder how to begin. This is a familiar refrain to you now, I'm sure, Gillian struggling with language, trying to take a thousand small infinities and fit them into a few pixels of text on an LSD screen.
Let me start here: my attention the past two days (and before, I guess) has been entirely occupied by two things --- the public performance for my students, and finding a new apartment.
For the former, I finally sat down with them -- most of them -- and managed to hash out more or less what I'm expecting from them and what they want to do and when they can rehearse. That in itself was somewhat of a nightmare, as I returned home that evening with 14 excel spreadsheets with Xs all over them and needed to smash them all together into a comprehensive rehearsal schedule that would 1) work for all of them, and 2) not require me to quit my day job and just rehearse with them all the time.
There are still three of them that have not yet told me how many dancers and which dancers they want to work with, making it utterly impossible for me to schedule anything, plus another one who was not at the meeting and apparently wants to join.
Half of them were a half hour late, which does not bode well for my attempt to drill professionalism in them, but I guess it means there is room to grow. I had a translator and did not tell them I don't plan on using one for the project, but they'll figure that out pretty darn quick. It was mostly just an exercise in watching the X's cover up the pages and watching them bicker about who was going to dance in who's piece and when that might happen.
Well, hey, all projects start in chaos, right? As a measure of how much I've been thinking/worrying about it, I spent the entire night last night having anxiety dreams about it, of them not taking the rehearsals seriously and playing cards or generally goofing off, while I try in vain to get them to work on their pieces. Unlikely -- very -- to actually happen, but still vexing.
Thankfully I had google calendar on my side. My computer looked like this:
Tuesday Night Chatter vanished, and I realized on Wednesday which by then is far too late. This post has now been open for about an hour, while I stare at it and wonder how to begin. This is a familiar refrain to you now, I'm sure, Gillian struggling with language, trying to take a thousand small infinities and fit them into a few pixels of text on an LSD screen.
Let me start here: my attention the past two days (and before, I guess) has been entirely occupied by two things --- the public performance for my students, and finding a new apartment.
For the former, I finally sat down with them -- most of them -- and managed to hash out more or less what I'm expecting from them and what they want to do and when they can rehearse. That in itself was somewhat of a nightmare, as I returned home that evening with 14 excel spreadsheets with Xs all over them and needed to smash them all together into a comprehensive rehearsal schedule that would 1) work for all of them, and 2) not require me to quit my day job and just rehearse with them all the time.
There are still three of them that have not yet told me how many dancers and which dancers they want to work with, making it utterly impossible for me to schedule anything, plus another one who was not at the meeting and apparently wants to join.
Half of them were a half hour late, which does not bode well for my attempt to drill professionalism in them, but I guess it means there is room to grow. I had a translator and did not tell them I don't plan on using one for the project, but they'll figure that out pretty darn quick. It was mostly just an exercise in watching the X's cover up the pages and watching them bicker about who was going to dance in who's piece and when that might happen.
Well, hey, all projects start in chaos, right? As a measure of how much I've been thinking/worrying about it, I spent the entire night last night having anxiety dreams about it, of them not taking the rehearsals seriously and playing cards or generally goofing off, while I try in vain to get them to work on their pieces. Unlikely -- very -- to actually happen, but still vexing.
Thankfully I had google calendar on my side. My computer looked like this:
Success. I did have to go out and have a drink after that though...I really do hate scheduling. I long for the days when I have dancers who are just in my company and will be readily available...
As far as finding an apartment, that's been a bit of an adventure. I was trying to rent a room somewhere but with no real leads, someone contacted me to ask if I wanted to go in to find a 2bed together. We picked up a third person -- as 3 is cheaper than 2 -- and quickly found a great place, in a good location, but then the third person inexplicably bailed at the last second. Apparently it was too far to walk and she was afraid to bike. Good luck spending 5 months here...!!!
The search for a third person has commenced and seems to be going smoothly. The good part of all of that was practicing my Khmer with the very friendly agent, who eventually did figure out that I wasn't going to go for his advances, but either way he was sweet. My Khmer is bad but for the amount of time I've been learning, I think it's pretty good.
In either case, I should be moving in about a week -- and will reduce my expenses by half. Score.
Until next time...
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
The King-Father comes home
I heard the news on Monday. If you just look at the global websites, you'd probably miss it. Maybe you'd wonder why there were so many people in white, and maybe if you were looking, you'd notice the black fabric going up along Norodom, the flags at half-mast. By this morning, living here it would be hard not to know -- to find on the internet, it takes some digging.
By Monday night, my Facebook news feed was overflowing with pictures and comments. Profile pictures were being changed, pictures were being shared lightning fast.
The news is this: one of the most towering and most beloved figures in Cambodian history, the King-Father Norodom Sihanouk, died Monday in Beijing. He was 89. His biography is long and fascinating, but I won't go into it here. I will say that King Sihanouk was a controversial figure to say the least, known as a hero of independence and for making the very ill-fated decision to support the Pol Pot regime and the Khmer Rouge in its beginning stages. And yet, despite being somewhat responsible for the profound suffering of the Khmer people --
They love him. Adore, even. The news of his death was received with overwhelming grief and mourning. The pictures on my Facebook honored him, a shrine was immediately set up in front of the Royal Palace, and today when the King-Father's body came home for the final time, hundreds of thousands of people lined the streets to greet him.
I know that because I was trying to get home right about when the coffin arrived and found myself completely blocked in. I couldn't take Norodom because it was closed, I couldn't cross Sihanouk, and to get to Monivong on the other side would involve crossing Russian Blvd, and that was closed too. I biked up and down the city, trying to figure out what to do.
I could have just parked and stayed. I did want to see the coffin, and be a part of the event, but there was something holding me back. Maybe it was just in my mind -- things often are -- but the fact is, Norodom Sihanouk was not my King-Father. I didn't -- and still don't -- know that much about him. I didn't live his choices. I never saw him on TV, or met him, or heard anything about him. I see how much his death means to the people around me, but I can't, and don't know how to, relate.
That wasn't why I didn't just park and watch though. The real reason is that I didn't want to be another spectacle. I didn't want it to be about the one lost Barang, didn't want people to wonder what I was doing there. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but in some ways, I almost felt like I would be turning what was for thousands of people a sincerely grievous occasion into a sightseeing opportunity, and that just didn't feel right.
As it turns out, in my wanderings, I saw the top of the golden Phoenix float go by, which I later learned held the body. I saw the monks, and probably if I had stayed put, seen the actual coffin. But I just couldn't be a tourist about it. If I had lived here several years, maybe that would be different and maybe I would have been the only one to see myself as a tourist -- but I couldn't do it.
I don't understand why he was so beloved, but I know what I saw and the thousands of people who cared enough about his death to stand in the streets for hours just to welcome him home for the last time. So, to the King-Father Norodom Sihanouk, wherever you are now ---
I hope you sleep well.
By Monday night, my Facebook news feed was overflowing with pictures and comments. Profile pictures were being changed, pictures were being shared lightning fast.
The news is this: one of the most towering and most beloved figures in Cambodian history, the King-Father Norodom Sihanouk, died Monday in Beijing. He was 89. His biography is long and fascinating, but I won't go into it here. I will say that King Sihanouk was a controversial figure to say the least, known as a hero of independence and for making the very ill-fated decision to support the Pol Pot regime and the Khmer Rouge in its beginning stages. And yet, despite being somewhat responsible for the profound suffering of the Khmer people --
They love him. Adore, even. The news of his death was received with overwhelming grief and mourning. The pictures on my Facebook honored him, a shrine was immediately set up in front of the Royal Palace, and today when the King-Father's body came home for the final time, hundreds of thousands of people lined the streets to greet him.
I know that because I was trying to get home right about when the coffin arrived and found myself completely blocked in. I couldn't take Norodom because it was closed, I couldn't cross Sihanouk, and to get to Monivong on the other side would involve crossing Russian Blvd, and that was closed too. I biked up and down the city, trying to figure out what to do.
I could have just parked and stayed. I did want to see the coffin, and be a part of the event, but there was something holding me back. Maybe it was just in my mind -- things often are -- but the fact is, Norodom Sihanouk was not my King-Father. I didn't -- and still don't -- know that much about him. I didn't live his choices. I never saw him on TV, or met him, or heard anything about him. I see how much his death means to the people around me, but I can't, and don't know how to, relate.
That wasn't why I didn't just park and watch though. The real reason is that I didn't want to be another spectacle. I didn't want it to be about the one lost Barang, didn't want people to wonder what I was doing there. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but in some ways, I almost felt like I would be turning what was for thousands of people a sincerely grievous occasion into a sightseeing opportunity, and that just didn't feel right.
As it turns out, in my wanderings, I saw the top of the golden Phoenix float go by, which I later learned held the body. I saw the monks, and probably if I had stayed put, seen the actual coffin. But I just couldn't be a tourist about it. If I had lived here several years, maybe that would be different and maybe I would have been the only one to see myself as a tourist -- but I couldn't do it.
I don't understand why he was so beloved, but I know what I saw and the thousands of people who cared enough about his death to stand in the streets for hours just to welcome him home for the last time. So, to the King-Father Norodom Sihanouk, wherever you are now ---
I hope you sleep well.
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